Monday, March 13, 2017


The following is a new excerpt from Chapter Four of the autobiographical book I’m currently writing, entitled “Voices in the Storm: A Journalist’s Memoir”, about my early days working for a newspaper in Buenos Aires.
The fact that, for the moment, I remained pretty much monolingual was to present me with an opportunity to take up a post of central importance to the newspaper’s operations: the international news desk, better known in the Herald as “the Night Desk”. After a brief period of watching me struggle to eke out the translations of a few cables a night, Editor Robert Cox asked me to move over to the international desk to replace someone who had left the paper recently, leaving the Night Desk editor without an assistant.
Traditionally at the Buenos Aires Herald, the person running the Night Desk was a veteran journalist with considerable influence over the daily’s editorial policy, since it was this department that selected, ranked and handled most of the material that entered each edition. Cox had held the post at one time. So had British journalist James Neilson (son of a Scottish father and Anglo-Argentine mother), who, when I entered the paper, was working as media chief for the American Chamber of Commerce in Argentina, but who would eventually return to the Herald as associate editor and, later, editor in chief. When Cox assigned me to the post of sub-editor on the Night Desk, however, the editor in charge was city editor Andrew Graham-Yooll’s brother-in-law, Nicolás Meyer.
Nicolás was clearly not a news-hound journalist in any sense. He had a working knowledge of international news and current events and adequate skills for layout and page design, but no real passion for news work, and especially not for local news. He was, rather, an intellectual, whose first love was cinema—classic cinema and art films more than blockbuster mainstream movies—with a particular bent for the kind of “foreign” (non-Hollywood) pictures created by European, Scandinavian and Japanese masters, though the Hollywood classics also formed part of his repertoire, as did the Golden Age masters of Hollywood comedy.
Oddly enough, however, for the kind of British Commonwealth community newspaper that the Herald tended to be when I first joined it, his whimsical organization of international news coverage tended to work, originating each night from a news schedule quickly written up between Meyer and cables chief Stuart Stirling just before we on the news desk started our night of work and the cables editor ended his—a daily schedule practically approved out of hand by Cox, mainly because he was too busy and overstretched to bother questioning it unless some major international news story was missing from it.  Local news Nicolás left up to his brother-in-law.
Heading the Night Desk wasn’t a post that Andrew himself would have wanted to occupy. By that time, Graham-Yooll was, with the exception of Cox, the Herald’s most renowned journalist—even more so than Stuart Stirling who moonlighted (or “daylighted” as it were) as Buenos Aires correspondent for The Times of London. Andrew’s orientation was entirely local and at that time, he was the only authentic political beat reporter that the paper had. Despite being the paper’s news editor and, as such, often working into the wee hours of the morning, Andrew spent much of the daytime beating the streets of downtown Buenos Aires. He haunted the corridors of Congress, visited the offices of politicians and government officials, gathered information from anonymous sources and lobbyists, and lunched with, drank with and generally socialized with a multitude of representatives from the country’s more than twenty political parties and splinter groups.
Andrew as he would appear on the cover of his
refugee memoir a few years later.
Andrew had a personal style that wandered somewhere between relaxed and scruffy, a style which, truth be told, probably merely reflected the constant state of quasi-fatigue on the brink of which he lived much of the time, trying to keep up the hectic pace and unhealthy lifestyle that his daily routine demanded of him. Although barely thirty at the time, he looked older than his years. The mane of dark hair that hung over his collar and the wild tangle of beard that reached his chest were already tinged here and there with silver threads and gave him the Russian refugee air of a younger, stouter Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, although the thick anti-Solzhenitsyn mustache that flowed equally unhindered by scissors or clippers into the beard tended to be more reminiscent of the Castroite Cuban-style revolutionaries that the rightwing Iron Guard of the ruling Peronist movement hated and was already plotting to destroy.  In those paranoid days of tit for tat violence between extreme left and extreme right in Argentina, Andrew’s appearance alone was enough to render him suspect in the eyes of the rightwing authorities who were rallying around the aging General Juan Domingo Perón. And his list of contacts would have been sufficient to condemn him to summary execution. Ironically enough, at the time, Andrew was serving as free-lance correspondent for London’s very conservative daily, The Telegraph, although he would later work for The Guardian, a daily much more in line with his political tendencies.
Only a small portion of the information that Andrew gathered in his reporting during the day made it into the local news section at night. And less still was shared directly with Cox. Despite his apparent friendship with the editor, with whom he had been working since 1966, Andrew appeared to harbor an underlying professional rivalry with Bob Cox. It seemed clear to me that Andrew held back considerable information for his own use, except when timing and newsworthiness were of the essence and made him willing to publish a story that was something of a scoop and that might not hold until the weekend. In general, however, Andrew depended in large measure for everyday news on local agency cables which he and his crew translated for the daily editions, saving his heavyweight reporting for his by-lined column, Politics & Labour, which came out on page three of the Sunday edition.
Although Bob frequently dropped by the paper on the weekends to work on stories that had remained pending from the previous week, it was his custom to finish both weekend editorial pages on Friday night and leave them with the Night Desk, just in case he decided to accompany his family to their weekend house in the country and give the Herald a miss. Andrew, for his part, often worked on his column until the wee hours of Saturday morning, long after Cox had gone home, so that the first glimpse the editor in chief got of Politics & Labour was only when he read it in the paper at his home on Sunday morning.
By the time I joined the Herald staff in 1974, Andrew’s column was the subject of not infrequent clashes between him and Bob. From what I could gather, Cox was less than pleased with what he saw as the often all too cozy relations that Graham-Yooll was weaving at both extremes of the political spectrum at a time when these “notorious others” on the political scene were suiting up and arming themselves to do battle for control of the government by any and all means necessary. A couple of decades later, the BBC would quote Andrew as saying, “It’s very hard to admit nowadays: I embraced murderers. They were my friends, and I’m not going to deny it. Yes, I am part of that past.”

