Author: Joe

Biographical, History, Strong Women

Baptise: a Life

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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 Pent Orielle, in northern Idaho. The 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 Goldcreek.

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].

Miniscule Goldcreek 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.  But this was a secret he could not long suppress. 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:  Goldcreek.]

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, most 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 says 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 their 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 the long trip, arriving at the Mandan/Hitasa village, Sacagawea and Charbonneau settled briefly 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.

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 Clark, staying with him, 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 his natural curiosity, it provided much opportunity for Pomp’s 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 very 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.  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 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).

Biographical, Culture, Entertainment Industry, History, Music, Strong Women

Stories of a Ballad

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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.

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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.

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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.

 

 

 

 

Biographical, History

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/

 

 

Sports, Strong Women

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.

Uncategorized

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.

 

History, Science & Technology, Travel

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

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History, Strong Women

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.

Autobiographical, Culture, History, Travel

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).

Philosophy, Sports, Uncategorized

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.

Biographical, History, Strong Women

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

Culture, Politics

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.

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History

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.  

 

Culture, Guest Essay, History

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.

 

 

Autobiographical, Biographical, Music, Science & Technology

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

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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.

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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

Autobiographical, Music, Philosophy, Science & Technology

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.

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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 named “Reminiscing”, 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)
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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.

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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

Autobiographical, Culture, Current Events, Music, Science & Technology

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.

Science & Technology

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.

Autobiographical, Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History, Science & Technology

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:

Biographical, Entertainment Industry, Guest Essay, History

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

 

Autobiographical, Biographical, Culture, Current Events, History

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

 

Biographical, Culture, Current Events, History

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]

Biographical, Culture, Current Events, History

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

 

Autobiographical, Media, Science & Technology

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].

Autobiographical, History, Medicine

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.

Biographical, Current Events, Guest Essay, History

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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Culture, Current Events, History, Politics

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

 

 

Biographical, Current Events, Politics

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

 

Autobiographical, Biographical, Current Events, Edwardian/Pre-War, Entertainment Industry, History, Sports

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.

 

History

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

Autobiographical, History, Science & Technology

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.

Culture, Current Events, History

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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Autobiographical, Strong Women

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

Autobiographical, History, Music, Travel

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 3 – Will 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 13.  Staunton, 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 17.  Kankakee 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 18.  Cedar 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

Autobiographical, Biographical, Culture, History, Science & Technology

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

Autobiographical, Biographical, Culture, Current Events, Philosophy

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.

Biographical, Current Events, Politics

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 – pelection.  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. Washington, which 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 Boston, San 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.

Autobiographical, Travel

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.  

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, Sports

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

Biographical, History, Sports

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.

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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.]

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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

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Autobiographical, Biographical, History

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)

Culture, History

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.

History, Philosophy

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?

Autobiographical, Biographical, Culture, Current Events, History, Strong Women

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
Autobiographical, Current Events

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.

Autobiographical, Culture, History

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. 

OLGH, now Northwest Catholic School

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/

Culture, History

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.

Current Events, History, Politics

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


Autobiographical, Culture, Media, Science & Technology

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”, as that is the NATO and US Military phonetic alphabet word-based “R.” [US Military phonetic alphabet is a tad different.]

[Since my surname is so often misspelled I am used to giving it as Golf-India-Romeo-Alpha-Romeo-Delta. That gets the job done, and the reply is sometimes: Thank you for your service. To which I must respond: I did not have that honor sir (or ma’am)].

The beginnings of “Roger Dodger” seem apocryphal, but it is a good story, nonetheless. According to legend: a naval pilot was returning from a very successful WW2 mission. Feeling quite jolly and cocky, and upon receiving landing instructions from control, he replied “Roger Dodger.”  Very, very unmilitary.  The reply is simply “Roger.”

Radios of the squadron came alive with the shouting of a senior officer at control who had overheard the wisecrack. Such undisciplined comments are simply not acceptable over military channels.  To which the pilot replied (knowing that his reply was anonymous; it could be from anyone on that frequency): “Roger Dodger, you old codger.”

Another essay foray could be into the use of exclamation points, as in the 1960’s TV show name “Combat!”,  which was my first experience with a formal name or title having an exclamation point; this was decades before Yahoo!, and Yum! type product branding. I was too young and unsophisticated to know of the famous musicals “Oklahoma!” and “Hello Dolly!”  [Soon thereafter would arrive the cookie brand, “Chips Ahoy!”, then came so many it became silly.]

What I recall of Combat! and 12 O’clock High is that they were obviously military oriented … one army air force, the other infantry army.  They were not silly, but very serious. The suffering – both physical and psychological – was real.  Personal struggles. Seeing and dealing with pain, injury, aloneness, death. 

So, how did Roger Ramjet get his name? Did Roger get his name from military roots? No. Like the name “SS Minnow” it was simpler and even less meaningful.  It turns out that the name Roger Ramjet just had a good “ring” to it.  Ramjet was from ramjet, a type of forced-air-breathing jet engine.  And Roger was the name of a reporter (Roger Smith) who joked during an interview with executive producer (Fred Crippen) during the show’s initial creation that the main character’s name should be Roger.  So it was, … and so much for branding back in the day.

“Roger” has made it over to emails and texts – well, at least in mine.  If I reply:  

  • “Roger”, then I received and understood your message.
  • “Roger That”, then I received, understood and I agree.
  • “Roger Dodger”, then I received, understood and I am feeling a bit goofy or lighthearted – or perhaps I think you are being supercilious. But I won’t add “You old codger.”

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

Current Events, History, Politics

Vote

“Vote early, and often”

— attributed to many


Firstly, I must make it clear that voting is important. If you are of age and registered: vote! And vote only once. Please.

Voting’s importance is not because your single vote could sway a governor or presidential election; those odds are less than trivial. One in trillions. More on that later.

Voting is very important. Healthy turnout numbers legitimizes our democracy. When large numbers of voters “sit out” an election, that election result suffers reduced credibility, both at home and in the eyes of the world. My son took the time recently to convince me that 400 Electoral College Votes could have gone to Did-Not-Vote in 2016 (only 270 EC Votes needed to win).

In 2016 voter participation ranged from a low of merely 42.5% in Hawai’i to a high of only 74.1% in Minnesota. The 2008 turnout across the nation was a paltry 56%. In 2008 and 2012 national turnout was only 58.2% and 56.5%, respectively. This deprives both winners and losers of credibility, and validity.

So, secondly, larger tallies on each side allows winners to claim more support, while also encouraging them to also recognize that there are significant differing points of view. Well, we can at least hope on that second part.

One vote will never tip an election, but the votes of you and a few of your friends could be enough to trip a re-count.

Please do vote. We cannot be an authentic democracy without healthy turnout.

The good news is that across the country preliminary numbers suggest 2020 will have much higher levels of participation. For instance, as of October 29 Texas had already recorded more votes than were cast in all of 2016, when only 51% voted there.

_________________________________________________________________________

The quote atop this essay is most often attributed to Chicago’s murky election past, during the last ½ of the 19th century and the first ¾ or so of the 20th century. Some actual Chicagoans who have said this range from gangster Al Capone to mayors William “Big Bill” Thompson and Richard “The Boss” Daley.

Historians have more accurately traced “Vote early, vote often” further back to the first half of the 19th century, when it was first used publicly by John van Buren – son of our 8th President, as well as one of his senior advisors. Perhaps that’s an indication of electioneer shenanigans through that century as well.

The history of ballot box stuffing and vote buying notwithstanding (especially in “political machine cities”), is a thing of the past (so far, for several decades, thank God), and the command is said rather tongue-in-cheek.

Although some vote fraud will certainly occur, I have no great concerns that it will sway any statewide election, let alone the Presidential election (which is essentially 50 statewide elections, plus DC – thus sequestering “good” state results from sullied or doubtful ones).

Worriers will point to three statewide election elections that have been agonizingly close in recent history.


1) 2004, Washington state: Christine Gregoire defeats Dino Rossi for Governor by 133 votes (or 129, depending on source and date). This is the closest governor race in US history and was decided only after two recounts, several court challenges and a few court cases. In the end, over 1,600 counted votes were determined to be cast fraudulently, although there is no indication that the fraud was intentional, nor that it would have changed the outcome. [1]

[Aside: this election was among 2nd wave of indications – the 1st was in 2000, with defeat of 2-term incumbent Slade Gorton for Senate by Maria Cantwell – that a giant blue political tidal wave was rolling up on Washington, a condition that will continue well into the foreseeable future, and making November elections there quite easy to predict.]

2) 2008, Minnesota: Comedian Al Franken defeats Norm Coleman for US Senator by 225 votes, or 312, depending on whether we take the State Canvassing Board results, or the ad hoc panel of three judges chosen per constitution by the States Chief Justice. In any case the margin was a squinty eye-watering wafer thin one, indeed.

Very similar to the Washington case, later analysis found that almost the same number of fraudulent votes had been cast and counted, about 1,670. Again, this was not necessarily intentional, and no we can’t know how they voted; or if it would have changed the outcome. [2]
Minnesota was also turning blue, and still is.

