Reflections on our Mother Country, England

Just back from a 10 day jaunt through southwestern England and London. Mostly dry weather in the high 60s, low 70s. 

Where better than London to partake of that quintessentially Tony and Olivier Awards-winning farce “Oh, Mary!,” hearing Brits laugh at the bawdy, irreverent treatment of arguably our greatest president, Abraham Lincoln, and his oft-misunderstood wife, Mary Todd Lincoln. 

Honest Abe as a deeply closeted homosexual. Mary as a sexually frustrated alcoholic. Perhaps in a Trumpian-era recounting of history it’s an amusing reassessment. But my patriotic sensibilities found few instances of acceptable humor. 

I am obviously in the minority. “Oh, Mary!” is not for the faint-hearted. It is not in the same league as “Springtime For Hitler in Germany,” Mel Brooks’ sendup of Adolph Hitler via his skewering of Broadway producers. I’m all for skewing the mighty. But I found little in “Oh, Mary!” to make me laugh.

English Observations: Gilda and I have been to England and Scotland about 10 times over the last 40 years, but never to the southwest region of Devon and Cornwall. So, prior to the main reason for this trip to attend the London bar mitzvah of our grandnephew Harry, we prevailed upon our dear friend Gemma to be our designated left-side-of-the-road driver as we toured the countryside. 

With Exeter as our base, we, mostly I, marveled at the ubiquity of Englishmen wearing t-shirts and shorts in weather that had me wearing a jacket to stay comfortable in the seacoast breeze. What their bare appendages revealed, among men and women, was a proclivity to enhance their skin with elaborate tattoos. 

Particularly in Cornwall, the English fashion single car lanes made all the more daring by building up shrubbery six to seven feet high on both sides of a narrow pathway. One cannot see cars coming around a curve, requiring quick footwork shifting from accelerator to brake pedal. Every 300 yards or so a small cutout provides enough room for an oncoming car to pass, but if you’re encounter happens midway between cutouts, you are forced to engage in a game of chicken to determine which driver will back up to the cutout, all the while hoping a third vehicle doesn’t appear as you’re backing up. It’s also fortunate that most cars in England are smaller than those deployed in America. 

To my surprise, Exeter had never been top of mind. But the city of some 140,000 in Devon has a rich history and magnificent Gothic cathedral. It has the longest uninterrupted vaulted ceiling in the world. 

Exeter also has a fun tourist exhibit, a hardhat-wearing trek through underground tunnels constructed in the Middle Ages that brought water into the city. 

Southwest of Exeter is Plymouth, the jumping off point for the Pilgrims sailing in the Mayflower in 1620. Thirty-two years earlier, Sir Francis Drake and the English fleet embarked from Plymouth to challenge the Spanish Armada. 

Along the Barbican walkway, the city has posted numerous factoids. Here’s my favorite: ”John Howland fell overboard during the Mayflower voyage during a storm and was almost lost at sea, but managed to grab a rope giving the crew enough time to save him. His descendants include Franklin D Roosevelt, George HW Bush, George Bush, Ralph Waldo (the placard inconveniently failed to include his last name, Emerson) and Humphrey Bogart.” 

Space also did not permit listing some of his other notable offspring: Entertainers Alec Baldwin and his brothers, John Lithgow, Chevy Chase, William H. Macy, Lillian Russell, Christopher Lloyd, Mary Chapin Carpenter; Politicians Jeb Bush, Henry Cabot Lodge Jr., Sarah Palin, Sam Ervin; Authors Jane Austin, Dr. Benjamin Spock, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; and Joseph Smith Jr., founder of the Church of Latter Day Saints.

Notable along our ride back to London days later was a view from the road of Stonehenge. As many sheep appeared to be grazing nearby as there were tourists gazing at the stone monument. 

Just back from a 10 day jaunt through southwestern England and London. Mostly dry weather in the high 60s, low 70s. 

Where better than London to partake of that quintessentially Tony and Olivier Awards-winning farce “Oh, Mary!,” hearing Brits laugh at the bawdy, irreverent treatment of arguably our greatest president, Abraham Lincoln, and his oft-misunderstood wife, Mary Todd Lincoln. 

