An Accidental Statistician

by George E P Box

  Figure 15.3 Batik.

  Mac has many talents, and these include his ability to write wildly funny plays. On social occasions, he often arrived and, without saying a word, passed out a play that he had written. Each guest was assigned a role, and the play was acted on the spot.

  Mac also writes amusing poems in, most famously, The Madison Monitor, a spoof on a local newspaper. One edition of the paper carried the headline, “Berthouex Mistaken for Sociologist,” which was accompanied by the following story:

  On Saturday night last, Mac was accosted by a statistician who said, “Who are you? You're a sociologist aren't you?”

  Mac admitted that he had wanted to be, but he couldn't pass the practical final examination, which was to get through an open door using only a wood splitting maul and a hand grenade. The door was locked, so he went through the wall. He thought the grade of F was unfair, but the cruelest blow came when the Sociology Examining Committee advised him to go into civil engineering.

  He said, “Oh, shit.”

  “That line of engineering suits you even better,” they said.

  He was considered a promising sociologist as a result of once asserting at a state meeting that, “You shouldn't worry about whether you are rich or poor so long as you have everything you want.”

  Dean Bollinger was asked how he felt about his engineering professors being taken for sociologists. He said, “I wish I could get those guys to shave and put on a necktie. That's our biggest problem – that, and the Norwegian chemical engineering professors.”

  And in a later edition of the Monitor, an article titled, “It's Not Cricket”:

  The English are the only country to have elevated a game to the position of a moral principle. You would never hear an American say, “It's not baseball, old chap.” Or a Japanese say, “It's not sumo wrestling.”

  Robin, it is rumored, during dinner one evening, asked an Englishman to explain the game.5

  He was encouraged in his task by Robin who seemed genuinely interested as he explained the mysteries of silly mid-on, fine leg, googly, chinaman, and so on. At the end of a half-an-hour he sat back, exhausted but satisfied that he had done his bit toward Anglo-America relations by unraveling the mysteries of cricket for a colonial. Robin looked at him for a long time, shaking her head in wonderment, and then said, “That really is remarkable. And to think they do all that on horseback.”

  [Citation: Excerpts from the The Madison Monitor, a parody of a local newspaper written by, and used with permission from, Paul “Mac” Berthouex.]

  For a number of years, Mac and I were members of what we called “The Mashed Potato Club.” The club meetings had one item on the agenda: to eat real mashed potatoes. These we found at a local tavern, which, typical for Wisconsin, was family run and had a barroom on one side and a simple restaurant on the other. There was a special each week that featured pot roast, mashed potatoes, and gravy for a pittance. When Mac and I were both in town, we rarely missed this event, and sometimes we permitted other colleagues to indulge alongside us. Unfortunately the tavern closed, but two years ago, we began a new club, “Boys Night Out,” which includes our friends Brian Joiner and Will Zarwell. At 93, I've become a bit less mobile, and so we have yet another permutation, “Boys Night Out In,” which involves getting take-out Thai food and eating it at my house.

  1 In older installations, “trickling filters” made use of the same microorganisms.

  2 Words that some may recognize from the 1946 Frank Capra film, It's a Wonderful Life, although the tradition of giving bread, salt, and wine as housewarming gifts is much older than the movie.

  3 M. Gandy, “Planning, Anti-planning and the Infrastructure Crisis Facing Metropolitan Lagos,” Urban Studies, Vol. 43, No. 2, Feb. 2006, p. 378.This excellent piece may also be accessed on the Internet: http://www.emin.geog.ucl.ac.uk/∼mgandy/urbanstudies.pdf.

  4 P.M. Berthouex, G.E.P. Box, and J. Darjatmoko, “Discriminant Upset Analysis,” University of Wisconsin Center for Quality and Productivity Improvement Technical Report No. 30, May 1988. P.M. Berthouex and G.E.P. Box, “Time Series Models for Forecasting Wastewater Treatment Plant Performance,” Water Research, Vol. 30, No. 8, Aug. 1996, pp. 1865–1875.

