Barbara Schnell, author

We had a day of sailing on the Baltic so we took the time to get comfortable with the ship and get used to our new routines. The first thing we did every morning was spit 2 ml of saliva into a test tube for COVID testing. I had no idea it took so long to collect that much spit. And it’s hard to spit when you’ve just waked up and your mouth is dry. I learned to drink extra water during my Limitless viewings. Had to pee like a racehorse a few hours later but I had some spit. I got rather zen about the testing. We’d been tested before boarding the ship and if I was going to get COVID, there was probably nothing I could do to stop it. Might as well relax and enjoy the ride. And check out the ship.

There was a small pool/hot tub in the center/top deck of the ship. There was also an infinity pool and hot tub in the back. I would’ve gone swimming but I forgot my suit. Suits were for sale at the spa but when I was free the weather was usually too cold. I thought it would be warmer when we booked the trip. I’d googled weather and learned that it’s usually around 70 degrees in that part of the world in spring. Mother Nature obviously didn’t get the memo because it was usually 65 degrees or lower. And it rained every other day. I should have packed more sweaters and a thicker coat but I made do. Back to ship ammenities; there was a putting course, a shuffleboard court and a running track. Gordon ran every day but I took advantage of none of it. I spent my time recovering from our tours.

The food on the ship was great. The first Viking trip I took was a Danube River cruise. German food was mainly served and I found it fatty and uninspired. Except for the strudels. I really like those strudels. Anyway, on the Baltic cruise there were three main restaurants: Manfredi’s (Italian), The Chef’s Table, and The Restaurant (guess they ran out of names and went with the basics). Manfredi’s is self-explanatory. The Restaurant had a diverse menu. But The Chef’s Table had a set 4-course meal with complementary wines. We had the lamb menu the first night, Chinese food another, and seafood the last time. Each meal was excellent as were the wines. We had steaks at The Restaurant and pasta at Manfredi’s. The wine was always excellent and plentiful which didn’t do Gordon much good since he doesn’t drink but I had a good time. We usually had dinner with Bill and Dawn and compared tours. We always had lots to talk about since we only shared one tour. Oh, and the guys had the Good Old Days to remember and discuss. I’m glad we all took the same cruise. They were fun. Anyway, there were other cafe type places for less formal meals. The World Cafe was open most of the day. The Pool Snack bar served hamburgers and hotdogs (I had one with shrimp and mayo; only in Scandinavia but it was good). There were at least three other areas where you could get pastries and breakfast foods. We over-indulged the first two days then simplified things by having milk and a cookie for lunch. I was afraid we wouldn’t have enough TUMS to last the trip otherwise.

During the day there were lectures that educated and music that soothed. I liked the piano player and guitar player but avoided the piano/violin duo. The violinist was slightly pitchy and it was like chalk on a blackboard–although I was probably the only person it bothered. We played (and lost) trivia contests. There were some smart people on board. The first evening show was a medley with four kids and the back-up band. The songs and choreography were professional and enjoyable. But the show I especially enjoyed featured the cruise director, Heather (wish I could remember her last name). The first show I saw her in, she asked if everybody liked opera. Crickets. I figured we’d be forced to listen to a soprano that was the equivalent of the violinist in the atrium. Just as pitchy but much louder. Well, Heather sang the mezzo aria from Carmen and she was great! She claimed to have sung Carmen in 30 productions all over the world. I believe her. She had it down. Then she sang show tunes with the band. She was good. The second show she starred in was even better. She sang jazz and more show tunes. She claimed to have found her niche. I think she did. She got to design her own cabaret show like a Vegas revue and she didn’t have to screw anybody to do it–like in Vegas. She also didn’t have men pinching her –although I don’t think the men on the cruise could have moved fast enough to grab her if they’d wanted to (the demographics on these cruises skews old). Nice gig. A nice well-paying gig. I asked her how they scheduled her time. Did she work two weeks on, two weeks off or what. She laughed–howled really–and said she worked the entire season with minimal breaks. In the Baltic I guess that means four months on, eight months off but I don’t know. She earned her money.

A pianist called Harry the Piano entertained us with two shows. He did mash-ups of music and told stories about playing for the Queen. The stories about celebrities he’s worked with and for were good but his ability to play a Beatles song as if Mozart had written it was amazing. I’ve never run into anyone else who could do that as well.

