Rambling Woman

We had this Volkswagen camper from about 1997 to 2006. It lived in England, mostly with Stuart, a VW aficionado who kept a herd of them in a yard at or near Minehead, Somerset. It also stayed some years with John and Joan Heffernan on their beautiful property on a hill near Roadwater, also Somerset. In the video it will go up the Toll Road to the high country of Exmoor National Park. It was a 1980 VW, still had the engine in the rear, but of course it didn't have the 'je ne sais quoi' of the classic wagens of the 1960's. We couldn't take care of it as well as we should have because we'd only run it for two or three months at a time, and sometimes we'd miss whole years. It was always a bit of a panic to get it going again, and Stuart did his best to keep us happy. We went for about three years where we had a great deal of engine trouble, parking on hills or push starting quite a lot. It was worst worrying when we were on the ferry to and from France, wondering whether it would start up again on the other side. Holding our breath as we turned the key in the ignition. The problem was solved when we got a new starter (duh!) In the meantime we had broken down and been towed and repaired in places like Dumfries, Doncaster, London and Le Mans.

Eventually, we thought we'd had enough. Insurance was always a problem and to this day I'm not sure we ever had insurance, though we'd paid premiums to several companies over the years and got pieces of paper telling us we were insured. It's just that we never ever made a claim, so we didn't know whether it would be honored. Our license plate was part of the problem, even though we never quite understood why having a "Q" on the plate  would make us difficult to insure.

But the Great White served us pretty well. She was very comfortable for camping and we used her that way quite frequently. The upstairs was a perfect storage place for our musical equipment; it could be seen through the windows and I think (little) Alice was the only person to actually sleep up there. We bonded with Bimbo the first night she slept in the VW in Tom's Field near Langton Matravers, on the Dorset coast.

Natchitoches Waltz

The Natchitoches Waltz was written as a tribute to the town in Louisiana where Marsha and I were living in 1988. The idea of naming waltz (or any other dance tune) after a town comes from the Cajun tradition in Southern Louisiana. There are French cultural traditions native to the Cane River country around Natchitoches, too, but they tend to be from a different French source: a more affluent strain which came via New Orleans,  Mobile or the Caribbean, perhaps, as opposed to the farmers of Poitou and Vienne who emigrated first to the Maritime provinces of Canada and then were chased out of "Acadiana" by the English to becomes Cajuns in the bayous and prairies of South Louisiana.

Grand Opening of Conna's John Folse-backed
cafe at Ducournau Square.

I always thought, however, that applying one
state tradition to a related region was a perfectly acceptable innovation, though it would now be a great idea to do a version of the song with different instrumentation:
perhaps piano and cello, to give it that "je ne sais quoi" which is so Natchitoches. I know just the two musicians: Steve Wells and     Richard Rose.

Obviously these two are not waltzing.
Young Conna on the right.

Natchitoches Waltz is so much much associated with Conna Cloutier that it would be pointless to pretend otherwise. There was something about the song that she felt expressed the historical spirit of the town. The song doesn't belong to a particular time; it could have sprung from almost any moment of the entire history of Natchitoches. Conna asked for it to be played at almost any gathering she attended.

Winfield Stars

The following article was written in January, 1996, and was published in the West Winfield Star, upstate New York near Utica. The description of the Cajun scene in London would no longer apply this year, 2018. Excitement over all things Cajun has faded in the UK and they've moved on, though I daresay one could find remnants of Cajun England, just as there are remnants of Plantagenet England if you want to search. 

Playing Cajun with Martyn Babb in
England's West Country

Winter Letter from England. 
1-31-1996.

     Greetings from the sunny south of England. We heard on the BBC News that the "Blizzard of the Century" had swept through the northeast United States and we thought of you all. Our hosts just looked into the backyard here and remarked that the crocuses were starting to come up. We have to admit that we prefer a little English rain to a few feet of snow.

     We are staying in Dorset County on the south coast. Several years ago we came to the seaside town of Weymouth and spent a day on the Coast Path, fourteen miles over hill and dale with the sea on our right. I have a wonderful photo of an exhausted Marsha, collapsed in the garden of a pub with her worn-out feet on a table at the end of the day. [See blog "Walking the Coastal Path."]

