Family matters...

So, I recently subscribed to this online newspaper archive for my Covina history project, and discovered scandal in my family's past. Turns out my father was involved in a fairly messy (and publicized!) divorce.


Virginia Lucas and Ed Shannon, date and place unknown.
The way she's looking at him...

I knew my father had been married before my mom, but Dad rarely spoke of his ex, and practically nothing about the details of their relationship. I did know first-hand that Dad had a problem with betting/gambling, though. Mom almost broke up with him over some heavy losses at the craps tables in Vegas in the Sixties.

I also knew Dad liked horses, and liked to go to the races, but we didn't go very often. Three or four trips to Caliente when I was little, and that was about it.

However, as you can see in these newspaper articles from 1941, betting on horse races was apparently quite a big issue with his first wife! I can imagine Dad was furious over these write-ups. They do make the affair sound pretty salacious.

           

What I can't figure out are the accusations of wife beating. I think that's just outright divorce court slander, because my dad was the most even-tempered man I've ever known. I know for a fact he never laid a hand on Mom, because she would have left him on the spot. (She had already divorced one husband before him because of physical abuse, and she was not the kind of woman who would tolerate shit like that again in any way, shape or form.)

What really negates those claims, though, is that after the war, Virginia ended up remarrying Dad, and this time having a child with him. Dad had become quite wealthy as a defense contractor during WWII, and acquired even more wealth after it as an oil wildcatter, so I guess all that money caused Virginia to have a change of heart and conclude that Ed Shannon wasn't such a bad guy, after all. ;-)

And not only were horses apparently not a problem for her anymore, she even partnered with him in actually racing horses at Santa Anita! Dad bought himself a real thoroughbred filly who he called "Who Dat" – a picture of whom was hanging on the wall in my bedroom the whole time I was growing up. This isn't that picture, but I like this one because Who Dat looks like she's grinning at the camera and Dad looks a little miffed as she seems to be getting a little pushy at the moment.






Anyway, there was a sad end to Dad's brief fling in horse racing, when Who Dat fractured a leg while training one day, and had to be put down. The only times I ever saw my father cry was after his little brother died, and the times he spoke about what happened to Who Dat.

Things eventually went south with Dad's second marriage to Virginia, too, though this time, HE divorced HER over her drinking. They parted ways for good in 1950, and Dad married my mom in 1951.

So now I know the whole story behind what Dad meant when he once cryptically told me, "I had to give up horses to marry your mother." ;-)

 

21 September 1989

This is another tale of origins and inspiration: one even more momentous to me than yesterday's.

Ring of Bright Water by Gavin Maxwell was the first book I read after finishing college. An acknowledged literary masterpiece, it utterly captivated me, and my resultant newfound enthrallment with otters set me on a path of destiny that I followed with an almost religious zeal for the next four decades. In retrospect, it's clear to me that no one – not even my own parents – had a greater overall influence on my life than Gavin Maxwell.


Maxwell and his otter Mijbil in 1956. Photo by James Watt, courtesy Gavin Maxwell Enterprises and The Independent.

An attentive reader will recall that I've posted previously about this day's events, and the introduction I wrote here twelve years ago is just as apt now as it was then.

In 1989, I had the opportunity to travel in Europe, so I planned my itinerary such that I would be able to visit Maxwell's Camusfeàrna in Scotland on my 35th birthday. As otters are the center of my world, it seemed appropriate to make a pilgrimage to this Mecca of otterdom at the precise midpoint of my "three score and ten" lifespan...

Indeed, it seemed to me that everything that happened to me since I first read Maxwell's books had led me inexorably to this place at this time. Fresh from my triumph at the otter colloquium, I was at the apex of my career, and thus it was the perfect moment for me to finally come to this fabled cove and pay my respects to the man and the otters whose inspiration had made it all possible.


Camusfeàrna in the mid-1950s. Photo by Robin McEwen, from Ring of Bright Water by Gavin Maxwell, Longmans, 1960.




My special day began with a pre-dawn search for otters over Loch Duich, which, although fruitless for a sighting, was rewarded with this auspicious glowing pastel sunrise over the Five Sisters of Kintail.


View from Duich House, Letterfearn, Scotland, 21 September 1989. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.

Everything I was to do today would be following in Gavin Maxwell's footsteps, or in this first instance, in his car's tyre tracks. A little after 1100, I set out for Maxwell's former homesite at Sandaig, taking the same route he must have driven hundreds of times: the "Old Military Road" from Glenshiel over Mam Ratagan and down through the valley of the Glenmore River.



