Here in Arizona, our house overlooks a golf course, as do 84.4% of all homes in Phoenix (just kidding). But neither Maggie or I play. In fact, if you asked any of my golfing friends “Does Steve play golf?” the most likely response would be “Not so much.” This story is not about golfing, although I suspect both golfers and non-golfers will find something of interest.
Living in the Twin Cities from 1997 – 2003, after joining the founding team of Net Perceptions, we purchased a nice home on Bent Creek Golf Course in Eden Prairie. I loved the unfolding deep green lawn stretching from my backyard seemingly to forever. Better was it never needed my non-existent gardening ambitions. Our deck overlooked the green of the first hole, a 520 yard, Par 5, providing hours of entertainment. Being the first of 18 holes, the final players of the day passed our home pretty early. This allowed me to take a bucket of balls after the concluding golfers had passed and chip them from my backyard onto the green. Then I would step up onto the green, and putt them all into the hole.
While never playing the course, I got along well with the club management, pro and groundskeepers. Once they’d needed to use our lawn for some sand trap repairs and I’d made it easy for them. I knew most of the groundskeepers and waved every morning as they made their rounds. One time I noticed an older guy operating one of the riding mowers. That seemed odd. All the rest of the crew appeared college age and in pretty good shape. This guy was neither. I never spoke with him, but asked about him one day at the club’s golf shop. After describing him, a look of acknowledgement came across the course manager. “Oh, he’s not a regular groundskeeper; he’s one of our members. Due to all his DWI arrests, he’s lost his driver’s license. But he misses driving. So, his wife brings him over here and we let him drive the mowers around.”
Although not a true golfer, I’d become familiar with the game during my five year stint at AT&T, where golf is part of the culture. Not only were deals done on the course, AT&T sponsored golf events (Pebble Beach Pro-am for one) and invites high-value clients and arranges for them to play a round with a genuine professional and AT&T executives. Like it or not, I was expected to attend and play. While no need for me to be a stellar golfer, embarrassing the company by shooting a poor game was also not acceptable. After several lessons and lots of practice, my game settled into one where although never hitting the ball very far, I always seemed to hit it straight. It turns out this often resulted in a half-decent score, especially when playing with those who tended to plaster the ball a great distances but in all the wrong directions.
My golf clubs were purchased used for $15 at a garage sale in the early 90s, and I never really thought much about them. When going to an event, I threw them into my trunk, and then onto a cart. Perhaps someone looked a bit askance at my clubs now and then, but after seeing Rodney Dangerfield’s bag of clubs in Caddyshack, I was glad the size of my bag was at the other end of the spectrum. For at least 10 years of playing and a good number of prestige events, those were my only clubs.
As it turned out, Net Perceptions was a success, and went public in 1999, just before the Internet bubble burst in 2001-2002. Before the crash, it appeared I had a great deal of money, although most of it was on paper and in lock-up agreements. One downside of suddenly acquiring a big chunk of money is the mistaken belief you’ve also acquired extra brains in the process. This leads to thinking you must have the magic touch when it comes to picking investments. Of course, those opportunities are being thrown at you right and left by people whose business it is to follow newly-rich people around with the goal of snapping up some of that loot. This is how I was exposed to and made a $25,000 investment in a company that manufactured custom golf clubs. Here is how the scam, oops, I mean “business model” worked.
It begins with a desperate-to-improve golfer in a golf shop talking to the local pro on ways to improve his game. Everyone knows buying something, like special long-range balls, or the “super driver of the decade” or the “magic putter” which makes all putts roll accurate and true, is much simpler than taking lessons and actually practicing. And so, sales are made. It reminds me of the story of the couple passing a talented piano player at a bar, leaving a tip as they depart and saying, “Wow! You were just great. I’d do anything to play like that. Well, except take lessons and practice, of course.”
Back to our story: At some point, the pro suggests the stock off-the-shelf clubs the player is using may be holding him back. What might help is a special set of custom-made clubs, where grips are tailored specifically to the hands of the player, the shaft lengths cut to fit the player’s exact height and the heads all angled for his particular sweet spot. “Expensive?” he asks. “Oh my, not really, and think about consistently shaving half a dozen strokes from each game,” the pro replies.