This was an editorial slant that was radically different from Bob Cox’s own, which tended toward a rigid, if laborious, objectivity aimed at permitting the newspaper to be highly influential without being politically identifiable or compromised. If the paper had a political line, it was the line of human decency. What Cox was seeking was a carefully balanced vision of what was happening in Argentina. According to him, the Herald needed to be “a calm voice in the midst of the storm.” He seemed to fear that some of Graham-Yooll’s less than prudent stances could, on the one hand, bring us into too close a contact with the mad-dog right, or, on the other, cause the newspaper to be branded as radically leftist—something its own mostly conservative readers would never stand for, let alone the old-guard Peronist authorities, who might simply decide to accuse us of subversion and shut us down.
The editorial line that Cox sought to establish coincided much more clearly with the politics of James Neilson, although Bob was a much more liberal thinker than Jim was. I sometimes felt, however, that Neilson occasionally expressed Bob’s line more concisely than Cox himself did. That may sound strange, but it was a matter of personality. If Neilson had any doubts about how he saw events, stances, situations or sides of an issue, no one else ever knew about it. Bob, on the other hand, was too interested in objectivity to be boldly decisive. He agonized and tortured himself almost visibly in his nightly searches for the closest thing to truth and fairness that he could find. And in writing his editorials and op-eds, this almost blatant objectivity consistently embroiled him in the dichotomous choice between writing with his gut, exactly as he saw and felt the news, or writing with his intellect and creating editorials that could serve as lessons on how things should be, rather than merely reporting harsh realities and even harsher alternatives.  His emotions played strongly into his vision. He was a stubborn, resilient man, but he expressed that stubbornness and resilience in an almost romantic, quixotic way. He wore his heart on his sleeve and that caused him to be easily disappointed, which in turn sparked his anger at anyone who let him down or lied to him—sometimes even when the culprit was someone he didn’t know personally, but about whom he had written as being a respectable person.
Neilson, for his part, seemed to live within a very hard shell. He came off as unapologetically egotistical and vain. As such, he demonstrated great certainty in what he wrote and how he wrote it. He also seemed to have no question about his right to express himself as he saw fit, since he was audaciously, almost aggressively sure of himself, of his superior intelligence, of the righteousness of his beliefs and of the unassailability of his ethics.  You would never find him, for instance, asking himself who the devil he thought he was to say this or that about a subject—any subject—and less still when it came to topics on which he had acquired broad knowledge. Or at least you would never hear him questioning himself aloud, even if he might have struggled from time to time with the same kind of doubts that attack other writers as well during the creative process. But if he did, no sign of it ever reached the observer’s naked eye. In fact, he was the only editorial-writer I ever knew who could sit in front of a typewriter and bash out a thousand or so words of erudite commentary non-stop almost as fast as he could type, with no more than a couple of typos and seldom halting to ponder his stance.
Jim’s political line was clearly conservative, while Bob’s was openly liberal. But he was also clear about what it was he wanted to conserve and that was ground on which he and Bob could meet in harmony: English-style democracy, equality before the law, human and civil rights, the independence of the courts, the rule of law and, in general, civilized decency. His editorial comments were always hard-hitting and uncompromising. They expressed exactly what he wanted to say with unflagging conviction, even if, many times, in an ironic tone. His vision was black and white. Greys were conspicuous by their absence. In his world there was right and wrong, decent and indecent, no in-betweens. And he had inherited his staunchest Scottish ancestors' aversion to what he referred to as "bending to the boots."  He saw no reason to be even vaguely amiable toward authoritarian usurpers, terrorists, dictators or any other murderers, even when it might serve the aim of eliciting respect for the rights of others.
I think an anecdote that demonstrates perfectly Neilson’s cocksure attitude and sardonic turn of phrase, not only in his writing but in person as well, is of when he and I attended a lunch together a number of years later. A story I reported on concerning mafia intrigue in Buenos Aires’s Asian community led me to cross paths with a South Korean diplomat, who, as it turned out, was an ardent fan of the Herald. He invited me to lunch with him one day at a luxury Chinese restaurant, and during dessert, he said he would really enjoy having lunch with me again sometime, but hoped the next time I would bring along Mr. Neilson.  I expressed my doubts about any such meeting. Jim, I said, didn’t generally “do lunch”, and whenever he could avoid it, he tended not to go out at all, leaving that sort of thing to me and others.
The diplomat insisted, however, reminding me that, before he became a career diplomat, he and his wife had both been “journalists” and missed the opportunity to get together with “colleagues” and discuss current events, especially since, despite being assigned by Seoul to Argentina, neither of them spoke more than a few words of Spanish, so their interaction with the press corps was decidedly limited, mostly to American and British correspondents and now to me as well.
I said I’d see what I could do. But Jim was a hard sell so I wasn’t making any promises. I figured this would be enough to gracefully evade any commitment and that the diplomat would promptly forget about it.
But he didn’t. Shortly afterward, I received two engraved invitations, one for me and another for Neilson, requesting the pleasure of our company for lunch at the diplomat’s residence. Typical of his wry sense of humor, when I asked Neilson if, just this once, he’d mind accompanying me, he said, “Well, perhaps, Dan, just this once. But only if they serve beer with the meal. None of that bloody wine.”
When I called the Korean envoy and told him Jim’s condition for going, he laughed genuinely, but promised to make sure there would be a good supply of beer on hand for the occasion. 
On our arrival at the diplomat’s luxurious apartment, the host rushed to welcome us at the door. He led us into the ample living room, bypassing a covey of Argentine journalists, who were sitting around a coffee-table over drink, chatting among themselves, and guided us to a remote corner of the room. Once we were seated, the diplomat immediately launched into an analysis of the world situation, calling on us to respond to his prompts.
Jim Neilson many years after we first
Typical of Jim, who was clearly more accustomed to talking through his typewriter than in person, he mostly limited himself to feigning interest in the envoy’s analysis, nodding and answering as laconically as possible, while puffing at his pipe and sipping from the glass of beer that he’d been served as soon as he sat down. It fell to me to field most of the actual conversation with our host and I was thus somewhat relieved when his wife arrived, a few minutes before we were invited to the lunch table in the dining room.
She made a sort of Loretta Young entrance, sweeping into the room in grand style, kissing the Argentine journalists on the cheek and trying out her painstakingly acquired Spanish words and phrases, before making her way across the room to our corner. The first imprudent words out of her mouth were, “So you’re the famous James Neilson,” to which Jim kept on puffing at his briar, but now with an acid little grin pulling at his lips. “My husband and I were journalists too, you know. I think it’s a wonderful career to start out in.”
Now the smile left Neilson’s lips and his eyes narrowed. He removed the stem of his pipe from his teeth and, eyes still hooded, asked the diplomat’s wife, “And just what does one ‘go on to’ from journalism?”
“Well,” said our hostess gesturing toward her envoy husband, “he and I became diplomats!” She said this with such emphasis as to imply, “Isn’t it obvious?”
Neilson took another drag on his pipe, softly tapped the bowl against the bottom of a heavy glass ashtray conveniently placed at his elbow and, narrowing his eyes once more at the diplomat’s wife, he said, “I’m not at all sure that’s a step upward.”
This phlegmatic statement struck the diplomat as hilarious and he laughed heartily. But our hostess was not amused and snubbed the rude duo from the Herald for the rest of the luncheon.

Monday, February 27, 2017


The following is an excerpt from Chapter Four of the autobiographical book I’m currently writing, entitled “Voices in the Storm: A Journalist’s Memoir”, about my early days in Buenos Aires.