As interesting asides: (a) Norm Coleman is the answer to a trivia question; he not only lost a Senate race to a comedian, he lost a Governor race [1998] to a professional wrestler, Jesse Ventura. Oh, the ignominy. (b) The months’ long delay in deciding the winner cost Presidential Obama a bit of momentum, as Franken’s vote would become the 60th filibuster-breaking vote on the Dem side of the aisle, allowing them to steamroll legislation without inter-party compromise for about 18 months.

3) 2000, Florida: George W Bush defeats Albert Gore for president by 537 votes [coincidentally remarkably close to the total Electoral Votes available: 538]. This provided Bush with the state’s entire slate of 25 Electoral Votes and gave him a “victory” in the Electoral College by the slimmest of margins: 270 to 268. (As of 2012, Florida now has 27 EC votes).

Much has been written about each of these elections, and I don’t really wish to pick at old scars and turn them into open wounds, yet again. We are in enough drama and pain as it is.

__________________________________________________________________-

How important is your vote? Well, even though each vote is very important (as stated above), the likelihood of any single vote changing the outcome for a state’s electors is mathematically insignificant. In that regard, the Florida voters of 2000 no doubt cast the weightiest presidential votes in history.

Again: How important is your vote? It is common for small population states and large population to complain about balance of power in choosing presidents. The most repeated refrain is that a very large state, say California, is under-weight when compared to a small state, say, Wyoming. Simple math suggests this is true: divide the state’s Electoral Votes by its registered voter total and we find that a vote in Wyoming is about 3.1 times more “electorally powerful” than a vote in California.

Electoral votes per state, 2012-2020

I submit that is indeed simple. Too simple. To truly evaluate a single vote’s “weight” the scoring must be more dynamic. One must consider not just Electoral Votes and total voters; one must consider the vote spread between winner and loser.

Such slightly advanced math deeply erodes the value of a Wyoming voter. Why? Currently Trump has an insurmountable 38% advantage. Add Wyoming’s low EC weight, and a single Wyoming voter’s weight falls from the top to near the middle.

Using average polling data from October 1 to 27th, I attempted to weigh each state’s voter’s relative effect on the outcome. It’s a simple formula: take the EC votes and divide by the expected difference between winner and loser.

To get an estimate of maximum single voter effect, I did a parallel calculation, reducing the expected difference by the average Margin of Error across all pollsters. [To avoid dividing by zero – such as when the MoE is equal to or larger than the expected spread – I used a small number (537) … hence the max impact in those states is roughly equivalent to that of a Florida voter in 2000].

The results were interesting. For ease, I have ratioed all the values relative to the top single voter power of all states. The top 13 States are shown in this figure. It tells us that (a) these are the states to watch come election night (and the days, weeks to follow); and (b) if you must skip voting these are the states your absence or neglect will have the most effect.

Three low population and low EC states (3 votes each) Alaska, Montana and South Dakota remain near the top, but get nudged down by expected differentials. (e.g. Alaska, Trump +6.0%, MoE ±5.7).

States’ Single voter relative power

Since many of these states are in the eastern time zone, we should get a fairly good idea of how the Presidential election will turn out early on. In the Central time zone Texas and Iowa will let many west coasters know likely results before they’ve even voted. If it comes down to Pacific time zone, only AZ and NV have real potential impact.

[I have casually and unapologetically lumped Nebraska and Maine into the same model, even though they assign single EC votes based on their few Congressional Districts.]

And next, are the bottom 13 states, ranked by single voter power. Note: these fall to the bottom not particularly because these are states with disproportionately few EC votes or such high populations; it’s because the outcome is not in doubt.


[Their “Max Power” ratio drops, since Texas could be so high. In effect, even at their most powerful (thinnest margin), their effect withers further if a larger state ends up close: these voters always weigh less than 1/1000th the power per single voter in a contested state].

States with weakest single voter power


Even smaller states like Connecticut, Maryland, DC and Mass that are heavily weighted by the simple ECVotes/population computation get pushed to the bottom of significance, alongside California and New York, due to high expected win/loss margins. You can color in your Electoral College map early for these states. Well, any state not in the top 13 as well. {Rhode Island may well lose an EC Vote after the 2020 census, and will drop into this group}.

Things and order jumble about, but only slightly, if we re-calculate assuming that the full Margin of Error is realized for each state. For example, big Texas — now a battleground state — jumps from #8 to #1. Georgia drops from #1 to #4. Details in the two tables at the bottom.


I must admit that this is a concept that I adopted and simplified from an extensive effort over the past few decades by Andrew Gelman, a statistics professor at Columbia University (cue Abe from “The Amazing Mrs Maisel” here). He’s been joined recently by Gary King and John Boscardin, as well as Nate Silver of FiveThirtyEight, to determine the odds that your single vote will decide the entire election, based on where you live. Of course, the odds are astronomical, but statistically quantifiable; the inverse of that possibility is a measure of the state’s single voter power. My results, arrived at with simpler math to account for my simpler mind, has much the same results (although I don’t think they’ve done it yet for 2020) [3]


These high-powered statisticians take into account far more than I have. For example, likely voter turnout. And odds the election is even close enough for that single state to make a difference (which further de-rates low EC vote states). That is too much computing, and voter turnout (abysmal and getting drearier for decades) will be a wildcard in 2020, with most areas now expecting record turnout.


In any case, like they say: “Every vote matters; count every vote.” My ballot’s in already. I know it won’t make any difference as to who wins; but it’s a vote for democracy. And that’s important.
May there be peace. Fingers crossed.


Until next time,


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] Gregoire wins by 133 (or 129) votes, with over 1,600 votes deemed to be fraudulent., Seattle Post-Intelligencer, June 5, 2005

[2] Franken win tainted?; 1,670 fraudulent votes tallied, The American Experiment, July 1, 2016

[3] When One Vote makes a difference (but never in a statewide race)

Table 1. All States at Nominal Power per single voter

StateNom Strengths
1Georgia1.00
2Florida0.0258
3Ohio0.0166
4North Carolina0.0146
5Iowa0.0090
6Alaska0.0050
7Arizona0.0047
8Texas0.0042
9Nebraska0.0035
10Nevada0.0034
11Pennsylvania0.0027
12South Dakota0.0021
13Montana0.0021
14Minnesota0.0020
15Kansas0.0020
16North Dakota0.0018
17Indiana0.0017
18New Hampshire0.0016
19South Carolina0.0016
20Maine0.0014
21Wisconsin0.0014
22Missouri0.0014
23New Mexico0.0013
24Utah0.0013
25Vermont0.0012
26Colorado0.0012
27Michigan0.0011
28West Virginia0.0011
29Wyoming0.0011
30Idaho0.0010
31Delaware0.0010
32Tennessee0.0010
33Oregon0.0009
34Mississippi0.0008
35Virginia0.0008
36Hawaii0.00078
37Rhode Island0.00069
38Arkansas0.00066
39Kentucky0.00066
40Illinois0.00063
41Alabama0.00061
42Oklahoma0.00060
43New Jersey0.00058
44Louisiana0.00058
45Washington0.00050
46Connecticut0.00048
47California0.00040
48Maryland0.00039
49New York0.00038
50Massachusetts0.00027
51DC0.00026
Table 1, Relative single voter weight, all polls nominal
A single voter in Georgia is ~3,800 times more significant and powerful as one in DC

Table 2. Relative single voter weight, all states at max strength per voter (i.e. poll margins reduced by average margin of error).

StateAll Max
1Texas1.00
2Florida0.763
3Ohio0.474
4Georgia0.421
5North Carolina0.395
6Arizona0.289
7Iowa0.158
8Alaska0.0419
9Pennsylvania0.0153
10Nevada0.0133
11Nebraska0.0053
12Minnesota0.0032
13Indiana0.0028
14Kansas0.0020
15Montana0.0018
16South Carolina0.0015
17South Dakota0.0014
18Missouri0.0012
19New Hampshire0.0010
20North Dakota0.0010
21Wisconsin0.0009
22Colorado0.0009
23Maine0.0009
24Michigan0.0008
25Utah0.0007
26New Mexico0.0007
27West Virginia0.0006
28Vermont0.0006
29Tennessee0.0006
30Oregon0.0006
31Idaho0.0006
32Delaware0.0005
33Wyoming0.0005
34Virginia0.0005
35Mississippi0.0005
36Kentucky0.00036
37Hawaii0.00036
38Arkansas0.00035
39Illinois0.00035
40Rhode Island0.00033
41New Jersey0.00032
42Alabama0.00032
43Louisiana0.00029
44Washington0.00028
45Oklahoma0.00027
46Connecticut0.00023
47California0.00019
48Maryland0.00019
49New York0.00018
50Massachusetts0.00013
51DC0.00011
Relative Single Voter Strength if each state is at Max power (I.e. full Margin of error reduces final vote difference)… A single Texas voter is 9,100 times more powerful than one in DC

Culture, History

Driving Me Dazy

Driving on highways is different wherever one travels.  The US has large expanses of land, and most major cities have many miles between them, hence national highways are sort of laid out and numbered in a grid pattern.  Look at national maps for even the largest European countries, like France and Germany, and it can look like that pot of spaghetti you spilled on the kitchen floor while trying to “help” your mom when you were 9 years old.