A full set of top brand irons typically ran about a thousand dollars then, and the fully-customized set with a fitted set of shafts and grips was about $2,000. So, the pro arranges for a “fitting,” using the computer software, camera and other goodies provided by the company in which I’d invested. Once the company got the specifics for the golfer, they tweaked their stock shafts, clubs and grips to match the order sheet, applied the logo of whomever’s brand was specified (Callaway, Ping, Wilson, etc.) and then, finally, the most important and perhaps costly step, packing them up to look like high-value works of art.
Part of my $25k investment was a set of custom clubs. They would arrange for me to go to the factory—which was local—and be personally fitted for a set of clubs and receive those clubs for free. Of course, at this point, I already knew the cost from the business model was around $200 bucks, but still, I couldn’t resist “free” and was on time for my appointment the following week. Arriving on Saturday morning at the company’s warehouse-like facility, I removed my clubs from the trunk of my car. They’d asked me to bring the set I currently played with, perhaps as some sort of baseline—I wasn’t sure. But I hefted them onto my shoulder and strolled through the wide open double garages of the warehouse space where I was welcomed by the investment guy and one of the measuring pros. The pro grabbed my bag, looked at it and said, “Oh, Mr. Larsen, you must have grabbed the wrong bag, these are lady’s clubs. Did you pick up your wife’s clubs by mistake?” When I looked at him quizzically, he said, “I’m serious, these are Mickey Wright signature clubs.” Apparently this Mickey Wright logo I’d been seeing for the past decade wasn’t some famous male golf pro, but a famous woman golfer. Oh god. Do you recall the scene at the end of the “The Six Sense” when Bruce Willis’s character flashes back on all those scenes, realizing he actually wasn’t in them and redefines the entire film, giving it a whole new meaning? My mind flashed over years of looks from other golfers and caddies as they saw my clubs, then shot a look at me, then again at my clubs.
Duh! It finally hit me—what all those funny looks were about. Upon reflection, it came home to me that acquiring money doesn’t make you any smarter than you were the month or year before. Unfortunately, the market crash and subsequent IRS issues wiped out any semblance of my “being rich,” which in the long run, was probably all for the good. I stopped looking for homeruns and returned to saving at least 20% of any money that came my way and while perhaps not the “smartest” play one can make financially, it’s consistent with my values of hard work, persistence and determination. In the end, they’ve always served me best. And I stopped playing golf and gave my $25,000 clubs to my cousin.
Our home in Pasadena had become the “go to” spot for Thanksgiving (and occasionally Christmas) for Maggie’s sister and the Stickney family. We loved having Diana, Joe and their children around, and Ginger was in heaven with all her Arizona cousins on her turf.
I’m not sure where the idea came from, but it didn’t percolate in my brain too long, before I knew I had to attempt to pull it off. I was already pretty high up on the “crazy but fun uncle” scale when it came to my nephews, Robert and Isaac and to a lesser degree, Andrew as he was still pretty young with Maria just thinking I was weird. They’d seen all my magic tricks and played with the remote control truck I’d purchased. We’d gone hiking with the wagon and played every trick you could think of on the dog, a sweet female Rottweiler named Heidi, who just adored children. In 1990, Robert was 10, Maria was 8, Ginger 6 and Isaac was 4. Perfect ages for what I had in mind.
At the dinner table on Thanksgiving Day, I began sowing the seeds. “Did you know?” I asked, “One of my great uncles was a pirate?” I elaborated on my pirate uncle’s exploits, telling them about buried treasure and walking the plank. The adults’ eyes rolled back in their heads, but they played along and didn’t call me out, although they no doubt suspected I was up to something. The kids had lots of questions about pirate life and I was happy to spontaneously oblige, making up answers to their questions. When dessert was served, I slowly and gently set the hook. “You know, my uncle gave my dad a memento of his days on the high seas. It’s a finger from a dead pirate. My dad gave it to me. I don’t know where it is now, maybe in the garage, but it’s a real sight to behold, a genuine, actual finger from a dead pirate.” Then I said no more.
Soon Robert asked, “Uncle Steve, do you think you could find the dead finger from the pirate and show it to us?” All the others chimed in, “Yes, yes, could you find it, please, PLEASE, Uncle Steve?” I said no, I didn’t think so. It had been many years since I’d last seen it, so I was pretty sure it was lost. And I let it go.
