Author: Joe

Sharpest Lady Ever

Guest Essay from Tara Ross, reprinted with permission

Copyright Tara Ross © 2024

Annie as young adult

[August 13] 1860, the woman known as Annie Oakley is born. That wasn’t her real name, of course. The famous sharpshooter’s name at birth was Phoebe Ann Mosey.

Annie was nothing if not talented. “At 30 paces she could split a playing card held edge-on,” one commentator notes, “she hit dimes tossed into the air, she shot cigarettes from her husband’s lips, and, a playing card being thrown into the air, she riddled it before it touched the ground.”

She could even fire over her shoulder, using only a hand-held mirror.

Nevertheless, there was more to Annie than sharpshooting. “The incredible woman who called herself Annie Oakley,” her biographer writes, “overcame poverty, prejudice, physical setbacks, and her own inner shyness to become a star shooter and a durable legend.”

Promo in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=605409

Trouble began early. Annie’s father passed away unexpectedly, leaving his wife behind with seven children under the age of 15. [Note: she was the 5th] The family was barely getting by before. Now it was worse.

Annie must have been tough. At age 6, she was already helping to put food on the dinner table: She began by setting traps for small game, but then she moved on to using her father’s rifle. He’d taught her to shoot game through the head, leaving most of the meat untouched. She got it done.

Her efforts helped, but it still wasn’t enough. Annie was sent to Darke County Infirmary, where she earned money sewing or patching inmates’ clothing. Then matters took a turn for the worse.

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A man arrived one day, claiming that his wife needed help watching an infant. Would Annie do it? He promised 50 cents a week, plus time to go to school.

Annie later called him a wolf in sheep’s clothing. “I was held a prisoner,” she said of this time. “They would not let me go.” Annie worked in harsh conditions. Once, she was forced out into the snow because she fell asleep while darning socks. “I was slowly freezing to death,” Annie recalled. “So I got down on my little knees, looked toward God’s clear sky, and tried to pray. But my lips were frozen stiff and there was no sound.”

She barely survived.

Annie hung on, believing that her mother was receiving her 50 cent salary. She lasted for nearly two years before she ran away.

Annie was loved at home, but she was still an extra mouth to feed. Thus, she was soon back at the infirmary. She worked hard, but she was also happier than she’d been in a while. She’d escaped the “wolf” family. She was finally learning to read and write—and she even earned a raise. But her homesickness couldn’t be kept at bay. She decided to return and help her mother “build a little home.” She invested in traps, powder, and shot. She began trapping and shooting small game.

Annie late 1880s

She was quite good at it. Not only was she able to supply her mother’s dinner table with food, but she also had enough left over to supply a local shopkeeper. Annie’s business thrived, and she saved enough to pay off her mother’s mortgage. “Oh, how my heart leaped with joy,” Annie later remembered.

Little did Annie know it, but her life was about to change—again. The exact date is disputed, but at about age 15, Annie appeared in a shooting match with Frank Butler, an accomplished shooter who sometimes offered a challenge to local champions.

Annie won, of course. She hit 25 targets to Frank’s 24, which earned her a $50 prize. More importantly, she’d met the man who would become her husband and her future partner in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show.

Naturally, the story of Annie Oakley’s rise to fame is a story for another day. 😉

Tara Ross © 2024
Read other history posts by Tara Ross:  https://www.taraross.com/blog
She is a font of interesting history

 

Editor’s notes:  Add’l text and images.  First image from Tara Ross’ website.

She was born in rural Ohio, near the Indiana state line.  There is a stone plaque mounted there.  Her grave site and a marker can be found at https://tinyurl.com/googlocator   [40.31790873573885, -84.4723223225884 ]

She was badly injured while traveling in a Wild West Show train in a head-on collision in October 1901.  Asleep at the time, she was dumped into a swamp and presumed dead for a while. Her injuries included partial paralysis [mostly healed after FIVE spinal surgeries].  She retired from the Wild West Show, but later returned to competition and demonstrations.  And continued to set records and amaze.

She spent these latter decades promoting women’s rights, the use of women in active military and gun training for women – believing strongly that women should have full access to personal protection and safety.

She and Frank were childless.  Some presume this was due a childhood or young adult illness; others suggest it was due to their dedication to her career.  Nonetheless, no descendants.

Her ashes are interred alongside her husband’s (Frank Butler) in rural western Ohio.  Some 16 miles north of Greenville near Versailles, in Brock Cemetery.  [map: Brock Cemetery]

Editor’s notes copyrighted, Joe Girard © 2024

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

 

Some plaques.

 

 

Baptise: a Life

Named for the great Corps of Discovery explorer William Clark, the Clark Fork finds its headwaters on the western slopes and canyons of the Beartooth Mountains in southcentral Montana, near the Wyoming border.  It’s soon winding through a gently sloped high valley – so curvy that it has left Horseshoe lakes over the millennia.  On its generally northwest course, the Clark soon levels out and forms the fertile (for the west) Clark Fork Valley.

The Fork wanders well over 300 miles from its furthest headwaters, reaching its terminus at a natural glacially formed lake: Lake Pend Orielle, in northern Idaho. That lake, in turn, via the river of the same name, ventures barely into British Columbia before joining the mighty Columbia, which drains into the Pacific Ocean.
On the “other side of the mountains” are Yellowstone River feeders, such as the Clark Fork of the Yellowstone, not to be confused with Clark Fork, which is our topic here. These waters eventually reach the Gulf of Mexico via the Missouri and Mississippi.

Along the Clark Fork lie cities, like Missoula, and many smaller communities in Granite County, like Drummond (pop 200ish) – and the wee hamlet of Gold Creek.

William Clark

Drummond was not a real settlement until 1883, when the Northern Pacific Railroad arrived.  [Incidentally, it is also where the last spike on that line was hammered in].

The location of tiny Gold Creek had appeared a few decades before, around 1850.  A fur trapper had noted the prospects presented by a crisp creek meeting the Clark Fork at that locale. He found a few gold nuggets in the creek, but probably not enough to be profitable, for him, a lone trapper far from civilization.  His business was fur trapping. In 1858 two brothers, James and Granville Stuart – failures in the earlier California Gold Rush – were making their way east when Granville fell ill.  Too ill to make it over the mountains.  They settled near the confluence of the creek and the Fork, … and started looking for gold; they found it.

By the time they had the time and equipment to build an operation, it was clear that there was money to be made here.

[Hence the name of the settlement and the creek:  Gold Creek.]

In 1862 the Montana Gold Rush was on.  And it affected the entire area.  Enormous amounts of wealth were acquired during the rush, which lasted until 1869.  As in California before, and the Yukon three decades later, much of wealth was acquired by outfitters, provision suppliers, saloons, and … probably … brothel madams.

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Baptiste (also sometimes Jean Baptiste and “Pomp” as a child) was ready for another adventure.  In the early spring of 1866, at the age of 61, he set off from Auburn, CA for the newly found gold deposit regions, one-thousand miles away.

Nearby, in southern Idaho, similar events were unfolding.  Historians prefer the Montana as Baptiste’s destination, but Idaho was certainly a possibility. Baptiste had passed through this Montana region many times, his first as an infant, when he was a mere 15 months old.  He felt called to return.

He’d already enjoyed and survived one of the most adventure-filled and exciting lives in American history.  Yet, he left his life of relative luxury (he’d done very well in the California gold rush) and headed north for one more adventure.

Traveling often by stagecoach – across Danner Pass, then into the parched desolation of Nevada and eastern Oregon – he and his travelmates were at about halfway on their journey, when they came to the Owyhee River; in the harsh desert, it provided a sort of Oasis. [Near modern-day Rome, OR].

It’s quite likely that the 61-year-old Baptiste spent much of the journey on horseback, as he had served on and off for decades as a guide and scout in the US west.  If so, he would have dismounted to guide coaches and others across the river.

During the river crossing, there was some sort of serious accident.  Descriptions are vague.  Baptiste was pitched into the waters — still roaring and chilly from the spring runoff of the western Idaho and northern Nevada mountains.

There are no official accounts.  It seems Baptiste was in the water for quite some time, perhaps getting hypothermia. He also caught a cold. It soon worsened.

Weakened and feverish, he was transported some 30 miles east to the now nearly-a-ghost-town of Danner, OR.  There lay Inskip Station.  The area and station served as a support town for migrants on the Oregon Trail – with provisions, lodging and perhaps a modicum of health care: probably mostly lotions and potions.  Surely no doctors.

There in Danner, on May 21, 1866, after days of delirium and suffering, our famous explorer and adventurer, passed on.  How famous?  Well, his image is on a US’s coin.
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From here, I guess, it would best to go back the beginning.   As Maria von Trapp said in the Sound of Music:  Let’s start at the very beginning; a very good place to start.

Jean Baptiste “Pomp” arrived on February 11, 1805 in modern day North Dakota, along the Missouri River.  His father, Toussaint Charbonneau was a French-Canadian fur trapper.  His mother, Sacagawea, was a young native lass of about 16 years in age, and one of Charbonneau’s wives.

She’s of course well-known as one of the most important explorers in American history. She herself is more than worthy of an in-depth Bio; a bio that would fit into my “strong-woman” collection.

Here I’ll only note that, although a member of the Hidatsa Tribe, related in culture and to other northern plains tribes like the Crow and the Lakota, Sacagawea was actually Shoshone.  She’d been kidnapped by the Hidasa about 4 years before.  Kidnappings and such were common: beyond the need for domestic servants this was also a means of maintaining genetic diversity.  The Shoshone, at the time, had settled along upper tributaries of the Snake River, across the Great Divide, after getting chased around by other tribes and Europeans further east.

The Hidatsa had come through and settled the upper Missouri after coming in contact with the Mandan tribe there.  The Mandans had been there for a few decades before the Hidatsa. This after also getting chased around by tribes and whites – and getting nearly wiped out by smallpox.

Lewis and Clark’s corps of Discovery wintered near the Mandan-Hidatsa settlements, in 1804-05, on their way to the Pacific.  All-in-all they were welcomed, well-treated – and helped – by the tribes.  The fur trapper Toussaint was recruited to serve as a guide and translator – most of the northern plains’ languages were related.  Accompanying him would be his wife Sacagawea – now in her late third-term pregnancy.

The delivery, her first, was difficult.  She was given fragments of rattle-snake rattle to ease the delivery.  It was the evening of Monday, February 11, 1805.

Spring 1805.  It had been a cold and harsh winter. Winds had swept down from the Arctic, across the wide open swaths of land and lakes of what would be central Canada.  Finally, the ice on the mighty Missouri cracked. Then the river began thawing and flowing. On April 7, 1805 the Corps of Discovery set out, going upstream on the Missouri.  The papoose-borne Jean Baptiste (now going by Pomp or Pompey, an affectionate nickname given by Clark) joined America’s most famous expedition at a mere 55 days old.

Sacagawea’s contributions were extremely important — on at least two occasions she saved the expedition.  She is memorialized on the same one dollar coin as her son, a coin that bears her name.

Upon their return from the long trip to the Pacific Ocean, arriving at the Mandan/Hitasa village, Sacagawea and Charbonneau settled briefly there in the Dakotas. [1]

Clark settled in Saint Louis, the capital of Upper Louisiana, to serve as general of the militia and the federal Indian Agent for western tribes, appointments from President Jefferson.

From the boy’s birth Clark was very fond of young Pomp.  He had offered to educate the boy.

Around 1807-08 Sacagawea and Charboneau traveled to St Louis, staying with Clark, and taking him up on the offer to educate their son.  They left Pomp there and returned to the northern plains.   They returned briefly in 1809, again at Clark’s invitation, to try farming.  But it didn’t take.  They returned to the northern plains.

Toussaint and Sacagawea had one more child, Lisette, in 1812.  This was again very difficult for Sacagawea.  Her death followed soon after.

Clark adopted both Pomp and Lisette. They received the finest education at the Jesuit-staffed St Louis Academy. There, with Clark’s home tutelage, Pomp developed what was described as a “pleasant character.” He was noted as a very good speaker and writer of fine penmanship.  He began learning English and French (which was still the main language there). He also learned some German and Spanish. Of course, he was well on his way with the tongues of the plains tribes.  [2]

Clark had a substantial private natural and history museum on his property. Besides encouraging Pomp’s natural curiosity, it provided much opportunity for his further learning.

On June 21, 1823, Pomp, now going by Baptiste, was working at a trading post near Kansas City (Kansas).  The Duke of Württemburg (Friedrich Paul Wilhelm) passed through there on a Natural History tour of the American plains (Toussaint was the guide).  He was so impressed with the young man that, later in October, he offered to take him back to what would become Germany. They left from St Louis that December.

He remained with the Duke for six years, residing, except for travels, in the exquisitely lavish Ludwigsburg Palace.    [Ludwig is the German equivalent of Louis]

Ludwigsburg Palace

It really is impressive. My wife and I gave ourselves a mini-tour of the grounds years ago.  It’s just one main train stop north of Stuttgart.

Exactly what he did there for 6 years remains somewhat shrouded, floating in history’s mists.  It is known that he vastly improved his German. He also improved his grasp of English, French and Spanish.  Accounts say he was fluent in them.  This could be the result of the Duke taking him on his many European travels. Gifted in languages, he might well have assisted the Duke in translations.

He was likely a largely well-treated servant who, simultaneously, received some education.  It was common in those days for the wealthy and the nobility to acquire such far-off peoples as “trophies” to be on staff – which would impress their peers.  As a trusted servant, the Duke also took him on travels in Northern Africa, as well as throughout much of Europe.

Baptiste had a romance in Ludwigsburg, fathering a son: Anton. Sadly, he perished aged only three months.

Baptise returned to the US in 1829 and began a most adventurous 30+ year western life.  Fur trapper, guide, hunter (among others, he was the hunter for Bents Fort), mountain man (he attended rendezvous’). He hung out with famous western Americans including Jim Bridger and John Fremont.

He was a leader, under General Cooke, in the “Mormon Battalion” which built the  first continuous road through the rugged and largely unknown southwest from Santa Fe to LA and San Diego.  Their mission: deliver 20 wagons of military provisions for garrisons in southern CA. It was over 1,000 miles long. [Originally called Cooke’s Wagon Road, much of it became the path of famous Route 66].

During the Mexican-American War he served as scout to General Kearny across the near- and far-West.  His familiarity with tribal languages, as well as terrain, was a huge benefit.

In 1847 he was appointed Alcalde of Mission San Luis Rey de Francia, California.  As such he served as mayor, sheriff and magistrate.  While serving as Alcade in California Jean Baptiste Charbonneau fathered a daughter. Her mother was a 23-year-old local Luiseño Native American named Margarita Sobin.  Their child, Maria Catarina Charguana, arrived May 4, 1848.  Maria has descendants from her marriage to a Trujillo, but they seem to have also disappeared into the mist.  My research shows that she may also have carried the name Meyer for a period.

 

1848, the western foothills of California’s Sierra Nevada range.  John Sutter wished to build a sawmill on the banks of the South Fork of the American River – a promising looking financial endeavor. The hills and mountains were rich in timber, including Ponderosa Pine, Foxtail Pine, Doug Fir and Black Oak.

Mills of the day required waterpower, which often involved building small dams and/or flow diversion to achieve greater descent in water “falls”, increasing the power available for the mill.  Sutter partnered with James Marshall, a carpenter from New Jersey, who led this work.  In January 1848 Marshall found flecks of gold in the riverbed while excavating. Was there more?  Yes.  Word of gold in California spread, first slowly, across the west, then the entire US.  Then, like an internet virus, around the world.

Commemorating the 49ers

Charbonneau heard of this quite early.  Already relatively well-off, and intrigued by the news, he resigned his Alcade post, and set off in August of 1848 from St Luis, when his daughter was only a few months old, to the south Fork region. The Great California Gold Rush was on. Charbonneau was among the very first “49-ers.”

He soon joined forces with three others to form a “gold team.” The group staked a claim to a likely piece of land.  It turned out to be easily mined (shallow) and provided a fortune of no small consequence for them all.  The others took their fortunes elsewhere. Baptiste remained in the area, extracting gold for another 16 years, long after the gold team broke up.  By local accounts this was quite lucrative, and he was well off.

While there he also worked as the manager of nearby Auburn’s Orleans Hotel.  The hotel’s business began to dry up as the gold harvests waned.  So did his own gold profits.

During this era, he also served as Placer County Surveyor, a job necessary to resolve claim disputes.  So, he was also a man of technology.

By the 1860s many miners, like the Stuart brothers above, were giving up on the area; they either returned home or headed off to Montana or other gold rushes of the ‘60s.  Jean Baptiste Charbonneau, as a lifelong wanderer and adventurer, really had no home to return to.  He followed the new gold rush and sought a return to the lands he had traversed for decades, going back to his infancy.
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Jean Baptiste (Pomp, Pompey) Charbonneau was buried near the location of his final breath, alongside the site of the now long gone Inskip Station. His grave is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. You can find it in the desolate expanses of far eastern Oregon, just outside Danner – the unincorporated near-ghost town.

Baptiste Charbonnequ tomb

The plaque reads: “This site marks the final resting place of the youngest member of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Born to Sacagawea and Toussaint Charbonneau at Fort Mandan (North Dakota), on February 11, 1805, Baptiste and his mother symbolized the peaceful nature of the “Corps of Discovery”. Educated by Captain William Clark at St. Louis, Baptiste, at 18, traveled to Europe where he spent six years becoming fluent in English, German, French, and Spanish. Returning to America in 1829, he ranged the Far West for nearly four decades as a mountain man guide, interpreter, magistrate, and Forty-Niner. In 1866, he left the California gold fields for a new strike in Montana, contracted pneumonia en route, reached “Inskips Ranche”, here, and died on May 16, 1866.”

 

Joe Girard © 2024

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

 

Sacagawea and Pomp Charbonneau on the dollar coin

Author note: More than a few historians say that his life was more boring than adventurous.  I disagree. His life seems anything but tedious, and everything like venturesome.  Many times he traversed the wide and wild expanses of the American West – on foot, on horse and via wagon.  He spent 6 years in Germany; using it as a hub to see most of Europe.  He learned many languages, of whites and native Americans. He sought his fortune, found it, and, although wealthy, set out for more – and repeated this once more.  This was a full life.  And surely there have been very few as full, as venturesome or as rich with experience.  Peruse the links below or search yourself.  I don’t think I have shared even half of his story.

Some sources, not all
Jean Baptiste Charbonneau, “Pomp” | Sacagawea (sacagawea-biography.org)
https://www.oregonencyclopedia.org/articles/charbonneau_jean_baptiste/

https://lewis-clark.org/people/jean-baptiste-charbonneau/jean-baptiste-in-frontier-west/

Short bio video: https://youtu.be/6dpZdWktl0c

[1] Even a casual history enthusiast must add Steven Ambrose’s Undaunted Courage to their reading list.

[2] St Louis was still a largely French-speaking city.  Many Germans had also settled there (it became a prolific brew town).

Stories of a Ballad

Ballads tell stories.  Often there are stories behind such stories.

Most boomers and the older among us will quickly recognize this 1971 song. It’s a narrative ballad, exposing a cycle of despair, hypocrisy, ostracism, and the shady underbelly of society.  But it’s so-o-o well done.  Many can still sing it today. If you haven’t heard it in a while, or ever, here’s the studio version (sorry if it becomes an earworm): Gypsys Tramps & Thieves.

I surmise that all such people can identify the young, talented and enchanting 24-year-old woman who performed it. The song itself is widely regarded as her signature song (although, later in her career, she made little secret of her contempt for it, singing it live only with lexical excisions).

Whatever the version, it begins eerily. And briskly – at 171 beats per minute, brisk for any ballad The original studio version begins with a few bars of mystical, even whimsical, sounding strings: a synthesizer emulating a sort of folksy fiddle, a bit harpsichord-ish, with a snare jumping in to emphasize the pace, and what sounds – to me – like some tambourines joining. A good job of setting the mood for a “Travelin’ Show.”
The bulk of the song is set in A-minor. [7] Minor keys are often used to set a mood of sadness.  That mood is appropriate.
Cher and others have recorded several versions.  Herein, I refer to Cher’s original studio recording.
          BPM: Compare to some ballads of that era like
     Bonnie and Clyde (106 bpm, George Fame)
     If You Could Read My Mind (123 bpm, Lightfoot)
     She’s Gone (139, Hall & Oates) and
     Ode to Billy Joe (120, Bobbie Gentry) <link in song name to song review>

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Cherilyn Sarkisian was born in El Centro [1], California on May 20, 1946. Her parents were young – around 20.  Her father, John Sarkisian, of full Armenian ancestry (the -ian surname ending is a giveaway clue), worked as a truck driver.  Her mother Georgia (born Georgia Crouch), only briefly married to John, was of English and German ancestry – lore has it she even had a splash of Cherokee descent.  Thus, Cherilyn’s beguiling skin tone: a sense of the exotic. but something you can’t quite identify.

Georgia herself was born to a 13-yeal old mother in rural Kensett, Arkansas in 1926; and her mom was married young and several times, part a life of poverty and constant moving.

Cherilyn was 10 months old when her parents split.  Her dad had serious drinking and gambling problems.  Her mom, Georgia, a woman of high energy and curiosity, had many interests.  She’d won contests of beauty and talent since she was a child.  She was also a capable singer and song writer.  Her dad had taught her music: singing and piano. How they ended up in El Centro is anyone’s guess. I found no reason. [5]

Georgia took Cherilyn away from the somewhat famous town of El Centro [at ~40 feet below sea level, probably the lowest elevation of any US city over 1,000 inhabitants; site of the first well measured earthquake, (1940) ].  They settled in Los Angeles, some 200 miles northwest of El Centro.

There Georgia worked on her own music and acting career while working various part time jobs.  Through several of her mom’s failed marriages Cherilyn was moved across California and the southwest. She spent long periods in an orphanage when her mom was too ill, too broke, or too busy to care for her.  Many times, she spent long periods with her maternal grandparents, who substantially raised her.  These were difficult times for the young family, often close to destitution.

In 1961 it’s back to SoCal where Georgia wed Gilbert LaPierre.  He adopted 15-year-old Cherilyn, and her younger half-sister, Georgann.  Now going legally as Cheryl LaPiere, the girl now had the financial support to attend a private school, Montclair College Preparatory School.  Here, she really took to performing – both acting and music. She was, in the words of all who knew her then, exceptional.

[LaPiere was Georgia’s 4th marriage. Cher’s half-sister Georgann, 5 years younger, was born to Georgia and her 3rd husband, John Southall. Georgann was also adopted by LaPiere. Georgia wed 7 times in all, to six different men, re-marrying Sarkasian for a cup of coffee in 1964].

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The 1st verse is a rich opening.

I was born in the wagon of a travelin’ show
My mama used to dance for the money they’d throw
Papa would do whatever he could
Preach a little gospel
Sell a couple bottles of Doctor Good

Travelin’ show.   In line number one we’re told of a “Travelin’ Show.” This confirmation suggested by the title informs that we are to hear of a roaming “gypsies.”

Now referred to as Travelers, Romani or Roma, they usually drifted around, from place-to-place where they were generally neither welcomed nor appreciated, trying to eke out a living on whatever they could acquire – legally, or, if necessary, not.  Many still do.  [The term “gypsy” is now regarded as pejorative, and has been for quite a few decades.  I’ll try to use this term only in the context of the song itself.]

With the synthesized show-fiddle, perhaps some harpsichord, accordion, and a calliope-like sound sprinkled in, we get the feeling of a show, … a traveling road show.

Mama danced, almost certainly exhibiting increasing exotic sexuality and progressing states of deshabille as the dance proceeds, thus coaxing the men to throw coins at her in lusty appreciation.  Kinda yuck.

Preach a little Gospel. Travelers were adept at picking up local cultures, such as how to give a good fire-and-brimstone sermon in the deep south.  Christian missionaries were active among the Romani, particularly in the US – and especially so in the south – hence they developed a sufficient grasp of how to implement that form of communication.

Doctor Good.  Probably a variation of a mostly traditional cultural “homemade” Roma medicine of various ingredients. Some of which, if not all, probably had health benefit.  Roma were known to use Juniper berries. Horrible tasting, they often rubbed it on their gums.  This helped manage scurvy, both as prophylactic and as treatment,  and generally keeping their mouths healthy.

As a “medicine” to non-Roma it was probably this juniper juice mixed with Gypsy Juice … and a good dose of distilled liquor.  Easy enough to make.  The horrible tastes (juniper + un-aged/un-barreled spirits) sort of canceled out, especially when mixed with ingredients like pureed spinach, celery, carrot, fruit juices, and honey.

Sometimes juices from soaking chopped garlic cloves in white vinegar were added. Possible further additions were sage, lemon zest, rose petals, calendula, rosemary … whatever was available and generally healthy, or at least benign.  This mixing of ingredients had the “benefit” of making the “medicine” taste different from place to place, among various Roma groups, and as each band moved to new areas. [3]

[1] Some aficionados of music from that era may recall the line in Elton John’s Your Song (1970),
wherein he wonders: “If I a sculptor, no, or a man who makes potions in a travelin’ show.

 

We hear the chorus for the first time.  We sense a raw emotion – Sorrow? Worry? Revulsion?  Loathing?   She races into:

“Gypsies, tramps, and thieves!”
We’d hear it from the people of the town
They’d call us gypsies, tramps, and thieves.
But every night all the men would come around …
And lay their money down.

 

Lay their money down.  This is clearly more than a casual suggestion of prostitution.

Chorus:  Mama?  You? One shudders to think ….

Not even to the 2nd verse yet, and we’re into hypocrisy and sex.

Romani peoples. Originating in northern India (and perhaps in or near Afghanistan), they were exiled.  First heading to NW China around the end of the first millennium, they wandered westward across Asia.  Always in caravans of families – a custom they carried into the west, even to the US – they reached Constantinople (~50 years before it became Istanbul) around 1400 AD, crossed the Bosporus, and arrived in Romania in the 15th century.

As in their original homeland, they were seldom, if ever, welcomed.  And they were not welcomed in Romania.  Maltreated and even enslaved, they were eventually freed and encouraged to leave.  Spreading out across to central and western Europe, they were soon enough in most European countries. Any goodwill upon their arrival was always followed by rejection.  They couldn’t or wouldn’t fit in culturally and were eventually regarded as thieves and scammers: perhaps many were. It’s tough to get by in lands where your type is not at all welcome.   Waves of plague had swept humanity from China to Europe since the mid-14th century.  People learned to be wary of wandering strangers, especially those from strange lands.

[It’s a mere coincidence that the group’s name Romani – or Roma – seems to match with their misperceived European origin in Romania.  It’s simply a variation of the original Sanskrit language root, Rom (or Dom), meaning “man.”  Romani is the feminine form of the noun. The term “gypsy” stems from a common misconception that they originated in Egypt.]

For the most part, they continued their traditional caravan traveling, and never quite getting acceptance wherever they went.  Starting in Britain they picked up the name Travelers.

Not a lot of space in a travelin’ van

Europeans, especially the colonial powers like Portugal, began exporting Romani to the new world as slave labor.  Much of Europe has had “anti-gypsy” laws at some point.  And then there’s the mass exterminations of them by Nazi Germany 1933-1945. Shamefully, President Sarkozy deported them from France in 2010 – mostly to Bulgaria and Romania.  All this and more encouraged many Romani to migrate to the US, particularly in the mid-19th century.  Their reception there was mostly more of the same.

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Los Angeles provided Cherilyn an excellent setting for beginning and growing her career. With her mother Georgia’s musical background (she appeared on several national shows and was a night club singer, composed songs, getting national recognition for “Honky Tonk Woman”). Cherilyn had the setting, the genes, the background, and maternal encouragement to begin an entertainment career.

Her mom had begun getting bit acting parts on TV and in movies – and was able to get some roles for her daughter, too.

At age 16 she left home and moved in with a friend. She took acting classes while working small club jobs and beating the pavement looking for entertainment jobs.  That’s how she met Salvatore (Sonny) Bono.  She was still just 16. He was an assistant to record producer Phil Spector at the time.  Cherilyn’s talent and drive were apparent; he worked his contacts for her.  She sang back-up vocals for several famous Spector groups’ recordings, including big hits: the Ronettes’ “Be my Baby” and the Righteous Brothers’ “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feelin’ ”.

When Cherilyn’s friend moved out, stretching her thin finances too far, Bono agreed to take her in as his “housekeeper.”

Sonny & Cher 1971, funny angle, Sonnty at 5′-5″, was about 3″ shorter than Cher.

Perfectly able to perform solo – Sonny wanted her to do just that – but she was just a teenager and still suffered from stage fright; she’d only sing with Sonny.  Their relationship turned romantic; they wed in the autumn of ’64.  She was 18.  Sonny was 29 and already once-divorced. Their first hit together was “I got you Babe” (to me always associated with the movie Groundhog Day).  That’s when Cheryl/Cherilyn LaPiere became simply “Cher.”  When they sang together it was clear that Cher was far superior to Sonny.  To me at least.

They quickly rose to fame. Their unique chemistry –  musically, in appearance and in personality – captured the public’s imagination. They performed as “Sonny & Cher” with a type of soft pop in singles and albums.  But America’s tastes were changing rapidly, and around 1970 their popularity ebbed.  So did their personal lives.

Cher began pursuing a personal career.  Although they often still worked together, this grew less frequent as their lives diverged.  [Their variety and comedy show, The Sonny & Cher Show, which promoted her rapidly growing solo singing career, ran from 1971-74].  They divorced in 1975.

____________________________________________________________

Second Verse.  We learn a lot more.

  Picked up a boy just south of Mobile.
Gave him a ride, filled him with a hot meal.
I was sixteen, he was twenty-one;
Rode with us to Memphis,
Papa woulda shot him if he knew what he’d done

 

What is south of Mobile (Alabama)?  Isn’t that the ocean, the Gulf of Mexico? Wrong.  Mobile is some 15 miles up north from the “mouth” of Mobile Bay.  Along the banks of the Bay, particularly on the west, are some areas of open space and parks that could host a “traveling show.”  A bit filled in nowadays with development, I’m thinking that in the ‘50s or so (where I tend to place this story historically, but could be earlier) it was quite open.

She’s 16 and probably knows very, very little about life outsider her Traveler community.  So much to learn.  And those funky hormones.

Why would a 21-year old lad be leaving the area?  On the lam? Legal issues? Pregnant girlfriend?  Evicted by his family? Military AWOL?  In any case, by hooking up with Travelers he was probably venturing far out of his element.  And taking a chance.  He was desperate.  They fed him and transported him north.  What good fortune.  He pressed his luck.

Papa woulda shot him. I take this literally. It seems quite likely that Travelers, particularly in the deep south, would have firearms.  No one really liked the Roma or having them around.  Any issues with locals that lead to malicious actions? The law would look away. They themselves, as Roma, were their own first, last and only line of defense.

The song returns to the chorus, but it’s no relief.  Rejection, hypocrisy and prostitution.  Oy.

_________________________________________________________________

1970. Cher’s career was waning too soon. She was too talented and ambitious to allow this. Yet, major changes had to come.

Why? 1960s America.  As the decade drew to its conclusion, America grew ever more edgy, in music, sex, drugs, rock-and-roll.  First JFK, then MLK Jr, followed shortly by RFK.  Viet Nam.  Cold War. Race riots.  Sit-ins. Social justice rallies.  Kent State, May 1970.  “Edgy” isn’t strong enough. Prickly?  Restless?  Even Cantankerous?  Confrontational?

Cher, with Sonny, sought a new path, a new direction.  Seeing the need to leave their soft “I got you Babe” and “The Beat Goes On” image, and set out on her own, she hooked up with song writer Bob Stone and producer “Snuff” Garrett.  They proposed a new and restless approach that fit Cher and the era. It clicked.

Edgy?  Stone was a sound engineer and composer for Frank Zappa and his son, Dweezil.

Result? “Gypsys, Tramps and Thieves” was the feature song, and also the name of her first album, released on January 1, 1971. (Originally the album was to be named “Cher”; she changed it to the song title when was clear it would be a huge hit). Near as I can tell it was just a fantastic job all around. The lyrics?  Captivating.  Memorable.  The production?  Amazing.  The mix of instrument sounds, the tempo changes, the key change, all impeccably intertwined. And the vocal delivery?  Absolutely stellar.  This one had to have taken a very long time to get right. Even today, over 50 years later, when you hear the music, you think of Cher.  When you hear her voice, you think of the music.  Her charisma and character come right through your speakers; they enchant you and grab you: listen to me!

 

The bridge. The tempo slows, yet the arrangement still gives us something of a carnival feel, or … like a traveling show.  A key change to C-major suggests a mood change, and, here in the bridge, it sounds a bit more reflective.  It’s a nuanced twist, part of telling a story that is emotionally complex.

Here, Cher’s ability to drop to a deeper voice provides a dramatic inside view of the story.

I never had schoolin’ but he taught me well
With his smooth southern style.
Three months later I’m a gal in trouble
And I haven’t seen him for a while, ..
I haven’t seen him for a while.

 

As a Romani child, of course, she had no schooling.  The lad is trying to teach her.  How to read? About the world?  Language? Literature?  Arithmetic?  Doesn’t matter. The lass is enchanted: he has a “smooth southern style.”  A romance ensues.

At three months she’s “showing.”  The lad grows fearful. Pa has that shotgun, and I’m sure he’s seen it.  He’s on the run again.  She hasn’t seen him for a while.  And never will again.

And here we get a subtle hint that the girl is still enamored with him, with her memory of him and the experience – even though this story is probably told much later.  You can detect a slight moaning “o-oh” at the beginning and at the ending of the last line in the bridge.  She misses him still. She still has feelings for him.  She’s still a bit in love.  And perhaps that’s why the bridge is in a major key.

________________________________________________________________

The 1971 album and song rocketed to national attention and the top of the charts.  Cher’s new style, with a new team of writer/producer of Bob Stone and Snuff Garrett, was electric.

Garrett was influenced early and mixed with a radio DJ career, produced dozens of songs, the edgy types, including, later, Cher’s Half Breed and Dark Lady, and Vickie Lawrence’s The Night the Lights went out in Georgia, and many for Bobby Vee and for Gary Lewis and the Playboys.

_________________________________________________

The final verse.  The cycle continues.

She was born in the wagon of a travelin’ show.
Her mama had to dance for the money they’d throw.
Grandpa’d do whatever he could,
Preach a little gospel, sell a couple bottles of Doctor Good

 

Even a casual level of attention shows that it’s not a repeat of the first verse.  How much changed?

Line 1 is rather obvious.  With one word change we are back on the story’s track.  The narrator/lass bears a daughter, at 16 or 17 years-old. The baby girl is born in a wagon – the same wagon of the same traveling show that the narrator herself was born in. The narrator has become the infant girl’s mother, strongly implying the baby – born in the same wagon – is destined to inherit the narrator’s circumstance in a repeating cycle. Just as she – the narrator – has become her own mother.

Dance for money, grandpa selling a concoction of Feel Good. Peeling back the onion now ….

In the very first verse we heard “my mama used to dance …”  Now, later, with the narrator as the mother, it’s “her mama had to dance …”  [6]

Two things.

One: the last verse, like the first, is also told in the past tense.  Thus, this narrative could have occurred quite far into the future, well past “papa woulda shot him…”

Two: I do suspect the last verse is being told much later.  Why?  There is a difference between “had to dance” and “used to dance.”   “Had to” implies that the dancing is imperative – it must be done to get enough money to survive.  In verse 1 it’s only “used to dance.”  Previously the dancing was optional, perhaps to generate a few extra dollars for auxiliary needs. The family financial situation has now deteriorated further.  And here it’s HAD; that part of her life seems to be over.

The choice of “had” vs “has” suggests that she might even now be a woman decades beyond “I was 16.”  She’s looking back at her life, musing about things as she remembers them: after all of the traveling, all the family crises, all the men coming around at night, and all the dancing is over.  It’s all behind her now.

Or maybe she left the show traveling life, or was kicked out.  Maybe she went on the lam, like the 21-year-old boy.  The book is about to close, and the enigmatic story leaves us in mystery.

Oops, now it’s grandpa.  So “papa,” has become “grandpa.”  OK.  If mama (the woman narrator) is now dancing for money … ewwww … where is the mama of verse 1?  Why isn’t she now grandma? Did she not fit in this verse, or, as I gather here, she is no longer part of the story.  Women travelers lived, on average, 10-15 years fewer than their menfolk. And men didn’t very live long either. Life was hard.

This last verse may be referring to a period in the past, but a couple of years after “papa woulda shot him” – the new young mama is now healthy enough, and – ahem – attractive enough, to dance for money and probably entertain the men who came around at night to  “throw their money down.”

Overall the near duplication of the first verse is compelling. The clan of travelers, and this family, are stuck in a loop.  Around the loop are despair, isolation, cultural rejection, hypocrisy, prostitution, strip teases, travel, travel, travel, eking out a living, sex without love, children born to struggling families.

Edgy, catchy, vibrant, quick and supremely performed, it is also one of the most emotional, gloomy and disturbing songs of my generation.

___________________________________________________________________

The use of the term “gypsy” was already considered pejorative by 1970.  It was, and remains, a controversial choice for a title.  The lyrics themselves show that each word was carefully selected.  It’s no accident; the team intended to use “gypsy”.  Some research suggests it was chosen in order to play upon the negative connotations the word still carries to today.  These people weren’t simply wanderers; they were shunned – looked down upon with disdain.  [the formal plural of gypsy is gypsies.  I’m not sure why they all agreed on the ungrammatical Gypsys for the title.  Perhaps to convey a sense that the story is told by an uneducated person?]

Gypsys” was so successful that Stone and Garrett continued to write and produce Cher’s songs for over a decade.  It was the top charting song for both Stone’s and Garrett’s career.  [On the other side, Stone also wrote #1 country song Are Your Happy Baby?]

Cher’s and Sonny’s marriage ended in 1975.  They remained somewhat close, mostly just professionally.  But, it couldn’t last and they went their separate ways.  He had helped her in her early career, and she was grateful. To me, at least, Cher needed to move past Sonny.  It was the right time.    [Sonny died in a violent ski accident in January, 1998.  Cher gave a eulogy.  He had entered politics and risen to be the mayor of Palm Springs, then a US congressman]

Cher 1975

Cher continued to be extremely popular and went on to successes in both theater and cinema.  She has achieved a sort of Triple Crown: she’s won an Emmy, a Tony and a Grammy.  That’s pretty dang amazing.

Now, at 78 she’s still performing live and drawing crowds in Las Vegas. Her tours have very heavy schedules, evidence of her enduring popularity and energy.

Cher drew from her own life’s experiences in her performance of Gypsys.  You can feel the emotion coming through her delivery. She came from a very chaotic youth, peppered with poverty, a string of broken homes, and constantly moving from place to place. She had little formal education. She had (likely) her earliest romantic encounter at 16. And not unlike her own mother’s youth, and her grandmother’s youth, bearing children while still young (not 13 or 19, but at 21). Cher broke a generational cycle of poverty, rejection, and despair.  From a hardscrabble youth – the lives of her shoes often extended by holding them together with rubber bands – Cher took her talents, her ambition, her dreams, her energy, her drive, and her opportunities to reach stardom.

A remarkable woman.

Joe Girard © 2024

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] El Centro, perhaps best known for the very first digitally well-recorded and documented earthquake in 1940.  The data were used to design CA buildings for decades.  Other states too. Also, it’s likely the lowest elevation of US municipalities at -42 feet. It’s experienced many more shakes quite recently, although not very violent, but perhaps a portent of more and stronger earthshakes to come.

[2] Roma or Romani: somewhere near the end of the first millennium the Romani peoples were exiled from west India. Ethnically and culturally different they were not accepted.  Whether cast out or of their own volition they left. Migrating ever westward, never fitting in, they moved through Persia, the Middle East and into Europe in the 14th century.  Persecuted and shunned everywhere they went, locals gave them pejorative names, including “gypsy.”  In their native language, which is traceable to Sanskrit, “Rom” means man, or person.  Roma, or Romai, is the name they prefer for themselves: People.  They spread over Europe, from the Balkans to the channel, and to England. Roma began coming to the New World in the 17th and 18th centuries, at first often as slaves (Portugal and France). Due to ever increasing social maltreatment and economic hurdles, many found ways to emigrate in the 19th and early 20th centuries.  Some countries, like England, sent many across the ocean as way to get rid of undesirables.

[3] Doctor Good:  plenty of things would have been available, and healthy.  Options would have included juniper berries.  This bitterness could be smothered with honey, pureed spinach, celery, carrots, minced garlic, sage, citrus zest, rose petals and rosemary.  Even calendula which has been brought to the Americas.  With such options, various versions of Doctor Good would taste and smell different from one traveling show to another. They were probably healthy and with a little “kick” made consumers “feel good.”

[4] Georgia went by Georgia Holt the last 4 or 5 decades of her life.  Holt was the surname of her last husband.  She also had an interesting life, as you had probably guessed.  Many sources on-line.

[5] Some rumors have it that Sarkasian and a quite pregnant Georgia were passing through El Centro when baby Cherilyn decided it was time for her debut appearance.  And they stayed there.

[6] The last verse is as quick-paced as the rest.  The storyteller seems even a bit more breathless.  But it sure sounds as if there might be a slight “error”.  The official lyrics say “her mama had to dance.”   But Cher seems to sing “my mama had to dance.”  Surely the production team noticed it, if it’s there… and opted to keep it.  If so, perhaps they thought it conveyed a moment of confusion, caused by the overwhelming emotion from re-visiting a painful story –  the storyteller blends her own story with her child’s.  Or, perhaps they were running out of studio time.

[7] Key changes in songs are common.  Changes of perspective, mood, …

 

Some sources:

[1] https://www.billboard.com/music/pop/cher-gypsys-tramps-thieves-greatest-song-7801038/

[2] https://www.npr.org/2017/09/20/552135954/shocking-omissions-the-resilient-reinvention-of-cher-s-gypsys-tramps-thieves
— but they did get a word in the first verse wrong.

 

 

 

 

Holocaust Tailor

Guest Essay: Credit Roca News

This man survived the Holocaust – and later became America’s greatest tailor.

Martin Greenfield – born Maximilian Grünfeld – was born into a Jewish family on August 9, 1928, in Pavlovo, Czechoslovakia (now Ukraine). When he was 15, Nazis forced him and his family from their home and onto a train to Auschwitz, where he was separated from his parents and siblings.

Pavolvo, Ukraine, far southwest

Grünfeld was assigned to wash Nazi uniforms, and one day, he accidentally tore a soldier’s shirt – a mistake for which he was brutally beaten. He kept the shirt, though, and a fellow prisoner taught him how to sew up the collar
He later decided to wear it under his prison uniform, which people seemed to respect him for. That decision felt so empowering, he later wrote, that he risked ripping a second one so he could have two.

“Strangely enough, two ripped Nazi shirts helped this Jew build America’s most famous and successful custom-suit company,” Grünfeld wrote in his memoir. “God has a wonderful sense of humor.”

In 1945, Allied troops liberated Grünfeld, who made his way back to Czechoslovakia. It was then that he learned he was the sole survivor of his immediate family. His mother, father, two sisters, and brother had all been killed. While Auschwitz took so much from him, however, it gave him one of his greatest gifts: Experience in tailoring clothes.

In 1947, he took that gift to the United States, where he had decided to start a new life. He changed his name to Martin Greenfield to sound more American and secured a job at a Brooklyn-based clothing factory as an entry-level floor boy, where he trained to become a professional tailor.

Greenfield showed such dedication, skill, and attention to detail that after three years, he had become the head of the factory. His first major client, in the early 1950s, was General Dwight Eisenhower, who wanted a custom suit as he was preparing to run for the presidency.

By 1977, his reputation and savings had grown so large that he purchased the clothing factory from the founders and renamed it Martin Greenfield Clothiers. Soon he was tailoring custom suits for some of the US’ biggest politicians and celebrities, from former US President Bill Clinton to Frank Sinatra. In 2009, GQ called him “America’s Greatest Living Tailor.” A year later, he got a call from the White House asking him to make suits for then-President Obama.

Martin Greenfield, among his many suits fit for US Presidents, Credit, Rabbi Levi Welton, for North Brooklyn News

However, the White House asked Greenfield to do so without measuring Obama, only using the suits from Obama’s current closet. Greenfield refused, writing later in his memoir: “Martin Greenfield does not copy anybody’s suits. Everybody copies Martin Greenfield’s suits.”

Soon Hollywood wanted the expert tailor too, and he was designing 1920s-era suits for the HBO series “Boardwalk Empire” as well as costumes for movies such as “Argo,”  “The Wolf of Wall Street,” and “The Great Gatsby.”

One of his most recognizable suits is the bright red suit and neon orange waistcoat worn by Joaquin Phoenix in 2019’s “Joker.”

After Greenfield retired, his sons Jay and Tod took over the family business but kept their father’s practice of manufacturing the suits by hand in Brooklyn. Greenfield’s sons announced on Instagram last week that their father had died at the age of 95 from natural causes. [editor: Mr Greenfield passed last month, March 20, 2024]

Despite everything the Holocaust took from him, Greenfield’s legacy lasts in his beloved Brooklyn factory.

Roca News © 2024

https://www.rocanews.com/

Editor Joe Girard, 2024

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Also:

https://www.jns.org/martin-greenfield-holocaust-survivor-and-master-tailor-dies-at-95/

 

 

Cookies in the Fields

Professional Baseball has had some highly creative owners in its history.  Some were showmen trying to improve fan participation and attendance.  Some wanted to improve the game.  Some left us with features that lived well beyond themselves, and have become integrated into American culture.

Bill Veeck

The first such owner who comes to my mind is Bill Veeck, Jr (1914-1986), owner of the Cleveland Indians (now: Guardians), St Louis Browns and Chicago White Sox.

New scoreboard at Wrigley goes operational

Veeck Jr had some ideas to help dwindling attendance in the Depression 1930s.  As a 13-year-old lad working for his dad (Bill Sr was an executive with the Chicago Cubs and eventually club president) young Bill dreamed up the concept of the outfield walls covered in ivy.  Ten years later, as a team executive (his dad passed away in 1933) he had the now famous ivy on Wrigley Field’s outfield walls planted.

Veeck had the also now famous Wrigley scoreboard installed in center field. Modified several times over the decades, it still carries that feeling of yester-year.  It’s been recognizable by every MLB fan for many decades. [It’s one of only two such hand operated scoreboards in baseball; the other is Fenway in Boston.]

In the ‘30s Veeck was the first to suggest inter-league competition.  He surely had an eye toward a Chicago northside-southside rivalry (Cubs, Sox).  That took decades to be accepted.

Ivy going in at Wrigley, 1937

Veeck Jr. served in the Marines in WW2 for 3 years, suffering an injury in an artillery accident that ended his military duty … and cost him his right leg.

Veeck Jr. still had baseball in his bones.  Now a recovered veteran, he took on heavy loans to become the controlling owner of the Cleveland “Indians” in 1946, aged only 32.  Here he’s remembered for signing Larry Doby, the first African-American in the American League. [1]

He also signed pitcher Satchel Paige. He was 42 years old!

Eddie Gaedel, shortest person to ever appear in a Major League Baseball game makes his only appearance.

After a sensational Hall of Fame career in the Negro Leagues, Paige had finally moved to the Majors; until recently completely “mayonnaise”. He’s still the oldest rookie in MLB history.   On the roster for fewer than two months of that rookie ‘48 season (the last two months, in the pennant stretch), Paige was starting pitcher 7 times, recording six wins against one loss, with a stellar 2.48 ERA, while also tossing two shutouts. And an opposition batting average of only .228. The Indians went on to win the World Series. [More on Paige later] Oh, by the way, the Indians set an attendance record that year, over 2.8 million.

Veeck sold the Indians and bought the Saint Louis Browns in 1951.  With low attendance and poor teams Veeck tried to work his promotional magic.  Most famously he signed (for one game) the 3 foot – 7 inch tall (or short) Eddie Gaedel to take one single At Bat.  Wearing the number 1/8 he walked on four pitches. [He bowed to the crowd as he waltzed to first base; he was immediately removed for a pinch runner]

Veeck also had a “Grandstand Managers Night” — Fans were polled to make decisions in critical game situations.  The promos all failed to achieve significant attendance increases.  In 1954, Veeck was forced to sell the team to a group of investors, who moved the team to Baltimore (renaming the team the Orioles).

A few years later Veeck bought the Chicago White Sox.  Here he originated shooting off fireworks after games. Under Veeck the Sox were the first team to put players’ names on their jerseys.  More stuff too: “exploding” score boards with fireworks after home runs, Disco Demolition Night (tix were only 98 cents; riots ensued, leading to a forfeit).

His son, Mike, didn’t fall far from the family tree.  Among other things, while running the Sox, he had a “Tonya Harding Bat Night.”  No kidding. They gave away “Tonya Harding Bats!”  She even appeared as part of the promo and actually signed baseball bats.  As owner of a Florida class A team, he scheduled “Vasectomy Night” … on Father’s Day.  Thankfully, the “promo” was cancelled.

Bill Veeck Jr is in the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame.

Charlie O. Finley

Better known, to me and my generation I suppose, is Charlie O. Finley.  He bought the Kansas City Athletics in 1960 (formerly Philadelphia A’s).  He ditched the traditional dingy grey and white uniforms for bright gold and green hues.  Considered garish at the time, many teams today sport bright, colorful uniforms. Although not every game.

Charlie’s favorite mascot: Charlie-O, the mule [photo credit SportsBroadcastJournal.com]

He also thought the team needed a mascot.  A mule.  Yep, a mule for a mascot. A real live mule. Maybe because they’re known for being stubborn <?>. He named it “Charlie-O” (after himself) and dressed it in the team colors. For a while, Finley had relief pitchers ride in on Charlie from the bullpen when they entered the game.  Fans loved it.  Lawyers and insurers not so much.  The mule remained, but riding it did not last long.

Mr Finley rides his mascot

The A’s had a horrendous season in 1965.  In that season Finley put a pitch clock on the scoreboard. He hoped it would make pitchers and catchers aware of how the time between pitches extended a game’s duration.  Didn’t work well then, but now in the 2020s it’s part of every game – as a rule, not a suggestion.

Two of his most memorable stunts came near the end of that miserable ’65 season. First, he had his shortstop, Bert Campaneris, play all 9 positions in a single game – one for each inning.

Soon after, Finley signed the aforesaid Satchel Paige, now 59 years old!  Paige, who would be voted into the MLB Hall of Fame just 6 years later, had not pitched professionally in 12 years.  And even that was at a very, very advanced age for a Major Leaguer.

On September 25, in his sole appearance that year, Paige strode proudly to the mound as the starting pitcher against the Boston Red Sox at the A’s KC stadium: Municipal Stadium. [2] Paige was magnificent, going three scoreless innings, allowing only a single hit.

In ’65 the Red Sox were also struggling, but it was no cakewalk for Paige: The Sox had Hall of Famer Carl Yastrzemski and slugger Tony Conigliaro. Only 9,300 attended the game.  [Yaz got the only hit, a double.]

In KC, Finley continually struggled with low attendance and poor performance.  He moved the team to Oakland in 1968, where they’ve been ever since. Well, for now, at least.

When the team moved, Finley kept the 1,200 lb mule; Charlie-O the mule followed the team to Oakland. [When Finley sold the A’s in 1981, the mule was eliminated as mascot.  The A’s reverted to their traditional decades-old mascot: an elephant.  But only on the logo.]

In Oakland the team achieved a three-peat, 1972-4, three consecutive World Series wins. Finley kept going with innovation.

More from Charles O. Finley:

Fans couldn’t see the baseball?  He proposed orange baseballs; even getting authorization to try them in spring training games.  The idea didn’t go far and never made it into a regular season game.

Game too slow?  Too boring? He proposed the count going only to 3-balls and 2-strikes.  The late ‘60s games had been dominated by pitchers and seemed boring to many fans.  He thought the 3-ball walk would increase scoring.  And to a quicker game. Tried in a spring training game, the approach led to a game with 19 walks.  Hardly entertaining.

Boring Schedule? Finley proposed interleague play in the early ‘70s (as Veeck had done decades before); this finally came to fruition in 1997, only a year after he died.  It’s been part of MLB ever since.

Rollie Fingers and his famous handle bar mustache

During the A’s great success of the 1970s slugger Reggie Jackson refused to shave his mustache.  Wishing to not appear as caving in to his star, Finley encouraged all the players to grow facial hair; at least one chose exotic facial hair, Rollie Fingers.  Most of the team joined in with their own styles.  The ‘60s had changed a lot of things.  People were eager to express themselves, and Finley allowed his players that freedom. [3]

He instigated Hot Pants Day and Mustache Day at the stadium.

He was also instrumental in getting the Designated Hitter into professional baseball.  I’m not a supporter, but this idea won over the American League — and the non-position “position” DH-role has been part of American League baseball since 1973.  Since Covid, it’s also in the National League (ugg).

It’s 1973.  Oakland resident Stanley Burrell was 11 years old and a baseball fanatic.  He was particularly fanatic about the Athletics (A’s) [that’s what “fan” means, it’s short for “fanatic.”]  He’d hang out in front of the stadium before games, dancing and even doing James Brown Splits getting the fans revved up as they came through the parking lot.  He had been emulating Brown and other performers for quite a few years.  His other hobbies included writing poetry and lyrics and music that he could submit for product promotional jingles.

One day Finley saw young Stanley dancing. He was quite amused.  So, he hired Stanley, as a lark, for the team’s executive vice-president position.   As exec-VP, he traveled with the team on road trips, doubling as the team’s bat boy.

After college Burrell tried to follow his dreams of professional baseball and communications.  He flamed out at both.  The US Navy offered stability, discipline and a salary.  He needed all three.

Long story short, after his 3-year military career, Stanley went back to his original passions: singing, lyric writing and dancing.  As he performed successfully more and more often, first locally then branching out, he took the nickname “MC” – for Master of Ceremonies.  Soon after he also took the name Hammer:  MC Hammer.

__________________________________________________________________

The last Finley innovation we’ll address is Ball Girls.  During a baseball game many balls are grounded foul, just outside the 1st and 3rd base lines.  This might occur a dozen or two times each game. The balls eventually hit the fan/field wall and roll or bounce along the wall, toward the outfield.  For many decades teams have placed a “retriever”, usually a teen boy, out along the line to pick up or catch these foul balls before they ricochet into the outfield.

Finley said he wanted more female participation in the game; but he was surely looking for more male interest too.  In 1971 he hired two striking local 15-year-old blonde girls as the first Ball Girls —   Debra Jane “Debbi” Sivyer and Marry Barry.

Debbi Sivyer on delivering for a cookie and milk break

They were fetching to behold, especially for males’ eyes, attired in short and rather tight white shorts (Hot Pants), tops of white, gold or green, and usually long stockings, often of A’s gold.  They were a huge hit.

Creative Debbi Sivyer began a cookie break for the umpires. She served them her homemade cookies with milk.  Sometimes coffee or water, too. Young Ms. Sivyer was passionate about her baking hobby; she’d been working on her cookie recipes for years.  She used the five dollar per hour ball girl wages to purchase baking supplies.

The ball girl thing died out pretty rapidly, a couple of years – the players’ wives started complaining. First Finley adapted by having the young ladies wear less skimpy clothes and white slacks.  Not enough. To keep “matrimonial stability” Finley phased them out.

No worries for Debbi Sivyer.  She was soon Homecoming Queen and graduated at 17.  While attending Foothills College, in the south Bay area, she met a successful businessman who had founded his own successful investment company, Randall Keith Fields.  They were soon married, he was 29, she 19.  She took his surname, Fields.  She became Mrs. Fields.

Her cookies were good.  Great. Everyone loved them. The possibility of a profitable business began to appear.  Starting slowly, by beating the pavement, alone, and word-of-mouth, she gritted out a profitable business.  In a few years Mrs. Field’s cookie business began growing and growing.  She ran and eventually expanded the business to many hundreds of franchises and about a dozen countries.

Despite Randy’s business acumen, he poo-poo’d the idea for the first several years.  He did get “on-board” the cookie team as its success began blooming, becoming  company chairman and bringing the Fields Cookie company into the computer age by integrating software and databases for planning and tracking building needs, inventory, ingredients and product delivery.  This was pretty important as the company was expanding rapidly.

Debi and Randy had five daughters before they split in ’97.  Debi was the visionary and creative spirit of the team. She sold the company in the early ‘90s for $100 million.  Not bad at all.  She remains their spokesperson.

Debi “Mrs Fields” herself

She’d had a dream and a plan all along.  And she made it work.

Debbi married Michael Rose a few years later after the divorce. He was the former CEO of Holiday Corporation, and later Harrah’s after it merged with Holiday – mostly managing hospitality and casino operations.  They remained wed until his recent death, in 2017.

Ball girls Marry Barry and Debbi Sivyer Fields remain friends today.  Debbi now resides in Nashville, TN; Marry in Pleasant Hills, CA.  They’ve been featured at A’s games on throwback days, even throwing out the ceremonial “first pitch.”

Thanks for reading.

Joe Girard, 2024 ©

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

 

Many of these characters have quite the collection of life stories.  Paige, Gaedel, Conigliaro, Yaz, Doby.  Even the ones mentioned at length here have much more.  But you get the idea.

[1] Indian Team Manager and Player Lou Boudreau took Doby around to meet his new teammates.  They were all eager to meet him and put their hands out for a shake.  Three players did not.  Veeck removed all three from the roster as soon as he could.

[2] In wonderful irony, or perhaps coincidence, the new Kansas City Municipal Stadium was built on the very site where the Negro League team Kansas City Monarchs had played – the team Paige played for when he made many of his significant successes in the Negro Leagues.  It’s about a half-mile walk from the Negro Leagues Museum, a must see for any fan. Next door is the American Jazz museum, and of course, there is great KC-style BBQ all around.

[3] There are other versions of this facial hair story.  I picked the one that seemed most likely and entertaining to me.  “I refuse to shave” is so Reggie Jackson.

By Any Other Name

By Any Other Name

Over the past 7 months or so, mostly while wandering through Germany, I have been ruminating on the similarity of last names, particularly between German and English names – particularly English surnames in the US.

Surnames, relatively speaking, are somewhat new.  They are much older in Asia, particularly China (where the surname is the first name).  Perhaps four or five thousand years ago they began attaching a maternal name in front of the personal name.  Marriage between people with the same matrimonial family name was strongly discouraged, sometimes outlawed.  Oddly, there seems to have been no concern with paternal lines, at least via naming.  Well, one always knows who the mother is; not always with the father.

Romans often had three names as well.  Gaius Julius Caesar, for example.  His given name Gaius, followed by the family name, Julius, and a sort of nickname, Caesar.  He did not acquire this because of his caesarean delivery; it was an old family name often appearing as the final nickname that would often be used to address someone personally. Russians are fond of nicknames as well, often formed from the given personal name.

Gaius Julius

Surnames came much later to Europe, starting in the late first millennium, progressing through nearly all regions by the mid-second millennium. One supposes it was necessary for censuses and taxation, property records, criminal records, debt records, etc.   In a region with far fewer first names than today, and with economies growing quickly and more interconnected, it could be quite a task to keep track of who owed what to whom with surnames (and middle names too)

In the Netherlands they didn’t fully arrive until 1811-14 after Napoleon Bonaparte decided to take personal control over the region.  He had taken it in 1806, and given the duty of ruling to his son, Louis; his heir did not meet his father’s expectations. The Corsican soon decreed that everyone take a surname. He was a man of order, if nothing else.

Many surnames were quite often based on where people lived, nearby topographic features, or – our concern here – their profession.   This seems to be most common among Germanic peoples, including the English.

Let’s start with a recently newsworthy name: the Wagner Group.  Over the past few years, few have not heard of the Russian mercenary army that goes by the name Wagner Group.  [1]

Curious, because Wagner (“vag-nur”) is a well-known German surname, for instance the famous German composer, Richard Wagner (all I can think of now is Ride of the Valkyries; “Ritt der Walküren“ — or “Walkürenritt .”  This name, Wagner, was the Nom de Guerre, of an early Wagner Group leader and co-founder, Dmitri Utkin, who was quite a fan of all things Nazi.

To clear up one thing, it is properly pronounced “Vag-nur”. It derives from the German name, and neither the Russian nor the German language has the “W” sound.  They say it with an English sounding “V.”

The name Wagner is also a profession. In English it would be “wagoner,” a person who drives a wagon.  Or, secondarily, a person skilled in making or repairing such things. (More often a Cartwright, see below)

Rub a dub, dub, three men in a tub …

Many surnames in both US English and German are similar in at least this regard: they tell us the profession of an ancestor.  Many names ending in -er and -man (and even -mann) fit this category. [2} The suffix -er can also be someone or something from a place.  [“Dollar” traces back to Thaler (or Taler) … some thing from the “valley.”  In this case a special coin minted in the St Joachim Valley.]

While my mind pondered this, I made a list of several dozen, eventually jotting down most (that I could remember).  We’ll start with the good old Butcher, Baker and Candlestick maker (last one is “Chandler” in English). Then proceed alphabetically where practicable.

They are listed below in both English and German. I hope I can remember all the names I thought of.  Most follow the -er, -man and -mann profession rule stated above.  I’m sure this list is not complete and contains errors.  Comments are welcome in that regard, as always.

