“We Will Build a Wall...

and make the Barbarians pay for it.” 

was a quote attributed to the Roman Emperor Hadrian in 122 AD. Mr. Emperor went onto say, “Those Barbarians are nothing more than murderers and rapists. They eat haggis and carry diseases too. We’ll build a very, very BIGLY Wall. We’ll hire the best people to build it. We will conveniently place the Wall near airports, train stations and highways so all can access this UNESCO World Heritage Site. We will Make Rome Great Again!” 

Hadrian might not have said those exact words even in Latin, but as I walk his legacy through a narrow waistband of mainland U.K., I wonder. Why did Emperor Hadrian order the Wall built?

The answer is, no scholar knows for sure. Somehow, Hadrian’s Tweets were lost in the fog of history. 

Here’s what we think we know.

Hadrian was a hands on Emperor. There’s more than speculation that he designed the 73 mile Wall. His creation took about six years to build with 15,000 Roman legionnaires doing the heavy lifting. Once it was constructed, the Romans couldn’t just walk away from it. The Wall was manned by Calvary and Legionnaires brought in from across Rome’s far flung Empire. (Some from as far away as Syria.) There were forts, milecastles and turrets for the soldiers to live and work at. The members of the Roman Border Patrol slept eight to a tiny room. They spent a lot of time gazing north along a stark, barebones windswept landscape keeping a leery eye out for possible Barbarian intrusions. It wouldn’t have been a gig I’d want to have.

Photo below: That’s me pretending to be a Roman Legionnaire. 

Back to the question that’s on every wondering person’s mind. Why a Wall?  

Those in-the-know scholars have a Chinese take away menu’s worth of options to believe in. 

Here’s a few: 

It served as a defensive deterrent against those uncouth Barbarians. 

Hadrian might have been consolidating his Empire. He was setting limits on Rome’s expansion. The Wall is the Rome’s northern most boundary. Or as Hadrian claimed to say keep “intact the Empire.” Under Hadrian’s rein, physical borders were constructed in other regions too. The British version just happened to be Rome’s most ambitious and expensive project. 

Since there were gates, it might have have been a customs post monitoring the comings and goings of citizens and non-citizens. Maybe the Wall was an ancient toll and taxation booth. 

Another speculation is the Wall represented Rome’s might. Was Hadrian on an autocratic ego trip? Was the Emperor saying, “Dude! Could you do this?” to the rest of the World? 

No one knows for certain.

So... Did the Wall work?

From a military standpoint probably not. There were too many unmanned gaps. There were incursions from those Scotch Whisky guzzlers from the north. Another Wall (the Antonine) was built further north 20 years later. It’s primary building material was turf. (A nice way of saying grassy dirt.) . It didn’t work either. The Romans fell back to the comfort of Hadrian’s Wall, at least it was made of stone. 

Which brings up my final point. 

Walls don’t work. It’s human nature to figure out ways around them, through them or over or under them. These unnatural physical impediments cost a lot of dinarii (an ancient Roman silver coin, originally worth ten asses) to construct and maintain. In the long run, it’s more cost effective to build bridges of diplomacy between people and nations. 

Presently Hadrian’s Wall is a major U.K. tourist attraction, despite the fact only about 10% of the original Roman Wall is intact. (The rest was reconstructed). I believe the Wall is generating more wealth now than it did as a border. I know I’ve been dropping the £s since I began walking it! 

I still don’t think it’s a good idea to build a Wall though.

Last photo: An authentic high tech Barbarian device once used to overcome Hadrian’s Wall. 

From Carlisle, UK

Iubentium!

Cheers in Latin

Jeff

The Yankees made me do it

My life and relations are interwoven in the pinstripes of New York Yankee baseball. While growing up in the Big Apple, the Bronx Bombers and me were practically neighbors. (The House that Ruth Built was only an hour subway ride away). 

Many of my fondest childhood memories revolved around the northern borough’s Boys of Summer. 

My personal highlight films are:

Sneaking a transistor radio under my pillow to listen to WPIX  and Phil (Holy Cow!) Rizzuto, when I should have been sleeping.

Talking Sid Sambur into taking me to Yankee Stadium, even though my European born father didn’t understand the game. It was an afternoon of Baseball 101, and a rare Sid and Jeffy bonding session. 

1961’s famous Home Run derby featuring the “M&M Boys,” Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris. 

Seeing the aging and gimpy Mickey Mantle steal second base (Live!)