When our mid-day Thanksgiving dinner finished, the children went back to playing, but I could hear them talking about the dead pirate finger. Fifteen minutes wouldn’t go by before one of them would bring it up again and soon they were all after me, “Uncle Steve, can you at least go and look for the finger?”
At this point in the story, I need to bring you into a bit of the preparation. The day before, I’d emptied out an old sliding box of matches and filled it with discolored cotton balls I’d dirtied up using brown shoe polish. Then I’d cut a finger-sized hole in the bottom of the box, so that when I put my finger in the bottom of the box and held it with that hand, I could slowly slide the lid of the match box back using my other hand, revealing my finger, laying on top of the dirty cotton balls. Well, of course, my finger wouldn’t do as it was, so just before agreeing to go and look for the pirate finger, I went in the bathroom and poured iodine onto the middle finger of my right hand. Iodine rather convincingly turns a healthy finger yellow, brown and dead-looking.
Carefully keeping my now gross-looking finger out of sight, I went rummaging in the garage for this lost box containing the finger. The kids were all crowded around me, as I opened drawer after drawer but finding nothing. I kept up a steady dialog of “Well, I’ve not seen that thing in years, I’m almost certain it’s lost.” They kept saying, “Keep looking, Uncle Steve, it has to be here somewhere!”
Finally, I opened the bottom drawer of my ancient tool bench where I’d hidden the old matchbox. “Ah, there it is,” I said, pointing to it. They all recoiled in horror. I suspect they believed we wouldn’t actually find it. I pointed at it and said, “Who wants to pick it up?” They all began to scream, yell and jump around in place, saying “No, no, you pick it up, Uncle Steve. Show us, you show us the finger!” So, I reached down into the drawer, carefully using my body to cover inserting my groady-looking finger covered in dried iodine into the box. When I turned around, the box was in my right hand and I was gripping the sides with my left. “Well, I hope it’s still in here,” I said as I began extending the box towards them. The young ones hung back, but Robert and Ginger leaned forward toward the box, but not too close.
As I slid the cover off the box, there was the horrible looking finger. Truth be told, it looked gross. They all recoiled and held back at first, but then slowly edged closer for a better view. I showed it around, let them all get a good look. They gasped and screeched with simultaneous delight and revulsion. Finally I said to Robert, “Do you want to touch it?” At first he screamed “No, no, no….” but then when his little brother Isaac said, “I’ll touch it,” Robert decided he would do it first. Ginger and Maria were horrified. They wanted nothing to do with this dead pirate’s finger, but they couldn’t stop staring at it. I held the box out to Robert as the others gathered close around and behind him. He slowly moved forward, looked at it, and then very carefully began to reach out with his arm and hand, one quivering finger tentatively extended to make contact with the dead pirate finger. When Robert’s finger was just an inch from the finger in the box and every kid’s eyes were glued to what was happening, I quickly raised my finger up toward Robert’s raised finger – the dead finger had come alive!
You can’t believe what happened next. Robert perfectly mimicked the way the cartoon coyote would jump up, turn around in mid-air and then frantically begin spinning his feet, while not going anywhere. Finally Robert’s legs got traction and he shot out of the garage, screaming at the top of his lungs, his brother, sister and cousin racing behind him. I’ve never seen such a group of panicked children run so fast. They shot out our long driveway toward the street and didn’t stop until they were nearly out of sight of the house. The rest of the adults came out of the house to see what the commotion was all about and found me collapsed in laughter on the front steps with the kids half-way down the driveway, white as sheets.
Creating experiences which instill memory treasures in the minds of my nieces, nephews, kids and grand-kids will always be one of my favorite things. I hope my nephews remember this little trick and use it appropriately when their own sons, daughters, nieces and nephews are old enough for it. It sure was fun for me.
In 1994, we lived in NY and decided to try a home exchange. Agreeing to exchange our home just north of NYC with a family living in Scotland required reaching a compromise on our trip objectives: for Maggie, it was seeing castles, churches, and tartan fabrics. My goal was to discover the best scotch whisky distilled in Scotland and to not be overwhelmed with castles, churches, and fabrics. Spoiler alert: the trip was a success.
