Tag: history

Cycling Through Jekyll and St. Simons Islands: A Historical Journey


May 4, 2026

Exploring the Historical Layers of Jekyll and St. Simons Islands in Georgia: A Cyclist’s Journey with Road Scholar. History is woven into nearly every stop and story on these remarkable islands, from grand clubs and pivotal events to deeply meaningful landmarks.

We cycled for a few hours each day, spending the rest of the time visiting historical and other unique sites across the two barrier islands.

Among the many stops we made on Jekyll Island, the most fascinating story for me involved the Jekyll Island Club and its founders. The original owner of the Island, Eugene du Bignon, a Frenchman, sold it to New York investors looking for a wintering place for hunting and recreation in 1886. Fifty shares were sold to industry elites in New York, including the Morgans, the Rockefellers, the Vanderbilts, and other titans of industry. Joseph Pulitzer was one of the original owners as well. He built his fortune publishing the St. Louis Dispatch-Post and later the New York World. A hotel was built, and some shareholders also built “their cottages,” which measured up to 10,000 square feet. The cottages had no kichens, all the people ate at the Club.

The Jekyll Island Clubhouse and the dining room. Below are two cottages.

Among the Club’s many noteworthy events was a 1910 gathering of American financial leaders, who drafted legislation that would later serve as the foundation for the Federal Reserve system.

The depression impacted the industrialist owners of Jekyll Island and their use of the Club diminished. Also, travel opportunities expanded in the 1940s, and the original owners’ descendants lost interest in Jekyll Island and the Club. After the Club closed in 1942, the Island was expropriated by the State of Georgia in 1947 for $647,000, designated a historic landmark, and turned into a State Park managed by a Governor-appointed Commission.

The architecture of the Clubhouse is in the Queen Anne style, with a typical four-story turret, wraparound porches, and complex rooflines. The interior is in the Gilded Age style, with luxurious furnishings that made me think about how the ultrarich lived in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Thwae Clubhouse is a magnificent building in my opinion and is open as a luxury hotel today.

Turning to another chapter of the island’s history, the story of the Wanderer stood out. This luxury schooner, built in 1856, was converted into a slave ship two years later. Businessmen brought over more than 400 slaves from the Congo in 1858 to Jekyll Island and sold the slaves in the South, that was against federal law since 1808 in the United States. The businessmen were indicted but not convicted, and the ship was seized by the Union Navy and later sunk by Cuba. The Wanderer Memory Trail on Jekyll Island relates the story of the slaves brought over from Africa. I found the exhibits along the trail fascinating, espemcially the musical instruments and the foods the black people brought over from Africa. Walking along the trail and listening to the audio stories gave me a bad feeling.

On St. Simons Island, two key points of interest drew my attention. First was Harrington House, which was once a one-room schoolhouse for black children in grades 1 to 7. Inside the building were pictures and artifacts related to the schoolhouse’s operation, as well as information about the students who attended. After the Brown v. Board of Education decision in 1954 (the desegregation legislation), the school closed, and the students were transferred to the wider public school system in Brunswick. The school docent was from the local community and had vast knowledge of the school’s history and explained that the island’s black population has decreased due to gentrification, falling from over 80 percent to just 1 to 2 percent of the current 13,000 residents.

The island’s past also comes alive at Fort Frederika, built in 1736 by James Oglethorpe. Now a National Monument, the fort was at the heart of 18th-century debates between Spanish and British governments over lands south of Savannah. Oglethorpe asked the King for a land grant to establish a colony, to serve as a defense against the Spanish. Like civil war sites, the Fort Frederika National Monument is a grassy field today with remnants of buildings and ramparts.

Oglethorpe was a visionary, and in 1736, he laid out a town, a utopian kind of village with streets forming a grid pattern, giving each resident a 50-by-100-foot piece of land on which to build a house and a fifty-acre site for agricultural uses. And he brought over from England indebted people in prison as colonists.

Fort Frederika.

I learned that the houses were built with “tabby”, a material made of crushed seashells, mixed with sand and water, the combination of which resembles concrete.