As I drove the mostly single track, I noted considerable earthmoving operations underway in the higher elevations. It appeared to me that they were in the process of straightening or bypassing some of the curvier stretches. Seeing this, I considered my timing fortunate, for likely soon, the road's original 18th century trace over the pass would be no more. I've recently viewed a couple of videos showing the Old Military Road today, and sure enough, much widening is present now that was not there during my visit, and one set of memorably narrow and acute bends over the crest of Mam Ratagan no longer exists at all. Even looking on Google Earth, this stretch is nowhere to be seen. All sign of that portion of the old Georgian roadway has been obliterated by forestry plantings.


View from the top of the Old Military Road, looking toward Glenelg. Thirty years later, the little pines in the foreground have grown up to completely obscure the view today. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.

Further on, at Glenelg, I stopped for supplies at a small store at the south end of the village. Upon entering, I cheerfully told the proprietress about my intention to visit "Major Maxwell's" at Sandaig. The older woman's expression turned from a smile to a frown in the blink of an eye, and the look she gave me... well, as they say, if looks could kill, I would have dropped to the ground dead on the spot.


The old store at Glenelg. Click here to go to Google Maps.

I wondered what I might have done to upset her, then it occurred to me that a local woman her age probably had known Maxwell personally, and that her change in mood might suggest a lingering enmity for the man. But the Major had been dead for 20 years now, so it surprised me to see this level of ill will apparently directed toward him, and in turn towards me; the latter seeming particularly out of place, considering people just like myself had doubtless contributed not a small amount of money to the local economy with our journeys here over the past two decades.

Not wanting to trouble her further, though, I kept mostly mum as I completed my shopping. I actually bought a small bottle of whisky for the Major, but decided the gesture would only result in the spilling of perfectly good Scotch; the waste of which I concluded Gavin would not approve. Before departing the store, however, I asked the lady about how best to get down to Sandaig. I had no idea; I had only a road map, which would not help me once I was off the beaten track. The woman replied that I should keep my eye out for a line of power poles, and those would lead to a path. Duly noted.

Once past Eilanreach, I kept glancing down in the direction of the coast, looking for the Sandaig Islands. Not seeing anything even remotely suggestive of my destination, however, and perhaps distracted by my search, I ended up passing completely by the site of Camusfeàrna at first, not stopping until I was well past and spotting the Sandaigs in my rear-view mirror. Returning, I then noticed the bridge over the burn and the power poles that the woman at the store had mentioned. I parked by a rusty old quonset hut on the west side of the road at just past noon.


Top of the track down to Camusfeàrna. The view today is much changed since the logging of the forestry plantation. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.

Sure enough, the power lines pointed straight toward the burn, where a small open gate beckoned. Following the forestry road that roughly paralleled the waterway down the slope to the sea, there was no possibility I could get lost.

The hike to Sandaig took about 3/4 of an hour, and I finally set foot on its open meadow at 1300. As I walked toward Maxwell's grave stone, suddenly, the landscape that was depicted and described so vividly in the books became familiar to me, and I was instantly smitten by the magic of the place. At last, I had arrived at the legendary Camusfeàrna, and beheld the storied ring of bright water with my own eyes.





Maxwell's croft at Sandaig in the mid-1960s. Upper photo courtesy Rex Features; lower courtesy Alchetron.

It wasn't too much longer after my arrival, however, that I was made acutely aware of something decidedly NOT magical here: the swarms of biting midges! I had first encountered the little bastards at Kinlochmoidart and Eilean Shona three evenings ago. They had been pesky enough there, and a bit more bothersome on my way down the track today, but here on the open meadow, the midges were downright hellish! All the time I was subjected to their maddening presence, I had a recurring thought that maybe, just maybe, Maxwell's choice for the name of his mischievous first otter, Mij, might have been a homonymous reference to the tormenting midge hordes of Sandaig.


Maxwell in his study at Camusfeàrna, perhaps keeping the midges at bay with tobacco smoke. Photo by Camera Press, courtesy telegraph.co.uk.

After paying my respects first at Maxwell's grave then at Edal's, I headed out to explore the islands. To my relief, I found the midges were far less bothersome on the beach, so I decided to stay out there for the most part. When I'd first arrived and saw it was near low tide, I imagined I might be able to hike out to the lighthouse. After being there awhile and noting that the tide was rising, though, I thought better of the idea, and ended up going no further out than the first island. Better safe than sorry. I was all alone out here, with no one to call for help were I to become stranded.