Robert Cox had led me to believe on my first night at the Herald that, for the moment, I would mostly be observing, learning the ropes, seeing how things were done, filling in gaps in the personnel roster, basically doing “one thing and another.” In all fairness, he did warn, however, that because the paper was chronically short-handed and run on a shoestring budget, I would frequently find myself on my own when, truth be told, I should be under the supervision of someone more experienced, and that, in those cases, I’d simply have to wing it and hope to hell I got it right.
But I never imagined that this would be so much the case when I came in for my second night on the job. Cox himself intercepted me at the swinging doors of the editiorial department. He was frantic. A couple of the staff had their night off and couldn’t be reached, and a couple of others had called in sick. I’d have to get to work right away, he said, and as fast as I could. He handed me a pile of local news agency cables in Spanish and said I needed to get to work translating them ASAP.
It had never occurred to me when I was badgering the editor to let me work in his paper that a significant part of the job of an English-language newspaper in a Spanish-speaking country would be translating the local news, but that reality became graphically clear to me right off the bat. Other than textbook translations reluctantly carried out in two years of Spanish classes back at Wapakoneta High School and during the two quarters of Spanish I had taken at Ohio State, I had never translated anything in my life. My Spanish skills were shaky to say the least. Despite a few months living in Buenos Aires, my Spanish was still decidedly Tarzanesque.  Translating a single paragraph of news copy with the constant help of a bilingual dictionary took me ages, and I was to learn quickly just how little column space a translated paragraph could fill. I was in awe of veterans like local news editor Andrew Graham-Yooll, senior reporter Reginald “Toby” Rowland and cables editor Stuart Stirling, who could hammer out translations as fast as they could type. Needless to say, I felt totally inadequate. When I had struggled through my first fifteen-line brief, I took it to Graham-Yooll, as Cox had told me to, and timidly said, “Mr. Cox told me to bring you this as soon as I was finished translating it.”
Graham-Yooll looked up from his work and narrowed his eyes at me as if I were a panhandler who’d just asked him for the price of a pint, wheezed, muttered, “Thanks,” and laid the piece off to the side before returning to the developing story he had rolled into his typewriter. I went back to my hammered-to-death-give-it-to-the-new-guy typewriter in a far corner of the room and started struggling to understand a second cable in Spanish. But as I worked, I couldn’t help glancing over Graham-Yooll’s way every little bit to see when he was going to get to my translation. When he finally did, I stopped working and watched as he placed it on the desk in front of him, paused, took his long beard with one hand and stroked it,  while retrieving a pencil from within the shaggy hair that hung over his ear with the other, and beginning to edit—slashing, marking out, circling, writing in, slashing, slashing, slashing, writing in, then writing instructions to the shop at the top of the page before laying the piece off to the side again.
When he was done, he leaned back far enough to open his middle desk drawer, rifled around in the pencil tray inside, took something out, then got up and walked over to my desk. I smiled. He didn’t. Instead, he leaned over my shoulder where I sat, and with his thick index finger, punched a series of aes, oes and ees on the blank page in the roll of my typewriter. Then he pointed at them as if to say, “What do you see?” What I saw was that the centers of the letters that should have been white were blacked out, which made it easy to mistake one letter for the other. I looked at the letters, then craned my neck backward to look at him and when I did, he held up a longish straight pin that he was pinching like a tiny sword between his thumb and forefinger up in front of my eyes and said, in his serene, asthmatic, Alfred Hitchcock voice, “I hereby present you with the Order of the Pin. Clean those out so we can tell which letter is which.”
As he turned to leave, I addressed the back of his head. “Um, how was the piece.”
“I’m sure it’ll get better,” he said, still walking and without turning toward me. And then he added, “It can’t get any worse.”
As I was starting my second translation, Bob Cox rushed out of his office and over to my desk again. “Dan, how are you doing?” he said in a tone that made it clear that this was a rhetorical question. “Um, I have something here I think you might be suited to,” he went on.
“Well,” I said, “I still have these to do,” and pointed to the little pile of agency cables on the corner of my desk.”
“Oh...yes, well, you can continue with those afterward. Right now, I need you to write an obituary. It’s for a lady who worked at the Missions to Seamen.”
“The what?”
“Missions to Seamen,” he said again, and then muttered under his breath, “Quite, you wouldn’t know about that, would you?” Being a bloody Yank and a Midwesterner to boot, he could have added, but, politely, didn’t. “It’s an Anglican organization,” he continued, “that has branches in ports all over the world.” He explained that these missions were usually run by Church of England chaplains with a few staff, and the rest of the people working for them were all volunteers.
It sounded to me like a sort of USO, without all of the singing and dancing. It had started in the nineteenth century when Britannia ruled the waves and there were British seafarers all around the globe. The organization’s mission was “to offer practical, emotional and spiritual support to seafarers through ship visits, drop-in centers and a range of welfare and emergency support services.” Since the Herald had started out as a maritime journal and still had strong ties to the shipping community, Cox had been asked to put something nice in the paper about this lady, Jenny, who had worked for the local Missions to Seamen drop-in center for something like forty years.
Rather hesitantly, Bob now handed me the press release he’d received and said, “This thing’s bloody awful but all of the basic information is there. Could you try and write something that sounds like we knew her? You know, a nice short article about what a nice person she was, how helpful to these sailors far from home, something warm and human.
“I’ll give it a shot,” I said.
“Cheers!” he answered and rushed back to his office, leaving me alone with Miss Jenny and a blank sheet of paper.
Thinking myself a consumate writer, I told myself this would be a piece of cake and quickly dashed off an obit that I thought would bring tears to the editor’s eyes. I zipped it out of the typewriter and strode briskly across the editorial bay to the editor’s office. Maybe I couldn’t translate for shit, I told myself, but I could write my ass off.
Cox’s door was open and he was sitting at his typewriter, hands poised to type, looking at some notes on his desk.  When I knocked softly on the door-jamb, he looked up from his reading but his hands remained poised over the typewriter keys. The body language was not lost on me. It said, I hope you don’t plan to bother me for more than a couple of seconds.
“What is it, Dan?” he asked.
“Here’s the piece.”
“What piece?”
“The obit...Jenny...Missions to Seamen?”
“Oh yes, cheers, Dan,” the editor said accepting the proffered sheet of paper and, for lack of any desk space in his cluttered office, laid it on a magazine on his knee, picking up a fountain pen from next to his typewriter and starting to edit in his scrawling hand.
Already by the second line, however, he was shaking his head and muttering, “Oh dear...Oh, bloody hell...Oh Christ!” And then he looked up at me and said, “Christ, Dan, you’ve made the poor woman sound like a tart! I mean... ‘providing aid, warmth and comfort to hundreds of sailors...Really?”
I could feel my face flush and my scalp prickle with embarrassment.
“Go back and rewrite the bloody thing, and try to stay away from language with dual meanings that can be misinterpreted.”
For the better part of an hour after that (an inordinate amount of time in a daily’s newsroom) I re-wrote and re-wrote the obituary until I figured it couldn’t be more perfect, then returned to the editor’s office. Cox was still at his typewriter, looking harassed, his hair in disarray from running his fingers through it. Standing apologetically in the doorway, I cleared my throat and he looked up.
“Ah yes, Dan again,” he said. “Let’s see,” and he held his hand out for the piece of paper I was holding.
I wanted to discuss the original version with him, offer my apology, tell him I knew I was better than that and had no idea what had gotten into me, but the editor’s body language and harried attitude invited no conversation. I stood in silence while he read, half expecting him to say something like, “Now this is a story!” But instead, he merely used his fountain pen to black out extraneous words, to draw lines and arrows changing word orders, to line out most of a paragraph entirely, and to write in a few words that he considered to be vital additions.
Then he penned in shop instructions and a headline at the top of the page, handed it back to me and said, “Drop it off at the Night Desk window, will you?”
And that was it. I had written my first professional news story and the die was cast.  

