Coming out of the closet in Nashville - part two

Next stop, Memphis, Tennessee. Twice a day, at the storied 1920s Peabody Hotel, five ducks march to and from the lobby fountain to the music of John Philip Sousa (composer of ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever’). I can easily see ducks in Toronto’s harbour and wasn’t prepared to stand half an hour, so I could be sure of seeing more.

Instead, I walked down the street. Boy! Do they show the flag in Memphis.

The ‘birthplace of the Blues’ – Beale Street – is in Memphis. There was live music in a nearby park and great neon. As well as trains, I love neon.

I had been here before – to cover a major medical story in the 1980s. But I’d never been to Graceland. Remember – Elvis began as a country singer and was elected to the Country Music Hall of Fame ten years ago.

The house (in which you can take pictures, but with no flash, so bad photos) is surprisingly modest by today’s megastar standards. But, for someone with only a condo balcony, the backyard’s reasonably impressive.


So is Elvis’s private plane – a Convair 880, a smaller version of the old Boeing 707. It has gold-plated seat buckles and a double bed, and was named for his daughter.



And he didn’t do badly for ground transport either. Graceland has thirty-three of Elvis’s cars and motorcycles. I rather liked this retro Caddy.

But, all good things must come to an end. I could have taken away an Elvis replica jumpsuit for $3,300 (USD), but decided not to.

Ed and Pauline, a delightful French Canadian couple from a town of three thousand in Northern Ontario, were in the bus seats next to mine. Ed had been a train engineer, miner and jail guard. Given that I know little about small northern towns and have done my lifelong best to avoid manual labour, we could not be more different. Still, we got along like a house on fire and, at the end of the trip, when Ed said he wanted me to visit and we’d go fishing, I knew he really meant it.

Here Ed, complete with Elvis button, occupies a Tennessee bench. There’s also a second picture showing Pauline. It’s not a great composition, but I include it because she has such an interesting face.

At last! We’re approaching Opryland!

But before we get to the Grand Ole Opry, I should emphasize that Nashville doesn’t see itself as a southern hick town. It claims the moniker the ‘Athens of the South’, in part because of a goodly number of universities, including prestigious Vanderbilt. So, why not have a Parthenon – a full-sized replica complete with statue of the goddess Athena? Given that the ‘Athens of the South’ is also the ‘buckle of the bible belt’, I doubt whether animal sacrifices are encouraged.

Evangelicals or not, the locals have some sense of humour. Here’s the Nashville AT&T building, dubbed the ‘Batman building’.

But the main goal or, at least, my main goal of the trip was the Grand Ole Opry. The Opry began as a radio show in the Twenties and, for many years, performances were broadcast from the Ryman Auditorium. Once the Union Gospel Tabernacle and still standing, it’s the so-called ‘Mother Church of Country Music’.

Gospel is one of country’s major elements. Just think of some of the early titles – ‘River of Jordan’, ‘The Old Rugged Cross’, ‘That Glory Bound Train’. In Nashville, the ‘Protestant Vatican’ and where bible publishing is a major industry, all the strands come together – like the strings on Buck Trent’s banjo!

Here’s the Opry in the 1930s.

In 1974, the Grand Ole Opry moved to a new home. The Opry now seats more than four thousand and doesn’t have the traditional atmosphere of the Ryman. However, the radio broadcast – supplemented by television – continues and I greatly enjoyed the more folksy first half of the program. The second half was contemporary. One of the performers – Jean Shepard – is a sprightly 74. The songs ranged from ‘The Tennessee Waltz’ to ‘Second Fiddle to an Old Guitar’ and ‘Happy Trails to You’. Here’s the Opry and Tennessee flag.


I had half expected to see a lot of cowboy hats, bouffant hairdos and perhaps the odd jug of moonshine, but, in the words of the old Carl Perkins song, that’s largely ‘Gone! Gone! Gone!’ Like most places that become legends, it wasn’t quite what I’d hoped for (and, in my more rational moments, had known it wouldn’t be), but that didn’t detract from the experience.