But I wasn't alone for long. About 45 minutes after my arrival, while I was out on the beach, another party of visitors arrived, then another about a half hour after that. Being a Thursday, and after the end of the summer season, I had fully expected to have the place all to myself. On my hike down, the only other tracks I'd seen along the way were those of red deer. But thankfully, the other visitors were also respectfully quiet, and they didn't stay as long here as I did, either. Years later, though, I was to learn that, at any given time year-round, Sandaig is seldom lacking visiting pilgrims like me, and even still in the present day, a full half-century after Maxwell's death.


Panorama of the innermost of the Sandaig Islands. Photo by J Scott Shannon.

I found the beach to be quite remarkable. I knew from reading the books that, instead of sand, the substrate consisted of sea shell fragments, but I wasn't prepared for the astonishing quantity and variety of the shells that comprised the beach. I collected quite a few interesting specimens to take home with me; perhaps most notably a whelk that bears a close resemblance to one drawn by Maxwell on page 46 of Ring of Bright Water. I also took away a sprig of heather, some soil from the base of Edal's grave, and even water from the burn which I intended to pour into my own ring of bright water: Trinidad Bay.


An assortment of sea shells collected at Sandaig. I believe the flat rock at left to be a fragment of Torridonian sandstone, age approximately 1,000 Ma.

After gathering some geometrically-pleasing stones and placing them on Edal's and Maxwell's graves, and once again being tormented to madness by midges, I decided to stay out on the beach from then on, and to take my lunch there. It consisted of two pre-buttered rolls from my breakfast at Duich House, and from the Glenelg store, a Marathon bar and two cans of warm Diet Coke. Bon appetit!

The night before, I had prepared a message that I intended to leave here. It consisted of a hand-written note of thanks, a favourite picture of myself holding a tame otter inside my shirt, and two photos of my otters at Trinidad. All the time I was at Camusfeàrna, I had been thinking about where I would place it. It was sealed in plastic, so I considered burying it, but not wanting to disturb what I effectively thought of as sacred ground, I finally decided I would place my message in a gap in Edal's cairn, with a portion of it left visible so that future visitors might be able to find and read it.




FOR
 MIJBIL,
  EDAL,
   TEKO,
    and
MAJOR MAXWELL

    thank you for your inspiration, and
     thank you for my life

  One man
   for otters
    for ever    Scott Shannon
                The Otter Man of Trinidad Bay

  Signed at Sandaig this 21st day of September, 1989,
   the 35th anniversary of my birth.

I departed somewhat wistfully, taking one last look at Camusfeàrna at 1620, and arriving back at my car at 1700. My pilgrimage was over. Mission accomplished.

I do have one significant regret, though. I did not get to see the famous waterfall of Allt Mòr Shantaig, where Gavin Maxwell actually wrote most of Ring of Bright Water. How could I have missed it? I can only guess it didn't come to mind when I was there because the burn did not have much flow that day, so I didn't hear the sound of the falls and be reminded of it. So in a way, my pilgrimage was incomplete, for I missed visiting the singular place that Maxwell called "the soul of Camusfeàrna" itself. Alas...


Gavin Maxwell at the waterfall. Screen capture from the documentary "Memories of Maxwell", BBC Scotland, 1999.



But my Maxwell-themed day was not quite done yet. The croft at Sandaig was long gone, but his last home still stood: the light-keeper's house on Eilean Bàn at Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye, and that was my next destination. At the time, however, there was no public access to the White Island, so I had to settle for viewing it from a distance.


Eilean Bàn, Kyle Akin, Skye, 22 September 1989. The view today is significantly and irrevocably altered. Photo ©J Scott Shannon.

Coincidentally, when Mother and I visited Scotland from 4-6 August in 1969, Gavin Maxwell was living his final days here on Eilean Bàn. He would die from complications of lung cancer in Inverness almost exactly one month later at the relatively young age of 55. It gave me pause to think that, had he not been a smoker, there was every chance Maxwell might still be alive and living here now when I visited again in 1989.


Gavin Maxwell on Eilean Bàn, 1968. Photo by T.V. Times from The White Island by John Lister-Kaye, Longman, 1972.

I seem to recall that Mrs Scott-White at Duich House made the arrangements for my accommodations on Skye. In any case, when I told my B&B hostess at Kyleakin (a Mrs R Branson of 3 Crowlin Road) the reason for my visit, and what I'd done this day now passed, she replied, also with no obvious cheer, that whilst out walking one day many years ago, she had had her new hat blown clear off by mad-driver Maxwell speeding past in his roadster. Made me wonder if every older local here had their own story about the colorful and evidently still controversial Maj. Maxwell. Clearly, he made a lasting impression on countless others besides myself. Had to hand it to him. The man had reach!