In 1994 the Internet was no big deal. There was no Airbnb and VRBO did not exist. However, a well-functioning postal-oriented alternative called the International Home Exchange not only existed but had evolved an effective process over 20-30 years. The calendar was a key driver and it worked like this: First, you became a member, paid your annual fee, and completed a one-page information sheet on your home. It was a form that allowed for a single house photo and restricted information to details such as the number of bedrooms, size, features, and interesting sights that could be easily visited in the area because a month or so after the deadline, a booklet was mailed to all members. The publication contained several hundred pages of homes available for exchange that year – one page per home. They were arranged by region, with sections for Europe, the USA, Asia, Africa, etc. After pursuing the listings, members were encouraged to send letters to a half- dozen or so homes appearing to be a good fit. A tornado of letters crossed in the mail and soon, your mailbox was filled with letters from people wishing to exchange their homes with yours.
Unlike the very limited data you could publish in the book, the “pitch letters” that were put together to entice someone who had a home where you wished to stay had no limits. As a result, the half-dozen letters we sent out included 6-8 gorgeous photos of our New York home, all of its attributes and conveniences, clothes washer and dryer, microwave oven, dishwasher and televisions as well as train schedules into New York City and the many enticements there.
One of the first letters we got was from a dentist, his wife, and two teenage daughters who wanted to exchange their home on the outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland with our home in Croton-on-Hudson, NY. Before saying yes, we spent a long time agonizing over another wonderful letter we received from a couple in South Africa. After including highly illustrative photos of their beautiful estate and describing many interesting activities, they admitted they had none of our highly automated appliances such as washing machines, microwave ovens, and other modern conveniences. Besides, there was another real downside they confessed would only be fair of them to disclose. They wrote: “Unfortunately when we go on vacation, we also take that opportunity to give our staff on the estate that time off as well. So, we will be leaving you with a bare-bones staff consisting of a cook, one housekeeper, two drivers, and a yardman. Everyone else will have the time off.” Wow, that place sure sounded like it could have been fun. However, we finalized an exchange with the Scottish family.
When our son Eric had been so sick, Ginger had grown accustomed to living with her cousins in Phoenix. The Stickney family was as much her family as ours. Knowing how she and our nephew Robert, who was four years older than she, played so well together and thinking they would keep each other entertained during the trip, we invited Robert to come to Scotland with us. Then, of course, we worried that all Maggie and I would be doing was babysitting, so we extended an invitation to Ginger’s favorite babysitter in the whole world, Melinda Wood from Los Angeles, to join us as well. The house had a plethora of bedrooms and lots of places to play outside, so we weren’t worried.
We learned that most Home Exchange people coordinated travel so they crossed in the air and never actually met each other face to face. Since we were new at this and nervous about turning our home over to strangers, we arranged to pick our visitors from Scotland up at the airport the day before we left, took them out to dinner and then brought them home with us, all spending a night in our home before we left for Scotland the next day. It worked fine, and we did not anticipate any problems after meeting them, although our suspicions that the liquor cabinet might be somewhat depleted when we returned, were spot on.
The dentist’s home in Scotland was clean and nice. While older, it was quaint and cozy, exactly the sort of house you’d expect for that country – comfortable, warm, and friendly. They’d put vases of cut flowers throughout the home to welcome us. The yard and gardens, on the other hand, were just amazing and an over-the-top experience. Situated at the end of a long driveway, the house was surrounded by flower gardens, walking paths, beautiful trees, and patios. In addition to the house, there was a separate garage and a stable and corral for a horse. Our hosts had arranged for a neighbor to come by daily to care for the horse and a young man who worked as a gardener on the property was quick to introduce himself, indicating he would be around every third day, or so, to mow, weed and manage other yard related activities. Besides everything in the home, the homeowner had left keys to the family’s late model Volvo station wagon and instructions for using it, such as being sure to fill it with diesel, not gasoline.