Honest Abe as a deeply closeted homosexual. Mary as a sexually frustrated alcoholic. Perhaps in a Trumpian-era recounting of history it’s an amusing reassessment. But my patriotic sensibilities found few instances of acceptable humor. 

I am obviously in the minority. “Oh, Mary!” is not for the faint-hearted. It is not in the same league as “Springtime For Hitler in Germany,” Mel Brooks’ sendup of Adolph Hitler via his skewering of Broadway producers. I’m all for skewing the mighty. But I found little in “Oh, Mary!” to make me laugh.

English Observations: Gilda and I have been to England and Scotland about 10 times over the last 40 years, but never to the southwest region of Devon and Cornwall. So, prior to the main reason for this trip to attend the London bar mitzvah of our grandnephew Harry, we prevailed upon our dear friend Gemma to be our designated left-side-of-the-road driver as we toured the countryside. 

With Exeter as our base, we, mostly I, marveled at the ubiquity of Englishmen wearing t-shirts and shorts in weather that had me wearing a jacket to stay comfortable in the seacoast breeze. What their bare appendages revealed, among men and women, was a proclivity to enhance their skin with elaborate tattoos. 

Particularly in Cornwall, the English fashion single car lanes made all the more daring by building up shrubbery six to seven feet high on both sides of a narrow pathway. One cannot see cars coming around a curve, requiring quick footwork shifting from accelerator to brake pedal. Every 300 yards or so a small cutout provides enough room for an oncoming car to pass, but if you’re encounter happens midway between cutouts, you are forced to engage in a game of chicken to determine which driver will back up to the cutout, all the while hoping a third vehicle doesn’t appear as you’re backing up. It’s also fortunate that most cars in England are smaller than those deployed in America. 

To my surprise, Exeter had never been top of mind. But the city of some 140,000 in Devon has a rich history and magnificent Gothic cathedral. It has the longest uninterrupted vaulted ceiling in the world. 

Exeter also has a fun tourist exhibit, a hardhat-wearing trek through underground tunnels constructed in the Middle Ages that brought water into the city. 

Southwest of Exeter is Plymouth, the jumping off point for the Pilgrims sailing in the Mayflower in 1620. Thirty-two years earlier, Sir Francis Drake and the English fleet embarked from Plymouth to challenge the Spanish Armada. 

Along the Barbican walkway, the city has posted numerous factoids. Here’s my favorite: ”John Howland fell overboard during the Mayflower voyage during a storm and was almost lost at sea, but managed to grab a rope giving the crew enough time to save him. His descendants include Franklin D Roosevelt, George HW Bush, George Bush, Ralph Waldo (the placard inconveniently failed to include his last name, Emerson) and Humphrey Bogart.” 

Space also did not permit listing some of his other notable offspring: Entertainers Alec Baldwin and his brothers, John Lithgow, Chevy Chase, William H. Macy, Lillian Russell, Christopher Lloyd, Mary Chapin Carpenter; Politicians Jeb Bush, Henry Cabot Lodge Jr., Sarah Palin, Sam Ervin; Authors Jane Austin, Dr. Benjamin Spock, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; and Joseph Smith Jr., founder of the Church of Latter Day Saints.

Notable along our ride back to London days later was a view from the road of Stonehenge. As many sheep appeared to be grazing nearby as there were tourists gazing at the stone monument. 

London has notable, modern architecture for many of its skyscrapers that complement the heritage buildings of the last two centuries. Giant cranes abound as the city continues to build upward. 

London traffic in the central part of town is as intense if not more so than that of Manhattan as New York has more one way main avenues and London red buses seem to be everywhere. Strolling along the southern side of the Thames is a treat with a picture perfect view of Big Ben and Parliament. Though London is a spread out city of 611 square miles, the City of London is just over one square mile, making it very walkable, as long as the weather cooperates. 

During our 10 days in England we rarely had to pop open an umbrella. 

This trip to London also differed for me from previous visits as I no longer felt an obligation as editor and publisher of Chain Store Age to seek out new and interesting retail stores. Indeed, except for food and refreshments, I didn’t, nor did Gilda, buy anything.