Before concluding my journey, I visited another unique destination: the Georgia Sea Turtle Center on Jekyll Island. It is a hospital for sick turtles as well as an educational and research center. I learned that turtles lay hundreds of eggs a few times a year, but only after reaching 30 years of age; after that, they lay eggs every second year up until they die, which might be at 100 years of age. But only one egg will grow into a full turtle out of 3,000 eggs!

The expert also explained that after the eggs hatch, the baby turtles are guided by moonlight to find their way into the water. She advised us not to use flashlights at night when watching the move of the turtles because that may confuse them and lead them away from the water.

Tanks with recuperating turtles.

In addition to listening to an expert on turtles describing their lives, we observed technicians examining a turtle in a lab, behind a window. Next to the exhibition space on turtles was an industrial warehouse, filled with huge tanks housing recuperating turtles. Interestingly, there was only one turtle in each tank. Apparently, turtles are solitary animals, and if more than one is in a tank, they attack each other. Most of the turtles in the tanks came from Cape Cod; the cold water at the Cape caused hypothermia in turtles and were brought to this hospital for recuperation.

Visiting the two barrier islands offered a unique window into American history—from colonial times, through the Civil War and Gilded Age, to the civil rights period. The experience reminded me how these islands encapsulate the evolving story of the region, illustrating why their preservation and interpretation matter so much today.

Book Club Insights: Discussing Albright’s Take on Fascism


April 19, 2026

We thought our book club would have a great discussion of Albright’s book on fascism. And we did. Our group’s politics is mostly in the middle of the spectrum, from right to left. But we have someone on the far left, I would think about him as a tree hugger, with social views, and he is a vegetarian. A strong believer in climate change, who cycles everywhere when he can. At the same time, he has a Tesla and another car. And then we have someone on the right, who questions climate change and has been a supporter of Trump. I am not sure if he is still supporting him, although he followed the line justifying the Iran war by saying that for decades no President has had the balls to tackle Iran’s nuclear arsenal. I looked forward to our discussion.

Let’s not forget: our group starts with lunch, the quality of which has been improving with each meal, as if we are competing for better lunches. This time, we started with vegetable soup, with maple syrup as the key flavoring. Although I do not favor sweet soups, this soup was excellent and the cook was proud of his creation. Following the soup were sandwiches with any filling you wished for. With chips as well. And, oh, the desert was a cake, six inches in diameter and equally tall. It was a lemon cake that we cut into eight pieces; there were eight of us. We do not consume any alcoholic beverages yet, but I think it could come soon. Coffee was made, and we moved to the living room to continue our book discussion which had already started over lunch.

I asked, “What is fascism?” One club member explained that according to Albright, it is a form of autocracy, although not all autocrats are fascists. I took some time to digest this idea. In Albright’s view, autocrats try to dominate the judiciary, the press, universities, and are willing to use force and violence to enforce their rules. The examples Albright related in her book were Mussolini, Hitler, Erdogan, and others, and I was wondering whether perhaps Orban was an autocrat but not a fascist, since he did not use violence, to the extent that I am familiar with his story.

It did not take long before the discussion veered over to the present time and whether Trump is a fascist. Albright does talk about Trump’s first administration which exhibited characteristics of fascism but never called him a fascist. And it also did not take long to talk about the Iran war, triggering a flashpoint between our club members, between the far left and far right members. Tempers flared, and I interrupted the conversation by raising the question of how one country can interfere in another’s affairs; on what basis would such behavior be acceptable? I thought that measures to create temporary peace for a few years would be acceptable, providing time for further negotiations, and who knows what may happen in the next few years that may ameliorate current issues. I was called a “prag,” and I asked, “What?” Again, I was called a “prag,” which I suddenly realized was a term for a pragmatist, never heard that before. OK. I could live with that.

The book is written in an easy style, with anecdotes from Albright’s career that make it interesting to read (she was Secretary of State under President Bill Clinton). I found the book very relevant and entertaining, as it related to recent events I remember well from reading the papers and listening to the news. But I was surprised that Albright did not discuss Mao and Stalin, perhaps she did not consider them fascists, although both acted like autocrats, and used their power to intimidate their people, and used violence to enforce their governing philosophy. Mao and Stalin adhered to communist philosophy and nationalized assets while Mussolini and Hitler left private enterprise carry on.