     Weymouth is very proud of its relationship with King George III, which ought to make any American suspicious, but we love the place anyway. George used to spend his summers here, after he lost the American colonies, thereby helping to popularize the idea of going to the beach. You can probably blame him for "Baywatch" as well as the Boston Tea Party. 

     The grateful locals, who have benefitted from the influx of summer visitors, carved an enormous monument out of limestone on a hillside: the King on his horse. 

White Horse with King George III.

     During the summers Weymouth is packed with holiday makers from London and the other big cities, but at this time of year, it's oddly peaceful, empty video arcades, windswept beaches, and various holiday attractions getting their annual paint jobs. There is also the old harbor which looks like something out of a pirate movie, as do some of the bearded quayside characters. Many of them seem about to break into a sea shanty. 

     We are planning to base ourselves here for the summer, so we are laying some groundwork, meeting agents and musicians, club owners, pub owners and hoteliers, just anyone who might be interested in a couple of traveling American musicians. We have played several times in London, and have some bookings there in the next couple of weeks. Also, we have an agent for the London area, so now we are expanding towards the south coast.

     The English are very much into different kinds of music and dance. There are jazz clubs and folk clubs. There are country music clubs where people gather dressed in cowboy hats and boots and indulge in quick-draw gunfights. (Using blanks I think.)

Marsha with English cowboy.

They listen to Garth Brooks and Vince Gill sound-alikes. And there are Cajun music clubs.

     Because of our Louisiana background, we have been welcomed into the Cajun music scene with open arms. After all, we came here to promote our "Cajun Christmas" record, and we are quite familiar with the source of Cajun music in South Louisiana. Here in England you can hear bands playing Cajun waltzes and two-steps and singing in Cajun French. It's a bit strange, but there are probably more "Cajun" musicians in England than there are in Louisiana! Also, lots of interest in Cajun dancing.

     At the "Ree-lay Gumbo" Club in London, the dance floor was packed all night. Music was supplied by a band from Hemel Hempstead, just north of London, We were billed as "Special Guests — direct from Louisiana!" None of our music sounded nearly as "authentic" as the fake Cajun band, but the audience thought we were quite a treat. They danced happily on.

     The real Cajun fanatics take their holidays in Louisiana, where they seek out the legendary dance halls and music shows. There are special tours arranged for English people to sample crawfish boils and bayou cruises. We had been invited to Mardi Gras celebrations in Hemel Hempstead, but we'll have to pass because we've been booked into a Country-Western Club on the same date.

     Last night we played with some real English "folkies." At least that's what we thought they were until we were told most of the tunes were Irish. They play an assortment of accordions, concertinas and melodeons, tin whistles, flutes, fiddles and guitars. One of the high points of the evening was our rendition of a gospel song, "I'll Fly Away," with about twenty voices joining in. These people are excellent musicians, but you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone playing purely English music.

     It's the same with the food. English food has been humiliated to death over the years, but it's been replaced by the most delicious concoctions from around the world. Food from India is particularly popular here, and at least one variation, called "Balti," was probably invented in Birmingham, England's industrial center, which is home to a large ethnic Indian population. 

     While we've been writing this, the weather has changed from sunshine to showers, which is like springtime in Central New York, I guess, but since it's January, who's complaining? It's not very cold and who knows? In ten minutes the sun might return. Cheerio for now.  

Cajun Weekend

It's the end of May, 2017, Memorial Day weekend and all that. There's a big festival in Shreveport, "Mudbug Madness," which is a celebration of Crawfish (Mudbug) eating and Cajun music dancing. We chose to go south a couple of hundred miles and sample Cajun culture at the core: Eunice and Big Mamou.

Notes from the Road

Notes from the road. We have many notebooks with random scribblings. I found this in a notebook torn up by the puppy, Abbie Sue. (Ah bisou.) 41690 mileage. 