At the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, I could look at Kitty Wells’ guitar and think of the days when I sniggered at country. Perhaps it was the names – Dolly, Merle, Ernest Tubb - but, there was honesty in the music and the lyrics often movingly spoke of the hard times endured by people far less fortunate than I.


On the way back to Toronto, I found myself thinking. This was the first time in my life that I have ever travelled a few thousand miles for music.

When I was at boarding school, on my visits home I would find Father – an English gentleman and certainly no hillbilly – enjoying a program called ‘Don Messer’s Jubilee’. This was a ‘Down East’ (as in the Canadian Maritimes) TV barn dance show with plenty of fiddles, banjos and harmonicas. Nasty little brat that I was, I laughed at dear old Dad. I said it was corny. Nowadays, I have a Don Messer CD. To steal an old country lyric, the circle is unbroken.

From now on, don’t be surprised if you find in my living room – and in shockingly open view – CDs of Curley Williams & His Georgia Peach Pickers and Boots Woodall & His Radio Wranglers. I will no longer hide them under the sofa. And so, to conclude, I’m coming out of the closet with one of my favourite singers.

Coming out of the closet in Nashville - part one

I have finally come out of the closet. I discovered that I was not alone. I found there were others with whom I could openly share my once secret love, without shame, without fear. It was in Nashville and a huge relief. I can now be honest and true to myself. At the Grande Ole Opry, my long, painful ordeal came to an end.

Those who know me generally assume jazz and big band are my preferences. But, there was another me, unsuspected by even my closest friends. Occasionally, with the door locked and chained, I would take out a CD, hidden as one would hide a naughty magazine, and enjoy … Patsy Cline. Sometimes even Hank Williams or Slim Whitman.

Eventually, having read of a tour that catered to fellow Tammy Wynette addicts, I succumbed to temptation (a standard country theme, be it a honky-tonk woman or 'likker'). In early October, I loaded my iPod with the ‘Louisiana Hayride’ (a Shreveport radio show from the 1940s and 50s), packed a book on the origins of country music and headed south.

We crossed into the United States at a down-on-its-luck Detroit. Below is a liquor store on a grim street heading out of town.

The weather cleared and we rolled down the I-75 and into the sun.

You may have noticed one or two grey hairs among my fellow travellers. Bar the driver and tour guide, I was the youngest. I confess to being mildly anxious as I booked. I needn’t have been. It was a hoot!

First night in Sydney, Ohio. I made my way to a classic art moderne diner built in 1941. Not only is ‘The Spot’ locally celebrated for its burgers and home-made pies, but President Bush made a campaign stop here in 2004. He bought a hamburger with lettuce, tomato and onion ‘to go’. I had a ‘small’ vanilla malt for $1.99, which turned out, as so often in the States, to be huge. While binging on my malt, some locals chatted to me about their town; for someone from Toronto, this natural friendliness to strangers came as a bit of shock.

Next morning, I saw my first election sign. Ohio is one of the so-called ‘battleground states’. And Missouri, the next state along, is crucial. In every presidential election since 1904 – bar one – Missouri has voted for the winning candidate.

Here we are on the Interstate with morning mist still on the fields. I have had little experience of American ‘highway culture’, but my iPod provided a musical backdrop. Ferlin Husky was singin’ ‘Truck Driver’s Blues’.

Sitting in a comfortable seat, watching the scenery, listening to Ferlin and Faron and Waylon and occasionally dipping into my book was very relaxing. More and more, I avoid driving, although the sight of RVs strikes a certain gypsy chord. Along the Interstates, dealerships with dozens of shiny RVs and trailers are a frequent sight. “Easy credit!” signs shout as the economy tanks.

At St. Louis, we crossed the Mississippi and into Missouri. This is the Gateway Arch, commemorating the route west for the 19th century settlers.