The economic descriptions of countries she mentioned lacked numbers. I would have preferred to see numbers on economic growth, unemployment, industry trends, and similar matters to ground her broad characterizations, such as that Germany had a poor economy that helped Hitler gain traction. But I realize that she was a historian or political scientist, not an economist, and the book was not a research exercise.

Having read some more scientific books on climate change and cryptocurrency in our book club recently, this book was a nice change, offering a clear, plain-English account of recent history I could relate to. And we spent as much time on the book discussion as we did eating; I suspect some members joined to socialize.  However we all would probably agree that the club encourages us to read books.

Going to School in Hungary in the 1950s


April13,2026

The first memory that came to mind when I thought about attending elementary school in the early 1950s was getting hit on the knuckles with a ruler by a nun because I wrote with my left hand, and the nuns trained me to use my right hand for writing. I was eight years old.

While searching for a Catholic school in Sopron, Hungary on Google Maps, I found the St. Orsolya Roman Catholic School (run by the Ursulines, established in 1757), and the road I took to go to this school came back to me. I used to walk alone about a kilometer from our apartment, a reflection of a time when it was once safe for children.

The nuns were strict at St. Orsolya. Homework was checked every day, and the class stayed quiet, or punishment followed. This could involve not only hitting your knuckles but also being slapped. Complaining to my parents was useless. They always sided with the teachers and thought I deserved punishment for whatever I did. Corporal punishment was accepted in those days.

One day, a classmate spat on me. I do not remember why. I did not get into a fight beyond pushing. When I came home, I told my father about the incident. He just listened. Then he told me to go to the boy’s house and tell his father what happened. My older brother came with me. I was flabbergasted at what happened. As soon as I told my classmate’s father that his son spat on me, he flew into a rage and started yelling that no son of his spits on people and began slapping his son with such vehemence that my brother and I just left their place in a rush. I did not think the punishment was fair. I did not think too much about the incident, nor did I understand the apparent significance of spitting on people. My father just listened when I told him what happened and said nothing.

After a year at the Catholic school, my parents transferred me to a public school on Deak Ter (Square), possibly because it was closer to where we lived. The building was old, with long hallways and a single bathroom at the end of each floor, with one toilet serving ten classrooms. I recall once waiting so long for someone using the toilet that I was late for class, earning harsh words from the teacher and a note to my parents. Despite this, discipline was less strict than at the Catholic school, and there was no physical punishment.

Continuing my education, I attended high school at the Berzsenyi Gymnasium (established in 1557) on Széchenyi Ter, about a kilometer from our apartment (until October 23, 1956 when I walked to Vienna). We stayed in our classroom all day, and the different teachers came to our room to teach the usual courses such as Hungarian language, Russian language, science, and history, except for physical education, which was in the gym. I think the school was for boys only, I cannot recall any girls in my class.

We had 50-minute classes and a ten-minute break every hour, from 8 am to 1 pm, six days a week. The ten minutes between classes gave students time to release energy, and we rushed into the courtyard behind the school, a dirt-and-gravel area bounded by buildings on all sides. Our favorite entertainment was playing soccer, kicking rocks around the courtyard.

Among the teachers, I especially enjoyed listening to the history teacher, who would leave his desk at the front of the room, sit on a school desk with us, and share stories about kings and emperors. I remember  his habit of sliding his glasses down his nose to review his notes, then pushing them back up before recounting gory events from medieval history.

Homework was assigned daily, and teachers often called students to the front at the start of class to answer questions from the previous lecture. The first ten minutes were tense as we waited to see who would be chosen, typically two or three students each session. Teachers kept an alphabetical list of the class, and we watched anxiously as the teacher leafed through the pages, trying to guess who was next.