There was also a magician who did two shows. I love magicians; I can never figure out how they do the tricks so when he had a seminar about doing basic magic tricks I was in the front row with Dawn. Gordon and Bill giggled at us but I was fascinated. And I felt really stupid when I learned how simple some of the tricks were. The magic is in hiding the effort. I forgot the magician’s name but he was a really nice. We talked about his son learning the business. He was even on the Penn & Teller show. I asked if he fooled them and he said ‘no’ but you have to be really good to even get on. They only take the best.

There was always something to do on the ship. And if you just wanted to read a book and listen to classical music (which I did) there was always the 8th deck reading room with the comfortable chairs, wolf skin furniture covers (probably faux), and great views. I enjoyed my time on the ship.

I haven’t been able to write anything coherent lately due to life getting in the way but here’s a flash fiction story I wrote years ago. It was a winner of the “Will Write for Food” contest put on by the Southern California Writers’ Association. We were given a picture and instructed to write a 250-word story inspired by it. Following is the picture and the story I came up with.

Learning Manners

            In 1969, I was a rebellious teenager. So my parents, deciding that I needed to learn appreciation for them and civilization, sent me to stay with my grandfather in the mountains. He didn’t even have TV. The first week, Grandpa put me to work in his vegetable garden. Next to the garden was an old sign that was a thesaurus of verbs warning people to stay off the plants. I hadn’t seen another person for a week, so I asked Grandpa why it was there. Grandpa was cleaning his shotgun at the time.

            “Well,” he said finally, “I had a young feller used to run through my property. I asked him nice not run in my garden, but he said he wasn’t running, he was jogging. Every time he ran through my garden, he said something sassy. So, I put up my sign and added the word. Just to let him know I was paying attention, you see.” Grandpa paused, inserted two shells in the shotgun, and snapped it shut. “Well, when I ran out of room for words on the sign, I peppered him with my gun here.”

            I stared at Grandpa, horrified.

            Grandpa grinned. “I didn’t use buckshot,” he assured me. “Just rock salt. But it got the young feller’s attention. Which brings me to you. Your mama asked if I could teach you some manners. You think I should?”

            I mended my fractious ways. I didn’t want Grandpa teaching me manners.

My cat, George, died today.

Sixteen years and four months ago we went to the Burbank animal shelter to find a kitten to keep Duhgie company. Nellie had died a month before and we were all lonesome. We decided we’d get a female kitten. We hoped Duhg would react better to a female. So, we toured the facility. In one cage was a mother cat who’d been brought to the shelter and had given birth to five kittens. The kittens were now about 8 weeks old and ready for adoption, so we picked out a pretty little black & white girl. But kittens are like potato chips to Gordon; he can’t have just one. “We can’t expect a kitten to handle Duhg all by herself,” he declared. “We should take one more.” A fuzzy little black & white kitten stared up at us curiously during the discussion. He seemed the bravest of the bunch, so we took him, too. And, of course, he was named Curious George. Gordon was in an Albee frame of mind, so he named the female Martha. I thought it was an unpleasant play, so I shortened the name to Marta. And our family was complete for a while.

Duhg never grew to like the kittens and he died two years later–mostly out of spite, I think. We still had the tuxedo twins, so we were happy. Marta died from unknown causes when she was almost 11 so we got another kitten so George wouldn’t be alone. I think he would have preferred the solitude, but Gracie was here to stay.

George was my buddy. He sat next to me on the couch as I wrote. He slept on my side of the bed. And he always got what he wanted. If he didn’t care for the food offering, he’d politely stick one claw into my leg to get my attention. The claw treatment would be repeated until he got something he liked. He eventually weighed 18 pounds from all that food. He had huge teeth and claws, but he never used them in anger against us–just to get better food. And no matter how many times you changed the water in his bowl, he preferred the downstairs toilet. He waited until I flushed, (he liked a fresh bowl) then he’d be butt-up in the toilet like a drunken frat boy. He protected the house from raccoon incursions. He’d sit at the cat door, hissing and spitting, and if a raccoon nose appeared he’d swipe at it with those big claws. One night a coyote was sniffing at the cat door. I turned on the light to see and Georgie charged out the cat door, tail up and fluffy, ears back. He chased that coyote across the backyard and over the fence. When he didn’t come back, I thought the coyote had a well-marbled cat snack and I went into mourning. But 15 minutes later, Georgie sauntered back into the house, looking very pleased with himself. I didn’t know whether to hug him or bellow at him so, I did both. “You could have been killed!” I screeched as I hugged him. “That coyote would eat you!” George just purred. He’d protected his house. He was my brave, brave boy.