English German Discussion
Butcher Metzger
Baker, Becker Bäcker, sometimes Pfister in south Germany. This also gives the English “Becker”, which is how Bäcker is pronounced
Chandler (no good equivalent) Candlestick maker.
Baxter (Bäckerin, not a surname, just translated) Baxter is the feminine version of Baker
Bauman, Baumann Commonly a fellow peasant, or fellow neighbor, especially Ashkenazi Jews, literally one who builds
Brenner A distiller; verb brennen is to burn
Brewer, Brewster Brauer Brewer of beer or ale.  Note the -ster denoting a female of same profession.
Carpenter Zimmerman, Zimmermann, Schreiner A z-man typically constructs large wooden items (up to house-sized), a Schreiner typically smaller, from toys to cabinets. On location I’ve seen some overlap, at least by my novice interpretation.
Cartwright, Carter Wagenbauer (rare) Skilled at making and repairing Carts, or Wagons. More common: Wagner.
Clerk, Clarke Schreiber Someone who creates and tracks written records (Schreiber – one who writes)
Cole, Coleman Kohl, Köhler One who works with coal or charcoal, or one who makes charcoal
Collier (see Cole, Kohl) Similar to above
Cook Koch
Cooper Küfer One who makes barrels, casks, storage vessels, etc
Dexter, Dyer Farber (occasionally Färber) One who dyes, particularly cloth.  Note:  -xter is feminine Dyer
Farmer Bauer Bauer is more commonly a farmer, could also be one who builds, see Bauman. In Afrikaans, it’s Boer; hence Boer War was a farmers’ and peasants’ rebellion
Ferrier Black smith, esp w.r.t. shoer of horses
Fleischman Fleischman (or -nn) One who works with meat, esp. a butcher
Fletcher (could be Fulcher, but that’s rather archaic) Maker of arrows, an arrow smith
Fowler Vogler One who hunts or catches birds
Fisher Fischer Self evident
Gardener, Gardner Gartner Self evident
Hoffman Hofman, Hoffer Literally one who works in the yard, or enclosed area, but usually courtyard.  So, it could also be a courtier.
Woodman Holzman One who chops or sells wood.  Could be others in the lumber industry
Hunter Jäger Also, Jager, Jarger, Yarger in US
Judge Richter
Kaufman A merchant. Literally: one who buys
Keller From Keller: basement (cognate cellar), Trusted steward of provisions, usually of significance, e.g.  nobles, monasteries
Kellner (var. of Keller) Or Tavern Keeper, wine server (from cellar), Waiter
King König Also, Konig, Koenig, similar to Kaiser (emperor)
Krüger, Kruger, Krueger A Krug is mostly used as a name for a large beer mug. A Krüger is a barkeeper – like my great-grandfather Frederich (Fritz) Vollmer, from Würtemburg
Potter Töpfer Maker of pots, usually earthenware or ceramic. Topf means pot, or vessel
Teacher (uncommon) Lehrer
Mason Maurer, Mauer One who builds stone walls or buildings
Mayor Meyer, Meier, Maier Generic municipal officer.  Could be mayor, bailiff, or steward. Historically Mayor/Meier is more appropriate (as we see from the obvious cognate). When I was a kid Milwaukee had a mayor named Meier.  Mayor Maier.
Miller Müller A mill is a place where work gets done (windmill, sawmill, grist mill).  A person who works in such a place. Also Mueller in US.  From Mühl, a mill.
Miner Bergman (-nn) Although Berg typically means mountain, it can also be a mine in some contexts
Priest Best as Pfarrer, Pfarr; although Priester is a direct translation Pfarr is parish, Pfarrer is parish priest or minister
Sawyer Sager, Säger Saws timber
Schumacher, Schuster, Schuhman, Schuhmann Shoemaker, cobbler
Shepard, Shepardson Schäfer And variants: Shaver, Schafer, Schafer, Schaefer: a shepard
Smith Schmidt A craftsman, usually metal – note does not end in -er or -man
Steiger One who climbs a path, often steep and/or narrow.  Or lives near one.  Rod Steiger
Tanner Gerber
Tailor, Tailer, Taylor Schneider Schneider is one who cuts. Here, cloth.  Also variants like Snyder, Snider in US English names
Thatcher Some who made/repaired straw roofs, thatch
Thrasher, Thresher Drescher Had a Thrasher teammate on my Senior Babe Ruth baseball team.  Grain processing.
Trader Handler Merchant, trader.  Handler has other meanings; I like this most.  Generically: one who gets things done
Weaver, Webster Weber Also Webber, -ster is feminine ending
Wine < ?, not common at all>
In English the name Wine comes from an old English word meaning “friend”
Weiner English “V-eye-ner”, Wein is wine.  Could be someone working in the wine industry, often a vintner. Older times:  a maker of wicker devices like fans and baskets. Or sellers thereof, or people from a region where this is a main profession. [3]
Wiener “V-ee-ner”, someone or something from Vienna. Wiener Schnitzel is a cutlet in the Viennese style.
Weller Bruner, Brunner Brun is the root for well, or a spring. One who worked with water, like acquiring it, or someone from near such a place
Wheeler Rademacher I actually know someone with the Radmacher surname; she’s in Saint Louis.  One who makes wheels, mostly for carts (Wagen)
Wright, Wainwright, Millwright … Wagenknecht [6], Wainwright could also be Wagner A wright is a craftsman, one who builds or repairs special things like wagons, mill gears, usually from wood. A wainwright is one who does this for carts (wagen). A millwright for a mill.
Zoller, Zöller Customs agent, toll collector (cognate: toll)

I see that I often used English too generically, as my text quite often is referring to American English surnames.  Sorry.

Joe Girard © 2024

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

 

[1] The Wagner Group is a for profit private army, almost always paid by the Russian Government.  As it’s not officially part of the government, this gives them “plausible deniability” regarding its actions; and casualties are not officially “Russian” losses.  They are still fighting in may places, like the Sahel where they are mostly fighting armed and disruptive Islamists. They are also fighting for Russian interests in in Libya, Venezuela, Sudan and Syria, and several other countries, usually also in support of the local government, or an alternate government that is fighting the one currently in power.

[2] “Man” is a person; “Mann” is a man.  “Wo kann man ein Bier kaufen?” Where can one buy a beer? “Wo kann der Mann ein Bier kaufen?”  Where can the man buy a beer?  Here in surnames-land it makes no difference; just the spelling.

[3] Wicker. Back in the day when Wicks or Wicker was a bundle of sorts, often woven, used to clean grain, by hand.  Could also be weaver.

[4] The Pfister family and Pfister plumbing fixtures company. Long family line reaching back to Württemberg, before there was a German nation.

[5] Surnames became necessary to track populations, legal contracts and record taxes. Consider the popularity of “John” and the possibility of dozens in the same general area.  To more fully discern they added Smith, Baker, Thrasher, Farmer, Wright etc.   There, fixed it (mostly).  Later came 2nd or middle names.

Middle Names: Started in Rome way back in the empire days, mostly among the elites, most often to more clearly denote ancestral lines. Came to Europe and began spreading in the 15th or 16th century, first among elites, then moving to lower classes. Now it also often designates some ancestral information: a mother’s or maternal grandmother’s first or surname, a parent’s first name, an ancestor’s first name, an important family friend or life influence.  In same regard, multiple middle names are used, and surnames are concatenated, joining two (or more) family surnames.  It may also be somewhat religious: forms of Mary, like Marie and Maria, can show a family’s devotion to the mother of Jesus – and may serve double duty with one of the reasons above. Same with Mohammed, John, Patrick, Isaac, Jacob ….

[6] Wagenknecht:  Interesting (to me) footnote. I know a woman with this surname. Simply a wonderful, lovely person. Wagen=cart.  Knecht is a worker or farmhand.

Etymological Roots: It’s someone who worked on wagons, or carts, like a driver or craftsman (Wright). Literally a Wagoner’s servant or assistant. Historically the German Wagenknecht family was renowned for the quality of their wagons.

The name Wagenknecht has recently sprung to prominence; it’s the surname of the woman leader of a new German political party (weirdly, partly eponymously named for her: Sahra Wagenknecht: the BSW). Their policies seem to be a concoction of Hard-left (draws from The Left party, Die Linke), Socialist (redistribution of wealth, equality of outcome), populist (anti-globalist, isolationist, as in “no support for Ukraine or Israel”), and hard right (anti-immigration – although this is also populist – culturally very traditional and conservative, and they fully reject anything that smacks of Wokeism).  Another flavor of right wing populism that seems to be sweeping  Some publications call them national socialists; National Socialist is the exact source of the abbreviated word Nazi (I guess this means they don’t like the BSW party.  The BSW is now, evidently, more hated than AfD).
Germany seems receptive to both parties. With AfD also growing in prominence, now the second most popular, expect the pair to soon upset German politics, and unseat the current wobbly coalition government of “Milquetoast Man”: Olaf Scholz; and possibly upset European politics overall.

 

Providence

Among Georgia’s geographic regions is the large expanse scientifically dubbed the Upper Coastal Plain.  Stretching from the southern border with Alabama, around Columbus, to the Atlantic Coast, around Savanah, it was formed over many millions of years and several geologic eras, extending back to the Cretaceous Period, up to 135 million years ago.  Each era left numerous individual layers of soil of different hardness and compositions, reaching a few hundred meters deep in total.

Georgia’s Lower (yellow) and Upper Coastal Plains (green)

Topographically, it’s generally gently rolling hills, gaining some elevation as it traverses northward toward the Appalachian piedmont.  There are a set of north-south ridges near its center, separating the Gulf and Atlantic watersheds.

The territory of Georgia was the last of the original 13 British Colonies, founded in 1732 by James Oglethorpe under the reign of George II (hence its name).  Although its statehood dates to the Revolution, the westernmost regions were not settled until around 1825, mostly by farmers seeking open land to grow cash crops, mainly cotton.

Three years later the city of Columbus was founded, its location along the Chattahoochee River providing commercial transportation for products, using the rather new invention of the steamship. [1]

Major Continental Divides of the US East

The land south of Columbus, like much of Georgia and the south, was substantially covered in Longleaf Pine, now also called Loblolly Pine.  New settlers came here in the 1820s and chose a fertile looking such area on a gently sloping hillside for their cotton acreage.  In 1832 they built a church, Providence Methodist, central to this new farming region.

Of course, the new settlers had to first clearcut all the Loblollies – and remove the stumps.  Seems like quite an ordeal.  Certainly, they would have used slave labor.  The Loblolly is a wonderful tree, growing tall, often over 100 feet, and very straight – perfect for building new lodgings.

Then they’d have tilled the soil before seeding.  Although the prepared fields were on a hillside, they never thought to terrace the land.  Combined with the clearcutting this was a very unfortunate oversight.

It’s a rather rainy area; average precipitation most months is over 4 inches, often falling in buckets over short periods of time from cloud bursts and thunderstorms.  Although precipitation is welcome to farmers, the large storm drainage volumes followed the terrain fall-line, or ran between the furrows closest to the fall-line.  Many fields were actually tilled with furrows running up and down the fall-line. Rapid erosion began within a few years.  Published reports of significant erosion first appeared in 1835.

Much of the earth a few feet beneath the surface was unconsolidated sedimentary in nature, basically sand. By 1850 the erosion catastrophe was out of human control. Long gullies up to five feet deep had formed; the erosion could only accelerate from this time onward.  Providence Church was moved.

Today the massive extent of the erosion has cut deep and wide into the formerly pleasant and wildlife-rich pine forest on a pristine hillside.  The canyons are quite the site for geologic wonder, they’ve cut deep into the earth, revealing the many layers of geologic eras long ago.

Erosion has now reached hard rock, some 150 feet deep; the deepening of the nine connected canyons has slowed. It’s widening has not.  Now at about 300 feet wide, its breadth is accelerating, and the perimeter widens ever more, now at about 3 feet per year in many places. Along the cliffs more and more chunks of soil calve off, tumbling down to the canyon floor, to be washed away to the delta downstream on the Chattahoochee-Apalachicola River system.  Native pines have not stopped the erosion – in fact they may have accelerated it.  Large root systems are slowly uprooted and fall to the canyon below, along with the full tree, ripping great swaths of otherwise apparently stabile soil.

The canyons took the name of the old Methodist Church; they are called the Providence Canyon.  The area is now a Georgia State Park.  The canyons and the rims are very walkable.  It’s a bit out of the way, but worth the visit.  We spent just over 2 hours there.

The Soil Conservation Act of 1935, passed mostly on account of the Dust Bowl also addressed issues like the Providence Canyon practices.

Joe Girard © 2024

See citations and resources below.

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

 

Canyon 6, Joe Canyon 7, 8 or 9, Audrey From a canyon rim

[1] Invented two decades earlier, the first major success of a steamboat in the US was Fulton’s, who had his own design for the idea.
Its first major successful trip was in 1811-12. This vessel of his design traveled the Ohio River from Pittsburg to its confluence with the Mississippi, and then to New Orleans.

Some resources:

Sanders, Sigrid. “Providence Canyon.” New Georgia Encyclopedia, last modified Jul 26, 2017. https://www.georgiaencyclopedia.org/articles/geography-environment/providence-canyon/

Kirkman, L. “Upper Coastal Plain.” New Georgia Encyclopedia, last modified Sep 1, 2020. https://www.georgiaencyclopedia.org/articles/geography-environment/upper-coastal-plain/

https://www.georgiaencyclopedia.org/articles/geography-environment/upper-coastal-plain/

Plaques and posters on display at the Providence Canyon State Park.

And of course, Wikipedia

A Cross fror Higbee

Lenah, circa 1918

Lenah Higbee, a life that deserves to be remembered

Originally Canadian, born May 18, 1874 (*1) in New Brunswick, Canada, Lenah Higbee (nee: Sutcliffe), immigrated to the US to attend nursing school at the New York Post Graduate Hospital [now NYU Medical], where she completed her nurse’s certification. She did further graduate study at Fordham University, in the Bronx and she also began her own private nursing practice.

In 1899 she met John H Higbee, a widower and retired Marine Lt. Colonel. They courted and were married that year.(*2) He was in service for many years, beginning in 1861, in the US Civil War.

Through marriage Lenah immediately became a naturalized US citizen, by laws at that time (which stood until 1922, when US sentiment turned largely anti-immigrant).  John was approximately three decades older than she.

In April, 1908 Lenah became a widow when John passed away.  They had no children, although it’s possible John had children from his earlier marriage.

The very next month the US Congress passed legislation to form the Navy Nurse Corps. It became law when it was signed by President “Teddy” Roosevelt.  On 1 October, 1908, Lenah Sutcliffe Higbee became one the first twenty nurses in the original Navy Nurse Corps (Historians call it The Sacred Twenty). Now widowed, she was unmarried, a requirement to serve.

The 20 were initially trained at Portsmouth, Virginia.  She soon earned the role of Chief Nurse at Norfolk Naval Hospital (Virginia), and in January 1911 became the second ever “Superintendent” of the Corps.

Over the next 11 years of her military career Higbee was never given an official military rank (unlike Major “Hot Lips” Houlihan) and was paid less than other skilled Navy professionals with similar demands.  Throughout the remainder of her Naval career, she carried the simple and non-military title “Superintendent”, an unofficial title (it is, however, the title of the commander of the US Naval Academy).

Superintendent Higbee

During this period, up until The Great War, she implemented universal training programs with demanding criteria to ensure Corps-wide competency in all situations.  She helped grow and train the Corps to nearly 1,400 nurses. Higbee was a well-placed powerful activist for military nurses, advocating for better pay, better working conditions and better recognition.  She served on many military and national medical committees, including the Red Cross, to help prepare for the Great War, in which America’s entry was appearing ever more likely.

In 1916 Woodrow Wilson was re-elected to the presidency under the slogan “He kept us out of war.”  That wouldn’t last long.  Just 10 weeks after the election, the Zimmermann Telegram was intercepted and de-cyphered by the Brits.  A month later the message was relayed to President Wilson, who then released the text to the US public. [the one-month delay, was because the Brits feared revealing that they had broken the German code.  Perhaps the first use of “Gentlemen don’t read each other’s mail”].   The Public outcry was enormous … and angry.

Coincident with the cable’s public release, the Germans resumed unrestricted submarine warfare; that included sinking unarmed ships of all sorts.

Thus, the US gave up on non-interventionism and, as of a Congressional Declaration of War requested by Wilson, April 17, was on the way to war: “Send the word over there: That the Yanks are coming.”  [By Year’s end, Over There made it to #1]

The military was mobilized, but not all that quickly – the US wasn’t really prepared; they didn’t have a large military with respect to Gross National Product at that time.  Recruiting was lagging, armaments and training were severely lacking.

But the Naval Nursing Corps was ready.  With Lenah Higbee acting effectively as Naval Nurse Chief of Staff, in charge of everything within the Corps, working long hours at the Navy Bureau of Medicine & Surgery in Washington, she managed the recruitment, deployment to hospitals and ships, matériel, and logistics of all Navy and Marine Nurse contributions to wartime healthcare.

During the war, the Navy Nurse Corps served on every combat ship, transport ship, and supply ship.   Nurses were also attached to the US Railway Battery in France.

Higbee’s nurses were also called upon to train the recently recruited Navy Corpsmen. About 350 in total.

The demands on Higbee were extremely challenging, made worse as the Spanish Flu pandemic (*3) that swept across the World (*4) and affected every nation of  the war’s belligerents; the flu hit US servicemen just as its battle casualties began mounting [The US Military suffered some 117,000 deaths in the war, twice the loss in Viet Nam, in just a year and a half, with half the population; this includes about 45,000 from the flu].

Corpsmen and nurses assigned artillery land-duty dealt with shocking human trauma of every sort: Shrapnel, blast shocks, piercing bullet wounds, psychiatric troubles (“shell-shock”, now PTSD).  Not to mention trench foot, vermin like rats, and gas warfare and STDs. And, of course, the Spanish Flu.

Higbee’s contributions were more than equal to any on the battlefield, or at sea.  Her tireless and steadfast devotion were instrumental in providing high quality healthcare to servicemen.  Success of the Nurse Corps, a vital component of the war effort, would not have happened without Lenah Sutcliffe Higbee. Her dedication and professionalism motivated not just the entire Corps, but all those working with and around her.

Her contributions were rightly recognized.  On November 11, 1920 (1st official anniversary of Armistice Day) she and three other Navy nurses — Marie Louise Hidell, Lillian M. Murphy and Edna Place — were the first women to be awarded the Navy Cross.  Sadly, the awards to the other three were posthumous – they had succumbed to the Spanish Flu, contracted from patients they had treated.  Higbee is, consequently, often regarded as the first woman to be so honored.

The Navy Cross

Thanks to the nurses’ and Higbee’s wartime efforts, which was carried on by their successors, military nurses were given official military rank beginning with World War II.

To this day, the Navy Nurse Corps continues to provide quality care to Navy Staff and families.  The memory of Lenah Higbee is held as an inspiration to all who serve.

Higbee retired from the Navy on November 30, 1922. Throughout her very distinguished career, despite the ever-present discrimination from the still male-dominated medical professions, she had maintained her dignity and service commitment. After retirement she filled her life with pursuits not possible during her service to the nation.  She eventually moved far from New York and Washington to central Florida.

  • The SS Orbita manifest shows her, as a widow, arriving at Ellis Island, New York, on May 23rd, 1924 from Cherbourg, France – with an address in New York City at East 76th Street (no bldg number); that’s in mid-Manhattan.
  • Another manifest, SS Dominica, shows her arriving February 2nd,1926 at Ellis Island from Trinidad and Tobago (then part of British West Indies).
  • She arrived in New York on June 23rd, 1935 from Southampton, England on the SS Statendam. Her Current residence now listed as Deer Isle, Maine. A remote island near no major cities. I surmise she moved to Florida after this trip.

    Lenah Higbee at 49, passport photo

She received her first US passport in September 1899.  I’ve found that she renewed it in December 1923; one of many renewals; in ’23 she was still residing at 55 East 76th Street, NYC.  When it was approved, her passport showed she had blue eyes — and a scar on her right wrist (injury?)

After retirement she also remained active in American health care.  She was involved in, and soon became president of, the American Nurses’ Association.  Among all her duties, she also campaigned for improved health care for all US residents.

Going back a bit … Because of the relatively close proximity to NY City, I will presume she attended the 1901 World’s Fair, in Buffalo. There are teasers that John may have spent some time here, although born in Manhattan. There, at that fair, many wonderous things were to be discovered; modern advancements in medical science were on display, including Roentgen’s X-Ray machine. Also exhibited were early manometers, improved stethoscopes, ophthalmoscopes, very early incubators, antiseptic techniques, and more.  President McKinley was assassinated there in September. [See this girardmeister essay]

Lenah Sutcliffe Higbee passed away from natural causes on January 10, 1941, in Winter Park, Orange County, Florida, at age 66 years. Like her husband, she is interred with full Military Honors at Arlington National Cemetery.  In fact, they are buried side-by-side –— Section 3, Site 1797.

Two naval vessels have been named for her Lenah Higbee.

USS Higbee, DD-806

The first, the USS Higbee (DD-806), was the first combat warship named after a female member of the U.S. military. It was commissioned in 1945, serving in Viet Nam and as part of the NASA Mercury missions Pacific Ocean recovery team.  She was decommissioned in 1976 and, I guess sadly, was sunk in 1986 as part of an aerial bombardment exercise about 100 miles west of San Diego.

The second, the USS Lenah H. Sutcliffe Higbee (DDG-123), was laid in January 2020.  It’s an Arleigh Burke-class* guided missile destroyer. It was christened in 2021, commissioned in May 2023 and due for official fleet entry later in 2024.

USS Higbee DD-123

Thanks for reading.

Joe Girard © 2024

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

 

 

L. Higbee at rest

Some final notes and linked sources

  • John’s data is scarce. He was born in New York, NY, 1840, and passed in Buffalo, NY, 1898
    In the 1840 census, a John Higbee (father?) shows up in Brooklyn with two children under age 5 and a woman (name? wife?) aged 20-30. If this is our John’s family, our John Higbee would then be a “Junior.”
  • Can’t find any marriage, birth, or fatherhood records. However, it seems that all boroughs were not officially joined into New York City until 1898. So, perhaps, this is not the “John” we are looking for.
  • They may well have decided to dwell in Buffalo after visiting the Fair (where McKinley was assassinated, Sept 1901).
  • When I saw the name Edna Place (Navy Cross recipient) I couldn’t help but think of Etta Place, of “Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid” fame, often considered the most beautiful woman of that era.
  • *For Colorado readers, Admiral Burke was a native of Boulder; The Burke school and Park are named for him. The school has been renamed Horizons Charter School
  • Tags in the text:
  • (*1) – Several Documents say 1873
  • (*2) – A very good guess is that John served in the 1st New York Marine Artillery Regiment. This regiment was first mustered in Nov, 1861, just after John’s joining, at age 17. Most 1st NY recruits were from New York City, his hometown. It’s also the only Marine group of any sort from New York state. Records show this group in combat, securing many ports from North Carolina up through Virginia.
  • (*3) – here I use pandemic, not epidemic. The former connotes worldwide; the latter something more local, as in epicenter.
  • (*4) – Spanish Flu: India lost 12 million, China almost 7 million to the flu. US “only” 675,000

Side by Side graves

[1] https://usstranquillity.blogspot.com/2012/01/echoes-of-navy-medicines-past-navy.html

Finding Lenah and John. Section 3

[2] https://www.worldwar1centennial.org/index.php/communicate/press-media/wwi-centennial-news/1198-women-of-world-war-one-honored-by-u-s-navy.html

[3] https://usnhistory.navylive.dodlive.mil/Recent/Article-View/Article/2686863/lenah-higbee-a-continuing-legacy-and-trailblazer-for-navy-women/

[4] Military Medicine, forgotten nurses, Spanish Flu in WWI — https://www.history.navy.mil/content/history/nhhc/browse-by-topic/wars-conflicts-and-operations/world-war-i/history/terrifying-experience.html#return7

[5] https://navylog.navymemorial.org/higbee-lenah

[6] https://usstranquillity.blogspot.com/2012/01/echoes-of-navy-medicines-past-navy.html

[7] https://www.taraross.com/post/tdih-lenah-higbee

[8] https://books.google.com/books?id=zoEfAQAAIAAJ&newbks=1&newbks_redir=0&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q=higbee&f=false
Page 126

[9] https://news.va.gov/113991/veteranoftheday-navy-lenah-s-higbee/

[10] https://www.worldwar1centennial.org/index.php/communicate/press-media/wwi-centennial-news/1198-women-of-world-war-one-honored-by-u-s-navy.html

[11] https://www.familysearch.org/search/record/results?q.anyDate.from=1941&q.anyPlace=new%20york&q.givenName=lenah&q.surname=higbee

[12] https://myokaloosa.com/bcc/lenahhigbee

[13] I also found familysearch.org to be very useful here.  See [11] for one such item.

Drive-Thru

Drive-Thu, or Road Trip America: Drive Through

Consider the Drive-Thru.  Probably no other phenomenon is more directly connected to three American cultural love affairs of the second half of the 20th century.

  1. Love of the automobile;
  2. Love for speed; and
  3. Love of convenience.

The “restaurant” concept of the Drive-Thru directly evolved from the Drive-In, and both were probably started in the 1920s by a chain of Texas restaurants called “Pig Stand.”  (and here). Like the Drive-Thru, the Drive-In restaurant was built to provide speed and accommodate cars and laziness, er, ah, convenience: waiters and waitresses, carhops, would zip back-and-forth from cars with orders, then return to the customers in their cars with the food orders, often on roller-skates. The tasks of getting to and from cars – for taking and delivering of orders – required extra staff and time.  Changing from Drive-In to Drive-Thru reduced the employee count … and was faster.

Pig Stand – probably the first drive-thru

Fast Food became even faster. Pig Stand moved west to the LA-area where the drive-in and drive-thu ideas were picked up by In-n-Out Burger. That was followed by McDonald’s, Jack-in-the-Box, and … well, the rest is history.  Drive-Thru is ubiquitous in the food serving industry.  [* With current trends, using the Drive-Thru at Mickie-D’s might be your best chance to interact with an actual person; however, you still have to keep your butt in the car]

In early 2020 the use of Drive-Thru food service got a big bump from the SARS-CoV-2 corona virus pandemic. (and here).

But it’s not just restaurants that provide fast Drive-Thru service.  It’s been applied for uses both common and unusual. We can use Drive-Thru at a bank, to get coffee, liquor, covid and flu inoculations and testing.  In some locales you can vote via Drive-Thru. There are also Drive-Thru legal, wedding and funeral services.  (although these are often labeled Drive-Through, not Thru.)

The market evolves to meet the demand of the consumer.

Starbucks Drive Thru (no hyphen) in Collingwood, Ontario

I wondered a bunch about the Drive-Thru lately.  Near our residence are two franchises that serve chicken in different ways. Both are extremely popular. So popular, in fact, that the concepts of “quick and convenient” are almost completely lost; their Drive-Thru queues are almost always so long that they back up beyond the drive-thru access lanes and out into the street.  With such demand I question whether it’s even economical for the customer. Still, it’s convenient and virus safe: patrons don’t leave their cars.

I also wondered why it is acceptable to spell it “thru” and not the standard “through.”  It has been spelled that way from the beginning (“convenience”) of the drive-thru, and it’s been used so dominantly that “Thru” (as in: Drive-Thru) is now the AP Style accepted form (although fuddy-duddies like Webster still prefer “through”).

[The spelling of “through” is obviously awkward – especially for non-native English speakers – and has a twisted history.  I’m considering going with “thru” for everything, even as a self-confessed traditionalist. In fact, “thru” is much closer to the original spelling, and obviously more phonetically correct.]

I further wonder if our preference for convenience and driving-thru contributes to our nation’s embarrassing weight issues.  42% of US adults are obese; 20% of adolescents. During the Covid-19 lock-downs the U.S. obesity rate went up 3%.

Still, I want to touch on the Drive-Through as well.  That is: why do we Americans – with our fascinations with cars, speed and convenience – simply Drive-Through those larger states with many straight-line boundaries – in Flyover Country?  Have we convinced ourselves that they are boring? Have nothing to offer? Are simply in the way? In the way of our accustomed speed and convenience?

“Oh, you actually drove to Chicago?  Wow, how long did it take?”

“About 14 hours.  There was a little construction along the way.”

“Must have been annoying.  Last summer we made it in only 12 hours.  Just stopped to pee and get gas.”

There’s lots to experience and see in Flyover Country, take it from Forbes.

We hear quite often that Kansas, for example, is flat and boring.  Simply not true on both counts.  Kansas has many rivers flowing thru it.  One is very significant: the Arkansas River (which does not rhyme with “Kansas River”).  All these flow downhill and generally from west-to-east, away from the Rocky Mountains and into the great Mississippi-Missouri river system.  And, as they each trace their own paths, they must be separated by hills and ridges.  So, obviously Kansas is not flat.  Chicago? Now that’s flat.

This many rivers shows that Kansas is full of hills, ridges and valleys

Kansas is only the 8th flattest state in the US, significantly outranked in the flatness scale by the likes of Florida, Louisiana and Illinois. [Astounding, but Colorado, with its impressive spine of Rocky Mountains is the 26th most flat state – owing largely to its huge expanse of prairie grasslands that comprise the eastern one-third of its land]

Kansas? Boring?  Plenty of history and sites, if one is curious and takes some time to not simply “Drive-Through.” With a clever play on words, Kansas bills itself as “The Land of Ahs.”

Learn about the life and times of one of the 20th century’s important leaders.  In Concordia visit the National Orphan Train Museum; learn about the hundreds of thousands of youths from east-coast squalor who grew up in clean air and agricultural villages.  About a steam ship that took off along America’s great inland highway (the Missouri river) with many tons of goods.

Vice-President Charles Curtis, 1929-33, Kansan and Full Kaw Nation American Native, first person of color in a US executive office.

___________________________________________

In 1856 the “side wheeler” riverboat SS Arabia embarked from Kansas City to make an ordinary river run, laden with over 200 tons of goods for the growing cities of Omaha and Council Bluffs. 200 tons is a lot. It included elegant chinaware.  Utensils.  Nails.  Champagne.  Evening gowns and night gowns. Pickles.  You name it, it was on the Arabia.

Upriver, where the Missouri forms the boundary between Kansas and Missouri,it hit a snag, reports were it was a sycamore tree.  Not uncommon.  Hundreds of river boats sank on America’s inland highways in the 19th century … along the Ohio, the Mississippi and others, as well as the Missouri.

The Arabia sank quickly into the mud with no loss of life.  Just those 200 tons.  Over the decades the river changed course and the Arabia, some 50 feet deep, ended up in a corn field over ½ mile from the river.  Four adventurers heard about the Arabia and set out to find her in 1987.  In 4-1/2 months they found her. They then succeeded in recovering nearly all of the product and a few parts of the boat (engine and bow) and turned it all into a simply amazing private museum located in downtown Kansas City (Missouri).

_________________________________________________________

A boy, the 3rd of seven born to his parents, was brought up in a small agricultural plains’ city “on the wrong side of the railroad tracks” in Abilene, Kansas.  His mother, a strong anti-war Mennonite, made sure he learned how to do a few things for himself before moving on in life: cook, sew, play piano, dance.  His life’s path took him to the US Military Academy. The path also led him to San Antonio, Texas, where he met a lass also from the heartland.  Her family had since moved to Denver, Colorado and thus started a great love story and one of the most perfect power marriages in history. He not only fell in love, but he also fell in love with Colorado.

You can learn all this and much, much more by visiting the boyhood home and the library of Dwight David “Ike” Eisenhower: the man who led the Allied forces to victory in Africa and Europe, and served two-terms as president while keeping the cold war “cold”, ending the Korean War, greatly reducing the size of our military and its expense, handling the press with cool blather, sending the military (101st Airborne) to integrate Little Rock Central High, while ignoring much advice to use nuclear weapons.

Boyhood home of Ike. On same grounds is the Eisenhower Library. Takes and entire afternoon to fully enjoy.

______________________________________________________

On a single afternoon side trip through Kansas, you can see the monument at the geographic center of the 48 contiguous United States (near Lebanon, Kansas); learn about the transport of hundreds of thousands of destitute and orphaned youth to rural America from the 1850s to the 1920s at the National Orphan Train Museum in Concordia; and even stop to see the world’s largest ball of twine in Cawker City.

Flyover Country has even become a vacation destination, especially since the Covid lockdowns.  Whether “driving through” or settling in one spot for a few days, you’ll find a lot to see and do, if you take the time.

A different side trip and you can see and experience the streets of Dodge City, the setting for Gunsmoke, one of the most successful TV shows in American history.  Then “get the heck out of Dodge”, while recalling that one of the show’s most enduring characters, Doc Adams, was based on the Kansas doctor, Samuel Crumbine.  He’s the first to promote flyswatters to kill flies in order to hinder the spread of disease (until him they were simply perceived as a mild nuisance); and many other public health movements to fight tuberculosis.  Can you believe we used (shared) public drinking cups until Crumbine preached against it?

Speaking of Ike, get off the main road (I-80) in Iowa just a bit and head to the town of Boone, to see where Mamie (with the bangs), the most perfect wife possible for him, was born.  Although “I like Ike” was a popular saying in the ‘50s, everyone loved Mamie.  Near Boone you can also learn of the heroism of a teen lass named Kate Shelley, and see the New Kate Shelley Bridge.

In central Missouri, wander a few miles off I-70 to the small town of Fulton to learn about another great leader of the 20th century.  In 1946 he gave a speech at a small college there; a speech from whence we got the term “Iron Curtain.”  The term was so important during the Cold War decades, that the school, Westminster College, built a museum honoring the man and his visit.  That man was Winston Churchill. It’s now the country’s National Churchill Museum.

Stirring stuff in fly-over country. There’s just a bit more space between all the sites than we’d like. Not convenient or fast. But fulfilling.

I hope that our cultural cravings for speed and convenience in both food and in travel have not become metaphoric for how we live our lives.  Are we racing from point to point?  Eager for professional advancement? To get to the next meeting, or soccer game, or community meeting? Everything on the clock? Even on vacations we tend to fill the day’s schedules full of things to do, see, eat. Rush, rush, rush.

I recommend taking the road less traveled and going a little slower, as often as possible. How? By simply not “driving-through” our lives, and instead by following the very old admonishment to “Take time to stop and smell the roses”, which is, in fact suppose, a metaphor itself (and a very good one).  Setting aside time in your life to enjoy and appreciate things small and large that are not connected to achievement and success has been shown to be very healthy.

Take some time. Go into the restaurant and meet some people, including the ones serving you.  They have lives and interests too.  Get off the main highway at the next roadside attraction; or just plan on going to visit a few.  Life is wonderfully full of special moments to enjoy if we’re not simply “Driving-thru” and “Driving-Through.”

Wishing you the best

Joe Girard © 2023

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Author’s notes (footnotes follow):

 

[1] Kansas is named for the Kaw Nation. (Which also goes by Kanza).

The Two Minute Warning

Two Minute Warning: An Essay in Two Parts

Bear with me here.  Part II builds from Part and is completely different

Part I

How they used to do it, in days of yore

From its origins, many decades ago, American Football still employs the Two Minute Warning.  Off the top of my head, I’ll report the basic idea and history of the warning.  [My brain might be foggy here.  I stopped watching NFL football long before it was cool to do so: stop.  I can’t see spending 3-1/2 hours watching a game with 12 minutes of action. The world laughs at us]. [1]

Long, long ago, on American football fields flung far and wide, there were no stadium clocks showing time remaining.  This was annoying for fans, players and coaches alike.  The head referee on the field, or member of the referee staff so assigned, kept the “official” time on the field.  This was performed for decades with a rather pedestrian wind-up time piece.  Pre-WWI this was likely done with a pocket watch with a man-in-the-loop faux timer function … or not. Oy veh!

Of course, in such a set-up, no one but the referee could know the exact official time.  This is significant at the end of each half.  Not as important in the 1st half, but crucial in the 2nd half, which is the end of the game. Imagine a team driving toward a winning score with a minute, or two, or three minutes left. The game suddenly ends.  Whaaaat? They absolutely must know the precise time remaining for efficient play calling.

Enter the Two Minute warning.  The game is stopped at 2:00 minutes remaining. The referee calls time out and walks to each coach and informs them:  “Coach, 2 minutes remain.”

Perceptions of time can differ among people experiencing the same things – even for the same person in different situations. Coaches on the sidelines would typically have their own timekeeper to inform them with a good estimate of how much time remains.

Anyhow. Enter the stadium clock. I don’t know exactly when this happened, it doesn’t matter much, but let’s guess early- to mid-20th century.

Good ol’ analog stadium clock. Probably in NYC’s Polo Grounds.

The sad fact is, this didn’t totally fix the problem.  Though the game had a timer, or clock operator, they could only made their best guess as to when the clock should stop and start, based on referee whistles and motions.  In other words: a SWAG.  At the two-minute warning from the time-keeping referee, the timer would re-set the clock to 2:00.  However obvious it might be, errors of a few seconds here and a few seconds there accumulated and the stadium clock began to drift away again.  By the time the two minutes are over, the game clock is not quite the same as the stadium clock.

Same problem, not as bad.

Successful technology changes and improves things.  At some point – doesn’t really matter when but let’s guess early 1970s – radio communication allowed instant synchronizing with the official time and the stadium clock.  Stadium clocks became digital; not just two analog hands rotating on a dial. When the clock drifted from referee-official-time we hear the ref say something like “Add 3 seconds to the clock.”

Great!! Problem completely solved.  No more Two Minute Warning needed! But … under the leadership of entrepreneurial experts, like former NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle, the NFL grew to become a colossal money generating machine.  One of the many ways they “exploited” the consumers and fans was to keep the Two Minute Warning, despite its uselessness with regard to the game. Its duration is usually of two-minute duration (don’t confuse the duration with the time it happens) – a free timeout for the trailing or driving team, by the way.   The NFL had grown addicted to selling that TV time to advertisers.

This is the time in a game when fans are most likely most glued to a TV – at home or in a bar – especially in a tight game. It’s expensive to advertise then. During the regular season 30-second ads during the 2-minute warning cost, SWAG, up to $1 million.  During the Super Bowl many times higher. This is very expensive to the advertisers and lucrative to the NFL.  (Actually, that TV time had already been sold to the TV network that had paid for the exclusive right to broadcast the game. Who then re-sold it.  But the general idea remained.)

So here we are.  A useless 2-minute warning that’s not needed at all.  Except to make money.

 

Part II

As the Two Minute Warning is now useless to the actual game of football, wouldn’t it be interesting to transfer a how-much-remains information spot over to some other arena of life, where it might actually be useful?

Warning.  Part II contains both oblique and somewhat humorous references to death.  If you or anyone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 988.  If under medical or psychiatric care call the provider immediately.

A football-based philosophic question comes up from time to time.  As the football Two Minute Warning was used to tell us how much time remained… what if we had an End-of-Life Two Minute Warning?

An angelic soothing voice hits the brain: “We thought you should know how much time remains. You are nearing the end of your earthly presence. At the end of this sentence, you have two minutes.”  Poof, gone.

Clarence the angel announces to George Bailey — not that his life is ending — but that he is there to save it. It’s a Wonderful Life.

Two minutes would, of course, be rather useless.  Even if you’ve used the two minute “free” time out and saved you unused time outs during the last half of life. Since it’s fantasy we should design a more ideal timing of the warning.

Circling back to only two minutes (don’t ya love how talking heads say “circle back” so often?  Rather replaced “frankly” and “at the end of the day.”  But I digress.)

What would you do?

Although imaginary, … what if?  What if a reasonably healthy person got the message?  You have two minutes.

Now, what would you do?  It’s kind of a Rorschach test, no?  Not a realistic question at all, so there’s no right answer.

Me?

Well, first I’m gonna apply “Football two minutes.”  It’s all fantasy anyhow.  The two-minute time out lasts two minutes itself.

I think I can get up to 6 minutes more if I take time outs.  With dead ball time outs, a bit more.  So, maybe up to 10 minutes.

In one last flash of luck, I’m home in the kitchen, and my wife is home too. There’s a nice bottle of tequila in the cabinet.

“Hey honey! Come in here quick!  Urgent news! Really, really Urgent.”

She enters.  What, what!?  I take a shot of tequila and chase it with a can of cheap American lager.

I’d make sure my wife had access to my file of passwords.  Big kiss. Sit on the couch.  Go through our lists.  Find the Wills.”

“I guess I’ll see ya on the flip side.”  Hug.

Look, no BA test

Send a quick prayer to mom, “Sorry for the late notice, but I might be dropping in to see you in a little bit; but maybe not, I don’t know how the process works from here. There’s no bus schedule.”

Then I hope the buzz kicks in (that’s why I did the shooter/chaser first) and hold on for the roller coaster ride, on the couch with Audrey, both trying to remain calm.  [Now if there’s a “Golden Gate” or “Pearly Gate?” If so, then I wonder: does Peter, or whoever, give a Blood Alcohol test?  Probably not, I’m just a ghost, right?] Then the ride starts.  Mom or dad, or someone already passed on who is emotionally close, shows up to serve as my escort.  Round and round it goes. Where it stops, we don’t really know.

Or better.  Let’s choose a bit longer period.  Two weeks, or two months.  Time to get your “poop in a group.” Finish that list, check off those items.  Stage a send-off party.  Indulge yourself.  Get right with your Creator, whatever you conceive them* to be.  Go through memorabilia. Select a mortuary. Then, as satisfied as you could possibly be, it’s off you go.  * [“Them,” since: who am I to presume a gender?]

May you all have a long, healthy, active life.  You’ll never get that warning.  Spend at least a few minutes every day like they might be your last.  Share your love, be generous, be patient, be kind. [2] Be at peace with the world, your creator, and yourself.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2023

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Author’s notes (footnotes follow):

[1] I hope some of my clever and sports-oriented readers noticed that I used a bear (Chicago Bear) picture next to the paragraph that bears the word “bear.”

[2] Based on Paul, Corinthians, 13.

Kate Chopin

The Women’s Convention of 1848, in Seneca Falls, NY, was an early major milestone in the US Women’s Rights movement. It was arguably the first. Two years later, in Saint Louis, a girl was born who would go on to become an unwilling icon of that movement: Catherine “Kate” O’Flaherty.

Catherine O’Flaherty was born, in Saint Louis, Missouri, in February, 1850, to an Irish immigrant father (Thomas) and a Saint Louisan mother (Eliza) of well-heeled lineage, including French-Creole [1] and Quebec ancestry.

_________________________________________________

Thomas O’Flaherty was born in 1805 in County Galway, Ireland.  Ireland had been ruled by, and oppressed by, England for centuries. He emigrated to the United States around 1825 seeking opportunity — before the infamous Potato Famine hit in the mid-1840s.  He settled in the country’s most prosperous and fastest growing heartland city, Saint Louis, Missouri.

Catherine “Kate” O’Flaherty Chopin, 1890s

He did well financially almost immediately. He ran a boat shop along the river and a small store. He expanded into cotton and grain trading.  Now entitled to rub shoulders with city’s oldest and wealthiest families he moved in the highest circles.  There, through arrangement, he met and courted Eliza Faris – she from a first class family in St Louis society, with well-established St Louis Creole roots.  On August 1, 1844 they were wed.  She was barely 16 at the time.  Thomas 38.

Eliza was his second marriage – this time an arranged marriage. From the 1850 census, we see a child George O’Flaherty, age 9 in the household – Eliza’s stepchild. Eliza is some 22 years younger than Thomas.  Besides George, Eliza, and several of her family, there are 2 more children: Thomas, age 2, and Catherine.  The later shown as 0 years old; she was born on February 8 of that census year.  Thomas’ profession in the census is shown as “Merchant.”

_______________________________________________________

At age 5 Catherine, now going by “Kate” was sent to a private Catholic boarding school, across the Missouri River, in St Charles.  There her studies lasted but a few months.

______________________________________________________

Thomas extended his business interests.  He saw opportunity in the nation’s expansion, and its need for more railroads.  He was an initial investor in, and one of the founders of the Pacific Railroad (later the Missouri-Pacific Railroad).[2]

Thomas and Eliza, circa 1845

In 1855, shortly after Kate was sent off to school, the Pacific’s first major line from St Louis to the state capital – Jefferson City – was finally completed after four excruciatingly long years of construction.*  The inaugural trip to Jeff City, the state capital, was to occur on October 1.

[* Excruciating long: it took only 6 years to complete the “transcontinental” 1,800 mile line from Omaha to the San Francisco Bay area. From Saint Louis to Jefferson City was about 110 miles of rail line].

Again, a delay … this time to complete a temporary trestle bridge over the Gasconade River, just west of Hermann and some 20 miles short of the capital.

Finally, the line was complete by the end of October.  A large freighter pulling a dozen Gondola cars, each with tons of gravel, traversed the entire line, confirming its safely.  It was good to go.

Eliza & stepson George, ~1850

November 1, All Saints’ Day, ominously the day after Halloween, the inaugural full-length passenger run set out. The train carried some 600 passengers; among them were dozens of St Louis dignitaries, including O’Flaherty, Thomas O’Sullivan, and Henry Chouteau. O’Sullivan was the Pacific’s chief Engineer, Chouteau a direct descendant of St Louis’ founding family.

At 9AM, after much fanfare, band music and speechifying, the 14-car train pulled out of the Seventh Street Station (just south of the site of today’s Busch Stadium, and under ½ mile east of where the landmark Union Station would stand four decades later). Pulled by the small but mighty 4-4-0 locomotive Missouri* the train made its way west through a heavy rainstorm, over many creeks and small rivers, mostly along the right bank of the Missouri River, toward the capital city.   About 25 miles from the route’s terminus, some 9 miles west of Hermann, the line crossed the Gasconade River bridge via the temporary mostly-timber trestle.

[* The locomotive had recently been re-named “O’Sullivan” after the engineer.  He was also a prominent St Louisan and member of one of its oldest families].

At 1:30 PM the train reached the Gasconade bridge.  A notion to stop and check the bridge was dismissed, as that heavy gravel-laden train had crossed the day before – with chief engineer O’Sullivan himself aboard that run as well.  Plus, it was raining hard and the train was running late for the scheduled ceremonies to be held in Jeff City.

As the engine and tender rolled onto the first of six 150-foot spans the bridge gave way.  Complete collapse. All cars but one left the track and tumbled down the thirty-five-foot embankment, most of them all the way into the swollen river.  A historic catastrophe. Among the 30 fatalities were O’Sullivan, Chouteau and Thomas O’Flaherty. [This line along the Missouri River is still used by Amtrak today. It’s called the Missouri River Runner.  The bridge has, of course, been replaced and upgraded several times].  Thomas is buried in Calvary Cemetery, in St Louis.

Trains were to proceed over the bridge by creeping at just a few miles per hour. The O’Sullivan “dared” to cross at over 10 mph. This was determined to be the catastrophe’s cause.

_________________________________________________________________________

This Missouri/O’Sullivan

Fatherless, Kate was returned home from school.  For the rest of her youth she was raised in a household led by only women, all strong matriarchs: her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother.  All had been widowed young, never re-married, and developed into fully self-sufficient, self-directed and independently minded women. They raised Kate to be likewise.  She was home-schooled, mostly by her great-grandmother, Victoria Verdon Charleville, assisted by her grandmother, Athenaise “Mary” Charleville Faris. They ensured she was well-educated, and that she was well-rounded, including extra studies in classic & contemporary literature, music and her ancestors’ French language.

After she completed what amounted to Elementary School at home – about the time her great-grandmother’s health began fading (she died in 1863) – Kate began attending the nearby Catholic Girl’s School, Academy of the Visitation, in St Louis’ Visitation Neighborhood around 1859.

Kate must’ve been quite the catch.  Handsome, well-off, well-educated, much attention was directed at her by local young men.  But it was on a family vacation to New Orleans where she met her future husband – Oscar Chopin.

These locomotive wheels were found at the accident site in the river 147 years later and are now on display at the Union Pacific Museum in Council Bluffs, Iowa. (The Missouri Pacific was acquired by the Union Pacific in 1982)

Chopin was also of French Creole decent; his surname is pronounced like the famous composer’s.  They were married in 1870. By all accounts they had a good relationship and loving marriage. This despite Chopin’s father having a notorious reputation as a tyrant with an irritable disposition.  Their relationship and marriage blossomed, and over the first 10 years of marriage they had six children.

Oscar held Kate in very high regard.  He admired her intelligence, creativity and devotion to duty, all wrapped in a free spirit.  He allowed her many freedoms not normally seen in the south.  She was involved in his business, managed many of his contacts, went unescorted in public, and dressed as she wished. Oscar praised her publicly.

After an extravagant honeymoon that took them across Europe they settled in New Orleans.  Following a few years of prosperity, Oscar’s cotton trade business failed due to a series of economic crises that struck the post-war South.  They moved to Natchitoches Parish, started a General Store and helped manage local plantations.   Although the store’s sales were healthy, Oscar was well-known to be excessively generous in extending credit to his customers, and then not bothering much with debt collection.

Buried in debt and struggling to support his family, the good-natured Oscar was under great pressure – to which he succumbed. In 1882, aged 38, he contracted “Swamp Fever”* and died after a period of brutally painful suffering.

[*a generic name for local diseases; it was probably malaria].

Kate was now a young widow, like three generations of women before her, at age 32, with 6 children and shouldering over $12,000 in debt (worth about $350,000 in 2023).  She took over the business and ran it well for two years. During this time, she shamelessly flirted openly with local men – not all were single.  Outrageous! She had a brief affair with a local wealthy plantation owner, Albert Sampite. (Although married, Sampite was estranged). He encouraged her to further reach for her own aspirations. He inspired her to boldly engage her imagination – something she’d do the rest of her days. It was a brief, yet exciting, liaison.  But this was all just too much work. Her life was too full, too busy. At her mother’s urging she sold the store, packed up and returned to her hometown in 1884. Permanently, as it turned out.  Saint Louis was home.

The main reasons for the big move were to get financial relief, emotional support, and help raising the children.  The support was short-lived, however.  Within a year of Kate’s arrival Eliza fell ill.  When she died Kate was alone again.  [Phone book records show them living at 1122 St. Ange Ave, in the Peabody Darst Webb neighborhood]

Through her mother’s illness Kate fell into a depressive funk.  The doctor who attended to her mother through failing health, Dr Kolbenheyer, noticed Kate’s struggles. He recommended she try writing for solace.  When Eliza died, Kate did start writing.  Oh, how she could write. She wrote about what she knew.  She was almost immediately successful, writing about people and things she knew about and had seen in Louisiana.  With her inheritance and money she earned from writing she was pretty well-off.  Enough to support herself and her children. She moved to a very nice home at 4232 McPherson Ave, in the Central West End neighborhood.

Inspired by this success, she tried writing novels.  By the later 1890s she was well-known nationally and famous locally.  She had hundreds of articles and short stories published, as well as novels that critics reviewed highly.  In 1897 she embarked on writing her pièce de resistance: The Awakening.

After two years it was complete. Published in 1899, The Awakening caused quite a stir.  Briefly it’s about a woman, Edna Pontellier, who is married to a wealthy businessman in New Orleans.  She feels trapped in her life and hemmed in by the expectations of a wife and mother in the old south.  She seeks independence and self-discovery.  She seeks, and finds, her own desires – outside the bounds of polite society’s expectations.  Her desire includes enjoyment, which includes sexual pleasures.  The rest of the story is about the conflicts and crises that arise as she finds fulfillment of those desires. In the end, it’s a tragedy.

It was a scandal!  In mixed reviews most critics found it disturbing.  Readers thought the same. Shameful. Immoral.  Outrageous.  Women don’t do that!  And if they do, we don’t write about it.  Feminists praised her as a hero.  Feminist “Hero” was a mantle she never accepted.  She was just a writer.

The result? Chopin’s writing career crashed. Publishers eschewed her work. Copies of The Awakening were stashed away in unlit corners of libraries and homes.  She was largely forgotten. Even by feminists.  A decade after her death, her works were briefly re-considered, and some critics, like Fred Lewis Pattee, began considering her among the best writers of the late 19th century. Alas, her works soon again drifted into the realm of cob-webbed dust-covered attics.

Her works lay largely dormant and forgotten until after the mid-20th century when scholars, many of them feminists, re-discovered The Awakening. It’s now held in high regard as an early classic of feminist literature.  It’s widely studied and celebrated for its exploration of themes like repression, gender roles, identity, sexual awakening, and women’s individuality and freedom.

Authors and readers since have been inspired by Chopin’s female characters.  Two popular and very successful novelists of our era who nearly always include female protagonists who face challenges and grow to become heroic figures are Kristin Hannah and – gasp, a man! – Ken Follett.

________________________________________________________________________

Excitement for Kate.  Her hometown, Saint Louis, hosted the 1904 World’s Fair. The main entrance was just two miles from her home in the Central West End neighborhood.  Instead of going to see the world, the world had come to her: a perfect fit for her hungry and inquisitive mind.  She bought a season’s pass and delighted in roaming the grounds –  a nearly 1,300 acre expanse with over 1,500 buildings, 12 Palaces and a mile of Pike with curiosities of all sorts,  all connected with 75 miles of roads and walkways  –  to learn of countless technical and cultural advances in the world.

A Saint Louis native, she certainly had already experienced many a warm day with oppressive humidity. Most Fair visitors that summer remarked on this unpleasant “feature” of Midwest weather.  In the late morning of August 19, a huge storm system developed over Kansas, then moved slowly east.  The intense storm dropped two inches of overnight rain on Saint Louis – much after midnight –  before drifting east, dumping buckets all the way to Buffalo.

The next day Kate was at the Fair again. The heavy rain had driven the humidity to the point of being nearly unbearable in the 87-degree heat. With so much to see and learn, Kate soldiered on. In the afternoon she began feeling very tired and woozy.  She began feeling faint.  Then she passed out.

She was taken home. Victim of a cerebral hemorrhage.  She passed away in her own bed, two days later, age 54.  She is also buried in Calvary Cemetery and Mausoleum, St Louis, near her parents.

A legendary figure in Saint Louis history, literature and feminism, Kate Chopin aspired, achieved, and inspired many.

Thanks for reading.  I enjoy sharing almost forgotten history from my own perspective.  Be well. Be like Kate Chopin. Color outside the lines. Live your dreams. Aspire. Be you.

Peace,

Joe Girard © 2023

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Author’s notes (footnotes follow):

Note 1: Many will wonder, after reading this, whether I am a “feminist,” or not. My position is nuanced, and largely depends upon how one defines the term. First the affirmative.

I am a feminist in a practical sense. No society can reach anything close its full potentional in areas of human progress – economics, arts, philosophy, or technology – while restricting the participation of one-half of its population. Yes, I’m a feminist insofar as that means fully empowering all of the population to contribute to society … legally and without infringing the rights of others. Everyone has something to contribute to society … as they see fit. This is consistent with classical liberal philosophy.

And the negative. I am not in harmony with fringe opinions attributed to “feminists.” These include notions of “male toxicity”, “all heterosexual intercourse is rape”, destruction of capitalism, attacks on trans-woman as they’re perceived to be “hogging” their victimhood spotlight, banning religions with a patriarchal history, renaming anything with the sounds “her, him or his” in the word: e.g. Hurricanes become Him-icanes. In any case, much may all be well on its way to history’s dustbin as women in the US now earn 38% more college degrees than men at nearly every level. This last point is very interesting – perhaps a topic for another essay.

I might have uncovered some disagreement here. OK. Tribal rules don’t care about nuance.

Note 2: As many of my readers reside in the St Louis area – and I’m hopeful more will join as I often write essays with St Louis themes – I have included reference to the St Louis neighborhoods, streets and addresses so that they can place events in the region.

[1] The term “Creole” has many definitions. Herein I use it to refer to those who trace their ancestry to Europe, of French and/or Spanish ancestry, often mixed with black. This ancestry often goes back to upper classes or upper-middle classes, whether the status was attained in Europe or in the New World. Most of these Creoles do not speak “pigeon English” and are definitely not Cajun, which is a unique Louisiana background and culture altogether – although in some parts of Louisiana they overlap.

It appears that O’Flaherty’s first marriage was also to a society St Louis Creole, named Catharine Reilhe. They wed in November, 1839. Catharine was born in 1819, in St Charles, and passed in 1846. It’s likely that Kate was named for her. His son from his first marriage, George, was born in 1841; he died in 1863. As with most of the O’Flaherty and Chopin family he’s buried in Calavary Cemetery, St Louis. It seems he died in Arkansas, as a member of the Confederate Army, as a consequence of the Battle of Prairie Grove, December 1862, in Northwest Arkansas.  As Saint Louis, indeed most of Missouri, was very fractured over slavery and the Confederacy.

Reihle sounds like, and is, a name of Germanic origins — mostly Austrian, some from Württemberg.  As multiple sources state she’s from a Creole background, I suspect this is either due to interpretation, or something acquired by ancestral marriage, separate from her maiden surname.

A much abbreviated list of sites for resource, plus there was familysearch.org, a great free resource.
https://digitalcommons.pace.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1002&context=research_awards
https://journals.ametsoc.org/view/journals/mwre/32/8/1520-0493_1904_32_357b_lsaslm_2_0_co_2.xml
Kate Chopin
https://www.stltoday.com/news/archives/nov-1-1855-a-bridge-disaster-derails-st-louis-dream-for-a-transcontinental-railroad/article_b7f82a8b-90b6-56a8-88fd-da1e93c31d54.html

Looking back at election 2022

The 2022 mid-term election cycle brought some interesting results.  I mentioned a while back that I’d take a look at those results, with the perspective of hindsight and some data.  I’m here to deliver.  There’s a little math.  And some commentary.

In 2020 the nation conducted a nationwide census.  Based on those numbers all legislative and congressional district boundaries were redrawn.  [Well, not all.  A few states have only one Congressional seat]. These boundaries last 10 years, until the next census.  There’s usually a lot kvetching when states roll out their maps.  So that’s my main goal here: to objectively assess the district boundaries.  How well are the voters’ desires reflected?  Or, how badly are things gerrymandered?

A preliminary statement of the obvious. Gerrymandering does not affect presidential elections, or US Senate elections, nor any statewide election, such as Governor.

On a national level, it only affects the lower house of Congress:  the House of Representatives.  [It also affects states’ legislative districts, but that’s outside this essay’s purview.]

With that out of the way, let’s start at the very top level of the 2022 nationwide results.

Of just over 107 million votes cast for Congressional Representatives on November 6, 2022: 47.41% were for Democratic candidates; 51.56% went for Republicans; 0.54% for Libertarians; and 0.50% for sundry candidates of other parties.

When all the smoke had cleared and the dust settled, the final makeup was 213 Democrats and 222 Republicans.  Or 49.0% to Democrats, and 51.0% to Republicans. Overall, I assess this to be a very fair representation of the nation’s intent.  That’s overall.  There are some incongruent results on a more granular — state-by-state — level.

First, some caveats.

  • (1) Some states, most notably California and Washington, only permit two candidates on the November ballot. [Each state does have their own election rules].  In six California races there were two Democrats, and no Republicans on the ballot.
  • (2) Across all states there were 35 uncontested races in November.  In those, the unrepresented party obviously received zero votes (there are always a handful of 3rd party write-in votes).  Of these, 23 had only one Republican candidate, and 12 a Democrat.  [The Washington Post, and others, contend that this cost Democrats the national vote — as if that matters.  But there’s a reason no one opposed the single candidate: everyone knew the candidate was sacrificial and would garner few votes. Case dismissed].

The upshot of the caveats is that the November vote tallies can’t precisely reflect voters’ intentions by using simple ratios — at least with respect to parties they favored — as some voters were not able to cast a vote for a candidate of a party they preferred. Accepting that this puts some noise in the data … we forge ahead.  Nothing is perfect.

[So, for the top level, I assess that the allocation of seats by party tracked the electorate’s preference amazingly close.  Much closer than I’d expected.  See?  I’m wrong sometimes.]

Applying the same algorithm* as in my essay Mr. Gerry, I found the following the states to be the most egregious in mis-representing the voters’ intentions in the allocation of CD seats by party. {* see afterthoughts, below}.

________________________

 

State Bias Favoring
California 8 DEM
Illinois 5 DEM
Massachusetts 3 DEM
Connecticut 2 DEM
Florida 2 REP
Georgia 2 REP
Indiana 2 REP
Iowa 2 REP
Maryland 2 DEM
New Jersey 2 DEM
Ohio 2 REP
Oklahoma 2 REP
Tennessee 2 REP
Washington 2 DEM
Wisconsin 2 REP

________________________

On net, summing the entire table for all 50 states, the nationwide results of the election compared to my “fair” model show a +2 bias for Democrats, a -1 for Republicans and a -1 for Libertarians.

(Libertarians lost a possible seat in Texas in 2022.  Per 2020 presidential CA vote results, where minor party candidates received votes, and per my model, Greens and Libertarians would have received a seat.  However, the CA November election run-off model eliminated all 3rd parties).

The two states with the largest biases, CA and IL, were predictable.  Each has many Congressional Districts (53 and 17), and statewide they are overwhelmingly governed by one party.

Illinois, entire state CD map

The absence of Texas on the list (38 CDs and mostly led by one party), and often pointed to as an example of extreme gerrymandering, is somewhat of a surprise. Observers have long bemoaned their districting map, including the esteemed Brennan Center on the current map.  They make some good points.  But Texas awarded 13 of its 38 seats (34.2%) to the minority party; statewide the Dem candidates garnered 34.7% of all votes cast.  A pretty good match. The bias in TX turned out Dem +0, Rep +1, Libertarian -1. Is there some gerrymandering in Texas?  Almost assuredly (see Brennan), but you wouldn’t notice by the bottom-line statewide results. In fact, the Texas results are so very close to the actual statewide tallies that one could argue that all the districts which appear gerrymandered are made that way to get a good balance in the result. [1]

Also, a bit unexpectedly, New York is not on the most-biased list (it came in at +1 Dem).  Republicans won 11 of New York’s 26 seats, or 42.3%.  Statewide Republican candidates received 41.5%.  A fair result. [2]      [yeah, yeah, George Santos, I know]

I suppose one could use these results as a sort of proxy to determine how much any one state might be gerrymandering.  That’s a tough call more than you’d think. Another proxy might be the bias as a percentage of any state’s total CDs.  For example, if a state has 6 CDs and statewide votes suggest a 3-3 split, but it ends up 5-1, then that’s a mis-allocation of 2 out of 6, or 33%.

Judged this way (for states with 3 or more CDs) the top mis-assigners are:

  • Iowa 50%;
  • at 40% are Connecticut and Oklahoma;
  • at 33% we have New Mexico and Massachusetts.
  • Illinois comes in at 29.4%.
  • And a few at 25%:  Arkansas, Kansas, Maryland, Nevada, Utah, Wisconsin.

As most in the list have only a few CDs, it’s difficult to determine a consistent gerrymandered bias. California, even with its large overall +8 Dem bias, is only 15% off, since it’s so large. In the largest states on this list, Illinois and Maryland, maps are mixed on suggesting any strong bias in district boundaries.