Leaving Moraga for San Diego at 10:15 on 9 Nov. '06.
We have a show in Rancho Bernardo at 1:30 p.m. on the 10th (tomorrow) and we have about 500 miles to drive. Well, we'll see how far and how much time. We've just done two shows for Doug Jones/Ken Armstrong.
42123 After breakfast at Denny's. It's 10:32 a.m. and we have driven all night and cruised to a halt in San Clemente. Marsha telephoned Dickie to let him know we're in the vicinity of his old hero (Milhaus). We arrived in our parking lot about 6:40 a.m.
    Sat. 11/11. It's Remembrance/Veterans' Day, the week that the Democrats took back the Senate and House of Reps from the assholes. We are driving up the San Diego freeway (405N) in Los Angeles, near LAX, and we're going towards Ventura to take pictures at Mission San Bonaventura on 101. We have just filmed at San Juan Capistrano. Yesterday we were close to San Diego (filmed the mission in the evening) where we showed "Hello Louisiana" for a community of oldsters.
It's a cloudy day in LA at 1:26 p.m. Last night stayed in a Rest Area between LA and SD. We're in the region where movies come from: Culver City on the sign. In front of us, the Santa Monica Mountains and Beverly Hills. 

British Columbia, 1947

  

Our first Canadian car.

        
So, our father bought a car, our first Canadian car, a 1940 Dodge. It was so much bigger than any car we'd had in England, and it took us to the Cariboo, a frontier region perhaps 300 miles north of Vancouver. 
        The roads were paved part way there, but eventually they gave way to dusty gravel highways tended by big yellow "graders." You could see someone coming quite a long way off as each vehicle was followed by a cloud of dust.
       The first part of the drive, the lower Fraser River valley, was relatively flat but after a town named Hope, you were into the mountains and a section of road known as the Fraser Canyon. I don't know how long this part of the drive was, but it was certainly the most spine-tingling and seemed to harrow on forever. Perhaps it was less than a hundred miles but it was chock full of hairpin turns, suicidal hills, and views over a hanging edge of rushing river through a narrow rocky canyon. It seemed like death was possible round every scary turn. 
       It was a great relief to get past the Canyon and into the cattle country beyond. Reaching the town of Lillooet (Mile 0) would have been my father's first culture shock. No mistaking: this was the Wild West. We drove on, past ranches, grasslands, forests, a place called 100 Mile House, onwards to a grouping of log cabins, and one major central log building, on the shore of a spectacularly beautiful lake. This was Emerald Lodge on Lac La Hache where we were booked to spend the summer. 

Stagecoach @ 100 Mile House

       Lac la Hache is a very romantic name in French. It comes with a story about a gold prospector in the 1850's who lost his axe while breaking ice: the lake just swallowed it up. In English it is Axe Lake, but like most things, it sounds better in French.  

     The photo of "our first Canadian car" also includes the log cabin which was our home for the summer of 1947. I would be quite content living in such a cabin forever. 
   The Cariboo was the site of one of North America's premier gold rushes after the one in California showed the way. In the 1850's, thousands of fortune-seekers, from Europe, China and California came to the Cariboo much the same way we had, via Vancouver and Lilooet, and some of them actually struck pay dirt. I found out much later that a relative of mine, a poet known as Cariboo Jim, was involved in the Gold Rush.

       It was a wonderful summer with many happy memories. We went fishing on the lake, several times, and caught lake trout and something called Char, from the deep water; some were as  large as 20 pounds. We swam a lot; actually, I paddled a lot because I didn't learn to swim for at least another year or two. One time we witnessed a skunk getting cornered under one of the cabins. It was my first time getting a whiff of that inimitable skunk stink. 

      We ran into a genuine American family and their dog, Mac, who in my memory is a black-and-white English spaniel. The most memorable thing about this family came from my father's rendition of them calling for their dog in heavy throaty accents: "Heere Maaac!" It was at Lac la Hache I discovered that Americans were bigger and fatter than other nationalities. 

       I loved the log cabin. I think it had a bedroom for my father and a kitchenette and a bathroom, but we all pretty much lived in one room. Dad did the cooking and I'm guessing this was where he learned how, We drove in to Williams Lake to do the shopping, though there were probably some rudimentary foods for sale right there at the lodge. Williams Lake is a little Western Cow-town which still has its annual Stampede; like Calgary, but smaller.
        At the end of the summer we returned to Vancouver, the dreaded Mrs. Dryvenside, and Athlone School. Our father rented a little apartment in a big old house near Cambie Street and began working as a physician. One of his first jobs was connected to the Jericho Army base. 