He also brought new vernacular into the house. He had long hair on his “pants” and in his early days feral cats would literally scare the crap out of him. We called it having a case of “stinky butt” and I’d throw him in the shower with Gordon to get cleaned up. Georgie would look at me piteously as if asking, “Why are you doing this to me?” But he never raised a claw. Maybe he appreciated the bath.

George left giant pawprints on the stairwell walls for us to remember him by. When he felt frisky, he’d tear up and down the stairs And, of course, he never used the steps; he careened off the walls. He left Sasquatch prints all over. And he knew when the luggage came out, he was going to be alone with Gracie for a while. So, he peed all over an unguarded suitcase. I didn’t know a cat could have that much pee in him. He drowned that suitcase. I learned to hide the luggage. He also insisted on having an indoor cat box that was exclusively his (Gracie goes outside–she lived a rough life before she came to us so she can handle peeing outdoors). And his box had to be clean. If it wasn’t, he’d pee on the dirty clothes pile. Message received. I cleaned his box.

He was the most beautiful cat we’ve ever had. He was my Gorgeous George, a good, noble cat. And now he’s gone. I had him for 16 years and four months–and it still doesn’t seem like enough time. Already we’re feeling the chasm he left. No one is giving me ‘The Claw’ to get a treat or different food. No one is sitting next to me and purring. No one is parked facing his food bowl, waiting for something he likes, and clogging traffic. He was spoiled rotten and could be so annoying. But I want him back. And I can’t have him.

There’s a hole in my heart. And it’s bleeding.

We grabbed a cup of coffee and a pastry on our last morning on the American Countess. Our luggage was outside, waiting to be put on a bus. We’d tried to buy Graceland tickets through the cruise company but we were too late. So we took the bus to the airport. Gordon took advantage of airport WiFi to buy our own tickets to Graceland. What we saved buying our own tickets paid for our rental car so we made out like bandits. We drove around Memphis for an hour to get the feel of the place. It’s green and lovely. There are paddle boats moored on the river but we’d had enough paddle boats. We drove down Beal Street but it was closed. From the trash being cleaned up it looked like there’d been a big Saturday night. We figured out where Graceland was then drove back to our hotel. Gordon had booked us into a converted train station. We were early for check-in but hoped they’d let us store our luggage. The desk clerk said our room was ready and we could drop off our stuff. So we did. Then we went back to Graceland.

I’d seen seen pictures of the outside of Graceland so the Southern Plantation look of it wasn’t a surprise. Lovely exterior. The interior was a museum of 70s kitsch. I thought it was a little weird but, let’s face it, the 70s were a little weird. One interesting thing: Elvis had carpeted some rooms and hallways with dark green shag carpet–including the walls and ceilings. (I think we had the same carpet in our Hollywood apartment many years ago). Anyway, I thought it was tacky until if occurred to me that there wasn’t much available for home acoustics in the 70s. Elvis did a lot of recording in his house and the shag carpet muffled any echoes. Elvis jury-rigged his own sound proofing. Rather ingenious. We weren’t allowed upstairs per Elvis’ life-time request. He wanted SOMEPLACE private.

We went outside and toured the stables and paddock where a few horses are still kept. The tour ended at Elvis’ grave. He’s buried on-site with his parents and other family members. It’s very touching. Then we went across the street to see the other exhibits.

There are about five buildings devoted to different aspects of Elvis’ life. One building displayed his cars (and he had a lot of them), one building showed his costumes, one building detailed his early years, including his time in the military. We didn’t go through all the buildings. It was interesting but we’d been looking at Elvis stuff for hours. One observation: I’ve been told all these years that Elvis was an idiot. I don’t think that’s true. When you listen to taped interviews Elvis comes off as rather clever. He could handle all the ‘gotcha’ questions from a hostile media when he was only about 22 years old. And you don’t accomplish what he did before his death at age 42 by being an idiot. Think the media gives him a bad rap.