Illinois CD 13

I don’t want to dig too much into the states. There are 50 of them, and that would take quite a while. Maybe later.  But Illinois, the land of my birth, and the Cook County Political Machine, piqued my interest. How could the “Land of Lincoln” lose a seat and then get even more imbalanced?  [OK, OK, I know.  Richard “Boss” Daley has been dead a long time, and his machine has all but expired — but still: Cook County].  From the 100,000 foot level, the Illinois map (above) looks pretty even handed … with two exceptions (CD 13 and 17).   At a more granular level, some other stats stand out: there are 11 total CDs in and near Cook County (Chicago). All 11 went to one party, as did CDs 13 and 17.

I’ve discussed some other states before.  Maryland’s districts look much more reasonable since the recent redistricting.  Which goes to show that unbalanced results can result even when no gerrymandering is apparent from gazing at the CD boundaries.

Illinois CD 17

Some states have recently taken district boundary drawing out of the hands of (often very partisan) legislatures. Supposedly independent commissions drew the boundary lines. It looks like mixed results.  In a few (Colorado, Michigan) the results turned out exactly fair.  In others (Arizona, California, Washington and even New York’s first cut) missed the mark by non-negligible amounts. Which shows how difficult the task might be: both choosing fair “independent” teams and then actually drawing fair lines. [3]

A few years ago I wrote about racism in America.  Yes, there’s racism. Of course. Undeniable. It’s horrible.  It’s repugnant. Yet it’s not as bad as we are led to believe. Look where we’ve come in 60 years. Same with many things.  Bad things aren’t as bad as we often think; and good things aren’t as good (or lasting) as we like to think.  I submit it’s the same with gerrymandering — or at least with CD boundaries drawn so that voters’ interests aren’t fairly represented.

In 2022 the results look to much more fairly represent citizen’s intent than I thought when my research began a few months ago.  Maybe we just sort of got lucky with most bias effects more or less canceling out.  People will continue to kvetch, no matter what.  I tried.

Weirdly drawn boundaries aren’t in and of themselves evidence of such unfairness. And clean looking boundaries are no guarantee against it.

Look to the numbers first. Look fishy? Then look at CD shapes.  Double sniff test. Top level and at most state levels the results this time around were pretty fair.  Demographics change, and we are “stuck” with these boundaries until the 2032 elections.  Maybe I’ll be around then to reflect on how well the boundaries held up in representation fairness.

I am cautiously optimistic that, with states trending toward independent commissions to draw the lines and with state courts growing more willing to strike down blatantly unfair lines, we’ll continue to trend to even more fairness in the decades ahead. [4]

Well, we can hope.

Peace.

Joe Girard © 2023                                   — notes and afterthoughts below

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Notes on my election fairness model below, after all footnotes and maps.

[1] California and Illinois lost one CD each due to the re-apportionment after the 2020 census.  Texas gained 2 CDs. Sometimes people “vote with their feet.”

[2] the New York legislature submitted a CD map whose boundaries that were deemed a “brazen gamble” by the New York Times. In fact, they were ridiculous. These were judged to be unconstitutional by the state’s supreme court.  A court appointed ‘special master’ drew a set of much more competitive (and fair, based on results) districts.

[3] Both Washington and New York allow the state legislature to override the independent commission suggestions.  In New York, they did; and failed, as mentioned. In Washington, the commission failed to submit a map by the required deadline. It was drawn, just not submitted.  A bookkeeping fiasco.  In the end, the Supreme Court ruled that the commission’s map, even though submitted late, shall be accepted.  It’s impossible to call it a gerrymander, even though, based on statewide party vote tallies, the results would be different by 2 CDs.

[3a] The CD map of Massachusetts looks relatively benign.  Yet it yielded a

Massachusetts CD map not ugly, still results in 9-0 “split”

9-0 split, all for one party, despite any fairness models which would suggest 6-3, or at worst, 7-2. [see below]

[4] The US Supreme Court has declined to take cases of unfair CD boundaries.  This, they assert, is a problem for the states to sort out.

Maryland CD map; not nearly as contorted as before.  But yields the same bias as before. I ragged on Maryland before for the insane CD shapes.  They fixed the shapes, but not the bias.

[5] Afterthought: a reasonable way to address the representation fairness issue is to add more resolution to the districts by drastically increasing the number of Congressional Districts (and seats).  The number of representatives has remained essentially unchanged going back to our nation’s beginning (it’s grown only as states were added).
In 1900 each District had an average of 191,000 residents.  In 2020 that grew to 761,000.  It’s absolutely impossible to draw districts completely fairly when they each must have the same number of residents (in the same state) when there are so few CDs allocated.
I don’t know (or really care) if the chamber can hold more than 435 people.  I assume so, as joint sessions get an extra 100 in there.  Plus, many many representatives are not in the chamber for most sessions.

 

Notes on Joe’s CD election model: My model explained, by example.

Suppose a state has 10 CD seats to assign.  Party A gets 52.1%, Party B 43.1%, Party C 4.1% and the rest 0.7%.  We begin by multiplying the percentage for each party by the number of seats available.  Then we strip off fractions, using only whole integer numbers.
A) 52.1% x 10 = 5.21
B) 43.1% x 10 = 4.31
C) 4.1% x 10 = 0.41

Round 1: Party A gets 5 seats.  B gets 4.  That’s 9, there is one seat left over.

In our simple example 10% equals one full seat.

Subtract away from A and B what has already been awarded.

A is left with 2.1%, B with 3.1% and C is still at 4.1%. So, C gets the final seat.

Repeat until all seats are awarded.  So, in our example, if any further seats remain, C then loses its 4.1% (it’s been assigned a seat).  And the next seat, if available, would go to B. (3.1% > 2.1%).

It’s simple, elegant, easy to apply and – this year anyway – seems to have given a pretty good unbiased look at the results. (My assessment on how “unbiased” it is, well — that’s probably biased). Also, it’s not all that different than how the states are allotted CDs to begin with.

Ernest M Criss

Ernest M. Criss was born on September 24, 1880, in Lawrence, Kansas. He was the second child of Swaze and Minerva Criss.

Ernest Criss, circa 1900

In 1898, when the Spanish-American War broke out, Ernest enlisted in the US Army and served in the Philippines with the 20th Kansas Volunteer Infantry. Although the war ended by the end of that year, Ernest did not immediately return home. Instead, he joined other veterans to volunteer to fight on the side of the Boers in South Africa. He was shot in the shoulder soon after arriving but, after healing, remained in service until the end of the war in 1902.

Upon learning of the need for security at the upcoming 1904 World’s Fair in Saint Louis, and their desire to employ mostly honorably discharged soldiers from the Spanish-American War, Ernest signed up to serve in the Fair’s Jefferson Guards. He left Lawrence for Saint Louis in March 1904, arriving in time for training and to get fit for his uniform.

He served the Fair well until November 11 when, ironically, his assigned beat had him at the Boer War Exhibit (daily reenactments of key Boer War battles). A quarrel between a Boer and a Brit named John Backhouse turned into a violent scuffle. Criss charged in to break up the fight, but soon found himself entangled in the donnybrook, … and in danger. Ultimately and sadly, he shot Mr. Backhouse in the abdomen, resulting in his death two hours later. Mr. Backhouse was a newlywed, having met another fair employee, Kitty Tatch, on the fairgrounds that summer and marrying her soon thereafter. [1]

Boer War Reenactment Program (one of many formats)

Criss was arrested and detained to await action by the coroner. Two weeks later, a coroner’s jury exonerated him, determining that he had shot Mr. Backhouse in self-defense. [The Jefferson Guards were not generally issued firearms, but they were allowed to carry their own.]

The Spanish-American War had a significant impact on the US. The victory liberated Cuba (the main goal) as well as Guam, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines from Spain. The US kept Puerto Rico and Guam as strategic territories, while setting Cuba and the Philippines on the path to independence. The Army and government administration staff were required to support, protect, and guide the Philippines, and Ernest re-enlisted and went over to help. He only occasionally returned home over the next few decades — to renew his passport and visit his family.

Along the way Criss met and married a Filipina named Isidra Quintos.  They had five children together, all girls. Isidra died in 1929.

Criss’s military record kind of dries up around 1919, yet he remained in Manila. I assume he left the military (age 39, and perhaps already having about a 20-year career). It seems he went to work for the US Government, helping the Philippines set up their government administration.  Ernest served in the Philippines until December 1941— December 8 to be exact — when the Japanese launched their surprise attacks all across the central and western Pacific Ocean. [2]

Ernest joined many Americans and Filipinos who fled to the Bataan Peninsula. They held out against the army of the Rising Sun until April 9, 1942. That’s when they ultimately surrendered, and the notorious Bataan Death March began. Ernest, weakened by the privations of months in the jungle at the age of 61, did not even survive until the end of the March’s first day. Unfortunately, his remains have not been found.

Peace,

Joe Girard © 2023

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] (a) At least one newspaper source has the incident occurring when Criss was off duty, at around 4:30 PM.

(b)Among the reenactments, the Battle of the Transvaal was reenacted twice daily on a 15-acre for the War exhibit.  The Spanish-American War was represented also, with daily reenactments of the Battle of Manila Bay.

[2] Note that the Day of Infamy, December 7, was December 8 in the Philippines. Dateline.  The surprise there was nearly coincident with Pearl Harbor, occurring just a few hours later as dawn approached, as well as Wake Island, Hong Kong, Malaysia, and Midway.

Military record.  Sparse, but there are muster rolls that one can scroll through, if one has time.

[3] Boer is Afrikaans for farmer.  Closely related to the German word: Bauer.

Author notes: Back story: while perusing very old newspaper clippings in the reference section of the old and extraordinarily beautiful St Louis downtown library I came across the faintest thread of this story. Intrigued, I dug for more when I had time.  Then: I dug and dug and dug. Getting anything close to a full story was quite an adventure. This story has almost completely faded into history’s mists and fogs. Here’s what I could cobble together.  

 

Tidbits

We’re in the midst of a Midwest driving tour, currently in Saint Louis for the February meeting of the 1904 Worlds Fair Society.  On the way here we made a combined Dust Bowl/Wizard of Oz tour.  We visited several small towns historically in the center of the worst of the Dust Bowl.  We visited local museums and historic buildings; all had reference to the Dust Bowl, and wings set aside for that dark decade.  One town has the “Dorothy House”; another has a Wizard of Oz museum – appropriately both in Kansas.

In Boise City, OK (they pronounce it Boyz) the museum on the north edge of town was much more interesting than we expected.  There we came across two displays (not Dust Bowl related) that really captured my interest.  I share them here.   The first is a long tapestry that looks vaguely like a kitchen skirt.  The second is the story (part true, part imaginative and fanciful) behind an American flag rescued during World War II.

Both are short.   I hope you enjoy.

____________________________________________________________

“Guest” entry #1:

I don’t think our kids know what an apron is.

The principal use of grandma’s apron was to protect the dress underneath because she only had a few and because it was easier to wash aprons than dresses; and aprons required less material.  But along with that, it served as a potholder for removing hot pans from the oven.

It was wonderful for drying children’s tears, and, on occasion, was even used for cleaning dirty ears .

From the chicken coop, the apron was used for carrying eggs, fussy chicks, and sometimes half-hatched chicks to be finished in the warming oven.

When company came those aprons were ideal hiding places for shy kids. And when the weather was cold, grandma wrapped it around her arm.

Those big old aprons wiped many a perspiring brow, bent over the hot oven and stove. Chips and kindling wood were brought into the kitchen in that apron.

From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables. After the peas had been shelled, it carried out the hulls. In the fall, the apron was used to bring in apples that had fallen from the trees.

When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture that old apron could dust in a matter of seconds.

Grandma’s skirt, found in Cimmaron Heritage Center, Boise City, OK

When dinner was ready, grandma walked out onto the porch, waved her apron, and men folk knew it was time to come in from the fields to dinner.

It will be a long time before someone invents something that will replace that ‘old-time apron’ that served so many purposes.

They would go crazy now trying to figure out how many germs were on that apron.  But I don’t think I ever caught anything from an apron – but love ……….

– Author unknown

[I searched online to find an author.  No luck, but I did find it in quite a few places.  There are several versions of this poem – all largely the same.  This is a tad shorter than most: it gets the point across with fewer verses.]

_________________________________________________________

Guest “entry” #2 – “Little Jack” Johnson  — [First paragraph by museum curators]

American Flag in Humble Surroundings

This is the story of an American flag, made from what was apparently a table cloth and other materials available in the humble home of some Belgian woman.  The flag, coming into the hands of “Little Jack” Johnson after the Ardennes breakthrough was wiped out by American forces, was sent with other European war souvenirs to his parents, Mr. & Mrs John C. Johnson here, and have been placed on display at the First State Bank. Jack’s story of the flag follows: [1,2]

“The town of Bastogne will live in the minds of every man wearing the uniform of our country because of the many acts of cruelty performed there by the Nazis during the short-lived Ardennes breakthrough.  Although Bastogne is the better known, the nearby village of Houffalize suffered more heavily in the terrific fighting that went on in this territory.  There is not a single building left standing intact and most of the inhabitants were killed in cold blood.  It was between these two villages in Belgium that I recovered this homemade American flag, filled with holes caused by bullets, and flak and covered with mud, blood and parts of human bodies surrounded by the stench that arises from the field of battle.

“What was the story of the flag?  I’ll never know the entire story, but by filling in the parts I heard from war weary villagers, it was one of joy and sadness.

“The Belgian people had long awaited the coming of their liberators.  Some woman, working in secrecy, as hope welled up inside her heart, using the scanty materials that she could salvage, prepared this flag with which to welcome the American soldiers.

“At last the great day arrived and as the tank columns came into view, the flag was taken from its secret hiding place and proudly displayed in front of this home that was filled with joy at being released from the yoke of the Germans. [3] Each day, with the rising sun, the flag would be hung to fly in the sunshine of freedom.

“Then came the black cloud that filled all hearts with fear and sorrow – the Germans were coming back with their threats of death and cruelty.  The great Nazi onrush could not be stopped in time, and they rolled once again into the village from which they had been driven.  A group of arrogant, swaggering German soldiers pulled the flag from its place and crushed it to the ground.  But, true to its great tradition, it would not stay crushed to earth, but would rise again to fly in greater glory; the Americans returned with a new hatred and venom in their hearts.

“Hurling new and more powerful missiles of destruction they slaughtered those who dared to defile the flag.  Huge bombs fell from the skies and tanks lumbered in to retake the village.  Once again the people were under the protection of a great nation.  But this flag was not to fly again as I found it still on the ground.  Nearby I saw sights so gruesome that they made me sick.  Boots still filled with feet, the bodies blown to bits, blouses still containing bits of flesh and hand; there was a head.

American Flag found near end of Battle of the Bulge, near Bastogne.

“Yes, it made me sick, but with a sickness that made me happy and proud, because they were the ones who had wanted to crush our own homes and kill our loved ones, as they had done in this little village.

“This flag would never again fly in a liberated country; it finds its final resting place in America, the country it so proudly represented.”

— by John C. “Little Jack” Johnson, year unknown

Joe G: Thanks for reading.

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

 

[1] The Ardennes breakthrough is better known as The Battle of the Bulge, Dec 16, 1944 to mid-January.

[2] There is still a First State Bank near the center of Boise City, OK.  So I presume that Mr Johnson was from Boise City, and the flag was donated to the museum (Cimarron Heritage Center) at some point.  The museum is in a house donated by the Cox family, which was designed by Bruce Goff, a direct protégé of Frank Lloyd Wright.  It was built in 1949.

[3] Belgium was 1st liberated in September, 1944

I have found records of a John C Johnson, born in 1918, from Boise City, OK to a John C Johnson.  Also born in Ok and a mother, Nettie, born in Nebraska. [A few sources say Dec 1917 …]

He enlisted in January, 1941.  1yr college, occupation: bookkeeper/cashier.

In 1950 John C Johnson, married, no children, is shown as living in Boise City, OK, in census data as a bank cashier.  Which sort of fits with the First State Bank.

It appears he passed, March 7, 2003.  Sorry that I didn’t start my historical obsession sooner, and thus, never got to meet him.

John C Johnson, Jr, Main cemetery, Boise City, OK

As John Johnson is a very common name I had to stop my search after a few hours.  So much to sift through.  It is the same man.

 

 

Cousins

Cousins Moog

Two geniuses of the 20th century: William “Bill” Moog and Robert “Bob” Moog.  They weren’t brothers, but they were closely related.  [Bill did have a brother Robert, but the Robert of fame — one of today’s two protagonists — was Bill’s first cousin, once removed]. [1]

Despite their Dutch looking and sounding surname (“Moog” rhymes with “rogue”, not the “goog” in Google) they were of German ancestry.

Their most recent common ancestors were Georg Conrad Becker Moog and his wife, Anna Cathrina Lather, both from the small agricultural community of Winkbach, near Marburg, Hesse, in the Lahn Valley.  Today this is only about a one-hour drive north from Frankfurt.  (This is, coincidentally, quite near my mother’s family ancestral home – another wee hamlet only 20 twisty countryside miles away: Niederasphe.)

Georg was the only child of Jacob Moog and Juliane Becker, also from that region of Hesse.  I don’t know how long the family had been there but judging from records of my family’s past they were probably there for centuries.

Like many other families, the young Moog couple emigrated to the United States in the early 1870s.  It’s difficult to ascertain why with only internet searches.  Here I will pull from my own family history lore and some knowledge of Germany history.

Also coincidentally, at about that time, one branch of my father’s family came to the US, from the wine country east of Stuttgart, along the Rems valley.  Why? We can guess. Three dozen or so sovereign German states were becoming rather forcibly merged with Prussia under Hohenzollern rule; these became a single muscular militant state. Two wars at that time, one with Austria (1868) and one with France (1870-1), were fought as part of von Bismarck’s plan to unify Germany. So, my ancestors sought to avoid impressment and instead pursue a pacifist path, which led them to America. Perhaps the Moogs did too. [Another contributing reason could be Europe’s failed liberal revolutions of 1848; my mother’s ancestors, from Hesse, came to the US in the early 1850s].

Nonetheless, the young Moog couple, going by Annie and George, settled in New York.  [the 1880 census shows them coming from Prussia, not Germany, and George with no occupation].  After deciphering  census workers’ scrawling, I found they settled in lower Manhattan, near the corner of Hester and Essex, one block from both Grand and East Broadway. The neighborhood had a majority of residents with German ancestry; they bore names like Schutt, Opperman, Schroeder, Strobel, Kaiser.  I guess they felt somewhat at home here.

The L-line ran down Essex, just a few yards away, probably horse drawn at first, as cable cars didn’t arrive in NYC until 1883.  Transportation around lower Manhattan would have been somewhat convenient.

Jobs held by neighborhood residents included streetcar conductor, fish and oyster bar worker, plasterer, wood carver, carpenter, cigar packer, paper box maker, porter, mason … very few white collar jobs here. Salt of the earth.

Much of the neighborhood consisted of properties that would be condemned and razed in the early ‘90s; then, over a decade later – in 1903 — the city found the funds to do something with the land: it became Seward Park.

By 1900 the family had moved to a boarding house at 221 E 87th St.  The elder Mr. Moog had died, in 1896, age 46. Sadly, most 1890 census records were lost in a fire in the US Commerce building in 1921, including New York’s, so we lose the thread for a while. This was, and is, a huge tragedy for historians and archivists, as 1890 lies within an era of massive immigration from abroad, and migration within the country.  So, I can’t find if George ever found steady work.

George and Anna had three children, all born in Manhattan: (1) Anna Maria Elisabetha Moog b. 1875; (2) George Alfred Moog b. 1878; and (3) William Conrad Becker Moog, b 1885.

The third child, William Conrad Becker, had a son in 1915.  William (Bill) C. Moog.  We will return to the elder son, George Alfred, later.

Partial Moog Family Tree

_________________________________________________________________________________

America as the great melting pot has always been something of a fairy tale. Upon arrival and attempting to settle into their new homeland many immigrants were shunned and often treated with contempt; in such unfriendliness they naturally stuck together within their own ethnic enclaves – which likely exacerbated their treatment.  Usually, a passage of a few generations was required before they found their footing, and their own ways, within America’s complex social, education, and economic systems.

First-generation American William Conrad Becker Moog and his wife, Minnie Moog (nee: Raabe), had three children.  The eldest was William (Bill) C Moog, Jr, b 1915.

Bill, born across the river from New York, in Jersey City, NJ, studied Mechanical Engineering just down the road at Rutgers University.  He made his way into and upward in the growing aircraft industry, working as an engineer for Cornell Aeronautical Laboratory, just outside Buffalo.  There, in 1948, he invented the electro-hydraulic servo valve. Common in control systems now, the device – and the field of control mechanisms that it spawned – completely revolutionized automated control of complex systems.  In fact, it helped create that very field of electrical signal-based controls engineering.

Although Cornell Labs (now Calspan) patented the invention, they couldn’t find anyone to make the servovalves.  Moog stepped up and started a fledgling organization. Moog began building servo devices in his garage.  Moog and his team soon fielded orders from other large companies, like Bendix and Boeing.

An older Bill Moog, evidently after a haircut

Moog started a company and secured the Labs’ rights to manufacture servos of many types. For decades he ran the company. Bill was a free spirit:  No keeping track of hours, loose dress codes, and a free-wheeling creative atmosphere where employees are trusted to do a good job. Maximum informality in staff relations was encouraged. This, before Google and Twitter.  Bill eventually wore his hair down to his shoulders.  All went over well, and the company grew successful and famous over the decades.

Control of aircraft was just the beginning of what was possible.  Servos didn’t have to just control hydraulic actuators; they can control motors using signal feedback with electrical current – of all sizes and sort.

Most engineers in the aeronautical and aerospace industries know of Moog and his company’s designs and products in high-performance systems control of aircraft, satellites, space launch vehicles, missiles, etc.  Actuation control products, many by Moog, are found in numerous other fields too, especially robotics, from industry – machining, processing and assembly – to marine and agricultural hardware, and even medical devices.

Briefly, servos are devices that receive an electronic signal representing a physical quantity – usually position, speed or acceleration – process that signal, and generate a precise controlled action based on that signal.  Mostly, that action includes changing components’ position or speed, or applying torques and forces.

As the world evolved, so did servos to … well … serve the world. Although Moog Inc is not in all these fields, the servo concept that Bill Moog pioneered can be found in CD & Blu-ray disk players, automobiles (especially cruise control), many automatic doors, including elevator doors, and even some vacuum cleaners. [2]

Bill Moog is an icon in the field of engineering.  I suppose the servos would have eventually come along, but it’s hard to imagine how and when, and how the aircraft and aerospace industries would have advanced without his genius and drive.

Bill Moog’s dad had a brother, George Alfred Moog, mentioned earlier.  George Alfred had two children, one of whom was George Curt Moog.  Thus, George Curt Moog was Bill Moog’s first cousin.

George Curt Moog had one child, a son, Robert A. Moog, born in 1934, in Queens, NYC.  (There seems to be a shortage of names in the family: Bill Moog had a brother named Robert, as well as this first cousin, once-removed: Robert Moog)

Robert Moog grew up in Flushing, a neighborhood in Queens, known today for tennis rather than any famous residents (count Barbara Bush among the few).  His parents wanted him to get into music; he studied harp and piano while attending the Manhattan School of Music through elementary school.  He then went on to a technical high school, the Bronx High School of Science (an early sort of magnet school); one supposes this was in large part on account of his father’s career.   George was an engineer with ConEd (Consolidated Edison, the NY electric company) and also one of the first amateur radio operators. Papa Moog shared his knowledge of, and enthusiasm for, electronics with young “Bob.”  His budding music and electronic interests merged.  Robert soon got very interested in the theremin, a recent invention of Leon Theremin, a Russian scientist, a decade before.  [3]

The theremin, a seemingly miraculous device, both then and now, allows a musician to play an electronic instrument without even touching it; but rather by moving their body (mostly arms and hands) within an electric field that is connected to a sound generating device. With a skilled operator/musician it can appear to the untrained observer as if the person playing the theremin is waving their arms and hands around like an orchestra conductor, and from some remote spot, mysterious instruments are creating musical sounds.  [This is how many creepy movies create eerie sound effects; especially earliest scary films  … Kids’ level description here; very cool video here, you should really watch the 4 minute demo in the previous link.  Seriously].

By his mid-teens Bob had built his own such magical musical instrument.  It became his hobby. Bob and his dad started a small business building and selling theremins in the basement of their Brooklyn home.  Cool to be in business with your old man. In January 1954, still 19 years old, Bob’s article on how to construct a theremin at home was published in Radio and Television News.

Bob Moog, 1954, with his Model 351             Theremin

Bob went for simultaneous degrees in physics (at Queens College) and electrical engineering (at nearby Columbia), and then for a PhD in engineering physics at Cornell. While at Cornell he started a new company, his own, also to design, build and sell these strange electronic musical instruments.

Moog continued to experiment with electrical circuits, developing new ways to create musical sounds with electronics.  Although this had been done before, Moog’s was the first advanced studio usable hands-on electronic music generating device – a musical “instrument.” Eventually he made them rather compact and mobile. The synthesizer was born.

Music of all sorts could be generated from a single electronic device.  Relatively simple at first, by the mid-‘60s his synthesizers could produce the waveforms, overtones, attack (rise) and decay (drop) in power levels and “feel” of many instruments.  By now, I suspect, it is every instrument. By the mid ‘60s the exploding music industry, drenched in pop and iconoclast culture, caught on to the endless possibilities of sounds in Moog’s electronic synthesizers. And the exotic ways it could make music sound. With computers integrated — first analog, and soon digital — there was no bounds to the complexity and sophistication of music that could be played. [4]

It seems likely that Mickey Dolenz of Monkees’ fame was the first to use a synthesizer (although a primitive one by today’s standards) in popular music in the mid ‘60s. Many groups soon followed, including The Beatles, The Doors and The Byrds. Some famous tunes with great synthesizer riffs include: Final Countdown; Light my Fire; Smile Like you mean it; the opening to Van Halen’s Jump; Eurythmics Sweet Dreams.

Many home “pianos”, even very economical ones, are simple electronic keyboards pre-programmed with a wide variety of instrument sounds and “moods” available — from organs to violins, and from tinny like a child’s toy to an orchestra in a concert hall.  They are synthesizers.

__________________________________________________________________________

Bob Moog revolutionized music.  Bill Moog revolutionized control engineering.  Both have earned awards, wide praise and recognition.  And money. [4] Their names and accomplishments are still revered in the engineering and music fields today.    Robert passed in 2005, age 71.  Bill, passed in 1997, age 82.  Both left a legacy, a Moog legacy, the kind of legacy that rhymes with “rogue”, not ” goog.”

Peace

Joe Girard © 2023

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] As a rule, a story line can have only one single protagonist.  However, in an ensemble of more than one separate “story”, each can have its own protagonist.  Rules, rules, rules.

[2] Some “high tech” vacuums have servos.  One type senses the speed of the brush roller, then lowers or raises the roller accordingly.  Another type senses the speed (forward or backward) and gives the wheels a little boost to help the user move the vacuum cleaner over the carpet.

[2] Theremin is worthy of his own detailed essay.

[3] to this date there is still contention over which makes the better “synth”, analog or digital.  Both have pros and cons, and their respective camps can be very adamant about their position.

[4] Bill Moog filed for personal Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection in 1992.  This is probably attributable to a divorce, health issues (a stroke and recovery), his management style, philanthropy, and losing then re-gaining control of Moog Inc.  [the company was not affected by the bankruptcy]
Bob Moog ran Moog Music until 1971, when he sold it; remaining an employee until 1977, when he founded a new company.  Moog Music went bankrupt about 10 years later; the name and all rights, include trademark, were returned to Moog.  His new company and Moog Music then merged, and do business as Moog Music.

Author’s notes:

  • These Moogs were contemporaries, but just barely; Bill was about a full generation+ older than Bob: 19 years. One would think that they not only knew of each other, but met often (“… hobnob with my brother wizards”), especially since they were both from the New York City area. However, I could find no evidence that they ever met, let alone communicated or acknowledged one another. [Wizard’s full departure scene and speech here]
  • Watch and hear Somewhere over the Rainbow played on a theremin.

 

Quick Text Family Tree

Jacob Moog (b 1830, Marburg, Hesse, d 1898)  – Juliane Becker (b 1830, Marburg, d. 1869 Marburg)

  • George Conrad Becker Moog (b 1849/1850, Hesse Germany, d. 1896 Brooklyn)- Anna Cathrina Lather (b 1852 Marburg, d 1936, Brooklyn)
    • Anna Maria Elisabetha Moog (b 1875, NY state)
    • George Alfred Moog (b 1878, NY)
      • Florence (b 1915, USA)
      • George C Moog (b 1904, NY) – Shirley Jacobs
        • Robert Arthur Moog (b 1934 – 2005)
      • William Conrad Becker Moog (b 1885, Manhattan, NY)
        • William Curt Moog, Jr (b 1915)
        • Robert Leonard Moog (1917-1998)
        • Arthur Edward Moog (1918-2002
        • Elsie Anna Moog

 

1880 Census page (LDS, free acc’ts available): https://www.familysearch.org/ark:/61903/3:1:33S7-9YB5-9N8?i=1&cc=1417683&personaUrl=%2Fark%3A%2F61903%2F1%3A1%3AMZ63-5PK

Family tree info: https://www.ancestry.com/genealogy/records/jacob-moog-24-1slw4yj

Bob Moog autobio notes: Synthmuseum.com – Moog

Reminiscing

The firmament is full of sun driven phenomena: inspiring sunrises, romantic sunsets, sun dogs, northern lights, brilliant Venus leading the sun across the sky at dawn, or chasing it at dusk.

There’s an unusual one I’ve seen only a few times: airplane contrails casting shadows onto clouds. Usually it’s from a fairly high-altitude flight: the sun is high, and the lower-level clouds are thin. The sun shines upon the contrail, and its shadow falls on the clouds below. If the clouds are translucent enough then the shadow is noticeable.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

There is a rare twist to the geometry that can make this contrail-shadowing rather spooky. It happens once in a great while, when the sky is very clear; when a plane leaves a stable long-lasting contrail; and when the sun is very low, near the horizon – even a tad below. And two more important coincident parameters: the plane is flying directly away from the sun, and well above the plane, perhaps at 40,000 feet, there’s a faint veil of clouds, nearly imperceptible from the ground except for this phenomenon. [1]

Friday night, it was late,
I was walking you home
We got down to the gate and I was dreaming of the night
Would it turn out right?
How to tell you girl,
I want to build my world around you.
Tell you that it’s true.
I want to make you understand I’m talkin’ about a lifetime plan.

___________________________________________________________________

Hope this gives you the idea.

With this rare conjunction, the contrail shadow appears directly in front of the plane.  To an observer on the ground, it looks as if the path ahead of the plane — that is the path it is about to follow — has been painted as a straight line across the sky, showing where the plane is heading.  [My feeble sketch attempt here].  Like a runway in the sky, showing the plane where to go. Beckoning. Come, follow me.

I’ve only seen this “path ahead” shadow twice.  The first time – just after dawn at a high school cross-county track meet in 2008 – it took me a couple minutes to figure out what was causing this amazing sight. A plane precisely following a line that lay many miles ahead of it. I was amazed. I guess I’m weird, because no one else seemed to care.  Well, there was a running event going on.

I’ve witnessed this extraordinary concurrence of parameters only once since.  This optical treat, contrails showing where the plane is about to go, seems rather magical.  [I’ve seen the Northern Lights three  times.  Unforgettable, and each was different.]


Summer of 1978. Or more accurately: the spring. I had just completed 8 semesters at Arkansas State University, in Jonesboro. Yet, I didn’t have quite enough credits to graduate with an engineering degree, despite taking super heavy loads of 19 credits the previous two semesters. This while working half-time at the City Engineering department.

There’s a backstory to my belated graduation; it has nothing to do with partying or girls. No, it was because I had so little confidence in myself in freshman year that I took light class loads, including a wasted math semester in what amounted to “remedial math for engineers.” [2] The longer story is maybe for another essay.


That’s the way it began,

we were hand in hand
Glenn Miller’s Band was better than before.
We yelled and screamed for more.
And the Porter tunes (Night and Day)
Made us dance across the room.
It ended all too soon.
And on the way back home I promised you’d never be alone.

That’s the way it began, Glenn Miller’s band was better than before

So, 1978, I took a Maymester and a June summer session – cramming two courses into 3 weeks in the merry month of May, then a couple more in jolly June.

I clearly remember two songs from that summer. Songs that touched me sentimentally. Both came out in June and charted through the rest of the year. Despite being super busy I caught them while studying in my non-air-conditioned dorm room.  One song was the Commodores’ “Three Times a Lady”, composed and sung by Lionel Ritchie. A smash hit, it reached #1 on Billboard top 100 for several weeks, also hitting #1 on R&B charts, soul and even country charts.  It also topped charts in Canada, Australia and the UK.  It cracked the top 10 for the year, ending at #10.  It’s a touching song of praise for a special woman, sung as a type of reminiscing about, and relishing, a long life of respect — together.

And the Porter tunes (Cole Porter)

The second song, literally and appropriately namedReminiscing”, was by the Australian group “Little River Band.”  It wasn’t nearly the smash hit as “Three Times”, but certainly was a hit for a while, peaking at #3 on the Billboard Hot 100. It ended at #65 for the year, 1978.  So, not super popular, although you still hear this sentimental soft pop song in shopping areas and waiting rooms. [lyrics here: 3 times a Lady and Reminiscing].

Both songs set remarkably similar moods and perspective.  Basically, a very lucky guy, looking back a long life that he was lucky to share with a very special woman. My interpretation of Reminiscing is even more romantic: a guy also looking back at his younger self; and that younger self is imagining himself in the future, visualizing himself as a much older man who’s able to reminisce about a long life with that woman, and – indeed – reminiscing about the very moment he was in.  At least that’s always been my take. That was kind of what I desired.  Looking forward, pursuing a good path, and imagining myself looking back at that life, too.

I’m not just a sentimental romantic fool, I’m sentimental about a lot of older culture as well. Two of my favorite movies are Casablanca (1943) and the Wizard of Oz (1939). Maybe I was born a few decades too late (but I’d sure miss the internet)
_________________________________________________

Hurry, don’t be late,
I can hardly wait.
I said to myself when we’re old.
We’ll go dancing in the dark,
Walking through the park
and reminiscing.

_________________________________________________________________

Now that I’m in those golden years, at nearly 40 years of marriage, with grown kids and grandchildren, I suppose I have finally earned the right to some reminiscing.

The high-level contrails are certainly metaphoric for me. 1978 to ‘82 was morning, with dreams of following a path clearly laid out.  (“Go west young man!” [3]) After a few false trails —and after moving west — finally, I met Audrey (Three Times a Lady) and soon enough we set out — together — along the path we saw ahead. Or so we thought. 

Friday night, it was late,
I was walking you home,
We got down to the gate
and I was dreaming of the night.
Would it turn out right? …
Now as the years roll on,
Each time we hear our favorite
songs,
The memories come along.
Older times we’re missing
Spending the hours reminiscing.

Contrails, and the path their shadows lay out, don’t last very long.  Circumstances inevitably change or dissolve them;  the weather changes: tumult and twists and turbulence. Clouds  – sometimes puffy, sometimes dark – come and go; the sun angle changes, winds are moody and shifty. The path that seemed so clear … just … fades … away.

Still we persist onward, looking for landmarks we’d heard of, trying to stay the course, or at least head in the right general direction, with the principles that got you so far.  Together.

Now we approach the end of the day. The sun is setting. The shadow phenomenon can also occur – in reverse.  Instead of showing the path ahead, the shadow shows the path completed.  Farther to the east, across the firmament, behind the plane, the trail and shadows begin to break up; views of the earlier path are vague and fading.  Yet, at the end of the day, a contrail shadow is not needed to see the path. The contrail itself – not a ghostly shadow – traces the past. Not too far behind, though, across the sky, even the longest contrails fade.

Hurry. Don’t be late,
I can hardly wait.
I said to myself when we’re old.
We’ll go dancing in the dark,
Walking through the park
and reminiscing.

It’s better to reminisce while trails and shadows are still perceptible. I can see: It’s been a very good flight.  We set a good course, we’ve muddled through disturbances, done the best possible, followed a good path, and had a most enjoyable flight.  Together.

While reminiscing we’re chasing the sun to the horizon – and beyond.  Together.  I’m a lucky man.

Joe Girard © 2022

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

 

[1] I believe these are called cirrostratus clouds nebulosus.

[2] In sophomore year I was fortunate to have a math professor who got me back on track, and even ahead of schedule. I used his office hours liberally. I sometimes met a young high school student waiting patiently outside his office in the late afternoon. That boy was the professor’s stepson.  And that “boy” is now my brother-in-law.  Sometimes it’s a very small world indeed.

[3] Go west young man. Phrase attributed to Horace Greeley, who promoted westward settlement (Greeley Colorado is named for him), although he never went west himself.  Famous newspaper man, one term congressman, ran for president in 1872, lost to Grant, and passed away weeks later (61) … just one month after his wife had also passed away.

Contrail shadow below trail; taken just after noon near Gravina, Italy. Sun is above and to right of jet plane, casting shadow on thin clouds below.

Sun dogs

Crepuscular Rays at sunset

Interlude: Looking Around

Random Droppings: Looking Back, Looking at Now, Looking Forward

Now, for something completely different (sorry Monty).

Looking Back. 

First, a shout out to reader Dave R for suggesting that the title to my last blog/essay could have been: “Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Hair* (*But Were Afraid to Ask) – sorry Woody.”  That’s brilliant. Thanks Dave.

Some readers did respond regarding the embedded cultural references in that essay.  For closure, here they are.

  1. “Sadly, Mr Lupner was born without a spine.” This from a series of Saturday Night Live (SNL) skits, circa late ‘70s, starring Bill Murray and Gilda Radner (RIP ☹ ) … sample skit here.
  2. “Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” A line said several times by the king in “The King and I”, a musical; composed by the famous team of Richard Rodgers (music) and Oscar Hammerstein (lyrics) [RIP 2x]
  3. “Curiouser and curiouser”; a line uttered by Alice in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, written by Charles Dodgson (RIP) under the nom de plume Lewis Carroll.
  4. “Any way the wind blows”; a line both sung and whispered in Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, mostly written by – and fantastically sung by – Freddie Mercury (RIP). It came out in 1974.  Normally, it would have been considered excessively long be a hit, at 6 minutes duration; nonetheless, it became a huge hit and still a standard at parties and receptions as they reach their raucous crescendos.  Also, a great karaoke song.
  5. “Fred Astaire got no hair” and other rhymes about hair are taken from George Carlin’s (RIP) recited poem Hair. Sometime in the ‘70s.  [Sample Carlin Hair Stand up act]

 

Now

“You like Po-tay-to, I like Potah-to” (sorry Gershwins). Definitely not Potatoe (sorry Dan Quayle). Hey, Let’s (not) call the whole thing off.

Gershwin Bros, George (L) and Ira (R) [Born Jacob and Israel Gershovitz]

Thanksgiving weekend. Although brief, it took me a while, in fits and starts, to complete this piece, so I’m a bit late. Still within the 4-day break: after Black Friday and before Cyber Monday.

What are you thankful for?  Comment!  My own list is long.  At the top is my wife and her health.  Somewhere in the list is you all, my readers, whether frequent or sporadic readers and commenters.  Some are words of approbation, others of cogitation, some offer edits and improvements, or other tangents I could have flown off on (as if I need more temptation on tangents to drift away upon).

Thanksgiving mealtime!  What makes mashed potatoes great?  What is your secret ingredient?  Chives?  Cream cheese?  Grated cheese can make it great.  I think it’s butter. Butter makes everything better.

I was surprised to be reminded in my newsfeed last week that yams and sweet potatoes are nowhere near the same, neither genetically nor in taste, although the names are often used interchangeably.  And sweet potatoes are not potatoes at all.  In fact, my brilliant wife conducted an experiment a few decades ago that I had forgotten. She had all the kids visiting for Thanksgiving compare the tastes of them. [BTW: sweet potatoes make the best fries.  Just sayin’.]

Found online … lightly edited …

Color: Sweeties are orange. But not all potatoes are white.

Myth: A sweet potato is an orange potato.  Fact: Even though both the potato and sweet potato originated in Central & South America, they are actually not at all closely related. They come from different botanical families. Potatoes are in the nightshade family; sweet potatoes from the morning glory family.

Myth: Sweet potatoes are yams.  Fact: Yams and sweet potatoes are not the same vegetable, and they have different tastes. Back in the 1930s, “yams” was used as a marketing term for sweet potatoes and, still to this day, you find the two mislabeled in stores. They’re also from different families; yams come from the same family as grasses (!).

Details, details

To make things a bit more complicated, Garnet Yams are not yams at all; they’re sweet potatoes.  [read all about it]

You say potato.  I say … Yams?  “I yam what I yam.”

I’m glad this essay comes out after Thanksgiving, so you wouldn’t be tempted to bore your festivity guests with such trivia.  But, hey!, it’s better than politics, right?

Looking forward

I have notes for some upcoming essays, so here’s a heads up on what to look for. No promises that any will get finished or released.  Mostly a matter of finding time to pull them all together and polish them off. And staying focused.

These are not necessarily in order.

  1. A look back at the recent election.  This will be through the lens of the topic addressed in my essay Mr Gerry.  Since the census was just completed in 2020, districts re-drawn in 2021, and elections based on those districts in 2022, I thought it would be interesting to see how “fairly” the districts were drawn by a mathematical model.  (I put fair in quotes, since as adults we know the world is seldom fair, and fair is in the eyes of the beholder). I’m waiting until all the congressional races are decided.
  2. Like the Gershwins (Ira and George) mentioned above, I thought it would be interesting to take a look at some famous brothers in history. This will probably be a trilogy, or more, to keep each reading session reasonably digestible in one sitting. As a side note, I think it’s interesting that fraternity (as well as sorority) are definitely Latin-based. And the words for brother and sister in Italian – clearly Latin-based –  are fratello and sorella.  We call such groups on college campuses by these Latin names, but we also call their “community” Greek Life, and the groups are known by Greek letters
  3. I have notes on an essay on some fruits and the history of a famous American family. The task, as always, is to be interesting, relatively brief, and with several interwoven threads.
  4. And I’m always prone to just march off on some new topic that pops into mind. Or a topic that a reader might suggest.  Perhaps you!

Sound off below.  Have a great holiday season.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2022

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

More cultural references.
1) Everything You Wanted to Know … A spoof on the hilarious 1972 movie Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex* (*But were Afraid to Ask), an anthology in 7 parts, screenplay written by, directed by and (in at least 2 segments) starring Woody Allen … including one wherein he plays a sperm.  Wonderfully distasteful.

2) Let’s call the whole thing off.  Written in 1937 by George and Ira Gershwin for the movie of the same year “Shall we Dance” … with a title like that of course it’s starring Astaire and Rogers.

3) Potatoe: Vice President Dan Quayle famously erroneously corrected an elementary student who had correctly spelled it potato, while visiting a 6th grade classroom. [video here]

4) I yam what I yam. One of several regular expressions of cartoon character Popeye (The Sailor Man); here (8 sec) and here (full length cartoon, 3 min, titled I yam what I yam) , for starters. Oh my gosh, the (unbelievable racist) crap we watched for entertainment as kids.

5) Of course, the first: Now for something completely different. That’s a Monty Python line. Google it yourself. Insanely goofy and funny.

The [not so] Secret Life of Hair

We humans are animals. Well, zoologically speaking, we’re animals on the tree of life.

Animals. That’s our “Kingdom.”  Within that Kingdom we are part of the Phylum of Chordates; that is, in the simplest of terms, we have spinal cords. Well, at least most of us.  [Sadly, Mr. Lupner was born without a spine.  Sorry SNL]

And we are part the most “advanced” classes of chordates.  We are mammals.  The 6,500 known mammal species are extremely diverse, ranging from: kangaroos and cats; to foxes and ferrets; to racoons and rabbits; and from dolphins to dogs; wallabies to wombats; hamsters to humans.  Well, you get the picture.  Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, as the King said to Anna. [sorry, Mr Hammerstein]. Anyhow, we’re a very diverse class.

[At this point I can’t help but spout out, er, ah, recite, the old mnemonic: King Phillip Came Over From Great Spain.  A few of you might follow that. But I’ll move right along now. Did Mr Brandt teach me that in High School?]

One of the five or so major distinctive characteristics of mammals (the word comes from the Latin “mamma”, which means “nipple”, even though a few mammals don’t have them) is that they have hair pretty much all over their bodies.  Yes, even you. Everywhere.  Please, don’t go looking now.  At least if you’re not alone. And yes, I know we don’t have hairs on the palms of our hands and feet. Different discussion.

Hair.  It’s a scientific topic that has been on my mind a lot lately.  I guess mostly as regards to humanoids and canines – the kinds that live in our domiciles.

Hair is weird.  Especially if it’s long.  No matter their length, hairs are very light. Look what a healthy breeze can do: give us “bad hair days.”  That’s if hair is attached to one’s skin, or pate; some of us are “follically challenged”, and/or we decide to keep our hairs short.

Nonetheless, we all have hair.  And it’s not always attached to our follicles.  We all shed. As do dogs. Pay close attention and you’ll spot hairs wafting through your house’s air from time to time (not too closely or too often, because, ewwww).

Hair is also “sticky”.

If it’s dry it tends to attract static electric charge, which can last quite a while as dry hair is a poor conductor.  It’s near impossible for various items to have the same charge; when differently charged items get close to each other they attract.  [When similarly charged, they repel; like when someone touches a van de Graaff generator, all their hairs get the same charge … and weeee].  So, those loose floating dry hairs tends to stick to whatever they come in contact with.  And they stay there until the charge nears that of the stuckee (slacks, shirt, curtains) and then a gentle breeze, or flick of your fingers, sets it free to waft about again.  [stuckee – a very technical term].

When hair is wet, tiny water droplets have enough surface energy to “stick” (or adhere) to both the hair and what it comes to rest upon, after it is done drifting randomly about.  Have you ever found a hair (likely fairly long, otherwise you probably wouldn’t find it) sticking to your bathroom floor, sink or something in your home, like a dinner plate?  You try and try to pick it up. When you finally do, it is stuck to your fingers. Try to pull it off with your other hand and the problem repeats.  Finally, you get wise and pull it off with a paper napkin, or the like, and pitch it in the bin.

So, dry or wet, hair is annoyingly “sticky.”

It gets curiouser and curiouser (sorry Alice).  Every house, especially those with forced air heating or cooling, have a small set of air flow patterns.  If not from forced air, it’s the way we tend to move around our homes.  There are higher air flow areas (where air moves steadily) and eddy flow areas (where the air just kind of swirls without changing its locale much, just keeping to itself).  Just as in any fluid dynamics situation, from the water of mountain brooks to the air in breezy valleys.

Hair is responsive to this.  Its gossamer structure, with very high length-to-weight ratios, means it can catch the slightest breath of air, and then go “anyway the wind blows.” (sorry Freddie).  Much hair eventually finds an eddy – in a corner or crevasse, or in a funny place between bollards, or near a bookshelf – and just settles down.  Where one hair settles usually other hairs will likewise find their way.  The hairs – collecting slowly, steadily, one by one – make a tangled wad.  Eventually dust (skin flakes, dead mites and their feces) find the eddy too, and all get caught up in this ever-growing ball of life’s detritus. Joe!!!  I know, I know.  That’s kind of yucky.

At this point you’re wondering why I’ve been thinking about this.

In our family, as in many families, we have come to accept – and eventually embrace – our share of domestic duties. Some are cooks.  Some lift heavy things. Some organize.  Some keep books.  Some plan generalities, and some plan details. Some move the furniture, while the other plans where the furniture should go. Some do yard work. I was a pretty good diaper-changer in my day.  For us, I generally get the house-cleaning duties.  Somehow, I have mostly escaped showers, but I get most of the rest.  It’s all good.  Mom would be proud, I guess. My goodness, I swear: hair is not rare.  Hair is everywhere.  I don’t mean to scare, but say a prayer, and don’t have a hair nightmare. (sorry George C).

To know me is to know that hair can be rare.  Fred Astair got no hair.  (sorry again George).  I have been blessed with a pate that is rather rare of hair, and what’s left I pare ‘til it glares.  Might as well just go with it and keep life simple.  In fact – as a general rule – hair is rare for both owner-occupants of our home.

As hair for us is rare, it always amazes me how much hair shows up when I do my regular house-keeping duties. (OK, not so regular.  I skipped this past month completely). I know we have house guests from time to time, some with impressive manes.  And a semi-permanent guest.  But really?  Hair is amazing! It’s everywhere … and long hairs, too.  How can there be so much? It’s in the house corners, in the drains, clogs the vacuum cleaner brushes, and shows up – quite frankly – in the most unimaginable (and sometimes disgusting) places. Kitchen items, salads, countertops, laundry, my bathroom mirror, and in some rather extraordinary anatomical locations (careful with your imagination, but, yes, some places the sun don’t shine).  I mean  … what … the … frigging… heck???? As Archie Bunker said on All in the Family when he found a hair on his bar of soap while showering: “You know where it came from, but you don’t know how it got there.” (Sorry, Norman).  Please, please, tell me I’m not the only one these hair-raising things happen to.

Summary. Hair that is no longer connected to the body is kinda gross. Especially if it’s long. It goes any-damn-where it feels.  Sometimes it finds its fellow hair friends and makes hair balls.  Sometimes it goes off and sticks to anything it can.  It likes to stay stuck, until it’s not.  Then it will go anywhere it wants again, and get stuck again.  But hey, it’s protein, so if you accidentally eat some, you’re probably better off.

Anyhow, New Years is coming up.  Maybe take some party

How not to be boring

balloons, rub them on your shirt (or carpet) for 20 seconds, then put them next to your hair and see if you get this party effect.

[5 imaginary kewpie dolls to those of you who related to each of the “sorry” asides]

Be well,

Joe Girard © 2022

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Note: much of this science-y stuff about hair written here has not been validated by research or any science-y persons.  Just observations (yes, hair IS everywhere) and guesses educated by my experience and background.

Welland Wave

Great Lakes ship enters Lock #3 of modern Welland Canal

… and leaving Lock #3, near St Catharines Museum   [Photos taken August 2022, during recent visit to Ontario]

It was a Thursday afternoon in Ontario.  To be precise: the 20th of June, 1912, on the Niagara peninsula – between the lowest two of the five Great Lakes (Erie and Ontario), in the City of Thorold, population 2,300. Five local lads from Thorold, ages 5 to 7, took off for some afternoon amusement.  Using branches from trees, some twine, and hooks made of bent pins, they strode off with their make-shift fishing equipment to try their luck at a nearby creek.

Fishing at the creek. At least that’s what they told their mothers.  As children often do, they did something different.  Only slightly different. It seemed such a trivial fib. They actually went over to the Welland Canal, so they could watch huge ships transit while dipping their lines.  Whose idea?  Probably George Bretherick, age 7, as he had fished there regularly with his father on Sundays.  Linked to fresh water by the canal and feeder streams, the canal boasted a healthy population of perch, several types of bass and other finned aquatic vertebrate possibilities.

The oldest was David Bouk.  Seven years and 9 months old.  Third child of Lycurgus and Elizabeth Ann. David, his parents and siblings were all born in Ontario; the parents were of recent Dutch and German ancestry. Recent enough that census workers recorded it. Older sister, Nina Elizabeth, age 9.  Younger sister, Edith, age 5. [in records family also shows up as Bourk and Bourke]  — *All ages herein are as of June 20, 1912, unless stated otherwise

 

The official start of summer was still two days away. The weather was finally pleasant, after a brief spring due to a long and brutally cold winter; still one of the coldest and deepest ever recorded. All five Great Lakes had frozen solid; only recently had their surface turned fully liquid. An ice-bridge had formed over nearby Niagara Falls, giving the appearance it had frozen solid. It would lead to tragedy. [1]  Canadians generally relish winter – especially cold ones.  Outdoor activities – like hockey on frozen lakes and rivers – are the stuff of life.  For immigrants, though, it was tough.

Spring 1912 was cursed as well.  The rivers, creeks, streams, and lakes were frozen and full … then heavy rains bore down.  The rivers and streams all melted and flooded.  It was a mess.  The warmth and clearness of summer were so very welcome.

Moms were glad the long cold winter and cool spring were over.  Bedspreads, blankets and carpets could be beaten free of grit, dust and hair outside.  Laundry drying could go outside too.  Small gardens were planted.  Life moved outdoors.  Get the house good and clean.  Windows open.  Get out the new factory-made version of the good old Shaker Broom; properly flat for efficient removal of all sorts of family life’s detritus. [2]

Hints of summer had been coming since winter ended – only about a month ago it seems, at least by temperatures.  The day was pleasant, high around 70, with clouds suggesting some light rains.  For young boys it’s: Let’s go out and play!

The Games of the V Olympiad were in mid-stride in Stockholm – where Jim Thorpe was winning the Decathlon, taking early steps toward the title “Best Athlete of the Twentieth Century” – long before that city was associated with a certain Syndrome; the Stockholm Syndrome.

____________________________________________________________________________

George Bretherick.  A few months past seven years old.  He’d just immigrated the year before, from England, near London.  His father, George Sr, had come a year before that to find work.  Coming across together with young George were his mother, Ellen (also: Mary Ellen), and siblings Leonard (sometimes John Leonard) age 4 years, 11 months, and infant Ernest, 2.  Leonard loved to tag-along with his older brother, as he did this day.

 

Like most years of the era, there were already plenty of disasters with large ships <link>. Contributing factors were the infancy of radio and weather forecasting.  Also, the growth in commerce led to bigger and more powerful ships; which meant bigger steam boilers, engines, crank shafts and propellers. Fresh in everyone’s mind was a “disaster for the ages” that had just occurred. In April a certain unsinkable ship struck an iceberg in the Atlantic, unbelievably at 41.7 degrees north latitude. That’s further south than Chicago, and even parts of California.  Not unsinkable.


Five very young boys went out to play for the afternoon.  There would be some goofing around.  Some fishing.  Stories shared: some from their parents, some secrets from older siblings. Two were 7-years old; the other three were 5-years old (well, one was only four years and eleven months).


The Welland Canal was Canada’s answer to the challenge of water-borne transport between its largest cities and the upper Great Lakes – the awesomely powerful falls that tumble over the Niagara Escarpment betwixt Lakes Erie and Ontario posing as a most un-navigable barrier to all shipping.

The US completed the 369-mile Erie Canal in 1825, linking Buffalo (on Lake Erie) to Albany, NY on the Hudson River – and thus to New York City. Its completion gave a huge jolt to making NYC the commercial and financial powerhouse that it is even still today.

Canada’s effort to bypass the great falls required a bit less distance: only 27 miles. At first this required a tortuously slow 40 locks. By 1912 the Welland Canal had been re-built twice.  First, because the gates were wood and quickly deteriorated.  And later because of the need to accommodate vastly larger ships, and to incorporate powered operation of gates.  By 1912 there were only 26 locks.  Today, there are only 8.  [Most of the locks from the 3rd canal can still be seen today.  <link>]

       Welland Canal Manifestations

                     Years        #Locks     Ship max. Length,ft

        1st    1829-1845       40                   ~100

        2nd  1846-1886        27                   130

        3rd    1887-1932       26                   200

         Modern 1932-             8                   750

Modern: some locks have two-way capability

From Lake Erie, the canal traverses the Niagara Peninsula, roughly on a south-north line, to Lake Ontario, with a water surface some 250 feet lower than Lake Erie’s.

Strategic location of canal on Great Lakes seaway. Pin shows approx location of Lock 22 on the 3rd Welland Canal, near Thorold..

 

It’s hard to understate the significance of the Welland Canal. It’s contribution to commerce — to jobs and trade — was and is titanic. Today over 3,000 ships traverse it yearly (but only during ice-free months).  Thanks largely to the Welland, Toronto is Canada’s largest city in both population and economic power.  That’s a status it has enjoyed pretty much since the first Welland Canal opened to traffic.

______________________________________________________________________________

William “Willie” Jack: 5 years, 5 months old.  He had just arrived from Scotland, near Glasgow, with his family the year before.  It was a big load of Jacks that came over on the steamship Lake Manitoba. Father Hugh, mother Martha, and a stable of siblings: James, 20; Janet, 18; John, 17; Anne, 16; Robert, 15; Martha, 12; Susan, 11.  Willie was the youngest.

 

Young boys going out to play, or fish, alone for several hours? That would never be permitted today.  Yet, when I was a lad – I’m thinking mid- to late-1960s – we often left the house with our bikes, bats and ball gloves, only to return just in time for dinner, or as the first evening stars began to twinkle in the twilight.  Extrapolating back to that earlier time, I can see how this was accepted without even a scoff.  They were just going down to the creek to fish, skip stones and catch crayfish, right?  In reality they went out to play and fish along a shipping canal.  What’s the harm?


Ah, the Canadian Steam Surveyor CSS La Canadienne.  A star-crossed ship.  She started her life in 1880 named the “Foxhound” in Glasgow, Scotland,  Built by Robert Duncan, she measured 154 feet in length, displacing 400 tons.  She was soon bought and renamed “La Canadienne” and sent to Canada for coastal fishing patrol.  In 1906, she was re-purposed for Hydrographic Surveys along the St Lawrence River.  [This is mainly mapping coast lines, rocky outcroppings, and depth soundings].

In June, 1912, she was ordered to go to the upper Great Lakes, into Lake Superior, for surveys there.  The transit was cursed.  Traveling up the St Lawrence River she was going through the Cornwall Canal when she collided with the steamer Britannic headed the other way.  Temporarily sidelined.  Several days. Damage was minimal and each ship proceeded: the Britannic to sea and La Canadienne across Lake Ontario to the Welland Canal.   On this Thursday she was behind schedule; worse, the canal traffic was backed up.  She’d have to wait her turn to go “upstream”; none of the canal’s locks were large enough to take such large craft both-ways all day long.

The final boy of the five was William Wallace.  Five years and one month old.  With a name like that he had to be a Scot; and he was indeed, born in Dundee.  And this day, maybe he was Braveheart.  This family is the most cloaked. Facts were scarce. Wallace is a very common name, as was his father’s, Peter. Wallace is also a very popular name for Scots.  I had hoped that his mother’s unusual name, Elyabrel Tiffany, would help. No dice. As they don’t appear in 1911 census records, I presume they also just arrived.  Many Scots came to Canada at that time.  There is barely any record of this family at all.  Not even in Scotland.  And not in the next Canadian 1921 census. But one certain official government document proves they were there in Thorold. [3]

Four of the five boys and their families were all very recent arrivals to Thorold.  Along with the more established Bouks they all appear to have lived close to one another, in an immigrant-based community of various origins: Dutch, English, Scots, Germans … and a few Canadians.  At that time the great Welland Canal ran right through town, near locks 19 through 24 (locks numbered from north to south). It appears that much of Thorold was little more than a shantytown for laborers and their families — for those who built, and also for those who worked on, the canal.

After lunch, and maybe a nap for some, the boys dreamed up and executed their plan … slinking to the canal, near Lock 21. It must have felt exhilarating! An afternoon of innocent adventure, cloaked in mild deception. Fishing on the canal! Big, big boats going by!
[Map with key features and locks of third canal shown.]


Each of the four manifestations of the Welland Canal has had more than its share of catastrophes.  During the construction of the 4th canal (1913-1935 …

Third Welland Canal overlaid on modern day map; arrow shows location of lock #22

with interruptions for the Great War) there were an astounding 137 recorded deaths – and many serious injuries.  At today’s Canal Museum, in nearby St Catharines, there is a commemorative monument and plaque to honor them.  Many of the workers were from immigrant families, like those of Jack, Wallace, Bretherick and Bouk. Of course the first three canals also had many injuries and fatalities among the workers.  [A good summary of the human cost here: <link>]


June 20, early morning – The sun rises early and well to the north of east this time of year.  Finally, La Canadienne eases into Lock 1 in St Catharines’ Port Dalhousie, the canal’s northern terminus. The Port is an extension of Martindale Pond, an ersatz estuary at the mouth of 12 Mile Creek created for the 1st canal, and still used in 1912 for the 3rd canal. Take her slow and easy.  Power down.  Secure the boat to snubbing posts on either side as the lake-side gate is closed.  When secured, valves are opened to allow upstream water to fill the lock, flowing through inlets. La Canadienne is raised until the water level in the lock matches that of the upstream canal segment. The upstream gates open. She’s released from the posts.  It takes perhaps 10 minutes, and on she steams on to the next lock.

The Lake Ontario terminus for the fourth and current Welland Canal is one mile east of that for the first three canals, Port Dalhousie. That’s Port Weller, about 10 miles west of the one of the most beautiful little cities I’ve seen: Niagara-on-the-Lake. The old downtown is truly like a trip back through time. Seeing the great falls is on most bucket lists. If you go, take the time to see this nearby city too.

The boys were at the canal in time to see La Canadienne transit Lock 21.  So big!  All ships must creep along; both between locks, and, especially important, within the locks.  This surveyor ship, which surely appeared massive to the boys, fits within the lock easily, with a margin of 24 feet. Its 154 ft bow-to-stern length is well within the nominal typical ship length for 1912, at 178 ft. Surface water in the lock churned a bit in a few places, appearing like boiling water, an effect of upstream water gushing in through pipes beneath and unseen.  The most obvious effect was the raising of La Canadienne. It all must have seemed like magic. The churning slowed as she was lifted the last few feet. Done! The upstream gates swung open.  She was released from the snubbing posts.  And then, on she went, toward Lock 22.  This must have been a really exciting thing for young boys to witness.  I still marvel at such things today.

Now the fishing can truly commence. The homemade “hooks” were dunked into the water. The boys waited for the next huge ship to come up while trying to pay attention to their lines.

A few minutes later, at about 3:30PM, La Canadienne steamed gently into Lock 22.  Just before the downstream gate commenced closing, the usual orders were given along the lock and aboard the ship: secure the ship to the stubbing posts, … and drop speed to full stop. All per usual. This was, after all, the 22nd lock of the day.

