Monthly Archives: March 2025

My old pal Germanicus, starkers

Reflections on a Roman sculpture.

The other day at the Art Institute of Chicago, we ran into a familiar figure: a bronze of the Roman general Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus, generally known simply as Germanicus.

The statue stands in an exhibition of ancient Roman sculptures from Italy’s Torlonia Collection in Italy.

I felt as if I knew him. I first encountered Germanicus in 1976 as a teenager, while watching the BBC Masterpiece Theatre series “I, Claudius.” He was seen as was something of a first-century JFK, charismatic and full of promise before he was tragically assassinated.

I later read the source novel by Robert Graves, a tale of intrigue, murder, and palace coups among Caesar Agustus’ family. Germanicus won victories as a general on the German frontier but was later poisoned in Syria. Many blamed Emperor Tiberias, a brooding dissolute who was jealous of Germanicus’ popularity. Most dangerously to Tiberias, the soldiers adored their general.

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Of dementia, frog jumping, and angel campouts

Or, a son’s letter recalls an amphibian’s ignoble end.

My mother has been diagnosed with dementia, so I have been sending her letters to spark old family memories. This week I wrote to her about our family’s visit to the Calaveras County Fair & Jumping Frog Jubilee in the mid-1960s. More on that below.

Dementia takes many forms. The rehab facility wing where she’s staying features a rectangular hallway around a courtyard where shrubs and eucalyptus trees are planted. Some patients sit staring out the window wherever staffers park them. Others propel themselves in their wheelchairs with their stockinged feet, determined to keep circling, circling, hour after hour. Get out of their way or they’ll scowl at you and gibber a rebuke. During my recent visit, one poor fellow asked me whenever he circled by, “Where am I?”

The Workings in the late ’60s, several years after the Angels Camp trip.

Mom can appear mentally sound if forgetful—conversant and aware of where she is. But she often falls into confusion. At first she thought she’d been kidnapped, rather than transferred here from a hospital after a fall. She still keeps telling us that my mentally disabled brother Jeff is lost, out wandering the Mojave Desert where we lived fifty-seven years ago.

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Chemodan III: ‘Awfully happy’: George Walton finds love—and escapes the USSR with an aristocrat wife

This is the third post in a series about a mysterious suitcase that once belonged to a young Briton who followed his father into a career as a diplomat in the USSR in the 1930s. Check here for parts one and two.

Even before his posting abroad, George already had connections with the Soviet literary scene. With Reginald Merton he translated Aleksandr Neverov’s 1923 novel Tashkent: City of Bread (Victor Gollancz, London, 1930). The work prefigures the defining horror of George’s time in the Soviet Union: the famine induced by the Bolsheviks’ violent collectivization. From 1931 to 1934, millions would die in Ukraine, Russia, and Kazakhstan under the communists’ harebrained war on successful farmers, whom it dubbed “kulaks.”

In the novel, famine stalks the Volga River region around Samara. Twelve-year-old Mishka Dodonov has lost his father, grandparents, and other relatives to the hunger. To find grain for his mother and brothers, he rides the rails 1,300 miles to Soviet Uzbekistan.

From America to the starving of Russia: a 1922 poster hails food aid from the U.S.

In the Walton-Merton translation, the novel reads:

“The two younger ones were useless little people in these hard times; one spent his time begging for gruel, while the other was carving a toy windmill for the roof. The mother was weak with hunger. She used to go down to the stream for water but had barely strength enough to get back. But for all her cries and laments the famine showed her no mercy.

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