London, Part II: Character Underground

What is the right mix of ego, character, courage, and integrity to make a great leader? When do circumstances create the leader, and when does it arise from within? What befalls a country when circumstances are dire, and the leader is inadequate to the task? As authoritarians jockey for power in 2025, we may find out, but fortunately for Britain, in 1940 Winston Churchill was in command. As Hitler’s squadrons battered the country with aerial bombing raids, the Prime Minister, military strategists, and civilian staff - 500 people - worked in shifts round the clock from the basement war rooms beneath a building in Whitehall to defend their island home. Before our trip to London, when we asked friends what we should see, without exception, Churchill’s War Rooms topped the list. 

Having already scoped out the location, Dave and I arrived, as suggested, 15 minutes ahead of our allotted time. The line was long, but an employee informed us that most were there for the prior time slot, so we had plenty of time to chat with those waiting with us. While traveling, even waiting in line is an opportunity, an open door to lives beyond our own.

The bearded, ruddy-faced man behind us was a discouraged writer in need of inspiration. Here, in the city of Charles Dickens, he had visited the author’s house and visited his grave in Westminster Abbey. As the line to the door of the museum inched forward, we told him about our favorite holiday movie, The Man Who Invented Christmas, which portrays Dickens’s grim childhood and his frustration following three commercial flops. Despite that fallow time, he went on to write his most enduring novel, A Christmas Carol. Our companion’s eyes brightened, and he said he’d watch the movie that very night. I wonder if he did, and if it was the nudge he needed. 

Eventually, we were waved forward into the museum that precedes the actual War Rooms. 

Of Churchill, it must be said that as much as the man had the ego and character for greatness, he was a character as well. Known for his cigars, bow ties, bizarre work habits, breakfast cocktails, and taste for champagne, Churchill once said, “We are all worms. But I do believe that I am a glow-worm.” In the decades since his death, actors from Richard Burton to Gary Oldman have sought to project that mix of imperious growl and eccentric glow. 

The museum’s exhibits covered the span of Churchill’s life, career, and impact with videos, posters, memorabilia, and vintage photographs as well as his uniforms, personal items, and a collection of hats. A flip board allowed visitors to mix and match photographs of Churchill’s face with different hats. Fun!

Less fun was imagining the claustrophobic quarters and tension in the War Rooms in the years up to Japan’s surrender on August 16, 1945. Relatively protected while encased within reinforced concrete walls, behind steel doors, and below a 5’ thick concrete slab, personnel labored knowing that above ground, bombs were pummeling neighborhoods and scattering loved ones to whatever shelter they could find. Life as they’d known it before their descent into the basement was being obliterated by Hitler’s Luftwaffe. 

As if the danger above and the importance of the work in these rooms was happening even now, there was a hush of held breath as Dave and I snaked down narrow hallways with other visitors. We peered through glass partitions at lifelike mannequins perusing maps, pondering troop movements, or bent to typewriters and phones. Audio recordings played through our individual headsets supplying details about life and the strict security during those years spent largely underground.

I imagined the nagging weight of responsibility in knowing the importance of the work at hand, and the fearful uncertainty for self, loved ones, country, and future. While bombs are not falling in America 2025, I feel something akin to that worry myself lately. How did they bear up under those pressures? 

When the basement lights were turned off in 1945, and the last person closed the door, the rooms went largely untouched until they were turned into a museum. Vestiges of the tactics employed to ease frayed nerves and maintain mental and physical health remained in place. Smoking was a comfort, its risks unknown, and the butt of one of Churchill’s cigars still rests in an ashtray. Commander John Heagerty had a sweet tooth, and three sugar cubes were discovered in his desk drawer, one with an edge shaved off suggesting he was rationing this rare treat. During the war, those in these basement rooms were sustained by simple pleasures, the company of their colleagues, and the knowledge that the nature of the future, our present, depended on them.   

                                                                        

 

 

 

 

 

 

London, Part I: Brown Wood, Butchers, and Finding Our Way

It was after 11:00 PM London time when Dave and I staggered into a brightly lit Italian deli, the only place open, to grab some pasta and beer. We had traveled that day from JFK to Heathrow Airport to Farringdon Station, emerged from the station, took a left where we should have gone right, and wandered in a dark, unfamiliar neighborhood for 45 minutes dragging our loathsome, far-too-big, suitcases in search of our hotel, The Rookery 1764. 

Ultimately, a kind couple heading into the light, camaraderie, and warmth of a pub responded to my near-teary quest for directions by pulling up a map on their phone and pointing the way. If we’d gone right, not left, out of the station, we would have arrived at The Rookery within minutes.

Sigh. Travel and glitches. Part of the deal.  

While many travelers prefer the familiarity of a Marriott or Sheraton, we seek accommodations with a sense of place, of history. Increasingly, that is hard to find. As antiques and brown wood have fallen out of fashion, historic elements have been carted off in dumpsters to make way for smooth white walls and generic furnishings. 