Discipline consisted of teachers raising their voices. If that did not work, they sent the student to the corner and made him do squats. Sometimes this could go on for half an hour before he was excused, although the squatters took a break when the teacher turned away and did not see them standing around. Doing squats for any length of time can be strenuous. I felt like I was going to collapse when I was sent to the corner once. The squatting took place at the front of the classroom, so all the classmates watched and snickered.

High school teachers had a great reputation and were held in high esteem in Hungary. In the 1950s, most young people did not go to university, and high school was the highest level of education most people achieved.

I had respect for all my teachers except for one, who taught Russian. We had Russian language classes every year in high school, but they were taught by someone who had just learned Russian and was not very good at teaching it. My teacher spent much time on Russian grammar and made us memorize vocabulary, paying scant attention to speaking, since she was not fluent herself. And we did not like learning Russian; the Russians occupied Hungary at that time and were not welcome at all.

Looking back, my education was of pretty good quality. I learned discipline in doing homework, and all the memorization, poems, historical dates, events, and even Russian vocabulary helped me later when learning other languages. And I was always good in maths and the sciences, when I entered university in Canada with only a grade ten education, I performed well.

Life in my Early Years


April 7, 2026

I’m unsure of my earliest memory. It may have been at age two or three. What I reall is that we lived in an apartment on the fourth floor, with the building facing a major street. I remember the address: 39 Mester Ucca (Expert Street) in Budapest, Hungary. It’s odd I remember the address but few other details, perhaps my parents ensured I knew it in case I got lost.

An early, clear memory I have is of the windows in the apartment. We covered them at night to darken and hide the building from incoming Russian bombers. As soon as the sirens shrieked, we rushed down into the basement for security. It occurred frequently. It was in 1944, during World War II.

The basement bunker was cold. People from the apartments huddled together, some on mattresses, others on the floor. I was scared as German soldiers and Hungarian Nazis searched for Jews to deport. The bunker was full; some may have been Jewish. At four, I didn’t understand the situation but saw fear. I pretended to sleep and waited for the soldiers to leave. The memory of Nazis searching for Jews in the bunker has stayed with me. I must have heard adults talk about it and seen soldiers question people. At age four I saw what was happening with no understanding of the context.

The Nazis also came upstairs to the apartments searching for Jews. We were warned by messages from each floor as they moved up. We awaited them with fear. My aunt Rose hid behind the china closet, which was placed diagonally across the corner to provide space for her to stand, hide, and wait until the Nazis left.

After these events in Budapest, my father, a medical doctor, was drafted into the Hungarian army, which was aligned with the Germans. We then all moved to an army camp in Szatmarnemeti, which was part of Hungary at the time but is now Romania. Father served on the military trains running in Ukraine. During our time at the camp, we lived in a modest military house, under the watch of a soldier. With the war ongoing, I vividly remember Russian planes swarming over the camp daily. Whenever the sirens alerted us to incoming bombers, the soldier would practically throw my brother and me into a four-foot-deep hole in front of the house, covering it with plywood. We shuddered inside, listening to the planes overhead, until the all-clear siren sounded, when the soldier pulled us out.

I cannot recall how long we stayed at the camp in Szatmarnemeti before returning to Budapest. After our return, Mother took my older brother and me out to a park a few blocks away on most days. This park had some play equipment: a sandbox, swings, and a rotating plaything. We walked there, an open, green space surrounded by concrete. The area where we lived had apartment buildings up to six stories high along the major streets, and two-story buildings on the local streets.

Our building had an elevator that never worked. It was in a cage-like structure with the staircase winding around it. We raced up four floors with my brother, always trying to beat each other to the apartment. The building was L-shaped. The entrance to the apartments on each floor was via an open balcony running along the inside of the building, facing a courtyard.

In terms of the neighborhood where we lived, I remember that gypsies lived in a large housing block, which my parents advised us to avoid. The housing block was doughnut-shaped with an entrance from the street. Inside was a courtyard surrounded by two-story buildings, occupied by gypsies who, I understood, lived communally.

The first level of apartment buildings along major roads housed commercial businesses, typical of European cities. A tramway ran on Mester Ucca. The neighborhood was noisy, and we rarely ventured far except when we moved to Szatmarnemeti.