London has notable, modern architecture for many of its skyscrapers that complement the heritage buildings of the last two centuries. Giant cranes abound as the city continues to build upward. 

London traffic in the central part of town is as intense if not more so than that of Manhattan as New York has more one way main avenues and London red buses seem to be everywhere. Strolling along the southern side of the Thames is a treat with a picture perfect view of Big Ben and Parliament. Though London is a spread out city of 611 square miles, the City of London is just over one square mile, making it very walkable, as long as the weather cooperates. 

During our 10 days in England we rarely had to pop open an umbrella. 

This trip to London also differed for me from previous visits as I no longer felt an obligation as editor and publisher of Chain Store Age to seek out new and interesting retail stores. Indeed, except for food and refreshments, I didn’t, nor did Gilda, buy anything. 

We've Devolved into a Nation of Pins and Needles

I had an early morning appointment with my dermatologist Tuesday. (Early morning for me is 9:15, as I usually don’t start my day until I wake up for good around 9 am. Such is the life of the retired. At least my life.) Anyway, I wanted him to tell me why the fingertips on both my hands were shedding skin like a snake molting its outer derma. Why were my fingertips rippled with ridges, looking like an old man’s (shh, don’t say it’s because I am 77). My hands and fingers didn’t itch. 

As I was washing my hands Sunday morning a thought came to me. I had recently changed our bathroom soap to Mrs. Meyer’s Clean Day, geranium scent. Despite its pleasant scent, could geranium be the culprit ingredient? 

A quick Google inquiry produced the following: “Geranium oil is generally safe, but it can cause side effects like skin redness, rashes, a burning feeling, or headaches from strong smells. You must always mix it with a carrier oil first and never swallow it. 

“Skin and Allergy Reactions

• Redness and rash: The skin may turn red or form hives.
• Burning or itching: Undiluted oil can sting or itch badly.
• Contact dermatitis: Repeated use can make skin extra sensitive over time.”
  

So, is my choice of soap disrupting my skin’s equilibrium? 

I don’t want to believe this, but has our penchant for wanting everything—everything different to meet our divergent tastes and sensitivities—has that quest for self-indulgence put at least some of us at risk? Did I really need geranium scented soap to clean my hands? 

Turns out, according to my dermatologist, my skin condition was probably a combination of geranium and Mrs. Meyer’s intensive soap formula. I’ve stopped using Mrs. Meyers. My skin is gradually returning to normal. 

Pins and Needles: I have numerous reactions when I peruse the front page of The New York Times. Sometimes, outrage at Donald Trump’s newest excess. Sometimes, anguish at our failed mission in Iran. Sometimes, pain when I read about the difficulties too many Americans suffer through in their daily lives. 

Wednesday I experienced heebie-jeebies while reading about our nation’s embrace of self-administered needle medications and an unfortunate byproduct—sanitation workers getting pierced when picking up garbage bags with exposed needle points (https://www.nytimes.com/2026/08/17/well/needle-injections-peptides-glp1-drugs-botox.html?smid=url-share). 

Some of my earliest childhood memories were of my absolute fear of an injection when I felt sick. Our family physician, Doctor Harry—his real given name was Bernard; why he preferred Harry we never knew—was a family friend. As physicians made house calls back in the 1950s, Doctor Harry would socialize with my mother, and father if he was around, as I awaited his determination to stick me or not. 

My terror was side-splitting fun to my older siblings. Even if they too had to endure an injection, they gloried in my anticipated, prolonged agony.

I would start moaning the moment Dr. Harry entered our home. Tall, with a looping gait, bulging eyes and a shock of receding, not necessarily combed, wiry grey hair, Dr. Harry would slowly make his way down the carpeted hallway to the bedroom I shared with my brother.

An examination—my last hope for a shot reprieve—was a source of giggles. He’d poke me where I was ticklish, always asking when was the last time I had a bowel movement. It was decades before I knew the significance of that question. Invariably, Dr. Harry diagnosed an illness best treated by a shot in the tush. 