The owners of The Rookery, however, were drawn to the property and its sister hotels – Hazlitt’s 1718 and Batty Langley’s 1724 – by the wish to preserve them. And when we finally tottered into the Rookery’s front hall, we were embraced by burnished wood paneled walls, subdued lighting, and Persian rugs warming the stone floor. A glimpse into the library with its shelves of old books, oil paintings, and leather armchairs promised a cozy place for reading once we were settled. 

After checking in, Toosh, the receptionist, led us down the hall to the stairway. Oh dear, a stairway. As I mentioned, our bags were monstrous, we were weary… and our room was on the third floor. Toosh was wise to keep that to himself, and he fought valiantly, though in vain, to wrest our bags from our cramped hands. But the climb was worth it, for our room was a haven with a carved wooden bedstead, massive desk-turned armoire, and a pensive portrait over the fireplace mantel.  

Every room at the hotel is named after a real person who once lived in or frequented this neighborhood in Clerkenwell. Ours was dedicated to Sophie Rood who often accompanied her mother, an “ass driver,” to the meat market just down Cowcross Road from The Rookery. 

After dropping off our bags, we headed down Cowcross to find food, hoping the long-ago cows crossing Cowcross Road had suffered no premonitions on their way to the Victorian monolith of the Smithfield Meat Market which loomed before us. 

While changing times and WW II bomb damage ended trade in livestock there, it continues to operate from midnight to 5:00 AM. Although Dave and I were supping on our beer and pasta in advance of the market’s opening, several white-coated, blood-smeared butchers gearing up for their long work night stopped in to grab black tea, rolls, and sandwiches. 

Dave is ever curious and chatted up one guy who was eager to discuss the fine points of his trade. He was proud of his years as an apprentice and bemoaned the unwillingness of some newer to the craft to do the hard work of butchering a whole carcass. 

“So, you do a lot of heavy lifting?” Dave asked. 

“Not like when we’d get the whole cow. We still get whole lambs though…” 

While Dave asked about the weight of whole lambs, I smiled brightly, eyebrows raised, feigning admiration. We gave up meat decades ago, and butchering is not my favorite subject. However, in this setting, I understood Dave’s interest. We were in London to learn something of its long history, and here, within the shadow of the Smithfield Market, men like this – and Sophie Rood’s mother for that matter - had driven and butchered livestock for centuries.    

                                                           *

The Next Day: 

Yawn. Stretch. Ohhh, that was a long day. Cast a snoozy glance at the time…  

No. That can’t be right. THAT CAN‘T BE RIGHT! 

“Dave! Wake up! It’s 11:15!”

“What? No Way! What time are we meeting the Porters?”

“12:15! We have to catch a train to Paddington and then find the restaurant!”

A wild flurry ensues. Faces washed. Teeth brushed. Rumpled clothes dug from suitcases. Dress and dash down three flights of stairs. Skip coffee. Run to Farringdon Station. Which track? Check once, check twice that the train’s bound for Paddington. Which way to exit the station? Ask directions from this person then that one. Hear “I’m not from around here” more than once. Agh.

Finding our way is not our forte. 

By sheer good luck, we spot the restaurant, and Chris and John waving from a table in the window. Incredibly, we’re only five minutes late… but way overdue on our promise to visit the Porters, old friends from years of working and living at Eagle Hill School.  

Tucker and Casey, now in their forties, have long claimed they were raised in a commune. For decades, we denied it. But as we’ve observed their experiences in raising our grandkids, we’ve had to concede; they’re right. 

For fifteen years, we lived on campus, and the Porters were part of our community. We ate meals together in the dining hall with students, colleagues, and their children. When we needed help, there was always a friend willing to babysit, split a schedule, or keep an eye out on the playground. We forged strong friendships, and when the Porters moved to England, we promised we’d visit soon. 

That was ten years ago. 

Despite our lapse, Chris and John took the two-hour ride from their home in Bradninch to meet us. Our reunion was brief but crammed as we caught up on kids, grandkids, and unease over the impending election.

                                                            *

Is everyone here from somewhere else? Are we all helpless and lost without AI, Google, or GPS to find our way? In these uncertain times, is that a metaphor for life? Maybe. Finding places in London proved to be a challenge.

We had three full days and minimal plans; Churchill’s War Rooms was the only absolute on our list. So, we figured a Hop On, Hop Off bus tour would give us an overview and transportation to Westminster Abbey, the Tower, Big Ben, and Buckingham Palace. For this trip – our first to London – we were not pushing for a see-it-all touring experience. 