United States Interstate traffic carries ~25% of all vehicle miles, and ~80% of all commercially transported product, by value

It’s OK.  You felt bad when you spilled dinner, but mom made it a learning experience and you are a better person for it.  Now we’re going to make a little sense of those European “spilled spaghetti” highway maps.

Although these countries individually generally do not lend themselves to a US-style grid and grid-number system, both because of history and geography, they do indeed have patterns.  These are not very useful, if you want my biased opinion.  Well, perhaps useful for rote memorization.

European countries all have several “levels” of highway, just as in the US.  And each level will carry different amounts of traffic, depending on demand and the level.  For example, in the US, the Interstate Highway system has very high demand, and has the highest standard.  Although comprising only about 1% of all US highways by mileage, the Interstate highways carry 25% of highway traffic by vehicle miles.  That’s astounding.  A little more on this later.

I’ll use the two largest European countries, France and Germany, as examples here (um, “largest” not counting Russia).  Each also, naturally, has multiple levels of highway.  Or Classes.  Each has an “A”, or top level “motorway.”  In Germany the A stands for Autobahn.  Of course.  In France it is A for an Autoroute.  These are limited access, high speed, and high standard roadways; in France there is often a toll involved – and they are quite expensive. 

Each has a second-tier highway as well. In France, it’s the N highways, or Route Nationale.  Germany’s second-tier are “B” (which makes more sense, B following A), for Bundesstraßen – or Federal Roads.  These are often quite nice as well.

Speaking of expensive. Beware of radar speed detectors, especially on the B or N roads.  Speed limits rise and fall rapidly around mid- and smaller-sized cities.  Where it falls suddenly – often with scant warning – there is almost sure to be an automatic radar speed detector. If you flinch when you see a sudden flash (usually blue), you’ve been nicked. Your car rental company will make sure you get all of these resulting traffic tickets, while the ticket processing fees are inevitably pinned to your credit card.  Sneaky European bastards. You can generally ignore the tickets themselves; they make nice wallpaper, or fire starters, tools to study another language, whatever. (I hear Italy is the absolute worst). The money grabbers, er, ah, traffic officials will try to collect for about 6 months.  Ignore them. They will give up…eventually. But the processing fees for the car hire company are unavoidable. Those cost about $25 a pop.

As much of the highway patterns initially look like spilled spaghetti to an American European-car-vacation beginner, one cannot imagine at first that there is a numbering pattern.  The routes generally link larger cities and often follow – or run roughly parallel to – centuries’ old trade routes.  Often newer, higher standard “A” routes run near the “B” or “N” routes, but bypassing the snarled urban areas. But … an actual numbering pattern?

France’s Autoroute (A) network. Spokes leading to/from Paris

Well, of course there is a pattern.  We are talking Germans here.  How could Germans not have a pattern? And the French would hate to be outdone by their European rival brother. 

Germany’s single digit Autobahn A highways are border to border (except 2, apparently)


In both countries highway number sequences are assigned by region.  It’s that simple.  In France, the major highways near Paris seem to get most of the lower numbers; and they sort of radiate out from there, like crooked spokes on a banged up old bicycle wheel.  In Germany the single digit “A” autobahn highways have single digit numbers if they run across the entire country – border-to-border, so to speak.  The rest are assigned by region: for example, any Autobahn in Bavaria has an ID number in the 90s.

Yet, the Europeans have demonstrated a sort of “Highway-Pattern-and-Numbering-Envy”.  “Envy of whom?” you ask.  Of course, the United States.
___________________________________________________________________

In September 1925 – nearly a century ago – a small committee of national highway officials met at the Jefferson Hotel in downtown St. Louis. One of their tasks? To assign numbers to the new federal highway system. Other related tasks involved national highway standards: e.g. widths, grades, surfaces, signs and markings. This would become the US Highway system.

Until then, as in Europe, major roads – and later highways – followed older trails: in the US either old Amerindian, pioneer or fur trade routes. And, to make it complicated, each state had their own system for numbering highways (sometimes letters or names), even if  they “linked up” with a highway in an adjoining state.  They were twisted too; they often directed motorists on less than efficient paths, in order to promote commerce in remote, but politically well-connected, towns and villages. [many US highways retain these rather anachronistic vestiges, wandering through downtown and business sectors of towns, villages and cities].

Well, in what seems to have been accomplished in a single day, September 25th, a small committee of five Chief State Engineers (from Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma, Oregon, and South Carolina) devised the US Highway numbering system.  With few exceptions, it’s still in use today. 

Ah, the beauty, power and efficiencey of small but powerful committees.  China, anyone? Anyhow …

These mighty five decided that highways leading mostly north/south would be assigned odd numbers, with the lowest starting along the east coast. These odd-numbers would increase as you moved west, with the highest odd-numbers being along the west coast. The longest and/or most important N/S routes would end with the number five.

Routes that went mostly East/West would be assigned even numbers; with lower numbers in the north, and increasing to larger numbers in the south.  The longest and/or most important E/W routes would end with the number zero. For example: the first transcontinental highway, also called the Lincoln Highway, was US Highway 30. 

The beloved and ballyhooed highway from Chicago to Los Angeles, which we know as “Route 66”, was originally to be numbered Route 60.  But Kentucky governor William Field wanted the more important sounding 60 to run through his state. Route 66 is officially retired, but signs and the famous song still commemorate “66”, and its representation for our attraction for the open road.

This is the US Highway numbering system still in use today.

A few decades later, in the 1950s, when President Eisenhower got the nationwide super highway system approved (the so-called Interstate Highway System, officially called the “Dwight D. Eisenhower National System of Interstate and Defense Highways”) the numbering scheme for the new system was kept more or less intact.  With one major twist.

Key to Interstate Highway numbering: these shown end in 5 or 0; to they go border to border, or sea-to-sea, or sea-to-border. See extra figure in footnotes.

To avoid number confusion with the US Highway numbers, the lower numbered North/South Interstate routes would be in the west, instead of the east, increasing as the numbering moved east.  And the lower numbered East/West routes would be in the south, instead of the north, increasing as the “grid” progressed north.  [They wanted no number ambiguity or confusion, which was possible in the middle of the country: fly-over country. So they made a rule that there are no duplicate US numbers and Interstate numbers within the same state. This is the main reason there is no Interstate 50 or 60. And the north/south number confusion was solved by having so many highways in the more densely populated east.]

Although mainly sold as something to facilitate national defense, the Interstate system by far has had its greatest effect on commerce, and next tourism. Up to 80% of the nation’s commercial product (by value and mile) is moved to market, or between suppliers and factories, along Interstate highways. Its effect on individual or family travel: Driving across many states, or the entire nation, has been a summer vacation right-of passage in many families for decades. Many commuters use it as well.

US Highways (left) and Interstate Highways (right) have different markings and colors. US 40 (or Route 40) runs near Interstate 70 (or I-70) across much of the country, from the east coast, across the Rocky Mtns to Utah.

A few asides on the numbering systems. [Recall there is a difference between US Highways (often called “Routes”) and Interstate Highways.]

(1) The US coastal highways do not follow the “5” designation for major N/S routes: US 1 runs along the entire east coast, with US 99 and 101 running along, or near, the west coast. Neither end in a 5. [See add’l map in footnotes].

(2) Three-digit US highway numbers show highways that are sort of alternates to the original: for example, US 287 which passes through my neighborhood, goes north/south through the same regions as US 87.  Both go from the CAN-US border in Montana down to the Texas gulf coast. Both US 85 and US 285 also pass near our home. 85 goes from the US-CAN border in North Dakota all the way to the Mexican border in El Paso; 285 branches off from 85 in Denver and winds down to dusty west Texas as well.

(3) For the Interstate system, three digit numbers generally indicate loops or by-passes if the first digit is even (I-405 loops around Seattle, but otherwise is on the I-5 path) or, if the first digit is odd, it denotes spurs that shoot out to facilitate transport and commerce (I-190 in Chicago connects I-90 to O’Hare airport).

___________________________________________________________________

The United Nations was formed in 1945 at the close of World War 2 to help countries peaceably work together.  Well, in short order the UN had a commission for pretty much everything.  One of those was the UN Economic Commission for Europe (or UNECE). 

Around 1950 the UNECE looked first at the many highways in Europe, noting that they – like in the US before the 1925 St Louis Commission – often changed identification as they crossed boundaries. National boundaries in the case of Europe.  They noticed the numbering systems were messy and inconsistent. They also anticipated economic growth as recovery from war progressed, which would require more and better roads.  The vision was vast, eventually reaching from the UK and Ireland (island nations!) to Central Asia, and beyond … almost to China. A potential for a vast grid and simple, consistent numbering based on the cardinal directions! To wit: Copying the US approach.

These are the “E” highways shown on maps.  It is a separately numbered set of highways, much more often than not simply using existing highways. The “E” numbers were just placed alongside the “A” — and in some cases the “B” or “N” — numbers on signs and maps.