We toured Elvis’ private jet and private 707 and called it quits. I’ll probably never go back to Graceland but I’m glad I saw it once.

We went back to our train station for a nap before going to Central Bar-B-Q for dinner. It’s a local institution and was highly recommended so we walked over. On the way we read an historical marker about the Memphis Massacre. Don’t remember the date but it was a horrifying account of an attack on the local black population. Something like that tends to kill the appetite but we had to stand in line so long we got hungry again.

Gordon ordered the ribs and I ordered a pulled-pork sandwich and we shared. We also split an order of nachos just to see what they were like. We couldn’t finish it all, there was just too much food, but it was delicious. I ordered a local craft beer and that was good too. I enjoyed the ambiance although it was obvious we were the only Yankees. It was strange being the one with the funny accent. We walked around the historic neighborhood which is in the process of being restored. The trolley went past our hotel but we never took a ride. We probably should have.

We wandered around our train station hotel before bed. It still had the bumpers that stopped the trains from running into the place. There were lots of historic markers to read. I got a kick out of the place and Gordon loves trains, so he was in hog heaven.

Next morning we went across the street to the Arcade Restaurant. There was a line around the block the previous evening so we figured the food was good. Gordon got hash browns with his eggs and he ordered them extra crispy. They deep-fried the hash browns for him and he said they were perfect. The Arcade has really good food and the neon on the exterior is spectacular.

We spent the rest of the morning at the Civil Rights Museum. The Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King was staying when he was killed, has been saved as has the boarding house across the street where the shot came from. There is a huge wreath on the balcony where King died. The attached museum details the civil rights struggle and the notables of that struggle over the years. It’s a sobering exhibit. This country has been through some times. Fortunately, we’ve always had strong people who were up to the challenge. The final exhibit was the boarding house across the street. They have the rifle and scope that was used to assassinate Dr. King on display. Or maybe it was just the same model of the rifle used, I don’t remember. It was a little macabre but it really brought the ugliness home. We were allowed to stand in the room where the shot came from. And we read about the hunt and trial of the killer. Not exactly a feel-good morning but it’s important US history. We were thoughtful when we left.

We had a few hours before we had to catch our plane so we went downtown and toured the Fireman’s Museum. We tried to get in the historic churches but they were closed due to the pandemic. I wanted to go to the Peabody Hotel and see if the ducklings were walking through but I was too cheap to pay to park–especially for ducklings who probably weren’t even there. We went to a huge Bass Pro shop on the way out of town. Supposedly, it was designed as a sports arena but funding went to pieces and by the time they started completion it was considered too small. So Bass bought it and it’s become a hotel, restaurant, and retail store. It’s full of fishponds and all sorts of other little treats. We were told by a salesman that it’s become a tourist destination. I believe it. The place was packed.

It was time to drop off the car and catch our flight which was uneventful. The cats were glad to see us–well, Gracie was glad. George pouted a bit. Good thing we can bribe him with food. It was good to be home.

Would I take the trip again? Maybe. The boat was perfectly appointed (game room, exercise room, snack room), there was always something to do, and the cabins and bathrooms were huge compared to other cruises I’ve taken. And being able to sit in a rocking chair as the Mississippi floated by was an experience in itself. That’s a spectacular river. The only problem was the food service. They were under-staffed and had to follow some ridiculous CDC rules. The food was good, when we could get it, but I still get slightly irritated when I think of the struggle to get basic things–like butter. The Battle of the Butter was almost a daily annoyance. And I didn’t like having to sit at the same table every night. If you got a clinker, like Horrible Henry, you were screwed. But except for meal time I enjoyed myself. Maybe the food situation will be straightened out. We were one of the first cruises allowed after the pandemic and they were still getting organized. But I enjoyed my time in the South. I’ve never spent any time there before. Quite an education.