 

12-13 September 1989

Yesterday was all about shopping, but today, it was back to science, and my much-anticipated visit to the British Museum (Natural History), as the institution was then still named.

Although I was studying otter behavior for my thesis project, I was never simply a behaviorist. I loved the entire field of biology, and I was particularly interested in the taxonomy and evolutionary history of the vertebrates. Additionally, one of my practical specialties was museum curation: preparing biological specimens for study and preservation in collections. In 1987, I was hired as curator of the Fisheries Museum in the Wildlife Department at Humboldt State University, and was concurrently associated with the corresponding facility in the Biology Department, as well. I found it to be very fulfilling work, and I fancied I might even continue with it as a career after I got my Ph.D.


Yours Truly inspecting otter crania in the Vertebrate Museum at HSU, September, 1987.

So in 1989, when I decided to attend the Otter Colloquium in Germany, I of course made arrangements to visit the revered and august facility on Cromwell Road in London which was home to one of the foremost natural history collections in the world. I was especially anxious to view their otter material, which I already knew included many specimens of significance.




The British Museum (Natural History), 12 September 1989. Photos by J Scott Shannon.

I'd written a letter of introduction in advance of my visit, and requested permission to view their collection. In accordance with a tradition of reciprocity, I brought along with me several obscure manuscripts about the evolution of otters in general and North American genera in particular which I was reasonably certain would be new to them and which they might desire for their research library. In my acceptance letter was included this map, so that I could find my way into the section of the museum that was closed to the public.


Secret map to the zoological sanctum sanctorum at the B.M.(N.H.).

My actual appointment on 12 September wasn't until after lunch, so upon arriving on the premises at 1040, I passed the time perambulating around the public spaces of the museum.


The central hall of Britain's Cathedral of Nature. Photo by J Scott Shannon.

One of the more interesting non-otter-related exhibits was their marsupial display, which included an example of the Tasmanian Wolf, which was believed to have become extinct only as recently as 1936.


†Thylacinus cynocephalus. Photo by J Scott Shannon.

According to my diary, I also viewed a diorama on the evolution of the domestic dog which I found to be quite stimulating, and of course, ogled their impressive collection of articulated dinosaur skeletons.

But then it was on to my intended destination: the otter specimens! The staff in the Department of Zoology were very welcoming and friendly, and surprisingly informal. They were quite pleased to receive the manuscripts I'd brought along, and I was correct in my assumption that they had not seen those specific works before.

I was then escorted up to the 9th floor of the vertebrate stacks, where the otter material was pointed out to me. Then, unexpectedly, I was left entirely alone to view everything completely at my leisure.

Among the many amazing specimens I found there, these most stood out:

• A sea otter pelt collected by Archibald Menzies in 1793 during the Vancouver Expedition.

• The type specimen of the giant otter of South America, Pteronura brasiliensis, curated and cataloged by J. E. Gray in 1837.

• A skull of the South American marine otter, Lontra felina, collected in 1834 by none other than a young Charles Darwin during his voyage on the H.M.S. Beagle.

But, to me, the greatest treasure of all that I held in my own hands that day was...

• The type specimen of Lutrogale perspicillata maxwelli.

As told in Chapter 7 of "Ring of Bright Water," Gavin Maxwell bought this peltry from Marsh Arabs in Southern Iraq in early 1956, and brought it – and his newly-acquired pet of the same species – back to the U.K., where taxonomists at the London Zoological Society determined the skin and the living example to be a new, previously unknown subspecies of the Asian smooth-coated otter.

It was like a holy relic to me. This was the original, seminal object collected by Gavin Maxwell himself. Absolutely incredible. I passed my hand over its thick, exquisitely soft fur in wonder. The moment and the thing itself were pure magic to me. My trip diary says that I made a copy of the tag on the L. p. maxwelli pelt, but if I did (and I don't actually remember that I did), it must be lost somewhere in my voluminous collection of otter ephemera. Such a shame. I would dearly love to see that once again.

The next morning, I returned to view their collection of otter fossils. This time, I definitely needed help to navigate through the many cabinets of specimens, and I was assisted by a fellow named Alan Gentry.