With some exceptions, they followed the US example for the “E” highways.  Generally North/South are odd; East/West are even. They have secret codes for loops and spurs and local funkiness, just as in the US. The “E” highways are generally “A” class: that is, limited access and high speed.  Yeah, there are exceptions, and lots more tedious details, but it’s kinda cool that this system extends from Ireland to Kyrgyzstan. In fact, the E 80 goes from Lisbon to Tokyo!

E highways even span the the North Sea (although the UK refuses to implement them; the M, for Motorway, system is quite satisfactory — you know: Brexit, not using the Euro and all that).

The E network throughout Europe and much of Asia, with numbering patterns based more or less on the US highway system

A consistent and logical numbering system for a huge grid of highways. Says the US: You’re welcome.  Bitte sehr.  Prego.  De nada. Molim.  Hey, have fun with it.  It’s working for us. Hope it continues to work for you.

Until next essay, I wish you safe travels with simple and uncomplicated maps and highways. Yes, even with simple easy to understand highway numbering, keep your GPS/SatNav on and up-to-date.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2020

Note of thanks to John Sarkis for his St Louis history blog, which provided many details and inspired this essay.

For my European friends and family — feel free to make corrections, additions or suggested edits in the comments on the A, B, E, N parts of the essay.

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

Extra figure showing US vs Interstate Numbering scheme.

US routes have low numbers in north and east.
Interstate numbers have low numbers in south and west.
US 10 used to run to Seattle, but was gradually replaced and de-commissioned as I-90 was completed in segments.
Autobiographical, Biographical, Sports

Tony and Farm Boy Records

“It’s work, son,” Father said. “That’s what money is; it’s hard work.”

― Laura Ingalls Wilder, Farmer Boy

Tony Lee was born to a farming family in rolling rural piedmont country, hidden away in North Carolina’s Lincoln County.  He grew up fast, tall, strong and lean, and went on to set a remarkable and little-known Major League Baseball record that will probably never be broken.

There are many a story of country boys making it big in baseball.  I’ll touch on three of the best known.

Mickey Mantle grew up in rural Oklahoma, along old Route 66. Who knows how many records Mickey Mantle would have set if he hadn’t taken to the bottle? Still, he hit 536 home runs in total – this during an era when baseball players, on average, hit homers only about 60 percent as often as today – and yet “The Mick” stands at #18 on the all-time home run list.  More than a few above him took steroids and should thus be disqualified.

Bob Feller grew up a farming country boy in Iowa.  Playing his entire career with the Indians, and coaching for them until his death at 92, he probably had the fastest fastball in the Majors during the 1940s. He led the league in strike outs seven times (twice in the 1930s as a teenager!). Over a stellar career, Feller amassed 266 victories.  He surely would’ve reached the magical 300 milestone had he not served 3-1/2 years in World War 2 in the prime of his career.  Or, if the Indians had had a slightly better team; they compiled mostly mediocre records in those years, but did manage to win the World Series in 1948. For the five full years of his career that sandwiched his military service he averaged 24 wins a season.  Projecting a bit, that would put him around 350 wins for his career. 

And finally, perhaps the most famous to baseball fans, is pitcher Denton True “Cy” Young.  He grew up working his family’s farm in rural Ohio.  His frame took on great strength and his mind a determined, stern discipline. When baseball found him, he could throw the ball so hard he was nicknamed “Cyclone”; or “Cy” for short.  With a career of just over two decades that spanned the turn of the 20th century, Young won an astounding 511 games at the Major League level – a record that will never be broken.  Since 1956 the Award for the Best Pitcher in each league has been named after him.

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In this time of Covid, I’m not following sports much. Heck, until recently there wasn’t much to follow. But even with this rump of a baseball season coming to its tinny crescendo I have been unable to avert my eyes from box scores and standings completely. 

It’s a lifelong habit and I guess I owe it to my dad.  I can remember him taking me to watch a Cubs game at Wrigley Field during the summer of 1961.  Billy Williams hit a home run.  I could barely follow the game – long periods of sun-drenched boredom with brief moments of athletic excitement where the players and ball moved so quickly that I had little idea what was going on.  All I knew before this was dad tossing whiffle balls to me – as I tried to make contact with a plastic bat – and a cheezy glove that he tossed balls into.  Me, thinking I could catch, or hit! Ha. God Bless him. God blessed me with him.

Within a few years he taught me how to track a game.  How to keep score.  Tricks to playing each position (‘ twas clear from early on I’d never be a pitcher) and what to anticipate what could happen on each at-bat, on each pitch.  I guess he thought I had “Mickey Mantle” potential, as he had me swing from both sides.  Eventually I took to swinging only lefty – even though I am right-handed and right-eyed – which was fine with me.  Billy Williams – who won Rookie of the Year in 1961, later won a batting title, and had become my favorite player – swung the same way, lefty, despite also being right-handed.

Back to 2020. So, I’m tracking some baseball stats this odd year-of-covid, like I always do. This, despite the fact that I’m inclined to believe that nothing about this year should even count.  But, I can’t help myself.  Reasons it shouldn’t count?  Doubleheader games are only 7 innings;  extra innings start off with a runner on second;  and the biggest reason is that even the NL is using the Designated Hitter (DH), which means that – except in the most unusual of circumstances – pitchers don’t have to bat.  Guess I’m just a traditionalist.

One thing I noticed through most of this weird 2020 season is that hitting and run production seem down.  Until a few weeks ago batting averages across both leagues were at historic lows.  And pitchers don’t even have to bat! Run production (scoring) was down only slightly, because players are still hitting home runs at nearly historically high rates.

There was a blip for a few weeks recently when scoring and hitting went way up. Teams started putting up double-digit tallies. In one single day (Sept 9) during that stretch the Brewers scored 19 runs in a game. And the Braves scored 29! In one game. During that Braves explosion, Adam Duvall hit three home runs, one of them a grand slam, and knocked in 9 runs.  This statistic, 9 RBIs, tied a Braves franchise record. Plus a grand slam. [RBI is Run Batted in].

And my mind drifted back to 1966……

Baseball recruiting started to get aggressive in the late 1950s.  For example, Tony Lee Cloninger, a lanky farm boy from North Carolina, was signed to a professional contract by the Milwaukee Braves in early 1958.  For that, he received a signing bonus of $100,000.  That was a lot of money. He had not yet graduated from high school.

Milwaukee. I lived just outside that Midwest city from Christmas week 1962 until the summer of 1974.  Even though my first love was the Cubs, I could not help but follow the local Braves, as news of them was always in the newspapers. And of course, my sports-minded friends all followed them.  So, I certainly knew of Tony Cloninger.

In fact, several superstars, future Hall of Famers, played for the Milwaukee Braves back then – Aaron, Matthews, Torre, Spahn – and I remember watching them all play at Milwaukee County Stadium.

Cloninger set several team records.  He recorded the modern-day era for most wins in a season by a Brave – 24 wins in 1965 – which matched the count put up by Johnny Sain in 1948 (when the team was in Boston), and years later by John Smoltz in 1996.  Not even the great Brave and Hall of Famer Warren Spahn ever won so many in a season.

Cloninger also threw one of MLB’s few Immaculate Innings (9 pitches, 3 strikeouts) in 1963, a feat that had only been achieved 13 times before.  (As an indicator of how the game has changed – so many more home runs and more strikeouts – it’s been done 87 times since).

1965 was a strange year for the Milwaukee Braves.  The ownership was trying to move the team to Atlanta.  Fans still loved the Braves, but there definitely were some hard feelings.  The case even went to the courts, as the city tried to keep them.  Despite a good record and performance by stars – not just Cloninger’s 24 wins; three Braves ranked in the league’s top ten for home runs: “Hammerin’ ” Hank Aaron, Eddie Matthew and Mack Jones – attendance dwindled to a dismal 555,000, lowest in the entire major leagues.  I can’t blame the fans for not supporting a team that doesn’t love its home city.

Cloninger was a bit of free-spirit, at least on the pitcher’s mound, I would guess, and his career numbers support that theory.  In his great 1965 year (and the next year too), Cloninger led the league in Wild Pitches and Walks issued. During 3-1/2 seasons in the minors he steadily averaged about 7 walks per nine innings: a horrendous ratio at almost any level, especially as a professional. But he also showed a ton of potential and promise. He was promoted to the major league club, the Milwaukee Braves, in the middle of the ’61 season, just shy of 21 years old. He was probably an early poster-child for the term “effectively-wild.”

1966.  Now the Atlanta Braves were hopeful for their prospects, based on a new location, their promising second half of 1965, and a roster full of stars, including Tony Cloninger as their #1 pitcher.  Unexpectedly, both Tony and the Braves got off to a cool start and were definitely under-performing.  For the July 4th weekend, they traveled to San Francisco, to play the first place Giants – they were also loaded with future Hall of Famers.  Prospects didn’t look good.