And yet … Somehow the timing was off.  The ship was not secured.  The ropes were not on the snubbing posts. Power was still feeding the props. La Canadienne continued creeping along at a few knots toward the forward gates – the gates that held back millions and millions of gallons of water exerting pressure on the gate that rose to 750 lbs per square foot.

It took just moments for the captain to realize the mistakes. “FULL ASTERN!!.”

Alas, too late.  Simple physics was now in charge; there was nothing any human could do.

It’s nigh impossible to instantly alter the momentum of such a large craft in water.  La Canadienne banged into the upstream gate of Lock 22, generating an ominous sound — between a thud and a clang — from the collision of metal on metal

The momentum of the large ship generated enough thrust to damage the gates. They cracked opened a bit. The seal was lost.  Even slight damage and slightly cracked open gates were enough for the upstream water to force its way completely through.  With the unexpected suddenness of an earthquake, the water burst through the gates completely.  The monster was unleashed.  A massive and powerful wave surged into the lock.

The water swept over and past La Canadienne. Then into the downstream gate, which was just beginning to close.  La Canadienne was lifted and tossed – pitched and rolled as if she were in a high seas storm – then carried past the gates, down toward lock 21.  On the way she was hurled violently against the canal’s bank, the rocks puncturing her hull.  She came to rest there.

Such a torrent of water.  The scene repeated at Lock 21.  It surged on. Then 20.  Then 19.  The surge continued on, slightly smaller at each lock, until the destruction ended at Lock 18.  Along the way craft were flung about, the smaller of them suffering structural damage.  Surrounding farmland was inundated.

Near Lock 21 it’s likely that none of the boys heard the first sounds of the unfolding disaster.  Or at least thought little of it; none had spent much time at the canal, if any at all, for most.  But surely they must’ve heard and finally reacted to the excited, panicky yelling that followed, as La Canadienne flew out of the lock.  And then … the ominous roar of the wave. From Lock 22, the wave raced to the upper gates of Lock 21, about 800 feet away. Here it resulted in a new huge wave as it crested the gate and plunged into the lock.

The older boys, George Jr and David, probably reacted first. Sensing danger they got up to run, yelling at their co-conspirators to run, run, run!  They ran downstream along the bank, away from the noise, from the commotion, and from the giant wave. It was all too late.

George escaped mostly unscathed.  David was washed into the canal, to be rescued by an alert government employee, Hugh Maguire – a surveyor. The other three? The youngest? The waves swarmed over them and swept them away.

Leonard Bretherick and the two Willies, Jack and Wallace, were simply gone, washed to the weirs of a side pond. Their bodies were eventually found.  But not on that day, that awful, awful day, June 20, 1912.

The death certificates for all three read “Drowning.”  It might as well have read “Carelessness.”

Some mournful witnesses said the boys would probably have been better off running toward Lock 22, so as to escape the 2nd wave caused by the surge from cresting the gates of 21.


All families remained in the area for some time, except for the Wallaces, for whom there is no additional data.  Archival research suggests existences for each family that might well have been lives of quiet desperation.  More children born, more children lost — including a Jack family infant (Matthew Hugh) who perished at only 25 days old from marasmus, i.e severe malnutrition. One patriarch spent his last 6 years in the 1920s alone in a “House of Refuge”, what we would call a Poor House, a place for the indigent, the lonely and seriously infirm, all under government care. Eventually, I suppose, many of those offspring moved away upon reaching adulthood, the world offering wider horizons than life along a shipping canal.

________________________________________________________________________________

There was an inquisition, of course.  I cannot find the results.  It seems there were few consequences. La Canadienne was raised and towed downstream to port for repairs.  The many gates of the locks were repaired or replaced in several days.  La Canadienne was back in transit in a week.  She did not make it to duty on Lake Superior until August 7th.  She served out the remainder of her existence on Lake Superior, performing soundings and mapping its enormous coast line.  She’d have more major accidents, too; the most disastrous was running aground near Port Arthur on Thunder Bay, in September 1916, presumably during a storm.  She was soon retired and sold off – her crew required for service in the Great War.

This surely ranks as the most tragic accident on the Welland Canal.  Yet, surprisingly, many details are obscured by the thickening fog of history…  soon to be lost behind the veils of time. I felt compelled to bring the the story and its circumstances together, saving them from history’s dust bin, as best I could — to weave the dramatic saga factually and tenderly, from several points of view: human, parent, historian, researcher, story-teller.

Peace,

Joe Girard © 2022

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

 

Jack Family Grave, Thorold, Ontario

Welland Canals’ features and locks, first thru third, Yellow =1st, Red=2nd, Blue=3rd; overlaid on modern google map.

[1] Daring tourists and thrill seekers walked across the Niagara Falls ice bridge. Until the fourth day of February, 1912, when it collapsed, with three falling to their eventual deaths. [Buffalo News]  [Explanation of how the ice bridge forms, and invites disaster, here] [A short video describing this horrific tragedy. https://youtu.be/80VB-0TonpU]

[2] The Shaker Broom: https://slate.com/human-interest/2012/06/broom-history-how-it-became-flat.html

[3] That document is little William’s death certificate.

 

Author’s Reflections:

I do apologize.  I had difficulty putting this story together in a way that flows and connects the the converging threads of history in a properly fitting manner.  But one must stop researching and re-writing at some point.  Then it’s hit “publish” or “delete.”

The main reason for this underachievement is that I spent countless hours trying to find background information, which was quite time consuming.  Historical archives I combed through included old newspapers, census data, death certificates, grave site searches and immigration records.  The most difficult was tracing the paths of families who either modified their last names, or whose names were erroneously recorded by government officials.  And, it seems, one chose to be ghost-like.

From my review of newspapers I was struck by several recurrent themes.  First, the incident at Welland Canal was reported coast to coast, in small towns and large cities.  From Nananee to Toronto in Ontario.  And from Montreal to Victoria across the continent.  I perused the Saint Louis Post Dispatch; it even occurs there.  More astounding – the articles appeared on June 21 – the day after the tragedy.   This is certainly testament to the near instant communication via wire services that were in place.  Each article, save that in the St Catharines Daily Standard, were brief and nearly identical, with bothersome little errors.  “If it bleeds, it leads … screw the details … then move on …” seems to have been the news business motto long before late 20th and early 21st century news.

And the papers gave me some blind alleys, as they found multiple ways to spell names, and different times.  One had 1927.  Another August 1.  Census data were unsteady too; but at least it was archived.

I was also struck by the brevity of the newspapers – many just 12-24 pages long.  There seemed to be a lack of news to report, or perhaps paper shortages.  Most font was very tiny.  Also, they carried far more advertisements that we see today; I guess that mostly happens digitally now a-days.

A third striking theme was the fascination with US politics in Canada, as well as the US.  The Republican Convention was about to begin in Chicago.  The consensus seemed to be that Taft would get the nod over Roosevelt (he did), then go on to victory in November (abysmal failure; he finished third).  On the Democratic side there was fear that they’d nominate an un-electable radical.  This concern was especially raised by long-time Democratic firebrand William Jennings Bryan.  In the end they eventually (after 46 ballots) chose Woodrow Wilson, somewhat of a dark horse and political neophyte.  Of course he won, and went on to re-election.

This in-depth endeavor of discovery left me feeling a bit sour.  It took so much time, with the result that I found these families lived lives of desperation, with much sadness, emptiness and disappointment.  Finally, it gave me negative feelings about myself.  Why haven’t I spent more time on efforts like this for my own ancestry?  My dad and my second-cousin, Anola, put much effort into this a few decades ago.  Yet I’ve only pushed it forward a tiny bit.  I owe this to my own decedents, as well as my many cousins.

I stumbled across the beginnings of this story at the St Catharines Museum, which is dedicated to the regional history, a lot of which includes the canal(s).  Facts there were few, and a key fact (year of event) was quite incorrect.  Yet, I persisted.

I have to acknowledge some excellent resources. First my wife, who found visual resources and encouraged me to use them to help tell the story.  She found many typos in the early drafts.  Sadly I re-wrote several times thereafter, and many probably remain.  I also acknowledge the following on-line resources:

Quantum Roots: Family Roots

In honor of the passing of a great entertainer, I share this short guest essay to provide a little more history than is circulating on the web.  We all have family history.  Enjoy finding yours.

__________________________________________________________

In 1882, a baby was born in Germany named Max Born. He grew up to be a physicist at Gottingen University. In 1935, Adolph Hitler personally terminated him from his position because he was born Jewish.

Max Born

Like his close friend Albert Einstein, Max fled Germany, which probably saved his life. He became a professor at Cambridge University. Later, he began working at the University of Edinburgh. There, an amazing nine of his students went on to win the Nobel Prize in Physics. He himself won the Nobel Prize in 1954. Max is known as one of the fathers of atomic Quantum Mechanics.

Irene (Born) & Brinley Newton-John; Image Credit: Lost Cambridge

His daughter, Irene Born, married a British intelligence officer, Brinley Newton-John, who worked at Bletchley Park and had interrogated Rudolph Hess during the war. Irene gave birth to Max Born’s new granddaughter, Olivia, in 1948.

Olivia went on to win five Grammy awards and be named a Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire.

She played Sandy Olsson in the movie adaptation of the Broadway play Grease.

Rest In Peace Olivia Newton John, the granddaughter of a genius, Nobel Prize winning physicist Max Born.

Olivia, credit Julie Parks, AP

Facts assembled and written by Joe Gelman

 

Part III – It Happened First In …

A House divided against itself cannot stand”

Abraham Lincoln,
quoting Jesus of Nazareth,
June 1858 speech accepting his party’s nomination for Senator of Illinois, 1958

Lincoln, pre-           beard

Set within a glacially-crafted landscape, as is Part 2’s Waubeka (which is a scant 50 miles southeast) one finds our third and final small community of this trilogy: the hamlet of Ripon.  As with the communities of Parts I and II of this trilogy, Ripon sits alongside a trustworthy clean source of flowing water: Silver Creek.

Driving to Ripon from any direction, whatever the season, one is mesmerized by the views of fields reaching to the horizon, over subtle ground bulges that pass as rolling hills.

Such drives can be exercises in boredom or awe, depending on point of view.  The country-side landscape surrounding Ripon certainly looks bucolic; that’s deceptive: whether it’s crops, livestock or dairy, Ag life is hard.
In mid- to late summer the fertile expanse stretches ever onward, bedecked with maturing crops, interrupted only by the occasional farmhouse, an array of grain silos or a dairy farm.  Trees are sporadic, and usually betray some feature of the land.

Betrayal: A woven garland of trees, sidling and twisting along, betrays a creek in a hidden draw.  A hedge of trees: a property or acreage boundary.  A sparse grove scattered across a small area: a farmhouse.

Most acreage is corn, but there’s also plenty of soybean and cattle fodder, such as the legume, alfalfa, and hay bearing grasses.

The landscape can be equally mesmerizing the rest of the year, too. In winter some crop rotation is needed for soil health and protection; that’s mostly winter wheat, planted in early fall so that germination happens before the first deep freeze. But many of the endless fields simply lie in slumber, carpeted under innumerable 6-sided crystals of white moisture through the weeks, as calendars are flipped from November to March. [1]


The first white settlers arrived in the area in 1844, from New York, via Sheboygan. Inspired by the writings of French philosopher Charles Fourier, they intended to build a utopian agrarian socialist commune, withdrawing from the developing American dog-eat-dog culture. They chose well: glacially blessed fertile and moist prairie land, at the confluence of the smaller Crystal Creek with Silver Creek. These idealists called their settlement Ceresco, after Ceres, the Roman goddess of agriculture.

There are few secrets when it comes to great places to settle. Soon after the Ceresco settlement, David Mapes, also originally from New York, arrived.  Finding the setting as a potentially commercially attractive site, he envisioned a community adjacent to Ceresco, just spitting distance to its east (especially with the prevailing westerlies).

Mapes soon entered into an agreement with the owner of this large swath of land along Spring Creek – a chap named John Horner – for the development of a city there. Horner decided the new community should be named Ripon, after his ancestors’ hometown, Ripon, in England’s North Yorkshire County. As Mapes also had ancestry from England, there was no objection.

 

Before long Mapes had completed a dam on Silver Creek. This was significant. The dam enabled the creek to power a mill. The dam also formed a large pond. Both the mill and the pond promoted commercial and community development. The mill would grind grist into meal. By virtue of Ripon’s trustworthy long, deep, cold winters, the pond provided ice. The ice was harvested in early spring. Thence it was stored in ice houses and cellars, insulated under layers of hay and sawdust. Through the warmer months it was used to chill and preserve foodstuffs, dairy products, and beer. Such was life before refrigeration. At least there was cold beer.

Within a very few years Ripon was thriving. It was growing. Over those same few years, many in the Ceresco commune began struggling with the idealistic concepts and practices required for total collectivism. As land values increased many wished to sell out.  Some found a way to do that.  Many became Forty-niners and drifted away to follow the Siren call of gold and fortune.  Ceresco was absorbed into Ripon.


“[The Confederacy’s] foundations are laid, and its cornerstone rests upon the great truth: that the negro is not equal to the white man; and that slavery — subordination to the superior race — is his natural condition. This, our new government, is the first, in the history of the world, based upon this great physical, philosophical, and moral truth” 

Alexander Stephens,
Vice-President CSA,
Cornerstone Speech, 1861

Alexander Hamilton Stephens, VP of the Confederate States of America

Things were neither mesmerizing, nor beautiful, nor bucolic in America in these, the fledgling years for Ripon and much of America’s heartland. The issue of slavery was about to rend the nation asunder. [edited later: OK Lee Webb, and cotton tariffs].

In the supposed “two-party system” America sorely lacked a strong second party. The Democrats had held sway from Jefferson (1800) until 1840. In the ‘30s a new party, the Whigs, coalesced around a single notion: presidents (as exemplified by Andy Jackson, often described as a jackass — a label he gladly accepted) were too powerful. Beyond that notion — that Jackson was a jackass (which later became the Democratic symbol, a donkey) and too powerful as an executive — the Whigs were little more than a loosely cobbled-together coalition.

In 1840, with William Henry Harrison, the Whigs finally wrested the White House from the Democrats. But WHH promptly died, only a month in office, leaving the office to Tyler (“too!”). Sadly, he had strong “states’ rights” leanings, and, thus, implicitly, pro-slavery inclinations. Harrison’s only major policy initiative was to re-create a national bank (which had been scuttled by Jackson); but when it passed Congress it was vetoed by Tyler. The US financial system would remain fragile.

Thus, with Harrison’s passing and Tyler’s ascendence, the Whig fracture began – which soon led to their demise. They did win one more presidential election, in 1848, with Zach Taylor (probably a good general and poor politician), but he also died in office. Fillmore inherited the presidency. He was in practice pro-slavery (signing the horrific Fugitive Slave Act and denying that the government had any power to end slavery). He was, of course hated by northern Whigs. The party’s factions drifted irreversibly apart. Totally useless, it soon died.

In the 1850s the Democrats, were also split over slavery; the significant factions all favored maintaining slavery. Oversimplified? Sure. Some wanted to expand it to new territories, and others wanted the new territories (which would inevitably become states) to decide for themselves. Across the factions they agreed with the Whig, Fillmore: the federal government had no authority to end the awful institution. Whatever the national policy: slavery should remain forever in the South.

It was dire times for both abolitionists and those who wanted to stop the expansion of slavery. In 1853, the Kansas-Nebraska Act, powered by a Democrat coalition, was thundering down the pike. To Anti-Slavers and Abolitionists alike, the Act effectively promoted slavery, allowing new territories and states to decide the slavery issue themselves (of course, just white males could decide).

It was awful legislation – literally atrocious – and it was surely going to pass. It was in blatant defiance of the Missouri Compromise (1820) which allowed the eponymous state to enter the nation as a “slave state” provided Maine could enter as a “free state”, and that no state west of the Mississippi and north of 36.5 degrees could ever be a slave state (the border between Oklahoma! and Kansas is 36.5 degrees). [2] The Kansas-Nebraska Act tore that compromise to shreds.

Motivated by the distress of this approaching human rights disaster, groups began to coalesce around anti-slavery and abolitionist points of view – from limiting slavery, to upholding the Missouri Compromise, to totally abolishing slavery. These people were remnants of the former Whig party, dispirited members of other parties, and various abolitionist groups. The groups started meeting informally across America’s upper Midwest. A nationwide strategy was needed. A new political party was needed.

Ripon’s Little White Schoolhouse

At one such meeting, on March 20, 1854, in a little white schoolhouse in the modest, small and new settlement of Ripon, 34 such representatives declared themselves a new political party, committed to ending slavery, beginning with fighting its expansion into western territories and states, and ultimately to the universal abolition of the ghastly institution of slavery.  That day, the Republican Party had its first meeting, and it came into existence.  It happened first in Ripon.

Note: several Mid-west cities also claim to be the birthplace of the Republican Party, including Jackson, Michigan. Ripon is widely accepted by historians as the site of its founding and first meeting.

The fledgling party lacked sufficient firepower to successfully contest the 1856 presidential election, selecting John Frémont as their nominee. Frémont finished a respectable second, ahead of Millard Fillmore (a candidate in ’52, heir to Taylor, and last of the Whigs) who nicked off a few electoral votes and finished third. The Electoral College winner was the feckless James Buchanan (who won despite capturing only 45% of the popular vote, but more than any other candidate). Buchanan, a Pennsylvanian, had pro-southern and pro-slavery sympathies. Thus, he led both the nation and his Democratic party to cataclysmic and complete fracture.

The rest is history, as they say. In 1860 the Republicans, at a very contentious national convention in Chicago, eventually nominated a self-educated railroad lawyer as their presidential candidate. That man was Abraham “Honest Abe” Lincoln. Their political opponents, the Democratic party, split over how to handle the “issue” of slavery – although, as stated, all favored keeping slavery – and nominated two candidates.

Lincoln defeated the fractured Democrats, represented by Douglas and Breckenridge [3], as well as a fourth candidate, Bell [4]. Lincoln won the presidency, even though fewer than 40% of all voters chose him (this time: thank you, Electoral College).

[It’s worth noting that Lincoln won the party nomination and presidency on a modest non-provocative platform of keeping the country united and preventing the expansion of slavery — but not ending slavery.  That final position was forced upon him (see Stephens’ quote, above). A position he gladly and openly accepted after the 1862 battle at Antietam, when he crafted the Emancipation Proclamation. Lincoln’s positions in the 1860 election campaign were nearly identical to Douglas’.  However, Lincoln had no known a priori southern or slavery sympathies: see quote atop this essay.]

Splitting the party and the nation was so devastating to Democrats that only one person from that party won a presidential election from 1856 to 1912 — that was Grover Cleveland (albeit, elected twice). His party ran him out on a rail in 1896, in no small part because he believed that a sustainable healthy economy depended on a strong currency. (See W.J. Bryan’s Cross of Gold speech, 1896). He was the last of the successful Bourbon Democrats.*

*[It was a Republican split, in 1912, that finally led to this reversal of fates]

Stephen Douglas, representing the northern Democrat faction for president in 1860, had recently defeated Lincoln in 1858 for the Illinois Senate seat after the famous Lincoln-Douglas debates. Breckinridge of Kentucky, very pro-slavery, represented the southern Democrats. Bell, from Tennessee, was of the new and short-lived Constitution Party, which, although pro-slavery, was unwilling to leave the Union over the issue. All 4 candidates received electoral votes.


 

… a nation conceived in Liberty and dedicated to proposition that all men are created equal.”

Abraham Lincoln, 16th President of the United States,
quoting The Declaration of Independence,
November 1864 speech
dedicating the Gettysburg battlefield and cemetery

One of last photos, perhaps last, of Lincoln

 

And here I risk losing some readers. So be it. Like many others, I see parallels to the 1850s. The country and one major party stand on the precipice of complete rupture. Many talk openly of armed conflict. The fracture lines are evident. The Republican Party, born in honor and strife in a little white schoolhouse in Ripon nearly 170 years ago, has brought itself to the brink of its own fracture, and contributed plenty to the current widening fissures in this country.

God bless us all.

“Real peace comes from learning to understand the perspective of others. When that opportunity comes, harden not your hearts.” – my mash up of several different quotes.

Final Epilog

Three important firsts. You readers have probably noticed a few similarities across these three stories of “firsts.”

  1. The setting of small towns and small schoolhouses.
  2. The importance of water to early US settlements
  3. I have, heretofore, omitted which of the 50 United States in which each of these three communities lie — Hudson, Waubeka and Ripon.  But with a bit of geography knowledge, you’ve figured out that the three “firsts” happened in the verdant and Great State of Wisconsin, land of my youth — as fertile for my mind as it is to its splendid agriculture production, from crops to dairy.
  4. The lay of the land and development of commerce for each community was explored.  As was how each place received its name.
  5. Finally, despite good starts and good intentions, each of these three significant “firsts” have ended up in our contemporary times with controversy and contentiousness.

Be well. Be the person your mother would want you to be.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2022

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] I was sorely tempted to contrive a few twisted lines as a Hat Tip to Robert Frost’s classic and timeless composition. Joe-twisted they follow:
“Whose woods and fields these are, I do not know.
His house is prob’ly in Ripon though.
I don’t think it would be so queer,
to stop without a farmhouse near,
to watch his woods (and fields) fill up with snow,
the darkest evening of the year.”
I’m wondering who among my erudite readers might respond to this poetic tangent.  Alas, I left it all out, for “I have promises to keep, and miles to go, before I sleep… and miles to go before I sleep.”

Thomas Nast, prolific cartoonist, born in Landau, Germany, gave us cartoon versions of the Rep Elephant, the Dem Donkey as well as the jolly round Santa Clause

[2] technically: any new state that came from the Louisiana Purchase, not new states west of the Mississippi River.

[3] the city of Breckenridge Colorado was named for Breckinridge. A spelling tweak was made when it became clear that he was very pro-slavery. The “i” was simply switched to “e”; same pronunciation. “Breck” had once been US Vice-president.

[4] Bell represented a party that was mostly constitutionally conservative and southern

[5] NAST: ELECTION, 1876 “The Elephant Walks Around” – And the “Still Hunt” is Nearly Over. ‘ Cartoon by Thomas Nast, 1876, showing the Republican party trampling the Democratic candidates Samuel J. Tilden (right) and Thomas Hendricks (left), while John Morrissey walks away.  Nast gave us our current versions of the elephant and donkey as political mascots.  As well as the big fat jolly Santa Claus dressed in red.

Good start on history of Ripon: https://ripon1854.com/about-us/
riponhistory.org/contact

And the demise of Ceresco: http://www.uwosh.edu/oldarchives/NHD/ceresco/demise.html

 

Part II – It Happened First in

You’re a grand old flag, you’re a high-flying flag …

US Flag — 1959 to present

Prologue. Waubeka: lay of the land

The languid Milwaukee River begins as a set of mild-mannered creeks amongst some “highlands” formed by a “range” of moraine hills. These hills constitute a small divide, between Lake Winnebago’s watershed and the river’s own. Several river branches and creeks soon join in, most from the same highlands. When enough creeks have linked up, it has graduated to a real “river.”  Thence it begins meandering on a very twisty path – apparently aimlessly, like a band of nomads, or like one of my essays ?. It plods many dozens of miles through Kettle-Moraine country, collecting other creeks along the way. Twenty miles from its mouth it finally turns right and commits to a generally southward flow, albeit with a few jogs.  Finally, in downtown Milwaukee, it joins two other rivers and makes a sudden hard left turn just before it disgorges into Lake Michigan.


Typical Midwest rolling moraine country

Ice sheets of at least four glaciation periods have covered much of North America over the current Ice Age. Each period lasted tens of thousands of years. The last – which ended about 11 thousand years ago – covered all of Canada, and much of the upper Midwest. The ice sheets were one to two miles deep. Cartographical features remain, large and small.  The most obvious are lakes, including the Great Lakes.  Many subtler topographic features include:

        • modern river paths,
    • moraines (hills),
  • kettles (depressions),
  • and till plains (fine glacial deposits). [2]

Lying alongside this lazy river – ‘twixt two of its last big bends, 30 miles upstream from its mouth – one can still find the tiny and humble settlement of Waubeka.  The community remains unincorporated, its population still just a few hundred.

Waubeka was first settled by Europeans in the 1840s.  Its name comes from a local Amerindian — Waubeka (Anglos’ best phonetic Anglicization: Wau-BEH’-kah) — who was Chief of the Potawatomi tribe that remained in the area after White-man’s settlement. [note: my pronunciation may not quite coincide with locals]

The region was once thickly forested: beech, cedars, pines, oaks, maples, larch, and black walnut, to name several.  All grew well in the humid continental climate, and the rich glacial till soil.  A beaver population prospered among the many placid brooks. Thick forests provided ample timber for these industrious builders – the largest rodents in North America – to build dams and lodges.[3]

In time, the land was settled – or maybe “exploited.” Endless groves were substantially cleared by felling on an ambitious scale. Some timber was floated downstream for use elsewhere, but the river’s nature (slow, twisty, with occasional “rapids” and dams) precluded much of that. Some was used for construction, and much simply burned — either for heat, or just to get rid of it. Most of the beaver were harvested, too, although by then the beaver pelt rage was winding down; but they were considered pests, since their dams created large ponds where they’d otherwise not exist.

The cleared-out land has produced an impressive agricultural yield ever since. [4]  Soon after this initial clearing out, Waubeka had its own dam to power a grain mill.

Agriculture still supports much of the economy around Waubeka. The hamlet itself is now slowly — grudgingly — changing. Bits of commerce and refugees are wafting north away from Milwaukee’s gravitational pull. But little Waubeka still retains much of the “agricultural-small-community-keep-it-simple” feel it had 150 years ago, when our protagonist came of age there.

________________________________________________________________________

 

Essay Main Body

“… Forever in peace may you wave.
You’re the emblem of
the land I love,

The home of the free and the brave…”

Bernard Cigrand was born in tiny rural Waubeka, in October 1866.  He was the seventh of eight children born to Susanna and Nicholas Cigrand (one died in infancy in 1859).  Census data show Nicholas was a blacksmith and, for a while, hotelier.  Susanna is listed as housekeeper — quite a task I imagine with 7 kids in a remote community. Nicholas and Susanna were immigrants from Luxembourg. [Although Nicholas’ US naturalization record from 1858 says he was born in “Holland.”] [5]

In 1885 young Bernard was finishing his first year of teaching the school children of the area at a salary of $40/month. He was young, only 18.  Classes were held in the community’s small school (of course, small) called Stoney Hill School. Born and raised in Waubeka, he was considered qualified to teach by virtue of his high school diploma, times being what they were, and especially — as a local boy — he was well-known to be bright and trustworthy. Very young teachers in small remote communities were not uncommon at the time.

Bernard Cigrand, himself (looks like a wedding picture)

Bright, yes. After another year of teaching in Waubeka, Cigrand was accepted to dental school in Chicago. [6]

Upon dental school graduation Cigrand practiced dentistry in northern Illinois, starting in Chicago while also teaching at the dental school there. He set up a longtime practice in Aurora, IL, while residing in nearby Batavia, along the Fox River.

But before Cigrand’s pursuit of dentistry, while teaching in that small schoolhouse in Waubeka, he did something that started a national movement — one that is remembered to this day.

Monday morning, the 15th of June 1885, started out as usual for young Bernard. He opened the schoolhouse and opened its windows to allow a draft — humid warm June days are often oppressive. He went out to the hand-powered water pump and filled a watercooler – likely a Red Wing Stoneware ceramic cooler, or water ‘bubbler’ – thus securing his students’ hydration for the day. The cooler would be placed on a table in the back of the room. Then he did something quite new. Cigrand put a 38-star American flag on his desk.  His reason?  To begin promoting understanding of, appreciation for, and respect for the flag: its history, symbolism, significance, and its power to unify the many ethnic groups immigrating to America. (He himself was a first generation American.)

38-star flag, 1877-1890

A year passed. The end of his second, and final, year teaching in Waubeka. On Monday the 14th, Cigrand did the same thing.  He set out a flag.  He started talking about it, and he invited the students to talk too.

What a great idea! Word got out. The flag was a local hit.  A movement was started.  Flag Day, a day to honor the flag. Cigrand made it a personal mission.  Even after dental school he continued promoting Flag Day.

And he had opportunity to do just that. Cigrand was well-traveled as Dean of the Chicago Dental School and attended conferences in that role where he spoke of the Flag and the need of having a national Flag Day.  He contributed to several Chicago papers and gave lectures on the significance of the flag.

The idea continued to spread. Schools and towns and cities across the country started honoring the Stars and Stripes every June 14th, as the number of stars increased to 48 over the following three decades.  Of course, since 1959, the grand old flag now displays 50 stars.

June 14th was the de facto Flag Day long before President Woodrow declared it so, in 1916. Congress then made it official (although it’s not a federal holiday) via legislation in 1949 – and President Truman signed it.

We “fly the flag” at our house on special days, Flag Day among them.

“ … should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
Keep your eye on the grand old flag.” [7]

Epilogue

Of course, America being America, the nation’s flag — like Little Free Libraries — has become contentious.  I really don’t want to spend much time on this sad aspect.  With full knowledge and acceptance that our country has many, many warts and blemishes from shameful historic acts, I prefer to focus on its positive aspects: historically, currently and in the future.  To focus on the positives the flag symbolizes: such as human dignity, responsibilities, liberties, and unity.

Dignity and unity are possible because of E pluribus unum. In many we are one. All men are created equal, with the right to pursue happiness.  Equal protection under the law.  Fundamental rights encompassed by the Constitution’s Amendments. A country willing to spill its blood and spend its treasure for freedoms at home and abroad.

The flag is a focus of controversy? Really? Can’t we all just get along?  Do it for the children; for the school children.


On August 1, 1889 Bernard Cigrand married Alice Crispe. She had migrated to Chicago from rural Michigan, near Kalamazoo.  She bore him three sons and three daughters. Among them, Elroy (b. 1895) also went on to be a doctor of dentistry, DDS.

Cigrand is a very uncommon surname.  As there are a few scattered across the area, especially in upstate Illinois, near Batavia, I would not be surprised if many – or if all – are descendants of Bernard and his brother Peter.

Bernard had a sudden heart attack and passed away in 1932, aged 65.  He is buried near his home, just outside Aurora, Illinois, along the Fox River. Buried nearby are his wife, Alice, and five of their children. [8]

…Oh, say does that Star Spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?”

____________________________________________________________________

On some positive notes,

  • Stoney Hill School in Waubeka has been fully restored to a fine condition.

    Stony Hill School house, modern

  • Flag Day ceremonies are held there annually.
  • The main street through Waubeka is called “Cigrand Drive.” There is also a “Cigrand Court” in Batavia, near his longtime home and final resting place.

If wishes made dreams come true, then mine would be that all citizens appreciate their nation’s flag, pausing often (and before assigning blame) to consider and respect the symbolism of what’s good, beautiful and hopeful within their country.  In other words, be at least a little bit like Bernard Cigrand, DDS.

Peace,

Joe Girard © 2022

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] Languid, indeed.  Over its 100+ mile length the river’s elevation drops just over 500 feet.  Much of that near its headwaters

[2] Technically we are currently in an ice age era, which has lasted about 2.6 million years, part of larger ice age that has lasted about 30 million years.
Some glaciation fingerprints referenced above:

[a] Glacial Kettles: https://www.nps.gov/articles/kettles.htm

[b] Glacial Moraines: https://project.geo.msu.edu/geogmich/moraines.html

[c] Glacial Till Plains (also sometimes called Ground Moraine):  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Till_plain

[3] A feel for how the region looked pre-European settlement can be gained by visiting the nearby North Branch of the Kettle Moraine State Forest.  Beaver populations in the region are now protected as well (although can still be pest-like). Near Waubeka is a city actually named Beaver Dam.

[4] Thanks to glacial till much Midwest soil is among the most fertile on the planet. Positioned upon land that’s ever-so-gently sloped it’s very conducive to agribusiness, both crops and on-the-hoof.

[5] Luxembourg’s status and its sovereignty were in flux through much of the 19th century.  At the time of Nicholas’ birth, the Prussians, the Dutch, and even in some regard the Austrians, laid claim to parts of the duchy.  At one point the Belgians claimed all of it.  I was surprised to learn that regions of the duchy speak an offshoot dialect of French called d’Oïl. This could explain the “Frenchy” looking surname.

[6] Chicago had only a few years before been catastrophically burned (1871) and then picked up the nickname “Windy City” (1876). It’s not particularly windy, and the nickname’s origins probably come from its propensity for spewing “hot air.” Politicians and local business leaders were promoting Chicago and its rapid phoenix-like recovery from the fire.  The name stuck when journalists in rival cities used the nickname to describe the zealous windbags and gasbags who lived there.  This was envy: the city was known for its large, and growing wealth due to its hub as a financial, commercial and transit center.

[7] Song lyrics extracted from chorus to “You’re a Grand Old Flag”, by George M Cohan, who was born on July 4, 1878 (hence his famous lines in Yankee Doodle Boy: “[I’m] a real live nephew of my Uncle Sam, born on the 4th of July.”)

[8] Four children died in young adulthood, including, Bernard (not a Jr) who went young in 1925 at 35.  These might have contributed to father Bernard’s passing in 1932. Wife Alice passed in 1962, age 92.

 

Notes and extras.

  1. At right and below: extent of Midwest ice sheets in current ice ag

    Laurentide Ice Extent in modern USA

    e phase (yes, we are in the inter-glacial period of an ice age, called the Pliocene-Quaternary glaciation age), mostly the Laurentide ice sheets. Note that basically all of current Canada and much of the Pacific Northwest were also covered, the NW by the Cordilleran Ice Sheet.

 

______________________

Cigrand’s tombstone, Riverside Cemetery, Montgomery, Illinois (quite near Batavia)

2. Tombstone of Bernard Cigrand, DDS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3. 1870 census data for Cigrand family of Waubeka

Cigrand family census data, Waubeka, 1870  … Source: Elizabeth M Cigrand (1862–1951) • FamilySearch [then click 1870 census record]

Part 1: It Happened First In

Lying along the left bank of the St Croix River, just across from Minnesota, the population of the small city of Hudson has nearly doubled in the past two decades — now population 14,000 — from its beginnings as a tiny settlement in the mid-19th century.  I suspect much of this recent growth is spillover from the Twin Cities, which straddle the Mississippi, about 20 miles due west. It’s now even considered part of the Minneapolis-St Paul Metropolitan Statistical Area for demographics and census data.

For decades aspects of the lumber industry supported its citizens, from logging, to mills, to transport. Most of its present-day commerce is tourism, supporting both domestic and commercial travel as a stop-over along Interstate-94, and as a Twin Cities “bedroom community.”

 

Hudson on the St Croix, looking downstream

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Hudson was originally called Willow River, when it was first settled in 1840. In 1852, after a previous re-naming, the city’s first mayor Alfred D. Gray successfully petitioned to change the name to “Hudson”, as the bluffs along the river reminded him of the Hudson River in his native New York.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

With the city’s long history of remoteness and small population, rare indeed is the modern individual who can name a single notable person from Hudson, let alone a famous one. There is one name that more than a few recognize, but the tally is not abundant.  He could be famous; he should be famous. Perhaps, some day, he will be famous. His name is Todd Bol.

Born near St Paul, Bol mostly grew up in Stillwater, Minnesota, graduating high school there. Stillwater is also very small, just a handful of miles upstream from Hudson, but on the river’s right bank.

Todd Bol, of Hudson on the St Croix

After high school Bol then earned two bachelor’s degrees consecutively, in sociology and psychology, at a state university some 25 miles southeast of Stillwater, across the St Croix, in Riverside.

After university, his professional career originally followed that of his mother— a longtime teacher and bibliophile. He taught school in some small, even far-flung, hamlets in eastern Minnesota. Todd Bol also seized upon his mother’s passion for books and reading.

Eventually Bol left teaching and became a serial entrepreneur. He founded or help found companies, then moving on to others. He got involved in health care and nursing. One Bol company trained nurses in advanced care, and another, a foundation, provided scholarships for advanced nursing candidates.

Free now to change his domestic setting, Bol settled in relaxed Hudson, across the St Croix. He had left Minnesota, this time for good, as things turned out.

The 2008-9 financial crisis took a toll on Bol, now in his 50s. He found himself unemployed and with no nearby prospects befitting a person of his creativity and energy. Moping around, his wife suggested he take up some hobbies, starting with Do-it-Yourself home improvement projects. “And you can start by replacing the old garage door.”

Mission accomplished; Bol’s attention turned to the pile of old wood that used to be the door. Much was recoverable, still usable, and in fine condition.  Bol could not bring himself to throw it all out.

What to do with that scrap wood?

             Little Free Library, #1 (I think)

His entrepreneurial mind struck upon a way to connect himself to his mother, and to honor her, via this old wood.  He conceived and constructed a miniature one-room red schoolhouse, complete with belfry, a few feet wide and tall — built from that scrap wood. And about a foot in depth, front to back.  It had glass in its front doors so that one could peer through to see its contents.  He mounted it to a post, which he then planted securely in the earth — in his front yard — accessible from the street.

What could be seen through those glass- paned doors?

Books! Todd Bol filled the miniature schoolhouse with books. It was the first Little Free Library (sometimes called Little Neighborhood Library), or LFL.

Within a few years the idea spread wildly.  Cute little miniature buildings with books popped up in neighborhoods, parks, resorts, squares.  Want a book? Take a book.  Got a book? Leave a book.

The idea caught on and, well you probably know the rest of the story, if not the details.  Here are a few.  Rewinding a bit, soon after that first LFL, Bol met Rick Brooks, who worked at the state’s flagship University as an outreach program manager.  Excited by the Bol’s idea, they teamed up to promote community development via LPLs.  It became their passion; a project inspired by Andrew Carnegie’s library endowment [synopsis here], which funded construction of nearly 1,700 libraries in small to mid-sized towns across the country. [some say 2,500].

They soon blew past that number. There are now well over 100,000 LFLs in the world.  Well, at least that many registered with the Little Free Library Organization, a non-profit that sprang up to support LPL growth and “builders.” There might be more. They have an app to help desperate bookless readers locate LPLs (but seems most effective in the US), as long as the LPL builder/owner registers with the organization.

Alice Kravitz, notorious nosy busybody, from the “Bewitched” TV series

[Yes, Jonas, there’s even one in Erding, Germany — where they are called “Mini-Bibs” (German for library is Bibliothek). https://americanlibrariesmagazine.org/latest-links/little-free-libraries-popular-germany/ ]

LFLs are in all 50 states, 108 (and counting) countries. There is one at the south pole, and another in Siberia. Bol’s realized dream spans the globe, east to west and south to north.

LFLs were an advantageous societal feature during the Covid lockdowns, as libraries across the country closed indefinitely. Local residents put non-perishable food in many LFLs; others, hurt by the hard times, took the nourishment.

Hard to believe then, but not surprising (this is America, after all) that LFLs became contentious in many locales.  The world is full of Gladys Kravitz-types — nosy busybodies, nannies, and nitpickers. Every neighborhood seems to have at least one.  After all: LFLs violated all kinds of local codes, ordinances and HOA bylaws.  Then sprang up those who would ban books, from the Left and the Right. Some even feared the effects of competition with brick-and-mortar libraries. [1] (Sigh.)

This was one reason for the existence of LittleFreeLibrary.org: provide advice on how to deal with busybodies and HOAs, and legal advice on how to fight city hall … and win.

Sadly, Bol was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2018. He passed quickly, age 62 [Twin Cities Star Tribune Obit], leaving the world with a great gift, a legacy, and an awesome tribute to his mom.

Joe Girard © 2022

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[1] A partial list of books banned in America, in various school districts, library districts and municipalities.

  • Twain’s Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn
  • To Kill a Mockingbird
  • Fifty Shades
  • Harry Potter (esp. Sorcerer’s Stone)
  • Slaugherhouse-5
  • Fahrenheit 451 (how ironic is that?)
  • Brave New World
  • Lord of the Flies
  • Animal Farm

 

Pining

It’s June and the dust of pine pollen is flying everywhere. Dangerous time for those with allergies. Sometimes visible yellow clouds of pollen dust sweep across the hills and plains. The golden pollen of staminate cones can pile up on cars and in corners of lots where wind eddies form and collect it.

Pine pollen wafts away on a gentle June breeze

Pines are some of the most majestic of trees.  They are indigenous throughout most of the world’s landmasses, particularly in the northern hemisphere.  Common here in Colorado are the Austrian Pine and the Ponderosa.

The Austrian (or Black) Pine was originally brought to America by European immigrants in the mid-18th century.  Native to the higher altitudes of central Europe, from Italy to Turkey, its hardiness in a variety of soil conditions and climates led to its wide-spread adoption in America.  They are fairly fast growing (1 – 2 ft/year), normally reaching about 50-60 feet, but in ideal conditions can reach heights over 100 feet.  Over 200 million were planted during the Depression and Dust Bowl years as an erosion mitigation method and as a jobs program. They are now considered “native” throughout much of the US.

Many confuse the Ponderosa with the Austrian. Both have prickly needles, and their cones are approximately the same size and shape. But there are quick differentiating identifiers. The Ponderosa is generally found above 6,000 ft elevation, the Austrian below (may vary on location, this is for Colorado). The Austrian grows only 2 needles per bunch; the Ponderosa 3 (although most trees have an occasional bundle of only 2).  The length of needles are approximately the same, so best to pull off a bundle and count them; when hiking the needles can often be too far up to reach – then I just look on the ground to spot older shed needles; the ponderosa sheds them almost continuously, the Austrian more seasonally, but last year’s are usually findable.

Not only is the Ponderosa capable of growing much taller, it has a more gnarly and grizzled looking bark, with deep grooves and furrows that seem to divide the surface into a pattern of scales and puzzle pieces. This is its fire protection “skin.” As the tree matures, the bark takes on an orange-red hue.

Missing in this discussion is the most important pine — in fact important tree — in north American history: the Eastern White Pine.

This truly stately tree once grew more numerous and thicker than imaginable, across north America’s New England states from Maine to Pennsylvania, from Nova Scotia across Ontario, across Michigan – especially its Upper Peninsula – over to northern Minnesota, and reaching – at higher elevations, following the Appalachians – all the way down to Georgia.

Its 5-needle bunches, are soft and feathery, not prickly. They’re almost like the fine filaments on a portrait painter’s brush.  And they are denser in vitamin C than citrusy fruits like lemons and oranges; so they make a healthy herbal tea.

But its importance lay in its prodigious height, and ramrod straight trunks.  Often free of branches up to 75 feet, with heights reaching 200 feet and more, it could be considered the “Sequoia of the East.”

By the end of the reign of the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth I, in the first years of the 17th century, England was well on its way to being the preeminent world power, which would end up with far flung colonies and business interests so expansive that “the sun never set on the British Empire.”

To conduct all this commerce the empire required more lumber than was possibly obtainable on the islands.  England, from the original Picts and Celts to medieval times, had effectively denuded the island of most usable lumber – it being employed for both construction and heating in those pre-industrial and pre-coal eras.  [However, most construction was masonry or simple stonework, the wood being preserved for fuel.]  [1]

And to protect all this money-making commerce the Empire required a large naval fleet, one that could apprehend pirates and fend-off pesky nations’ navies like Spain, the French and Dutch; they all loved to prey upon each other’s goods and staples, and defend trading “lanes” they thought of as their own.

This all required countless tons of stout timber, all to be worked by craftsmen and shipwrights into the spars, decks, keels, hulls, gunwales, and countless other structural components of the day’s ships.  [Excellent description of construction here.]

Most difficult and important were the masts, upon which the sails that propelled and tacked the vessel were supported. Ships-of-the-Line, with 96 to 110 guns, had masts that exceeded 200 ft in height. Even a cutter, only about one-tenth the displacement, had a main mast of 130 ft.  For a galleon the mast was often 160 feet, with a foremast nearly as long. [2]

 

Pre-Industrial era British Galleon

Where would such timber come from?  The Brits established trade with regions along the eastern Baltic coast where the Baltic Pine, or the Scots Pine, grew in abundance.  Capable of heights over 100 ft, this simplified the construction issue (masts were usually “spliced’ from several pieces with intricate woodworking).

This source had downsides. The Baltic Pines required trade with insecure agreements and market price whimseys. They had to compete with the Dutch and Spanish on price and trade privilege. Also, shipping between England and the Baltic required navigation around the Jutland “peninsula” and through the Danish isles, where they were somewhat prone to pirates and attacks by rivals to their world domination.

Hence the English turned their attention to their colonies in New England, which was more than abundant in tall, strong, straight timber: the Eastern White Pine.

The White Pine towers above the canopy

Now, an interesting twist of history occurred.  The King lay claim to all the White Pine in the new world realm; surveyors marked them with the king’s seal.  However, locals who had settled the land and worked it with the labors of their hands, arms and bodies, and by the sweat of their brow, felt like they had as good a claim to the timber as the king, in fact, better.

In New England the battle between the common hard-working colonialist and the dictate of monarchy started long before the Stamp Act.  It goes back to the first years of the 17th century, when England first set its covetous eyes on the riches of the New World.

The conflict bubbled on and on until it got caught up in the colonies’ loud pleas for greater independence in the years following the Seven Years War (or, the French and Indian War – in which colonialists help defeat France for control of the New World in North America).

Finally, full riots broke out.  Known as the Pine Tree Riots, its main rebellious insurrection occurred in 1772 when New Hampshirites supported local sawmills by physically accosting the Deputy Surveyor and the Sheriff, catching them unawares asleep at a local inn, and driving them out of town – and brutally mutilating their horses’ faces.  As the riots came shortly after The Boston Massacre (1770), emotions were still high and remained so.  Although the rioters eventually were caught and received a modicum of “justice”, the outright defiance never ended; in fact, it increased. The received and shared message was that defiance of the Crown was possible. In this way it’s  likely that the Pine Tree Riots led directly to The Boston Tea Party (1773) and to the open armed rebellion that followed.

On the morning of April 19th, 1775 a group rebellious Americans faced off with a detachment of British Redcoats at The Old North Bridge, in Concord, Province of Massachusetts Bay.  The government, under force of arms had come to relieve them of their rights: including their rights to pine trees, their land, their way of life and the right to defend all those rights, by force of arms themselves, if necessary.  The rebels would not back down.  The “shot heard ‘round the world” was fired, and the revolution was now in open, armed conflict.

Flag flown from Washington’s cruisers, Revolutionary War

Before Betsy Ross’s contribution became widely accepted, it’s no surprise then that the first flags flown by the Americans in the war for independence had a pine tree on them.  The nation’s first naval vessels, six cruisers commissioned by George Washington himself, flew a Pine Tree Flag.

The original flag of New England “patriots” and insurrectionists had a pine tree on a red background.  Per John Trumbull’s famous painting, and popular belief, the flag flown by patriots at the Battle of Bunker hill carried an image of a pine tree. [see below]

Flag flown by New England revolutionaries, believed by some to have been at Battle of Bunker Hill

The great Eastern White Pine has not faired nearly as well as the country whose first flags its inspiring image adorned two and a half centuries ago.  Unprotected and reaching high above the forest canopy, it was easily spotted and relentlessly cut down.  It’s hard being number one.

Millions were cut and sent to sawmills to build the cities of the growing country.  It’s estimated that across North America only about 1% of these giant beauties remain.  When Brits found out how wonderful they were, there was an attempt to grow them back home in England, which met with some success.

There have been attempts to repopulate much of the original White Pine native areas in America, but it’s met with only mixed success.  Ironically, some of the trees came from England, re-migrating back to their native lands.  However, many carried fungal infections, at least four of which are known to plague White Pines, and further flourishing of the species is, sadly, in serious doubt.

There are some very remote pockets in the highlands of southern Europe, from the Alps to the Carpathians, which somehow survived the last glaciation period in isolation, although many there also suffer from fungus induced needle blight.  I’ve read of some managed migration of trees to the Carpathians, since the fungus is not as rampant there.  Success is TBD.

Some efforts have been underway in the US to preserve the White Pines that remain.  Thinning is used to keep the trees spaced enough so that the fungi cannot spread.

Is this a metaphor? As with the country and political movements it inspired and briefly represented, the Eastern White Pine is in distress, and its future appears insecure.

  Joe Girard © 2022

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Trumbull painting, Death of General Warren at Bunker Hill

[1]  It’s generally believed that this over-harvesting of lumber over eons contributed to large regions of England and Scotland being unable to self-replenish the trees, leading to what we now call the “moors” or “moorland”; vast wastelands devoid of trees.

[2] Masts and ships: https://findanyanswer.com/goto/486458].

Dog Sick

OK, so I have Covid.  Many people believe that sooner or later, virtually everyone will get it … at least once. So, I guess it’s my turn. For me this is day 4, or 5.  I forget.  This is almost surely Omicron BA.5. It’s supposed to be mild; and milder still if you’ve had all your shots.  Mark me down as the exception.  Soaring fever, the works. Rib racking, throat rattling cough. Haven’t talked in days (not a bad thing ?).

This morning I woke up slightly better.  Soaked in sweat I groggily arose, after a light doze, I blew my nose, took my temp and, miraculously, my fever had lost its mojo. OK, I got up and my fever had broken. I still can’t talk though (hmm, still, maybe, not a bad thing).  But I wish I could sleep better.

Well, since I felt ever so slightly better, I thought that now I’m only “as sick as a dog”, instead of “sicker than a dog.”

That’s odd.  Why do we say “sicker than a dog”?  Weird little idiom, no?  So I started doing some poking around (I didn’t have the energy to sit long at the computer until this afternoon).

First, I was wrong!  (Again).  It’s “As sick as a dog”; not “sicker than a dog.”  This correction does not change my slightly improving, albeit still miserable, condition.

There is no clear consensus on the etymological source of this idiom regarding dogs and sickness.  It’s oldest use in writing dates to 1705, but it was spoken colloquially for several centuries until then.

Here are some of the most likely candidate sources:

    • The Plague. It was carried by fleas, and dogs are notorious carriers of fleas.  Oddly, dogs are resistant to plague bacteria, but they are carriers.  (Cats do catch the plague).  How people knew to associate the plague illness with dogs, who generally don’t catch it, is beyond me.  The plague, although occurring almost consistently over the past two millennia, occurred in two great waves since 1000AD: (1) in the mid-to-late 14th century and (2) in the 2nd half of the 19th century, the former across most of Asia and Europe, the latter mostly limited to China, Hong Kong and even San Francisco’s Chinatown. [1]
    • Dogs tend to live in the moment. Especially when they are sick.  Dog owners have seen their little Muffy or Bowzer mope around, or just flop on the floor for hours, like there is no tomorrow.  So, when one is “as sick as a dog” they just don’t care if tomorrow comes, or not.
    • In many English-speaking countries, it’s common to refer to vomiting as “being sick.” As in, “We ate something bad last night.  We were sick.  Fortunately, we made it to the loo.”  Dogs are well known to be prolific regurgitators of inappropriate things they’ve consumed.  Like that batch of freshly cooked brownies you left out on kitchen counter last night.  “Where did they go? They disappeared!”  Well, you’ll soon see them again.  Let’s hope Fido disgorges in a convenient spot for clean up.  (He might do it himself, in which case you could possibly get déjà vu all over again).
    • Even though dogs and humans have co-existed for many millennia, and most humans have at least a general fondness for dogs (and visa versa) for some reason English has evolved to attach Dog to negative things. You can be dog tired.  Your efforts at something failed: it’s gone to the dogs.  We sometimes “bark up the wrong tree.”  Inappropriate attacks might cause someone to say “Call the dogs off.”  If you’ve pissed off your spouse, you might be “in the dog house.”  The movie “Wag the Dog” presents a fantastic example of, well, “wagging the dog”; that’s distracting attention away from something that’s not so good.

 

So which is it?  Or do you have a better idea?

And which idioms do you use that you can’t really explain, say to a non-native English speaker?

Now, off to a nap.  Or something.

Health and peace

Joe Girard © 2022

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[1]  I included perhaps a bit more on the plague than necessary.  I included this because the plague has been in the news lately, as the bacteria (bacterium?) that caused it was recently found in graves Kyrgyzstan, dating to the early 14th century.

Like Hearing Lincoln at Gettysburg

‘Like hearing Lincoln at Gettysburg’

by Jeff Jacoby of the Boston Globe

Jeff Jacoby, of the The Boston Globe

 

WHEN THREE US Marine divisions invaded the tiny but crucial Pacific Island of Iwo Jima on Feb. 19, 1945, they expected the fight to be over within a few days. Instead, it lasted more than five weeks. By the time it finally ended on March 26, 1945, nearly 7,000 Marines had been killed in action and another 20,000 wounded. It had been one of the bloodiest battles in Marine Corps history.

Even as the fighting raged, arrangements were being made to bury the dead. Three cemeteries were prepared, one for each division. The 5th Marine Division’s cemetery was laid out at the foot of Mount Suribachi, the hill at the southwest end of the island where the iconic photograph of six Americans raising the US flag had been taken a month earlier. Eventually more than 2,200 men, 38 of them unidentified, would be laid to rest there.

Beneath endless rows of grave markers on Iwo Jima, thousands of fallen Marines were buried in 1945.

The cemetery was dedicated on March 21. The plan was for Major General Keller Rockey, the division commander, to deliver a secular address, paying tribute to the fallen on behalf of the nation and the Marine Corps. Then the division’s 17 chaplains were to jointly hold a nondenominational religious service. The highest ranking division chaplain, Commander Warren F. Cuthriell, asked the division’s only Jewish chaplain, Rabbi Roland B. Gittelsohn, to deliver the sermon.

A native of Cleveland, Gittelsohn had been ordained at Hebrew Union College and appointed to the pulpit of a synagogue in Rockville Center on Long Island. From his teens he’d been an ardent pacifist, bitterly opposed to war and against military spending of any kind. “If there was one absolute in my personal credo, it was the absolute of pacifism,” Gittelsohn wrote in a 1946 memoir. “I vowed never to aid or bless any war of any kind. I told my friends that I was prepared to spend the next war in prison. I argued with my father that submission to the worst evil was better than resisting it by force.”

Then came Pearl Harbor and the scales fell from his eyes. “I felt inwardly happy that the monies I had called wasted were appropriated and the ships I had not wanted were built,” Gittelsohn wrote.

As it became clear that war against Japan and Germany was an urgent moral necessity, he decided to enlist as a chaplain. The memoir in which he told his story was never printed during his lifetime; it lay undiscovered in the Hebrew Union College archives until long after his death. Only now has it been published for the first time by the Marine Corps University Press. Titled Pacifist to Padre, Gittelsohn’s narrative focuses on his two and a half years as a Navy chaplain. He writes with eloquence and compassion of the struggles — moral, psychological, social — faced by young people caught up in the terrible experience of war. He conveys with almost unbearable intensity the “desperate, longing needs” of Marines about to head into combat and knowing they might never again see the people and things they love.

On Iwo Jima, where so many thousands of American lives were cut short, Gittelsohn was deeply touched that Cuthriell, the senior chaplain, had designated him, a member of “the smallest religious minority in the division,” to preach the memorial sermon. Gittelsohn labored over his remarks through the night, writing them out by hand. Then he learned that several of the Christian chaplains had objected to having a rabbi preach over graves that were predominantly those of Christians. Cuthriell, insisting that “the right of the Jewish chaplain to preach such a sermon was precisely one of the things for which we were fighting the war,” didn’t want to back down. But Gittelsohn withdrew, unwilling to mar such a solemn the occasion with controversy. Instead, he delivered the words he had written at the small service held later at the Jewish section of the new cemetery.

Rabbi Roland Gittelsohn, far right, conducting the first Jewish service for members of the 5th Marine Division on Iwo Jima.

“I do not remember anything in my life that made me so painfully heartsick,” he subsequently wrote in his memoir. “We had just come through nearly five weeks of miserable hell. Some of us had tried to serve men of all faiths and of no faith, without making denomination or affiliation a prerequisite for help. Protestants, Catholics, and Jews had lived together, fought together, died together, and now lay buried together. But we the living could not unite to pray together!”

That was not entirely true. Several of the Protestant chaplains, upset by the snub to their colleague, attended the Jewish burial service and were therefore among the first men to hear the sermon he had written. That sermon is now legendary in Marine Corps history. This is how it began:

“This is perhaps the grimmest, and surely the holiest task we have faced since D-Day. Here before us lie the bodies of comrades and friends. Men who until yesterday or last week laughed with us, joked with us, trained with us. Men who were on the same ships with us, and went over the sides with us, as we prepared to hit the beaches of this island. Men who fought with us and feared with us.”

It was not a sermon about religion or God that the Jewish chaplain preached that day. It was a call and a commitment to brotherhood — an exhortation to embrace the equality of Americans not just in the graves of Iwo Jima but back home in America, where prejudice was rife, bigotry rampant, and the ideal of liberty and justice for all, then as now, very much a work in progress.

“We dedicate ourselves, first, to live together in peace the way they fought and are buried in war. . . . Here lie officers and men, Negroes and whites, rich men and poor — together. Here are Protestants, Catholics, and Jews — together. Here, no man prefers another because of his faith or despises him because of his color. . . . Among these men, there is no discrimination. No prejudices. No hatred. Theirs is the highest and purest democracy.”

Copies of Gittelsohn’s sermon were typed up and circulated. Many of the men sent copies home. One of those copies reached Time magazine, which printed excerpts that were read nationwide. The sermon was quoted in newspapers and broadcast over the radio. Today it is renowned as one of the great memorial addresses in the annals of America. In the Marine Corps, it is known simply as “The Purest Democracy.”

In 1995, just a few months before his death, Gittelsohn was asked to give the invocation at a ceremony in Washington, DC, marking the 50th anniversary of the battle of Iwo Jima. He spoke the same words he had delivered on that sorrowful day at the foot of Mount Suribachi half a century earlier. It was, said a three-star general who was there, “like hearing Abraham Lincoln at Gettysburg.”

“Whoever of us lifts his hand in hate against another, or thinks himself superior to those who happen to be in the minority, makes of this ceremony and of the bloody sacrifice it commemorates, an empty, hollow mockery,” Rabbi Gittelsohn said. “Too much blood has gone into this soil for us to let it lie barren. Too much pain and heartache have fertilized the earth on which we stand. We here solemnly swear: This shall not be in vain. Out of this, and from the suffering and sorrow of those who mourn this, will come — we promise — the birth of a new freedom for all humanity everywhere. And let us say: Amen.”

(Jeff Jacoby is a columnist for The Boston Globe).

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Number One

The Supreme Court has certainly received a lot of attention lately: hearings, pending decisions, leaked drafts and partisan splits.  We tend to focus a lot on partisan splits, but 9-0 unanimous decisions occur more often than 5-4 and 6-3.  And those are just announced decisions.  I suspect they are also quite common on procedural things, like which cases to hear.

Shertoff proposed flag

Last week the Court announced a 9-0 decision on an interesting case, Shertleff v Boston.  Quickly: Shertoff was a free speech case in which a citizen (Shertleff) was denied flying a Christian flag (red cross on blue patch with white background) on one of three masts at the Boston city hall.  The city had never denied such a one-day request before.  But the court considers such facts not so much as the law. [1]

Regarding the law, the court has always bent over backward to protect free speech.  And the right to have that free speech heard – or, in this case, seen.  It’s not the first time Boston and the area has been so severely spanked by SCOTUS on speech.

In 1993 the Irish Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual Group of Boston (GLIB) wanted to participate in the St Patrick’s Day parade.  They were denied (although not by the city, rather by an independent organization running the parade).  GLIB sued and Hurley v Irish-GLIB, Inc went to the highest court.  These things usually take a while to wend through the court system.  The court decided again, in 1995 and unanimously 9-0, that free speech gets pole position.  Gays et al must be allowed to march in public parades.

Another unusual 9-0 decision came in 2014 in McCullen v Coakley.  A Massachusetts law was passed in 2007 mandating an anti-protest “buffer zone” around entrances to abortion clinics – even if that buffer extended to public areas like sidewalks. Protestors sued. Free speech won unanimously, again.  The whole law was stricken.

In every case above the most progressively liberal and conservative justices united to rule in favor of the most liberal interpretations of free speech, even if it went against their personal social principles in the specific cases.

This even applies to burning the flag, see Johnson v Texas, decided in 1989.  Although narrowly decided at 5-4, it’s interesting that conservative-leaning Kennedy and most-conservative Scalia voted with the majority to permit flag burning.  [Kind off odd, as the specific flag burning incident was a protest against Ronald Reagan, done just outside the Republican convention of 1984 — and by 1989, when the case was finally decided, Reagan had recently appointed Justice Anthony Kennedy].

Not long after Johnson, above, the court heard a very similar case.  In response to Johnson Congress quickly passed the Flag Protection Act, which prohibited flag desecration and mistreatment.  They basically dared the courts to take up the issue again.

This got to SCOTUS quickly, dying a 5-4 death in 1990, in United States v. Eichman.  Again, with conservatives Scalia and Kennedy concurring: flag burning is speech.  Speech is protected.

Antonin Scalia, SCOTUS Judge 1986-2016

Years later Judge Antonin Scalia stood by his votes.  “If I were king, I would not allow people to go around burning the American flag.  However, we have a First Amendment, which says that the right of free speech shall not be abridged…”

Scalia’s reference to the First Amendment to the Constitution gives us a good chance to review this very important part of the US Constitution.

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

One thing that’s interesting right from the start is that this Amendment, as written, is directed at “Congress” — not to the states, or to the state legislatures, or to city governments.  Yet the Supreme Court, and lower courts by precedence, have determined for a long time that these rights (religion, speech, press, assembly) are so very important that they apply to all branches of government.

These rights are indeed important.  Let’s consider Freedom of the Press.  This points to just one reason why I personally did not really react much to the great fear-stoking regarding the tenures of, let’s say, our last two presidents: Obama and Trump.  What’s that you say?  Because they were pummeled and attacked by the press, and cartoonists, daily.  None of those publications or voices were silenced, arrested, or “disappeared” by a government response.  We can extend this to the many anti-this and pro-that demonstrations that happened during each presidency.  Free press and free speech all.  [Presidential claims of “fake news” and a bible walk to St John’s notwithstanding].

Freedom of the press is so important it should cause us to consider how contemporary events would have played out if such a valuable and cherished freedom truly existed in, say, China and Russia.