In one drawer dedicated to Neogene lutrines, there was one specimen – actually a cast, not an actual fossil, of a portion of a lower jaw of an individual of the extinct genus †Enhydriodon, a bunodont otter from the Pliocene of India – of which there was a duplicate. I pointed out that there were two, made puppy eyes to Alan, and, thanks to the aforementioned practice of reciprocity, he let me have the duplicate cast. Such an honor! I was absolutely tickled, and expressed profuse thanks. The Pliocene was the 'golden age' of otters in the fossil record, so to have even a replica of part of a lutrine from that period was highly significant to me. (Those are my notations on the label, BTW. All relevant info neatly inscribed in India ink on archive card stock with an engineering pen, just like a good curator would.)


My treasured souvenir from the Paleontology Section of the British Museum (Natural History). Thanks again, Alan!

I left the Natural History Museum feeling supremely satisfied. What an amazing place. I very much envied my new friends who worked there. I wished I didn't have to go. I could easily have spent a week on that 9th floor alone, I'll tell you, but I felt the two days I did have to explore it was privilege enough. I dearly hoped I could return someday; perhaps even to be employed there, who knows? Indeed, anything seemed possible to me back in those miracle days.

 

Shadow's been gone six months today. Still missing him a lot, and feeling nostalgic in general about the all-too-brief period in my life when I had two dogs. I doubt that will ever happen again.





Had this dream this morning.

I'm walking Shadow along a sidewalk.
Zigzag runs to join us.
Two dogs together, only one leash.
I take the leash off Shadow and put it on Zigzag.
We all get to the corner together.
Cross the street, Shadow vanishes.
A few steps more, Zigzag's gone, too.
Now I'm alone.

Pretty obvious symbolism there.

Not a happy day, as you might guess.

 

Earlier this afternoon, I was walking Shadow back home along my street, when I saw three alpacas standing like statues in a neighbor's driveway, staring at me and my dog. I moved a few feet to one side and they trotted out onto the road, their soft hooves going clickety-click as they passed us by. They soon took a left turn onto the property across the street from my house, and played and grazed a little in Mr. Hurt's back yard before heading off in the direction of what I presumed to be their home. Quite an unexpected encounter! I've certainly never seen anything like it before.

 

I just saw wild river otters at Trinidad for the 4,800th time! Or maybe this evening's sighting was #4,801. Whatever, it's been so long since the last time, I've kind of lost count. ^^

 

It may be worth noting that family history definitely played a part in my decision to adopt Shadow. Mother herself grew up with a jet-black German Shepherd Dog named "Pepi."

Bingham Canyon, Utah, sometime after 1924:






( That's Mom with the shotgun! )

Mother and Pepi, Los Angeles, August 26, 1935:




Safe to say, I'm confident my mom would approve of my current choice in canine companions. ^_^

 

I got a new dog today! He's a 3-year-old all-black German Shepherd Dog named "Shadow." Ain't he a looker?



click image to enlarge

I'm so happy to have a dog again!

 

It's a bit too breezy today to fly my century-old, 45-star flag for Independence Day this year, so instead I have my 15-star/15-stripe "Star-Spangled Banner" replica on display.





Technically, I'm displaying it incorrectly, as when the Flag is hung out-of-doors and is visible from either side, the union (the part with the stars) should be pointed either in the direction of the rising sun, or towards the north, and the union is oriented southward here. Since most people seem to get irked seeing the Flag with the union positioned at right, though, I'm hoping to avoid some unwarranted flak this year. ;)



Also, here is a picture of the cat that adopted me within 48 hours of Bucky's death.





She used to visit with him and me when we'd go on walks by her house. Bucky was always glad to meet his only feline friend, and the white cat was very tolerant of his rather rude canine social greeting ritual. ;) And during the last two nights of Bucky's life, when he was visibly crippled, the cat displayed genuine concern, walking alongside Bucky halfway around the block from her home. It was almost as if she were asking him like, "What's wrong?" Anyway, after Bucky died, she started spending all of her time here, so I've been feeding her. Her real owners don't seem to mind, as they have a ton of other cats. Maybe they don't even know or care that she's not around much anymore. Whatever, I'm glad for the occasional company...

 

I'm dog-sitting for a friend of a friend for a few days. I was surprised and honored to be asked, and without hesitation, I accepted. I've really missed having a dog around the house, and I thought this would be just the ticket to lift my spirits.

Unexpectedly, though, I'm finding that having these dogs here has made me miss Bucky more than ever, so it's not the healing experience I'd hoped it would be. That's discouraging. Clearly, it's not canine companionship per se that I'm missing, but the companionship of one dog in particular, and unfortunately, he's not ever coming back...