He would vanish from the bedroom into either the kitchen or bathroom to wash his hands and prepare the needle. By this time I’d be screaming. 

My mother would hold me down, trying to soothe me, making sure my bare buttocks faced upward. Dr. Harry would slip into the room, say a few nonsensical remarks and quickly, surprisingly, thrust the needle into my behind. I’d scream some more. Cry a little louder. Hug my mother a little tighter. Dr. Harry would retreat to the dinette where he and my mother would gossip awhile over coffee. 

To this day I remain squeamish about needles. I have no shame advising any doctor who has to inject me about my fear. To treat my shoulder tendonitis last month my orthopedist said he would stick me on the count of three. It was so painless I did not realize he had pierced me at two. 

P.S. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but in my haste to post this blog Wednesday I neglected to include what is an obvious contradiction in my needle phobia—my twice a month biologic injections of Dupixent to control my eczema. 

In the near two years of treatment only once or maybe twice have I self-administered the injection into my thigh. I kid Gilda that with each injection she gives me she can dispense some of the grief I give her. Each time I get the Dupixent needle I get heebie-jeebies. Some reactions stay with you for life. 

Living Through Apocalyptic Times

Every year mankind is confronted with natural and man-made disasters. 

Fire. Floods. Pestilence. War. Famine. Extreme heat. Earthquakes. 

This year seems different. The natural disasters seem more apocalyptic. With the exception of earthquakes, humans have unleashed disasters of multiple impact. 

Years of unheeded global-warming warnings, and the Trump administration’s eager efforts to act in defiance of scientific evidence, are now fueling catastrophes that merge in their combined assault on humanity. 

Water has been the mainstay of news stories day after day, for weeks, nay, month after month, this year. 

Water. Too much of it. Too little of it. Dramatic, pulsating views of its destructive power throughout the Midwest and Southeast. In our nation’s heartland, cars and homes float along rivers engorged by torrential volumes of rain far exceeding daily historical norms. 

Meanwhile, residents of the western United States swelter under droughts and heat domes as their parched states go up in flames. 

And yet, Americans continue to migrate to the water-challenged Southwest. 

Across the Atlantic the water story is one of drought. The Danube and Rhine rivers in many places have been so water-depleted that boats cannot sail them. Americans mostly know them as vacation venues for scenic riverboat cruises. 

A river cruise with no water to traverse is a bus ride. Instead of unpacking belongings once and living in one stateroom for a trip’s duration, when a river is unnavigable passengers have to disembark with their luggage and take motor coaches to a point along the river where they can board another boat. There is no certainty this exercise will happen just once.

More importantly, the shallow depths of the Danube and Rhine are jeopardizing commercial activity throughout Europe. Goods, including raw materials, finished products and agricultural produce intended for world markets, cannot be guaranteed to be moved by the lower-cost river option. 

The troubled water route and Ukraine’s war with Russia also contribute to famine in Third World countries dependent on Ukraine’s wheat and fertilizer. Russia has increased its targeting of Ukrainian naval grain shipments.

A global marketplace has superseded most home-grown agriculture. Outbreaks of salmonella poisoning, Listeria contaminations and Cyclospora infections impact millions, not just isolated communities as in years past. 

A common thread throughout all of these catastrophes is the seeming ambivalence and even the complicity of the Trump administration. Trump’s war with Iran and the closure of the Strait of Hormuz affect the shipping of some 20% of global fertilizer. 

Trump ended U.S. participation in the World Health Organization and has sharply cut back U.S. Agriculture Department funding for farmers, food banks, climate and  conservation programs, and meals for schoolchildren. 

Trump has failed to announce a coordinated response to fires in the West and flooding in the Midwest. He gutted FEMA, the federal emergency management administration. 

Americans are reaping what he sowed in his MAGA-inspired rush to cut what he considered excessive budget expenses while reducing taxes on the wealthy.

 

Life Under Israeli Rule vs. Jordanian & Egyptian

In the days prior to the 1967 Six Day War, my sister Lee was in Israel packing food for the Israeli army as the country and the world wondered if Israel could survive. Its resounding victory set the template for all that has since transpired between Israel and its Arab neighbors.