Here I am by Route 66 (as in ‘Get your kicks on …’) in Rolla, Missouri. From Chicago to Santa Monica, it is the most fabled of America’s highways, although a shadow of its former self. But, at dusk and twilight, you can get a hint of what it was like in its heyday, lined by quirky motels, restaurants and stylized tepees selling ‘genuine’ Indian crafts. And all those post-war travellers heading west in their flashy boom years cars.

Our first musical destination was a place I’d never heard of before this trip. But, apparently, millions better informed than I have. Branson, Missouri, is a town of a few thousand, which attracts more visitors than flypaper in an Ozarks outhouse (and that’s my line). Branson has been called “the live country music capital of the universe.” And, according to the AAA guide, “The loyal Branson fan still comes for traditional country and gospel music, homespun comedy and heartfelt displays of patriotic pride …” Your average Branson visitor is conservative, religious and white. In my three days there, I saw fewer than ten blacks. Some were hotel staff.

Branson offers an extraordinary variety of “good, clean” entertainment. The music hall below, attached to our hotel, gives an idea.

I heard a lot of live music on this trip. The most intimate performance – and perhaps closest to my sense of a traditional country music show – was banjo picker Buck Trent. He was a stalwart on the 1960s Porter Wagoner broadcast and a regular on ‘Hee Haw’ in the 70s. Which you watched, didn’t you?

After the show, ol’ Buck signed his photo for me and later turned up at the diner where I was lunching. I couldn’t see what he was having, but at that place it sure wasn’t salad.

Branson is Las Vegas without the casinos, bars and sex. Or, if there is gambling, drinking and fornicating, it’s well hidden. Like Las Vegas, it’s a place to savour the kitsch. A gigantic Titanic and the iceberg loom over Country Music Boulevard. Motels are built like riverboats. This is the billiards room attached to the men’s washroom in one of the theatres.

And patriotism? Frenzied applause for the vets at every performance and no end of attractions to remind one of the American sense of 'exceptionalism'.

Accommodation ranges from the luxurious to, well, low-key.

What’s a trip to the American South without going on a real paddle-wheeler? Below is the Branson Belle. The maple wood wheel – dating from 1928 – is more than ten feet in diameter.

Next to getting Buck’s autograph (now, where is that photo?), my Branson highlight was a train ride through the Ozarks and into Arkansas. I love trains. Now, that’s something I’ve never hidden! 0900 on a Sunday morning; most people are in church and only about fifteen passengers board. That is, we board once we’re checked for firearms …

Trains have always featured in country music. Jimmie Rogers sang ‘Waiting for a Train’ and the ‘Train Whistle Blues’. In 1929, one of the Carter Family’s big hits was ‘Wabash Cannonball’.

The train from Branson featured that lovely, streamlined equipment from the 1950s. Here’s the stairway to one of the domes.

Part two comin' up.

Dieppe and Normandy

Uncle Wightman wrote scores of letters from from the First War trenches; some went to my other uncle, then a boy at boarding school in New Brunswick. Uncle Bayard, seen below, would become a Lieutenant Colonel in World War Two. He was Brigade Major of the Second Canadian Army Tank Brigade and then appointed to the Allied Military Government responsible for Belgium and Holland. The Netherlands would decorate him for his work in re-establishing civil authority.

The Great War was largely prolonged stalemate and much useless slaughter, which makes it so terribly poignant. For Canada, World War Two was, other than the long wait in Britain, mainly a war of advance. But, no visit to France is complete without Dieppe. Hong Kong and Dieppe were the Canadian low points.

In just a few hours, nearly a thousand Canadians died in the abortive 1942 Dieppe raid. Many more were wounded and taken prisoner. It was a cock-up and much of the blame falls on the British commander, Mountbatten. Then, as now, Dieppe was a resort and the pebbly beach – so unsuitable for a landing – was covered with burning Canadian tanks and dead.