On a Sunday afternoon, July 3, Tony Cloninger – a much better than average hitting pitcher – pitched for the Braves.  Back then, we Milwaukee-ites all still followed the Braves rather closely – as there was no professional baseball team in Milwaukee to replace them yet (the Brewers arrived in 1970), and we still knew all the Braves’ players, and most (except me) disliked the rival Cubs in nearby Chicago. But we didn’t get a newspaper delivered on Independence Day, July 4th. What happened on July 3rd?

It was not until July 5th that I read what Tony Cloninger had accomplished.  The details were scarce, since the sports section had to cram two days’ worth of news into a single Tuesday edition, typically a publication day of diminutive size.

I first scanned the July 4th results (for some cruel scheduling reason the Braves had to fly all the way to Houston to play an afternoon game the very next day in the new Astrodome against the lowly Astros) and noted that the they had eked out a win.

Then, …  some numbers from the previous day’s box score literally jumped off the pages.  Holy cow! The Braves beat the first place Giants by a score of 17-3.  Tony Cloninger pitched a complete game for the win, and he hit not one, but two, grand slams.  I could not believe my eyes.  A late game single brought his RBI total to 9 for the game.  These are astonishing batting feats for any player, almost unbelievable!! But for a pitcher?  Typically, the lightest hitting player in any lineup.

Tony Cloninger, mid-1960s

Not sure if it was that day or the next, but I remember the Milwaukee Journal showing a grainy photo of Giants’ great Willie Mays looking up helplessly, as a ball Cloninger had clobbered soared over his head, near the fence in Candlestick’s center field. Gosh, I wish I had started saving newsworthy magazines and newspapers a bit earlier.  I’d love to have that now.

This was the first time in National League history that a player had ever hit two grand slams in one game.  And, I’ll repeat myself: by a pitcher no less.   [It has only happened only twice since, with Fernando Tatis hitting two in the same inning(!), in 1999.  It has been accomplished 10 times in the American League.] This has never been accomplished by a pitcher.  Never.  Before or since.  And it never will be done again, especially with the NL contemplating permanent use of the Designated Hitter – which means pitchers practically never, ever get to bat.

The Braves 1966 season improved thereafter, partly due to changing managers (from Bobby Bragan – loved that name – to Billy Hitchcock).  On the flip side: The Giants’ season sort of collapsed.  And the Dodgers (again, sigh) raced on to the National League pennant, with one of the better pitching  staffs in baseball history, led by Sandy Koufax (who promptly retired, aged only 30, when he was at the top of his game, after the Dodgers surprisingly lost the World Series to Baltimore, swept 4-0, at season’s end).

Tony “the farm boy” Cloninger had been experiencing some shoulder and elbow problems. He was a power pitcher, with a great fastball and nasty slider; both can be very tough on the body. 1966 was still a reasonably good season for him (he finished 14-11) and he was still the Braves #1 pitcher.  But that was the beginning of the end.  Even at age 25 his rugged farm-hardened body could not stand up to the rigors of tossing so many innings.  He pitched for several more years, posting only fair results, at best, and he was traded around a couple times.

With his bonus money and salary, Cloninger had been buying up farmland in his native Lincoln County.  He battled on for a few years, then struggled mightily through the first half of the 1972 season, whereupon he promptly retired mid-season, just before his 32nd birthday. Tony returned to his beloved rural homeland; he began settling in at his farm and its bucolic setting in the North Carolina Piedmont.

Cloninger compiled a career MLB record of 113-97. He once made the league top 10 in strike outs. Good, but not nearly good enough for the Hall of Fame.  He’s also regarded as one of the best hitting pitchers of all time.  Still not good enough to technically be in the Hall of Fame as an individual. But, photographs of him made that day in 1966 are there in the Hall.  As is the bat he borrowed from teammate Denis Menke, the one he used to hit the two grand slams.  They should be: it is a record which will never be broken by any player. Nor will even be tied, by a pitcher.

Cloninger couldn’t stay away from the game forever.  In 1988 he took up an invitation from the New York Yankees to join their coaching staff…starting in the minors and ending up with the major league team. Later he switched over to the player development staff with the Boston Red Sox.  I believe he was still with the BoSox when he passed away, just a couple years ago, in the summer of 2018, aged 77.

Tony, thanks for the memories.  You’re a good old farm boy who did well in the world.

Thanks for reading.  Cheers.

Joe Girard © 2020

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Autobiographical, Culture, Current Events, History

Special Summer

Indian Summer

Idyllic “Indian Summer” image

The first thing we should address, given contemporary sensitivities, is if this is even an appropriate term. 

The sports teams of my undergrad alma mater, Arkansas State University, used to carry the nickname “Indians.” ASU started out as an A&M (Agriculture and Mechanical) school and thus were known for some time as the “Aggies.”  They changed to “Warriors” in 1930, then to “Indians” the next year.  They remained the Indians until 2008.  They then changed to the Red Wolves.

Jumpin’ Joe: Arkansas State mascot when I attended in the 1970s.

Nominally one could argue that the name was not insensitive.  However, the mascot was known as Jumpin’ Joe (see figure), usually portrayed as a hideous visual parody of a native Amerindian. I was always uncomfortable with this, but as a young man finding my way in the world – and coping in the South as a native Yankee – I never made much fuss about it. 

Historic range of the Red Wolf

So, Arkansas State became the Red Wolves.  The Red Wolf is an endangered species, and – if ever seen – is usually in the southeast US.  It’s a mixed beige-reddish/copper colored subspecies of the gray wolf [1], and also evidently quite modern in its evolution, having a genealogy that is only about 50-400,000 years; so not that different than humans.

Interesting that the most successful college sports team in the hometown of my youth (Milwaukee), is Marquette University, and was also called the “Warriors” for decades; definitely an allusion to a supposed war-like nature of the American Native. Marquette, is a smallish Jesuit run school. Yes successful: they won the NCAA Basketball Championship as the “Warriors” in 1977. In time, the nickname was deemed a negative portrayal of native Amerindian culture.  Marquette’s sports teams have been called the Golden Eagles since 1995.

The Golden Eagle is a very successful species.  It’s one of the most widespread birds of prey across all of the northern hemisphere. So that was probably a good choice by Marquette. Pick success.

And let’s not forget the team that can be called “That team formerly known as the Washington Redskins.” Or maybe the official name is just the “Washington Football Team.”  Or something like that.  Not following sports much lately.

In any case, Indian Summer is a wonderful time.  Typically, it refers to a period of pleasant weather late in the year.  It could also be a wonderful period of time late in one’s life.  I may be having my own Indian Summer right now, in early retirement, and before Old Man Time tatters and frays my neurons and sinews even further.  

The term might have even originated with “Indians”, as some oral traditions tell of how American Natives explained the phenomenon of this weather to new arrivals: fear not, an unexpectedly nice time of year will arrive.  You can hunt, and sometimes even fetch a late harvest of berries.  Northern Europeans would likely have expected no such thing after a blast of Jack Frost and wintery chills.

The thing about Indian Summer is you don’t actually know if, or when, it is going to arrive.  It’s kind of a “bonus summer.”   An end of year “bonanza.”  A happy surprise.

The US Weather Service prefers to apply the term to a stretch of summery weather that occurs in the autumn after a killing freeze.  Annuals have all perished.  Budding has ceased.  Perennials are into dormancy.  Deciduous trees are shutting down. It’s best if there is even some snow; a warning of the deep dark nights and short days to follow.

And then: bam!  Sun.  Warmth.  Hope you didn’t put those shorts away, or that sunscreen.

Colorado is Not currently in Indian Summer, although one could be forgiven for thinking that.  The temperatures are back into the 80s – and might even soon touch 90.  Yet last week we had three days of freezing temperatures and even several inches of snow in most places.

But it’s not autumn yet.  Fall has yet to fall.

It’s just one of those things.  One of those crazy Colorado things. [3] Even though we were over 100 degrees just a few days before the snow and freezing temperature.  It’s not Indian Summer, yet.  I hope we get one again this year.

Anyhow, should we call it Indian Summer?  As opposed to Bonus Summer, or Extra Summer?  The Cajuns of Louisiana have a cute term: Lagniappe (Lan-yap), for an unexpected pleasant little add-on. [2]

I rather like Indian Summer, both the event and the term.  But Lagniappe Summer works fine, too.  All so multi-cultural.

Wishing you a lovely rest of summer and a blissful Indian/Bonus/Lagniappe Summer as well.

Peace

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] The taxonomy of the Red Wolf is much debated – sort of like whether the names Indian, Warrior and Redskin are insensitive or not.  Many believe that it is a cross between the Gray Wolf and Coyote. Others say it is a blend with an additional wolf species.

[2] The story of Lagniappe.  https://culinarylore.com/food-history:what-is-a-lagniappe/

[3] Apologies to song writer Cole Porter, and every great singer-artist who sang it, for poaching and re-appropriating these words. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BOg3B9cELgQ

Autobiographical, Current Events, History

Indispensable Servants

It was the day before Labor Day. It was many, many years ago – when only ½ of US households had a television set, the vast majority showed only black and white, and there were only three stations to choose from.  That fateful red-letter Sunday my mother went into labor.  It must have frightened her, even though she was a woman of great faith, for this was her first child.