Soon our days were filled with all the sorts of things tourists do in Scotland. As I suspected, visiting the Edinburgh Castle didn’t put a dent in Maggie’s desire to see more castles. Compelling options to her included all the classics not far from where we were staying – Stirling, Craigmillar, Lauriston, Balmoral, Glamis, Dundas, Dirleton, Eilean Donan, Dunnottar, Midhope, Cawdor, Tantallon, Culzean, Inveraray, Urquhart, Dunrobin and Duart Castles. I so feared having to see them all.
Fortunately our ground rules called for visits to scotch distilleries, not just castles and churches. My first distillery visit was to Glenkinchie Distillery, right near Edinburgh. This was a fortuitous place to start on several levels. It turns out, when it comes to scotch, the taste is very different depending on where the distillery is located. There are five distinct geographic scotch flavor regions in Scotland. The Lowland scotch distilleries are the closest ones to Edinburgh and one of the most famous is Glenkinchie. It’s also the scotch to which many scotch drinkers and scotch aficionados get their start. Lowland scotches are famous for being gentle malts with notes of grass, ginger, apple, cinnamon, and toffee with an occasional citrus edge. They’re light, breezy and easy to drink. So, this was a terrific place for me to begin my quest to find the best tasting Scotch in Scotland and my education on single malt scotches. The tour was great and I loved the 12-year-old bottle of Glenkinchie I brought back to the house.
Although I was just beginning, it was apparent I would need help, and so I stopped at a liquor store in Edinburgh. I filled the proprietor in on my quest to discover the very best scotch in Scotland and asked for his help. While we had an entertaining conversation and I left with 3 half-bottles of presumably great scotches to try, I began to feel that relying on shopkeepers may not be a winning strategy.
Late that afternoon I ended up having a conversation with the gardener for the property. Having a couple of bottles of new scotch in the house, I offered him a glass and we sat on the patio after he’d finished his yard duties. We had a “wee dram” as I learned more about his life. My Scandinavian aunties would have described him as a “strapping young lad.” He was medium height, wiry, and strong with deep blue-eyes and curly dishwater blond colored shoulder-length hair. His life, as best I could make out through his thick accent, involved maintaining the gardens of a half-dozen or so homes in the area, playing “football” with his mates, going to the pub to “lift a pint” once or twice a week and staying on good terms with a number of “fair lasses,” along his gardening route, not all I came to believe were unmarried if his nods and winks were properly understood.
Before our conversation ended and we’d finished our third glass of scotch, I had outlined my mission and tested his willingness and qualifications to join me in my quest. Requirements of him would be straight forward: he’d need to commit to spending several evenings during the next couple of weeks with me, sampling the spirits I would bring back to the house, and aid me in selecting which one was the ultimate, best-tasting, most-delicious scotch of them all. Perhaps unremarkable in hindsight, I found I needed to expend very little persuasive energy to gain his agreement. So, now I had a plan and an expert assistant. I was ready!
Our first overnight trip from Edinburgh was to Inverness. The kids wished to see the Loch Ness monster, Maggie had a list of a fabric shops, castles and churches she wanted to visit along our route and I could see our trip would take me through the Highlands and into the heart of the famous Speyside distilleries – The Glenlivet, Glenfiddich, and The Macallan Estate and perhaps the Glenmorangie Distillery if we had the time. In our two days, in addition to castles and churches, we got to visit The Macallan, Glenlivet and Glenfiddich. We also did a quick stop at Aberfeldy in the Highlands on the way up. We did not go on tours in all of them, but we did visit each gift shop and came away with a bottle or half-bottle and, occasionally a special cask strength bottle when it was available.
These whiskies, east of Inverness, along the River Spey, are full of fruity, nutty flavors and are less peaty than some scotches, so again, good for beginners. They’re very distinctive with a classic, rich, oaky flavor that becomes almost creamy with almonds and spice on the palate after you swallow.
The two areas where I had to be content with just buying an example bottle were the Island Scotches and those from Islay. Islay, in the far south, is land pounded by the elements all year long. Whiskeys from that area can be medicinally smoky and heavy with peat flavors. Brands like Laphroaig, Arberg, Bowmore, and Bruichladdich are the ones you hear the most about. While appreciating their complexity, I did not find I liked them as much as the Speyside and Highland scotches.