One of our group was 85-year old Fred Davies who won a Distinguished Flying Cross as a ‘Pathfinder’ with the RCAF. These were the bombers that led the way for the main bombing forces. Just before D-Day, his plane was shot down and he was on the run from the Germans along the Belgian-French frontier. Below, he looks at Pourville beach, to the west of Dieppe, where the South Saskatchewan Regiment and the Cameron Highlanders of Canada came ashore. A Victoria Cross was won on this beach.

Two of Fred’s fellow airmen are buried at Bretteville-sur-Laize Canadian cemetery. The stones are placed together because they were in the same crew – downed on the 23rd of May, 1944, just before D-Day. On the right is Flying Officer J. Hong, an RCAF navigator. I include this picture especially for my Chinese friend Si-Si. The inscription at the base reads: 'Union of a Chinese Heart with a Canadian Spirit.'

The next two pictures show German guns defending the D-Day beaches at Port en Bassin, Normandy. Offshore, as part of the invasion force, were 109 Canadian vessels and 10,000 sailors.

Here’s a still from some of the most famous D-Day footage. It shows Toronto’s Queen Own Rifles at 08:12hrs, on the 6th of June, 1944. They are in the first wave as the landing ramp goes down on Juno Beach, Bernières-sur-Mer .

I have been on the D-Day beaches before, shooting news and documentaries. The beaches are wide and flat, and the tide rolls out a long way. Which, of course, is why they were chosen. It means that, for peacetime pictures, they are not particularly spectacular. So, I decided to photograph one of the three Canadian beaches from behind a cyclist. He is peacefully sitting at Bernières where, as well as the Queen's Own, New Brunswick’s North Shore Regiment landed.

Just to the cyclist’s right is the first house liberated by Canadian troops. The Queen’s Own used it as a guide for their landing craft. As in the picture below, it features in many D-Day photos.

And here is the house today. One half is still a private residence and the other side designated as the Queen’s Own Rifles House.

By the evening of June 6th, Canadians were the farthest inland of all the Allied armies. Although casualties were heavy, they were far less than at Dieppe.

Unlike the First World War, some soldiers (mostly officers) carried personal cameras. As I crossed Juno Beach, I remembered a picture taken by Uncle Bayard before he got off his landing craft. Fortunately for him, he arrived after the initial assault.

And here is his first ‘home’ in liberated France, covered by camouflage netting, a couple of miles inland from the beaches. I can see his jacket hanging from a chair.

Over the next eleven months, on the left flank of the Allied armies, the First Canadian Army would advance through France, Belgium, the Netherlands and into northern Germany. Uncle Bayard would return safely home. With Germany and Japan defeated, Canada, by then a country of eleven million people, had the third largest navy in the world, the fourth largest air force.

In the autumn of 1945, the British Army sent my father to Vancouver to help supervise the return of British POWs from Japan. Some transited Canada on their way back to the UK. It was because of the war that I was born in Vancouver.

This was obviously not a pleasure trip, but one well worth taking. It allowed time for thinking - of my family, of my country and the awfulness of what happened in places now so peaceful. It has, of course, been said before, but so many of the graves are of teenagers, more than a few under 18. As I age, I am reminded of what a privileged life I have led.

The concluding picture was taken at the Abbaye d'Ardenne on the outskirts of Caen. Here Canadian prisoners-of-war were massacred by the 12th SS Hitlerjugend Division shortly after the D-Day invasion. The abbey garden is very quiet, filled with flags and poppies.

The Somme and Vimy

The Somme is in France, some distance south of Ypres. There is a brooding quality to the Somme, even today. The track below leads north, the British and Empire lines to the left, Germans to the right. On July 1, 1916, 20,000 British and Empire soldiers died as they went over the top. Some officers kicked footballs (soccer balls) into no man's land for their men to follow. They were mown down in waves.

Here are the lines of the Newfoundland Regiment at Beaumont-Hamel on the Somme. The Germans were down the slope to the left.

In the next picture, you can see a red sign in the distance, roughly where the German front line lay.