For me and my existence, this was essential labor.  Without it, I would not be on this earth.  I’ve expressed gratitude and praise to her – both in person and to her soul – for her countless sacrifices and many achievements.  She passed before I ever thought to thank her for this specific essential labor. 

This delivery – and those of my two sisters within the following three years – occurred at the old St Anne’s hospital, on the near north-west side of Chicago.  Well, things change, and St Anne’s was shuttered in 1988.  Over the following decade or so most of the grounds and nearby surrounding region were re-purposed; most significant among them being the arrival of Beth-Anne Residences.  This facility is dedicated to low-income and disabled elderly, many of whom require assisted living.  It is run by a 501-c-3 organization. So perhaps I can “slip the surly bonds of earth” at the same place I arrived.

Labor Day: it’s the day we honor workers in America – even though much of the rest of the world does this on May 1.  As we get out, have fun, fire up the grill, crack a beer, hike, bike, safely visit family and friends, and do the things we do on this end-of-summer holiday, we are tasked with recalling the importance of the American worker – the laborer.  And we recall the struggle of the labor movement, especially from the last decades of the 19th century through the first few of the 20th – their victories in achieving reasonable rights, among them: safe labor conditions, 40-hour workweeks, end of child labor, and yes, the right to collective bargaining.

This year I extend that to “essential labor.”  We’ll go here, as many businesses (and hence their workers in many cases) were deemed non-essential during this coronavirus pandemic.   The best synonym, I submit, is “indispensable servant”; those without whom society could not function with any sense of decency.

Of course, we all mandatorily identify those who serve in the health care industries as such.  From doctors, physicians assistants, nurses, and nurse practitioners; – to psychologists, pharmacists, emergency medical technicians.  The breadth is wide indeed: who administers hospitals, keeps the lights on, cleans the toilets, keeps ambulances and fire trucks operational, manufactures and ships drugs & vaccines, fills and drops off liquid oxygen, cleans surgical devices …? All those people who answer the phone and answer your billing and insurance questions. It is a breathtaking list.  Appreciate them all.

What would we do without food?  Grocery store workers are essential.  But so is everyone who works in the food supply chain.  Migrants who harvest food.  Fishermen. Workers who process food – often migrants as well.  How many among us raise hogs, chickens?  Collect eggs? Don’t forget the truck drivers, truck maintenance personnel, truck stop employees, truck and dock loaders and unloaders, even longshoremen who help us get our food.  I’m sure I missed some.  Appreciate them all.

What would we do without energy?  Who keeps the electric power flowing to our houses so that our food stays fresh in our refrigerators and freezers?  How many could work from home – or communicate with the world at all – without linemen, power plant workers, engineers and technicians who keep substations, transformers, and transmission lines operational.   It’s been a hot summer in much of the country: jeepers creepers, what would we do without A/C?  Even that is rather essential. Appreciate them all.

As humans, we are naturally social.  Yet we’ve had to “socially distance” (a new verb there).  To stay “in touch” is essential to our nature.  So, don’t forget telephone and cell phone employees.  And workers for internet providers.

Sanitation.  What happens to your poop?  What happens to your garbage?  We’ve been in shut down for 6 months now.  What if each one of us had to dispose of all that shit?  Thank the garbage collectors, and anyone who supports them, like landfill workers. Thank the municipal laborers, engineers, chemists and technicians who work at and support the wastewater treatment plants – ensuring that the waste we flush, and all the stuff we send down the sink, does not ruin our environment.

Clean water.  Water is essential to life.  And steady access to clean water is essential to a healthy life.  And good coffee.  Many careers are dedicated to acquiring, treating and delivery of clean water to every household. That is surely indispensable. 

Come to think of it: With clean water and wastewater disposal as essential, well, we have to add plumbers to the list of essential workers.

Protection.  Law Enforcement has been in the spotlight a lot lately.  It’s certainly not perfect.  Yet it is critical – essential – to a society that respects individual rights.  I include fire and rescue personnel here as well as in the medical section. 

Even with reduced traffic we need to get out occasionally, if just to buy groceries.  City engineers and technicians keep the traffic lights running. 

And there’s protection at the national level.  We can have a discussion about the size of our government and our nation’s defense: but we do need them.  From scanning the skies and oceans, to cyberattacks of all sorts. 

I know I missed some.  And quite a few more that are nearly-indispensable.  Child care.   The natural gas industry (by which most of us heat our water, and will soon be heating our residences). Education: teachers, professors, para-professionals and cafeteria workers. School janitors, maintenance, and IT personnel. Transportation: mass transit workers (who often help essential workers get to work, or the grocery story), road maintenance.  Even the evil banking and financial industry has kept the wheels of the economy creaking along; who maintains ATMs and answers your calls, and processes your quarantine on-line credit card purchases?

Many simply do not make the essential or nearly-indispensable list, like swaths of government and the entire entertainment industry.  And that includes professional sports.  Not gonna apologize; you all are simply not essential to life.  We don’t need you Robert Redford, DiCaprio, Duval, LeBron, ad nauseum.  

The “not even remotely indispensable” includes anyone who works for CNN, Fox, etc.  Yep, don’t need you at all; I’m talking to you Don Lemon and Tucker Carlson. I turned you all off long ago and don’t miss you one bit.  Life rolls merrily along, and much more calmly, without you.

Happy Labor Day! Enjoy, and also be grateful for those who labor. Thank the indispensable servants among us.  This year, I task you all with identifying the less obvious indispensables. Especially those who do the things we cannot do or choose not to do. Appreciate them.

And mothers, thank them too.  Thanks mom. See you someday.

Honor the American Worker

Joe Girard © 2020

note: my mom gave birth 6 times. My siblings and I are all lucky and grateful for her many labors. After the first 3, the next was delivered in Evanston at St Francis Hospital. The last two (brothers) were in Wisconsin — I think Menominee Falls.

Biographical, History, Science & Technology

Whether the Weather

“Without a doubt, chain of command is one of the most durable concepts in military organizations.” [1]

Clarity: It is critical that each warrior be responsible to a single set of orders; and that those orders ultimately flow through a single person: a designated leader. Often, it is likewise with briefing and council of such leaders: well considered, well delivered and filtered information is better than too much information; it must come through a single responsible person.

“Red Sky at night: sailors’ delight.
Red sky at morning: sailors take warning.”

Not long ago. ‘Twas before weather satellites. Before weather apps sent us instantaneous forecasts and updates – for free. Before flocks of powerful computers, powered by speedy powerful, parallel processors, loaded with forecasting programs and access to over a century of meteorological data. Before all that, people relied on little bits of wisdom, like that captured in this poem couplet, to help foretell the weather. 


The insight of this this poem has been used for millennia.  One of the earliest written records is this reply to a demand for a sign from heaven:

It is one thing to gage likely weather for smallish things like picnics and hikes, and larger things, such as if a ship should leave the safety of port. It is something completely different when the future of the world depends upon predictive correctness. Yet, decades before the space age, satellite imagery and the internet, a small group of people – led by an enigmatic man – made the most important and unlikely, yet correct, two-day weather forecast in the history of the modern world.  Working with similar information, teams of weather scientists only a few miles away made different forecasts.  The world-changing consequences were immeasurable.

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The enigmatic man was James Martin Stagg. He was born to a plumber and a homemaker at the dawn of the 20th century, June 30th, 1900. His first name was that of his paternal grandfather; his middle name matched his mother’s maiden name. Hometown: Dalkeith, a small market town, some 15 miles south-southeast of the big city of Edinburgh, quite near the Firth of Forth – close by the North Sea. It’s a place where one becomes accustomed to the capriciousness of weather.

James Martin Stagg

His parents were stern Scots. They raised him to be disciplined, thorough, hard-working, and accountable. He was also considered rather bookish and unemotional. Humorless. These were all traits that would serve him, and the world, well.

By age 15 James had received as much local education as possible in Dalkeith. Clearly bright and promising, he was sent off to further his education, in Edinburgh.  By 1921 he had earned a master’s degree from prestigious Edinburgh University. His career began as a teacher and science master at George Hariot’s School (primary and secondary boarding school), also in Edinburgh.  He also began post-degree research in a field that would fascinate him for the rest of his life: Geophysics.  In particular, he studied the earth’s magnetic properties.

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Whether the weather be fine,
Or whether the weather be not.
 
Whether the weather be cold,
Or whether the weather be hot.

We’ll weather the weather,
Whatever the weather,
Whether we like it or not!

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Weather forecasting was improving steadily during the first few decades of the 20th century, well beyond simple poems, owing largely to the development of powered flight – for commercial and, later, military purposes. Reasonable forecasts – wind, precipitation, cloud cover – were invaluable to pilots and navigators.  And flight gave opportunity for a bonanza of further atmospheric data collection and observation.

The century had already dealt humanity horrible calamities due to inaccurate forecasts. In the US this included deadly hurricanes (such as Galveston, 1900; and the Long Island Express, 1938) and lost aircraft: commercial, private and military.