  5 “Robin” is Robin Chapman, a good friend, poet, and scientist who is a regular attendee at gatherings. Being intoxicated by her charms, and therefore not in his right mind, he agreed and embarked on a lengthy and brilliantly lucid explanation.

  “What matters is how far we go? There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Life in England

  Back in 1955, when I was contemplating leaving ICI for a job at Princeton, Cuthbert Daniel asked me in a letter whether I was prepared to live in the United States for the rest of my life. I have lived here for the rest of my life, but I have also spent considerable time in England. I still had family there—for some years Jack and Joyce, my brother and sister, were still alive—and made regular visits to see them. I also wanted my children to know their relatives and the country. Although it was usually work that took me to England, there was always time for relaxation, and sometimes I even managed to be a tourist in my own country.

  In 1963, after I settled in America, my sister Joyce became ill. I wrote to her doctor, who replied saying there was not anything to worry about. But a week later, I received another letter from the same doctor apologizing because he had confused Joyce with another patient, and that, in fact, she was suffering from incurable cancer and could not be expected to live longer than six months (Figure 16.1).

  Figure 16.1 Joyce.

  In the 1960s, there was a strange idea in England that a patient must not be told when she was suffering from an incurable disease. I agreed to this and was able to get away to England for a week. I was allowed to visit only in the afternoons. So I told Joyce that the consulting work I had come to do was a mornings only job. I never knew whether she believed any of this. These were, of course, the very saddest visits I made to England. Joyce was only 52 when she died. She was my good buddy, and I've missed her ever since, and often when I look at my wife, Claire, she reminds one of Joyce.

  Much later in the 1980s, when Claire and I were to visit England, we reserved a room at the Compleat Angler Hotel near Marlow well in advance, and when we arrived at Heathrow, tired and jet lagged in the early morning, it was but a short drive from the airport. Located in a bucolic setting on the Thames, the Compleat Angler was a peaceful and restful place in which to begin our visits to England. The room was always ready for us, and the staff made sure we weren't disturbed.

  It was a strange coincidence that Mrs. Hester, who lived next to the Fishers in Harpenden, had a son who had studied hotel management and in due time had been put in charge of the Compleat Angler. He told me a story about Henry Kissinger. Henry had once called the hotel asking that they reserve a suite of six rooms for Mrs. Onassis for a week. Our manager friend explained to him that there were no vacancies and that in any case they had no suites of six rooms. But Henry argued and finally said, “But suppose it were the Palace?” which received the answer, “The Palace would give us proper notice, Sir.”

  Claire and I made this trip often, and we had a regular route. We always visited Gladys, who lived on the Isle of Sheppey with her daughter and son-in-law, Margaret and Kevin Pender, and their son James. When James was quite young, I sang, “I like bananas because they have no bones,” and he would giggle and dance around the table.

  There was always a warm welcome from Gladys as she said, “Come in for a cuppa!” A tour of their large and lovely garden followed. The Isle of Sheppey has one of the best fish and chips take-outs in England, so we enjoyed real English food at least once. The time spent with Gladys was delightful. When you went to Gravesend and walked along the boardwalk, there was often someone who would greet her with “Hi Glad!” She had run a sweet and tobacco shop, which became an informal therapy practice for many who visited the shop. During those years, she w
as called upon to advise about all sorts of issues.

  In the vicinity was Brightlingsea, where Mary and George Barnard lived. Here in addition to warmth and tea were Mary's homemade wines, most of which was were apple.

  Harry Fisher was next on our journey. He was interested in the genetics of dahlias, and also grew vegetables. He could talk to me about his ideas about mathematics all day, and would have, had Claire not been present.

  When we could, we visited Meg Jenkins and her father, Bert. These trips were always anticipated with joy. Claire was given another country to call home. She became an expert driver on the left-hand side of the road.