Somehow preserving through The Dark Ages of Yankee Baseball 1965-1976. Those were our summers of discontent. The stadium was so empty I remember sharing a joint in the bleachers with a few Black Brothers from the ‘hood. Afterwards, we watched the rest of the game with illegal smiles. 

Drinking my first-ever beer. It was a Schaefer, “ the one beer to have when you’re having more than one.” It was love at first sip.

I moved West in 1978, but my baseball allegiance still resided in the stands of Yankee Stadium.

Now, the Yankees are a common playing field for me, my family and a few friends. 

With my youngest nephew Justin, I’ll bring him up to date on the standings, who’s hot and who’s not and some questionable management calls. Doctor (of Chemistry) Justin is a busy guy. He manipulates sub-atomic particles, writes scientific papers, has a family life and teaches at Colorado State University. He’s well known in his field. Doctor J scores invites to science conferences all over the World. I’m proud to be his Uncle. I’m OK with providing him a short ESPN Yankee synopsis over an IPA.

Older nephew Keith is a high-end bankruptcy lawyer. He lives a frenetic life balancing work, family, Boulder to Denver commutes and a dog walking gig. He’s also my CFO keeping my vast financial empire afloat while I’m gallivanting around the globe. Despite wearing all these hats, he stays up on top of what’s happening with America’s Team. Keith will be aware of the latest trade rumors, rookies coming up from the minors and can name the current roster. His memory astounds me.

My brother/hero/mentor Mike and I are content to just chill in front of the tube while taking in a game. (Although he surprised me by securing tickets for Mariano Rivera’s farewell game at Yankee Stadium in 2013.) We’ll sit on the couch. He’ll sip vodka tonics, while I nurse a bottle of IPA. We’ll talk baseball, family, shared memories, travel stories and politics. My sister-in-law Robin will join us when the game is getting interesting. She knows when that’s happening. Mike and I both shut up to focus in on the action. 

It’s safe at second to say, being a Yankee fan is a Sambur family tradition.

So... when Keith informed me in the Fall of 2018, that the Yankees would be playing the Boston Red Sox in London in June of 2019, I said “I’m in!” 

I was hoping he’d say, “Me too!” But that didn’t happen. He’s a busy guy.

However, three others were crazy enough to travel overseas to witness the New World’s Major League Baseball debut in Old World UK. 

Big Al hates the Yankees but Is a true baseball fan. He’ll even keep score while taking in a game. His wife Jean (a 40 year friend of mine) likes to travel and observe how others go about life’s daily routines. She enjoyed sampling English Ales and British cuisine too. Samatha is a long time Yankee/baseball fan as well. In Colorado, we caught many Rockies games with our mutual buddy Joe. 

    

It was a wild weekend of baseball. The Yankees prevailed 17-14 in Saturday’s marathon session. On Sunday, the Bronx Boys must have been a bit beat. After spotting the Sox four runs in the 1st inning, the Yankee bats went nuclear for nine runs in the 8th. Final score 12-8.  A SWEEP! Clearly these matches weren’t pitching duels.

The MLB deemed the weekend a success. Next year the Chicago Cubs and the Saint Louis Cardinals will travel to London for a two game series.

Will I attend? 

Nope! Why would I go through all that hassle and expense to get to the U.K. if the Yankees aren’t playing?

Let’s Go Yankees! 

From the start point of Hadrians Wall,

Cheerio!

Jeff

A Tale of Three Traditional...

B&Bs.

Warning: This is a story of woe, sadness, hunger, cluelessness and worse,  a night without beer. It’s a story that needs to be told. If just one person learns from my multiple mistakes, I feel my mission in writing this is complete.

When I decided two months ago to walk the Cotswolds Way, I had neither the knowledge or the patience to deal with the logistics of negotiating 103 miles of U.K. countryside. I bought into a shuttle service who would move my backpack between accommodations along the Way. The accommodations were recommended by the shuttle service. Easy right?

After I paid Company X, my itinerary promptly arrived. Just as promptly, I forgot about it until I had to deal with it. That’s how I roll.

I bought a map, at least.

When I got to the start at Chipping Camden, I reckoned maybe I should look at where I’m going and where I’m staying. Hmmm. Of the nine evenings, I’d be staying in pubs five nights. (British pubs are one stop shopping. They provide accommodations, meals, beers and an English (Yawn!) breakfast in the morning). I’m good with that. The other four nights were to be traditional B&Bs. From past experiences I knew these weren’t “my cup of tea.” 