The northern island scotches like Talisker from Skye, Jura, and Highland Park also had an intense smoky flavor that didn’t instantly appeal to me. The salinity of the sea brings out the minerals in the peat. It leaves the palate feeling of warm spices, orange peel, heather, and honey. While they are clearly from this area, they are also unique and each island produces an unmistakable flavor. Only 3 bottles made it into my unscientific final testing group from the Islands.
I am certain, if I’d continued to drink scotch beyond the ten years or so after our trip, my tastes would have developed to the point at which I would have enjoyed these more complex, peaty or smoky scotches. I’ve found that true of most dedicated single malt drinkers. Once one of these scotches gets a hold of your palate, not much is going to satisfy you other than that one scotch.
Once back to our place near Edinburgh, I lined up my bottles on a long bar, with a stack of 3X5 note cards. Pouring a “wee dram” of one of the bottles into a glass, I would head out on the patio, sip the scotch, watch the kids climb the large tree in the back and record my tasting impressions, slipping the cards under the appropriate bottle when switching from one scotch to the next. Every few days my new gardener friend would join me and we’d sit together, tasting and testing, debating and arguing, admiring, and ranking, often times, late into the night. Can you imagine a better time?
One day the gentleman taking care of the horse caved to Ginger’s persistent requests to ride the horse. He finally agreed he’d let her sit on him, which she did. Take a look at the photo below. The man holding the reigns is over six feet tall. This was one very big horse.
Most nights we ate at home, meals Maggie prepared after trips to the grocery store. Occasionally, we’d go out for a pub meal (ever tried haggis?), but we worked hard to keep expenses low. Our budget had allowed us one, super-nice, fancy meal on the trip. After getting recommendations from the locals, we headed about twenty miles out into the countryside to find a restaurant within a castle. It was beautiful and fun. The dining room was nearly the size of a good-sized barn with exceptionally high ceilings. We were seated on one of the raised platforms that ringed the dining area and had a great view of the inside of the castle. After being given ample time to examine the menu our waiter came to take our order. The kids ordered first, then Maggie ordered the rack of lamb. I said I’d have the pepper steak and instantly felt a kick under the table. Maggie leaned in to me and whispered, “Order one of the lamb dishes.” I raised my finger signaling our server to wait, but couldn’t find a lamb-based offering that appealed to me, and so went back to the steak. Maggie leaned over and said quietly, “Okay, but I’m not giving you any of mine.”
When our meals came, I found my steak had come not from a slaughtered steer, but instead had been acquired by taking the bottom of someone’s old boot or shoe and serving it on my plate, covered with a thick sauce full of pepper. Maggie eventually relented and extended her fork with one nice sized bite of lamb on it for me to taste. It was exquisite and not because it was such a contrast to what was on my plate. This bite just melted in my mouth with a burst of flavor. After tasting it, my mouth began to water. But all I had on my plate was the bottom of someone’s boot. No ordering error since has ever come close to the horrible mismatch of these two dishes.
On the way home, as I verbally kicked myself, Maggie gently explained that beef was not a big thing in Scotland, and they were much better at lamb. How had I missed this? The kids listened in the back as she explained that so far on our trip, there was ample evidence of sheep everywhere, but cows, not so much.
The next day, on our way to Inverness, we had barely gone a half-hour when Ginger piped up from the backseat. “Hey, Dad, what are those puffs of white up on the hills? Are those little tiny clouds? Oh, oh, wait, I know what they are, Dad. They’re sheep!” Everyone in the entire car began to laugh hilariously – except me, remembering my shoe leather from the night before. Less than an hour later, approaching a small town we passed a sign urging us to slow down as there was a sheep crossing ahead. Again from the back seat: “Did you see that Dad? A sheep crossing sign! Not a cow crossing, not even a crow crossing? It’s a sign to slow down for sheep!” Again the car erupted with laughter as I thought of my “steak.” Let’s just say, for the rest of our trip, every possible way to make a joke about cows and sheep led to raucous laughter.
Eventually, the day of reckoning came. Our glorious trip with its perfect weather – it hadn’t rained once — was over. We were leaving Scotland the next morning. We’d spent the day packing and getting the house in perfect order for the owners for when they would come home. We wanted to be sure it was in better shape than we’d found it. We learned later from the Home Exchange company that this compunction was not unique to us. Most everyone makes this same attempt.