Would there be an atrocity-filled war in Ukraine right now if Russia had such a court-protected freedom?  How might the Covid pandemic have played out if China had freedom of the press?  Reporters Without Borders (RSF) rates China 175th and Russia 155th (out of 180) in the world in Press Freedom.

By way of comparison, the US gets an overall top-grade score of “Good”, and “Satisfactory”, but still comes in at only 42nd, per RSF.  Saying the “US is better than most” is not anything like saying “Russia and China are better than North Korea” (dead last). They are so very low because of authoritarian government interference and censoring. Although we (the US and much of Western Europe) can do better, we are in pretty good standing regarding press freedom.

In absolute freedom of speech, the US does rank #1 in the world (World Economic Forum rankings). [2]

“I disapprove of what you have to say, but I defend your right to say it” has long been a maxim of US law and principals. [3] Recent Rasmussen polls regularly show over 80% of Americans believe free speech is more important than offending someone, and prefer it to giving government control of speech content. [Caveat, among younger Americans this number is dwindling.]

In reviewing the RSF’s Free Press evaluation criteria the US seems to lose ground for a variety of non-government reasons:  there are far fewer jobs for investigative journalism than there used to be; many writers self-censor; much media fails to fairly present alternative views. [4] It’s all related and these conditions continue to morph.  All-in-all, these topics are very large kebabs to skewer. As is Free Speech, in the context of, say, Twitter and Elon Musk. I’ll leave those for others to tackle.

Here’s to #1.  The First Amendment, that is.

Peace,

Joe Girard © 2022

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Footnotes below.  Acknowledgements to recent articles by Jeff Jacoby (Boston Globe) and The Economist for stimulating the thoughts that led to this essay.

[1] More on recent Shetleff Case: https://www.scotusblog.com/2022/05/boston-violated-first-amendment-when-it-rejected-christian-flag-court-unanimously-rules/

[2] This is supported by a 2015 Pew Research poll, here.  By 2021, the US has dropped into a virtual tie with Norway and Denmark for #1 [link], which apparently has more to do with Americans’ perception of free speech than actual government or private censoring.

[3] This quote is often attributed to Voltaire, 18th century French philosopher and strong proponent of civil liberties.  It’s actually probably best attributed Evelyn Beatrice Hall, an early 20th century biographer of Voltaire, trying to capture Voltaire’s philosophy.

[4] Figure and scoring, ref: Reporters without Borders site:
Reporters Without Borders site

Reporters without Borders 2021 World Map, hard to believe Russia is red, not black.  But this was before Ukraine.

White (score 0-15) relates to a Good Situation.
Yellow (score 15-25) reflects a Satisfactory Situation.
Orange (score 25-35) represents a Problematic Situation.
Red (score 35-55) represents a Difficult Situation
Black (score 55-100) represents a Very Serious Situation

 

 

Mr Gerry

Consider the man Elbridge Gerry, an early American politician from Massachusetts, and his legacy.

His legacy could be that he was a member of the rebellious Continental Congress.  As such he was a signer of the Declaration of Independence.  As a member of the later Congress of the Confederation (under the Articles of Confederation), he was present for the crafting of the Constitution (although he initially opposed the final draft).  His opposition resulted in his helping give birth to the first ten Amendments to the Constitution, AKA the Bill of Rights.

Elbridge Gerry

His legacy could be that he was (eventually) elected Governor of Massachusetts, or even that he served as Vice-President of the United States, under James Madison.

What a legacy all the above would be! But no, his legacy is in the portmanteau that contains his last name.  “Gerrymandering” comes from a combination of Gerry and Salamander, since, as Governor, some of the districts he drew up for elected offices looked like salamanders. To gerrymander is to make elective district boundaries so contorted and twisted – always to gain elective advantage – that any sane and unbiased person would quickly recognize them as something that came from a Steven King book, or a House of Mirrors.

Most often used as a verb, or participle adjective, the root word, based on Gerry’s surname, is always used as a pejorative.  The practice of gerrymandering, i.e. producing gerrymandered districts, is still widely used today.  That is his legacy.

In fact, the practice has only gotten worse.  Later herein are shown several diabolical state Congressional District (CD) maps.  Last year the United States Supreme Court bowed out of the argument completely, saying they don’t have jurisdiction over how states draw their own CD boundaries.

Normally I’d agree with SCOTUS on this.  States do what states do.  They all have their own traditions, laws, policies, rules and idiosyncrasies.  Paraphrasing Justice Louis Brandeis: the states are 50 different laboratories of democracy.  However, as with voting rights, civil rights and individual liberty, sometimes it is mandatory that the Federal Government, with the blessing of the Supreme Court, step in to rectify wrongs.  Severe Gerrymandering is one such wrong.

I read with interest that recently the courts of individual states have stepped up to abrogate such newly drawn gerrymandered maps.  In New York, a very progressive state with historically progressive judges, a court has struck down a carved-up map that overwhelmingly favors progressive Democrats.  Good for them.  Similarly, the Maryland courts have tossed out a disturbing gerrymandered map (MD has had sliced-and-diced districts for decades).

Not to dump on just Democrats.  Republicans have often drawn just as contorted districts, unfettered by logic except to gain advantage. Recently, maps drawn by Republican legislators in Kansas, Ohio and North Carolina have also been tossed out by state courts.

There are surely a good many more such state maps, but in these their state courts seem unwilling to take action.  Texas, for example, has a few disturbing congressional districts that clearly favor whites (mostly Republican, at least in Texas) over Blacks and Hispanics (mostly Democrat voters). As in California, they have decades of judges chosen by and for one party, and they seem unlikely to overturn such maps.

These most egregious examples should and must be rectified very soon.  Districts are re-drawn to reflect the decennial census (the last concluded in late 2020 and data released in spring, 2021).  When the data are digested, the districts must be drawn in time for the next election cycle.  And this includes primary races, which are currently on the doorstep in all states.

A few states, like my home state Colorado, have adopted a “non-partisan independent” commission to draw the lines.  In Colorado, which could have been very contentious – since we gained a Congressional seat – this seems to have gone very well. It appears the split will closely trend with the political leanings of the voters, on average.  We shall see.  So far, few squabbles.

It appears Gerrymandering will be de rigueur in many states for quite a while.  What to do?

Not sure.  The Federal Election Commission, backed by SCOTUS, could step in, on the basis of civil rights and try to do what Colorado and other states have done.  If the congressional representation continues to deviate from general voter patterns, then I don’t think they have any option other than to take the districting responsibility away from those states.  Much like the voting rights act of 1965. To do nothing would be to leave millions with no practical voice in an election.

I do have an interesting option, which I have proffered before.  I’ll present it in terms of a hypothetical numerical situation.  First the Federal Government, say the Federal Election Commission (FEC) and the Justice Department, with support of SCOTUS, would have to step in and “help” states who draw such contorted districts.

Then a program kicks in which works something like this.  Suppose a state has 10 Congressional Districts.  And suppose ten million voters participate in the election of CD representatives.  So, on average, 1 representative for each one million votes.  [I know each CD has on average about 750,000 residents with many fewer voters; I use these numbers for simplicity].

Voters vote for party, not individuals.  But they know the preferred “winners” of each party as they would be published well before.

The hypothetical votes turn out as
Party A:  5.0 Million
Party B:  4.4 Million
Party C:  0.5 Million
Others:  0.1 Million

Starting with the first digit, we can assign Party A five seats, Party B four seats.  Subtracting those away we are left with
Party A: 0.0 Million
Party B: 0.4 Million
Party C: 0.5 Million
Others: 0.1 Million

So, Party C gets the 10th seat.

Party A: 5 seats
Party B: 4 seats
Party C: 1 seat.

As far as which individuals get those 10 seats I have two general approaches, but each could be tweaked in the interest of appeasing the squealers.

In each case the parties submit a list of 10 candidates several months before the election.  They should be chosen by statewide primary.

In my first approach, the candidates are ordered one-through-ten, and they get seats as such.  In the hypothetical election, Party A’s candidates 1 through 5 get seated, and B’s 1 through 4, etc.

In my preferred approach, the party’s candidate names get written on ping pong balls and selected by pure chance, a la Lotto.  Pick ‘em at random, which has the benefit of likely ending some careers that span 20, 30 and 40 years.

This randomness would, perhaps, anger too many.  A compromise tweak would put in 10 balls for candidate #1; 9 balls for candidate #2; … all the way to a single ball for candidate #10.

It’s not perfect, but it takes the power away from the partisans and gives third parties a chance to get representation, especially in huge states like California, Texas and Florida.  [In my model CA gives 1 seat to a 3rd party].

After a decade of this, the lizards in each state’s legislature might even pledge to play nice and do away with partisan district boundaries, … and dump on the legacy of one Elbridge Gerry.  Hey!  It could happen!

___________________________________

Maryland’s CD map, 2012-2020.  Calling #3 a salamander is a gross misstatement.  It’s a blob, a creature from another dimension.  And #4 isn’t far behind.

Maryland CD map, 2011-2021

Both major US parties accuse the other of such origami.  And they are correct. In fact, this problem is hardly limited to the US.

The UK has had a worse problem for centuries, only recently rectified. Constituencies for the House of Commons (like US congressional districts) didn’t have even close to the same number of people from district to district.  It was a very long-standing problem; I guess due to reluctance to re-draw boundaries and the uneven growth (in some cases shrinkage) of population.  Although this problem is now “fixed” (the UK now only requires that each constituency population be within 5% of the national average; whereas the US insists they be essentially identical within any state).  This has still resulted in gerrymandered constituencies (yes, even they use the word) and a result that leaves many unhappy.

Over in Hungary, Victor Orban’s power is secure.  Via gerrymandering his Fidesz party controls a slam-dunk legislative majority.  They have 2/3 of the seats despite getting only ½ of the vote.

Back to the US and uneven distributions. I invested quite a bit of time evaluating the current splits in the House of Representatives, by party and by state.  For point of reference, I used the method I proposed above.  In the analysis a whopping 39 states, or 78%, have distorted distributions of congressional seats.  20 tip Republican and 19 tip Democratic.  Most are off balance by a single seat.  Only 11 states are unbalanced by more than one seat. [1] These are:

Table of Imbalanced CDs, by state 2021-2023 [In an unbalanced state one party gets over- represented by the amount shown.  These seats generally come from the other major party. So an imbalance of 1 is actually a swing of 2]. Texas is 13D, 22R and 1Ind.  My model shows 17D, 19R is proper.

I have to give a bit of warning here.  The backdrop is that these states (as do most others with imbalance) have huge regions of rural low-density residents and a few compact areas of high-density population.  People tend to vote like the people around them and like the people they hang out with; the former group generally more conservative and the latter more progressive. Also, there is a high correlation between population density and how people vote. [Suburban and exurban areas can go either way, but they do still tend to fit the trend that people vote like their neighbors.  You can see this in most precinct level election results].

Because of very high and very low population density areas splashed across most states, the upshot is that almost any map drawn will have that look of being gerrymandered, even if it matches the theoretical perfect balance.  Urban areas will be cut up and parceled out to rural areas.  Some suburban areas will be smooshed in with a neighboring suburb, while being divided itself.

On a final note, the German system reaches about the best balance possible.  Bundestag elections have two separate elections.  Voters choose a candidate, and also vote for a party.  When all the votes are tallied in the candidate elections, and ministers are assigned to elective districts (598 are assigned initially), they then look to see if the distribution matches the party vote.  If it doesn’t then they simply add more seats, so that the overall representation matches the popular vote.  [Caveat: A party must reach a 5% threshold to get “extra” seats this way].  I don’t know how large the Bundestag can get, but in the current new coalition government it is at its largest ever, with 736 members. [2]

Or, Auf Wiedersehen Herr Gerry.

That’s my ramble, or rant, for this month.  On to happier themes for a while.

Take care

Joe Girard © 2022

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

With gratitude to my wife, as usual, for pointing out typos, clunky wording, awkward flow and unnecessary words. With helpful suggestions, of course.

Footnotes and final musings.
[1] The most egregious seem to be Massachusetts, Maryland and Alabama.  I arrive at this conclusion by simply taking the ratio of the imbalance to total seats available.  States that have recently lost a seat have redrawn boundaries to make things worse; some are still pending court direction (NY, CA, IL).

[2] The German system is slightly more complicated than this but this explanation gives the gist.

Below: some districting examples for elections 2012-2020.  North Carolina surely looks sliced up by Edward Scissorhands, as does Maryland, shown in main body, above.

North Carolina, may I direct your attention to CDs #1 through 5 and 9?  This has resulted in +2 for Republicans recently.

NC congressional districts, 2012-2022

Alabama looks innocuous.  By lumping almost all Dem voters into #6 (Birmingham area, AKA Alabama’s Blue Dot) Alabama is biased +2 for Republicans.

Texas has some serious distortions, which might get worse as Texas gets two additional seats.   Especially note #14, #26, #35. I don’t even see how this is all possible, given that districts must be contiguous.

Texas CD map: 2012-2020 elections

 

Tick Tock

“There’s no tick tock on your electric clock,
But still your life runs down.”
from “Halfway to Heaven”
— composed and sung by Harry Chapin

Prologue

Among many conspicuous factoids that jump out at me as I observe the world in all its splendor is the astounding number of people who have achieved extraordinarily at young ages.

Usually I come across these individuals while doing research for some other thread. The Internet has made such research endeavors almost unbelievably easy, especially for one who grew up seeking information with only one option: going to the library and fumbling through frayed catalog cards and struggling with the Dewey Decimal system.  And, the internet has also made it easy to drift off onto tangents.

Book Cover: Chernow’s excellent and thorough biography on Hamilton

Examples are many. Alexander Hamilton and the young Lafayette of America’s birthing years.  Isaac Newton, at age 22 and on leave from university during the plague, whiled away his time musing about sundry things, like gravity, light, and fascinating aspects of mathematics.  This led him to the theory of gravity, and a whole new class of mathematics, integral calculus, to prove it.  And the nature of light.  And a method to compute Pi to many digits quite quickly. Then the plague ended.  He returned to school.

Even a partial list is imposing.  Alexander the Great pretty much conquered and ruled the world in his 20s; his accomplishments even intimidated Julius Caesar.  Joan of Arc was in her teens when she led the French to victory over the English. Nadia Comaneci, at age 14, was the first to score a perfect 10 in Olympics gymnastics.  The Beatles were 20-24 years old when they rode the wave of Beatlemania to #1 … in the world.

Speaking of music. This realm is not without more than a few other names, particularly those of the “27 Club”; great musical artists who perished at that age, including Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix. They all passed on from drug abuse complications.  Clean living is no guarantee however — JP Richardson, The Big Bopper, made it to 28, only to go down in a Beech Bonanza, in a foggy snowstorm in a field in Iowa, “the day the music died.”

Following are three short bios of individuals who lived and played with elan, achieved greatly — and left the scene — relatively young.  The Comet, The Sweet Georgian, and The Paderewski of Rag.

The Comet

My dad was born and raised in Chicago; I was born there. Although we moved to near Milwaukee when I was but an innocent lad of 6 years old, we remained loyal to     “Da Bears” and the Cubs for decades, despite all my new friends’ allegiance to the Braves (who dumped Milwaukee for Atlanta in 1966), later the Brewers, and of course, “the Pack.”

50s and 60s style rabbit ears, with aluminum foil

I remember trying to watch televised games from Chicago, some 90 miles away.  We’d string wire through the trees in the back yard, or sometimes I’d stand beside the TV, holding the rabbit-ear antennae just right, usually with aluminum foil wrapped around them in odd shapes (most called it “tin foil”).

“Got it! Don’t move Joe!”

Usually we failed, or the blurry images were barely visible through the “snow”; then we’d give up and listen to a Chicago radio station – that would be WGN, at 720 kHz on AM. As a historic Clear Channel, and at 50 kilowatts, a good reception was a high likelihood.

 

Gale Sayers, looks like rookie or sophomore pic

In 1965 a rookie arrived on the scene for our beloved Bears: Gale Sayers. An exciting running back — fast, shifty and elusive — who could also return kicks. Raised in Omaha, Nebraska, he attended and played football for Kansas University. There he was a two time All-American, picking up the nickname “Kansas Comet.” Of course, as a youngster I didn’t know any of that; I learned that years later by reading his autobiography.

But I did know he was very, very exciting… and annoying to Packers’ fans. I was into my teens — cleaning zit ejecta from the bathroom mirror — before I stopped drawing his number (“40”) on my shirts to wear during pick-up football games.

During a game against San Francisco, in his rookie season of 1965, my dad and I followed probably the most remarkable game a rookie ever had, or ever will have. Sayers scored six touchdowns, 4 by rushing, 1 on a pass (80 yards), and another on a punt return (85 yards).  It was a late season game, so Sayers’ skills were now well-known, and the 49ers had redesigned their defense and kick coverage specifically to stop Sayers. To no avail. [video highlights here]

We were of course aware the mighty Packers were playing an important game across the country, in Baltimore, that same day. Their most glamorous player, Paul Hornung, had been struggling for quite some time with injuries; most notably a neck injury that caused a pinched nerve, accompanied by numbness and “stingers” running down his arms.  He was having a mediocre season and had been forced to sit out a few games.  That he was playing at all is testament to his mental and physical toughness … and to the stupidity of American Football.

Paul Hornung scored five touchdowns that day, a Packer single-game record that still stands. The next few days all my excited Milwaukee friends wanted to tell me  about those five touchdowns.  In a voice that probably failed to conceal my satisfaction, despite its soft tone (I had a bad stammer, and it was not cool to be a Bears fan in Wisconsin, even way back then) I replied: you know, Sayers scored six.

In 1965, Sayers set the NFL single season record of 22 touchdowns, coincidently at age 22.  It’s been surpassed eleven times now, but he did that in only 14 games. The rest, except OJ Simpson in 1975, had the benefit of 16 game seasons.  (Last year, ridiculously, and inviting further brain damage to players, they expanded to 17 games).

The next season Sayers led the league in rushing.  Then disaster.  He suffered repeated knee injuries, the first while playing against, ironically, the same San Francisco 49ers against whom he set the touchdown record.  He gamely came back after each knee injury and surgery (remember, this is way before arthroscopic surgery … the rehab was just brutal) and an ankle injury as well.  He still showed flashes of brilliance, but he’d never be the same Gale Sayers, again.

Comets light up our skies and provide us with something to marvel at, but they come and go quickly.  The same with Gale Sayers, the Kansas Comet.  He retired at age 28, leaving fans with great memories from a career that spanned just a few years.

So phenomenal were those few years, that Sayers was named to 4 Pro Bowl games (the NFL All-Star game), twice earning Game MVP [link].  Remarkable: he only played four full seasons.  In a fifth partial season, he was limited to only 9 games after two more knee injures — he still rushed for 856 yards with an astounding average of 6.2 yards per carry. He was inducted into the NFL Football Hall of Fame at the age of just 34 years old, the youngest ever to be so honored.

Sayers used his injury down time to get additional education, eventually earning a Masters Degree, as well as rehab. After retirement he first moved into sports management, picking up duties as Athletic Director at alma mater Kansas University and then AD over at Southern Illinois University.  Thereafter, he started his own very successful computer company, which he then ran until retirement.

Brian Piccolo — gone too soon

We can’t talk about Sayers without at least briefly mentioning Brian Piccolo, and the friendship they shared.  Piccolo and Sayers came up together, both finishing their college football careers in 1964.  Piccolo, playing for Wake Forest, led the NCAA in rushing that year; he actually nudged out Sayers in the Heisman Trophy voting.  (10th and 11th).

A tough hard running back, Piccolo was not as speedy or flashy as Sayers.  He went undrafted.  Signing a free agent deal with the Bears, Piccolo eventually worked his way up from the Practice Squad to regular roster player, often teamed up alongside Sayers in the backfield.

Coach George Halas decided it was a good idea to have teammates who played similar positions room together when the team traveled.  A budding friendship further bloomed: the black Gale Sayers roomed with the lily-white Brian Piccolo.  The first such roommate pairing in the NFL.  They even had sequential numbers: Sayers #40, Piccolo #41.

As anyone who’s seen the gut-wrenching movie “Brian’s Song” knows, Piccolo soon contracted a rare form of cancer and passed away, aged only 26.

Final link: Sayers and Hornung. Probably not coincidentally, except perhaps the timing, these stars passed away recently, within a few weeks of each other, in the autumn of 2020.  Both struggled mightily with cognitive decline, then dementia, in their later years.  Although no investigations were performed, it’s highly likely each suffered from CTE – chronic traumatic encephalopathy – the worst curse of American football.

 

Sweet Georgian: Bobby

I enjoy the sport of golf.  It can be relaxing and wonderfully distracting.  The exercise and fresh air one gets from playing are healthy, and so are the companionships that develop.  I’ve made a study of the game, including the physics and the history. I may not play well, but I can understand physics and history. One name all golf historians recognize is Bobby Jones.

Born in 1902 in Atlanta, Jones was blessed in many ways: coordinated, intelligent, self-driven and well-reared in a well-off family.  But as a youth he had severe health problems. For example, he was unable to eat solid food until age 5, which probably stunted his growth in these important years.

Doctors prescribed golf to young Bobby.  He lived across the street from a golf course (now the famous East Lake) which provided plenty of opportunity to play and learn.  He took well to the game, and by age 14 was playing – and doing well – in national tournaments.

While playing golf competitively at the highest levels, Jones attended nearby Georgia Tech, earning a degree in Mechanical Engineering.  Then, he went off to Harvard University, earning another degree, this in English Literature. [during his most competitive golf years, Jones would relax in the clubhouse before matches by reading Milton, Shakespeare and Chaucer].  Then, back home to Atlanta-based Emory University to study law.  Jones never fully completed his law studies at Emory, as he passed the Georgia Bar exam after his third semester, aged only 25.  He immediately began practicing law.

Along the way, he married his high school sweetheart and became a head of household: they had three children.

One can only marvel that through all this Bobby Jones compiled one of the most extraordinary golf careers in all of history, and certainly by far the greatest of any amateur golfer.

At age 21, Jones won the US Open. Over the next 7 years he’d win another 12 major tournaments, culminating with the Grand Slam – all four majors – in 1930.

After the Grand Slam (also called “The Impregnable Quadrilateral” at the time) Jones promptly retired, without warning — shocking the sports world.  Like Sayers, he was only 28 years old.  He had proved what he needed to.  He reached heights fans and historians still marvel at.

Robert “Bobby” Tyre Jones — in his prime

Was he the greatest, the so-called GOAT? It’s so hard to compare eras.  For example, Jones accomplished all this with hickory shafted clubs and golf balls that couldn’t be trusted to behave the same from one to another – even from the same box of balls!  Greens weren’t smooth.  He did all this while studying Engineering, Literature and then Law – and then practicing Law and raising a family.  [It is said that during an exhibition match at San Francisco’s Olympic Lake course, Jones reached the green of the 600 yard 16th hole in two shots — a prodigious feat by any era’s standards; he did it with hickory shafted clubs. His reaction?  A sheepish smile.]  If Jones isn’t the GOAT, he’s near the top.

Although his career as golf competitor was over after 1930, Jones’ involvement with golf continued.  Working with the Spalding Company he helped design and promote the first steel-shafted matched clubs.  He founded the Augusta Golf Club, which hosted the tournament he founded, now called The Masters.  He made a series of golf instructional videos – lost for decades; recently found – which are probably the most famous ever, using high speed cameras and special lighting.  Ironic, but it was for these instructional and technical ventures that Jones gave up his golf amateur status; he never accepted a dime for any of his many achievements playing golf.

In the 1940s Jones was still a vibrant and intellectual man.  But soon something was wrong.  He was weakening too fast, and in pain.  In 1948 he was diagnosed with a rare condition called Syringomyelia, in which cysts form and grow in the spinal cord, impinging the nerve channels.  It had been developing for decades, perhaps since birth.

President Dwight “Ike” Eisenhower’s painting of Bobby Jones

Jones’ life on earth lasted until 1971.  Those final decades were marked by extreme pain and progressing paralysis.  Starting in the ‘40s he became acquaintances with a man who would become President: Dwight D “Ike” Eisenhower. Theirs would grow to a great friendship of mutual admiration. Ike was like many other world leaders, from Churchill, to Prince Charles, to Franco and even George W Bush — he enjoyed painting .  Ike, also like many of us, really enjoyed golf. He fell in love with Jones’ Augusta Golf Club and course.  In 1953 Ike presented Jones with a painting of his good friend: a younger and healthier Bobby Jones. [1]

Paderewski of Ragtime [2]

This final tale of Ticks and Tocks is the story that started the germination of this entire essay. I learned about it in a recent newsletter of the 1904 World’s Fair Society, of which my wife and I are members.

For the threads of many gleaned tidbits, I must give credit to newsletter regular contributor Jim Wiemers, the society’s Music Collector.

Ragtime music is certainly a historic throwback; its golden era was around the last turn of the century, from the 1890s to the mid-1910s.  But it’s certainly still enjoyed today.  It’s cheery.  It’s jaunty. Its syncopated rhythms are catchy.  Personally, I’ve enjoyed it since watching the 1973 film “The Sting,” which featured Scott Joplin’s ragtime classic The Entertainer throughout the movie. [Confession: The Entertainer is the only specific Rag tune I can confidently identify].

Rag was not considered respectable music from its beginning, not for at least 10-15 years.  No doubt that’s because its roots lie in the African-American communities of that era, most notably in Saint Louis.

In 1904, the leadership of the Saint Louis World’s Fair (officially “The Louisiana Purchase Exposition”) denigrated the music form and wouldn’t permit it to be played on the main Fair Grounds. Some Rag was played along The Pike, which, in many ways, was sort of a “side show” to the Fair.  {Pike description}

This was a great loss to anyone seeking a combination of contemporary culture and art.  And it was most unfortunate, since the acclaimed all-time king of Rag and Rag Composition, Scott Joplin, lived in Saint Louis at the time.  [You can still visit the house he lived in, on the edge of downtown Saint Louis, just a few miles from Forrest Park, site of the Fair.]

Although most of us today are hard-pressed to name Rag stars of that era besides Joplin, there certainly were many.

According to Fair and music historians, at least three contemporary stars of Rag played on the Fair’s Pike: Louis Chauvin, Sam Patterson, and Arthur Marshall.

Marshall played at the Spanish Café, in the Streets of Seville exhibit, for $12/week (he could’ve made $25 over at the Rosebud Bar, but not on the Fairgrounds).  The job lasted less than a month, as his music was too often drowned out by the bands playing at Hagenbeck’s Animal Show (well, the Pike was sort of a collection of sideshows and odd exhibits, displays and experiences). Marshall was replaced by an Iberian Orchestra. [3]  He outlived most the era’s Ragtimers, and was able to provide firsthand testimony on many of the personalities and events to historians decades later.

Sam Patterson and Louis Chauvin played two-piano Rag at the Old St Louis Restaurant and Bar on the Pike  [for a great map of the Pike at the 1904 World’s Fair, go to bottom of this page: click here.  For a great interactive zoomable map of the entire Fair, here]. [4]

Patterson and Chauvin grew up together in Saint Louis, which was rather a Rag hotbed.  They dropped out of school at 15 and 13, respectively, formed a musical touring group, and traveled the country. Later, they returned to Saint Louis, studying and performing – including at the 1904 Fair – before setting off again.

Louis Chauvin (1881-1908) — just not any good photos of him on the internet

Patterson held various musical jobs and even joined Joplin in New York City for a while, helping him complete the ragtime opera “Treemonisha” before Joplin’s untimely death in 1917, aged 58.

And then there was the prodigy, Louis Chauvin, often called “Paderewski of Ragtime.” [2]  A true superstar of the original Ragtime era. He was a regular performer at Tom Turpin’s Ruby Bar in Saint Louis, a nexus for Ragtime talent.  [Quick aside: we note that Turpin himself was an early Ragtime leader, not only through his bar as a Rag performance venue, but through his talent: his works include the very first published Ragtime piece: Harlem Rag.]

Chauvin played only by ear and could re-create any piece he heard; if it wasn’t Rag, he put his own Rag-spin on it.  He could adapt any melody to Rag, including a Sousa march.  Contemporaries pretty much agreed: Chauvin was the best. They were all in awe. But none of his creations were ever written down. His only published work was a team effort with Scott Joplin: Heliotrope Bouquet.

Sadly for him and the music world, Chauvin’s lifestyle was terrible for his health.  According to Patterson “He stayed up, drank, and made lots of love … he only seemed to be living when he was at the piano.  It’s authentic that he smoked opium at the last.”  Chauvin passed away at age 27.  Various causes were listed, but modern assessments would largely pin it on neurosyphilis … that’s a long term case of the STD syphilis, resulting in coma and, ultimately, starvation.

 

Epilogue

 

Sayer’s career was over at 28. Injuries. Jones also at 28, by choice; other things to do.  Piccolo gone at 26.

Chauvin, perhaps the first member of the great “27 Club.”

Tick Tock, tick tock. Our clocks are running, always running, always ticking.

I really wanted this to be upbeat.  To be a tribute to so many who accomplished so much, and so young.  Alexander Hamilton setting up a new nation’s finances and banking system at age 32.  Leading a charge at the battle that cinched American independence at 24.  Dead in a duel at 47.

Sorry that this took a bit of a dour turn.  That’s why it took me so long to finish and publish.  I was looking for a cheery way out.

Hey, it’s never too late to do something!  Harland Sanders founded Kentucky Fried Chicken at age 62, after already (1) having made and lost a fortune, (2) bounced around the country losing jobs as varied and crazy as kaleidoscope patterns, and (3) also having survived a genuine shoot out.  [5]

Father William Treacy, the priest who married us, turns 103 this week. He still says Sunday Mass, preaching inspirationally as he’s done for 80 years, on love, humanity, brotherhood, peace, compassion and acceptance. [6]

Me?  I’ll just keep observing and writing.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2022

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] This famous painting hangs on the wall of the Chairman’s office at Augusta National.  Reprints are available, but good ones are not cheap. Ike presented it to Jones shortly after taking the oath of office, 1953.  He had been working on it for some time, including through the presidential campaign season.

[2] Ignacy Pedrewski, a Pole, was widely regarded as the best pianist in Europe at the time. As his name shows up in Saint Louis, obviously he was world renowned. An animated performer, he largely played classical music from the likes of Bach, Beethoven, & Chopin (of course) to large audiences. Known for reworking pieces to his own style (as did Chauvin), he went on to become Poland’s Prime Minister when it won its Independence as a favorable outcome of WWI.

[3] They All Played Ragtime, by Rudi Bush

[4] At nearly two square miles (1,270 acres) the 1904 LPE Saint Louis Fair was the world’s largest until the 2010 Shanghai Fair, which nudged ahead at 1,292 acres.  Close behind are the Chicago Fair of 1939, at 1,202 acres and the current 2020-22 Dubai World’s Fair, which has been cursed by Covid, at 1,100 acres.

[5] The Harland Sanders Shoot-out story, https://gizmodo.com/no-colonel-sanders-never-killed-a-man-in-a-shootout-1651797965; and in the book, “Colonel Sanders and The American Dream”, by Josh Ozersky.

[6] Father William Treacy.  We often watch his masses by Zoom, or on recording when we’re busy.

Biographic sources for Louis Chauvin:
[a] https://www.allmusic.com/artist/louis-chauvin-mn0002233120/biography
[b] https://www.stlmag.com/The-Best-St-Louis-Ragtime-Musicians-of-All-Time/

[c] https://aaregistry.org/story/louis-chauvin-pianist-born/
[d] And Jim Wiemer’s column on Chauvin the 1904WF newsletter.

 

Furry Friends

“Cat” and “Dog” are such small words for critters that fill our hearts.

Prologue

Arriving after two tumultuous decades marked by Depression and War, the 1950s were a time of rapid change in the United States.  For example:

        • Booming population: The population surged by 18.7%, the largest since the large immigration waves of 1840-1910; but in the ‘50s it was due to the baby boom, not immigration.

        • Television: In 1950, fewer than 10% of households had a TV; by decade’s end it was 87%.  The most popular TV show? Many iconic shows are still in syndication reruns; the most popular from 1951 to 1957 was “I Love Lucy.”

        • Automobiles: In 1950, there were fewer than 0.6 cars per household; by 1960 it had more than doubled to 1.27.

        • Suburbia: Americans began flocking to the suburbs, most of them new, as conceived and first accomplished by William Levitt, and his Levittowns. Homeownership jumped from about 50% at the close of World War II to over 60% … where it remains today.

        • Pets and furry critters: Humans have kept pets to work and for companionship for millennia. Until then, companion pets were largely for the upper classes and well off. Now, that trend changed: animals were for companionship. And Americans indeed loved animals, as marked by the 1951 inaugural of the PATSY Awards (Picture Animal Top Star of the Year); hosted by Ronald Reagan – then a strong union man and President of the Screen Actors’ Guild.

      We might be always changing, but we’ve always loved furry animals. Must be in our human nature.  Many remain in our collective memory.  Here are the stories of two such loved animals.

      Room 8

      Elysian Heights is a neighborhood on LA’s northside, lying on the northside of a rise that separates it from Major League Baseball’s Dodgers’ home stadium in Chavez Ravine.  It’s a historic and mostly residential neighborhood, reaching back to the late 19th century.

      In 1886 the LA city government was wondering what to do with a rock quarry on that hill that was up for auction, not so creatively named “Rock Quarry Hill.”  They all agreed to acquire the hill, restore it so much as possible, and set aside much of it as a park, open to the public in perpetuity.  The hill and region were re-named “Elysian” (Greek for paradise, or even eternal resting place, taking its name from the mythological Elysian Fields) – and lent this name to the Elysian Park and Arboretum that would follow.  It is rather like Eden: peaceful and providing wonderful views of the Los Angeles valley to the south and southwest.

      Soon enough a neighborhood developed there, across the Park, also rather like Eden: warm and verdant.  Named Elysian Heights, it was large enough to have its own elementary school, built in 1915: Elysian Heights Elementary.

      Starting in the ‘20s, the area became a magnet for artists, Progressives, and other social and political iconoclasts.  Many probably had cats, and dogs, and pets of all sorts. Elysian Heights was welcoming to all, including communists and many eastern European immigrants.

      One day in 1952 a stray cat sauntered right into the Elysian Heights Elementary school like he owned the place.  Like a lion king.  The tabby explored the building for a brief while, and then decided he’d taken a liking to Room 8, a sixth-grade classroom, whose teacher was Valerie Martin. Rather like their recusant community, the students in room 8, the entire school, and principal Beverly Mason all reciprocated, and took a liking to him.  He would be quite welcome. For the remainder of the school year, he returned every day.

      Room 8, Elysian Heights Elementary mascot

      Of course, he needed a name. Why not name him after his favorite room, “Room 8”?

      The school year ended, the building was closed, and Room 8 disappeared over the summer.  When school started back up in September, Room 8 returned to … well, he returned to room 8, still Valerie Martin’s 6th grade classroom.

      The students of course were delighted. This pattern continued without interruption until the mid-1960s.  All through the school year Room 8 lived at the school, mostly in room 8.  During the summer months he disappeared.

      Room 8 6th Grade class photo, with Room 8 front and center

      Almost every year the 6th grade class photo featured Room 8 prominently, front and center.  The most desired job in class was Room 8’s feeder.

      Word got out.  News cameras would show up the start of each new school year to capture Room 8’s image and return.  He got fan mail; thousands of letters. Students, acting as his secretary, sent return notes. He was featured in Time magazine, Look magazine, My Weekly Reader and on Art Linkletter’s show.  Leo Kottke wrote an instrumental called “Room 8” that was included in his 1971 album, Mudlark.

      I pledge allegiance to … Room 8<?>

      Room 8 was – and probably still is – the most popular cat in America.

      In the mid-60s Room 8 got into a cat fight.  He was injured and came down with feline pneumonia.  His health waned.  A family across the street offered to take care of him, and that’s where he stayed … only when school was out.  The school janitor would gently carry him across the street at the end of each school day.

      As a part-time stray, it’s likely that Room 8 had burned through 8 lives.  Only one to go.  Finally, one sad day, August 13, 1968, Room 8 ran out of lives. He’s buried at the Los Angeles Pet Memorial Park, in Calabasas, CA. (Coincidently, quite close to where Kobe Bryant, his daughter and seven others perished in a helicopter crash, January 26, 2020).

      It’s estimated that Room 8 lived his terrestrial life for 21 years.

      Room 8’s final resting place

      Elysian Heights Elementary is still in the same place, and, based on Google Street view, it looks much the same as it probably did in 1952, when Room 8 first ambled in and made himself at home.  It’s now a K-6 Arts Magnet School.  Its school logo, included on their website and official correspondence, still has the image of a cat.

       

      _________________________________

      Shep

      Hard to believe that Boulder and Denver were once completely different cities with different cultures from each other.  Boulder’s beginning as a town, snuggled up against the Flatirons, placed it where Boulder Creek exits the front range of the Colorado Rocky Mountains.  Denver lies some 30 miles to the southeast, and, relatively speaking, out in the prairie.  Its origin was also somewhat water-based, lying at the confluence of the South Platte River and Cherry Creek.

      Boulder and the University of Colorado, near the Flatirons of the Front Range

      In Colorado’s early statehood, Denver won the designation as permanent State Capital, wresting it from several other candidate-cities, including Cañon City, Colorado Springs, Gunnison, Pueblo, and Salida.  Boulder won the right to be the seat of the State’s flagship university: The University of Colorado. [1]

      For decades they each evolved and grew their own merry ways. Yes, they were linked by railroad and stagecoach.  Both were awkward. Rail lines were mostly set up to move product from scattered towns, mostly coal mining and grain or flour.  When cars came along, the road from Denver to Boulder generally followed the old meandering Cherokee Trail, before turning abruptly north in modern day Broomfield, and heading toward Wyoming … then to the gold fields of California.  To get to Boulder, cars would usually turn due west, at 9-mile corner, along Arapahoe Road.

       

      In 1927 CU Engineering Professor Roderick Downing began a campaign to build a direct highway between Denver and Boulder.  Cars were growing more prevalent, and traffic ‘twixt Boulder and Denver was growing too.  Between them lay nothing but widely scattered farms, and a few old mines.  He pressed for a turnpike (as it could not be funded, it would require tolls to pay off bonds) for decades.

      But the Depression and the Dust Bowl years hit. Progress faltered. Still, Downing pushed on.

      Following World War II, with America’s increased consumption and growing love of the automobile and freedom to travel, the movement to build a turnpike between Denver and Boulder gained additional backing and momentum. Finally in July of 1950 the deal was sealed and over 6 million dollars in bonds were sold. Construction began, and at a near breakneck speed.

      Shortly after construction on the new highway began, a young stray dog began hanging around the workers and equipment.  He was engaging and friendly.  The workers took to him quickly.

      The stray was clearly part Shepard, so that’s what they named him: “Shep.”  He made the rounds at mealtime, getting tidbits and handouts.  Maybe that’s why strays like hanging around construction sites.

      Life was good for Shep.  At least as long as the building was underway and there were lots of “friends” around.  Someday soon, though, the construction would be complete and cars would be speeding along.  No place for a dog to be rambling around looking for friends… and handouts.

      Beginning in 1952 the turnpike was open, running from Federal Blvd in north Denver to Baseline Road in Boulder. There was a single tool booth, at the halfway point near the new intersection. Toll fees? Exiting halfway, it was a 15-cent toll; going all the way required an extra dime.  At two bits for the full length, that’s about $2.50 today – quite a bargain.  The booth site and interchange was at the current location of Wadsworth (CO-121) and the US-36, AKA “the turnpike.”

      Developers and investors noted that the new intersection and the new turnpike highway made a very amicable and likely location for a new bedroom community to spring up.  And one did, just a few years later; first called Broomfield Heights, and now known as Broomfield, my current hometown.

      Early Turnpike, built to near-Interstate standards, before there were Interstate Highways

      Obviously, there were no RFID readers, or computer cameras to read license plates, or credit card swipers … or anything electronic.  So, when the turnpike opened there were cash toll collectors working 24/7 in the booth.

      As turnpike construction came to a close, the dog-friendly construction laborers made sure that the toll booth workers knew all about Shep.  And to take care of him.

      Well, Shep being a people-dog, it didn’t take him any time at all to connect with the operators.  And of course, they always shared part of their meals with him.

      Colorado is known for cold weather, especially at night.  It can happen almost any time of year. One especially chilly night, the toll workers began to worry about Shep. He was outside, trying to sleep. The workers wooed Shep into the booth, where he slept comfortably. And the tradition began.  Shep would ever sleep inside the toll booth, and the booth keeper would ever have a companion.

      In short time, the regular turnpike drivers also became fond of the friendly furry critter in the booth. They began bringing him food.  Some donated extra coins for a “Shep Fund.”  Others brought dog toys.  Shep cheered them up.  Shep became the “site to see” of the turnpike.

      Shep at the toll booth, making sure everything goes well, and everyone gets to see him

      The workers put up a bucket on each side of the booth to collect coins for Shep.  Kids would fight over who got to toss in coins.  People even got out of their cars to have their pictures made with the mascot of the turnpike.

      Although Shep enjoyed all the attention, he would always be a stray.  Curious by nature, many days he would just drift off to explore the wildlife, terrain and farms around the toll booth – much to the disappointment of drivers who passed by when Shep was away.  The toll booth workers often worried about Shep too, but he always came back … eventually.  Probably most often right around dinner time.

      Shep with bandaged foot at toll booth

      By the summer of 1958 communities were starting to spring up near the turnpike.  But there was still plenty of space to roam.  And there were farms. Apparently, Shep had made an enemy of a nearby farmer somehow.  He was shot in the foot.

      Broomfield veterinarian, Clyde Brunner, donated his services to treat the celebrity, Shep.  It took a while, but Shep healed and was back to his usual shenanigans.  Brunner was a good vet.  Shep and Brunner became friends; Brunner took care of Shep for the rest of his life.

      Shep lounging around on a sunny day

      No one knew when Shep was born, but by 1964 it was clear his final days were counting down. He was a very old dog: deaf, nearly blind, sleeping most of the day and sometimes incontinent.  It was a difficult truth for the toll booth staff, but the reality was that Shep would get one, and only one, more visit to Dr Brunner.

      A burial plot was established for Shep right next to the toll booth.  It seemed proper.  A donation then came in for a tombstone. Shep’s grave was protected by a low metal fence.

      Shep’s headstone: “Part shepard, mostly affection/”

      So popular had cars and personal transportation become that the turnpike was paid off 13 years early, in 1967. So, a toll plaza was no longer needed. The highway was no longer, technically, a turnpike. But Shep’s grave site remained. Motorists would often point it out to visitors and newcomers, especially when fresh flowers had been laid there.

      The area around where the toll booth had been continued to be developed.  Traffic volumes grew.  The “turnpike” and the interchange with Highway 121 were expanded. Population and traffic continued to grow.  Decades later, a new ramp was needed; it would go right through Shep’s gravesite.  What to do?

      The new ramp for the intersection was built, but not before Shep’s remains and grave were re-located to the Zang Spur Park in Broomfield, right next to the Broomfield Depot Museum.  We’ve ridden our bikes over to the park and museum several times.  Certainly, we visit Shep and pay our respects to the loyal and friendly dog.

      Although Shep and Room 8 were contemporaries, Shep never achieved the wide-spread notoriety of Room 8. Yet, he was loved and cherished by just about everyone in the Denver-Boulder area.  (Well, except for whoever shot him).

    • _____________________________________________

      We do love our furry friends.  As we go through our own rapidly changing times, let’s hope that all those adopted “Pandemic Pets” also continue to be loved and cherished by faithful owners.

      Joe Girard © 2022

      Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

      [1] the University of Colorado was actually founded and placed in Boulder several months before Colorado officially became a state, in 1876.

      [2] The roads that followed the old Cherokee Trail in the area was also awkward, as it was not a straight line, and didn’t even go to Boulder.  From Denver it roughly followed current US highway 287, i.e. from near downtown up Federal Blvd, west on 120th then turning rather abruptly near what was then “downtown” Broomfield (i.e, what passed for a train depot), toward points north: Lafayette, Ft Collins, Virginia Dale and Wyoming … eventually meeting other trails heading to either the California gold fields, Utah or Wyoming.

      [3] Room 8’s gravesite

Indigo Blue and Time Zones

9:20 AM, January 19, 1883.  The cross-bay ferry from San Francisco to Oakland pushes off. Forty or so passengers, most headed for Los Angeles, are aboard. In Oakland they board the Southern Pacific’s train #19, with the unlikely moniker “Atlantic Express” – a sister run to their more appropriately named “Pacific Express.”

The “All Aboard” call is at 10:00AM. #19 leaves Oakland station, pulled by a Campbell 4-4-0 — the “locomotive that built America.”


What interesting times we live in. Curious to me that as the economic positions between wealthy and not-so-wealthy continue to widen, the clothing choices between them seem to narrow. It’s near impossible to tell Joe-Six-Pack and university students from the managers and CEOs of the “white collar class.” All seem just as likely to sport blue jeans and untucked shirts.  Not so in 1883, when denim jeans were never a sartorial choice for someone with “clean hands.”  Laborers only.  Everyone dressed as befitting their position in a status-conscious society.


Contemporary Style: jeans, shirt tail and wristwatch

Blue Jeans. We know them generically as Levis, although many clothing manufacturers have knock-offs of that classic – hopefully timeless – design.  We owe them to Levi Strauss (born 1829 as Löb Strauß), an Ashkenazi Jew, who emigrated from Bavaria to the United States and found himself in San Francisco in the 1850s.  California had just become a state and there was good money to be made outfitting fortune seekers (gold rush Forty-niners) and new settlers, as the entire region was booty from the recently concluded Mexican-American War.  Well, to serve them, he invented the denim-based Levi Strauss Blue Jean that’s a staple of most wardrobes in America even today, and the envy of many around the world.

Two things about jeans that are of interest.  Why are most blue?  Well, the chemistry goes that young Mr. Strauss chose Indigo Blue dye because it attached very well to the outer threads of denim.  As the jeans got washed, the dye would pull out miniscule fragments of the fabric; thus, the jeans grew progressively softer, and faded, with each washing.

And there’s another link to 1883, and Bavaria for that matter.  That’s the year that Adolf von Baeyer perfected the method of making synthetic Indigo Blue dye, good enough for industrial use.  Until then it was somewhat rare and expensive; some dye could be made in parts of Europe from woad, but usually it came from points far east, like India, or south, like Africa, where it could be made from plants of the Indiofera genus.

More Prussian-German by birth, and one-half Jewish by his mother, von Baeyer spent most of the last half of his life in Bavaria, moving to Munich at age 40 to take the position as head university chemistry professor.  He was made nobility by Bavaria’s crazy King Ludwig II. He was residing there when he was named the winner of the 1905 Nobel Prize for Chemistry, and he died there, in 1917, aged 81. (Coincidently, in 1905, another German Jew published four groundbreaking papers that would lead to a Nobel Prize in Physics: Albert Einstein).

___________________________________________________________________

Historic Tehachapi Railroad Water Tower

2:00 AM, January 20, 1883. In Tehachapi, California it’s a cold and breezy winter night. The train trip for the sleepy passengers on #19 is about 70% complete. #19 has just made the steepest climb of its journey.  This railroad segment is a true engineering marvel: from 400 feet elevation at Bakersfield in the San Joachin Valley, up to 4,000 feet at Tehachapi; a distance of just 35 miles, as the crow flies. #19 eases into the depot and pulls onto a siding.

____________________________________________________________

Speaking of 1883 and Railroads, that’s how and when we acquired one of the most enduring and useful cultural aspects of day-to-day life – something that we all usually take for granted.  The time zone.

For millennia the very notion of time zones was impractical. Crazy. Noon was either (a) when the sun passed directly over your meridian (determined by knowing true local north), or (b) halfway between sunrise and sunset; with fairly accurate chronometers used to split the daily difference.  In towns across the world, bells rang out “true” local noon, and residents could set their time pieces accordingly – if they had one.

This all changed with the railroad and telegraphic instant communication, which arrived basically together in the US, as many telegraph lines ran right alongside railroad lines – the better to convey weather updates and expected train arrival and departure times at depots.  Delivery of people and product ran on ever tighter schedules.  Until then, several hundred time zones existed in America, as each city had its own based on where the sun was … for them.

But soon this patchwork of time zones became confusing and adverse to coordination. It made little sense for a telegraph to arrive in, say, Toledo at 11:52:40 AM when it was sent from Cleveland at precisely noon. They aren’t even 100 miles apart. The countless tedious time offsets and corrections made computing arrivals, and required departures, too difficult.

Thus, we owe the four North American time zones, the ones we just assume without even a thought to the Railroad Industry of the early 1880s.  [Canada now has two more in the east: Atlantic and Newfoundland – it’s a big country!].

The United States government did not even officially recognize Time Zones until 1918, by an official Act of Congress – which also made Daylight Saving Time official. [Saving Time: let’s not even get started.]

____________________________________________________________________________________

Faux Relief map shows that the Tehachapi Pass route was best low-grade path from San Joachin Valley to LA

The railroad segment from the San Joachin Valley up and over the Tehachapi Mountains was the final stretch completed ‘twixt San Francisco and Los Angeles. Accomplished in only two years of grueling work by mostly Chinese laborers – 3,000 of them – they followed the direction and design of civil and railroad engineers (Arthur De Wint Foote, William Hood, and James Strobridge) to keep the slope to a manageable 2.2%.  This required moving countless tons of granite in order to build 18 tunnels, 10 bridges and the phenomenal Tehachapi Loop.  [The “Loop” is a National Civil Engineering Landmark, and worthy of a side trip if you have any “geek” in you.] Most of the back breaking labor was done with little more than pickaxes, shovels and horse drawn wagons… and tremendous labor.

________________________________________________________________________

Southern Pacific’s #19, an “Express”, consisted of only seven cars: two sleepers, four coaches and a smoker (even back then they had smoker designated areas).  For most of the trip only one engine was needed.  A second “helper” engine had been added to help #19 get up the hill. 

Once the train comes to a stop at the depot, the conductor steps off, ducks the wind and heads into the depot, to meet the telegrapher and station manager, synch time, sign the register, provide status, get rail line conditions, and pick up any news or orders.  The forward brakeman and engineer move the train off the main line and onto the sidetrack; the brakeman then sets the Westinghouse Airbrakes and detaches the engines from the rest of the train, and each other. Once the engines are clear, the engineer commences re-arranging the engines, so that the “helper” engine can be sent back down the mountain


My steampunk era pocket watch.

At this point one of the things the conductor would have done would be to check his pocket watch and verify that he and the depot station manager and telegrapher had the exact same time. Watches were known to curiously lose time, unknowingly stop for a while, or even inadvertently get reset.  Such mistakes could lead to head-on collisions, if a train was switched to the wrong track, or left its layby, at the wrong time.

Once synched, telegrams with train status and local weather conditions could be sent out confidently with coordinated, verified time.

Depot time setting time verification

The pocket watch is one of those once useful, yet always charming, miscellaneous archaic curios that are mostly lost to the mists of history.  I have a couple that I enjoy sporting once in a while.

Railroad employees used pocket watches designed to specific railroad requirements.  The watches generally had no faceplate, as there was little need to protect them from mud and weather. They had their bow and stem at 12 o’clock.  This is so there was never any confusion about it.  When you pulled the chain, attached to the bow, then “12” was right there, on top where it belongs.

This is in contrast to many other pocket watches of the time, which often did have covers which had to be flipped open (inconvenient for a conductor or small station officer when many train stops were often only “whistle stops” lasting a few minutes).  Many also had the bow and stem at 3 o’clock, much like winding analog wristwatches – now also rather archaic.  This made it a tad more convenient to hold in your hand and wind the spring, or adjust the time.

World War I not only brought death and destruction on an unprecedented historic scale, it also nearly brought about the death of the pocket watch. The synchronization of maneuvers, attacks, and shipments could not be burdened with the awkwardness of fishing a time piece out of your pocket.  The mud of trenches required a cover; imagine trying to get it open with cold, gloved hands.

Until then “wrist watches” were a quaint novelty item for ladies.  Men had big heavy impressive fobs.  Out of necessity the “trench watch” was born; early on in the war, many officers began strapping watches to their wrist. This became more pronounced when America entered the war. The faces were then adorned with much larger numbers, especially the 6 and the 12. (Also came the switch to Arabic numerals instead of Roman, to avoid the confusion of counting I’s and whether they were before or after the V and X). Some were made with sprinkled glowing radium into the clock hands and numerals. Eventually straps were added.  The pocket watch began its long, slow ebb into history’s shadows: it was too inconvenient at the times it was most needed.  And yet, the shadows of pocket watches remain.

__________________________________________________________________________

Tehachapi, January 20, 1883.  About 2:05 AM.  A lady (some sources say “pretty young lady”) aboard the #19 intended to disembark at Tehachapi but had no idea of how to safely find a room in such poor weather at that dark hour in an unknown town. The gentlemanly rear brakeman kindly offered to help her. She accepted. He escorted her off the train and into the depot to find proper lodging.

At this point, there are now no train employees on any of the seven cars. Most of the 40 passengers are dozing.


Downey, California is now a suburb of Los Angeles with a very “urban- and industrial-feel.” Rich in history, it is named for a former governor of California, John Downey. If you’re a tech geek, like me, it is the home of North American-Rockwell which also has a rich history: they built P-51s and B-25s for WW2, F-86s for the Korean war, the Apollo command modules for lunar missions and the orbiters for the Space Shuttle.

Downey himself was born and mostly raised in Ireland, and, as such, is one of only a few dozen governors ever born outside the United States. Of course, a large fraction were early governors, who were obviously foreign born, most as British Subjects. California has only had two foreign born governors. I won’t tell you the name of the 2nd, but here are two hints: (1) Hasta la vista, baby; and (2) I’ll be back.


John Gately Downey, 7th Governor of California, 1860-1862

After many migrations, travels and adventures, the gold rush and California’s imminent statehood drew Downey to San Francisco in 1849. Prospecting and serving miners didn’t suit him. He soon moved to Los Angeles where he and a partner started a very profitable drug store business.

As often happens, business success led him to politics. Growing into ever more powerful positions, he was elected Lieutenant-Governor in 1859, taking office in January 1860.  A new Governor was elected too: Will Latham.


Duels? Ridiculous to think that dueling was still a respectable way to settle differences, especially among the educated and politicians at that time, but it was an acceptable (if unlawful) way to defend one’s honor. As it was, one of California’s US Senators had been killed in a duel, September 1859. The brand-new governor (Will Latham) was immediately chosen by the freshly seated legislature to take the Senate seat that had lain vacant for 4 months; Latham resigned the governorship after serving only six days. And, hence, John Downey, by virtue of being the sitting Lieutenant Governor, ascended to the highest state office of California, taking his place in the new and still raw capital city Sacramento. So, both Downey and Mr. Terminator became governor under unusual circumstances.


At Tehachapi Depot the land is not quite level; imperceptibly tipping ever-so-gently downhill back down the hill. This night, coincidently, a strong east wind was blowing downhill as well. [The area is well-known for its winds: currently about 5,000 electricity generating wind turbines are in the area].

The wheels creaked a bit. A few moments later, they creaked a bit more.


Downey had little stomach for more government office after completing the two-year term he had inherited from Latham. He shook the Sacramento dust off his sandals and skedaddled back to LA. There he resumed his business success, expanding into banking, with investments in development of the LA basin and railroads. He was a big investor and promoter in getting the Southern Pacific to build a line from the Bay to Los Angeles.

Downey bought and developed land that would become the community, town, and later city, of Downey. He was quite the local hero when the Southern Pacific began rolling through, in 1874.

Downey’s business ventures often required him to travel to San Francisco, or Sacramento. Whenever possible, his wife Maria would travel with him. Except, she feared trains. She would insist on taking a ship up the coast.

One January, a few years later, business called Downey to San Francisco on short notice. He and Maria preferred to travel together, but there would not be enough time to do the necessary meet-and-greet, then get back to Los Angeles for responsibilities there.

She pleaded with him to take a ship and postpone meetings to make a slower journey possible. He insisted the train would be safe, as well as much faster. Finally, she acquiesced. They took John’s beloved Southern Pacific train.


The wheels were no longer at rest. There was no engine attached. There were no railroad employees aboard. Those wheels … ever so slowly … by the faintest of increments … began rolling. Very gradually and bit by tiny bit. Once freed of static friction and in motion their rotation accelerated. And so did the speed of the cars.


With one brakeman and the engineer shuffling engines, the conductor still fulfilling his duties in the depot, the final brakeman – his assistance to the young lady complete – now stepped outside. A large gust of wind blew out his lantern. This distracted him for a few moments. His pupils wide, he looked out to the faintly lit sidetrack, and – to his horror(!) – the seven cars were gone, vanished into the darkness of the fateful winter night.

The train picked up more and more speed. Two former railroad employees – one was awake from the beginning, standing outside on the smoking car deck – went from car to car attempting to set the hand brakes. This is a difficult task – requiring strength, knowledge and skill – and now especially difficult: they were under extreme pressure as the cars accelerated down the hill, ever more rapidly covering the distance in the gloomy California night: one mile, two miles, three miles. The little engine-less train now truly became an “Express”; her speed went up to 10 miles per hour, 20 mph, 30 mph, 40 … 50… now swaying wildly on every bend, large or small. Getting from car to car was nigh impossible. Utter chaos bloomed; calamity loomed.

Eventually the two retirees got the brakes set on two of the seven cars. It was not enough. Some 3–½ miles from Tehachapi depot, at 70 miles per hour, five cars detached from the other two, and derailed on a curve. As the rail line was following minimum grade, the centripetal momentum carried them some 75-feet down a steep embankment, toward Tehachapi Creek.


It was winter. The cars had heating — coal of course — and plenty of oil for the lamps. The cars erupted in fire. Bodies were cast about everywhere, willy-nilly. The panic, the horror must have been unimaginable.

Accounts vary, but most sources say there were 21 deaths and 12 serious injuries. Some say 15 deaths, others 17. Some bodies may not have been found, and some may have been so torn asunder that a body count may have been too difficult and gruesome. Many of the passengers were Chinese and, considering the era, may not have been listed on the manifest.

Most deaths occurred, gratefully, during or very shortly after the derailment, as the cars pitched and rolled down the hill and caught fire. Most died from the fire, others from dismembering injuries. One of the injured died several painful days later.

Among the immediate dead was Maria Jesus Guirado Downey, daughter of Mexican aristocrats and wife of the former governor. Her premonitions were correct.


Governor Downey never really recovered from this very woeful event. Now we would surely say he suffered from severe PTSD and required psychological treatment and counseling. But they didn’t know to do that back then. Or how. He counseled and treated himself: with alcohol. Until then he was energetic and vibrant; afterward his health waned. Although he remarried in 1888, his 2nd wife also preceded him, passing in 1892; Downey himself followed shortly thereafter in 1894, aged 66.


The root cause of the runaway train at Tehachapi has never been absolutely confirmed. The Westinghouse triple valve Air Brake was theoretically failsafe. They can only fail if the angle-cocks, connecting to the pressurized locomotive air chamber, are somehow closed. This would leave some pressure in the car-to-car pneumatic lines, allowing the brakes in each car to fully or partly disengage. Without pneumatic pressure the brakes were absolutely locked.

Westinghouse’s genius and revolutionary design had been in use for over 10 years, although various railroads adopted it at different times. It contributed immeasurably to the safety of railroads. Conditions at Tehachapi that night could have led to a bit of an issue with the pneumatics, but this would be extremely rare. It’s such an elegant and impeccable design that railroads essentially use it today, virtually unchanged from Westinghouse’s final design.

One unlikely cause that is still found on the internet is that the train was the victim of a failed train robbery. Why anyone would release the brakes, wake zero passengers, and make off with exactly zero dollars and zero valuables in the middle of a cold, windy wintery night is an obvious question that demolishes this theory. Southern Pacific was partial to this unlikely possibility, as it relieved them of any responsibility.

In my humble opinion, the brakeman, in his haste due to miserable weather and tight schedule, probably failed to properly set (bleed) the pneumatic valves. In those pre-union and labor movement times, railroad staff worked notoriously long hours, and sometimes this led to mistakes and oversights. The brakes were not properly set.

In short order, the conductor and brakemen were arrested. They were soon released. No charges were ever pressed and no official cause has ever been given.


The Tehachapi Loop, satellite view, where long trains cross over themselves

As in 1883, the rail line connecting San Francisco to Los Angeles, through Tehachapi, is still probably the most heavily used mountain rail line in the world. Built by the Southern Pacific, with financial and political backing of former California governor John Downey, it’s now owned by BNSF (which is owned by Warren Buffet’s Berkshire-Hathaway). An average of nearly 40 trains each day make the trip, including the engineering marvel “Tehachapi Loop”, considered one of the wonders of the railroad world.  The line stopped carrying passengers in 1971.

Oh, and that second little thing of interest about blue jeans? You thought I forgot, didn’t you? You know that tiny little pocket on the right side of your jeans, just above the regular sized pocket? Yeah, that little thing. The pocket you thought was useless?

Every time you put on a pair of jeans you carry a little sewn-in token of these times from long ago. That little pocket is an anachronistic throw-back to an earlier era.

That’s for your pocket watch.

This is me, sporting a Steam Punk pocket watch in my style 541 Levis

So that’s my little ramble. Running Time and Runaway Trains, Watches and Weather, Irish immigrants and Governors, German Inventors and Chinese Laborers, blue jeans and indigo blue.
Probably a Country song in there somewhere.

“Oh, where would we be without immigrants, chasing their dreams in America?
It’s here that they have more significance, celebrating Christmas or Hannukah.”

Nope. Never gonna make it as a country song writer. Good place to stop.

Peace,
Joe Girard © 2022

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Sources/Bibliography.  Oh my gosh.  So many, I lost count.  Several dozen.  Maybe more.  If you’re feeling doubtful or skeptical, just use your favorite search engine(s).  More than a few details have conflicting factoids and background stories; in these instances, I used my judgment, selecting the items that seemed most credible, and that had the most internet material.