After eating, drinking and sleeping in a pub in Chipping Camden, I set off for Traditional B&B # One. In about four hours I arrived and knocked on the door. No answer. The door was ajar so I entered, “Hello! Hello!” No one was home. On a desk I noticed a note bearing my name. In a proper and polite way, I was informed I’d be sleeping in the attic. The worst guest room in the house. I know I looked. It was then, that I gazed around. I was in a house of horse-themed hoarders. There were paintings, photos, thirty year old magazines and porcelain statues of beasts of burdens. Where their wasn’t  equine stuff, there was clutter. There were no clean lines. Oh well, at least the town had a pub. 

It was closed.

When the homeowners arrived, I thought surely they would offer me a sandwich knowing the local pub was shuttered. They didn’t offer and I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to NAG them. 

That was my sum total of interaction with the owners. My dinner that night was two Clif bars and water. The bed was lumpy too.

I rated this stay “I” for Inhospitable. The best thing about the sleepover was leaving.

B&B # Two was nestled in several paddocks. The closest pub was three miles away. My digs were a newish Mother-in-law bungalow which was detached from the family home. It was bright and clean. It was a do-it-yourself B&B where all my food needs were already there. That is if you like a dinner of frozen pizza or a deli chicken sandwich. Well, at least there were two beers in the refrigerator. 

It was a long night. 

B&B # Three was in a town which had the feel of a suburb. For U.K. standards the town was spanking new. The B&B was somewhat hidden from the street. Inside there were two handymen doing odd jobs but no owner. (Apparently they weren’t there to clean up the mess though). When I asked them of his whereabouts their answer, “He’s at the pub.” It was 1:45 pm. The owner wasn’t there to eat. 

In the morning, the English (Yawn) Breakfast was as hungover as the cook. The egg was served runny with just a hint of salmonella. For this I paid £85 in cash. I rated this B&B “I” for intoxicated. 

I was supposed to have another joyful, charming (yeah right!) sleepover in one more remote B&B. I thought to myself, “Self! No freaking way.” I secured a room in a pub in the lovely town of Wotton-under-Edge. I ended up paying for both places for that one night’s stay. I wasn’t happy about this, but I wasn’t happy sharing too much space with B&B owners either.

So here’s my point. Do your homework. If you don’t want to feel like you are “couch surfing” with strangers and paying them for the displeasure, stay in Pubs. You will even score your own room key!

My job here is now done.

Cheers

Jeff

A Trail of Trespassing...

A few days ago, I began walking the United Kingdom’s 103 mile Cotswold Way. It didn’t take long for me to realize this hike was different than the ones I’ve experienced in the US. 

First off, there’s lots of ambling through paddocks. When you enter a paddock, a gate must be unlocked and then relocked. Between the paddocks, there’s woodlots enclosed in fences with more gates too negotiate. Grazing sheep, horses and chewing-the-cud cows abound. The farm animals live there full time I suppose.

Then the light came on. I’m mostly walking through private property. I’m trespassing and no one is threatening me or brandishing a weapon in my face. In fact, an owner of an estate (there’s lots of estates in the U.K.), gave me directions when he discovered me walking down his private driveway. He went on to say, “It’s a shame you don’t have a compass. You could walk through my land and be there sooner.” Simply amazing. He was encouraging me to trespass! 

I started thinking about this. (This is what happens when your accommodations aren’t near pubs and you have too much time to ponder.) So...I went to the source of all knowledge. I Googled stuff. 

The U.K. has 67 million people who speak a version of English. The U.K is a wee dram smaller than the state of Michigan. So here’s some comparison shopping. In the U.K. 8.5%  of the land is publicly owned. In fact, one percent of the population owns 50% of the cloudy and rainy land mass. On the other side of the Atlantic, Michigan has 10 million residents and 28% of the land is open to all.

Apparently, private land owners in the U.K. are willing to share their space with the masses. There’s even a name for this, (dare I say it?) socialistic idea. The trails are called “permissive pathways.” Definition from my AZ Adventure Cotswold Way map: “Footpaths which landowners have permitted public use but which are not right of ways. The agreement may be withdrawn.” In other words, if the walker, mountain bikers and equestrians play nice, they are allowed continued access through the private land. So far, I’d say the public is doing a fine job of stewardship. I’ve seen plenty of mud and sheep poop, but no litter. 

Somehow this cooperative notion got scuttled when those Europeans migrated to the New World. To sum it up, I’d be likelier to order a Bud Light in a brewpub than knowingly trespass in the US. Trust me, I’m not doing either. 