  The lab where I had worked during the war was only eight miles from Salisbury. There is a beautiful cathedral that was completed in 1258 with a tower that is 404 feet tall. On Sundays when I had a day off from the lab, I would take the bus to Salisbury and read my book in the quiet close that surrounded the cathedral.

  Years later when I was in England, and Claire flew in to Heathrow to join me, I met her and we drove to Salisbury. She was tired, however, so I left her in the hotel sleeping while I went to the cathedral. To my surprise, there was a big bus there labeled “London Symphony Orchestra.” Inside the building, Vladimir Ashkenazy was at the piano rehearsing Rachmaninoff's second piano concerto. The orchestra was accompanying him in their shirtsleeves. I went back to the hotel to get Claire, and when we returned, we sat down next to a man who was the piano tuner. Ashkenazy was hard to satisfy and insisted that the orchestra repeatedly rehearse some of the more difficult sections of the concerto. The piano tuner became more and more nervous since he had to tune the piano before the actual concert began that evening.

  I asked if we could get tickets to the performance, but they told me they had been sold out two months ago. We lingered for a bit, and providentially, a man whose robes suggested he was some functionary of the cathedral appeared with two tickets and announced that the previous holder had just died. We bought the tickets and enjoyed the performance.

  In 1984, the Royal Statistical Society celebrated its 150th anniversary. Because I had been president of the ASA, I was sent over to represent the organization. We had cocktails in a beautiful building on Whitehall designed by Sir Christopher Wren, and it was there that I met Queen Elizabeth, who had come with Prince Phillip to mark the occasion.

  The Queen said, “You don't sound like an American to me.” I said, “No! I'm one of Your Majesty's loyal subjects.” “You must be part of the brain drain.” “More drain than brain, in my case, Your Majesty.” She said, “Tell me about Madison. I've never been there.” I told her about the lakes and the University and the Madison Symphony Orchestra—in short, we had a lovely conversation. Later people said to me, “What were you talking about with the Queen all that time?” I had not realized that our conversation had been particularly lengthy, because she had a wonderful knack of putting you at your ease—you could almost be talking to your mother.

  Claire and I are very fond of tea. In England almost everybody drinks it, so on one of our visits to London, I looked in the telephone book, called the number of a tea importer and said that I wanted to buy some tea. A very refined English voice replied, “Yes, how much tea did you want?” I said, “Oh, about ten pounds.” He said, “Ah! Now if you had said ten tons I could have accommodated you. But I'll tell you what you do. There's a place near Liverpool Street Railway Station that sells small amounts of tea. It's on Worship Street. I'm sure they will help you.”

  When we got to Liverpool Street Station, it was raining very heavily. We asked various passersby, who all had umbrellas, where Worship Street was. They all seemed to think it was close but gave contradictory instructions. Because we had no umbrellas, we got very wet, but finally we found it. From the outside, it seemed very rundown—like a set from “Oliver.” But we climbed the stairs and we found a large room overflowing with boxes of tea. When we had dried off a little, they asked what sort of tea we wanted. Well we knew the answer to that: We wanted Assam tea. But they said, “What kind of Assam tea?” This stumped us, and we asked for guidance. They explained that it was largely a matter of leaf size: The bigger the leaf, the more expensive the tea. They had five different grades, so we settled for ten pounds of medium-grade Assam tea.

  After a bit, the boss came in. He had a very broad Scot's accent. I asked him if he liked tea. “No, not at all,” he replied. “I'd much sooner have a wee dram o' whiskey.” “Irish whiskey?” I asked.

  Americans drink what I consider a weak sort of tea, and some have been impressed with how strong I prefer mine to be. When I retired in 1990, my fellow countryman Norman Draper wrote the following verse:

  A charming young fellow named Box

  Who once wrote a paper with Cox

  Has aged since that time

  And retirement's fine.

  Yes, he's been through the school of hard knocks.

  So George has retired, we're told.

  He hopes to ‘come in from the cold.’

  But his antics so far

  Would certainly bar

  A conclusion that he's left the fold.

  They seek him in Egypt today.