Six decades later it is instructive to compare today’s life in the West Bank and Gaza with how it was under Jordanian and Egyptian rule. 

Lee posted this analysis from Leah Zakh Aharoni on her Facebook feed:

Every third Palestinian Arab alive today is alive because of Israel.

I know how that sounds. Stay with me.

In 1967, when Israel liberated Judea and Samaria (what you call West bank) from Jordan and Gaza from Egypt, we inherited a population of roughly one million Arabs living in conditions the modern world had mostly left behind.

One in six Arab babies died before their first birthday.

Life expectancy was 48 years.

Fewer than 30 villages out of hundreds had electricity.

Most Arabs in the hills of Judea and Samaria lit their homes with kerosene lamps and cooked over wood fires.

Only about 10% had running water.

There were 9 primitive hospitals in the entire territory for nearly a million people.

And there was not a single Arab university. Not one.

Then came us.

Within one generation of Israeli administration, the picture changed so completely that the numbers are hard to believe.

Water was connected to hundreds of villages that had never had running water in their history. Electricity reached villages that had been dark since the beginning of human settlement.

 Four Arab universities were founded: Bir Zeit, An-Najah, Bethlehem, Hebron, where zero had existed before.

Israeli doctors trained Arab doctors. Israeli hospitals treated Arab patients for cancer, cardiac surgery, and the pediatric emergencies their local facilities could not handle.

Israeli vaccination programs reached Arab children whose grandparents had grown up when a childhood illness meant a childhood grave.

Life expectancy rose from 48 to 72.

Infant mortality dropped 90%.

All this in one generation. One of the fastest life-expectancy gains ever documented in any population, anywhere in the world.

And the population exploded.

One million Arabs in Judea, Samaria, and Gaza in 1967. Five million today.

Fivefold growth in one lifetime.

That does not happen when a population is oppressed.

 Oppressed populations shrink. American Indians shrank by 90% under European contact. Aboriginal Australians shrank by more than half. Populations that live under colonial oppression do not multiply by five.

So do the demographic math.

Every third Palestinian Arab in Judea, Samaria, and Gaza today has a parent, grandparent, or great-grandparent who would have died in infancy or of preventable disease  if the healthcare conditions of 1967 had persisted.

That is not political rhetoric. That is demographic arithmetic.

And the story does not end at Judea and Samaria.

Even in Gaza, the famous Shifa Hospital  that made international headlines in November 2023 when IDF forces uncovered the Hamas command center operating beneath it, was expanded and modernized under Israeli administration by Israeli architects and engineers.

Israel built the hospital. Hamas turned it into a military bunker.

Jews build hospitals. Terrorists convert them into weapons of war.

Now ask the question.

If the Jews are foreign colonizers, why is every piece of modern infrastructure that keeps the Arab population alive something that Jews built for them?

Arab doctors trained in Israeli hospitals. Arab professors teach at universities Israel enabled. Arab babies survive childhood because of vaccines Israel administered. Arab farmers irrigate with water Israel connected. Arab homes are lit by grids Israel extended.

The Jews did all of this in Judea and Samaria within twenty years of returning.

The Arabs did none of it in the nineteen years they controlled the same land or in the four hundred years the Ottomans controlled it before that  or in the thirteen hundred years since the Arab conquest of the Levant.

Here is the uncomfortable truth.

Water. Electricity. Hospitals. Universities. Roads. Vaccines.

 Living children who would otherwise have died.

Every marker of modern civilization in this territory arrived when the Jews came home.

The land waited two thousand years for its people to come home. And when we did, we built. And when we built, they lived.

When you hear about "settler expansion," remember what was here before the "settlers" .

 Kerosene lamps and infant graves.

When you hear about "occupation," remember what the occupier built. 

When you hear about Arab suffering, ask who reduced that suffering by 90% within a generation.

It was not the Jordanians. It was not the Ottomans. It was not the British.

It was Israelis.

Look at what we built. Look at who is alive because of it.

Every third Palestinian Arab in Judea, Samaria, and Gaza today. Alive because Israel came home.

Now tell me who the colonizer is, concludes Ms. Aharoni.