Monday, February 13, 2017


By the time I started smoking openly at home, the habit had become, I fancied, an added mark of sophistication in the new life I was suddenly setting out for myself. During the summer before the winter in which I would turn sixteen, my high school band director did me the honor of asking me to give summer private percussion lessons to beginners and junior high kids who were in the band. I could use the band room at the high school, he said, and earn a little extra money.

I was thrilled to say the least. But that wasn’t the end of the honors bestowed on me. The director also came to me during the following school year, and said that, if I wanted it, there was a part-time job for me at the top music store in the nearby city of Lima, Ohio, Monday and Friday evenings and Saturdays from nine to five, teaching whenever I had students and working as a sales clerk in between time. They’d let me have the use of a studio free of charge and the money from the lessons would be all mine. They would pay me about a dollar an hour (certainly not awful pay for a part-time high school kid employee in the mid-1960s) for the hours I accumulated on the sales floor, where I’d be expected to do some light maintenance and inventory as well.
I explained that while I’d love to say yes, it’d be another few months before I could get my driver’s license and even then, I’d have to see if my parents would lend me one of their cars to be able to commute the twelve or so miles that separated my home town of Wapakoneta from Lima. The director said not to worry, that he lived in Lima and on Monday and Friday evenings when the store was open until nine, he would take me, since he also taught there. Until I got my license, then, I’d only have to have my parents drive me home those two nights and take me in to work and pick me up on Saturdays.
Shaking my head, I said that my mother was too busy and I really doubted if I could talk Whitie (my dad) into coming to get me after he’d worked all day. But he insisted, saying it was a great opportunity that I shouldn’t miss. He was a regular customer at Whitie’s restaurant, the Teddy Bear, and evidently considered that would count for something in convincing my father, so he added, “And leave your dad to me.”
To my surprise, Whitie accepted the deal. Not only that, he had me take out a learner’s permit, and on the way home when he would pick me up after work, he would have me get behind the wheel of the big nine-passenger Olds 98 station wagon that he was driving at the time. Other than a certain penchant for road rage, Whitie was a more than competent driver and, surprisingly, since patience was not usually one of his virtues, also a serene and patient teacher.
I admired...

I recall one late-fall Monday evening, when I already had numerous trips under my belt, driving home to Wapakoneta from Lima, via the old North Dixie Highway, with Whitie in the passenger’s seat. It was raining pretty hard and visibility was far less than optimum. By this time, however, Whitie was no longer watching my every move and we were relaxed enough to chat a little as I drove, on topics beyond the scope of the myriad instructions that he had given me in the beginning. At one point, Whitie was sitting sideways, turned toward me on the broad bench seat—there were no seatbelts back then—and having just made some point in our conversation, had paused to pluck the hot cigarette lighter out of the dashboard, and was just then lighting up a Pall Mall, when suddenly, on the left, I saw a pick-up truck pulling out of a roadside tavern parking lot onto the two-lane highway in front of me as if I weren’t there.
I hit the brakes and lay on the horn simultaneously, saw Whitie fall sideways, shoulder first, against the dashboard, felt the big Olds start to fishtail, let off the brake, saw the pick-up’s brake lights and knew he’d stopped mid-lane, dropped two wheels onto the berm and gunned the engine to pull out of the slide as I slipped ever so closely past the side of the truck, still blasting the horn, before easing back onto the road.
Back under control on the pavement, shaking from head to toe, I saw Whitie calmly push himself back up onto his seat. He then went ahead lighting his smoke and after a deep drag, he said, “See that’s good training. And you handled it well. Know what the lesson is?”
“Be on the lookout for drunk assholes?”
“Nope. It’s that you have to drive defensively. You can’t take for granted, ever, that the other guy will do what he’s supposed to. In fact, you have to figure he won’t, that every other driver on the road is a stupid jerk, and know at all times what you’re going to do if the other guy screws up. It doesn’t matter who’s right. You’ll be just as dead if you’re right and the guy who plows into you is wrong.”
Smoking, to a certain almost imperceptible extent, changed, somewhat, my usually semi-hostile relationship with Whitie. Our feelings about everything from politics and sports to those about work and culture, our views and preferences were almost diametrically opposed and I’d come to find that avoidance was the best way to stay out of troubled waters. So at this stage, we seldom talked. But like boxing—one of the few passions and surely the only sport we shared as avid fans—smoking became a point of shared neutrality between us.
It wasn’t as if my father was glad I smoked. On the contrary, he early on told me it was a mistake to have taken up the habit. Afterward, however, he no longer preached about it. And as I say, there was a sort of tacit bond between us as smokers. It wouldn’t seem like much to anyone seeing us from the outside, but I could feel it. Like when I’d come home from somewhere and find him sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a smoke and I’d serve myself a cup as well and sit there with him in brief, uncontroversial communion for the length of a cigarette or two.
A few weeks before my sixteenth birthday, and thus only days away from having my driver’s license, the band director said he had the solution for my travel problem. He had a car to sell me. A ’57 Dodge Royal that had belonged to his son, who was currently in the Army, serving a hitch in Vietnam. I said I was really grateful but didn’t have the money to pay for a car right now, since I was buying a new drum set in installments from the store where I worked. If he could, perhaps, wait a while...
“How much do you have to spare right now, Danny?” he asked.
“I don’t maybe fifty bucks.”
“Done, fifty bucks and I’ll throw in tax and title fees.”
It was like a dream come true! I had a job as a musician. I was no longer being treated like a high school kid but as a responsible adult. And one of the old hands at work, a locally renowned organist in his sixties had just said, “Hey kid, my sax player and I are booked to play a four-hour gig at the Milano Club and our drummer just backed out. It’s a New Year’s Eve gig so it’ll pay fifty bucks for four hours. You free?”
Was I ever! My first pro jazz gig. I was in heaven. And now I had wheels! The very first day I had my license, the band director drove his son’s Dodge to school and had me drive him to work at the music store and then home. The car was now mine. Leaving his house, I flicked on the radio, dialed to a jazz station I knew and lit up a smoke. I felt like my whole life was changing and it was all good.
On the way home, I stopped off at a truck stop, ordered pie and coffee, put a quarter in the juke box and as Reg Owen’s rendition of Manhattan Spiritual started playing, I sat there with my coffee, pie and cigarettes feeling like a character from a movie about the Beat Generation. The menthol cigarette smoke and the strong black truck stop coffee felt like fluid happiness as they entered my gullet. It was a brand new world, and it was all mine. I was suddenly somebody.
To be continued...