  Tomorrow? In ‘Old Mandalay?’

  If he's not in Israel

  You may pick up his trail

  At some future time in UK.

  A legendary figure is he.

  His students are proud as can be.

  If you entertain him

  Remember his maxim:

  ‘Two teabags for each cup of tea!’

  Even Norm was unaware of my darkest secret: I prefer three teabags to two!

  “What sort of people live here?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Journeys to Scandinavia

  My connection to Norway began when I met Arnljot and Liv Høyland, who spent the 1987–1988 academic year in Madison. Both statisticians, they attended the Monday Night Beer Sessions, and we became friends. The next year they invited Søren, Conrad, and me to give our “Design of Industrial Experiments” short course in Trondheim. There we met another statistician, John Tyssedal, who told me recently that many who attended the course were surprised by our approach, which was well received. John and I became friends and wrote a paper together.1

  In Trondheim, we enjoyed sitting by the harbor where a shrimp boat had tied up to the pier and was offering fresh shrimp that had just been cooked on board. It was delicious. A less pleasant sight was a huge bunker where the Germans had hidden their U boats under extremely thick layers of virtually unmovable concrete.

  In 1995, I returned to Trondheim to give a course on “The Scientific Context of Quality Improvement.” By chance we met a man named Jürgen Ahrend, who was staying at the same hotel. He had restored many historical organs in churches and cathedrals all over the world and was completing the restoration of one of the organs in the historically significant Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim. The organ was built in 1738–1740 by Johann Joachim Wagner, Bach's contemporary, and a leading organ builder in the late baroque era. During the German occupation, the people at the cathedral had hidden their organ—then packed away in pieces—under the church floor. The Nazis eventually discovered it and intended to ship it back to Germany. This, however, never occurred, and today the instrument is the only Wagner organ outside of Germany. It is frequently sought out by concert organists for its full sound.2 We later attended the cathedral's Sunday service when the refurbished organ was put through its paces by an expert. Claire took in the experience with the eyes and heart of a poet:

  Restorations (Nidaros Domkirke, 1995, Trondheim Norway)

  the snow thick, falling in clumps this 30 degree April day

  we slosh to the cathedral, a week's celebration for the restored organ

  taken to the cellar over sixty years ago, now returned to its place

  beneath the dazzling rose window - ten thousand pieces of color

  this the only cathedral in Norway, the story is during W.W.II the Germans tried

&n
bsp; to remove the organ (made in Berlin 1738) but the town's people

  unable to thwart the invasion, hid it and it was left— almost forgotten

  until two years ago when a German master began its restoration

  today is the service to dedicate that organ, I look around a thousand or more

  packed in, speaking Norwegian so I enjoy the aloneness, the freedom from words

  inspirited by the light from the windows, the rows of strong faces, children

  snuggled in laps, the music of the choir and the spoken yet not heard words

  begin to join in the service, guessing at sounds, knowing when to stand

  the melody of the Kyrie, my Swedish Lutheran beginnings are here now, these

  solemn faces so like my early churches, the pronunciation irrelevant, my voice

  taking part - I am comforted, surrounded by the familiar in an unfamiliar place

  stand for the Gospel, watch the sun burst through the windows and the still falling

  snow, then sing AMEN, not only sing it but believe it, for I have no memory of

  feeling safe in the churches of my youth, they were alive with the pain of my family

  and their make-believe words, but here, alone in this cathedral, I am at peace

  We went to Stockholm on three occasions and stayed in hotels called, respectively, The Admiral Nelson, The Lady Hamilton, and The Victory. The last two names were, of course, those of Nelson's mistress and of his ship at the battle of Trafalgar. Owned by a couple who had a passion for maritime history, all three hotels were full of Nelson memorabilia. These included newspapers published at the time detailing Nelson's relationship with Lady Hamilton. In the manuscript room of the British Museum, I had been most affected by Nelson's last letter to Lady Hamilton, received after his death at Trafalgar. On it you can see the tear-stained words: “Alas, too late.”