Final note: as an “Express”, a town like Tehachapi would not normally be a stop.  However, its position near the pass necessitated a stop to disengage the helper engine and send it back down the mountain.  Additional water and fuel would likely have been needed after the slow torturous trip up to the pass.

Acknowledgement to my wife, Audrey, who assisted in edits and made several useful formatting suggestions.

Hugs and Kisses

Typical Card Page 1

XOXO Alert!

It’s almost St Valentine’s Day, February 14th, hereinafter called “the day.” This year the day somewhat coincidently comes one day after the Super Bowl. Don’t allow that extravaganza to make you forget your sweetheart and cherished ones.

The coincidence is because the “big game” is occurring about a week later this year than most others in recent history. That’s because the NFL, like other professional leagues – in their never-ending quest for money – has decided to add a 17th game to each team’s schedule.  [Don’t even get me started on the NBA and their addiction to China’s money, see here, here, here, and many others.].

The day is often annotated with flowers, candies, dates, proposals, photos, notes and cards with images of Cupid, the cards and notes often signed off with XOXO.

Less often are references to the massacre of that day and name, administered in the Lincoln Park neighborhood in north Chicago, in 1929.  Lore has it that the gore can be attributed – directly or indirectly – to Prohibition.

Who was St Valentine?  Historians and theologians disagree on just how and why to connect said saint to this romantic date, mostly because there were three Saint Valentines – all three were martyrs, executed by the Roman emperor.

St Valentine, 3rd Century

The most likely story is that of a Saint Valentinus (ca 225-270 CE).  He was a priest in what would be modern day Italy. He was sympathetic to the romantic inclinations of young men who were serving in the Roman military.  The Emperor, Claudius II, believed that single men made better warriors.  As Valentinus knew that love knows no bounds, he married the smitten men to their beloved sweethearts clandestinely.  He might have believed that this helped keep them more chaste when far away from home.  His secret was eventually discovered; he was beaten, tortured and beheaded.

The day? Whether legend or truth, or perhaps related to one of the other “Valentines”, the day of Cupid and putting love and loyalty on the calendar this particular day, is that it is presumably the date of his execution.  At least in the west; in eastern Christianity it falls on July 6th.

Or, the day could be related to the Roman celebration of Lupercalia, which by Christian times, had evolved into something of a pre-spring fertility festival.  Lupercalia was celebrated around the Ides of Februarius, which was regarded as the last month of the year for ceremonial purposes. Should we mention that fertility and “love” are related? Early Christians were pretty good at appropriating the dates of existing rituals to help with conversions and make proselytes feel more “at home.”

Linguists might notice the “Lup” in Lupercalia and wonder if there is a wolf involved.

Well, there is a wolf involved.  Historically, going back a few centuries BCE, the party festivities were to honor Lupa, the she-wolf who nursed and nurtured Romulus and Remus – the mythical founders of Rome.

[By the way, I’m pretty sure that Valentine’s Day has nothing to do with the urban slang meaning for she-wolf, which is “promiscuous woman”, or worse: “prostitute.”]

And Cupid?  The cute chubby fellow who adorns so many cards? He’s the Roman god of passionate love and physical attraction. He’s that cherubic and precocious imp who shoots arrows that, upon hitting their human target, provoke physical and emotional feelings: in short, uncontrollable desire. In one mythologic tale he accidently shoots himself, and thus he himself must suffer the ordeal of love.  How apropos.

Modern Day Cupid

Cupid, like many Roman Gods, was “stolen” from the Greeks, whose name for the corresponding god was “Eros”.  Eros to Greeks meant the same as what Cupid was the god of: passionate physical love.  Romans’ Latin even stole the very word Eros: from which we get the English words erotic, eroticism, erogenous and the like.  Etymologically, eros is both the Latin and Greek word for physical, passionate, sexual love.

One might wonder why Cupid, a god who can rule over one of mankind’s strongest emotions, is most often depicted as a winged, tubby little pre-pubescent lad. Why not a strong muscular figure? This transition seems to have pre-dated Christianity and even the Roman adoption of Eros as Cupid.

Wings? Well, he is a god, so the wings make sense, I suppose.  But better is the line of thought that people who fall in love are “flighty.”

A flabby whiskerless boy? With a little bow and arrow? He is a mere boy because, like youth, love can be so very irrational.  The mighty physique of early Eros was replaced with a bow and arrow to show he still had power.

Speaking of eros, eroticism and such. In Christian tradition, there are four types of Love (most languages, like English, don’t have enough words for this rich domain of emotions).  One is Eros, which is the special intimacy that exists between wife and husband.  Two of the other three are Agape and Charity.  I forget the 4th.

Anyhow, that’s a bit of a path to near to the end of this essay and the end of any Valentine’s Card, where you might find XOXO.  [This is also inscribed at the end of notes, or, nowadays, within text messages].  We all know this means hugs and kisses – or kisses and hugs – right?

Until recently I’ve always had this backward, thinking that O meant kiss (looks like a mouth to me) and X is the hug (looks like 2 arms crossing).  But no, ‘tis ‘tother way ‘round.

Seems as though the X comes from the time not so long ago when most people were illiterate but were required to sign a legal form or document.  So, they wrote just “X.”  They could have made any symbol, but the first letter in the Greek word for Christ is χ. That’s Chi, which looks like an X.  (Pronounced “K-eye”, or “kai”). The symbol was meant, in effect, as attesting before Christ the Lord that your “signature” was a true testament: a sacred vow. Then, to establish validity, they then kissed the X – as in “sealed with a kiss.”  That might be legend, but it’s as good as any other explanation.

Speaking of the Greek letter χ, it is near the end of the Greek alphabet.  The way the coronavirus is mutating, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear of the chi-variant before this is over.

Back to XOXO.  As for O in the XOXO script, it’s a “hug” because it’s supposed to be two sets of a pair of arms, each individual pair forming a semi-circle. Linked together, they form a full circle. Looking down from above, it’s two people in full hug, – well, the arms form a distorted loop, or circle. And, if the arms make a circle, which symbolizes true love – no beginning and no end, they’re like a wedding ring.  Another legend has it that many Ashkenazi Jews who immigrated into America were also illiterate.  Upon entry they also had to sign documents.  Seeing Christians mark their documents with an X, they went the opposite way and used O.  Which offsets the X, but doesn’t convey quite the same thing as hugs and kisses.

Despite all the above—the legends, the myths, the lore and the gore, the guesses and the tangents – this much is true: February 14th is Valentine’s Day.  And – truth – it’s as good a day as any to show special people in your life just how important they are.  Card or note? Sure. Sign it “Love”, mark it with an X, an O, or an XOXO. And we’re not playing tic-tack-toe here.

Yours,

XOXO

Joe Girard © 2022

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Der Brief

News to some of you: I spend a little time almost every day studying German. Even though my surname is French, I find German more interesting. For one thing, they pronounce pretty much all of the letters in all words, seldom resorting to dropping consonants and blowing snot bubbles. [1]  For another, my parents were each ½ German, thus making me ½ German.  Finally, my wife and I enjoy traveling there occasionally, and I must admit – my German skills there are rarely very useful.  I can read signs. Sometimes in small villages it helps when no one can (or wants to) speak English.

As you might guess, Buchladen is Bookstore.

On some study days I will read short stories for variety, instead of the regular vocabulary and grammar lessons. Those can be a real grind.

Following is a very short story I read recently during a study session (my translation to English is good enough).  Most stories are enjoyable, but I especially liked this one.  It’s called “Der Brief”(The Letter).

Here goes.  Translated by me.

_________________________________________________________________

Sari and Lilli are standing in front of a bookstore.

Immensee, famous 19th century German novella

Sari says: Let’s go in! I love old books!

Lilli: And that’s why we are friends.

They go into the bookstore. Sari takes a book and opens it up.

Sari: Lilli!! There’s an old letter in this book!

Lilli: What kind of letter?

Sari: A man named Joseph is writing to his good friend, Doris. He needs some advice.

Der Brief

Lilli: Why? What kind of advice?

Sari: He says that he loves two women, Marianna, and Ruth. Marianna is highly intelligent. But Ruth is very funny. He doesn’t know which one he should marry!

Lilli: I hope he stayed single.  [Lilli is often the Debbie Downer in the lessons and stories]

Sari: Now I really need to know what his friend Doris had to say.

Just then, the woman who owns the bookstore comes over to them.

Owner: Oh! That is a terrific book! … It belonged to my husband. … He died last year.

Sari: Oh, I am so sorry!

Lilli (spark in her voice now): Was your husband’s name Joseph?

Owner (a little surprised): Yes!

Sari (excitedly): And what’s your name?  Marianna … or Ruth?

The woman smiles, a fresh gleam in her eyes.

My name is Doris.

Well, hope you liked it at least half as much as I did.

Until next time …

_____________________________________________________________

[1] In some spoken instances they do drop final parts a word. E.g. Einen often becomes Ein because, quite frankly, who really cares if you get the gender and grammatical case correct?

Joe Girard (c) 2022 — story snagged from Duolingo.

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Lemons to Lemonade Travelogue

Prologue.  My wife and I planned a four-week trip to Italy and Bavaria for early this past autumn.  Unfortunately, we had to cancel the trip at the last moment due to a false-positive covid test.  Trust us, it was a false-positive and we’re fully vaxxed. To say the least, we were disappointed. Making lemonade from lemons during our 10 days of state-of-Colorado-imposed quarantine (unnecessarily) we outlined a ‘round the country driving tour to see and experience things we wouldn’t normally consider, leaving plenty of time for serendipitous discovery and exploration of the country’s lesser known and appreciated towns, highways and byways, as well as see some major cities and sites that were still on our list of places and things to see.  [You can follow along in a photo album here]

4,255 Miles; follow the highlight

Thursday, September 30 – Depart home about 6:30 AM.   Hit Kit Carson, CO to see the town and peruse the KC museum, which was closed.  Very quiet, tiny and old town.

Headed to the Sand Creek Massacre Site.  Lots of county dirt roads en route. Drove through herds of cattle on the roads. You really, really have to want to go there.  Somber.  Walk in brisk late morning air to overlook.  Spoke with Ranger, asked a few questions and moved on.

Then to Ingalls, Kansas.  Stopped in a cute, little and odd museum for a break.  It said Santa Fe Trail Museum, but it’s really just all sorts of local history. Very local.  Dusty old registers and accounting books, mostly for property taxes, going back over 100 years.  Found an old Columbia gramophone.  Learned about the attempted Soule Canal, an effort to irrigate this region with water from the Arkansas River.

Continue To Dodge City, Kansas.  Saw lots of unharvested reddish-orange sorghum along the way. Great folks at the Dodge Visitor info center.  Even gave us wooden nickels.  Nice brewery in the afternoon.  City history walking tour; Dodge City Trail of Fame.  Learned about Bat Masterson, Doc Holliday, and Wyatt Earp.  Yes, even James Arness/Matt Dillon, and many others, including actors in Gunsmoke.

Friday, October 1 – Delightful Boot Hill Museum.  Reconstruction of the old Dodge City.

[Ingalls and Dodge City are both along the Arkansas River and Santa Fe Trail.  Dodge has an Amtrak stop.  Was named for the old Fort Dodge, 5 miles away to get around Army liquor restrictions at the Fort.  Train station has two magnificent and large sun dial clocks for passengers to check time, one central time, one western.  How large?  Over 40 feet across. Each has their own analemma correction chart as well (although these are identical).  Located almost exactly at 100 deg west latitude, which was the time zone boundary at the time, since the railroads instituted time zones in 1883, and also the artificial line between the dry west and the humid center of the country.]

Drive to Wichita.  Where we stayed in a 1971 RV camper (cozy) adjacent and “hardwired” to a building for water, sewer and electric.  Found 2 microbreweries, one with nice beers (Hopping Gnome) but on busy noisy Russel Street.  There we met a delightful young couple.  He’s an aerospace structural engineer and a glider (soaring) enthusiast who built his own trailer.  She’s a teacher. The next (Central Standard Brewing) 2 blocks away with a quiet and enjoyable Biergarten. No chatty nice couples, though.

Saturday, October 2 – Explore Wichita, mostly the Old Town Farm and Art Market.  Dodged a few raindrops at first but it stopped by 11AM.  Learned about Coleman Lanterns, Mr Coleman and the World War II password code response “Coleman” to the query “lantern”.  [Essay on Mr Coleman and his lanterns here].

It was train day! Old steam powered train engine was running.  Right near a brewery.  Third Place Brewing.  Looked at old train stuff in the museum.  Very small and cozy brew tasting room, near the old and restored rail station (no longer a station as before).

Stopped by the Kansas Aviation Museum on the way out of town, right next to the old airport, now McConnell AFB. It has a lot of cool stuff, but I’d say it’s a bit disorganized.  Nice wing on Beech history, even a plaque for Ball.  We saw it all in about 1.5 hours. It’s in the old Airport building, Art Deco from 1929.

Wichita is also on the Arkansas River, which sort of seemed to be our guide on and off for the first several days.

On to Claremore, OK.

Wow, what a great AirBnB. Gene was our host.  He’s an architect who does house designs for both initial builds and remodels; he has really done a great job with this AirBnB. Even has a hottub. His brother, to whom he was very close, passed away while we were there. Sad. He reminded us of Fred Rogers.  Quite possibly the best host we’ve ever had.  Certainly, the nicest and one of the more inexpensive ones too.  Remarkable, since he’s currently the only AirBnB host in Claremore.

Sunday October 3Will Rogers Museum, quite close to Gene’s AirBnB.  Wow, definitely leave time for this one.  Like several hours.  Bring an extra layer, as they have the A/C cranked … they say to keep the humidity down and preserve some Rogers’ artifacts.  Built in 1938 in just 6-1/2 months with private funds (Rogers perished in 1935 in a plane crash in northern Alaska).

Left for Fort Smith, Arkansas early afternoon.  But we took a slight detour to see what it was like to be an Okie from Muskogee.  Well, a rather sad town.  Not much going on.  A bunch of pot shops.  Weird, since the famous Merle Haggard song begins with “We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskogee.”  Pot is only legal for medical treatment in Oklahoma, so I presume the region has a lot of very sick people who really need their medical Marijuana.

Rejoin and cross the Arkansas River to enter Arkansas at Fort Smith.  The Arkansas River coincides with the OK-ARK state line here, and the quirky bend in the border needs to be investigated.  Nearly all of Arkansas’ state boundaries are straight survey lines (with the exceptions of some little nicks that are partly defined by the Red and St Francis Rivers in the SW and NE corners; and of course the Mississippi River).  How they arranged a kink in the north-south line for the boundary to be right on the river at Fort Smith must be an interesting story.

Walked the grounds of the Old Fort Smith (actual fort), walked along the river, nice amphitheater, and found a brewery, imagine that. Bricktown Brewery.  Right near the old fort.  The amphitheater was setting up for a big concert; presumably per our server it is quite a happening site for concerts.

AirBnB well to SE of town center.  Not the best, but it did ok.

Monday, October 4. Not much more to see, as the Fort Smith History Museum was closed (Monday), so we wandered over to Miss Laura’s Visitors Center, which is actually a well-preserved bordello from back in late 1890s.  It’s right near the river and the railroad tracks.  Our tour was given by the most delightful lady, 91-years old.  She absolutely loves being a tour guide in Ft Smith, even though she kept saying she’s an Okie from just across the river, in the flood plain.

Well off on to backroads again to Mount Nebo State Park, Arkansas. Along the way we stopped in Paris, Arkansas.  They have a small park near the center of town with a very small-scale low-resolution replica of the Eiffel Tower (25 ft tall, vs the original, at 1,000 ft).  So of course, we took selfies there.

Arrived at Mount Nebo, a hidden gem getaway on a mountain that rises abruptly up and out of the Arkansas River basin. We checked into our 1930s vintage cabin, built by the CCC 1933-35.  Very cool.  Watched sunset at Sunset Point at one end of the mountain.  Great views of the valleys below, including, you guessed it, the Arkansas River.

Tuesday, October 5.  Took the Ridge Trail hike around the crest of Mount Nebo.  Scenic.  Got a bit warm by the end.  Glad we had our hiking poles.  Kinda dicey for our old knees in places.  A nice 2.5 or 3 mile hike which we took at a very leisurely pace.

Headed over to sister Beth and bro-in-law Doug’s place along backroads, avoiding interstates.  Hit the edge of Jacksonville, AR, which reminded me of an old college buddy.  I found his number and called.  Left a message.  He texted back. I texted him.  We’ve chatted since.  It’s been well over 40 years, but we have good memories to share.

Had a great time visiting Beth and Doug.  Walked the yard, the garden.  Very pleasant evening.  Doug smoked some brisket.  Mmmmm.

Wednesday, October 6.  A little more visiting with Beth and Doug (Nice they were able to take the days off), and a nice breakfast.

Then off for Memphis.  Over half the way along US-70 (not interstate) but did pick up I-40 in Forrest City.  Crossed the Mississippi, finally leaving the Arkansas River watershed.

After checking into AirBnB on near east end, did the quick driving tour of downtown.  Then a history walk (nice) and also up-and-down Beale Street (over rated) and through historic region on east end of downtown.

Thursday, October 7.  Back into downtown for the National Civil Rights Museum at Lorraine Motel.  Over 5 hours! And 5 stars! Fascinating.  Lots of primary source history.  We took a break in the middle to get some BBQ nearby (Central Que BBQ).  A “must see” (the museum, not the BBQ).

We were told the Bass Pro Pyramid near the river is a “must see” also, so we did it.  Well: wow.  It’s huge.  It’s got everything, even “cabin” hotel rooms.  Pretty impressive place.  Check it out: Big-cypress.com.

Then stopped at a hole-in-the wall (Cozy Corner Restaurant) and took some takeaway BBQ to our room .

Friday, October 8.  Well, we hadn’t seen quite enough of Memphis yet, so back into town in the AM to see some older neighborhoods, like the Cooper-Young neighborhood, and some of the perimeter of Overland Park.  One more spin through downtown and the famous St Jude’s Children’s Hospital area, then on I-40 toward Nashville. An hour or so along the route we cross into  the Tennessee and Cumberland River basins.

About halfway to Nashville we got off I-40 for a detour over to Johnsonville State Historic Park, which has a nice little museum, and was the site of an important Civil War battle (and a skirmish).  It was a post along a major supply line (on the Tennessee River) for the Blue Jackets. Hiked the battleground, lake front (river is now dammed) and hill where fort was located. Departing, we followed the old US-70 through some small towns, including Waverly.  The devastation of the late August 2021 flood there was still evident, as we saw many tons of waste (sofas, carpeting, mattresses, drywall, etc – all damaged beyond repair) piled up along the highway and side roads.  [Deadly Waverly Flood, Aug 2021]

Made it to west side of Nashville around 5:3PM0 to meet old grad-school buddy Bob Beall and his wonderful wife Leslie at a BBQ joint near them.  A bit upscale for BBQ (Honey Fire BBQ), but very nice, and the company was terrific.  So good to see them again.  We had dropped in a few years ago for a visit.  Great to stay in touch with such good people.  Even if they were raised in Louisiana.

To a Days Inn east/southeast of town probably 20-25 minutes from dinner on the west end.

Saturday October 9 – Drive I-24 over the mountain (Mount Eagle). Kind of a pretty drive for an interstate.  Got off to go into South Pittsburg (TN) to visit the Lodge Factory Store (think: cast iron).  No bargains, but a pretty town along the Tennessee River.  I-24 looked a bit clogged, so we took all back roads from there to Chattanooga.

Got to “Chatty” early enough to tour the Chattanooga Choo-Choo station, and take a local bus to the Tennessee River front area, and took a nice walking tour there along the river, and of downtown.  Cool, hip, happening city.  Who knew?  Walked all the way back to car at Choo-choo station.  Stopped at the Big River Grill near downtown for a bite and a couple brews. Stopped by their large Oktoberfest celebration area; ticketed entry, we passed after a couple of pictures. Then up Lookout Mountain (another civil war battle site) to see what we could see (seven different states, presumably), then duck into the cave to see Ruby Falls, which has, at about 130 feet, the supposed tallest underground waterfall in the world.  Very cool, but gosh, that place makes a lot of money.  Tourists lined up all day to see it.

Well, that’s Chatty.  Now about 25 minutes over to Cleveland, TN our AirBnB, hosted by Dan & Nancy.  Nice couple.  He is a regional manager for the bakeries in Panera Bread; she’s a nurse.  Like the nickname for nearby Chattanooga, they were rather chatty, but very pleasantly so.  Eager to share stories and give us tips.  But time to move on.

Sunday, October 10.  Off to Asheville, NC, but no Interstate for us, at least to start.  Followed US 64 & 74, which is generally along the Ocoee River, up in the Appalachian Hills and still part of the Tennessee River system.  We stopped at the Ocoee Whitewater Center to hike a bit along the river and see the site of the 1996 Olympic whitewater events.  I did not know there were so many dams along the Ocoee; I counted 3.  Then along US-23 into Asheville.

After checking in late afternoon, almost in the center of downtown, we wandered over to the closest microbrewery (Hi-Wire) where we met a nice couple a tad younger than us (about 10 yrs), from near Chatty.  Kevin and Tammy.  We hit it off so well, we walked to another nearby micro-brewery (Wicked Weed) with them and hung out a bit.  Then weariness set in and we crashed hard into bed.

Monday, October 11.  Day to hangout in Asheville and not drive.  Started out with a 2.5 hour guided walking history tour of Asheville.  Tour guide Jess (I think).  Good stuff.  Founded 1797 along the French Broad River (part of the upper Tennessee system), and a convenient location approximately halfway between Raleigh and Chatty.  Surrounded by hills.  Spirits tasting at Cultivated Cocktails – local craft distiller.  Quite nice.  Good story behind the Grove Arcade, and why it’s only 3 stories tall.  Then over the Asheville Pinball Museum, a “hands on” museum experience for a couple of hours.    My hands and fingers were more than a bit sore.

After photographing the beautiful St Lawrence Basilica<

/a>, which was sadly closed, we wandered over to Twin Leaf Brewing, as we had what were sort-of free drink tokens.  Well, it was an okay deal, but the beer wasn’t great, but we did enjoy the environment and get to see a different part of town.

Then down to the riverfront to try and watch the sunset from some parks there.  Mostly blocked by mountains.  The parks seem to have recovered well after being inundated and swept over by floods back in August, some muddy soil debris was still evident.

We tried to see the Biltmore House area, but of course could not get anywhere near it.  Seems kind of touristy and bourgeois anyhow.  Drove through Biltmore Village, which is nice and has a different modern and dense feel than the rest of Asheville.  Off to Trader Joe’s for some supplies and a good night’s rest.  Tomorrow is a lot of driving.

Tuesday, October 12.  Jumped on the Blue Ridge Parkway after stopping in the Visitor Center for tips and ideas.  Cruised that scenic roadway for several hours. About 175 miles of the 469 total, or so. Gorgeous, especially in October.  Can’t be in a hurry.  It’s 50mph speed limit, tops, and quite twisty anyhow.  We got off near the Virginia border right after hitting one last overlook and short hike, Fox Hunters Paradise and High Piney Spur.  Some backroads through tiny places like Galax and Woodlawn, VA, then hopped on I-77 to I-81 and cruised into Edelweiss German Restaurant, just outside Staunton, VA, for some good wurst, schnitzel and spätzle.

Hotel, Days Inn, just a few minutes away.  We could’ve taken I-81 but didn’t.

That was a lot of driving.  Saw a lot of beautiful scenery.  Crossed over into the Shenandoah/Potomac River basin.

Wednesday, October 13Staunton, VA. Stopped in for tour of Woodrow Wilson’s birthplace.  It’s called a library, but I didn’t see it that way.  Sort of a WW museum.  Good tour.  Interesting perspective on history.  Hit a coffee shop on the way out of town.

Hit I-81 for a short while (~15 min) then exited and took many state and county roads through the mountains.  Passed through a crook of Maryland, and rested our butts for a while in Oakland, MD, mostly a thrift store there.  I know Audrey bought something, but I can’t remember what. Old train depot has been totally repurposed.  Nail and Beauty salon, accountants, and lawyers.  I wandered by looking for something interesting and a lady asked me sincerely if I wanted a manicure.  I caught her off guard.  Her question caught me off guard. No time for my first mani now.  Some US highways then finally caught I-68, just inside the MD Stateline and 20 or 30 miles from Morgantown, WV – our destination for today.

Entered Morgantown, which was much hillier than I expected, although it is the home to the Mountaineers, the nickname of UWVa.  Went right to the Don Knotts statue (it’s his hometown) and snapped some photos.

Then off to check out the heart of downtown and the Monongahela River waterfront.  (As a sign we’re about to head west again, the Monongahela feeds the Ohio River). First hit Morgantown Brewery, and we split a tasty burger.  About 1 block off the river.  Nice place, with a back deck and slight view of river.  Trivia night.  I couldn’t get a team together, so we went out to walk the river front.  Met some really nice people chatting, one of whom was a city cop.  That’s his beat, just cruising the river.  Nice walkways, and amphitheater.  Seemed like a pretty “high end” college town. Returned to the brewery to checkout Trivia Night.  Stayed for a few questions.  Two pretty difficult questions that I knew the answers to.  Shared them with neighboring table, kind of hoping to get invited to join in.  [e.g., in what bodies of water are each of these four islands: Isle Royale, Goat, Mackinac and Corsica?  In what movie is the line “You may call me: Oh Captain, my captain” said?]

Time to get some sleep.  La Quinta in, on the edge of town.  More driving tomorrow.

Thursday, October 14.  Turning seriously back west now, as Morgantown was our farthest east (also northeast). Cruising I-79 north into PA for a bit, picking up I-70 west then into Ohio.  I-77 north until we stop in Canton to see the Pro Football Hall of Fame. Not as impressive as I’d hoped, but still pretty good and a bucket list item.  Audrey passed it up to have some personal time with coffee.

We took OH-8 north, and just on the north side of Akron we found a park that the Cuyahoga River flows through and has cut a pretty deep and impressive gorge.  Who knew?  Took a nice hike there, I think it’s called Gorge Park in the town of Cuyahoga Falls.  Somewhere near Canton we’ve crossed a divide, as the Cuyahoga feeds Lake Erie, not the Ohio River.

From there to our AirBnB on the outskirts of Cleveland … which is pretty sprawling when combined with all the little urban and suburban satellite communities.  We stayed in Warrensville Heights.  There is a light commuter rail station nearby.  We found that, but parking was very minimal, and the rail seemed to be very lightly used.  Covid?  We did find a brewery in that entertainment district, which was fairly hopping.  Locals suggested Lyft or Uber over light rail.  Hmmm.  Sad.

Friday, October 15.  Well, that was our worst AirBnB experience so far, mostly because the bed was way too soft and noisy.  Audrey got hardly a wink of sleep and Joe was restless.  She ended up counting sheep on a sofa outside our bedroom.  Sigh.  So, we dumped our second night there and booked a room in the high-end Drury Plaza Inn downtown.  Drove there, they let us check in very early and we were off to explore Cleveland.  Very, very nice room.  Complimentary happy hour with meals and breakfast, too.

We took a jagged crooked walk around downtown and ended up at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, right on Lake Erie.  Very impressive.  Overwhelming. Everything was terrific.  The building, the displays, the presentations, the videos, everything.  We spent 5 hours there.  Then a bit more walking back to hotel by a different twisty route, which included going by the Browns football stadium (currently called First Energy) and a statue of Otto Graham.

Back to hotel for happy hour and dinner, which included bbq pulled pork. Mmmmm.

Friday, October 16.  OK, time to start heading seriously west.  But first one more cool thing to see, the West Side Cleveland City Market.  Built in 1912 but starting out as a market exchange in the 1850s, it is the longest continually city-run market in the region.  Cool building, very high arched ceilings.  We bought some sausages and bread for road snacks.  West Side and Ohio City seem to offer additional fun that we missed in downtown, so it’s on our “to do list” if and when we return.

On to Fort Wayne, IN.  Wanting to take more backroads, we stayed on I-71 south (southwest-ish) a tad longer to get us into some real rural country.  OH-95 to Mount Gilead, then US-231 up to and around Upper Sandusky, finally catching US 30 (AKA Lincoln Highway in many parts) and going almost directly west to Fort Wayne to meet up with an old work buddy for a beer in the old downtown.  It’s actually quite nice. Fort Wayne.  Who knew?  Many historic beautiful buildings, some to the 1880s and ‘90s, including the magnificent Allen County courthouse.

Ft Wayne is at the confluence of the St Joseph and St Mary Rivers, forming the Maumee River, so we’re still in the Lake Erie watershed.

Highway IN-14 almost straight west to near the Illinois Stateline, then a zig and a zag and you’re in Kankakee, Illinois.  It was getting pretty dark, so we went straight to our room, which was in Bourbonais, just north of Kankakee.

Sunday, October 17Kankakee and surrounds ended up being great.  Locals call it “K3.” We stumbled across a fall festival and trunk-or-treat related family event held downtown where the Farmers Market is held on Saturdays.  (This was a Sunday).  Saw a unicorn (ok, goofy) which kids loved, and a real good imitation of Dr Brown’s DeLoran-based time machine from Back to the Future, complete with Mr Fusion and dog named Einstein.  There are two Frank Lloyd Wright Houses side-by-side, next to the Kankakee River.  One is a museum, which was closed on Sunday, so we walked around and took some pictures. They have a nice train station, which appears to be some sort of museum as well (closed) and was surprised to find they also have Amtrak service.

Somewhere in Indiana we crossed a slight divide, as the Kankakee River feeds the Illinois and then the Mississippi River.  We’re heading west for sure now.

Departing, took city roads to IL-102 up to Kankakee River State Park for a nice 3 mile hike through forest along the river. Leaf color season, and some interesting puff-ball mushrooms.  Audrey picked up some black walnuts and chestnuts to bring home.  Continued along 102 to Wilmington, IL when we were forced to get out when we found out it is along old Route 66, they have an antique store, a brewery (Route 66 Old School Brewing) and a local dam controversy.

Took a different IL highway from there, meandered to I-55, then to I-80, and started really cruising west.  Across the Mississippi and into Iowa, near Davenport. Left I-80 near Iowa City; north on I-380 about half hour to Cedar Rapids.  Check in to nice hotel, not in city center, in mall area.

Went into town in the old Czech village area and found Lion Bridge Brewing.  Nice place.  Learned a bit of local Czech history and about the Bridge of Lions, spanning the Cedar River.  Good homework for tomorrow’s activity.

Monday, October 18Cedar Rapids and the Czech and Slovak Museum and Library.  Wa-a-ay more interesting than we expected.  Took about 2 to 2.5 hours.  Lots of Iron Curtain era stuff.  Also, cultural costumes, famous people and emigrations, mostly to US, over the past 150 or so years.

Quite a Czech and Bohemian village area, adjoining each side of the Cedar River, just south of downtown.  We cruised that area, stopping to take pictures of Wenceslas Church.  And more pics of Bridge of Lions.  Then through downtown.  Nice quiet, clean town we’d like to maybe visit Cedar Rapids again.

Then west again, to Boone, Iowa.  Saw some history and engineering.  Birthplace of Mamie Dowd Eisenhower and side-by-side Old and New Kate Shelley High Bridges over the Des Moines River.  Then over to the very tiny town of Moingona, to see the old train depot – which supposedly houses the Kate Shelley Museum, closed due to Covid – to which young Kate ran to save the Midnight Express (JG essay topic, 2020).

Both the Cedar and Des Moines Rivers flow generally north-to-south where we were, in Boone and Cedar Rapids, feeding the Mississippi.

Doubling back east a bit to Ames, Iowa much of it along the old Lincoln Highway (which has been replaced in many places by a parallel, slicker and safer US-30).  Checked into a B&B called Iowa House, which is in a former Frat House that has been lovingly remodeled and cared for.

Toured around the Iowa State campus.  It is mostly quite beautiful.  Took some pics, which were right at dusk, so they turned out pretty nice.

Tried to find a brewery, but they were all closed!  In a college town!  Geepers, Mondays.  Went to Boulder Tap House, where the beer was just OK, but we split a burger, again, one of our rare meals out.  Nice college kids wait staff that we got to know a bit.

Back to B&B.  Met some really nice co-guests, including a cool chatty grammy (Sally) and her daughter-in-law visiting grandson/son at ISU for a couple of days.

Maps are tricky, as globes don’t properly show up on flat maps.  Turns out Boone and Ames were our farthest north on the entire trip.  (I had thought it was Cleveland, OH).  Anyhow, time to really head west, a bit south and home.  A long day of driving ahead.

Tuesday, October 19.  Up and out after a very nice B&B breakfast.  Back south on I-380, then I-80 west. We did stop in downtown Lincoln, NE for about an hour.  It was originally planned as our last overnight stop, but we had to squeeze a day out of our schedule for a couple reasons.  Lincoln seems really worth re-visiting.  Lady at the Visitor Center had loads of good info and was pretty persuasive.  And it’s even a stop on Amtrak, direct from Denver.  The old train station, as in Cedar Rapids, has been nicely re-purposed.  Could be a future train-based trip.

Just out of Lincoln there was apparently a terrible crash resulting in fires.  I-80 had been closed for hours.  We took a detour way off I-80, up to US-34.  It’s all part of the adventure.  Added about 1.5 hours to our trip home, the traffic on all the detour roads was turtle paced.  Got a feel for towns like Utica and Waco, NE. Interesting to see such small and rather out of the way (even if they are on US-34) Ag and Rail towns not decaying, like much else we’ve seen in out-of-the-way America, barely stayin’ alive.  No reason to re-visit though.  Finally, back on I-80 near York, NE , following the Platte River upstream on-off for a few hours, turning South West-ish onto I-76, and then back to good old Broomfield, Colorado, arriving so late I don’t even remember; but had time to unload the car and do language lessons before midnight.

Museums/Historical Sites visited (quite a few others were closed)
Sand Creek Massacre
Boot Hill (Dodge City)
Kansas Aviation Museum
Will Rogers Museum
Old Fort Smith
Miss Laura’s Visitors Center
Mount Nebo park and historic CCC camp
Civil Rights Museum at Lorraine Motel
Johnsonville State Historical Park (TN)
Chattanooga Choo-Choo Rail Station
Lookout Mountain
Ruby Falls (Cave)
Pinball Museum (Asheville)
Blue Ridge Parkway
Woodrow Wilson Library and Birthplace
Pro Football Hall of Fame
Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
Czech and Slovak Heritage Museum & Library

Joe Girard © 2021

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Coleman!

In military terminology, a countersign is a word, phrase or signal that must be given to allow passage beyond anyone at a secure post, such as a sentry.  Usually, it is agreed upon a priori.  For example, in Normandy, on the beaches and on the cliffs, on D-Day, June, 1944, the password response to “flash” was “thunder.”  Sometimes it was more fluid, even impromptu, especially if a leak was suspected.  So, it was often based on contemporary culture:
          (approacher) Pass please.
          (sentry) Yankees Centerfielder.
          (approacher) DiMaggio.
          (sentry) Come through. [1]

Well, my REI winter holiday shopping catalog just arrived, packed with other assorted postal bombardments we are prone to receiving in our mailboxes in this current pre-Christmas season. 

REI.  That brings back more than a few autobiographical memories, and I suppose that’s as good a reason as any to trigger the dance of my fingers across my keyboard to tap out an essay that’s been brewing since the first days of the ‘round the country road trip we took in October.

Vintage REI logo. I couldn’t find one from either the very early days, or a good modern one.

REI (Recreational Equipment, Inc) is a retailer of high-end sporting and outdoor adventure equipment. It’s organized as a cooperative.  It originated in Seattle and has since spread to 138 stores around the country.

I became aware of REI when I first moved to Seattle, in 1980, fresh out of grad school – and fresh out of money.  I mean broke.  I literally had zero dollars and zero cents.  Just a Chevron credit card and – for some reason, maybe since I had just earned an engineering graduate degree – an American Express Card.  On my cross-country trip from Nashville to Seattle I stopped in Denver for a few days; my dad loaned me $200 cash so I could put down a deposit on an apartment. As I was about to pull away he asked if I had any money.  None.  None?  He handed me the cash.  We hugged.  He cried.  It was the first time I ever saw him cry. And that was it.  (I spent part of it to get into Yellowstone National Park on the way to the Great Pacific Northwest).

There is a rush you get after being completely broke, thinking Hamburger Helper and Chunky Soup on toast are great meals, and then cashing fat paychecks for a few months.  [Also, after those few months, a collection agency found me, as a result of my “disappearance” after leaving Nashville.  I was able to resolve that with my newfound wealth]. [2]

One of the places where I splashed cash was REI, in downtown Seattle, taking up much of an entire city block at 11th and Pine.  At the time it might have still been the only REI store in the entire country, even though it was founded in 1938. I think that was still the original location. I soon bought a membership in the Co-op and have maintained it all these years – that’s why I still get catalogs.  And rebates.

Old REI patch. I guess people stitched these onto their backpacks and jackets. Vintage.

All the equipment was (and is) top notch.  I finally had money for needed (or wanted) equipment. Winter was approaching, so at first for skiing.  Poles, skis, boots, parkas, gloves, goggles, ski pants, scarves.  Then shoes for running (New Balance) and boots for hiking the Cascade Mountains (Raichle).

In spring as “better” weather approached, I bought some summer gear, including high-end golf shoes (Foot Joy), baseball shoes, and a camping lantern, made by Coleman.  [“Better” is definitely a relative term in the Pacific Northwest.  Let’s just say it rained less and the sun came out a couple hours a day]

Although I didn’t get the golf and baseball shoes at REI, I did get the Coleman Lantern there.  What a brilliant device.   Not just brilliantly bright, but simply brilliant.

________________________________________________________________

William Coffin Coleman (he usually went by “WC”) was born May 21, 1870 in Chatham, NY.  Chatham is about halfway between the Massachusetts state line and the Hudson River.  That’s about 6 miles east of Kinderhook, NY, home of the US’s 8th President, Martin Van Buren, who often went by “Old Kinderhook”, or “OK” for short.  Soon after, in 1871, while WC was still a suckling infant, the family moved to the far southeast corner of Kansas to homestead, getting their own land to work into a home and to farm.  The long arduous journey was made partly by train, and partly by covered wagon.

The brutally violent and bloody wars in the plains between Native Americans and the US Army were still underway.  It took some gumption and bravery to undertake the long transfer of residence.

Details on Coleman’s life before fame are a bit skimpy, sketchy and inconsistent.  Here’s what I found and have decided upon.

Apparently, Coleman had at least two brothers, as there is reference to them helping with some funding some decades later.  Unfortunately, the Colemans’ father passed away when young William was only 11.  He helped his mother run the farm and found odd work, mostly as a salesman of small merchandise.  He continued selling things – both travelling and in stores – and was able to eventually get a job for a while as a schoolteacher after completing a degree in nearby Emporia, at the Kansas State Teacher’s College (now Emporia State University).

He was also Superintendent of Schools in the Blue Rapids (KS) school district for a while. Then, it seems, he changed the direction of his professional intentions and attended Law School at the University of Kansas.  Always short on money, yet always a good salesman, Coleman sold typewriters as a traveling salesman to pay the bills and tuition.  As money got tighter, he was soon doing more traveling and selling than he was studying law.

Much of the following is Coleman Company lore, but I’m sure there is much truth in it.

One fateful evening in the mid-1890s, while on a typewriter selling tour, Coleman found himself in the hard-scrabble, dusty, dirty, pavement-free coal mining town of Brockton, Alabama.  There, in a drug or department store window, he saw a lantern shining brightly.  He’d never seen anything like it.

It burned gasoline, fed to its combustion under pressure.  He immediately changed from selling typewriters to selling lanterns for the Irby-Gilliland Company, maker of the lanterns, out of Memphis, TN. But first he had to buy the rights to sell the lantern, from the Irby family; the only region he could afford that was near home was in Oklahoma. I can’t find the value, but guessing around $500.

Oh, and Coleman, already long absent, finally dropped out of law school.

Originally sales went poorly. Turns out many customers had already experienced unsatisfactory results, despite the lantern’s brilliance, as the fuel delivery clogged with carbon deposits, and could not be easily cleaned.  Word had gotten around.

Coleman was already in for the $500, probably some it a loan from the Irbys and his farming brothers.  Not about to give up, he hit upon some clever ideas here.  First, he began leasing the lanterns for a small sum, instead of selling them.  He absorbed the risk of lantern failure, and replaced them if/when they failed. He could then refurbish and re-lease them.  This changed his product flow nicely.  Now with promising cash flow, his brothers invested further in his lantern sales and leasing business as well.  Second, with some cash available Coleman could afford to start tinkering with the design in his home until it was virtually flawless.

Until then lanterns were largely dull, wasteful and dangerous.  Dull because the light came from the flame.  Wasteful because much of the energy of combustion went to heat, not light.  And dangerous since the flow of fuel (usually kerosene) was either by wicking up, or gravity drip down, and hence the fuel source reservoir could be accessed by flame, especially in the event of a tipping or dropping accident.  Think Mrs O’Leary and the cow in the shed, Chicago, 1871.

WC Coleman: inventor, tinkerer, entrepreneur, marketer and businessman extraordinaire.

The gas lantern – especially with Coleman’s improvements – solved all those problems.  Instead of a wick, Coleman’s lanterns had a “mantle” which glowed, especially when treated with special chemicals (including, at the time, thorium – yikes!).  The gasoline burned just hot enough to get the mantle’s chemical coatings to glow.  And even though it burned pure gasoline it was much safer, since no flame could reach the gasoline reservoir when accidentally tipped over.  In fact, Coleman soon made his lanterns so rugged that they wouldn’t even break when dropped or tipped over (I can attest to all of this.  However, never, never try to get the campfire to burn more brightly by pouring Coleman’s special white gasoline directly onto the fire.  I can attest to this too. 151 rum is much safer).

Replacing the special mantle occasionally was the only maintenance required.

Coleman bought all the rights to the pressure-fed gasoline lantern from the Irby family.  It’s been purported that this might have cost him a further $3,000. This was also achieved by a loan from the Irbys and his brothers — what Coleman often called “the best sale I ever made.” Implementing his improvements, he started a manufacturing facility in Wichita, Kansas, moved his family there, and began selling the soon wildly popular Coleman Lantern.  In a time of scarce electrical lighting, and pale gas or oil lighting, his lanterns were enormously popular.

Pretty much everyone knew of the popular Coleman Lantern.  He soon applied the pressure fed gasoline concept to make conveniently portable cooking stoves as well.

Legend has it that cattlemen in Colorado once saw a lantern burning so brightly, miles away up in the Rocky Mountain Foothills, that they were sure they had discovered a new star.

_____________________________________________________

Green single mantle Coleman Lantern, vintage 1945.

In times of  military engagement, especially when infantry personnel of one army are likely to come in contact with – or even infiltrate the lines of – the personnel of another army, the use of passcodes and countersigns becomes very important.  This happened to great extent in much of World War II.

In the Asian and Pacific theaters, Japanese intelligence kept spies and infiltrators up to date on American expressions and culture.  Still, this posed little problem, as the US quickly learned to use passcodes and contrasigns like “Lolla-Palooza”, and “Lolli Pop”, words full of Ls. Our Asian allies, the Chinese, could usually pronounce the L.  For Japanese the “L” sound was virtually impossible; even when pronounced as “L” it was so awkward that, either way, like R or L, it was a give-away.

On the other hand, it was much more difficult with our European enemy, the Germans.  It’s well known that German infiltrators and imposters in US uniforms could and did cause much confusion with “false intelligence” about where nearby towns, roads and other divisions lay.  This occurred especially during the Battle of the Bulge, December, 1944. Enough Germans spoke near flawless English, able to produce both American and British accents, that it was quite a dilemma.  Many had been educated in America or Britain.  And, they were up-to-date on much of American culture.

[It’s a strong probability that more Americans were conversant to fluent in German than the other way around.  Many GIs were first generation Germans, who grew up speaking German and often stayed in touch with family in Germany until the war.  More than a few of them were Jews who had fled Germany just a few years before.  It’s also a bit ironic that FDR, then president of the US, was quite conversational in German as well, since he traveled there often — yearly it is said — with his wealthy parents as a youth, and even attended school there at least one year].

There were other problems in Europe too. Over-reliance on modern American culture for security sometimes led to costly, if not funny, mistakes.  For example, on Dec 21, 1944, during “the Bulge” US MP’s and sentries were alerted to the possibility of a German disguised as Brigadier General Bruce Clarke.[3] Well, Clarke himself soon approached a checkpoint and was queried as to whether the Chicago Cubs played in the National League or the American League.  Not a baseball fan, and pressed for an answer, Clarke guessed American (incorrectly) and subsequently spent several frustrating hours in detainment.  [The “intelligence” that Clarke, and other officers, were being impersonated might well have been counterintelligence supplied by clever Germans].

One thing the Germans did not know of American culture was the superb performance and popularity of the Coleman Lantern. In fact, these were used throughout the military.  So, it came to be that the perfect and indecipherable security countersign/passcode combination was to respond “Coleman” to the challenge query “Lantern.”

WC Coleman lived long enough to learn of and enjoy this quirk of history.  He was once elected mayor of Wichita, choosing to only serve one term.  He lived until 1957, still engaged in running his company, as an octogenarian.  He’s buried in his adopted hometown of Wichita and has a plaque on the Wichita Walk of Fame, in City Center.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Although the family lost controlling interest in the company long ago, the Coleman® line of outdoor products is highly respected, even today.  The lanterns remain popular, although the mantles are doped with safer chemicals [Extremely low voltage LEDs threaten to quash them soon].  The stoves are still popular with outdoor enthusiasts.  Coleman has expanded in the camping paraphernalia area to include almost everything outdoor: tents, sleeping bags, jackets, vests, collapsible chairs (some with drink holders, beer-sized), tables, boots, and coolers.  And much more. All of it is high end and highly regarded.  “Coleman” means “quality.” Of course, much of it is available at REI, where everything is high-end, at all 138 locations. Most products are available – naturally, it’s 2021 – on Amazon.  Next day delivery.

Wishing you all a pleasant and happy shopping and holiday season.

Lantern!

Coleman!

Joe Girard © 2021

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] DiMaggio left baseball to serve in the military, 1943-45, returning afterward to many All-Star seasons.  But everyone knew he was the Yankee center fielder.  The most popular baseball player in America, at the time, even when he wasn’t playing.

[2] Hamburger Helper by Betty Crocker.  If you had it, it meant you had meat.  HH stretched meat to more meals.  Chunky Soup, by Campbell, was thick soup with chewy hunks of meat and veggies.  Kind of a splurge, but we always got that (and the beef for HH) on sale.

[3] MP is Military Police

Other stuff: The concept of pressurized gasoline lanterns (and stoves) here.  Old Town Coleman: How Pressure Appliances Work Part I Coleman US lanterns 1981 – 2000 – The Terrence Marsh Lantern Gallery (terry-marsh.com)

Interesting unofficial source of some info

Gently, Not

“… Do not go gentle into that good night.
… Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
– Dylan Thomas

I still have a dear friend since childhood.  We’ve been friends and stayed in touch for nearly six decades now, although he lives over 1,000 miles away.  We’ve visited a few times, but most contact is through a news-blurb he publishes via email nearly daily. It contains the day-to-day comings and goings of his life and thoughts: everything from health, to work, to mundane errands, to weather, to politics, and, of course, his grandchildren. [1]

Sometimes he talks about the daily newspaper: what’s in it?; is it on time?; or is it wrapped in plastic for possible rain?  (precipitation is a big deal in Arizona.)  We share a sense of old-fashioned desire for the tactile experience here: we both like to get an actual newspaper, with ink, holding and folding it with that enjoyable crinkle of the paper as we manipulate the pages.

He recently divulged that his wife also enjoys the hardcopy newspaper, but for different reasons than he.  Whereas he checks weather, sports, local and national news (usually in that order, I have deduced), she goes right to the obituaries, and often limits her perusals to those.

Although they live in fairly good-sized city (now about 60,000, even though the municipality is younger than each of us), they live neither in, nor even near, any major metropolitan area.  Therefore, between the two of them, they know a majority of the long-time residents of the region.  So, it’s a way to get news, I suppose.  Mostly, I think, she doesn’t want to learn weeks or months later that a close acquaintance or long-lost friend has gone “into that good night.”

I’ve confessed before on this site that I like to wander through cemeteries.[3] My digital photo album has pics of the final resting places of people both known and unknown to me. The headstones with carved letters, the family plots, the funerary art: all suggest stories.  The details of those final resting places – withered bouquets, trampled grass, cracked stones with the weathered letters of names and epitaphs, two dates with a dash between them , or a few tiny pebbles perched upon a tombstone – are the outlines of those stories; our imaginations are challenged to fill in the rest.

Another confession. Like my friend’s wife, I also peruse the obituaries, especially on Sundays. The Sunday paper usually has a collection of obits from the previous week.  Here I can check to see how many are younger than I am. Weird?  I suppose. Sometimes I get a catch in my breath when I see a name I know. A full week when every Reaper’s Visit is to harvest someone older than I is a good sign.  Such weeks grow ever fewer. When the deceased are younger, I am often amazed at what full lives they lived and how very accomplished they were – I can’t help but feel a bit small and wasteful of my own time and talents in comparison.  Few have gone gently into that good night.

_______________________________________________________

This morning’s Sunday paper brought some very sad news from Houston, Texas.  “Crowd Surge Kills at least 8 at Houston Music Festival.”  Evidently hundreds, perhaps thousands, pushed up against the stage during a performance by rapper Travis Scott.  Never heard of him until now. All of those who perished were young, aged only 14 to 27.  Many more are in hospital.

This is not a unique occurrence.  Human crowd behavior is bewildering; it’s even a scientific area of study.  It’s almost like we’re grasshoppers: a few of us hanging around is no big deal, interesting and a bit ugly up close, but once we get into huge crowds we change – chemically, hormonally, pheromonally, irrationally – and any behavior, whether destructive or otherwise, becomes acceptable.  Are we like locusts?

Cute grasshopper, not so pretty in real life, especially as part of locust swarm

I am but a poor ignorant grasshopper, yet yearning for wisdom, as in the series Kung Fu.  I simply don’t understand it. Twice I have been caught in such crazed crowd situations.  Even though I am not normally claustrophobic, my instinct both times was to simply get away and go against the throngs. Rather like a rat, squeezing myself out from a collapsed building.

Once was at a Summerfest concert, along Lake Michigan, in the summer of ’73 or ’74. [2] One of the featured acts was the Doobie Brothers, already famous by this time. With anticipation of the big act, the crowd grew in size and rowdiness through each of the warm-up acts. I guess half the audience was stoned.  There were no chairs or benches, just blankets and people on grass.  By the end of the last warm-up group, there was no space left at all.  Thousands of people, shoulder-to-shoulder, most pushing this way and that to get a better view of the stage.  The more pushing there was, the more pushing and yelling ensued.  Most wanted to get closer to the stage. Some yelling was for the Doobs to finally get their butts on stage, some yelling at other attendees for pushing so much.

With the sweet smell of colitis floating through the air my companion and I grew a bit fearful and decided to leave.  At this point our going against the flow was still possible – the space we evacuated was quickly consumed by the grateful pushers.

I learned the next day that a riot occurred shortly after we left.  Concert attendees pushed so hard on the stage that it collapsed.  As I recall there were no fatalities or serious injuries.  I don’t think the Doobies even made it onto the stage, although I wondered later if the roadies could salvage the equipment they were setting up.

The other time was about 15 years ago when I attended the Phoenix Open, a regular PGA Tour® event held annually in early February.  It had been for some time, and is still today, regarded as the loudest, rowdiest, rudest, drunkest and (for many) the most fun of all PGA events, which are usually very quiet and reserved affairs.  [Of course there’s always yelling at any event when a fan favorite is making a run, but that’s after the shot is struck, or the putt is holed].

Rowdy crowd at Phoenix Open

As a result of this reputation, the Phoenix Open is usually the most attended of all PGA events.  The big day is usually Saturday; often around 200,000 in attendance.  If you think golf is a game of manners, politeness, and properly behaved respectful fans who remain quiet during preparation and execution of a golf shot, you’ve not seen or attended the Waste Management Open (ironic name), the current moniker of the Phoenix Open.

Continuous hoots, jeers and cheers are common, especially on the 16th hole.  On the 17th too.  It’s not uncommon for this behavior to spill over to other holes, as ethanol fueled fans seek other views. To be honest, I’d be surprised if many attendees even witness two shots during the day they are there.

On this particular Saturday I was attending “alone”, with about 180,000 strangers, and I just couldn’t take the heat (even though only early February) and obnoxious crowd behavior.  Mid-afternoon I went “against the flow” toward the exit, only to find I was not alone.  Not even close. A vast throng of patrons had also decided to depart early.

In their (lack of) wisdom, the tournament officials set it up so that the main exits from the golf course had to weave through large merchandise tents, like cattle channeled through a feedlot.  In the tents were booths of many sizes and types, selling tournament memorabilia and golf paraphernalia of all sorts.  Most of the thousands of people just wanted to get out; but just enough people stopped at booths to shop that they impeded – in fact stopped – the entire flow of foot-traffic.

We simply stopped moving.  I had no interest in golf hats or visors, shirts, slacks, balls or ball markers.  People pushed upon me. I then pushed against others. It got hotter and hotter in the tent (it’s Phoenix).  Fresh air was non-existent.  After 10 minutes or so people started shouting: hey, let’s get moving.  This was anger.  This was locust swarm behavior.

In a flash of panic-motivated brilliance I hit upon an idea.  I pushed to the edge of the dammed-up motionless river of people and crashed through the barrier of a display booth.  I was then able to dash about 50-75 yards, going from booth to booth, sometimes crashing through the tables and banners that separated the display booths, until I was within a few yards of the exit.

Some people saw my successful tactic and followed.  I’m pretty sure more than one display area was out-of-commission for a while.

Once out  of the tent and at the event exit, I essentially cut-the-line for cell phone retrieval, since everyone else was back on the golf course, stuck in the big tent, or behind me weaving through display booths.  [Back then cell phones were not permitted on the tournament grounds; you checked your phone upon entry and retrieved it when leaving with a unique chit.] I ran to my car.   I’m not sure what happened thereafter.  No deaths, but I wouldn’t be surprised if ambulances showed up. The shouting, screaming, pushing, threats and hyperventilating was scary.  Humans.

I simply don’t understand crowd behavior.  Whether it’s F Joe Biden, Let’s Go Brandon, or crushing people to death at concerts, at soccer matches or during a Hajj, … or putting crass bumper stickers on your car because you just know that everyone in your community thinks the same way you do.  These are things that reasonable sane people wouldn’t normally do.  It’s like our brains flip to Locust-mode when we are in crowds.

Houston and crowd deaths. When people die young like this, they don’t go gently. They’ve not had the opportunity to rage against the dying of their own light.  To tell their story.

Live your life!  Rage now!  Soon enough, the sun sets over the horizon.  Live full, so that, as the Kung Fu teacher said: “Death has had no victory, grasshopper.’

The poet Dylan Thomas himself, whom I quoted to begin this essay and alluded to throughout, managed an impressive life and obituary, despite resting his bones forever, barely aged 39.

Grasshopper’s master teacher, from Kung Fu

As always, my best wishes for you.  And avoid crazed crowds.

Joe Girard © 2021

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] I’ve written about Kevin a few times in this blog and other blogs.  A few I can recall are here, here and here.

[2] Summerfest bills itself as the largest Music Festival in the world.  And they might be right, with attendance approaching one million annually. Although the Donauinselfest (Danube Island Festival) in Vienna has drawn greater attendance in recent years.

[3] I’ve written about my fascination with cemeteries here and death here, among other times, which I cannot find right now.  My mom wrote this nice piece.

 

Finally, here is Dylan Thomas’s poem:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas, 1914-1953. The years are close together, but his “dash” contained a full life.

Post Election Thoughts, Part 2 – and Looking Forward

Since I wrote Post Election Thoughts 2020, Part 1 last fall, I thought I’d finally get around to a Part 2 — which is actually mostly a look forward, and not so much a look back.

First, a quick look back.  Presidentially, Trump lost.  Period.  Yes, of course there are many “couldas”, “shouldas”, “wouldas”, and “yeah-but-what-abouts”, but he lost.  A large percentage of Trump voters think it was rigged; and a large percentage of Hillary voters still think 2016 was rigged.  Nonetheless, it’s over. Like it or not, Joe Biden is your president, for now.

Is Joe Biden your president?

We’ve been hearing the “not my president” chant for decades now.  First under Clinton, then growing ever louder with Bush 43.

I will throw a bone (or perhaps chew toy) to that crowd of howlers and doubters and concede that it looks like there were more than a few voting anomalies, such as sketchy absentee ballots and ballot-curing oddities, in populous counties of states that were extraordinarily closely decided: e.g. Maricopa in AZ and Fulton in GA.[1]  Regardless, it’s also evident that none of those were enough to swing a state, let alone the entire election.  Gonna take that bone away: this happens every election.  Every – single – election.  There are always anomalies and sideways glances.  Nothing is perfect, even democracy. Or perhaps, “especially” in a democracy.

This is one reason that I remain (slightly) in favor of the Electoral College (EC) over the National Popular Vote movement: it may be possible to corruptly swing a single state or two. But even if an entire state was so messed up (or amoral) that 100% of the vote went for one candidate (or, even 110%), it does not sway the EC outcome much at all.  It’s simply more difficult to fraudulently sway a large number of states without detection.

Built into this is a second reason: the EC usually (not always) gives a pretty clear indication of just who won.  For example, in the last two (very tight) elections the winner won by identical 306-232 [2] votes.  Fairly convincing majorities (yet Trump labeled his 2016 win a “landslide” despite losing the popular vote 46-48%).

Speaking of “minority” presidents, the EC gave Abraham Lincoln a clear majority over three other candidates receiving EC votes in 1860, despite garnering less than 40% of the popular vote.

[1] given the closeness in Georgia (a current official difference of only about 11,000 votes out of 5 million cast for all of its 16 Electoral votes) my pre-election assessment that a presidential vote counts more in Georgia than any other states stands substantiated.

[2] note that so-called “faithless electors” changed this 306-232 outcome slightly in 2016.  Per a recent 2020 Supreme Court case (Chiafalo v. Washingtonwhich was combined with Colorado Department of State v. Baca) we will likely see an end to such faithless electors soon — a situation I do not agree with

One last thought looking back at 2020 and the presidential race.  I assert that without two things Trump wins, hands down.

  • Number one: obviously, the novel corona virus. The pandemic, our collective responses to it, and the consequences thereof completely pushed what was an almost certain Trump win into the gray area that columnists and the news media love.  Pre-pandemic the economy was roaring with record low unemployment as well as record high employment (and salaries) for minorities (especially blacks) and women.  Oh my, how that flipped.
  • Number two: Trump is an ass who broadcasts whatever undisciplined thought floats into his maze-of-a-brain without any filter whatsoever. Very unpresidential. Of course, he said stuff like “one day the virus will just go away.”  He didn’t do himself any favors. I score it an unconvincing 2-1 loss with an own goal.

Ok, enough looking back.  Now forward.


The US decennial census results are finally in, some four months late.  (Late, owing to the pandemic, and a few court battles about whether the census can legally count non-citizens as non-citizens).

The results are only a tad surprising, and there are some golden nuggets and poison pills for both Dems and Reps, although long term it looks better to me for Dems.

First, the population only grew about 7.4% over the entire decade; that’s the slowest growth since the Depression and Dust Bowl-cursed 1930s.  Still, 47 of the 50 states (48, including DC) recorded population growth; the losers were West Virginia (-3.2%), Mississippi (-0.2%) and Illinois (-0.1%).

Looking forward: Reallocation of Congressional District Seats, and thus Electoral Votes have been determined.  The “winners” are Texas (+2), and the following at +1: Colorado, Florida, Montana, Oregon, and North Carolina.  The “losers”, all at -1, are: California, Illinois, Michigan, New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia.  [this is the first time California, the nation’s most populous state, has ever lost a congressional district; for New York it’s just the second: they lost two seats in 2010].

Nominally this looks like a slight win for Republicans, as more generally Rep voting states get additional congressional seats and Electoral Votes, drawing away from solid Dem states like CA, NY and IL.

If one thinks the presidential contests of the past were dirty or tainted – think of the angst following both ’16 and ’20 –  then one hasn’t ever paid attention to re-drawing of Congressional Districts and state legislative districts, which has been, and is going on, under our very collective noses. It’s a terrific example of “polite fiction.”  [“Terrific” is etymologically related to “terrible”, in this case for good reason]. The “Fiction” being that this is all fair, balanced and representative.  This has been historically, and still is, the unseen dirtiest of dirty businesses – classic smoke-filled room stuff that we don’t get to see much of; something that is supposedly based on balanced and fair representation. In reality it’s highly partisan in most states, and the process will take its toll on anyone’s faith in the notion that the drawing of district boundaries is fair and independent.

For example, Illinois, which is hard left leaning, at least state-wide (voting 55% and 57% for the Dem presidential candidate in ’16 and ’20 and only having Dem US senators since 2010) currently has 18 congressional seats: disproportionately 13 Democrat and 5 Republican.  The new state CD map managed to squeeze an incumbent Republican out of his seat, Adam Kinzinger; this, despite the state losing a seat and having a solid majority of Dems in the current tally, so it will be even more disproportionate.  Not sure how this plays out long term, since Kinzinger has been a critic of Trump, especially his bitching about the election.

On the other hand, one can be sure that the heavily Republican-leaning Texas legislature will ensure that the two “new” districts will lean Republican as well. More on Texas in the footnotes.

This all has to be done quite quickly, as the campaign season for the 2022 mid-terms is already underway.  The 4-month census delay has not helped map drawers meet deadlines. [By the way: since 1935 the sitting president’s party has lost seats in congress in all but two mid-term elections.  Because the Dems currently hold a very narrow 220-212 edge – with 3 vacancies – we can count on the drawing of CD boundaries and campaigning to be very contentious.]

And, probably about as important, each state must now re-draw their state’s legislative and senate districts (except Nebraska, which is unicameral, and only draws one set of district maps). Again, these must be drawn very soon.  Haste makes waste, so be careful.

Back to census-based demographic trends, most of which look to be favorable to Democrats.