Monday, January 23, 2017


It started as pilfering. Every time Whitie (my dad) opened a new pack of Pall Mall’s, which was about once a day, I’d wait until he’d smoked a few and then sneak one out of the pack and carefully into my pocket. I figured he’d never notice. But I had to be really cautious, because Whitie was nothing if not fastidious in his obsessive-compulsive tidiness. If you wrinkled or damaged the packaging in any way or left bits of tobacco lying around, he was going to notice. But, like any pre-teen, I figured I was way cleverer than he was. I was about twelve at the time.
His neatness was also what made it easy. He never liked bulges in his clothing, so whenever possible, he would leave his smokes lying on an end table, or on the telephone table, or on top of the TV, or wherever else they’d be handy without his having to carry them on him. He never used cigarette lighters for the same reason. He always used book matches that lay flat in his pockets and didn’t make a bulge.
Once I’d managed to nick one, I didn’t rush right out to smoke it. Instead, I’d take it to the room I shared with my little brother and, after making sure he wasn’t around—since he, Jim, would squeal on me for sure—I would place it in a piece of tinfoil with other purloined smokes, carefully re-wrap them, put them away in any of a number of hiding places I’d devised, and save them for a time when I could slip off by myself and “enjoy” them.
At this stage of my relationship with tobacco, “enjoy” was hardly the right word. Blowing the smoke out through my nose without actually inhaling caused a sinus pain not unlike “swallowing” water through my nose at the pool. And trying to inhale the way I’d seen Whitie do—deep and with apparent satisfaction, since he seemed to genuinely enjoy each smoke—made me cough, made my throat burn and made my eyes water. And usually, one deep drag was enough to make my head spin and make me feel a little nauseous so that I would have to sit down and put my head on my knees until the vertigo stopped and I got to feeling okay again. Of course, as soon as I did, I’d inhale again and have to go through the whole process all over. But, hey, practice made perfect, right?
Indeed it did, and it wasn’t long before I could smoke an entire cigarette without so much as a single cough, tear or dizzy spell. Most of my smoking I did down by the river, which was my haven as a boy, a place to be alone or with my closest friends and to do pretty much whatever I wished. It was there that, with my friend Dave, who lived across the river from me, we began acting out our Huck Finn fantasies, building log rafts and camouflaged shacks like hunting blinds in the scrubland behind his house. And part of that Mississippi fantasy on “our” Auglaize was corncob pipes. We fashioned them ourselves from dry cobs found in the cornfield along the riverbank with hard-dried hollow reeds as stems, stuck into holes worked open in the sides of the cobs with the leather punches on our pocketknives, once we’d used our blades to hollow out a bowl.
Most of our “pipe tobacco” was meticulously recycled from butts recovered from the trash when my dad dumped his ashtrays and Dave’s mother dumped hers. If we got lucky, Whitie would toss a San Felice cigar butt, but he usually only smoked those at work, because my mother, Reba Mae, didn’t like how they stank up the house. We kept our painstakingly harvested and rare assortment of “fine tobaccos” in small leather pouches that Dave generously provided. At home we had to carefully hide them from prying eyes. But they had extra-long drawstrings so that when we were living our fantasy lives down by the Auglaize, we could wear them like medicine bags around our necks in the tradition of the Shawnee braves who had made their home on these very banks a couple of centuries before us.
This kind of smoke was a nasty combination of stale, overdrawn cigarette filler and raw, scorched corncob inhaled through a moldy-tasting reed, but it fit so well with our adventures and our narrative that we could think of nothing finer than to sit by a small twig fire, puffing on our “Ohio Meerschaums” and swapping stories about everything from pirates, bank-robbers and murderers to the ghosts that supposedly rose up from the old, abandoned cemetery behind Dave’s dad’s barn and walked these riverbanks by the light of the moon.
By age fourteen, I had a habit. Not a bad one yet, but a habit all the same. Even before that I used to buy a pack of my own about once or twice a month besides swiping smokes from Whitie. I nervously bought them at corner grocery stores, always ready with some elaborate story about “buying them for my great-uncle who was up visiting from Florida,” or whatever. But seldom did anyone ask who they were for. So I started trying different brands until I found some that I liked better than Whitie’s harsh, filterless Pall Malls: smooth L&Ms, recessed-filter Parliaments, mentholated Salems (“one puff and it’s springtime”). Cigarettes that then made smoking the ones I stole from my dad seem a little like inhaling a brush fire...but smoke them I did, anyway.
Then I discovered cigarette vending machines and gas stations and there was no longer any need to make up stories of any sort. The machines were ubiquitous and often in the entrances of stores or restaurants where nobody paid any attention to who was or wasn’t buying cigarettes, and gas station attendants couldn’t have cared less whom they were selling smokes to.
I was in a teen rock band by this time. We were playing at teen centers and living the fantasy of one day becoming stars. Joe, our bass player, was the oldest boy in the band and had an old station wagon that became our band van. The rest of us were no older than fourteen at the time, but three of us were already regular smokers. Joe himself didn’t smoke, but with the way the rest of us left the inside of his battered old wagon smelling, he’d never have been able to convince his parents of that, I’m sure. He was, however, a really good and easy going guy and generous to a fault, so he not only let us smoke in his car and took us to our gigs and never wanted any extra for gas, but he also gave us driving lessons out on the rural back roads surrounding our home town. Joe was a hard guy not to like. Only his shy, quiet nature kept him from having more friends than he did.  
Dave, our lead singer and guitarist, was a wild kid who had no apparent complexes about his smoking—or anything else, for that matter. Pint-sized, bespectacled and as funny, entertaining, impertinent and irreverent as any teen could be. It was all part of his rocker persona. But keyboards man Ron and I (the group’s drummer) were often consumed by guilt about our habit (brought up as we both were in Methodism, where obligatory guilt and self-chastisement seemed almost as prevalent as in Judaism). Frequently, as we were lighting up, Ron would say, “God, man, I gotta quit doing this! I don’t want to get hooked.” And then, after a deep drag, “Do you think we’re hooked?”
Until finally, it started bothering me that he spoiled every other smoke I was about to have and I would snap, “Hell yes, we’re hooked! You wanna smoke, smoke. You don’t, don’t. But don’t lay this guilt trip on me!”
By fifteen, I was smoking, maybe, a half-pack or so a day. Still mostly down by the river. But now I also risked a smoke here and there at home: in my room with the window open and blowing the smoke out through the screen; in the basement, which had become my music studio, keeping the butts in a closed jar in an old cedar chest where I also kept my music books and percussion traps and accessories, until I could safely dispose of them; and on long walks around town that I often took after dark, my favorite places for a smoke being two of the bridges over the Auglaize, where I could stand as if gazing at the water and if anyone my parents knew happened by, flick my cigarette into the drink.
It was a few months after my fifteenth birthday that I one evening told my mother I was going over to the park to shoot some hoops with a couple of friends.
“Basketball players don’t smoke,” Reba Mae said, with a wry smile but a hurt look in her eyes.
I sputtered and started to think of something to say but she held up a hand to silence me. “God knows I don’t like it that you’re smoking, but I like it even less that you sneak around and think you can deceive me.”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” I said lamely.
“Too late for that,” she answered, cutting me to the quick.
When I came back from the park, I found her and Whitie together and said, “Listen, I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t want to sneak around anymore either. I’m going to smoke and want to smoke at home. No more sneaking around.”
Reba Mae looked stern but said, “Well I suppose at your age, if I try to stop you you’ll just do it behind my back, so...”
And Whitie added, “I’d like to tell you not to do it, Dan, but I’d be a hypocrite if I stood here and told you not to and then lit up myself, so I’m in no position to tell you what the hell to do. But if you gonna smoke, buy your own goddamn cigarettes and stop stealin’ mine!”
To be continued         