On July 1, facing a torrent of fire, the Newfoundlanders advanced 'with chins tucked down as if walking into a blizzard.' By the end of the day, 310 were dead. According to the Veterans Affairs Canada website, 'Of the 780 men who went forward only about 110 survived unscathed, of whom only sixty eight were available for roll call the following day.'

Major David Craig, recently of the Royal Welch Fusiliers (yes, it is Welch!) and our excellent guide, gestures from one of the Newfoundland trenches.

Even now, parts of the Western Front are unsafe. Farmers regularly find shells, bones and equipment, and munitions disposal experts have been killed in the not-too-distant past.

For safety’s sake, sheep are still used to crop the grass in areas not ploughed by farmers. The sheep, by the way, are in a trench.

Y Ravine cemetery was the approximate location of a German machine gun that caused heavy Newfoundland casualties. As are all the British and Commonwealth war cemeteries, it is truly lovely, almost an English garden, as was the intention of the War Graves Commission in the wake of the conflict.

Vimy Ridge is to Canada as Gallipoli is to the Australians and New Zealanders. The taking, by Canadians fighting as a combined Canadian Corps, of one of the most formidable German strong points on the Western Front is major step towards our national sense of self.

The Ridge, to the north of the Somme, was German high ground dominating British and Canadian positions. On Easter Monday, April 9, 1917, as the snow came down, four Canadian divisions took what the French and British couldn’t. But, for two German positions taken later, it was done in a morning and afternoon. Four Canadian Victoria Crosses were won.

Below, from a Canadian sniper’s position, is the German front line, the little ridge just below the wire.

The next picture shows a German communication trench leading up to their front line. The Canadian flag is just behind the Canadian front line.

The Vimy Ridge National Historic Site is on Canadian soil given by France. Those who know say that Vimy and Beaumont-Hamel are among the best surviving examples of Great War battlefields. Perhaps only land near Verdun, still sealed off, is so pitted with shell holes and mine craters. The ground at Vimy will bear witness for centuries.

In the tunnels, which led to the Canadian front line, there are rooms with the remnants of furnishings and equipment.

I am not a great monument person, but the Canadian monument at Vimy (at the crest of Hill 145, which was taken on the third day) is unquestionably one of the most beautiful I have ever visited. It can be seen from miles, is inspiring and, reflecting our national character, unmilitaristic. On a sunny day, newly restored, it was stunning. I often avoid figures in my pictures, but felt that, in this case, they added perspective.

One of the central figures is of 'Canada mourning her dead'. The picture below looks northeast. Victorious Canadian soldiers on the ridge could see the Germans retreating below. In the distance, you can see the slag heaps, approximately where my uncle was gassed many months later.

The next picture shows the fields at the appropriately named Passchedaele, sometimes translated as ‘Vale of the Passion’. Canadians, called in as ‘storm troops’, took it in November, 1917, part of the Third Battle of Ypres. Men drowned in the mud. Casualties were so heavy that historians sometimes refer to it as a Canadian Calvary. My uncle was here.

Two people on the tour wanted to see family graves. Here, Jane Blackstock from Barrie visits an uncle, Captain A.C. Parsons of the Somerset Light Infantry, killed in 1918. With another tour participant, we also visited the grave of a soldier in the same battalion as my uncle, although killed before my uncle arrived.

Fittingly, we also visited a German cemetery. They are less garden-like than the British and Commonwealth cemeteries and the graves lie in shade. It is said that, unlike the Second War, Allied and German soldiers, sharing the prolonged misery of the Western Front, felt some degree of camaraderie. I was pleased to see that British schoolchildren had left Remembrance crosses.

The defeated Germans were allotted much less land for their cemeteries, so the soldiers are often in mass graves. I decided to place a Canadian poppy at one.

I returned to Canada with one memento (I refuse to call it a souvenir). The eagle-eyed Major Craig found it at Vimy. I hold it and wonder. It is a piece of shrapnel, quite heavy for its size, one of millions in the fields of Belgium and France. What was its effect? Did it hit someone as the Canadians advanced? It is a small, terribly lethal part of my country's history.