       

Eng-a-lish Pubs (A Poem by Marsha Brown)

              Eng-a-lish Pubs    ©2011 by Marsha & Monty Brown BMI

The Chorus:

Oh we love the pubs in Eng-a-land, there’s many to be found

They stand on every corner ‘n every city, village, town.

If it’s music, food, or drink you want, take this tip from me

You’re welcome to pub-sit all day long or pop in for a pee.

no no no!   P - I-N-T ---P!

There’s folk night and there’s shanty night, 

There’s quiz and skittle, too

Bingo, dart, and billiard nights, 

Just to name a few.

A night for Curry, Bangers‘n mash, 

And Leg O’ Mutton stew

My favorite night’s the night 

When I kin order Steak fer Two!

Yo ho ho...  order steak for two...            

Oh the names do get me tickled, 

The Pickled Newt is best

The Bucket & Spade, The Cat & The Fiddle, 

The Crown, The Traveller’s Rest

The Queen’s in need of a Number Ten

George found The Golden Fleece

The Dog & Gun’s in Hardy’s Well

And still The Fox Goes Free.

Yo ho ho...  still the fox goes free... oh             

The Valiant Soldier tells us

That his Square & Compass broke, so

The Stag Hunters Stumble Inn 

The Firkin Royal Oak 

The Captain’s Wife she caught 

The Cock And Bull by the neck

Now let’s get out our Pack of Cards

And deal a Quarter Deck.

Yo ho ho... deal a quarter deck ...  

We’ll meet The Mermaid, Mary Rose,

And board The Pilot Boat

We’ll weigh the old Blue Anchor 

Keep The Cutty Sark afloat.

The Push Inn or The Barge Inn, or

The Boat holds Prince of Wales

We’ll hit The Jolly Sailor, 

Let the old tars tell their tales.

Yo ho ho...  the old tars tell their tales...  

The Yachtsman he sailed Halfway Inn

The Hobby Horse’s Stables, 

Wye Knot Rest and Be Thankful that

The Lamb’s on Admiral’s Table.

The Butcher’s Arms have Bird in Hand

The Skipper can’t be found

Lord Nelson got so pickled that

He ran The Ship Aground.

Yo ho ho... he ran the ship aground... 

The Strugglers Inn, The Smugglers Inn,

The Beach and Barnicot,

St. Peter’s Finger’s in The Swan, 

The Cat and Custard Pot 

Good Knight it’s time to push The Plough

Heave Ho The Candlestick

We’ll Stop Inn at The Drunken Duck

And eat some Spotted Dick!

Yo ho ho...  eat some spotted dick...  

(Chorus)

Oh we love the pubs in Eng-a-land, there’s many to be found

They stand on every corner ‘n every city, village, town.

If it’s music, food, or drink you want, take this tip from me

You’re welcome to pub-sit all day long or pop in for a pee.

no no no!   P! -I-N-T   Order a pint for me!

          

(slowly)

Now sometimes there’s a real twit

What wends his way in here

And quietly gets ‘over served’

On Porter, Stout, or Beer

And should that twit get reckless, rude, or rowdy, 

Don’t you fear... 

The Publican’ll gladly toss him outside

On his... EAR!

ear rear rear... outside on his ear... 

(and VERY slowly)

Now Hen-e-ry met Anne Bolyn, it happened---in a pub!

Shakespeare wrote his Sonnets, he wrote ‘em---in a pub!

The apple fell on Newton’s head, just outside---a pub!

An’every month we meet our best friends, right here---in a pub!      

(Chorus)

Oh we love the pubs in Eng-a-land, there’s many to be found

They stand on every corner ‘n every city, village, town.

If it’s music, food, or drink you want, take this tip from me

You’re welcome to pub-sit all day long or pop in for a pee.

no no no!   P! -I-N-T   Order a pint for me!