I cannot remember where I went to school. No friends or images of a school building come to mind. Still, I must have attended school because we stayed in Budapest until I was eight years old, when my father became the director of the local hospital in Sopron, and we moved there.

Overall, I cannot say that I had a good time in my early life. But I did not have a bad time either. We never went without food. And I do not recall having friends or playmates who came to our apartment or whom I visited.

Beyond these hazy memories, I can’t recall anything unique. I can’t picture the room I slept in, though I likely shared it with my brother. I don’t recall specific toys or a single friend from eight years in that apartment. My most memorable early experiences relate to World War II.

The Echoes of 1956 in Today’s Middle East


February 5, 2026

One stated aim of this Middle Eastern war is to help the Iranian people replace their current regime. As the argument goes, the Iranian economy is weak, and with the pummeling of the country by bombs, this is an opportune time for the people to take over and establish the form of government they wish to have. This situation feels familiar to me, I remember the Hungarian uprising of 1956, when the US encouraged the Hungarian people to take over their government, leading people to hope for support that never materialized.

Let me go back to my memories. In my youth, I tinkered with bicycles, and then built a basic crystal radio. I am talking about the 1960s; we have come a long way technologically since crystal radio.

The “people’s radio” with one channelwas the standard radio set in Hungary in the 1950s. the channel boadcast government propaganda and communist/socialist ideas, tracing their routes back to Marx and Engels. I learned that a “rheostat” could change all that, and I bought one at the local hardware store. Once I installed it into one of the “people’s radios, I was ecstatic and danced around in my room, hearing all the foreign stations (German, French, English).

Mind you, reception was not good; all the foreign channels except the Hungarian official channel were jammed. I discovered that reception was better at night, and the foreign channels moved to different frequencies to avoid the jamming. Of course, the jammers searched for the moving stations, but during the time the jammers discovered and logged on to the new frequencies, I heard music and news.

It’s important to understand that altering people’s radios was against the law, as was tuning in and listening to foreign radio stations. I am not sure how the secret police could monitor people listening to foreign stations, but illegal activities were punished by jail and torture, so just knowing that something was illegal was enough to deter such activity.

Aware of the political atmosphere, I did not tell my parents what I had done; in fact, they could have gotten into trouble by an accusation that they let their son engage in an illegal activity. So, I listened to my new device at night and hid the radio under my blanket listening to foreign channels.

And this is how I heard it: in Hungarian, Radio Free Europe (FRE), a US agency, advocating the overthrow of the then-current Hungarian government. And the voice on RFE encouraged the Hungarian people to organize mass demonstrations on Budapest’s major streets and to take over the government.

Behind the RFE messaging was the view of John Foster Dulles, the Secretary of State under President Eisenhower, advocating the overthrow of the government. Hungarians were ecstatic; they thought the US was about to help the revolution by sending soldiers and ammunition. And they waited. And waited. But help never came.

Reading historical notes now, I learned that although Dulles encouraged the uprising to move to take over the government, but he later changed his mind, considering that Hungary was not a potential ally and that assisting the uprising might antagonize the Russians. He was also preoccupied with the Suez Canal crisis happening at the same time. But he took the Hungarian situation to the UN Security Council, proposing a diplomatic approach to resolve the uprising. The Russians, knowing the Americans would not interfere, came in with tanks on November 4, 1956, and crushed the uprising, which started on November 23.

The Russian tanks had taken a few weeks to reoccupy the country. By mid-November the situation appeared hopeless, and my brother and I walked out to Vienna (Austria) on the highway. Subsequently, we found our way to Manchester (England), and finally, to Vancouver, Canada, as refugees. I wonder how many Iranians are considering, or able, to leave their country.

All these memories came back when I heard the US encouraging the Iranian people to take over the government. Clearly, Hungary and Iran are vastly different countries; one has a population of 9 million, while the other has 92 million. Also, Hungary did not have nuclear ambitions. But inciting local populations to rebel and take over their government is a bold and drastic initiative with major consequences. The lack of follow-up to keep the uprising going, encouraged by the messaging of Radio Free Europe, was a crushing disappointment for the Hungarians in 1956.