Despite frequent glimpses of the red buses always just ahead, out of reach, and rounding a corner, we couldn’t find a place to buy tickets and … hop on. It had sounded so easy! But, as happened throughout our stay, asking for directions of passersby and shop vendors generally reaped misinformation, if any. We heard, “I’m not from around here” countless times. Or “I’m not sure where that is, but I DO know that Trafalgar Square is that way.” The helpful, definitive outstretched arm indicating our supposed destination was invariably incorrect, only discovered after we’d hoofed several blocks.

Ultimately, we flagged down a bus, and the driver graciously allowed us to board, saying he would alert a salesperson to our presence when the bus reached one of the company’s offices. And so it was.

How great to sit and ride! Generally, we avoid public transportation and prefer to walk, but we’d covered some territory already that day, and it was starting to spit rain. Up on the top deck, under a canopy, we chatted with a family from Minnesota while passing the London Eye – a terrifyingly high Ferris wheel - Parliament, and Big Ben. 

But how could we pass the imposing grandeur of Westminster Abbey and not hop off for a visit?

We could not. And although my spirits had soared even to be in the presence of that magnificent edifice, to believe I’d soon be standing near the resting place of my hero Charles Dickens, we were denied entrance. Westminster Abbey was closed for the day. 

What?

Well, closed to tourists. It was about 3:30 and we’d not considered that a cathedral such as this might close. We’d missed the last entry time by minutes and the two police officers – are they still called bobbies? – were neither sympathetic nor polite. One of them indicated a sign listing visiting hours and mumbled something about tourists and their inability to read.

We could read, and we were mad at Westminster Abbey.  

Sigh. Fine. We’d try another day. By then, we decided to do some reconnaissance to locate Churchill’s War Rooms so we wouldn’t be late for our reservation day after tomorrow. 

It was an easy walk, and once we’d established our route, we strolled through St. James Park and were charmed to chance upon the Bird Keepers Cottage on Duck Island. Framed by trailing sun-lit willows, the cottage seemed a vision from the Brothers Grimm. As if the cozy stucco building with its mossy shingled roof and encircling gardens were not magical enough, great white birds perched on rocks in front of the cottage, stretching their wings to dry. Pelicans. Since first presented as a gift by a Russian ambassador in 1664, pelicans have graced the park along with moorhens, mallards, coots, and wigeons. 

Pummeled Again

After Trump’s blanket pardon of 1500 January 6th rioters, I dug out my journal of that day and read my entry, the handwriting shaky with fear, describing the violent attack on the Capitol as I watched it unfold on TV. Millions of us were witnesses, and no amount of white-washing can change the facts. I am afraid of what lies ahead in this country, for now unrecognizable as the America of “justice under the law” and “all men are created equal.” Rather than try to recapture the emotions of that day in light of the pardons, I decided to re-post my blog from 2020. Wistfully, I note the optimism of the closing paragraph: 

Waves of fury and incredulity pummel my mental shores. Naïve as I am, despite the pundits’ prediction that Senate Republicans would vote to acquit Trump, I believed that dedication to democracy, oaths of office, oaths of impartiality, and love of country would win out over party politics in the face of evidence and the terror of personal experience.

But no.

Buffeted by cross currents, America has been twisted and tortured like its flag in an insurrectionist’s grip. Abused were the stars and stripes on January 6^th as they were wielded as a weapon to bludgeon police. Those who derided Black Lives Matter protesters this summer with calls to “Back the Blue” swarmed the Capitol howling “Stop the Steal” as they brandished the American flag along with their arsenal of bats, fence posts, and pitchforks to bloody those defending the Capitol.

When I was a child, I was told to kiss the flag 100 times if it touched the ground by mistake. Was this my parents’ invention or a national rule? I don’t know, but the message was clear. Dave’s father too, a WW II veteran, taught his grandchildren the solemn lesson “Honor the soldiers and the flag.”

Although they sought to appropriate the motives of America’s revolutionaries, the Trump supporters who breached the Capitol can lay no claim to heroism. They desecrated American symbols while impeding certification of an adjudicated election, endangered lawmakers, spread feces, and destroyed and stole national treasures. Thugs were these, not patriots. The fever of doing Trump’s bidding superseded respect for the flag, democratic process, and human life.

What to make of Mitch McConnell? He refused to call the Senate to session when the House Managers were ready to present the case in mid-January. There was time for a trial, and the former president was still in office. Mitch had not the balls to vote “guilty,” but had the gall after the count to affirm the House Managers’ evidence of Trump as inciter-in-chief. Although the Senate had already addressed the Constitutionality by a majority vote, McConnell defended himself with the timing technicality he created.

In his closing remarks, lead House manager Jamie Raskin looked around the Senate chamber at those before him and quoted Benjamin Franklin, saying, “If you make yourself a sheep, the wolves will eat you. Don’t make yourself a sheep.” How else but as sheep are we to see Senators who believed Trump guilty, yet in their fawning loyalty, absolved him of accountability at the expense of our democracy?