Friday, January 13, 2017


Despite the time-warp leg-up that Joerdie’s mystic Lincoln had provided us with, I seemed to be somehow out of sync on this latest trip back to Ohio. After Mark Jordan had left his car in the Mansfield city parking lot and climbed into the Lincoln with us, he informed us that we could, if we wanted to, go out and take a look at the Ohio State Reformatory—of Shawshank Redemption fame—but it would have to be from the outside, since, for tours inside, it had just closed for the season.
Now, frankly, the prison and its macabre infamy were pretty much my whole reason for having wanted to come to Mansfield in the first place. And when I was younger, this news would have hit me like a bucketful of cold water. Back then, I always had plans that were meant to be followed to the letter and set stories I planned to tell, outlines already forming in my head before I hit the road. This, back then, would have been disappointing and irritating news. But perhaps you don’t reach your late sixties without learning that some things happen for a reason...or not. But it doesn’t really matter. Wasn’t I already experiencing a place I’d never been before and could never have imagined? Hadn’t I just lunched in one of the last great 1930s diners? Wasn’t this day-trip with amazing friends, wherever it happened to go from here, an adventure in itself? So why not just take the day as it came and see where it led? I mean, so far, so good! And if there was one thing I’d learned from long experience, it was that there’s a story around every corner, behind every window, inside every heart.
So, just for the sake of saying I’d been there, we drove out to the old, abandoned state prison. Promising myself another road trip back here at some point in the future when the place was open, I grappled my sciatic humanity up onto a boulder by the road in front of the prison and took a few panoramic shots of it. Like that, it looked, I don’t know...institutional, I guess, more than anything else. It wasn’t until I clambered down off of the rock, moved up to the chain-link fence, and looked at the digital viewfinder from that angle, that I got a better, more chilling feel for the place. Jim Bowsher was standing right beside me as I framed the shot, and I couldn’t help remembering his telling me about his experiences teaching hardened felons in Ohio prisons how to set their stories down on paper.