US laws heavily favor the sanctity of house and home and property. IE Fifth Amendment and the  “Stand-Your-Ground” law. A perceived threat (like trespassing) might be a fast way to end a pleasant hike. (I have a great aversion to suddenly contracting lead poisoning.) Hell! There’s White Males openly carrying sidearms in the Larimer County Parks of Colorado. (That’s a No-No BTW. The Dudes were intimidating without the weapons, I wasn’t going to chastise them.) If these sorts are armed on Public Land, they must wield a bazooka while at home. I’m guessing there are more “No Trespassing” and “This property protected by Smith and Wesson” signs than  Stop” signs in the US. 

And THAT’S why we need to save every acre of Public Lands in the US. People who wander (like me) would end up on the wrong side of a gun way too often. 

We need Public Lands for the simple reason, that Americans don’t play as nice as British Citizens. 

Think about it.

For further reading: 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2018/04/the-fort-collins-syndrome.html

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2017/04/utah-national-monument-status-isnt.html

Cheers from Kings Stanley, UK 

Lessons my Dad taught me...

A month ago I blogged about the lessons my Mom taught me. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/05/lessons-my-mom-taught.html

This month the lectures are Sid based. 

Mom and Dad’s lessons had some overlap: Be polite, value education, always offer food/drink to family, friends and strangers. And lastly, hugs are an acceptable form of telling others you think they are swell. 

Whereas Mom’s lessons were more visual, Sid’s classroom time always began with “Jeffy!” 

Sid didn’t teach touchy-feely. His opinions on how things are and how they should be were pragmatic in nature. Sid Sambur’s views were in Black or White hues. There was no Gray. If something or someone was great, you knew it. When something or someone sucked, well we heard about that too. Sid was painfully honest.

Some examples:

“Jeffy, don’t be a shnoorer.” Translation from Yiddish. A taker, someone who would dine and dash on you when the check arrives.

“Jeffy, words matter. If you say you are going to do something, do it.” Another way of saying actions speak louder than words. 

“Jeffy, No! I’m not buying that for you.”  I heard the word “NO!” often. That’s a good thing. It taught me their are differences between real needs and mere desires. 

“Jeffy, save your money. Don’t waste it on silly things. One day you might need that money.” I’ve rarely been in debt. 

“Jeffy! Do the right thing. Be honest. Be nice to people. Be generous when you are able.” 

Many of Dad’s lessons came from witnessing humankind at its worst. The Holocaust. 

“Jeffy! don’t be a follower. Think for yourself. Just because everyone is doing something doesn’t mean it’s right.” I’m sure this came from Sid’s observation of the Mob Mentality of the Third Reich. 

“Jeffy! There are times you’ll have to stand up for what you know is right.”

“Jeffy! I don’t want you to join the Boy Scouts. Any organization that requires a uniform is something to avoid.” Dad was probably thinking about the Nazi Brownshirts when he told me this. 

“Jeffy! There are Goyim (non-Jews) who will hate you just because you are Jewish. Be aware of this.” A hard lesson of Anti-Semitism. 

A lot of what my Dad taught was common sense, Golden Rule stuff. The rest was Alerts and   Warnings pertaining to the potential Evil which is lurking in the World. 

In essence, I believe Sid wanted me to be a mensch, but also to watch out for the other guy. 

From The Joys of Yiddish, a "mensch" is "someone to admire and emulate, someone of noble character.” 

Well Dad, I  try to be a mensch, I try.

Thanks for all the lessons.

Happy Father’s Day to our manly mentors. 

Parting is nothing but...

Sorrow.

Recently I attended a memorial for Joe Scanlan. A buddy I’ve known for thirty years. It was three decades of great times and guffaws. In early May, our friendship was suddenly terminated by freakin’ cancer.

You may recall I once wrote a blog about Joe and his brother Pat. (AKA Team Trauma). 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2014/08/team-trauma.html?m=1

The memorial was at Denver’s Washington Park Boathouse. After checking into a nearby hotel, I ambled to the park knowing I was a mental mess over Joe’s passing. Upon arrival, I exchanged a little awkward small talk and sad sighs with brother Pat. He took me over to a table which held old photos, ticket stubs and a framed article I wrote about the Dynamic Duo for the Denver Post. 

Pat handed me a dozen photos, “Here! These are from our Team Bar2Bar days on Ride the Rockies. You are in a few.” 

Sure enough, the photos held memories,  “Oh! I remember THAT crazy day!” I started to smile despite not feeling very happy. I then spoke to a scattering of Scanlans whom I’ve met through the years. (There’s a lot of Irish Catholic Scanlans!) Our conversations were brief as if we were all thinking the same thing. “What is there to say? This sucks!”