A mixture of art and science, weather forecasting was evolving rapidly.  Some schools of thought promoted using centuries of meticulous records (even Thomas Jefferson kept detailed weather logs) and then trying to fit current readings with known patterns observed over time.  Others were promoting a rigorous science-based approach, with the belief that given enough data the weather could be forecast days in advance, based solely on atmospheric data and physics-based mathematical models.  Without high speed digital computers and data base programs, both approaches were handicapped as World War II broke out, September 1, 1939, and continued for six years.

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Even in the 1940s, Americans who dwelt in the Midwest, or in the east, would be astonished at how feeble weather forecasting was for the British Isles and much of western Europe, from the coasts of France to those of Norway. 

Why? Two major factors.

Factor one: Geographic location. Americans from the Great Plains to the Atlantic Coast reaped some under-appreciated major benefits here.  One was the mid-latitude Westerlies: a general motion of west-to-east wind and weather patterns between 30 and 60 degrees latitude. Another geographic benefit was the sheer immenseness of the continent.  From across the country – from cities and towns and airports and major rail stations – weather observations were constantly wired to the National Weather Service.  Usually throughout each day. 

Formed in 1890, the NWS was staffed with hundreds of dedicated hands-on human data processors who would manually amalgamate an astounding mountain of data – air pressure, temperature, wind speed and direction, cloud cover and type, precipitation amounts and rates – and concoct a pretty reasonable weather forecast for the few days ahead.  The country – from farmers to aircraft – relied on these forecasts.

The second fact simply is that the North Atlantic is not a continent. There were very, very few weather reports from which to synthesize forecasts in “the pond.” It is as much a weather generator as it is weather receiver. Any details gleaned from shipping vessels were invaluable.  Weather reports from Maine to Newfoundland, from Goose Bay, and from Thule to Iceland, were scrutinized for every possible detail.  Remote stations in Ireland, Scotland, islands in the Irish Sea and along the Welsh coast could provide, perhaps, at most, a half day’s alert. The Atlantic dynamically battles with the Arctic here: ocean currents, the Jetstream, and vagaries of high latitude weather formation over a cold swirling ocean were simply not fully understood.

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Although degreed in Geophysics, James Martin Stagg’s eclectic career and training earned him high praise, and he received an appointment at Britain’s Meteorological Office (usually just called “the Met”) in 1924.  His responsibilities, experiences in travel, life and career, and the respect of other scientists continued to grow.  For example, in 1932 he led a one-year expedition to arctic Canada, where he gained first-hand experience of weather variability north of “the Westerlies.”

His career flourished.  In 1943 Stagg was appointed the Chief Meteorological Officer to Allied forces in Western Europe. The main mission: learn enough history and patterns of north Atlantic weather sufficiently well to make predictions for an invasion – the invasion to liberate western Europe. Today we call this D-Day and Operation Overlord.

Stagg’s partner and righthand man at this task was Donald Yates, a graduate of the US Military Academy at West Point. The US Military has always been great at identifying and developing potential: as an officer, Yates went on to earn a master’s degree in Meteorology from CalTech before joining Stagg.
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Chain of Command.  The allies were blessed with capable generals from many backgrounds; – yet, more than a few were prideful and bullheaded.  Think Patton and Montgomery. They also had widely varying backgrounds. But only one person could be the supreme leader of all Allied military operations in Europe.  President Roosevelt, counseled by eventual Nobel Peace Prize winner George Marshall, and Prime Minister Churchill chose wisely.  They quickly settled on Dwight D. Eisenhower (affectionately known as “Ike”) for the singular role, even though he had only minor actual leadership experience in battle.

Ike was just one of hundreds of possible candidates.  Scores were more senior and battle-hardened; and many of those looked askance at this choice – and at Ike. 

But Ike was gifted.  He understood logistics and intelligence; he possessed superior organizational, administrative and people skills.  Above all, he showed excellent judgment. In many ways he was likeable, and considered jovial and friendly; in times of critical decision he was pensive, careful and largely unemotional.

Likewise, the allied Allied weather staffs were full of capable yet strong headed individuals from various backgrounds. But only a single person could be responsible for advising General Eisenhower. The person selected was James Stagg.  Assisted by Yates – the two acted largely as equals – Stagg’s job was to assess and make recommendations based on input from three independent teams of meteorologists. 

Those three teams represented: (1) the United States Army Airforce; (2) the British Meteorological Office (or the Met); and (3) the British Royal Navy. Stagg – like Ike – was seemingly unqualified for the job to many close observers.  His appointment as the single person responsible for meteorological advice – like Ike’s – was unappreciated by many highly trained and more experienced meteorologists, most of whom considered themselves to be superior.  Yet – like Ike – Stagg had a long reputation for exceptional judgment, and a record for careful, unemotional decisions.

Single person chain of command. Ike on the overall mission to take Normandy and western Europe.  Stagg on weather forecasts presented to Ike.  Simple. 
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A quick overview on D-Day, judgment, and the weather. Since early 1942 Europe and Stalin awaited the opening of a military front on the Third Reich’s west.  They would have to wait until at least the spring of ’44, before Ike and his staff thought they could pull it off. In fact, Ike was not formally in charge of European operations until January of that year. The secret chosen location was a 50 mile stretch of beaches in Normandy, west of the Seine estuary near La Havre, and east of the Cotentin Peninsula. 

What were the required conditions (besides secrecy and overwhelming force) for success of the largest landing invasion in history? 

First and foremost, relatively calm seas so the landing craft could navigate the English Channel and get to the Normandy coast.  Upon this hung any chance of success. And this depended almost solely on Stagg and the teams of meteorologists.

Second, dawn tidal conditions to suit the Higgins Boats (landing craft): a rising tide shortly after a low tide.  The rising tide would help carry the craft into shore; the lower tide would help them avoid German defense obstacles. This condition could be met with a nearly full moon, or nearly new moon.

Third, mostly clear, calm skies. This would assist pilots and their cargo – about 14,000 paratroopers and 4,000 glider troops – and give the best chance to hit drop zones. These would come in the dark pre-dawn hours; the first jumps came shortly after midnight.  Again, this depended on Stagg.

Fourth and finally, as a “nice to have”, but not a requirement: a full, or near full moon; again, to help paratroopers and their pilots.

May was an extraordinarily calm month, yet Ike did not think they were quite ready yet.  June 5th, one day before a full moon, was chosen.  All Allied – and German – meteorologists watched the weather, collected data and daily drew hundreds of charts by hand.

The glorious, calm, balmy western Europe spring suddenly turned nasty on June 4. Stormy skies and seas, with high winds and waves, and driving rain, pelted the British Isles and the Channel. 

Stagg consulted with his three teams. There was bitter debate and ridicule among and within the teams on the weather outlook.  The USAAF team, led by Irving Krick – who, coincidentally, had also earned a PhD in meteorology from CalTech – was “gung ho” for June 5th.  The two British teams weren’t so sure: one cautiously optimistic, the other firmly against.  The situation looked unsettled.

Outside of the weather, everyone really wanted to go June 5th.  To stand down could be most discouraging.  The men were mentally and spiritually as ready as they could be.  Many craft were already loaded and in the water.  The battleships were ready, staffed and ready to cruise.  The planes were all checked out.  Infantry, paratroopers, coxswains and pilots wrote wills; they wrote what could well be their last letters to family, wives and girlfriends.

Ike called in Stagg.  What about the weather? Quite possibly the outcome of the entire war in Europe hung on Stagg’s shoulders. On one hand, if he recommended a No-Go, i.e. a postponement, then the invasion might not occur for weeks, or even months. The weather looked to be settled in for a long stretch of ugliness. Could the Allies maintain the surprise that long?  What, meanwhile, would befall the beleaguered civilians in occupied Europe? On the other hand, if he recommended a Go for June 5, it was possible that the weather could cause catastrophe for the invasion – in fact, it might self-destruct.

Stagg recommended a postponement. Ike pushed him: really?  Are you sure?  Yes, he was. Like everyone, Ike really wanted to go. But, he acquiesced: he’d give the order to stand down.  But what about the next day, June 6?  There was a likely window of a few hours in the morning when the landings would be possible.  Standby.

German forecasters, with similar access to history and data – although not quite as extensive – came to a similar conclusion.  There would be no invasion on June 5.  The weather looked so bad, in fact, that they forecast no likely invasion for at least two more weeks. Consequently, many German officers left their posts for personal leave, or to attend war games in Rennes. Many troops were given leave also. Erwin Rommel, the famous German general (The Desert Fox) who had been made commander of all Atlantic defenses even went home for a few days, in order to surprise his wife on her 50th birthday.

Krick’s team was so disappointed in the June 5th stand-down order that they tried to go around Stagg and get to Ike through back-channels.  Good thing it didn’t work: the tradition of military chain of command stood firm. That day, as it turns out, would have resulted in a tragic outcome for the Allies. The German defenses would have barely had to fire a shot. Weather would have thwarted most flights, and tossed the Allied boats and ships to-and-fro all over the Channel. Battleships in the channel, pitching and rolling, could not have shelled the German bunkers with their big guns along the coast.