But I still had a major issue. Too many half-full bottles of scotch and while I had clearly developed some favorites, no single one had emerged as a clear winner. Fortunately, my assistant was scheduled to show up that night and I knew he was committed to working the problem with me until the early hours of the morning, if that was what it took, to find a winner.
The champion emerged sometime after 2 AM. We were both bleary-eyed, never having considered spitting between tastes. We’d whittled it down from the top ten candidates to just three scotches sometime after midnight. We both agreed any of the three could easily justify a claim to the title. But we knew we were not done – the rules clearly stated we needed to arrive at a single winner.
We went back and forth for another hour over the three finalists, comparing notes of this and that. No clear winner. Just as a well-reasoned and articulate argument was made to crown one the best, an equal number of good points would be made for one of the others. And then my young Scottish friend held up one of the glasses, looked at it through bloodshot eyes, smiled warmly and said to me in his deep accent, “Don’t cha know, if it was my best girl, naked, right out of the bath – or a bottle of the Macallan, I’d have to go with the Macallan,” and he took a sip and looked at me, and I knew. We were done. I’d found the very best Scotch in Scotland, I had a great story, and had a better understanding of a true Scotsman.
My friend, Rich Marin, posts a blog every day. I greatly admire his discipline. Reacting to riots in the aftermath of the George Floyd killing, on Monday he wrote about his brush with riots as a Cornell college student and drew parallels with those going on around his family members. It reminded me of an incident I’ll never forget at a protest rally in Minneapolis many years ago.
One summer evening, several thousand of us student protesters were storming the Minneapolis Convention Center where Richard Nixon’s vice president, Spiro Agnew, was giving a speech. We protesters loved to hate Spiro Agnew, although his line about “nattering nabobs of negativism” always impressed me with its alternative poignancy. Riot police had strategically located themselves just inside each open door of the convention center, keeping us from entering the hall where we intended to disrupt Agnew’s speech. A long billy club was placed perpendicular across the middle of the door opening, blocking passage and was working effectively for the cops. As the crowd pressed forward, the club only became more firmly wedged into place. Protesters attempting to get over the club were punched or pushed in the face and those attempting to crawl underneath were kicked. I was near the front of the crowd and was being pushed toward one of the openings. As I got to the front, I realized the blockage issue and was reluctant to try and go over the top or crawl under. The crowd behind didn’t understand the holdup and kept the pressure on to move forward and through the door opening. Although there was a lot of ebb and flow, back and forth, no real forward progress was occurring.
In the middle of all this, a long arm reached over me toward the officer blocking the door directly in front of me. The individual reaching from behind grabbed the officer’s police cap with its prominent police badge on the front and began handing it back into the crowd behind him. Turning around I could see the police cap, slowly surfing across the crowd, away from the door like a beach ball in the stands at the ball park. Without his cap, it was clear the young officer wasn’t much older than we were. As he watched his retreating cap, he called out in a panic to the crowd, “Hey, give that back. We have to pay for those ourselves!” The jostling slowed a bit, there was a pause, and then the police cap with the badge on its front, slowly turned around and began making its way back toward the door. The hat ended up in my hands and I turned with it to face the officer. We looked at each other. There was a problem – both of his hands were firmly grasped on the club across the front of the door, the club that was being used so effectively to keep us from entering the convention center. He looked at his hat, into my face, and then motioned to the club with his eyes and slight nod of his head. I understood what he wanted. I got it! I held his hat in one hand, and took the billy club in my other, and held it in place. The officer then reached out, took his hat with both hands and put it back on his head. He saw I was now holding the club in place with both of my hands, and the protestors immediately behind me were pushing backward to help keep the surging crowd at bay. The officer reached down, grabbed the waistline of his trousers with its heavy tool belt and pulled everything back into place. Then, as I still held the club, he made a final adjustment in the position of his hat, put both hands back on the club again, took a deep breath, then nodded his head to me as if to say, “Okay, let’s go,” and the crowd began pushing forward again and he went back to keeping anyone from making it past him and getting into the convention center through that door.
I’ll never forget that little vignette, as big a statement about our shared humanity as I’ve ever experienced. And a big Thank You to Rich Marin for reminding me of it.