  • America continues its over-one-century migration away from its wide swaths of rural regions, and toward the urban, suburban and exurban centers.  Urbanites, and those close to urban areas, tend to vote Democrat; Rural dwellers tend to vote Republican. Covid might have changed this, as it hit right in the middle of the census; so it will take a decade to see what the impacts are.
  • Racially, there are actually fewer total Whites than in 2010; Whites tend to be more likely to vote R than D. [Trump got 57% to Biden’s 42% of White votes in 2020].

One demographic that I noted could slightly favor Republicans.  America is aging. The Average age in the US is up 1 year, from 37.2 to 38.2.  Mostly this is due to longer lives among Baby Boomers and older (those born before 1964). Older people have a slight tendency to vote Republican, and they definitely get higher voter turnout. It’s also partly due to a falling birthrate.

Regarding voting patterns. People tend to vote how their friends, neighborhood, and fellow community members vote. This has become kind of a closed-loop feedback system, as people now tend to socialize and associate mostly (or only) with those who think like them politically. I don’t think this happened nearly as much before, say 2000.  We are very polarized now.

There’s also a high correlation between population density and political voting patterns. Below 800 per square mile people tend to vote Republican; and below 100 overwhelmingly so.  It starts to change between 800 and 2,000 per sq mile.  From lower population densities, but still urbanite densities like Denver and Saint Louis (both just under 5,000/sq. mi.), to larger BostonSan Francisco and New York (14,000, 19,000 and nearly 30,000 sq.mi.) one sees profound diluvial pro-Democratic voting patterns.

For Republican patterns and densities, one would need to look at county population numbers; I can’t think of a single urban center that leans Republican.  I suspect that two major factors here are: the higher the density the more the propensity to perceive benefit from bigger and more active government (efforts to de-fund police notwithstanding), and urban areas tend to have higher populations of people of color, who generally vote Democratic.

Re-districting and the associated “food fights” are almost inevitable. Highly political gerrymandering is not a necessary outcome every decade.  Although states like Texas and Maryland (and several others) seem doomed, for now, to their grossly distorted Congressional District maps, several states have recently taken map-drawing out of the hands of their politically-motivated legislatures (and even state courts) and put them in the hands of supposedly non-partisan commissions. [3]

Maryland’s CD map, 2012-2020. CD 2, 3, 4,and 7 are so contorted it hurts one’s head

My home state of Colorado is one of these; we voted for two such special commissions back in 2018: one for US congressional districts, and one for state legislative districts.  Kind of a big deal, especially since Colorado has an additional congressional seat starting in 2022 – now up to eight.

Other states that are now drawing maps via “independent” commissions are: Alaska, Arizona, California, Idaho, Michigan, Montana, New York and Washington. I can’t help but be skeptical of the “non-partisan” rating each commission would get, but I’m also optimistic that increased fairness and representation will result. (AK and MT have only one CD, but this applies to their state legislatures as well).  I’ve heard some squawking about preliminary maps from all sides already.

A few elections to look forward to besides the November 2024 Presidential and General Elections – when we will no doubt be told, yet again, that “this is a matter of life and death”, and “this is the most important election in our lifetime.”  (Insert breathless, feverish inflection as you wish).

I touched on the mid-term races in 2022, but special congressional elections will be held to fill vacancies as well in November, 2021.  With a Senate split at 50-50 there are several 2022 Senate elections to watch closely, wherein Reps must defend 20 seats, the Dems 14.  The likely close races to watch here look to be: Georgia (again), Arizona, Missouri, Nevada, New Hampshire, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin.  Of these likely close races, Reps are defending 3 seats, Dems 4. Be prepared for an extra onslaught of advertising and “persuasion” if you live in those states.

And coming sooner, this year in September: (1) the nation will watch the recall election of Gov Newsome in California on the 14th, and (2) Europe – indeed, the world – will pay attention to see how Germany reshapes itself in the post-Merkel era, as they hold federal elections on the September 26th.

Enjoy the rest of your summer!

Joe Girard © 2021

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[3] Fewer Whites than in 2010.  This might party be attributed to several factors.  (1) more mixed-race couples and people-in-general who identify as non-racial, (2) mixed race people who identify as a person of color (e.g. Barak Obama who is exactly ½ White and ½ Black definitely identifies as black; people like Tiger Woods, who at ¼ Black would identify as Black), and (3) a reluctance — or even rebellion — by Whites against identifying people by race; e.g. some identify as Native American.  Why? They were born here, as were their parents and grandparents. They identify as Native.  Hmmmm.]

Original Gerrymander cartoon

[4] Gerrymandering is named for early Massachusetts politician, Governor, and 5th VP of the nation, Elbridge Gerry, who helped draw and then approved a political map of his state that was so distorted (in order to keep his party in power) that a district looked like a salamander.  Thus the word is a sort of portmanteau of his name and the amphibian.  Many states have outdone him today.  As Gerry was one of the nation’s founding fathers, it’s sometimes interesting to think that many modern jurists should divine to understand the thinking of founding fathers, and then seek, anachronistically, to incorporate such into modern judicial decisions).

Not all of Texas is severely gerrymandered, as much of it is rural and undividably safely Republican.  It is too large of a state to easily show all of the congressional districts at once in much detail, but the generally progressive counties containing cities like Austin and San Antonio have been chopped up and districted so that Dem Congressional representation is diminished.  Politics, it is said, is a full contact sport.

Shown is current Texas CD 21, in which fragments of San Antonio and Austin are lumped in with an enormous swath of rural-dom. Alongside is Texas CD35, which is more of a salamander and ridiculous.

Tripping Out: Cross-Country to Canada

Since the world shut down in early 2020, my wife and I have undertaken some road trips of various duration and distance.  Sometimes they were made with specific destinations; but all were with the intent to just to get out of the house and experience a journey.  How American: we answered the call of the open road.  Happens more when cabin fever starts setting in.

There are more than a few good quotes about the journey and the destination. One comes from Harry Chapin: “It’s got to be the going, not the getting there that’s good.  That’s a thought for keeping, if I could.” (From song: “Greyhound”).

Our last big trip actually did have a worthwhile destination: our son and daughter-in-law who live near Toronto. Great to spend time with them, get a few projects done (or at least started), and help them settle into their “new” home; well, at least new to them.

I’m going to muse here a bit about both the journey and the destination.

We took nearly identical routes both ways to/from Ontario.  Yes, it was a shorter than alternate routes (for a drive). I think people are so interested in getting back-and-forth quickly that they easily – too easily – fall into the simple notion that all those fly-over states are boring and just full of nothing.

Simply not true.

Well, we are definitely going back to Omaha.  That’s were the Union Pacific started laying track in 1863, going westward, and finally meeting the Central Pacific at Promontory Point, UT in May, 1869.  East and West were linked by rail! The Transcontinental part was truly complete when the UP bridge across the Missouri River was complete and opened in 1873.

Omaha has an extensive river front, and we were hoping to spend some time enjoying it.  But it was all closed up, as they endeavor to complete a $300 million re-vitalization of the area.  That’s a lot of money and it is mostly private funds.  It’s due to be complete and re-opened in 2022.  The Heartland of America water-themed park will re-open in 2025.

Across the flowing water is Omaha’s river partner city: Council Bluffs, Iowa.  We stopped there for an hour on the way back.  Cute downtown area (it’s several times smaller than Omaha) with a great park. Bayliss Park has a wonderful Veterans memorial, beautiful fountain, plenty of trees, benches and tables. Speaking of which, the Union Pacific Railroad Museum is there in CB; so that’s on another future stop. [We passed through on a Monday, when it was closed].

Moving sculpture at War Memorial, Council Bluffs, Iowa

The downtown areas of both cities are set well back from the river.  One presumes the historical reason is to avoid flooding of the big Missouri, which surely occurs from time-to-time.  There is a pedestrian bridge across the river, connecting the two cities and states: The Bob Kerry Pedestrian Bridge.  Good for views and stretching your legs.

Rock Island, IL was another pull-over place, and I’d like to spend more time there in the future.  It’s historic for sure: that’s where the first bridge across the Mississippi was completed, in 1855, leading directly to greater westward expansion, and Chicago’s leaping to the fore as the great economic and commercial capital of America’s heartland.

Returning, we stopped for a “leg stretch” in Kearney, Nebraska.  That’s the former site of Fort Kearney, built in 1848 as a base of protection, provisions and refuge for western emigrants traversing over the Oregon Trail, Mormon Trail, California Trail (think: gold rush), and Overland Trail… all of which passed through Kearney along the Great Platte River Road.  The short-lived but never forgotten Pony Express also passed through Kearney. There is a wonderful little museum built in an archway that spans across Interstate-80.  Takes about an hour to tour the whole thing; great way to get a “walk about” and learn a lot about America in the mid-19th century.  Even has a bit about the Donner Party.

Kearney Archway Museum

While in Canada, I learned a few more things about differences between “their” culture and “American” culture, at least so far as what we experienced in Ontario.

When at restaurants and bars, they have no “Rest Rooms.”  They have “Wash Rooms.”  Same thing, different name.  I like it: “Wash” seems more appropriate than “Rest.”  Does anyone actually take a nap in there?  I’d like to think that, at a minimum, people actually wash themselves while in there.

They have little quibble when US citizens refer to themselves as “Americans”, or their home country as “America”, even though Canada is certainly part of America (as is Mexico, etc.).  One thing that bugs me about “Americans” is our propensity to refer to any room or facility that has a toilet as a “bathroom.”  Really?  Does anyone really bathe in there?  I do rather prefer the simplicity of the Brits and Aussies, who call it “Loo”, “Public Toilet” or “W.C.” for water closet. (Toilette and WC work in Germany, too).

They seem to have little use for the pesky Phillips head screws.  And they are annoying.  There’s a strong preference for the square tipped screws and driver tips, which are far less likely to engage poorly, and – worse – strip.  They prefer to call these “Robertson” screws and tips.  Very useful.  I’d certainly seen square tips before, but never heard of Robertson.  And, it seems they were invented by a Canadian, named, of course, Robertson.

The Roberson tip

Southern Ontario is fairly low lying, rather flat, and has waterways that are often quite close together.  Such locales are dotted with little land links that separate the waterways, some of which have come to be called “portages.”  The word “portage,” which comes to us through French, shows up quite a bit in US history and geography as well.  One way to tell a Canadian from an “American” is how the word is pronounced.  In Canada the -age is pronounced as in “Massage”.  In the US it rhymes with “Porridge.”

I think I’ve mentioned other pronunciation differences before (e.g. the words: about, produce, product), but portage was new to me.

Canadians, at least Ontarians, are quite relaxed about units of measurement for many things.  They are fine with ounces (as fluid ounces or even pints) in place of liters – say for getting a beer –  but petrol (gasoline) is always in liters. Er, ah, litres. Same with pounds and kilograms, say if one is purchasing produce (“Prah-duce”) or meat.  That’s unofficial.  Officially, purchases in brick-and-mortar stores are made in kilos.

But mention Fahrenheit to anyone born after, oh, about 1975, and you’ll get a blank look.

You: “It was hot today, eh.  At least 90 degrees, eh. “ [Add the “-eh” to a statement when trying to fit in.]

Canadian: “ ——–”

You: “That’s 90 Fahrenheit”

Canadian: “——–”

To me, and in my unhumble opinion, Fahrenheit is a far better unit than Celsius, at least as relates to humans and weather.  I really don’t care what temperature water boils at (nominally 100C, which varies based on elevation/air pressure anyhow). Or where it freezes (0C). What could be simpler than 0 (zero) is really cold, and 100 is really hot??  Tip of the hat to Fahrenheit.  [However, 20 is really a quite comfy temperature as good reference point].

Final thoughts. This might well be biased by my long-term residency in Colorado, typically one of the very leanest and fittest states in the US, on average.  Canadians are every bit as fat – even obese – as we Americans are.  Plenty of waddlers and dunlap syndrome going on.  Guess it’s a common first world problem.

Oh by the way, try to buy your gas (and booze and cigarettes, if either of those are your poisons of choice) in the US before crossing the border.  Taxes on those things are pretty eye-popping “north of the border, in the great white north.”  We were scoffed at and chided a bit by the Border Officer when we claimed only half a case of beer.  “We need to train you better, eh.  <smirk>”.  I would have taken a picture of him and the border crossing, but that is definitely frowned upon. [1]

Be well, and may your travels be safe and interesting.

Bonus section: Sitting is the new smoking.
I’ve long known that sitting for long periods of time is bad for one’s health in so many ways.  And I’ve long thought that I knew everything that could go wrong with knees.  Well, put them together and I have a new super painful knee condition to share.  Those many, many hours of sitting on my butt took a toll.  Yes, I knew it was bad for the hamstrings and glutes.  So, I got out of the car every chance to walk, do jumping jacks (50-100 is the norm), even run 100 yds ,or do step-ups on benches.  But sitting all the way to Ontario, then doing hours of landscape work for several days really did a number on my ITB (Iliotibial band).  That thing tightened up just awful and left me crippled and crying for a while.  Moral: never, ever stop moving.  ITBS (syndrome), is real, is painful, and not to be taken lightly.

Iliotibial Band (ITB) and pain

 

Joe Girard © 2021

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] Each adult can bring  the following across the border into Canada: up to one case of beer (24 standard 12 oz cans or bottles), 1.5 liters of wine  (2 standard size bottles) and 40 fluid ounces of hard liquor.  In most of Canada, one is considered adult and of drinking age at 19 years old, except where it is 18, such as Alberta and Quebec. I think you can bring more, but either (1) don’t mention it, i.e. lie, or (2) be prepared to pay some tax on it.  I think they wink and nod at the first, and really don’t want the hassle of the second.  

Ray of Resolution

1900. The Games of the II Olympiad are underway as part of the 1900 World’s Fair in Paris. The Track and Field events are being conducted in the stadium of the Racing Club de France Football. It is not the fancy stadium or field we would come to expect of Olympic Games decades hence – Racing Club plays in the 5th tier of French national soccer (football). But, it is conveniently located close to the fairgrounds.  Not far away, just under a mile, and across the historic River Seine, the 1,000-foot-tall Eiffel Tower – built as an awe-inspiring eye-catching fascination for the 1889 Fair – is in view.(1)

June 16. Ray stands beside the bar as required for this event: the standing high jump. No running approach or adjustment of feet position is permitted.  He takes a moment to gaze at its World Record height; so prodigious a height that, if cleared, it would have sufficed to earn a medal in the regular running high jump in the previous Athens Olympics. He begins his unique routine, breathing slowly and deeply, focusing his attention, gradually folding his lanky legs into a deep squat, stretching his powerful quad, calf, and glute muscles.  As his squat deepens, he begins to swing his arms, farther and farther, back and forth. Then – suddenly! – he explodes almost straight up.

Standing High Jump, Ray Ewry

Would it be Ironic that a man who came to world prominence labeled as “The Human Frog” would have the most life-altering circumstance of his entire life crash upon him during a silly race involving frogs? Because, after Ray Ewry’s performances in the II Olympic Games – winning three Olympic Championships in all three standing jumping events in a single day – that’s what the French media and fans called him: La grenouille humaine. And the name stuck.

I have found that a firm definition of the word Ironic is difficult to pin down, although many English speakers use the word often.  As Merriam-Webster states: “The word irony has come to be applied to events that are merely curious or coincidental …”  Best fit might be when a word’s, or a phrase’s usage – or a real-life outcome – is far different than what one would expect. Or as Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart said (of something completely different): “I know it when I see it.”

Ray Ewry was that man of world prominence. 

Standing High Jump, Olympics,  Ray Ewry

He was born in October, 1873, in Lafayette, Indiana. That’s the seat of Tippecanoe County, lying along the Wabash River, and contains its companion waterway: the Wabash Canal.  The river, the canal, and even the county fair and fairgrounds provided entertainment for young Ray.  But his life wasn’t even close to easy.


Much of America and Europe went through a canal building craze in the early 19th century.  These ambitious waterway constructions facilitated the transportation of goods and product.  In America grain went from the breadbaskets of the heartland to oceanic ports and thence to other American cities and to the world. Canals also facilitated the flow of all sorts of necessities to the heartland: forged machinery, stoves, clothing, boots, even sawn lumber and fine European clothing and furniture.  (One tip-off regarding canal building and its significance is the number of inland US cities with the suffix “-port” in their name, such as Logansport, Gasport, Middleport, Brockport, etc.  There are at least 4 Lockports, of course all near canal locks: one each in Illinois, Indiana, Louisiana, and New York states).

US Major Canals, circa 1853

Thousands of miles of canals were constructed. The Erie Canal is probably the most famous and enduring.  It opened in 1825 and traversed northern New York state for some 360-plus miles, connecting the four Great Lakes above Niagara Falls to the Atlantic Ocean … and thus helped make many cities along those Great Lakes  become commercial and transportation hubs (Chicago, Milwaukee, Detroit, Toledo, Cleveland, etc.), and also helped make New York City into the gigantic hub of commercial trade.  That’s a status it enjoys to this day.

Of the significant but lesser-known canals we consider the longest North American canal at nearly 500 miles: the Wabash & Erie Canal.  This canal network connected Toledo’s Maumee Bay, at the western end of Lake Erie to Evansville, Indiana, on the right bank of the mighty Ohio River.  From there transportation to and from the Mississippi and to the Gulf of Mexico was possible.

With construction beginning near Toledo in 1832, and finally reaching Evansville in 1853, the canal’s long-term future (as for many other canals) was doomed before it was completed, even though it had been in use since the first few miles of the big ditch were dug.  The steam powered “Iron Horse” was the next transportation rage.  Fueled with coal and using rapidly developing steel technology for engines, wheels and rails, the railroad would almost immediately surpass and suppress the potential of canals for convenient transportation.

1904 Saint Louis.  The Games of the III Olympiad are underway, again as part of a World’s Fair.  The Track & Field events are occurring on the newly constructed Athletic Field of Washington University (now known as Francis Olympic Field).  Again, the field lacks much of the glamour and size we’d grow to expect in future decades. The University is in the process of moving from downtown Saint Louis to just across the city limits.  Its many buildings and grounds are still works-in-progress.  Just a few yards away from the Athletic Field, the World’s Fair is using the University’s new Admin Building as headquarters for its massive spread of 1,270 acres of exhibitions – the largest Fair until Shanghai over a century later, in 2010.  And just a bit further away the Ferris Observation Wheel, at 264 feet tall with a capacity of 2,160 passengers is clearly visible.

August 29.  Ray stands at one end of the Long Jump pit.  His feet are on the ground; this is a standing jumping event.  He’d need one of his better jumps to secure 1st place and a gold medal (the 1904 Olympics were the first with gold, silver and bronze medals).  He gazes out to a spot well over 3 meters away, to world and Olympic record distance.  Fellow American Charles King has already broken Ray’s Olympic record at 3.21 meters.  Ray quiets his pensive, disciplined mind and begins his now well-known routine.  When he leaps, his explosiveness surprises no one.  When he lands –  properly not falling backward – the crowd roars its appreciation.  Ray has set a new World and Olympic Record at 3.47 meters (11 feet, 4.6 inches) – and won himself another Olympic championship.

Ray Ewry, Standing Long Jump, 1904 Olympics, Saint Louis

Unlike Paris, the Olympic events are spread out over several months; yet like Paris, most of the athletic (track and field) Olympic competitions were crammed into just a few days.  In Paris, all of Ray’s events were held on a single day; in Saint Louis his events spread out a bit.  Yet, Ray won three golds again, sweeping the standing jumping events, between August 29 and September 3.  Although he set a record in the Long Jump, his other numbers were off from his personal best – a trend he had begun to notice in his training.

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Not much detail is known of Ray Ewry’s early life in Lafayette, except that it was profoundly difficult.  I found little.  He had one sibling, a sister, Mabel, a few years younger.  His father, George, was prone to drink. His mother, Lizzie, died of “consumption” (now known as tuberculosis) when he was only 5-½ years old, and his sister was still a toddler.  Sodden with alcohol and sorrow, Ray’s father was unable to deal with the duties of sole parent, household management, and employment – so he turned to his friends and neighbors, the Elisha family, to raise his children. Mary Elisha became Ray’s and Mabel’s mother. Mr. George Ewry then vanished forever. Ray was an orphan.

Little was known about diseases – including hygiene and sanitation – even late into the 19th century.  And little could be done for what was known.  Thanks to Hooke and van Leeuwenhoek, the prolific lives of bacteria were certainly known, yet Fleming’s discovery of penicillin was decades away, and widespread use of it even further.  Viruses were unknown, although they were proved to exist in the 1890s; yet they were so small they were little understood until well into the 20th century.
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In Lafayette Indiana, like many other places, children frequently played in, and splashed about in, fetid waters.  Ray Ewry often did such when he was not off playing at the county fairgrounds.  He’d jump and swim in the Wabash Canal or River. All the kids did.  No one really thought much of it.

2021. It’s still the time of coronavirus, or Covid-19, although – hopefully – the end is nigh. Or at least major relief.  Tokyo will host the Olympics with essentially zero spectators.  Of the countless types of viruses, there are a tiny fraction that can have horrible effects on humans. But a tiny fraction of a very large number is still a large number. Among this vile fraction are a set of three that can cause conditions that terrify anyone: the polio viruses.

These are three similar but distinctly different polio viruses. Call them variations on a gene.  All are highly contagious and are different enough that vaccines must contain three different antigen triggers.  Thankfully two types are considered to be fully eradicated from the earth, and the other is found only in remote places – mostly Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Much as with Covid-19, the vast majority of people who got infected with a polio virus suffered very mild-to-no symptoms; some medical sites say 95-99%.  Of those with symptoms, most might have felt like they had a mild cold, or flu, and feel achy for a few days, or maybe a week. Perhaps a slight fever. And then it was gone.  [Also, like Covid-19, these asymptomatic infections can spread the virus]. What history and imagination conjures up for us is the one-in-two hundred or so who suffered some sort of paralysis. The onset of paralysis was usually some time – several days, or even a week, or more – after the body had seemingly “beaten” the virus. Overwhelmingly such paralysis victims were children: from very young to adolescents.

The odd adult case has a most memorable example.  Franklin Roosevelt, the 32nd President of the US, was stricken with polio paralysis at age 39 – the year after he had unsuccessfully stood for Vice-President as the Democratic Party nominee.  About 75% of such polio paralysis victims eventually get most, even all, capability back in their stricken limbs and muscles.  Roosevelt was among the minority who did not.

Sadly, for those who do recover, there is a high incidence of PPS – Post Polio Syndrome.  After many years, even after decades, the previously afflicted muscles begin to slowly weaken, and may eventually fail altogether.  The biological mechanism is not understood, as the virus itself is long gone from the body, and – now that Polio is nearly totally eradicated thanks to diligent vaxxing of all children – the phenomenon may never be understood.  Perhaps the aging body just “remembers” the condition and reverts back to it.

There are other infectious diseases that can have long-lasting effects, long after the infection is beaten.  One is caused by the genus of streptococcus bacteria.  Bacteria are much larger than viruses, but just as devious.  They are frequently “opportunistic”: the body generally fights them off well, but they still strike hard when the body is run down, perhaps fighting another infection (often viral), or there is a large cut or scrape to the skin, as often happens to young boys.

Strep bacteria have distinct proteins on their cell coating which the human body’s immune system identifies as antigens: something to attack and kill.  But sometimes the body is too run-down to fight the bacteria off quickly, or perhaps, after the age of Fleming, the use of antibiotics is delayed.  When strep hangs around the body for a while, the immune system gets over-programmed to attack the marked bacteria’s protein in its cell coating.  Unfortunately, that protein is very similar to other proteins that the body needs, such as in the muscles of the heart. And tissue in the joints.  The result is Rheumatic Fever.  It is usually a life-long struggle.  It’s an auto-immune disorder: the body attacks itself.

It was probably not uncommon to suffer such an infection along with a viral infection … like polio.

1906, Athens. The International Olympic Committee has decided to hold another Olympic Games competition to commemorate the 10th Anniversary of the first modern era Olympics, also held in Athens.  Dubbed the “Second International Olympic Games of Athens”, they were the first clear forerunner to the much spot-lighted and hyped-up Olympics we know today.  Well planned, highly promoted, and separate from a World’s Fair. The track and field events are held near the center of ancient Athens, in the Panathenaic Stadium, a magnificent edifice, fully worthy of the Olympics, which remains today the only stadium built entirely of marble. So magnificent, in fact, that it was used as a main venue for the 1896 and the 2004 Summer Olympic Games, as well as 1906.

Olympic Stadium, Athens, Olympiakó Stádio Athinon

Ray Ewry successfully defends his Olympic Championship in two events, the standing high jump and standing long jump.  After the 1904 games, the standing triple jump was removed from the Olympic event list, for which Ray and his aging body were grateful.  A tad discouraged by failing, yet again, to reach the height and distances of his previous performances, Ray nonetheless takes the time to scoop up some soil from the Athenian Olympic field and take it back to America.

June, 1881.  School is out.  Ray and his friends spend many muggy days playing in and around the old horse and wagon trails, taking time to splash about to cool off and “rinse off” in the fetid waters of the nearly abandoned Wabash Canal, part of the lengthy Erie & Wabash canal system.  Catching a few frogs was not out of the question.  Such “boy things” were commonly done, and no one thought much about it.

In June Ray caught a bad cold, perhaps a flu, with fever, chills and aches.  His greatest fear was missing the Tippecanoe County Fair.  To him the Fair’s highlight would be the Wheelbarrow Frog Race, to be held on July 4th.

Such “Frog” races were rather new to America, and especially Tippecanoe County.  Apparently the highly entertaining, laugh-a-minute race idea came along with immigrants from Italy.  The general idea is that each contestant gets a wheelbarrow (with low sides, or even no sides) and a frog.  Place a frog on each wheelbarrow and run.  Race distances were from a few hundred yards to a mile.  You must complete the race with both a wheelbarrow and a frog upon the wheelbarrow to win.

Frogs are generally placid and stay put … until the slightest bump or turn occurs.  Whereupon they jump off, and the unfortunate contestant must discard their wheelbarrow, stop running the race, and start running after their frog – hopefully retrieving it quickly.  It was not uncommon, and considered within the rules, that contestants would bump each others wheelbarrows.

Fortunately for Ray, he recovered from his summer “bug” after a few days, and Mary Elisha allowed him to participate in this hilarious half-mile race.  A bunch of young boys with small wheelbarrows and frog aboard (perhaps caught in the canal) took off from the starting line.  Along the dirt race path each participant, of course, had his frog escape from time-to-time: that’s the whole idea and the source of the fun.  Sometimes boys would catch each others’ escaped frogs (rules say one needs “a frog” to win, not “the frog you started with”). It was such fun for all of them and for the spectators!!

While chasing his escaped frog Ray began to feel tingling in his legs, like something he’d never felt before.  Each time the frog escaped and he chased it down, the tingling experience was of short duration; yet, each time it was longer and more intense; and each time he ignored the funny tingling and began running the race again once he had his frog aboard his wheelbarrow.  Coming down the home stretch Ray felt like he had a chance to win. The leader was just a few strides ahead. He ran and pushed as hard as he could.  No sense risking losing his frog now.  At full stride, the tingling returned.  It turned to weakness. The faster he tried to run the weaker his legs became.

With what seemed like the whole county watching, Ray fell face first onto the race path.  Had he stumbled?  Horrified, Mary Elisha and others watched as he tried to get up and complete the race.  But Ray couldn’t get up.  His legs were completely paralyzed.  At 7-½years old.

1908, London.  The Games of the III Olympiad are again, and for the last time, held as part of a World’s Fair.  The IOC had found, from experience in 1900 and 1904, that holding the games concurrent with such a grand Fair was not consistent with their vision for the future of the games…  especially after the success of the 1906 games in Athens, which stood alone, and shone greatly.

The 1908 games were awarded to Italy, to be hosted in Rome. Unfortunately, the catastrophic 1906 eruption of Vesuvius had stressed the Italian government greatly, and they backed out as host of the games.  London, which was to host another grand World’s Fair in 1908 (they had hosted what is arguably the first modern World’s Fair, in 1851) would now host the Olympics for the first time.  [Rome finally hosted the Olympics in 1960, and the achievements of Wilma Rudolf there are not without remarkable parallels to Ray Ewry.  London hosted again in 1948 and 2012].

At the astonishing age of nearly 35 (for a track and field athlete) Ray Ewry again defends his Olympic title in both the standing Long and High jumps, eking out height and distance just barely ahead of 2nd place.  Quietly both proud of his achievement and also a tad disappointed in his slipping numbers, Ray takes home the last two of his ten Olympic first place awards.  He is 10 for 10, winner of 10 events and undefeated in his Olympic career.  Unheard of even today for a multiple gold medal winner.

1881-1891. Young Ray is distraught and discouraged by his condition: Paralyzed and bed-ridden.  Mary Elilsha refuses to give up, reaching out to doctors and medical centers far and wide.  There is full consensus: this is a life-long condition.  Ray is forever paralyzed.  But one doctor provides a glimmer of hope: perhaps some physical therapy could possibly help.  It might well have just been a simple kind thing to say to a grieving “mom” like Mary.  No sense heaping more grief on her, and Ray.

Mary runs with this advice.  She finds a woman with a therapy background willing to spend time with Ray.  Some research suggests her name was “Kate”, but the source is not firm. Nevertheless, she quickly moves past massage and assisted range-of motion stretches; she improvises with a peach basket, cutting two holes in the bottom and hanging it from a rope suspended over a pulley on the barn.  Ray, wheelchair-bound, was lifted into the basket, its height adjusted with the pulley so that his feet barely touched the ground.

“Push Ray, Push!”

Day after day, month after month, year after year, Ray spent endless hours in the basket.

“Push Ray, Push!”

Slowly, incrementally, almost imperceptibly, the basket was lowered – first by Kate, then after she had left, by Mary Elisha.  As it was lowered, although unknown to Ray for some time, he could support ever more weight, and this allowed him to flex his legs, exerting his muscles over greater range of motion.

By the time Ray reached his senior year in high school, he was still using crutches. But he could get himself into and out of the basket, raise and lower it himself, and he was growing in several ways.  Ray was growing stronger – much stronger.  He was also growing to be quite tall, now reaching 6 feet. And he was a superior student.

By the end of his senior year he was walking.  After 11 years of paralysis.  He enrolled at nearby Purdue University and started participating in the track club.  He continued his own training and therapy, keeping careful notes, and training with the club.

In 1894 Ray completed a degree in engineering, and moved on to a few years as an Associate Engineering Professor at Purdue.  His intellect and his physical prowess were catching a lot of attention.  Since freshman year, Ray began winning track events, although at a club level and against mostly regional schools.

Ray Ewry and the Athenian Olympic Stadium. At right his Olympic shirt bears the Winged Foot insignia of the New York Athletic Club

Later in the 1890s, Ray got the opportunity to move to the New York area, with a position designing and building ships for the US Navy.  As a coincidental bonus, he was also offered a sponsored membership at the exalted New York Athletic Club, where he could continue training and competing.  It was they who sponsored his participation in the Olympics. And provided a training site for him.

 

1910-11. Despite his age, Ewry had every intention of competing in the 1912 Olympic Games, in Stockholm. He continued his training and kept meticulous notes.  Outwardly upbeat about his chances of qualifying to be on the US team, inwardly and in his notes his mood was a bit darker.  His joints ached; not just his knees and not just when he trained.  It was everywhere. And he could feel his leg muscles weakening, despite his disciplined workout and training regimen.

It’s hard to tell the difference between the effects of aging and the combined effects of Post-Polio Syndrome and Rheumatic Fever.

In 1911, aged 38, while training for the Olympic tryouts, he suffered a knee injury.  These had occurred before, and he always recovered and worked through them.  Not this time. He just could not get through it this time.  After a few months of further training and therapy Ray decided it was time to retire from competition (although he remained active in the sport for decades, both coaching and judging at events).

After a very distinguished career with the Navy (as a civilian) Ray was recruited by the city of New York City to help further develop their water supply infrastructure.  The large city was still growing, and they would soon need not only more water, but better systems to deliver it.  Ray spent a lot of time over the next decades touring the state, inspecting and directing implementation of his designs, many of which are still providing steady, faithful service today.

Along the way, Ray married a local Lafayette girl, a lass named Nelle Johnson, several years younger than he, who had taken kindly to him when he was young, shy and struggling with polio paralysis.  They had only one child, a girl named Mary Elizabeth, who usually went by Betsy or Bets.  Sadly, Betsy got very early Alzheimer’s, and all of her memories of her father were lost.  Her only son (I think, and thus Ray’s only grandson) Thomas Carson,  a music industry professional, compiled much of Ray’s lesser-known history through much personal research. His work was a great resource to me in writing this essay. [2]

Ray passed away in 1937 just before his 64th birthday.  One would normally think that is quite young for an athletically accomplished man who attended faithfully to his health.  I can’t find the circumstances, but it seems it was a quick slide at the end and might well have been negatively affected by the health issues of his youth … which followed him  through most of his adult life.

In 1928 Ray Ewry was invited back to Purdue to be present at the dedication of the new Ross-Ade Football Stadium.  As Purdue’s most accomplished athlete ever (and perhaps most accomplished engineer), he was the guest of honor.  For the ceremony, and unknown to almost everybody, Ray brought with him a small jar of soil from the Olympic Field at Athens, still untouched after more than two decades.  For the surprise highlight of the dedication ceremony, Ray spread the hallowed ancient Olympic soil upon the stadium field of his Alma Mater.

Ewry’s Olympic record of ten championships held up for many decades. In fact, so far, it has only been broken once, by the superhuman Michael Phelps, who has won 23 gold medals.  He broke Ewry’s record of 10 when he won his 7th through 14th Olympic Gold Medals at the Beijing Games, in 2008.  However, Phelps is not undefeated, as he won zero medals in 2000 (at Sydney, age 15) and has 28 overall medals (also the most ever) against “only” 25 golds.

It should be noted that several decades later, in 1949, the IOC decided that the 1906 Games were not “Real Olympic Games” and purged all records of those games from their official list. Most historians of athletics disagree, however, and they do indeed count these games and awards, since they were highly attended, highly promoted as Olympics, and set the trajectory for how the games evolved. So, officially, I suppose, per IOC (and Wikipedia and others) Ray Ewry has only eight Olympic championships. But I am with the consensus of historians: we emphatically say ten!

Thank you, Ray Ewry, “The Human Frog”, for showing us that anything is possible if we keep pushing our boundaries and continually try to better ourselves, even in times of strife, viruses, and disease… and beyond.

Joe Girard © 2021

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Footnote (1) Today, the Tower is only visible from this site if one peers carefully between trees growing in the park and new buildings built later in the 20th century. Here is a painting of an aerial view of the 1900 fair, which was likely made from a sketch that was made by an artist aloft in a balloon.  The athletic field is the green space across the river. It is possible that the old Theirs city wall, which was quite close to the park and fields, could have obscured the view, despite being heavily damaged during the siege in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870.

1900 World’s Fair. Athletic Field is the green space across the river. Arial Painting by Lucien Baylac, based on Balloon observations.  The Observation Wheel (Grande Roue) was about 354 feet tall, higher than the huge wheel built by George Washington Gale Ferris for the 1893 Fair in Chicago, and also used at the 1904 Fair in Saint Louis.

 

Footnote [2] Thomas E Carson V, Ray Ewry’s grandson, wrote a biography about Ray, called “Unsung.”  It was the culmination of decades of work in which he interweaves Ray’s bio with his own nearly epic pursuit of the details of Ray’s life, as well as his medals.  There are many, many sources on Ray.  But, to the benefit of me as a writer and you readers, Mr Carson’s book provided much of the rich contextual detail about Ray that made his story much more “human.”  Thank you sir!

Carson is also a published fiction writer, and I believe you can find his works (including some serials based on a main character named Drum Bailey) on Amazon and elsewhere.

Mr Carson may not be Ray’s only grandson, but some genealogy searches turned up no others.

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Various sources, among so very, very many …

Before Leaping To 10 Golds, Athlete Beat Polio : NPR

Ray C. Ewry | American athlete | Britannica

Biography of Ray Ewry <small>(1873-1937)</small> – TheBiography.us

The Ray Ewry Sports Engineering Center – Ray Ewry Sports Engineering Center – College of Engineering – Purdue University

Ewry begins Olympic career with 3 titles in 1 day in Paris – Washington Times

Shore Up

See the source image

Ernie Shore, circa 1917

I haven’t written about Major League Baseball (MLB) this year until now.  I’m still a bit discouraged by all the new rules for covid, and those that  have carried over.  The game drifts farther and farther from the one I learned and loved as a child.  Strikeouts are now matter-of-fact; those numbers continue to soar.  Batting averages sink.  There is a controversy about this being linked to many pitchers illegally applying various substances to the balls to improve their grip. Is it that, or that every swing seems to be a “home run” swing?

But it’s still America’s game.  America’s great past time.  Old games stay in our memories, and in the record books.  Just as new stars and events make their ways into the same places.

Consider the phenom playing for the Los Angeles Angels, the once-in-a-century supremely talented Shohei Ohtani.  The Japanese star hits for extraordinary power and is also a starting pitcher.  His home run rate rivals that of Babe Ruth, the other most-famous pitcher-and-hitter; and, depending on how one calculates, Ohtani hits HRs more frequently than the Babe.  Both over his career and especially this year.

Like the Babe in the earlier part of his career, Ohtani is also an exceptionally good pitcher.  Stuck with a mediocre team, his win-loss record doesn’t accurately reflect his talents.  He has one of the fastest fastballs, and regularly throws at, or over, 100 miles per hour.  With a full assortment of pitches and deliveries – cutters, sliders, splitters, curves – he’s dropped his ERA this year to 2.70 and strikes out one-third of batters he faces; both are among MLB leaders.

Ohtani will be at the All-Star Game in Denver next month.  Many fans are looking forward to his participation in the Home Run Derby.

______________________________________________

I’ve written about amazing pitching performances in MLB history a few times, for example Can’t Touch This and Last At Bat.  104 years ago today, on June 23, 1917, an amazing pitching performance occurred that is sorta-kinda one of the most amazing No-Hitters and Perfect Games that don’t get recorded as such.

The man was Ernie Shore, a teammate of Babe Ruth’s on the Boston Red Sox.  He is linked to the Babe in other ways besides this particular game against the (first) Washington Senators. Both were earlier sold by the Baltimore Oriole organization to the Boston Red Sox in the same transaction.

[Later, before the 1920 season, the “BoSox” would sell Ruth, known at the time as “The Bambino” to their rival Yankees – even though he had helped lead them to three World Series wins. He was just too expensive and demanding. This became known as “The Curse of the Bambino”, since the BoSox, who had won 5 of the first 15 World Series, did not win another until 86 years later.  Meanwhile, the Yankees won 26 championships, or so, in the same time period.  They had won zero before acquiring Ruth.]

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ernie Shore was a farm boy from the foothills of North Carolina, near North Bend. He was the 2nd of five boys born to Henry and Martha Shore; Ernie arriving in 1891. (My essay about farm boys in MLB here]. Ernie compiled a very respectable record during his four years alongside Ruth on those Red Sox teams, going 58-33.  He also went 3-1 in four World Series starts, helping the BoSoxraves win back-to-back WS victories in 1915 and ’16.

[The Sox won another World Series in 1918, this time without Shore, as he had enlisted in the military to fight in World War 1. When Shore returned, he too, like Ruth, was dealt to the Yankees].

Fenway, pre-Green Monster

The day was June 23, 1917.  Exactly 104 years ago as I write this. World War 1 raged in Europe.  Bodies fell and blood flowed across Flanders.  Fenway Park, the now famous home of the Boston Red Sox, was barely 5 years old.  Its iconic “Green Monster” left field wall was in place, but that nickname came later.  Then, it was just “The Wall”, put up to keep fans and freeloaders off the field.  There were rows of fans in front of the wall.

The woeful Washington Senators were in town for a 5-game series against the Sox, which would include two double-headers.  Such long multi-game series and double-headers (especially on Saturdays) were more common back then, since travel was very  inconvenient.  One of those double-headers might have been a makeup from a weather-caused postponement earlier.

On this fine Saturday, Babe Ruth was the starting pitcher for the Red Sox in the first game of a double-header.  The game’s first batter walked; he was the Senators’ Ray Morgan, a swift-footed second baseman.  Ruth thought both balls 3 and 4 should have been strikes, and he let the umpire know how he felt in no uncertain terms.  In fact, by many reports, the dispute came to blows. Ruth was ejected from the game. So was the Red Sox’s catcher, Pinch Thomas.

Without warmup or warning, Ernie Shore, who was likely scheduled to pitch the backend of the double-header, was called in to pitch.  Sam Agnew, a part-time catcher, substituted for Pinch Thomas.

The situation seemed rather frenetic, and thus opportunistic, to Morgan.  What with the dustup between Ruth and home plate umpire Brick Owens,  the sudden pitching change, and the sudden catcher change, this seemed like a good time to try and steal second base as soon as possible.

He did try.  The new catcher, Agnew, fired the ball across the diamond to second baseman Jack Barry, who then tagged out Morgan.  It was not a good opportunity.

Morgan was the last baserunner the Senators had the entire game.  Ernie Shore retired every batter; 26 up, 26 down.  The Red Sox went on to win, 4-0.   By the way, substitute catcher Agnew went 3 for 3, and knocked in two of the Red Sox’s runs.

This game used to be listed among MLB’s individual no-hitters and perfect games.  But the rules for such things were “shored up” (sorry, pun intended).  It’s now just an interesting game and one of those baseball oddities.  Maybe it wins you a few bar bets.  It is listed now as a “combined no-hitter.”  Babe Ruth steals the headline again.

After World War 1 Shore resumed his career, now with the Yankees.  However, during the winter of 1918-19 he caught a bad bug from his Navy roommate. Perhaps it was the Spanish Flu.  He was bedridden for weeks. It greatly weakened him.  He had a subpar 1919 season by his standards.  He rested and trained for 1920, but the arm strength just wasn’t there. He was sent to the minors in 1921.  He languished there a few seasons, then retired.  He then tried coaching for a while, but Shore didn’t have the body or the heart for baseball anymore.

He moved back to his native North Carolina.  He got married, raised a family, got involved in local youth sports and politics.  He was even sheriff of Forsythe County for 36 years.

Ernie, Thanks for the memories. We might forget you, but the history books will not.

Joe Girard © 2021

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Enterprise

My wife and I are very blessed and fortunate.  Our enterprises have afforded us the opportunity to travel rather extensively, compared to our compatriots, mostly in the US and North America – and, to a degree most others have not, across much of Europe and even much of Australia: New South Wales, Canberra, Victoria, South Austrailia … and even Western Australia, which even most Ozzies have not seen.. 

Renting a car for most or part of the trip is often part of the overall calculus, including the financial aspect.  Yes, non-automotive transport is often efficient and quaint – whether by buses or various types of train – and we have certainly made use of that opportunity. But there’s nothing like the good ol’ American feel of independence and flexibility you get from a car.  The call of the open road, where you can get to really out-of-the-way places on your own schedule.  And to have travel flexibility and independence.  Pull over to take in a seductive, attractive random hamlet, or a park, or scenic overlook, or ancient castle.


Sky Harbor’s Car Rental “Palace”

One thing that has struck us is the variability in car rental costs.  Particularly at airports.  Prices can be eye-watering.  Especially at airports like Phoenix’s Sky Harbor Airport. Holy cow! The special add-on fees and taxes there are often more than the raw cost of renting the car!! 

This is, I reckon, largely the result of two major factors.  First, there’s the cost to the car rental company for space at, or near, an airport; it’s often quite high.  Airports are usually run by local Port Authorities, Transit Authorities and/or host municipalities.  They charge very high rates for space because … well, because they can.  It’s part of why a sandwich, a coffee or a beer in an airport is so expensive. Companies must pass this cost along. No sense being in business if you cannot make money.  

The second is the almost unavoidable urge to make someone else pay for your own needs.  Need money?  Easy: just charge special fees and taxes to out-of-town visitors.  The same occurs in another hospitality industry: Hotels.  Let’s have “Joe from Colorado” pay for our fill-in-the blank need (roads, water treatment, schools, ramps, lights).


One way to see a lot of the world without a lot of extra fees and surcharges is to join the military.  Especially the US Navy.  Most sailors get to see quite a lot of the world, even if it is often by peering over endless seas. 

My father-in-law was a Navy man during World War II.  Radioman, 3rd class. He indeed got to see much of the world as a young man, from the Mediterranean to the far-flung atolls of the Pacific.  He also got to see and experience Pearl Harbor on the morning of December 7, 1941.  A regret we descendants all have is that we didn’t encourage him to talk more about this.  But he just never seemed to want to be open about it, … and we respected him, keeping a safe distance from the topic, only probing once in a while. He always stayed guarded and reticent on the topic of war experiences. That’s a trait that many of that Greatest Generation Era shared.  So many memories – not just Pearl, but things like seeing the bloodied Marines coming back from Saipan and Tarawa – would lie largely suppressed for decades, until his final years.  Unfortunately, that’s just as his mind began to cloud.  We cherish the few stories and memories we could get from him.


Well then. Join the Navy.  See the world.  Jack C Taylor, of St Louis, Missouri, was just such a fellow. In 1942 he quit his enrollment at Washington University (in neighboring Clayton, abutting St Louis’s western boundary) and got himself into the Navy, where he became a fighter pilot – flying Grumman F6F Hellcat Fighters off the decks of aircraft carriers. 

The Grumman F6F carrier based fighter

Assigned to the USS Essex in 1943, Taylor participated in many confrontations, including dogfights.  Most notably is the famous and crucial battle of Leyte Gulf in late October 1944.  There, his squadron provided daring and critical strafing cover for torpedo bombers, all targeted toward sinking the Japan’s Imperial Super Battleship: the Musashi.

Taylor also flew sorties as the Essex supported attacks and victories at Guam, Wake Island, Peleliu, among others.  Credited with only two confirmed “kills” himself, Taylor is not an Ace.  However, he was wingman on many “kills” – including during the Marianas Turkey Shoot.  So, his military decorations – including two Distinguished Flying Crosses and the Navy Air medal – were well earned.

Shortly after Leyte, the Essex put into port in the Caroline Islands (Ulithi Atoll).  She was simply short on supplies, having been at sea and in battle for four months (heck of a way to “see the world”).

Taylor was moved over to the carrier USS Enterprise.  [Speaking of Pearl Harbor and Infamy: The US Navy was extremely fortunate that the USS Enterprise, along with the two other operational Pacific Fleet carriers – the USS Lexington and the Saratoga – were not in port when the Japanese arrived at dawn that fateful December Sunday morning]. 

Taylor stayed with the Enterprise for most of the rest of the war.  The focus of the fighters’ value changed, as the Japanese turned more and more toward use of the Kamikaze.  The Enterprise itself, in fact, took several Kamikaze hits … can’t shoot them all down.  Along the way the Enterprise supported many coordinated Naval efforts, from Luzon to Iwo Jima.

A genuine decorated war hero, Taylor returned to St Louis and tried to pick up his civilian life. A natural adventurer ( … adventurer? Well, he did land fighter planes on the decks of aircraft carriers as they pitched and rolled upon the open sea) he started his own business from scratch: a delivery company.  Too early for the needs we now see fulfilled by Ubereats, Grubhub and DHL, he then moved over to selling cars, Cadillacs mostly. 

Successful at that, he planted the idea to the car dealer (Lindburg Cadillac) to get into the car leasing business.  That is: leasing really nice cars to business executives.  His employer agreed. In exchange, Taylor took a 50 percent pay cut and dumped $25,000 of his own money to bootstrap the operation. He ran the business out of the dealership, still selling cars on the side. He expanded over a few years to three locations in the Saint Louis area.  The company was called Executive Leasing. 

The quality of cars was good, the clientele loyal, and Taylor ran a tight financial ship.  The company was making money within a few years; Taylor was soon the primary owner and principal.  Customers began pestering him to rent them cars for short periods of time.  This is not something he wanted to do; he had a very simple business model that he was not eager to relinquish (leasing to executives for 2-3 years); it was stable and making profits.  The pestering continued: short-term rentals. After a few years, he relented.  He would add short-term car rentals alongside his long-term lease business.

Taylor and Executive Leasing began the short-term car rentals business in 1963.  Within a year the rental business grew to be much larger than the leasing business.  One reason is that Taylor creatively partnered with auto insurance companies.  When clients needed a rental (because of repairs needed after a crash) Taylor would rent them quality cars at low rates.  His business boomed.  He had outlets not just in St Louis, but now in several other cities.

It grew wildly, mostly by word of mouth and Taylor’s growing network of connections.

It was time to face the truth, something Taylor had denied from the beginning: he was in the car rental business, not the leasing business.  And he had a new improvised business model that was simple and efficient: small rental sites scattered around cities.  And mostly not at airports.

The company couldn’t be called The Executive Leasing Company anymore.  What should the company be called now?  He reached into his past and pulled up the glory of the USS Enterprise.

And that’s how the vast Enterprise Car Rental company got its name.  The overwhelming majority of its sites are off-airport. All across America, over 10,000 of them … tucked into business parks and strip malls and low-cost locations in neighborhoods of medium to large sized cities.

USS Enterprise, leaving Pearl Harbor, August, 1944
(National Museum of Naval Aviation RL Lawson Collection)

Mr. Taylor was very enterprising.  He went coast-to-coast. He expanded into Canada and Europe.  Enterprise acquired National and Alamo car rentals.  It became a huge enterprise, and remains so to this day. It is usually ranked #1 among car rental companies for volume and quality. [Ref here]

We have rented off-airport cars in Canterbury (UK), Freiburg, Landau and Munich (Ger), Wollongong (Aus) and, yes, even in Saint Louis, Missouri (actually Clayton, the original and current hometown of Enterprise Car Rentals).  Most of those are quite convenient, as you can usually take public transport to near the rental site from the airport or train station. If not, Enterprise will usually drop the car off — if you are within 5 miles or so. And pick the car up when you are done!

Since these are not at airports, not only are the surcharges and extra fees quite low to non-existent, but they also usually also have lower drop fees; which is great if you want to end your car rental adventures in a different city than where you start.

Honesty here: Although many of these off-airport experiences were with Enterprise, some were through EuropeCar, which seems to have a similar business model, and the same logo colors: Green and White.  [I know we used EuropeCar in Saint-Lô, Normandy, and Landau (twice).  BTW, The folks at the Enterprise in Canterbury were just lovely; on that trip I dropped the car far away: in Edinburgh.]

Taylor and Enterprise were very generous with their fortune.  By himself, and through the Enterprise Foundation (his company’s charitable arm), he donated several hundred million dollars to philanthropic causes.  Geographically, these recipients and donations were widespread, going into the communities where his neighborhood rental offices were located, often to provide assistance to underserved children.

He also donated very generously in the St Louis area.  He donated millions and millions to the St Louis Philharmonic, to the Missouri Botanical Gardens, and to local youth organizations and colleges. [Including Rankin College, where our dear friend Max Storm taught for almost three decades]

Jack Taylor ended up having a wonderful and successful life by any measure.  His enterprises were successful, and he left us and his family with terrific stories.  We and future generations will have at least two more reasons to remember him. (1) The US Navy has just completed the Jack C Taylor Conference Center, at the US Naval Academy in Annapolis (a truly beautiful campus in a beautiful city).  And (2) the Missouri Botanical Gardens in his hometown of Saint Louis is currently building a new visitor center, to be named for Mr. Taylor.

Jack C Taylor passed on in 2016, aged 94.  Thanks for all you did, sir.

To you readers: Be well. Live and love large.

Joe Girard © 2021

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Miscellaneous additional reading:

How to Save Money on Rental Cars: Rent Away from the Airport |

Moneyhttps://www.enterpriseholdings.com/en/press-archive/2016/07/jack-crawford-taylor-war-hero-business-leader-philanthropist.html

World War Fighter Pilot Jack Taylor Dies: Founded World’s Largest Car Leasing Company | Naval Historical Foundation (navyhistory.org)

Microsoft Word – Taylor Master.doc (navyhistory.org)

The Big Tease

“One Robin does not a Spring make”

old addage, together with …”and one sparrow does not a Summer make”

Last year about this time I slipped into a pattern of writing on themes related – more or less – to the coronavirus pandemic. You can refresh your memory here, here, here, and here. Usually, it was as a means to address other topics, or a tangential reach from some other theme, as per my customary rambling style.

[Can’t believe it’s been a year since that excrement hit the modern electrical convenience.  Like a major flood, we’ll be cleaning up for a long time.]

“History doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes” (attributed to Mark Twain).  Well, here we go again. This year I seem to have slipped into a similar pattern of essays related to the months of the year, as seen here and here.

It’s early March.  Last weekend the temperatures in my hometown along the Colorado Front Range hit 66 on Saturday and 71 on Sunday. Took advantage with a long bike ride and long walk. That does not mean Spring has sprung?  Oh, no, no, no. This is Colorado. One robin and all that. The white stuff will return, with chilly winds soon enough.  March and April: I’ve learned to address these as “the big tease.”  This weather cycle spins and teases – taunting us – often until Mother’s Day.  Sometimes beyond.

March, like January and much of our Western culture, has its etymological roots in pre-Christian pagan culture, notwithstanding March’s enduring connection to St Patrick.

March is intensely connected to St Patrick in America and Ireland

Before getting onto March, and its sibling eponym[1] Tuesday, I’ll back up.  What is “pagan” and paganism?  Well, it’s not unlike a weed.  What is a weed?  A simple working definition is: a weed is any plant you don’t want.  Similarly, paganism is any religion you don’t understand or practice.

Well, that’s a bit oversimplified, but it works well enough.

Once Christianity became the universal (i.e. catholic) religion of the Roman Empire in the 4th century CE, after the ascendency of Constantine, many rural parts of the empire clung to and languished in polytheistic and ancient religious practices.  The word “pagan” has roots in old Latin meaning “rural”. And as Christians became more dominant, they used this word (pagan) as a pejorative to describe those whose religious practice did not “fit in.”  In modern jargon, they were effectively calling them “rednecks.” Generally, “pagan” has evolved and is now a word used to describe followers of non-standard (i.e. non-western-style) religions, as well as pre-Judeo-Christian theologies and practices.  Often, they are either poly-theistic and/or animalistic practices.

Back to March, ancient “pagans”, and pre-Christian Rome.  As mentioned earlier, March was originally considered the first month of the year (we see this obviously in the extant names of September through December).  Romans named this month after their god of war: Martius.  Why?  Well, no one went to wage war in the winter; that would be crazy: the weather was terrible, and all the paths, fields and roads were muddy, or snow covered. March brought spring, followed by summer: the seasons of martial campaigning.  Think about that: a whole month given to thinking about, preparing for, planning, and beginning to wage war!  How pagan!

March’s weekday “twin” is Tuesday.  We can see the similarity in Latin’s descendant languages for this day: Spanish (Martes), Italian (Martedì), French (Mardi), and Romanian (Marţi).  Wasn’t it just a few weeks ago many celebrated Mardi Gras?  Fat Tuesday?  The day before Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent?

But how did we English speakers get “Tuesday”? Not all English words have a Latin or Greek ancestral root.  The very word “English” is named for the Germanic/Teutonic tribe called Angles.  The Angles’ regional god of war was named Týr which somehow, over a few centuries after migration, became Tiu. 

I have no idea why the English or long-ago Teutons copied the Romance cultures and named “Tiu’s Day” after an ancient pagan god of war. Maybe they coincidentally decided to name the 2nd day of the week just as they did the month such right before the weather gets nice. Although, as a side thought, it gets pleasant much later in those more northern regions than it does in Italy.

Perhaps a renaming is in order.  Sunday surely comes directly from the Germanic/Dutch (Sonntag, Zondag); but, do we worship the sun?  Or the moon for that matter (Monday)? Sunday has been literally renamed the Lord’s Day in some other western tongues (Spanish: Domingo, Italian: Domenica, Portuguese: Domingo, Romanian: Duminică).  I have no idea why the Frenchies call it Dimanche.  Anyone?  Bueller?

St Joseph, the Carpenter (AKA San Giuseppe). The feast of St Joseph (Mar 19) is much celebrated by Italians and those with Italian ancestry

Perhaps in this time of wokeness and canceling, it’s best to just let sleeping dogs lie.  If we were to consider re-naming March, Tuesday and Sunday – whatever could we all possibly agree upon? And what would we cancel next?

May the beauty and promise of spring be upon all of you soon.  Have a happy and safe St Patrick’s Day and St Joseph’s Day.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2021

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] Eponym is sort of the inverse of a namesake. If St Joseph were my namesake (likely guess), then I am his eponym. March and Tuesday have the same namesake, thus they are eponyms of the same thing: the god of war.

February Amore: When in Rome, you amateurs


What’s Love got to do with it?  –
famously recorded by Tina Turner,
written by Terry Britten and Graham Lyle

Last month, as an amateur writer (I always was and probably always will be), I wrote a piece about January as a pathway for touching on some tidbits of an autobiographical nature, self-reflection, as well as contemporary culture.

And now we are in February, the month of Love, as it brings us both Valentine’s Day, the 14th, and Random Acts of Kindness Day, the 17th.

Gonna geek-out here a bit. February – by virtue of some topics connected to it – is a rather curious month.  It has only 28 days, except once every 4 years when it has 29.  And thanks to Pope Gregory XIII and his attention to astronomers, the 29th day is not added in years ending in 00 – unless the first two digits are divisible by 4 (hence 2000 – with a “20” prefix – was a leap year, whilst 1700, 1800 and 1900 were not).

Curious indeed, and great reminders that there is no reason whatsoever why the time it takes the earth to make a cycle around the sun should be any simple multiple of the time it takes for the earth to spin around itself one time. {Notes on “years” and “days” below [1] and [2] }

Many ancient cultures had calendars. They were necessary for everything from government administration, to drawing and enforcing contracts, and especially for agricultural cycles. As with much else, we can trace our modern Western calendar – and February – back to the Romans.  The Romans had several calendars over the centuries, and sometimes more than one at time.

And we would be correct in guessing that, for quite a while, they had only 10 months per year.  The Roman year began with March, as it is the time of spring and new life.  We can clearly see this in the names of many months that they left for us: September, October, November, and December.  These are ordinal partners for numbers 7 through 10. For parts of Roman history the remainder of the year was a monthless winter period; and would reset as spring approached with March.

Eventually the monthless periods were filled in with January and February … then months number 11 and 12 by the old calendar, and months 1 and 2 by the administrative calendar.

This all changed with Julius Caesar.  He made 365.25 days/year the law of the land and fixed the calendar year at 12 months.  He named the 5th month after his family (July), and deemed it should be 31 days.  So, he nicked a day off the 12th month, February, reducing it to 29.  [Not much later, Caesar Augustus did likewise, reducing February to 28).  And then he moved the beginning of the year for all to January.

The month before spring was a time of cleansing, to prepare for the year ahead, and for the coming seasons of work – in the fields, vineyards, time to make war, etc.  The ritual of cleansing was called “Februa”, related to the verb “to cleanse”: februare.  And, voila, there you have it.

As an unverified side thought: It is possible this is related to the Christian similar season of Lent.  Just a guess, but we do know Jews had done a spring cleaning of sorts for millennia (it’s probably part of the reason the bread at Passover was unleavened), and also performed a new year spiritual cleansing between Rosh Hashanah (New Year) and Yom Kippur.

Moving on. February is Cupid’s month, for it gives us Valentine’s Day, a day to honor the emotion of love and praise the ones we love.  For example, Amore.  Love. 

Dean Martin’s Amoré album cover with his smash single: That’s Amoré

I can’t help but think of Dean Martin singing That’s Amoré whenever I hear that word.

And what about related words?  Ami: a good friend or even a lover.  Amiable: kindly, friendly, worthy of love.  Amity: friendly, affectionate, loving (but don’t forget the story and movie Jaws occurred on and near fictional Amity Island). We also get easily to the words enamored and amorous.  And paramour: a lover (although usually used as an illicit lover).

We find it in the girl’s names. Amanda: she who is loved. Amy: a beloved child.

And in the amenities at hotels: things we just love to make our visit a little nicer.

What about that often-pejorative word “amateur”?  Pejorative, as in: “Oh, what an amateur mistake”, and “He’s just a rank amateur.”

What’s love got to do with that? Show me some love here.

An “amator” in Roman times was a friend or lover. But by the time it arrived in English centuries later, it had passed through French, picking up both the Frenchy spelling “amateur” and a somewhat new meaning: someone who does something purely for the love of it.  That is, for personal passion.

Whether it’s a hobby like golf, playing piano, writing, or gardening; or a service to your community, church or synagogue – to be an amateur is to put effort into activities without any financial compensation.  It’s just for the love of it.

To call someone an amateur is not an insult.  It is a complement. It is nearly an act of love itself. It is to identify someone as one who does something simply out of love.  Is there a better reward than love?  Even self love?

So, here’s to February – that weirdest of months.  And here’s to cleansing ourselves, spiritually and physically. And here’s to the amoré, the passion, and the amateur in all of us.  After all: To live is to love.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2021

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for when there is newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] Actually, what we call a “year” is not quite the same as the time it takes the earth to make one trip around the sun.
It’s the time from one March Equinox to the next.  A perfect 360 degree trip around the sun is a sidereal year; the one we use on our calendars is the tropical year.  They are different by about 20 minutes.  Why? Because the earth’s axis is precessing at a period of about one cycle each 26,000 years.
So, a calendar “year” is not set up to measure the earth’s orbit around the sun, per se.  It is set up to measure the seasons. This is the difference between tropical year (seasonal) and sidereal year (by tracking a presumed motionless star background)

[2] There is no reason to think that the time required for a trip around the sun, or from equinox-to-equinox, should be anything like a simple multiple of the time it takes the earth to spin around itself.
In fact, a single such revolution is not a day.  Not by several minutes.  A “day” is the average time from noon until the next noon.  The current best estimate of “days” per “year” is 365.2425

The length of a tropical year and solar day even drift and wobble.  Perhaps it’s time for a piece on just what “time” really means.  And that leaves us with Chicago (or back then, the Chicago Transit Authority): Does Anyone Really Know What Time it is?