What now? In betraying their oaths and ignoring the result of the vote on the impeachment’s constitutionality, those senators eviscerated the Senate of its credibility and power. They did not “defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic” when Trump and his mob sought to hold power despite the vote of the people. They waived their sworn charge, and clung to a technicality already dismissed by majority vote.

By that acquittal, the Senate has granted future presidents a “January Exception” for whatever purposes he or she might have in that final month in office; Congress and the Republic be damned. After his final summation of the evidence of Trump’s efforts to prevent the transfer of power, delight at the attack, and refusal to send help, Representative Raskin said, “If that’s not a high crime and misdemeanor, then nothing is.”

It is work to contain my fury and contempt, but friends remind me of reasons for optimism. President Biden has remained focused on the people and the planet. Vaccinations have doubled. A COVID relief bill will soon pass. The U.S. has re-entered the global community in positive ways, re-joining the Paris Climate Accord and the WHO. In discrediting their vote and abdicating their responsibility, the Senate has re-affirmed what has always been true: it is up to us, the people, to govern wisely with our votes.

Something's Amiss

Wait. What? That’s not the way it happened…

It was Christmas night, and Dave and I were watching TV. We were not watching the news, neither a Fox re-write of the 2020 election results nor an MSNBC grind on some GOP folly. We were watching It’s a Wonderful Life on Amazon Prime, and a critical segment of the movie had been cut. 

It had been a lovely day of opening gifts in front of a cozy fire with daughter Casey, 6-year-old Eleanor, son-in-law PJ, and their dear old dog, Tallulah. We’d exchanged cheery texts with friends, sisters, and nephews, and enjoyed a Zoom call with my son and his family. For dinner, we savored Dave’s homemade lasagna, baccala, and stuffed calamari. How lovely to settle in after all the hubbub and excitement with some black and white serenity and the familiar holiday message of It’s a Wonderful Life.  

For those who don’t know the story – and there can’t be many of you – good guy George Bailey had repeatedly given up his dreams of travel to bolster the Bedford Falls Savings and Loan Company. This small bank enabled the town’s hard-working people to buy homes rather than rent from the wealthy, scheming Mr. Potter. Potter finally gets his chance to sink the Savings and Loan when George’s addled uncle misplaces an $8,000 deposit. Potter refuses George’s plea for help and tells him that, because George has a $10,000 life insurance policy, he’s worth more dead than alive. As his misfortunes mount, George decides the world would indeed be better if he had never lived. He heads to the river intending to jump.

Enter Clarence, a wing-less angel, Heaven-sent, to help George understand his value.  

CUT!

What? Yes! Cut! The trip back in time to a George-less world. Cut! The scene where George’s little brother dies because George isn’t there to save him. Cut! The embittered citizens living in Potter’s Field squalor without a kindly Savings and Loan to support them. Cut! Worst of all – ghastly really - George’s wife consigned to life as an Old Maid of a Librarian. Cut! Every scene showing George how important he had been in the lives of so many. Instead, we next see George gleefully sprinting through the snowy streets of Bedford Falls, inexplicably restored to good spirits. 

Since its release in 1946, It's a Wonderful Life has become a Christmas classic, a reminder of the ripples every one of us generates in all we do, whether we are given to know the impacts or not. Why would the geniuses behind Amazon Prime mess with a movie we all treasure and know so well? 

Reportedly, they felt the deleted scenes were too dark. 

Too dark? Please. Amazon Prime offers Silence of the Lambs  and Psycho. Graphic violence is available to all ages at all times, yet A Wonderful Life required censorship? Was this a sample of some soulless AI editing or the work of an ignorant corporate pup who understood neither the message nor the importance of tradition? 

In fairness, I confess I am not one to go to the mountain for the First Amendment. I’ve always taken issue with First Amendment sanctions cited to allow hate speech, Klan marches in Black neighborhoods, or Neo-Nazi marches through those that are Jewish. I feel the First has loftier goals, protection of the right to speak out against unjust laws or government, not license to preach and practice harm. My son and I have had some conversations about this: who would dictate what should be censored and where it should stop? I get his point, but still… 

Perhaps I’m over-reacting to Amazon's edits to It's a Wonderful Life, but with politicians and social media obscuring truth, the free press under assault, and Texan textbooks “softening” history to avoid causing discomfort, I’m concerned to see how readily the powerful can change a storyline. 

Lately, reality and fiction seem blurred with a convicted felon in line for the presidency, an anti-vaxxer nominated to head Health and Human Services, an accused sexual predator for Department of Defense, and a Vengeance advocate for the FBI. If we didn’t already feel something was amiss, here in Easton, the very heavens shuddered on the Eve of 2025. Thunder blasted celestial anger, lightning flashed, and torrents pelted the beleaguered Earth. Surely Shakespeare would have written it just so.