A Reader's Paradise

You have no idea how difficult the choice was, on our one free day in London, to choose between going to Stonehenge and the British Library.  We went to Stonehenge, and I am very happy with that choice, but now I have two reasons to go back to London (the other being the British Museum).

Mike....when in Virginia, compare your trip to Foamhenge.  Located within the Natural Bridge Park.  We were pretty tempted to stop on our way to Maine last year...

Lewis Carroll's political Satire of London done as child Story really is a grand piece of work, but then you also have Moore's Utopia which seems to NEVER be out of print, anything by Ms. Austen & the Bronte's is very much enjoyed & re-adapted into being some of the best modern day films made...

Which such a rich history of writing form the nobles to the peasants how can any just pick one? 

Dude, getting into rare collections is my specialty. Covert library ops R' us.

[Excerpt from a letter I wrote to one Dr. Pfeiffer, author of Waldo Frank's biography, regarding our correspondence on the difficulty accessing rare papers in prominent libraries—here, I describe my experiencing getting to some Wharton manuscripts at Yale's Beinecke]

"On my second phone call to the library however, I did encounter one of the ‘walls’ mentioned above in the form of passive snobbery. The woman asked which university I was with. I said Oakland and told her that I just wanted to confirm that I only needed two forms of ID to enter the collection. I expressed that it seemed “relatively easy” which apparently she interpreted as “not nearly exclusive enough for such an important institute.” I can only assume that that’s why she sounded so defensive when she added, “Well, we also require that you have a legitimate reason for accessing the archive.” She said it so snidely that I found it humorous and could not resist doing what I often do when confronted with covert snobbery. I asked very seriously if she could please give me an example of an illegitimate reason so that I could be sure not to offer one. It’s not that I don’t think it’s fair to require a ‘legitimate’ reason but seeing as the university (Yale itself) does not require that I have one in writing, I thought it a bit ridiculous that this woman decided to question my legitimacy."

That's right. I research the research process. I finally said it out loud. (This is where you should make a mental note to tell your nerdiest friend that their status has just be relieved by one M. Ive.)

Shandonista: Don't forget Carhenge, somewhere out in the sticks of Nebraska :)

Never pass up an opportunity to visit a "roadside" attraction.  If I see a billboard with the phrases "World's Biggest", "Mystery!", "Once in a Lifetime Experience", etc I have to pull off and take the detour.  Most of them are lame, but even then it makes for a good story and break from the seemingless endless drive.  This also applies to my theory on picking restaurants while on the road.  If it has a giant statue (preferably of the animal you are about to eat) out front or on the roof...good eating, or at least a good story in the making.

Nachista: I always thought that the best way to pick a restaurant while on the road (and avoiding fast food) is to find a place that has the most local cars parked there.

That works, but only if you can see the parking lot from where you're driving, that can be a problem in flat land areas...the statues help, or GIANT neon signs with big arrows.

It is a masterpiece of a museum.  I'm sorry about Miss Ive's experience, and can well imagine it. Mine with The British Museum was opposite. Having received, with a painter-friend, a grant for research on the work of the eighteenth-century naturalist and writer William Bartram (now considered America's first journal-writer, and his lengthy tome is included in many a college curriculum), we spent the requisite year-plus obtaining proper credentials, but at every level we found graciousness and ways to make it easier, and by the time we went to London we were on first-name bases with practically everyone from the curator on down. My painter friend was interested in Bartram's work as art; Billy Bartram  had long been stuffed in the same cubicle with Audubon (who learned from a man whom Bartram taught, by the road, thanks Olivia for that). But many artists today view his work as art, not as reproduction, which Audubon's is, and the Museum was eager to have the first-ever tour-abroad of Bartram's work in that light. My interest was in all of it, but in particular I loved -- once we were finally admitted (absent brollies, handbags, pencils, pens) to the inner sanctum -- the notes Bartram wrote to himself around, on, in the margins of his sketches.  Too, the chillbumps when I held in my hand the paper on which he sketched and wrote. Often I could see he'd begun a sketch, and the bird or animal had fled; he'd complete it later, which is where art comes in. A favorite of mine, for its human uncertainty, was "Might be? the scarlet snake..." 

Interest in gardening was burgeoning in England in the 1700s, and the British were eager to have plants from the New World, so they underwrote 'sketchers' (today they'd be photographers) to come here, travel, sketch, send back all they could manage of sketches and, if possible, examples of flora and fauna.

Bartram's father, John (the family lived in Philadelphia, and were all Quaker), had worried about William, the only one of his nine sons he couldn't settle into a business. Tried Ben Franklin, that didn't work; tried swapping sons with his brother on NC coast, that didn't work.  William remained dreamy, unfocussed, so finally his father, who was Royal Botanist to the King, allowed Billy to accompany him on foraging-for-flora trips. While Father hated and was terrified of Indians, Billy immediately warmed to them, and they to him, even creating an Indian name for him. Roughly translated, no: I don't recall it. He reports in his journal that Indians often saved him from certain death in the wild. John ultimately returned to Pennsylvania and left Billy to it.

While a war for Independence raged in the civilized parts of our country Billy remained buried in the wilderness, wearing Indian dress and collecting specimens to send to his underwriter in England; he'd surface periodically and 'tend to that duty, then disappear.

While we were doing our work the curator from time to time slipped quietly (EVERYthing is quiet in those bottom rooms) in to whisper, I've something that might interest you.  Follow me." One day it was Darwin's letters to his wife when he was figuring out how to write The Origin of Species; another time, a rare ancient print of unknown origin; aancient pottery, we never knew.  Always, though, I followed. And was never disappointed.

You'll fall asleep (if already you aren't) if I tell Billy's entire story, but know that the Bartram Trail extends -- and is clearly marked -- through all the now-states where he traveled, north to south as far as Florida, where he unfailingly labelled alligators as crocodiles, thence as far west as Alabama.  And back up to the northeast. The Bartram family are many, and are dedicated to maintaining connection with Billy's trail.  Those who are able make the trek, and they've an annual reunion in Philadelphia.  I've been invited, couldn't go, but hope they'll ask again. Because John carved over his door (I saw it) a legend to the efect that there was but one god, and no trinity, the Quakers tossed him out, and when he died he couldn't be buried in a Quaker cemetery.  Well, this worried the Bartrams for nigh-three-hundred years, and they continued working to get it changed, somehow. WHat magic they used I'll never know, but I received a triumphant letter a few years ago saying John is now interred with everyone else Quaker and they are happy. Indeed they had a special church service to mark the occasion -- to which I almost got, but for snow (not here, Lord knows, but) in that  area that closed airports for miles around.  Now that was a disappointment, for by then I felt I really knew this family, indeed had travelled to Savannah to one of theirannual meetings, which happen in different cities along The TRail. Bartram was very much in my neck of the woods; you might see government signs, usually green and white, marking his wanderings in yours.

An altogether unexpected pleasure for me was The British Museum's writing formally to ask if an essay I later wrote about Billy Bartram might 'become part of {their} permanent collection."  Stunned, honored, I didn't hesitate.

Of course, those bottom-bottom-bottom rooms where we worked aren't a sixteenth of that wonderful place, and exploring it was made more pleasant by the frequency of "oh, do stop and have tea"  or "Can I help you at all?"s.