Our next stop was Vicksburg. We didn’t even go downtown; they took us directly to the National Cemetery where only Union soldiers are buried. Well, that’s not entirely true; one Confederate got into the mix somehow and got planted in the wrong cemetery. There was a Confederate flag on his grave to show the difference. I don’t know why they don’t dig him up and put him in the Confederate cemetery. He’d probably be happier. And showing a Confederate flag anywhere will get you in trouble these days. But there he lies with his lonely little flag. We never got to see where the Confederate soldiers were buried. That’s not a national park. Anyway, the tour was quite educational. There were markers where the two sides had cannons pointing at each other–sometimes only 50 feet apart. Each Northern state who lost personnel in the battle has a large memorial. And they lost a lot of lives. The guide says they still dig up mini balls in the fields. But Vicksburg was important because it was the turning point of the Civil War. When Grant took Vicksburg the South was blocked from getting supplies and munitions. They were cut off from the world. But it was horrible for the town; people starved to death in the siege. One interesting note; Grant came up from the south on the Mississippi. He had to get supplies and soldiers to the north of town to surround the Confederates. The captains of the ironclads hugged the shore closest to the Confederates. The Confederates were on high ground and when they pointed their cannon down at the ironclads the cannonballs just dropped out. So the boats passed largely unscathed. It’s funny when you think of those cannons pointing down and the balls dribbling out. But it worked. And Grant became a hero. What a time this country has had.

We stopped at the closed Visitor’s Center to pee. Always have to keep the bathrooms open for the tourists. A resurrected ironclad was on display. They think the boiler blew and that’s what sank it. What I found interesting were the rails welded onto the front of the boat. The original iron slabs only protected the center of the boat where the boiler and paddlewheel had been placed (not the back, like our boat). Sherman was tearing up the railways so the soldiers took the iron rails and patched them on the front for more protection. Ya gotta love Yankee ingenuity. But it looked a little odd.

We toured a train museum and an Army Corps of Engineers exhibit about the methods used to corral the worst excesses of the Mississippi. Then we went back to the boat. It was the usual dinner and a show but I didn’t get into any trouble and I got my bun and butter.

The boat didn’t stop the next day because they had to make up the time they lost fixing the gangplank. So a series of lectures were presented to keep us out of the bar. The popular girl singer from our nightly entertainment had a Q & A. She was asked where she got her training and she mentioned where she’d gone to college and that she’d done a season of summer stock in South Dakota. Well, my ears pricked up at that. There are only two summer stock programs that I know about so I raised my hand and asked which company she’d worked with. She said, “Prairie Repertory”. And I said, “So did I!” Well, it was old home week. She did Rep in the 2014 season when the kids had air conditioning and showers and I told her I was in the third season “when we were putting on shows in a barn”. Some of the other audience members had done theatrical summers and we giggled about Boone’s Farm and Ripple, the only booze we could afford. The girl said, “Oh, I didn’t do that. I wasn’t 21.” And I said, “Neither was I.” And us duffers snickered together. I think people my age were more adventurous in our youth. Or dumber. Whatever. Anyway, she said she didn’t pursue any union affiliations because she wouldn’t get any work. True. All equity touring companies are shut down and the actors are starving to death. She made a good choice. And it seems like a nice job. She doesn’t have men pawing her. And that’s worth a lot.

The boat skipped our scheduled stop of Greenville where we would have seen the B.B. King museum but they’d made up enough time to stop at Helena, an old town that’s home to a blues festival. The town is almost dead. They’d had a tornado the year before and were trying to recover from that. And then the pandemic hit…It’s hard times in Helena. And that’s too bad; there’re a lot of lovely old buildings waiting to be repurposed if they could get some industry there and get some population back. We toured the train museum and the town’s history museum. There was a copy of a Mark Twain novel, signed by Twain himself. There were lots of interesting things to look at but the best part was the large tabletop representation of the town and the battle positions of the soldiers during the Civil War. The docent gave a great lecture about how many towns voted to stay in the Union but were dragged along into the Confederacy against their will. Apparently, Helena didn’t put up much of a fight when the Union came through. But they suffered when they had to shelter Union soldiers in their homes. At the end of the lecture I was surprised when the docent claimed, “The one person who single-handedly did more damage to the South than anyone was John Wilkes Boothe.” And this from a Southerner! He said that Lincoln and Grant were trying to re-unite the country and help the South recover when Boothe put Johnson in office. And then all hell broke lose. He said the South didn’t begin to recover from the Johnson years until after the turn of the century. From what I’ve read I have to agree.

We had a mint julep at the bar and one final dinner and show. We had to pack and have our luggage outside our cabin door so we could catch our bus by 7 the next morning. They wanted us off so they could clean up the place and set sail by 3 with another boatload of passengers. We said goodbye to the people we liked and went to bed early.