“One thing you never get used to,” Jim had said, “is that cellblock door slamming shut behind you after they’ve checked you through.” It was a feeling, he had intimated, of here but for the grace of God go I. A feeling that, by error or by design, none of us was more than the slamming of an iron gate away from the fate of the caged men and women inside such institutions.
It was a chilling thought. It was, perhaps, what made this and other American prisons so terrifyingly fascinating—that odd, unnatural reality of humans keeping other humans caged up in carefully structured, industrially constructed institutions. It was “the system” at its most frightening. I felt that perverse fascination now, as I bent to the chain-link for a clear shot with the fence as a frame. I made a mental note to come back here again one day. I needed to get into closer touch with these dark feelings.
Several film-makers had evidently felt the same way. Although the prison was most famously and centrally featured in Frank Darabont’s Shawshank Redemption, it had also figured in certain scenes from other Hollywood pictures, such as Wolfgang Petersen’s Air Force One and the 1989, multi-director action movie Tango & Cash, starring Sylvester Stallone and Kurt Russell.
But Mansfield was no stranger to Hollywood from long before. Not only was there Malabar Farm owner and Ohio writer Louis Bromfield’s life-long link to Tinsel Town, but also that of Mansfield native son and Hollywood actor Robert F. Simon.
“Robert F. Who?” you might be asking.
Once while my late brother Dennis and I were drinking beer, eating pizza and watching a movie together, he suddenly pointed at a familiar face on the screen.
“See that guy?” he asked.
“How many movies have you seen him in?”
“I don’t know...a dozen at least.”
“What’s his name?”
“I have no idea.” Pause. “Sooo...What is it?”
“I don’t know either,” said my brother. “That’s my point. He’s one of those guys who’s worked his ass off in Hollywood all his life and it’s only when he dies and you see his picture and obit in the paper with his name on it that you go, ‘Oh yeah! That guy! So that’s his name!’ Pleased to finally meet you, buddy, and happy trails!
Robert F. Who?
Well, Robert F. Simon was one of those guys, a perennial supporting actor on both the silver screen and in television, who, from the 1950s through the mid-1980s, worked in literally scores of films and shows, every time a tall authority-figure character actor was required, while remaining, throughout a prolific three and a half-decade career, virtually anonymous. Simon was well into his forties before he became a professional actor. Before that, he was a traveling salesman and took up amateur acting to help him overcome his shyness. At some point, he realized he’d found his passion and went to New York, after a few professional gigs with the Cleveland Playhouse. His talent was recognized in New York, where he attended The Actor’s Studio (of which he would eventually become a lifetime member) and he landed a job as Lee J. Cobb’s understudy in the lead role (Willy Loman) for the famous Broadway staging of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, a part in which he would eventually succeed Cobb. Broadway would be his professional home for nearly a decade.
But Hollywood awaited: He would be Hardy Strong in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (with John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart), Captain J.B. Henderson in Operation Petticoat (with Carey Grant and Tony Curtis), Dr. Norton in Bigger than Life (with James Mason), and Police Lieutenant Johnson in Compulsion (with Orson Welles and Dean Stockwell), among dozens of other movie credits. On TV, he was Samantha’s father-in-law in Bewitched, J. Jonah Jameson in The Amazing Spider Man, Captain Rudy Olsen in The Streets of San Francisco, General Maynard Mitchell in M*A*S*H, and he racked up over 190 other credits in television shows throughout the fifties, sixties and seventies, becoming known in the profession as a master of comedy, drama and the American Western. A Mansfield native who became one of the best known, unknown faces in America.
Mark Jordan instructs Jim Bowsher on the origins
 of Oak Hill Cottage
Coming into town earlier in the day, Joerdie had pointed to a large brick house on a hill above the city proper, partly obscured by the last surviving, late-autumn foliage of the deciduous hardwoods that thrive in the region. She said she’d noticed it a couple of times before and had always wanted to go up there to see it.
Turns out, Joerdie has a real eye for outstanding architecture, since now, Mark is telling us that the house she spotted is a Mansfield landmark known as Oak Hill Cottage. He says he’ll be glad to show us around when we go back into town to pick up his car before going out to Malabar Farm.
On the way, I wonder about the origin of the name of Malabar Farm. Being a Spanish-English translator besides writer by trade, I’m thinking that, in Spanish, malabar (almost always used in the plural, malabares) refers to any sort of juggling or exercises (whether figurative or literal) of coordination and balance. And I try to imagine why someone would use such a term as the name of a rural estate. But later, I recall that there’s also a region known as Malabar in southern India, the Malabar Coast on the Arabian Sea. And I remember too, Bromfield’s novel entitled The Rains Came, made into a movie called The Rains of Ranchipur that I went to see with my parents as a boy in the 1950s. The story of a torrid romance against a background of flooding, disease and poverty on the Indian subcontinent. It seems that in the Indian dialect from which it is derived, Malabar there means “hill country” and that the Malabar region is one of deciduous hardwood forests, so Malabar Farm’s name suddenly makes sense to me. Mark later confirms this, telling me that without the money he made selling the movie rights for The Rains of Ranchipur, Bromfield never would have been able to realize his Malabar Farm dream. And since The Rains Came was set in the Malabar region, naming the farm after it was a natural progression. 
Bromfield, the gentleman farmer/writer
Perched on a promontory of sorts, a stone’s throw from the railway lines that powered Mansfield’s early growth, the so-called “Oak Hill Cottage”—actually a large, sturdy, gabled, red brick house with Carpenter Gothic trim—dates back to 1847, when it was built for John Robinson, superintendent of the Mansfield, Sandusky and Newark Railroad. Ralph Adams Cram, a celebrated Gothic Revivalist architect whose renowned ecclesiastical works include Saint John the Divine Cathedral in New York City, is quoted as having once described Oak Hill Cottage as “the one perfect Gothic House I’ve seen in the United States.”
Jim bones up on the history of the landmark   
Its most famous residents, Dr. Johannes Jones and his wife, Francis (née) Barr, purchased the house toward the end of the Civil War. While they and their four daughters lived there, Oak Hill Cottage became a veritable center for Mansfield high society events. When Dr. Jones died in 1895, his funeral was held there. His wife would continue to reside in the house until 1912, and other members of his family long afterward.
Francis Barr Jones, Mark tells us, was the great-aunt of Louis Bromfield, and as a boy, the author spent happy days visiting there. Bromfield immortalized the house as “Shane’s Castle” in his first novel, The Green Bay Tree (1924), which launched him to almost instant fame. The house was purchased by the Richland County Historical Society in 1965 but wasn’t opened to public tours until 1983.
Joerdie takes a self-guided tour of the
"cottage" grounds.
True to my trend on this trip, Oak Hill Cottage wasn’t open for tours on this particular day either, but we had a walk around the yard and enjoyed it from the outside, while listening to Mark’s running account of the connection with Bromfield. It was easy enough to see what a pleasant place it must have been to visit for an imaginative boy like Louis, who would embellish it in his boyhood dreams and file it away as a venue for tales he was surely already spinning in his young mind.
After we left Oak Hill Cottage, we swung back through town to pick up Mark Jordan’s car and then followed him out to Malabar Farm. The road we took was a pleasure: a winding, rolling ribbon of two-lane highway, wending its way through the rises, woodlands, ridges and valleys of the region. This is maple syrup country, where the western edge of the Allegheny Mountains’ foothills reach into the heart of northern Ohio and fashion a stunning landscape.
In a little while, Joerdie says, “The land on the right, there, is the beginning of Malabar Farm.” She’s smiling, and now so am I because the fields are so sweetly picturesque in the gold-dusty light of an advancing late-autumn afternoon. The setting for Malabar Farm is quite aptly named Pleasant Valley. The farm’s meadows rise out of a deep, fertile-looking hollow into a series of gentle hills that climb to what Bromfield called The Big House, backed and flanked to our left by a tall, wooded ridge, under which, I’ll discover later, the writer’s body was laid to rest.
My first look at Malabar Farm