Presenting: The Tippi-Review, the Trailer too

The One

“There!  That’s the one!”  A celebrated famous movie director and producer is shouting at his television.  He’s also famously morbidly obese. He’s watching NBC’s Today Show, when up comes a commercial for a diet nourishment drink, one of scores of Ultra-Slim-Fast-type products of the day. 

But he’s never been interested in dieting or health. He is one of the 20th century’s great story tellers and film makers.  He’s been looking for someone.  Someone special. And now he’s captivated by the lithe and pretty blond pitching the diet drink.  She has the beauty, the poise, the elegance, and the charm to play the characters in some films he’s been itching to make.  She’s the one.


You’re never too old to change.

I’ve been biting my fingernails since my earliest memories.  My parents tried every way possible to help me stop. It’s such a disgusting habit in several ways.  If nothing else, it’s atrocious hygiene; and people will – unconsciously or not – often judge your character poorly for it.  And it looks terrible.

Nancy and Sluggo. Famous cartoon characters since 1938

But I couldn’t stop.  As Sluggo said to Nancy when asked about it: “But they’re so convenient.  They’re right at my fingertips!”

I worked for a few decades with a fellow who gnawed his nails constantly. Way worse than even me. Every digit’s nail bitten right down to the quick.  Catch him thinking about work stuff (another aerospace engineer) and his saliva covered fingers were jammed into his mouth. 

“Well”, I could tell myself, “at least I’m not that bad.” 

But, I did even disgust myself.

I tried many times to quit.  Eventually, about 10 years ago, I started making great improvement and finally was able to cut back to almost never.

But a new problem arose.  When nails grow long, they crack and split.  Then what?  Back to biting?   I never replaced nail biting with a proper new habit, which – one would naturally think – would be to regularly trim my nails.  So, even though I’ve mostly quit biting, my nails still look like a mess, as I will nervously pick at the splits and cracks, or maybe trim them with my teeth, or resort to a deep gash with clippers to remove the nick. 


Nails, Nails, everywhere

During the 2007-2009 economic recession, I found myself looking at what was going on in brick-and-mortar businesses.  Who’s closing? Who’s staying open?  What businesses are resilient?  I’ve been doing this ever since.

Typical Salon Sign, for the ubiquitous Nail Salon in most metro areas

One curious thing that I noticed is that our urban and suburban areas are absolutely loaded with Nail Salons.  They are everywhere.  Even now, I can’t help but scan strip malls and shopping centers to find the almost-always-present *NAILS* marquee signs.  Usually in neon.

One reason, I suppose, is that people (mostly ladies) like to have very nice looking nails.  I appreciate that.  It’s a fairly inexpensive splurge (for most) that allows them to feel good about themselves, a bit feminine, and attractive.  Any more reasons?

Go inside a nail salon and … wait!!, I don’t go in those.  Maybe I should. Probably could use a good manicure occasionally (but no fake nails for me). 

Anyhow …. look inside and you’ll very likely observe that the professional manicurists are Asian ladies.  And if they are Asian, they are almost certainly Vietnamese ladies.  [Yes, I’ve peered in the windows, and peeked through the doors to verify this.  I usually don’t get pleasant looks in return.]


Tippi

Nathalie Kay Hedren was born in 1930, in New Ulm, Minnesota, the second child (and daughter) to first generation immigrants.  New Ulm, probably with the closest hospital, is about 10 miles from her first hometown, the tiny hamlet of Lafayette, lying in the fertile south-central breadbasket of Minnesota.  There, in Lafayette, her Swedish father ran a small general store.  She was small and precocious, so her father called her “Tippi”, Swedish for “little girl”, or “sweetheart.” Tippi: The nickname stuck for life.  

When Tippi was four, the family moved to Minneapolis, probably because of the impact of the great recession on her father’s farmer-customers.  Genetically blessed with good looks, naturally blonde hair and bright hazel eyes, Tippi started appearing in local fashion shows and advertisements in the Twin City area when just a lass. When she was 16 her parents sought a gentler climate, as her father’s health was slipping.  Upper Midwest winters will do that. They settled in San Diego, where she finished high school.

She then began studying art, at Pasadena City College, and also developed an interest in modeling.  Soon, her good-looks, grace and aplomb would take her to New York. And on to a very successful decade in modeling. Over those years her face (and lean figure) graced the covers of Life, The Saturday Evening Post, McCall’s, Glamour and other magazines.

A failed marriage and one child later (she is actress Melanie Griffith’s mother), Tippi was back in southern California, making commercials for various brands, including Sego, a meal-replacement drink of only 225 calories.  Thin was “in”, even then.


Tippi Hedren, in opening scenes in “The Birds”

The Find

Alfred Hitchcock’s wife and film-making partner, Imelda Staunton, noticed her first.  A brilliant blond, on a diet drink commercial.  She knew “Hitch” was looking for another blond to cast in a movie he was hoping to make.  And she knew he had an eye for beauties, especially blonds, and putting them in terrifying situations; as in Eva Marie Saint (North by Northwest) and Janet Leigh (Psycho).

Hitchcock profile and silhouette. Used on his two TV series, both called “Alfred Hitchcock Presents”

An interview was set up.  That paved the way to screenings.  Hedren was no actress. But she worked very hard on her lines, which were generally from earlier Hitchcock hits.  She impressed him with her determination; plus she had grace and class. Hitchcock intended to make her a star. He’d be her coach.


Tippi’s career

Hedren starred in the 1963 thriller “The Birds”, generally regarded as a top Hitchcock classic.  Hedren went on to make one more movie with Hitchcock: the not-so-popular “Marnie” (1964, with Sean Connery) which was met with mixed critical reviews. Then they had a falling out (lots there, maybe watch the movie “The Girl”, a Hedren/Hitchcock biopic). [1]

And this reminds you of ….?

She then floated in-and-out of acting the next few decades, mostly spot appearances on several TV series. She appeared with her daughter in an ’80s Hitchcock TV episode. Nothing so significant as “The Birds.”  But she had developed new interests along the way.

The late 1960s found her in Africa for filming. There she became enchanted by exotic cats and she grew concerned about their exploitation and mistreatment. Inspired to act, in the early 1970s, Hedren began what would become a mission for the rest of her life: working with wildlife charities to assist in the rescue and protection of such beautiful animals.  Land was bought north of Los Angeles to establish the Shambala Preserve as a wild feline sanctuary. Later, she established the Roar Foundation to further support this charitable activity.  In fact, she lives at Shambala now, aged 90, with her beloved big cats.


Refugees

For the United States, the Vietnam war ended in 1973, when the treaty known as the Paris Peace Accord was signed in January.  Although the US was out, the war continued.  Treaty or not, North Vietnam bore down on South Vietnam.  The South’s capital, Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City), fell in April, 1975. 

Fearing for the fate of so many who had been loyal to South Vietnam and the US, the US government evacuated over 130,000 refugees and brought them to the United States.  They were put in camps around the country: to be fed, clothed, and trained for employment and integration into the US society and economy.

Hedren was moved to act. She visited the first non-military camp for refugees, Hope Village, near Weimar, CA, along I-80 in the foothills about 40 miles outside Sacramento. This was a humanitarian visit to encourage them and find a way to help.  She came with typists and seamstresses, hoping to find careers the refugee women could connect with. [2]

Now 45, Hedren was still a strikingly beautiful blond.  At 5’-5”, she was tall to them.  Blond and tall: that’s not all they noticed about her.  They noticed her beautiful nails.  They were long, perfectly shaped, … and painted.  They had never seen anything like that.  They all wanted nails like that.  How do you do that? They wanted to become manicurists!

Hedren watches teaching demonstration at Nail School, Camp Hope, 1975

Trying to find employment: why not work with what you love?  Hedren flew her personal manicurist to Camp Hope, to help train them. Then she recruited a local beauty school to work with them. In that first class, they trained a group of about 20 Vietnamese women.  She guaranteed them all jobs, when they graduated, mostly in southern California.  And she flew them to LA too.  And they continued to train more refugees who wanted to become manicurists.  Not pure coincidence that LA county has the highest population and concentration of Vietnamese of any place in the world, outside Vietnam. [Many other refugees from nearby Camp Pendleton eventually settled there, too].

One of the first graduating classes at Camp Hope (Weimar, CA)

And from there the nail phenomenon exploded.  In the US, the nail salon industry grosses over $8 billion in sales annually.  There are about 55,000 nail salons in the US – you can see them in almost any strip mall and shopping center – and about half of them are owned and operated by Asians.  And over 95% of those are Vietnamese. Of these Vietnamese professional manicurists, most are only one or two degrees of separation from Tippi Hendren and her nail salon school for Vietnamese refugees. [3]

Until next time, be well,

Joe Girard © 2021

  • Notes:
  • [1] the veracity of Hedren’s sexual harassment claims against Hitchcock are much disputed, including by actors and stage hands who worked with them on “The Birds” and “Marnie.” I tend to concur with the skeptics. At 5’7″ and 300 pounds, one can hardly imagine that the rotund 61-year old Hitchcock thought he had any romantic chance with the 5’5″ 110-pound 30-year old blond bombshell. But, stranger things have happened (ahem: Harvey Weinstein). Plus, she returned to work with him, briefly, in the ’70s on a TV show.
  • [2] Hope Village is now the home of Weimar Institute, a health oriented college.
  • [3] US Nail Salon sales, staff and salary stats here

Wrote Myself a Letter

“I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter …”

Lyrics by Joe Young; recorded by many [1]

January, 2021 is finally here.  It is the time of the new year.  A time for looking backward, and a time for looking forward.  January is the gateway month, named for the Roman god Janus, the guardian god of the city gates, the god of doorways and of arches. Like the namesake month, a symbol of new beginnings.

Janus, the two-faced god. Always depicted with faces looking in opposite directions: in/out, backward/forward. Often, as here, with an older face looking back, and a younger face looking forward

On one hand: Reflection and cogitation. On the other hand: forecasting and planning.  What have we learned from the experiences of the past year – the past decades – that can help us in the new year?  In our future? Can we grow?  To help us make better use of our allotted time on this spinning blue marble?

Have you ever written yourself a letter?  Perhaps not. Perhaps you did, and don’t know it.  It is one of those recommendations that come up on lists of possible New Year’s Resolutions.  Write a letter to your future self.  Tell yourself your plans, hopes, dreams.  Your thoughts, your experiences, even your past. 

Janus: thought #1. What if you could write a letter to your ten-year-old self?  What would you write, and how would you write it, so as help, but not frighten that child?  My message would be simple:  Don’t worry so much; follow your passions; love freely; make healthy choices. 

Janus, thought #2. Well, what if one actually does, or did, write letters to themself?  There are sundry ways this can manifest.  Many of us journal or blog, or something of that sort, such as keeping diaries.  My friend Kevin writes a newsletter to about 100 friends 6 days a week; he has been for many years.  Those of us who do those sorts of things can look back on archived records of what we were thinking years or even decades ago.  Such writings can carry one’s consciousness both forward and backward.

Beyond Janus, thought #3: regarding the writing of letters, notes and cards. This is something wonderful and spiritually uplifting that is largely lost to current and future generations cursed with the ease and ephemerality of electronic communication. ‘Tis a special thing to receive a letter, or a card containing a note, written by hand.  They can contain the essence of your heart, mind and soul.  From the greeting, through the letter, possibly with innuendo, and emotion and news of daily life, to the sign-off.  Such things are still best captured with actual handwritten ink-on-paper in-the-moment reflection.

_________________________________________________________________

At holiday season the delivery of hand-written greetings surges a bit. But, every year it is less and less so.  Three to four decades ago the average household received 30-50 greeting cards during the holiday season – each with a note of friendship, fondness, reflection and even affection.  No more. The average is now 10-15.  Postal delivery of daily actual hand-written person-to-person messages is crashing.   This while the flow of digital communication (via email, text, FB instant message, WhatsApp, etc) proliferates. We who well recall personal communication by pen and paper – the little thrills of receiving a letter from a friend, grandparent or lover – find ourselves a bit amiss and adrift. 

I see no end to the trend.  Soon, by the time of my death perhaps, all greetings will be electronic.

We are Janus, standing at the changing of the guard.  What will we gain in this new era?  And, at what cost? Many interesting and lesson-filled chapters of human history have been reconstructed by the recovery, perusal and research of preserved letters. How would we know of the unlikely decades-long friendship between Jefferson and Adams? The deep affection between Adams and his dear Abigail? The love affair between Bess and Harry? What will people think four or ten generations hence?  That the pen and paper were deemed illegal?

Brief backstory many of you know [much of it is available – yes, sadly, mostly only digitally on my blogs] – I was in a violent car crash, May 1, 2014. I suffered a serious brain injury. 

Even though I safely emerged from many very dark months, the remaining years till now were no great fun either. Through years of recovery (still not quite finished – sigh) I fell into a bit of a deep funk for a while.  In fact, at one point, I sort of panicked. I recall the time and place of the bottom exactly. I cannot apologize enough to those I love and were close to me during those years – especially my wife – for my behavior. My excuse? I feared that details of my life were lost to the fog.  The events, the people, and settings that I could recall and synthesize – were they real? 

All kinds of memories started flooding my brain – as if my brain were trying to re-construct a part of itself.  Was it a historically faithful reconstruction?  Was it fantasy?  What kind of person was I?  Shitty?  Sensitive?  Loving?   Asshole?


My mom died suddenly in 2006. She left my dad alone and more than a bit lost. They were quite a team. He was the organizer: bank accounts, car payments, insurance policies, mortgages, when to paint the house, change the oil. Those things were simply not in her world; she lacked that gift.  But she contributed much more to the party. Despite a life-long struggle with mental illness, she was the connector, the socializer, the sentimentalist, the writer, the family historian, the family emotional bank account manager – and the one who hid large bills with pictures of Alex Hamilton and Andy Jackson all over the house in case the Depression ever returned. 

Mom had a huge heart that bled at every opportunity. As testimony, two items.

(1) Evidently I was a pretty honest kid, at least with money. Back in the day when most transactions were done with cash – credit was not a big deal, long before PayPal and Zelle – I’d often be tasked with riding my bike to the grocery store. [Oldest of six kids]. I’d fetch simple stuff like milk, eggs, can of soup or an onion.  Not so much that I couldn’t get it home on my bike.  When I got home, she not only got the groceries, but I actually gave her the receipt and the change.  All of it.  What a crazy kid was I. Unbeknownst to me … she stuffed all that cash into an envelope for years.  Years! One day, when I was in high school, she just handed it all to me. I must have needed or wanted money for something. A fat envelope full of bills and coins that represented years of honesty and integrity.  That was powerful.

(2) Mom, the sentimentalist, also kept large collections of correspondence – spanning decades – much of it organized, but some of it scattered around “her” parts of the house. Some were mixed in with pictures of presidents on fancy pieces of greenish paper, 2.61 inches wide by 6.14 inches long.

Well, about four years after mom passed dad’s health declined to the point he had to move out, and we had to sell the house.  That’s when we found boxes and boxes of mom’s “stuff” – and over several weeks we eventually found all the money, maybe.  Many items – not the cash – went unclaimed and were donated to various charities – or pitched in to the garbage.  [Can I brag?  My wife organized all of this.] The Big Win, by the way: I got the Manhattan glasses.

Most of mom’s memorabilia were preserved, divided up, and passed off to her six children when we cleaned out the house. Some of us “kids” have sorted through our “inheritance” by now: pictures, letters, cards, etc.  I am ashamed to say: I have not.  Not a whit.  I have not even cracked the lid.  It’s daunting, and – to be honest – I’m a bit afraid.


Thankfully, my youngest sibling has gone through his share of “stuff from mum.”  Several years ago, he came across a small stack of letters that I wrote to my mom and dad when I was in grad school. That would be 1978-80.  The folder was titled “Letters from grad school”. Clever, huh? Well, he kindly passed them back to me a couple of years ago without comment.  Time passed. I have just recently gone over them. What can I say? “Wow” is not enough.

I am now reading letters that I wrote to my parents over 40 years ago. 

Questions: What do they say?  What kind of person was I?  What was going on in my life?

Answers: Well, I was not an asshole.  I communicated a lot, even if it was simple stuff like football scores, weather, classes, and my love life.  I held little back. Of course, I even asked for money and advice once, when I was dealing with medical issues. I signed off “Love You” and “Miss you.”

“Happy” and “Grateful” don’t even begin to explain how I feel. Thank you, thank you sibling #6. Thank you, mum, for saving these scraps and scribblings. And thank you to myself for writing these letters. These are quite literally “Letters to my future self.”  If someone had told me, in 1979, to write a letter to myself to be read in 2020 or ’21, about who I was and how I felt as a young adult, well — I cannot imagine a better approach. 

It’s as if I had sat right down and wrote my (future self) a letter. “Dear Future Joe, you are a pretty good guy.  Here’s proof!”

I have no idea how to end this appropriately. But I’ll take a shot at it.

New Years Resolutions.  1. Go through “My Boxes from Mom.” 14-1/2 years is long enough. If and when I find something meaningful, I will share it with my siblings, as appropriate.  2. Write more letters.  Write them … on paper or card, with pen, and address the envelope by hand.  And cards, too. Draw silly pictures of hearts and setting suns. Criminy, we don’t even have to lick the stamps anymore.

Get real. Messages saved as screenshots, or archived on googledocs or your email server are ethereal. As in: tenuous.  Messages are made more palpably precious when they’re put on paper by ink and loving hand. Such treasures can be squirreled away to be cherished by dear family and descendants. 

There is nothing – nothing!! – like the touch of hand. That is one thing that this period of Covid has taught us.  The touch of a letter that’s handwritten, or the fondling of a letter, card, or note from a love, a mate, a friend, or an ancestor is the next best real thing to actual touch.

Happy New Year

Peace

Joe Girard © 2021

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for when there is newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] This has got to be one of the most famous songs in the US in the 20th century, judging by how many very popular singers have recorded it.  Among the many are Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin (probably my favorite version), Bing Crosby, Bill Haley & the Comets and Willie Nelson.  As recently as 2012 Sir Paul McCartney’s album “Kisses on the Bottom” started off with this song on track 1.  [The album’s title is actually a line from the song.] The gist of the song is probably that a guy wishes he’d get more letters from his lady friend. 

Correction: In my November 30, 2020 Essay “Fire Drill” I incorrectly stated that the great Vince Lombardi, in his first move as head coach and general manager of the Green Bay Packers, wasted the very first draft choice in the NFL. That is incorrect. For some reason the 1959 draft was held in early December, in 1958. Lombardi did not sign with the Packers until January, 1959. That, along with a terrible team, was another burden he inherited.

Fire Drill

“… people extending helpful hands to do a kindness to their neighbors, and that’s a good thing.”

Alex Trebek (Nov, 2020)

___________________________________________________

Fire Drills.  Do you remember these as a schoolchild?  Unless the memory is failing, or you were homeschooled, we all do. 

1960s, growing up in Milwaukee, going to a Catholic parochial school — yes, we had fire drills often. I mean … a lot.

Later, in high school and university – even occasionally at places I have worked – there were also fire drills. But never again so frequent – or solemn – as at OLGH elementary.

I’ve asked some old school friends about their memories.  Those who can recall have memories that generally concur with mine. 

  • The teachers (mostly nuns) took on an even more serious demeanor than we were used to.  “Screwing around” was verboten. 
  • Kids who chatted, teased, or lolly-gagged were publicly chastised afterward. 
  • The principal (I do recall Sister Marilyn) timed everything. 
  • Each class was assigned a location to orderly assemble in the parking lots, some distance from the school building.

We were told that this was extremely important; that during an actual fire there might be water coming from the fire sprinklers; and there might be smoke.  Move quickly, but orderly and calmly. Remain calm.

Couple other recollections.  The only things that made it seem “real” were the constant blaring of the fire alarm; that, and the nuns’ extra-stern decorum.  And at least one thing that made the Fire Drills seem very unreal: each room of students always evacuated to the stairs and/or exit nearest their classroom.  What if that exit or stairway was impassable owing to flames or smoke?

I’ve recently wondered about the frequency and urgency of those drills.  Was there a historical spark to trigger all this activity?

There are good reasons for such exercises.

It was 2:24PM when Frankie Grimaldi raised his hand and asked to go to the lavatory.
Permission granted, he slipped out the door of the 5th grade classroom. 
But something was wrong.  He quickly returned. 
“Miss Tristano, I smell smoke.”

November 27, 1958. 

Thanksgiving certainly seemed innocent enough, with little portent. Probably not much different from our 21st century experiences (well, 2020 was a severe exception … we hope). It fell on the 4th Thursday of the month, as it had since FDR deemed it so, back in 1939, to extend the holiday shopping season. FDR’s pen notwithstanding, this year of 1958 it fell nearly as close to December as it possibly can, due to the month’s Saturday start.

Families traveled and assembled to give thanks – to eat and drink, to visit and catch up, and convivially confabulate over current events. In more than a few households they probably spent some time huddled together around a mystical tiny cathode ray tube, embedded within a heavy box which contained many more tubes, and which rastered fluttery black-and-white pictures onto a 12 to 15” screen, sent from magically far away.

In the 1950s TV ownership exploded, from under 10% of households at the start of the decade to over 80% by 1958. And this as the number of households also grew rapidly. Owning a TV was a criterion for hosting Thanksgiving get-togethers in many families.

Many watched the annual Macy’s parade in the morning; perhaps all three hours. Two football games followed.  At mid-day was the annual Thanksgiving Day match-up between the Detroit Lions and the Green Bay Packers, played at Detroit’s Briggs Stadium, broadcast on CBS. That game was a turkey indeed, Detroit winning 24-14, with miscues a-plenty, each team nearing the end of poor seasons.  The Packers clinched the worst record in the NFL that desultory day (ending at a franchise all-time worst 1-10-1, two weeks later).  Later in the afternoon, over on NBC, Texas and Texas A&M concluded their mediocre seasons, Texas winning 24-0.

Well, football.  Papers indeed called the Lions-Packer game a “turkey”: full of muffs, fumbles, drops and off-target passes. One contributing reason might be Detroit’s Briggs Stadium, built in 1912 — long before domed stadiums. It offered scant protection from the weather.

What weather?

Anyone who’s lived in the upper Midwest, especially quite near the Great Lakes, is familiar with this weather pattern.  It begins to “settle in” sometime in November, and lasts – on and off, but mostly on – until the first buds of spring. The skies? Brutally dull. Simply shades of gray, often monochromatic; texture deficient; so thick and dull that it often denies human perception of the sun’s position. Breezes – transporting high humidity air near or below freezing – steadily sap energy.  Then, randomly – suddenly – a potent gust bursts forth, taking away the breath, biting the lungs. Oh, where is that hot toddy? That fireplace? That villa in Florida?

This weather slowly emotionlessly sucks away at man’s vitality … one’s zest.  That is what I recall, growing up in Milwaukee, near Lake Michigan.  And that was the bleary upper mid-west weather when the Lions beat the Packers, November 27th, Thanksgiving Day, 1958. This weather carried the weekend; and so, it seemed, would go on and on.

Yet for most it was a time of joy. There was visiting and eating and drinking and catching up on family: how are the kids?  How is your job?  How do you like the suburbs?  It was an era when large families, abundant jobs and booming suburbs were more common than not. That Sunday, November 30th, was the First Sunday of Advent: the beginning of the Christmas Season.  The holiday season had arrived.  Shoppers were out.  Christmas trees and lights were going up. 


When I was a lad I struggled with, among other things, an awfully bad case of asthma. It often debilitated me and kept me on the sidelines … from my earliest memories until I was nearly 30. The things that set me off worst were allergies, very cold air and physical activity that required hard breathing.  A combination could be a near-death experience. 

One consequence of severe asthma was that I was frequently excused from recess.  Yes, that sounds weird. Repeat: Excused from recess. Back then, in Catholic schools, recess was our Physical Education.  Just try to stop a boy from running and jumping and playing – even when there’s pollen flying around, or when chilly wintery air triggers a lung reaction. The school’s teachers and administrators, so counseled by my parents and doctors, often made me stay inside.

To keep me out of trouble, I got to hang out with and help the janitor a lot.  I was good at mopping up puke, sweeping the cafeteria floor, collecting garbage.  Most garbage was taken to the basement, and then stored near the incinerator.  Every so often I would get to watch the janitor load and fire-up that beast.  It was terrifying.  Its flue pipe rattled.  The door shook. You could watch the intensely colorful, bright dancing flames through a small window. Heat radiated from its metallic surfaces.  And … in a few minutes … several days’ worth of the school’s flammable waste was nothing but a small pile of ashes.  Plus, a sooty, expanding dark cloud, wafting across the city of Milwaukee.

Why in the world did we do that?  It seems most irresponsible to us today.  Nevertheless, schools, hospitals and institutions across America disposed of their trash that way.  Some still do.


Monday, December 1, 1958

About 250 miles west of Detroit – where the Lions played lethargically and the Packers played worse – over in Chicago, along Lake Michigan, the weekend weather had been much the same: dismal.  On Monday, surprisingly, the day broke cheery, rather calm and clear.  In many places the sun even shone through, although still chilly at only 17 degrees. Gloom and breath-sapping breezes would come in a few hours.

Our Lady of the Angels (LOA) elementary school stood over on the west side of America’s second largest city. Operated by the eponymous parish church next door and staffed mostly by nuns from the Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary (BVM), it fell under the auspices of the Archdiocese of Chicago.  

OLA parish, founded in 1894, had grown to be perhaps the largest within the Archdiocese, which in turn was one of the largest in America, thanks to Chicago’s growth (it was then at its max population, about 3.6 million), the Baby Boom, familiar Catholic fertility, and waves of Catholic European immigrants. For decades it was the center of worship for mostly families of Irish descent.  But since the war Italian names had become slightly more prevalent – and even some Polish and German family surnames had begun to appear as well – on the rolls of the burgeoning parish and school.

Burgeoning school.  Its K-8 enrollment was 1,600 – with 50 to 60 students in most classrooms.  The north wing was the original building, opened in 1911.  The similar south wing – parallel to the north wing and separated from it by a small courtyard – was the old church, converted to classrooms two decades before. In 1951 the two wings were joined by a slender annex, adding a few more classrooms, bringing the total to 22.  [Actually closer to 30, as Kindergarten and a 1st grade class was held in Joseph and Mary Halls, across and just down the street].

With its booming enrollment, OLA was probably 40-50% over-capacity. Despite that, academic achievement was not neglected; the reputation for Sisterly and Catholic fear-and-guilt driven discipline did not come without basis.

On this day, December 1, 1958, it’s been estimated that up to 400 students had stayed out of school.  Some due to illness, but for most probably in order to extend the long Holiday weekend.

Despite the day’s encouraging meteorological start, things changed around midday; the skies began to cloud a bit, portending that life-sucking winter pattern Midwesterners know too well.  At least it warmed to about 30 degrees … but still chilly and humid enough to make one wish for a scarf and extra layer, especially when the wind suddenly picked up.

Other than that, the day seemed perfectly normal. They said the pledge and their prayers.  They worked on Advent calendars and Christmas decorations.  They got through their lessons. Some kids probably got their knuckles wrapped. All normal. Until around 2:00 PM. 

There are many recollections and memories by survivors and witnesses of that historically tragic afternoon.  Narrative timelines overlap; some of the details recalled are conflicting; an exact sequence of events has never been precisely determined.  However, the overall big picture is the same; and it is a very big, very dark picture.

I choose, for simplicity, to work around the stories of two individuals. The first is Miss Pearl Tristino, age 24, one of the few lay teachers (that is: not a nun) at OLA. She taught 5th grade in Room 206, on the 2nd floor of the annex building, near the south wing. She had grown up near, went to school at, and still lived near OLA.  The other is James Raymond, the school janitor who had five children in the school and, apparently, was something of a handyman for the parish,

Around 2:00 Miss Tristano excused a boy to go to the restroom.  He quickly returned.  At around 2:23 she asked two boys, probably Jimmy Grosso and Wayne Kellner, to take the day’s trash down to the basement; this was customary for every classroom at that time of day, as they were preparing for dismissal at 3PM. It was considered an honor.  Jim and Wayne dumped the trash into a barrel, one of several, in the basement. The school’s trash was usually hauled over to the incinerator by the chief janitor, James Raymond, to be disposed of (burned) on Tuesdays, which would have been the very next day.   

Some historical texts say they returned with reports of smelling smoke.  Others say Miss Tristano soon permitted Frankie Grimaldie to go off to the restroom, at about 2:24.  He quickly returned saying he smelled smoke.

Either way, Pearl was alarmed.  She ducked her head out the door. She smelled it, too.  Definitely smoke.

The school rules at this point were clear.  No one could pull a fire alarm (there were only two in the entire school complex), nor even evacuate the building without the permission of the principal, who was sister superior: Sister Mary St Francis Casey.  Pranksters can always be found in student populations, and LOA was no different; frequent false alarms had driven her to this despairingly costly regulation.

Pearl ran to the classroom next door, #205 (the doors were virtually adjacent), where her friend Dorothy Coughlin taught 6th grade. Together they quickly decided to evacuate their students regardless of regulations should they not be able to quickly find the principal.  Pearl scampered down the hall of the south wing, to the school office, perhaps 20 yards … but it was vacant.  She could not have known that Sister St Francis Casey was serving as a substitute teacher on the 1st floor.  Pearl quickly returned to 205/206.  She and Dorothy evacuated their classes. On the way out, Pearl pulled one of the fire alarms … nothing happened.

Their students safely outside, an adrenaline-charged Peal Tristano hurried back into the building – the smoke now more noticeable .. more putrid. She pulled on the alarm again.  This time it did ring.  Loudly.  There were still well over 1,000 students and teachers in the burning school. However, the alarm was not connected to the Chicago Fire Department alarm system.  They were all still alone.

[The closest “fire box” – a box from which an alarm could be sent directly to the Chicago Fire Department – was two blocks away.  Stunningly these were still sparsely placed, even though fireboxes had been very useful since the first one in America was installed many decades before, in Charleston, in 1881]


The fire had begun in one of the basement trash bins, probably around 2:00PM.  Perhaps it was set by the lad Miss Tristano permitted to use the restroom.  Or, perhaps by one of the few dozen or so kids who took their classroom’s trash to the basement between then and 2:24. There has been no official cause ever found or given. It’s officially just “an accident.”  Several years later, a well-known fire bug and prankster admitted to setting the fire, hoping for a “fire alarm” – he purportedly said – and a chance to get out of school a bit early.  Further questioning revealed gaps and inconsistencies in his story; he divulged the information in a meeting with investigators conducted without permission of his parents (he was still a minor); shortly after he recanted.  And there the investigation died.

The fire smoldered and grew with insidious furtiveness, invisibly gaining strength for 25-30 minutes.  Flames then burst out of the bin, and hungrily sought anything flammable: walls, more trash, wood paneling … and oxygen.  Finally, the fire’s heat ruptured a nearby basement window.  Bolstered with fresh oxygen, carried by the cold, life-sucking December winds, the fire quickly became an inferno.

It raced up the main stairwell – its steps, handles and paneling made entirely of flammable wood:  oil-stained, and wax-polished – and reached the first-floor entry.  There it encountered perhaps the single significant useful fire safety feature of the building – a closed fireproof door.  The fire turned and raced up to the second floor.  No students or teachers on the first floor, which held the classrooms for grades 1 through 4, perished; the door saved them all.  Most barely knew there was a fire until they were outside.

There was no fire door on the second floor. Up there, in the old north wing directly above the old basement, the incinerator and trash bins, virtually everyone was taken by surprise. That is where all 95 deaths occurred: 92 students and 3 nuns.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Near 2:30, James Raymond, he with 5 kids in the school, was returning from a nearby parish property (probably Mary Hall) where had completed some handyman tasks.  He noticed a glow from a basement window. Investigating, he found an out-of-control fire.  He ran over to the rectory (the parish priests’ residence) and told Nora Maloney, the cook and housekeeper of 26 years, that the school was on fire.  Call the Fire Department!!

At first unbelieving, she did as told.  Several minutes later (narratives give varying amounts of time) Fire Engine 85 and Fire Truck 36 pulled up – the first of several dozen fire department vehicles to appear on site – with sirens blaring, ladders and hoses and ready.  It would soon be a five-alarm fire, with 65 different Chicago Fire Department companies responding. Unfortunately, Ms Maloney had given them the address of the Rectory, on Iowa Street, nearly half a block away from the school entrances. Panicked and terrified neighbors had started to gather.  They told the fire fighters that the fire was at the school, around the corner on Avers Avenue. They would have to reposition the vehicles and hoses, costing several precious minutes.

Horrified neighbors and parents

Although 2nd floor teachers on the north wing, now trapped by impenetrable hallway smoke, had closed and sealed their classroom doors, the fire roared right up to a small overhead attic, through which it could spread unfettered.  Then onto the roof.  With fire also creeping along the hallway floors – made of asphalt tiles over wood floors – many classrooms were soon surrounded.

Before the fire brigade’s arrival, many neighbors had already brought their own ladders to the school to help evacuate students and teachers trapped on the second floor.  Unfortunately, the school’s design put these windows about 25 feet off the ground – most ladders simply didn’t reach.  [Why? The basement extended about ½ floor above the ground, and the 2nd floor windows were nearly 4 feet from the floor].  Many students who could clamber to the window ledges simply leapt to the ground.  Fatally in some cases.

His message delivered in the Rectory, Raymond returned to the school ASAP. From classroom to classroom he rambled. Through smoke and heat. He led evacuations (with benefit of knowing where the fire was likely to be worst and knowing the school layout – literally – like the back of his hand). Raymond is credited with personally physically saving at least forty children and one teacher. And countless more with his verbal directions and force of personality.

OLA fire, helicopter view (Chicago Tribune)

The storytelling could go on and on – almost all of it painfully sad. Much of it full of heroism. Some of it poor, unfortunate choices made in the most stressful of circumstances. I’ll leave that to those who are interested.  The internet is full of reports, memories, pictures, building plans, anniversary articles and analyses of the fire.  Just Google something like “Fire, Our Lady of the Angels school, December 1, 1958.”

[Warning: It is powerfully heartrending and gut wrenching to simply to do such a search, and click images.  ]

Students and teachers were taken to hospitals all over Chicago, mostly to St Anne’s Hospital, about one mile away.  St Anne’s was run by the sweet nuns of the Poor Housemaids of Jesus Christ, under the administration of Sister Almunda.  Perhaps some of the same nuns who cared for these poor burned and battered students of LOA were the same who helped welcome the eldest of my two sisters and me into the world; she was delivered there just under a year before, and I – nearly her “Irish Twin” — was born there just 2-¼ years before the fire.

The saddest of all is perhaps the passing of 8th grader, William Edington, Jr.  As if clinging to the ledge of one of LOA’s tall windows, “Billy” survived until August 9th, over 8 months after the fire.  He had undergone dozens of skin grafts; finally the paperboy’s body could take no more. He was the 95th victim.

Aftermath:

Defying credulity, LOA had already conducted six fire drills that school year.  And the school had passed a fire inspection just weeks before, on October 7th.  Passed a fire inspection!  Yes, there were many shortcomings identified – most notably no fire sprinkler system.  Also: flammable stairways, hallways, and ceilings.  Only two fire alarms (and those in a single wing) in a complex accommodating 1,600 souls – and neither of those connected to the Fire Department.  Yet for all these flaws it was “grandfathered” – given waivers on account of the buildings’ ages, with too much cost and difficulty associated to implement all the fire code regulations.

The country had suffered massively deadly school fires before LOA.  Two that were more lethal: the Lakeview School fire, in Collinwood, OH in 1908 that killed 175.  And then the Consolidated School fire, of New London, TX, caused by a gas explosion, when 294 perished in 1938.

Fireman Richard Scheidt carries out the body
of 10 year old John Jajkowski,
(Steve Lasker / Chicago American)

The fire at Our Lady of the Angels – with 95 deaths and scores of serious injuries – was a George Floyd-type of moment.  A Medgar Evers moment.  A Pearl Harbor moment. The country finally got serious about fire safety.  No cost would be spared to protect our children.  Smoke detectors, then something considered new and still evolving, went in.  Buildings were remodeled.  Fire-proof walls and fire-proof doors.  Non-flammable materials.  Smoke detectors.  Heat detectors.  All with upgrades, as technology advanced. Fire extinguishers and fire alarms: all within reach of anyone, not just taller adults. [At LOA the few fire extinguishers were seven feet off the floor; even many teachers could not have gotten to them].

Within a year over 16,000 schools in America underwent major changes to address fire danger.

Fire codes were regularly updated and rigorously enforced.  Grandfathering had to go.  Fire codes and enforcement have increased and improved so much that it is now a misnomer to call a Fire Department a Fire Department. We should call them “The department that responds to all sorts of emergencies, and occasionally even a fire.” Across the country less than 5% of FD calls are for fires.  The vast majority (about 70%) are for health emergencies.  Other emergencies (hazmat, weather cataclysms, possible gas leaks, etc) make up most of the remainder.  Sadly there are still false alarms, although most are not ill-will; just smoke scares and alarms going off.

And frequent fire drills continued, with an increased earnestness.  I started Catholic schooling in 1962.  No doubt the LOA fire and the images were still fresh in the minds of the nuns, parishes, and archdiocese. I recall they were at least once a month, but rather randomly timed.

There have been school fires since. Of course. But none completely out of control.  Very few with body counts; and those are just one, or at most two.  Over the past several decades there has been an average of one death by fire in schools per year in the US.

On the other hand, our schools now have active-shooter drills.  And bomb scares.  <Sigh. > Personally, I think we can do a lot better in protecting our children – in this regard – But I digress and didn’t want to get political.

St Anne’s is no longer a hospital.  It was converted a few decades ago to a charity-run assisted living complex for the elderly.  It’s now called Beth-Anne Life Center. Maybe I can leave this world at the same location I entered it.

OLA’s school was razed and rebuilt – completely fire-proof – within two years.  It was closed a few decades ago, due to declining interest in parochial school education, in the ‘90s.  A few charter schools have tried to make a go of it in the building.  It appears to be mostly vacant now.

The OLA church and building function has changed too.  It now finds itself in one of Chicago’s poorest neighborhoods.  Currently it serves as a faith-based “mission” doing community service and outreach in areas like childcare, after-school ed, food & clothing distribution, senior citizen programs and bible school classes. For some functions it uses parts of the otherwise-abandoned “new” school building.

Treatment of burn victims has improved fantastically since the trauma of LOA and Billy Edington’s suffering.  Development in Stem Cell technology has led to “spray on skin” treatment, which has greatly reduced need for large scale skin grafting for burn victims.


Cheesebox, Rescue
Janitor James Raymond, also alerted to the Cheesebox situation, perhaps by Fr Hunt’s frantic efforts, arrived at Room 207 at about the same time as Fr Hunt.  Like him, his shoes and slacks had been on fire, and floating cinders had burned holes in his shirt.  Raymond was also sporting a serious bloody gash across one wrist from breaking through a window. 
Sr Geralita explained: No keys.  Do you have keys?
Raymond, putting pressure on his bleeding wrist, looked dolefully down at the dozens of keys hanging from his key chain.  “Yes, but which one?”
Outside and all around the fire had burst through onto the roof.  The room was beginning to flash over.
By God’s grace the very 1st key he tried opened the door.  As Sister sheparded kids through the door and onto the escape, Raymond and Hunt swept the smoke-filled room for kids hiding under desks, their noses to the floor for the cleanest air.
There were no fatalities in the Cheesebox.  Assured all students were out, the 3 adults stepped onto the escape just as the room completely flashed over: everything in 207 was on fire or melting.

[Of all days. Sister Geralita never forgave herself for forgetting the backdoor keys to the fire escape that day.]



I sort of feel like 2020 has been a metaphoric fire drill. This virus and all this crap is not going to wipe out our species: not even close. Yes, people have died, suffered, and been dragged through anguish. This too, shall pass. Still, 2020 has been a serious thing:  including the virus and how we respond to it.

So, principal mother superior. How are we doing?  Are we pushing and sniping in the hallways? Shoving or being respectful down the stairways? Are we minding the tasks at hand: taking care of ourselves, those we love, our fellow humans?  Are we yelling boisterously at each other? 

What are we going to change going forward?  Ourselves? I can do better, myself.

Right now, I think we all suck at this fire drill. We suck. We are wasting a possible “Pearl Harbor moment.” Is there a contemporary social metaphor for nuns of the ‘50s and ‘60s wrapping our knuckles and boxing our ears? Because we deserve it.  Each of us can take this opportunity to step back, objectively critique ourselves (not others, please) and move forward with more clarity in our primary individual human roles and responsibilities: that is, with sympathy, compassion, kindness, respect, and patience. 

Along with Alex Trebek, another Canadian-American, I have hope. 

“In spite of what America and the rest of the world is experiencing right now, there are many reasons to be thankful. There are more and more people extending helpful hands to do a kindness to their neighbors, and that’s a good thing. Keep the faith; we’re gonna get through all of this, and we will be a better society because of it. ”

Alex Trebek (Farewell Thanksgiving message, RIP, November, 2020).

The horrible fire of December 1, 1958 helped make us better.  I believe the tempering fire of 2020 will help make us better, too.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2020

Resources/Bibliography:  These are all easily found.  The best is a very well researched and written book called “To Sleep with the Angels”, by David Cowan and John Kuenster

Short general resources:

https://guides.library.illinois.edu/c.php?g=416856&p=2840506

https://www.nfpa.org/News-and-Research/Publications-and-media/NFPA-Journal/2008/July-August-2008/Features/When-the-Angels-Came-Calling

Chicago Weather, Dec 1, 1958  

Maps, classes and students: https://www.olafire.com/Survivors.asp#206

Relative Humidity calc: http://bmcnoldy.rsmas.miami.edu/Humidity.html

Summary: https://www.olafire.com/FireSummary.asp

FAQ: https://www.olafire.com/FAQ.asp

Jim Grosso interview and recollection: https://www.oakpark.com/News/Articles/12-2-2008/Reclaiming-a-charred-childhood/

Forgotten Fragments

“Mr. Watson, come here. I need you!”

Alexander G Bell, age 29

A.G. Bell, inventor of telephone age 29 (most photos show him much older)

Memory.  One way those of us without photographic memories can maintain the vitality of some facts fresh in our minds is to repeat them often to ourselves, like flashcards.  Sometimes we do this by sharing with others; story telling is a form of memory re-enforcement.  For example: the date, time and place you met your true love.  “In fourteen-hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.” Perhaps the date of an election: 1948, “Dewey Defeats Truman!” 

Likewise, key facts of our nation’s founding and early years are kept fresh by repetition; they are well-known and often repeated. 

  • 1776: Declaration of Independence. 
  • 1781: Victory at Yorktown. 
  • 1787: Constitution is written. 
  • 1791: The first 10 Amendments, AKA the Bill of Rights, become part of Constitution. Et cetera, et cetera.

Gonna shake the tree here, maybe turn over some rocks, and see if we can get a few more interesting, fragmental facts rejuvenated.

The thirteen “original” American colonies.  Why only 13 colonies?  Could there have been more? Weren’t there?

At the dawn of the US’s independence, let’s say we go south, and recall both Floridas: East Florida and West Florida, divided by the Apalachicola River. La Florida had been claimed by Spain since 1565. Spain had made an ill-timed poor decision to enter the Seven Years War (or French and Indian War, according to your preferred history) on the side of France near the end of that war.  Through the British victory and the 1763 Treaty of Paris, both Floridas became British possessions. (As did all of the French lands between the Appalachians and the Mississippi, and all of Canada). In fact, the Floridas became British colonies. Yet, the Floridas did not join “the thirteen” for Independence; they had yet to build up a sense of disdain for Britain and the Crown: they had only recently been acquired and were lightly populated. But they were certainly British American colonies.  So, already up to fifteen British colonies in the New World.

Henry Knox, about age 56. Somehow he failed to maintain his figure, perhaps too much good living [Painting by Gilbert Stuart, 1806, Public Domain]

What about Vermont?  Your mental Rolodex and flashcards will quickly show that Vermont was not among “the Thirteen.”  Yet – thanks to Ethan Allan and the “Green Mountain Boys” – they fought with the Americans against the British, helping Benedict Arnold win an important early revolutionary war victory at Fort Ticonderoga in May, 1775.  The 60 guns captured there (brilliantly transported over hill, dale and frozen river, by Gen Knox in his “Noble Train of Artillery” about 250 miles in wintery conditions) led to the American rebels ability to fire upon, and surprisingly dismiss, the British Navy from Boston Harbor in March, 1776. [Knox was only 25 at the time. ]

How did Vermont even come to exist?  Why was it not part of “the Thirteen?” Conflicting charter definitions left the area we know as “Vermont” in limbo: the colonies of New York and New Hampshire both laid claim to it.  And, at one time, even Massachusetts.  Even Quebecois traipsed fairly freely through the area, setting up camps, exploring and fur trapping.

Vermont took the opportunity presented by such disorder to become a de facto separate colony, beginning in 1770.  The “cities”, i.e. centers of administration, for New York, New Hampshire and Massachusetts colonies were distant, and Vermonters felt no connection to them at all. The aforementioned “Green Mountain Boys” defended Vermont’s “independence” from other colonies fiercely.

Knox Cannon Trail. Many walk/hike this 250 mi trek to commemorate Knox’s achievement. Historic towns along the way offer lodging and refreshment options

When “America” formally declared its independence from England, the Vermonters deigned not to join, and formed their own Republic, in 1777 (although they continued a military alliance with the rebel Americans).  Much later, when New York finally acceded to Vermont’s discrete separateness, the Green Mountain Republic folded its tent and was incorporated into the union, in 1791 – after 14 years of formal independence.  It became, coincidently, the 14th state.

Aside: The only other state I can think of that was subsumed directly from independent nation status into the US as a state is Texas.  Any others?  [Hawaii went from independence through a lengthy Territory status].

Vermont was never formally granted its own charter of any sort by Britain.  So, it was not a “colony”, per se.  Our historical scavenger hunt did turn up some revolutionary factoid fragments: Ethan Allan and his Green Mountain Boys, Vermont’s short lived independence as a republic, the defeat of the British at Fort Ticonderoga and Boston Harbor, and Henry Knox’s 250-mile Noble Train of Artillery.

Our New World Colony tally remain at 15; i.e. “the Thirteen” plus the two Floridas.

But were there more?  Well, we mentioned Canada. Canada is surely part of America – North America. The Canadian half of me is a bit ill-at-ease by lack of thorough knowledge here, but we’ll give it a shot.  In 1776 Quebec had been its own chartered provincial colony since 1763.  As was St Johns Island (later Prince Edward Island), split off as a separate chartered colony from Nova Scotia in 1769.  At this period we should also count Nova Scotia and Newfoundland as colonies.  The Hudson Bay Company had also been granted a special charter, but I don’t believe it was of anything like formal colony status.  [Notes on Canada and British colonial status in footnotes below].   

So, how many Colonies did the Brits have in America at the time of the US War for Independence?  I count 19, or perhaps 20.  Not including Vermont.  And that’s just mainland colonies.  We’d find more British American colonies in the Caribbean, like Jamaica, the West Indies, the Bahamas, and others. So much for 13. But that is the number we tell ourselves, on our mental flashcards, over and over.  13 … 13 … 13.

The Bill of Rights.

We know the Bill of Rights as the original ten Amendments to the US Constitution.  Lost in the shuffle is that there were twelve original amendments passed by Congress in 1789. Twelve was the number of Amendments submitted to the states for ratification.

Turns out Amendments #1 and #2 failed.  Well, sort of.  The remaining ten – which we Americans fondly study and recite – were ratified by the requisite number of states (three-quarters), finally, in December, 1791.  These thus became formally part of the nation’s Constitution … these are the first 10 of its 27 Amendments.  So, our current #1 was actually originally #3.

Strangely often forgotten are Amendments numbered as #9 and #10. These clearly imply that the power of the federal government is limited; and suggest that the “Founders”, including James Madison, the principal author, clearly feared a powerful and unrestricted central federal government. You can refresh your memory here and here.

Well, what about the original first two Amendments? 

Amendment 1.  What happened?  Didn’t pass.  Probably a good thing. It would have allowed the House of Representatives to grow to approximately one representative for each 50,000 inhabitants.  Positives? On the one hand, it would have had at least two benefits.  First: it would certainly give us much more granular representation, possibly eliminating the drive for gerrymandering.  Second, it would have adjusted the Electoral College to almost entirely obviate the advantage of smaller states. But it had a serious downside: the House of Representatives would currently have to accommodate up to about six thousand butts and noses (that’s 6,000 – compared to 435 now).  With some foresight, the states did not ratify this.  [More here].

The original Amendment #2 has a significantly different story – although for nearly two centuries it followed the same moribund track as #1.  This originally proposed Amendment  #2 concerned Congressional salaries.  It forbade any sitting Congress from voting itself a pay raise.  They could, however, vote for an increase for the next and following Congresses.  I don’t know why it didn’t pass, but it didn’t. Seems like a good idea.  In fact, at this very time, in 1789, Congress voted itself a 17% pay raise (from $6/day to $7). Passed by Congress, but unratified by the requisite number of states, it lay in limbo, like a genie in a lamp. 

Jump to 1982.  An otherwise regular and inconspicuous student at the University of Texas, young 19-year old Mr Gregory Watson, was doing some research hoping to find a good topic for a term paper for his government class.  He stumbled across this proposed Amendment. 

“No law varying the compensation for the services of the Senators and Representatives, shall take effect, until an election of Representatives shall have intervened.”

He found, upon further investigation, that this amendment was still “alive”; seven of the Thirteen states at the time had ratified it.  But, it had no sunset. It was still alive. That is: it could still be ratified by the states without going back to Congress.  What a novel idea!  Congress cannot vote itself a pay increase. Now, let’s get it ratified by 31 more states.

Watson proposed such a revival in his essay.

His professor thought he was rather silly and gave him a grade of “C” – that is: average.  Grades were inflated a bit even then. In short: He was regarded as below average. [Greg Watson, the bad grade that helped change the Constitution]

Gregory Watson, in 2017

Undeterred, Watson undertook a one-man campaign to get the amendment passed.  With enough letters and phone calls, and ten years of persistence – and more than a few states getting pissed that Congress continued to vote itself pay increases – it eventually got momentum.  The number of states that ratified went from 7, to 10, to 20.  To 30. 

It took a decade.  In 1992 Michigan became the 38th state to ratify the amendment. It has passed the ¾ threshold.  It passed!  It became part of the Constitution and is now the 27th Amendment.  It’s the law of the land: A sitting Congress cannot vote to increase their own pay.  It remains the last change to the US Constitution.  It was ratified and became law 202 years after it passed Congress; a record that will surely never be broken. [Watch recent video of Watson and his story here.]

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Our lost fragments of history can be significant.  Our past is much more interesting and its texture much more complex than our day-to-day notions give credit to it. And more than our flashcards of rote memory. Not only that: it shows that a diligent, young, energetic, inspired and undaunted person – one who is blessed with fortitude and idealism, whether Henry Knox, Alex Bell or Greg Watson – can change the nation.  Even if it’s just one thing. 

To all the lost fragments … let’s not lose the threads of our past, nor the possibilities of our future. 

And to all the potential Greg Watsons out there.  Just do it! Be Greg Watson.  Wherever you are, Mr Watsons of the world, we need you.

Peace out

Joe Girard © 2020

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for when there is newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Status of British colonies in Canada at time of American Revolution:

Upper and Lower Canada formed 1791, to account for influx of Loyalists from America

Quebec Province was a colony from 1763 (when it was taken from France) until the forming of Upper and Lower Canada, in 1791

Nova Scotia was a British Colony from 1654 until 1848, when it received significant self-governing status.  It later became part of the Dominion of Canada on July 1, 1867 (Canada Day, eh?)

Newfoundland was a British Colony from 1610 until 1907, when it attained Dominion status.  It was confederated into Canada after WW2, in 1949.

Prince Edward Island was acquired during the Seven Years War, from France, and formally became a British colony in 1769.  The French called it Saint John’s Island (Île Saint-Jean).  The Brits retained the name until formally changing it to PEI in 1791. Excessive debt drove the colony to seek confederation with Canada, which became official on Canada Day, 1873.

New Brunswick was part of the British Empire during the American Revolution, but not a colony itself; it was attached at the time to Nova Scotia.

Labrador, to my knowledge has never held colonial status.  It is currently attached to Newfoundland.

To my knowledge and research, neither the Hudson’s Bay Company nor any part of Rupert’s Land was ever a colony.  These were pure business propositions from their founding up through the American Revolution.

Other stuff

Who Really Invented the Telephone?     

Henry Knox: The Noble Train of Cannons is also called the Henry Knox Cannon Trail.

Plaque noting where Knox’s Canon Trail saga ends
Sketch of Knox Winter transport of cannons, artist unknown, US Military Archives, Public Domain

Correction:  A few essays ago I wrote in Driving me Dazy that no state has an Interstate Highway with the same number as a US (Route) Highway number.  Wrong!  Wisconsin now has I-41 (which overlays US-41 over its entire length, to avoid confusion).  I-41 stops in Green Bay, but US-41 continues well north into the Keweenaw Peninsula on Michigan’s UP (Its other end is Miami: no confusion there).  And Arkansas has US-49 in the eastern part of the state, and a few fragments of I-49 in the far west part of the state.  Those happened long after I lived in those states.  Sorry.

Post Election 2020 Thoughts – Part 1

“You’ve come a long way, baby! ”

— Virginia Slims cigarette slogan, late 1960s [1]

An abbreviated list of firsts: Jackie Robinson, Yuri Gagarin, Orville Wright, Louis Brandeis, Hattie Caraway, Barak Obama, Jeannette Rankin, Kim Ng.

All are significant modern era historic firsts: All of these people are remembered as much for what their personal achievements represented as much as the individuals themselves.

And now we can add Kamala Harris to that list, come January 20, 2021.

That such “breakthroughs” would happen was never in doubt. And, maybe these aren’t the specific persons many would have hoped would be first.

Vice President Elect, Kamala Harris

Many would have perhaps preferred: Josh Gibson or Satchel Paige to Jackie Robinson; perhaps John Glenn or Alan Shepard to comrade Yuri; brother Wilbur, Samuel Pierpont Langley, or even the German Karl Jatho to Orville. And on and on.

In the end, it does not matter who was first, just that these breakthroughs did happen – although we tend to remember these “firsts” much more than other nearly equal very worthy contenders. For sure, we recognize all these breakthroughs as individual achievements that history will keep indelibly recorded, and – to various amounts – as team achievements as well. More important, each marks a breakthrough for humanity. An expansion of possibility for America, or more importantly, for humans. Each marks a broadening of our hopes, imaginations and expectations.

Congratulations to Kamala Harris. I join the nation and the world in wishing her well.


Last week the Virginia Slims slogan of the ‘60s flashed into mind (top quote). Now, finally, Kamala Harris, a woman – and a person of color, no less – has been elected to be vice-president of the United States. Ladies: you’ve come a long way! And thereby so have all of us; so has our nation.

I feel a similar sense of pride to what I felt watching Barack Obama take the oath of office, standing in our friends’ house just outside Amsterdam, Netherlands, on January 20th, 2009, to become the 44th President of the United States. [Here is an essay from my old website to honor the 2008 election]

To all the above I say: Great, great and … great! Accomplishments and events like this show us what is possible for humanity. They show that talent, meaningful participation and leadership can be found, and are being found, everywhere and anywhere in all humans.

My soapbox here. It is simply impractical and inefficient by any measure – morally, intellectually, economically, politically, culturally – to restrain any fraction of the nation’s intellect and potential, whether it be leadership positions, education, service or any sort of employment. In the case of female participation: Why would any society aspiring to reach its maximum potential also limit fully one-half of its talent from contributing in any way they can?? I submit that this is a reason that some cultures, for example mostly Islamic countries, have lagged in all these areas, including intellectually and economically.

A fair system, with a “wide net”, will capture all sorts of interesting and diverse individuals.

Kamala Harris is just the latest obvious observable example of breaking through and reaching potential. Not hers. Not women’s. But society’s. America’s. The world’s. The whole race’s potential.

In fact, it was bound to happen. It was inevitable. Just the latest indication: an aged dam cannot hold back an immeasurable and growing ocean of water forever. First a crack, then a trickle, then a deluge.

What am I talking about?

Consider first women’s representation in Congress. It is absolutely zooming. The first plot here shows the fraction of Congressional seats occupied by females since 1920; that’s 100 years ago (coincidently when women got the nationwide right to vote, via the 19th Amendment). The numbers are Representatives plus Senators. (In this 1st plot, which is linear-linear, slight fluctuations in number of total seats over time. [1] Lower house grew from 435 to 436, then 437 in 1959 as Hawaii and Alaska added, then reduced to 435 after 1960 census; [2] Upper house Senate seats expanded from 96 in same period for these new states, and 100 ever since).

Plot 1: Women in US Congress since 1920 elections, % of seats available



In 2021-22 women will make up over 26% of the 117th Congress, an all-time high. Although this is barely over half the 51% of American adults who are female, the growth in participation is exponential.

Plot 2: Logarithmic plot of women in Congress as % of seats available. X-axis is log of year since 1920

This 2nd figure shows women’s congressional participation in a log-log (logarithmic) plot, dating back to the 1968 elections. Straight lines in log-log plots indicate pure exponential growth. With a straight-line coefficient of determination (R2) of at 0.97 this is clearly exponential growth in these 5+ decades.

Of course, this exponential trend cannot continue indefinitely, since the total number of seats in Congress stays (for the foreseeable future) quite limited.

One assumes that at some future time — within a decade perhaps –the curve will turn to be more or less level with 50%.

Or perhaps more than 50%.

Reason #2 for the inevitable breakthrough, and a good reason to expect a higher “plateau” than 50%, comes from looking at graduation numbers beyond secondary education. Women exceed men at every level — from Bachelors, to Masters to PhD degrees and law degrees — and most areas and levels have done so for quite some time.

Women are getting basic university degrees at a rate about 50% above men (roughly 59% of college bachelor degrees are going to females; only 41% to men). Although college degrees are certainly not necessary for service in high office – examples such as Harry Truman and Scott Walker have demonstrated this – it is certainly a very, very good indicator. Especially, for some sad reason, Law degrees. (Sorry, you lawyers). Women have outnumbered men in Law School and law degrees for several years, although the margin is slimmer here, roughly matching the US adult population at 51-49%). Not just bachelor’s degrees; Women are earning more advanced degrees of almost all sorts than men, including medical degrees. [3]

This education disparity indicates that female participation at all levels of society will continue to accelerate in all areas. That’s good news.

As a short side note: if participation in many advanced areas shoots much past 51%, and stays there, then a deep study of educational data and experiences might well suggest that we are currently giving young men short-shrift in opportunity development. However, these things can take decades to reveal themselves.

A healthy, growing society welcomes and encourages input, participation, leadership, and ideas from every single one of its citizens. And it develops potential. To do otherwise is to limit itself. Regardless of your politics, Barak Obama, Kamala Harris and Kim Ng, et al, are indications we are doing just that.

Good luck America.

Joe Girard © 2020

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for when there is newly published material by clicking here. Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

[1] Virginia slims cashes in on the women’s lib movement with a cigarette and ad campaign directed at women
[2] Women get far more degrees than men; even at PhD Levels
[3] Women earning more advanced degrees than men
And: More women in medical school than men


Roger That

The early 1960s milieu of my youth was certainly different than that of our contemporary turmoil, well over five decades hence. 

For example, some obscure skills regarding road maps were very useful, whether on a cross-country adventure, or just heading out to the next county, or across town. One was being able to find a tiny street somewhere in F-9.  You could not just whip out your mobile phone and ask for directions over that last mile.

Another was to unfold a large detailed map and then re-fold differently so that it could be easily used for navigation; – and then, upon completion, getting it all neatly re-folded again (yes, using the original creases and into the original pattern) without rips or tears so that it could be stored efficiently for multiple future uses. That’s an almost completely lost art.  It required patience, some imagination, and 3-D topological mathematical skills to visualize and execute the folded shapes. 

1960s Road Maps

State maps and city maps often folded differently, and especially so if one was from Texaco, another from Standard Oil, and yet another from Michelin, or from whomever.  If you need a tutorial, find a road map collecting club.  These clubs actually exist.  You can find anything in America. 

I was wondering recently about the children’s cartoon show that we sometimes watched: Roger Ramjet.  I think it was a tangent thought on our nation’s new Space Force (by the way, we’ve effectively had a Space Force since long before President Trump deemed it so). Roger Ramjet was one of countless mindless children’s empty-headed shows that ubiquitously populated the TV Wasteland of the early ‘60s moors (the theme song is right now an earworm in my brain).  The term TV Wasteland was so coined by Newton Minow, the first chairman of the Federal Communications Commission in a famous speech to a Senate subcommittee, in 1961.

The commissioner’s name is part of a humorous twist, from yet another silly brain-dead show for children that jumped into the 1960’s wasteland: Gilligan’s Island. The show’s creator and executive director, Sherwood Schwartz, decided that the name of the tour ship that would survive an ocean storm, and drop seven castaways on an uncharted island, would be named the SS Minnow, in sardonic honor of the Chairman.  

I wondered how Roger Ramjet, both the character and the TV show got their name.  Ramjet was a “hot” word de jour, in those fast-paced technology-war and cold war years.  Simply – I would learn a few years later – a basic sort of turbo charged jet engine, without an actual turbo air-compressing mechanism. 

Our hero: Roger Ramjet

But the name “Roger”, I guessed from early on, was due to Roger’s nature.  Namely military.  Roger was super patriotic, definitely military, painfully loyal and honest, possessed a bizarre superpower, and fought evil. He was also a few cards short of a full deck.  Sort of a US version of RCMP officer Dudley Do-Right (yes, Dudley was from that same TV Wasteland brain dead era).

The military term “Roger”, I (think I) learned from watching popular WW2-themed TV shows like 12 O’clock High and Combat!, which featured radio communications wherein the word “Roger” was used to indicate a message had been received.  R for Roger; R for Received. 

The history and etymology of the word “Roger” in this context is interesting and worthy of an essay in and of itself.  It’s still used today, particularly in aircraft communication.  Variations include Roger Willco (Received, will comply), Roger That, and Roger Dodger.  If its use were to start up from scratch today, it would probably be “Romeo”,