 As the crowd grew, I retreated to my position of comfort. I went and stood in a quiet corner of the Boathouse. 

While nursing an IPA. I looked out upon the reflections on the lake while noticing squadrons of barn swallows flittering nearby. I thought about Joe and the finality of never being able to share a joke, a Rockies game or to click pint glasses with him at a Happy Hour. I sighed a lot. 

Every now and then, I glanced at the gathering of Joe’s greatest fans. Many were regaling those around them with comical antidotes of episodes with Joe. Of course, they were complete with imitations of his raspy voice and emphatic hand gestures. Everyone had a story to tell and memories to share. “Oo! There was that time when Joe and I...” 

Then again, I saw some gushing of tears too. 

As the keg of beer began to drain, a few strangers approached me. “Weren’t you the guy who wrote that article about Joe? He spoke about you often. I had to come by and meet you.” 

With an introduction like that, I went into my greatest hits with Joe stories. They laughed and nodded as they envisioned the hilarious yet believable scenes. 

As Joe’s celebration of life was coming to a close, Rosie (a mutual friend and honorary Scanlan) came by for a teary hug. When we regained our composures, she pointed out the urn which contained Joe’s remains. Rosie looked at me and said, “Joe loved you!” 

I know. The feeling was mutual. This was a hard loss. I’m sure going to miss him. 

On an upbeat note: Don’t be surprised when there’s an announcement for the “Joe Scanlan Cancer Sucks Memorial” tentatively set for June, 2020. Yes, it’ll more than likely be held at a Rockies game at Coor’s Field. Somehow we will spin a fund raiser for a cancer charity chosen by the Scanlan family. I’ll buy a ticket for Joe and place a can of Coors on the empty seat. He’ll be there in spirit. Plan on attending. Joe wouldn’t want you to miss this one. 

Our dream became a reality. The Joe Scanlan Memorial Cancer Sucks fundraiser is now live. Please donate whatever amount you can. Let’s strike out cancer.

https://www.joescanlanmemorial.com/

Cheers to Joe.

A belated Arbor Day...

Post and an early Father’s Day one. 

Here’s an Oldie but Goodie on this sunless, cool Sunday morning in Colorado. (Great day to plant a tree!)

 Planting a Tree...

My father, a survivor of Hitler’s insane concept of human genetics, planted a tree at our house in the Bronx. The sapling was a two-foot white pine that my father appropriated from the Catskill Mountains, AKA in the “Big Apple” as the Jewish Alps. “Jeffy, watch! This tree will one day be taller than our house,” he proclaimed. Like a faithful son, I believed him.

One winter, a Nor’easter blizzard blew down along the eastern seaboard. The heart-attack-heavy snow broke the tiny, white pine in half. My dad, a tailor by profession, but whom Uncle Sam trained to be a medical assistant in WWII, sprang into action. He fashioned a splint made of a few sticks, a side order of rags and a lot of twine. With these meager tools and devices, he made the wounded tree whole again. He reasoned, “It works for people, why not trees?”

In 1978, I escaped the hassle and hustle of the Big Apple and moved out West. Now I, a son of a son of a tailor and graduate from the Syracuse College of Forestry, nurture trees at my home in Fort Collins, Colorado.

I can’t take all the credit; I get a lot of help from Mother Nature. Neighborhood squirrels burrow acorns into the mulch and forget where they placed them. A white-oak sapling will arise a season later. My furry friends do the same with apple cores and cherry and peach pits. I have a virtual fruit stand growing in my yard. We haven’t had much luck with avocado pits yet. When the oaks, peaches, apples, cherries and ashes grow too close together, I’ll go in and do a “thinning operation,” and rearrange some saplings. Once in awhile, I have to place a few up for adoption.

Letting go of my green children is always a difficult process. First I have to find a suitable “parent.” Then the lengthy application process begins. With questions such as, “Are you aware that Colorado is now in a drought?” Then a follow-up query, “Will you be able to provide an adequate supply of water for this young plant?” After that, I quiz the applicant about his or her general knowledge on such diverse topics as soil conditions, fertilizers and peat moss. Only when I am satisfied with their answers will we venture out in the yard with a shovel in tow. As we dig up the adopted seedling, I make sure the new owner understands that I get visitation rights. It’s never easy to let go.

In the fall of 2000, I went back east to visit family and friends. I borrowed a car and drove out to see my childhood home in the Bronx. I was glad that I had faith in my Dad. He was right; that white pine tree is now taller than the house.

Do yourself a favor; plant a tree. It’s good for the soul.