I’m about to cry “Bingo!” as I watch a family saying good-bye to a caretaker who is standing by a tractor and climbing into their car to leave. They are, clearly, the last round of tourists for the day, and now the tractor pulls out behind them and heads down the hill to an equipment area separate from the farmhouse. It’s about 4 p.m. Guided tours are over for the day as I ask Joerdie to let me out at the open gate before she drives on up to the farmhouse, which to me looks more homey than I would expect a place called “The Big House” to look. I shoot a few stills of the house, the barn, the sheep in the barnyard. If I didn’t know better, I’d figure I might be able to walk up, knock on the door, and invite myself in for a cup of coffee with Bromfield. Despite having been long ago turned into a state park, Malabar still has a warm, working farm feel to it.
For Bromfield, his farm was serious business
This sensation is underscored by visiting it with somebody like Mark Jordan, who makes his home here, as manager of the on-site hostel just down the lane. He talks, although he is far too young, as if he’d known Bromfield and his friends personally, and as if the anecdotes he’s relating had happened yesterday. In fact, Bromfield has been dead for over sixty years and most of his Hollywood star friends with him. Storyteller Jim Bowsher too has been here enough that the place feels like home away from home to him as well, and he, like Mark, has incorporated anecdotes into his repertoire that make you feel he was there when Bromfield still entertained his illustrious guests.
Right now, as we’re standing on the porch, Jim says, “You know, Bromfield had his quirks. Like he used to make his guests earn their keep by going down by the road to sell produce.” He grins and adds, “No, really! So people would drive by and maybe see James Cagney or Humphrey Bogart down there selling corn out of a roadside stand.”
Gazing like a peeping-tom through the windows...
his typewriter, his desk...
Suddenly, as I gaze through a window like a peeping-tom, I’m no longer disappointed that the house is closed for the day. There’s something about looking at it through the windows and past the shutters that makes this self-styled tour seem all the more intimate, as if I’m stealing a look at something I shouldn’t be seeing—the desk Bromfield sat at, the typewriter he wrote on, the stairs Lauren Bacall descended the day she married Bogart...
That’s right. Bogart and Bacall were married right here, at Malabar Farm. Sneaking a peek through one of the front windows I see the impressive dual staircase down one side of which the trembling still teen-aged Lauren made her grand entrance on May 21, 1945. She was just nineteen. Bogart was forty-five. Mark tells me that Bacall’s mother was so opposed to the marriage that she refused to attend the wedding. And the bride was shaking so badly that the bouquet she was holding quaked uncontrollably.
...the dual staircase Lauren Bacall descended...
As the select covey of guests waited below, Mark says, the nervous young Lauren decided at the last minute that she wasn’t going to make it through the ceremony without one last pee. In one of the less romantic moments of the event, Bromfield’s loyal live-in secretary and business manager George Hawkins leaned over the banister and shouted, “She’ll be down in a minute. She's in the can.”
Some months earlier, the couple had met when director Howard Hawks discovered the as yet unknown Bacall and, just like that, flew her out to Hollywood to star opposite “Bogie”, a major Hollywood name, in a screen adaptation of the Ernest Hemingway novel, To Have and Have Not. Almost immediately, Bogart became Bacall’s mentor. Lauren was so frightened and overwhelmed that she couldn’t stop trembling—very much like her response to the Ohio wedding—and looked stiff as a board on camera. Bogart took the situation into his own hands and started joking and cutting up and making the whole rigorous process of movie-making into a fun first-time experience for his film-debutant co-star. Off-camera, he made her feel relaxed and at home and showered her with attention and confidence. By the end of the shoot—to the chagrin of not only Bacall’s mother but of director Hawks as well—they were an item. And the wedding took place at Malabar Farm almost as soon as the ink was dry on Bogie’s divorce from his third wife, Mayo Methot.
Bogart and Bacall in To Have and Have Not...
 the romance was real.
Despite all predictions to the contrary, and in spite of its being a tempestuous relationship in which each put up with the other’s indiscretions, by Hollywood standards the marriage that began in a simple ceremony at Malabar farm in 1945, was a success and lasted until Bogart’s death in 1957. So lasting was Bacall’s regard for the relationship that she and Bogie had shared that her second husband, Jason Robards, would often caustically refer to her as “The Widow Bogart”.
Bromfield (center) helps Bogart and 
Bacall cut their wedding cake 
With Joerdie as our enthusiastic chauffeur and Mark Jordan as tour guide, we take a drive around to see some other Shawshank memorabilia.
“That’s the tree!” Jim cries from the backseat. “The one next to a stone wall that Andy tells Red to look for when he gets out of prison, remember?”
“Where?” I ask, seeing only some fine fallen oak timber.
“It fell over in a big windstorm a few years back,” Mark says sadly.
Shortly afterward, he directs Joerdie up a winding logging road that leads to a small camp of rough-hewn buildings that now serve as infrastructure for a maple sugar operation that is mostly kept working for the tourists who come here every year for the maple run. On his instructions, we pull up in front of one of the cabins.
“This is where they filmed the first scene in Shawshank Redemption,” Mark tells us.
“The one where Tim Robbins is sitting in his car in the dark with a .38, drinking whiskey and trying to decide whether to go in and kill his wife and her lover,” Jim adds.
Where Andy (Tim Robbins) sits in the car with bourbon 
and a .38trying to decide whether or not to kill 
his wife and her lover.
For the life of me I can’t recall this scene, because, I suddenly realize, I’ve only ever seen the movie—one of my favorites—on TV, and, almost always, already started when I find it while zapping through the movie channels. It makes me nostalgic for the days back in the seventies and eighties, when the grand old movie theaters of Buenos Aires were still operating and I could enjoy the magic of sitting in the darkened cinema excitedly waiting for the first scenes of great movies from around the world to fade in on the big screen. In fact, it makes me nostalgic for a lot of things that don’t exist anymore. Indeed, it’s a nostalgic day, here on Malabar Farm sharing time with the ghosts of such extraordinary and creative visitors and their host.
Ceely Rose
We can’t leave the place, however, without a visit to the home of a much darker spirit. A much less pretentious home, a clapboard farmhouse that was once the home of the infamous Celia “Ceely” Rose. Ceely was a mentally challenged girl with severe learning disabilities. By all accounts, her parents, David and Rebecca Rose, tried to protect her from the outside world, but her encounters with local residents were often tainted by derision and taunting. One person, however, always treated her with kindness and respect. He was a young farmer by the name of Guy Berry.
Mentally childish, but by now growing physically developed, Ceely quite naturally fell in love with Guy and started telling him, and anyone else who would listen, that she was soon going to be his wife. Local legend has it that Guy, not wanting to hurt her feelings but not knowing how to dissuade her of the idea that he might have any but a friendly relationship with her, told Ceely he couldn’t marry her because Mr. and Mrs. Rose and her brother, Walter,  didn’t approve of him as a husband for her. The apparent lie got Guy Berry off the hook, but unleashed a terrible tragedy.
The house where Ceely Rose murdered her family
Ceely’s disappointment quickly turned to rage, and in the summer of 1896, she poisoned her parents and brother—some accounts say by lacing their coffee with rat poison, others, by pouring poison soaked from flypaper over their food. Mr. Rose died almost immediately. Brother Walter lingered for some days longer before succumbing. But Ceely’s mother survived the attempted homicide. She apparently told Ceely she knew what her daughter had done, but sought to protect her from the authorities. Two weeks after Walter’s death, however, Ceely slipped Mrs. Rose a second dose of poison and, this time, succeeded in murdering her.
Following the deaths of Ceely’s entire family, Guy Berry decided he had better skip town before he came under investigation. Sad and distraught by the news of Guy’s departure to parts unknown, or so the story goes, Ceely confessed to a neighbor what she had done. She was ultimately committed to the State Prison Hospital for the Criminally Insane in Lima, Ohio, and resided there until her death. Ghost stories about her abound in Pleasant Valley and at the site of her reclusion and burial in Lima. Mark Jordan has a collection of Ceely Rose stories of his own and has written on her extensively (including a Ceely Rose play staged at Malabar Farm). Here’s a sample:
With the sun sinking low, we now drive to the top of a tall ridge across from Malabar Farm to see the glorious landscape in the last golden light of a beautiful, chilly autumn day. Even after the sun has set, we linger for a while, near a pond down by the road and the haunting feeling I’ve had in this place all day long only increases. 

Standing here in silence with my friends after an extraordinary day, I couldn’t be more pleased to have come. Mansfield, it turns out, is an amazing place.