Weather chart for June 6, 1944

Later that night, Ike called for Stagg again. So: what about June 6th?  To varying degrees all three meteorological teams supported taking the chance; each with differing and various concerns and caveats – except Krick, who was still gung-ho. It seemed that a high pressure was edging up from the mid-Atlantic, with just enough relief to offer a good possibility for the morning of the 6th. 

Normandy Beach (Utah), June 6, 1944

Would it be perfect?  No. Mixed, intermittent clouds (scattered in east Normandy, thick in the west), ground fog, and breezes would surely make it rough on paratroopers and their pilots (most sticks did miss their DZs — drop zones).  But the landing craft could probably get to the beaches. Ike considered Stagg’s and Yates’ inputs, concerns and recommendation. 

Ike conferred with his top leadership team to consider Stagg’s report. The three highest ranking members of this team were all Brits: Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery (British Army); Commander-in-Chief of Naval Operations, Bertram Ramsey (Royal Navy); and Air Marshal Arthur Tedder (Royal Air Force). The first two leaned toward GO. But Tedder was against June 6th — the possibility of cloud cover was too risky. Ramsey then reminded Ike that the 7th could not possibly work, as many sea vessels would have to return to port to refuel, postponing a possible attack many days.

Ike considered all inputs an opinions. Then announced: June 6th was a GO. 

Had Stagg or Ike been more cautious and postponed yet again, the next possible dates were June 19 & 20. The tides, of course would cooperate, but it would be moonless. 

The Allies continued to put similar effort into weather forecasting after the successful June 6th landings.  Air Force sorties and trans-channel crossings with supplies went on almost daily, quite dependent on their dependable forecasts.  June soon turned stormy again. Yet the forecasts for June 19 were for relatively calm skies and seas.

Had the Allies stood-down again on June 6th, then almost surely the three teams, Stagg and Yates would have recommended that Ike go ahead with a June 19th invasion.  Especially after postponing twice. Ike would have accepted that and issued the invasion “Go” order.

That would have been one of the worst disasters in military history. It was called “A Storm from Nowhere.” Tremendous winds and waves lashed across the Channel and crashed into Normandy.  The large temporary Mulberry harbors were damaged, one of them destroyed completely.  

Sometimes you need to be good AND lucky.  June 6 was a good choice.  And it was a lucky choice. Ike and Stagg were the right choices for their roles. They played the odds, trusted their guts, rolled the dice and chose well.  The world is better for it.

After the war, Ike of course went on to serve two terms as US President.  Between the war’s end and the presidency he held multiple leadership roles, first as Governor of the American Zone in occupied Germany; here he is most noted for ordering thorough photographic evidence of Nazi death camps, as well as organizing food relief for German civilians. Ike also served as Army Chief of Staff (succeeding Marshall), the first Supreme Head of NATO, and President of Columbia University.

Yates was awarded membership in the US Army Legion of Merit, and France’s Legion of Honor.  He ended up a career military man, transferring to the newly formed Air Force in 1947. Through his career he held leadership and technological positions, working in both weather and rocket research. He also commanded Patrick Air Force Base, in Florida. He retired in 1961 as a Lieutenant General (3-star).

Stagg, the hero of this essay, was awarded membership in both the United States Legion of Merit, and in the Order of the British Empire.  After the war he served as a director in the British Meteorological Office, until his retirement in 1960.  He also was an elected a member of the prestigious Royal Society of Edinburgh, and president of the Royal Meteorological Society.

There were many heroes and personalities from the European Theater of WW2.  Some are obvious; they will never be forgotten.  Here’s to some lesser known heroes, including the Scotsman James Stagg and the American Donald Yates.

Wishing you health and happiness,

Joe Girard © 2020

[1] Army War College publication, by Michael Piellusch & Tom Galvin

Excellent resources:

Book: “The Forecast for D-Day”, by John Ross

And some good internet sites (there are so very many)

https://www.history.com/news/the-weather-forecast-that-saved-d-day

https://weather.com/news/news/2019-06-05-d-day-weather-forecast-changed-history

Some omitted but cool items:

From Krick to Petterson, many senior Allied weathermen later wrote disparagingly of Stagg. But not of Yates. Regardless, Stagg made the right calls, and the responsibility fell on his shoulders.

Autobiographical, History

Nibble on Wisconsin

Preface This essay’s title, Nibble On Wisconsin, is an unapologetic play on the state’s anthem, and (with a few lyrical changes) the fight song of its flagship university, the University of Wisconsin: ON, WISCONSIN.  [Disclosure: Wisconsin was my home state through most of my youth, from Christmas week 1962, until August 9, 1974 – the day Nixon resigned the presidency.

Wisconsin: 1848-present

A Michener-esque telling of the history of Wisconsin (AKA America’s Dairyland), might start a few hundred million years ago with Pangea; or even billions of years before that, including volcanoes and their flows through the Arachaen Eons, tectonic plate migrations, and perhaps even asteroid and comet impact effects. 

Or, less tediously, one of the 20th century’s best writers would commence as recently as a mere 11,000 years ago with the end of the Last Glacial Period (LGP), which itself lasted over 100,000 years. During most of those millennia much of the land we now call Wisconsin was under an ice sheet two kilometers thick.

Extent of Laurentide Ice Sheet, circa 11,700 years ago

Wisconsin, as with much of what is often called the “Upper Midwest” (and “Big 10 Country”), owes its treasured, tranquil terrain and farm-friendly fertility to repeated periods of glaciation which have sculpted and blessed the land. 
Wisconsin was bejeweled – like Minnesota – with countless lakes, rivers, and inlets: a heaven for sportsmen and a haven for mosquitoes.

Deposits near the southern extent of glaciers left fabulously fertile land. This vast field of fertility covers, approximately, the southern halves of Wisconsin and her sister states Minnesota and Michigan – as well as nearly all of Iowa, and the central-to-northern regions of Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio. Within the story “Nibble on Wisconsin” these other states take on various “villain” roles.

Today, moraine hills – evidence of glacial activity – lie scattered across the geography. For cartographers, it was this repeated glaciation that created the Great Lakes, the river valleys of the upper Mississippi basin, and the gentle ridges and hills that separate their extensive watersheds.  This glaciation has been going on for hundreds of millions of years – billions really – and, technically, we are still in an Ice Age (humans are  currently in an inter-glacial period within the Quaternary Ice Age). 


With all due respect to Mr. Michener, and the limited time available to readers, we shall instead commence with the relatively recent year of 1783.

From there, we’ll track some historical low points to tell the story of how the extent of what would become the great state of Wisconsin got trimmed and nibbled upon – its size reduced by roughly one-half – until it became the 30th star to spangle the nation’s banner, 65 years later, in 1848.
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Preliminary notes: Should the reader at any time find this a bit tedious… Then simply stop and scan through to the pretty maps and art so painstakingly gathered and assembled herein.  A very concise history is at the bottom.

Still, I hope you can have some fun, tiptoeing with me through circumstances in the history of mid-west states from Ohio to Minnesota, and their effect on Wisconsin’s final shape and size.  

From “The Toledo Strip” (not a burlesque dance), to a war between northern states; from a continental divide to slavery; from transportation to commerce … these all contributed to Wisconsin’s smallish size and odd shape.

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Implied size and shape of Wisconsin, based on Land Ordinance of 1787

By the end of my residence in Wisconsin, my teachers had told us much about the “lay of the land” in Wisconsin, but not why or how it got its shape.  Clearly Lake Michigan to the east and the Mississippi river to the west were well defined.  But much of the remaining jiggly jumbly borders seemed … well, somewhat arbitrary.  Why doesn’t Wisconsin look more like the second “Bucky Badger Red” shape, shown here? History and geography suggest it could be so.

Well, Nixon resigned; I moved away (pure coincidence). Many decades passed. I didn’t think about it anymore… until recent research brought the topic back to mind.

Chapter 1 Wisconsin: part of The Northwest Territory

The verdant spread that would eventually turn out to be the State of Wisconsin became a possession of the United States at the close of the American Revolution through the Paris Peace Treaty of 1783. At the time, it was not really named; it was not defined; it was largely wild and only thinly settled even by native Amerindian nations, like the Menominee, the Chippewa, and Potawatomi. 

From Native peoples’ perspective, we might rephrase this by saying: some random new foreign nation — the United States of America — gained from some other random foreign nation – the Brits – the right to try and administer the region. Well, the hell with all of you. These native Nations — and let’s not forget the Sac, Fox and Winnebago — would surely say it had always been theirs … or nobody’s.

Since the US Constitution was not written until 1787 (and not effective until 1789) the nascent nation’s ruling body was still the Confederation Congress, which succeeded the more famous 2nd Continental Congress. This body governed the nation from War’s end until ratification of the Constitution.  This Congress passed several important Land Ordinances dealing with its new territories. 

Significant to us presently is the Land Ordinance of 1787, which defined an area known as the Northwest Territory. It laid out instructions for how it was to be administered and governed (for example: no slavery, land set aside for schools). As shown in this figure, the Northwest Territory was US land and water:

  • a) to the west of Pennsylvania;
  • b) north of the Ohio River;
  • c) east of the Mississippi River; and
  • d) south of British Canada.
    (Connecticut had claim to some of the land; this was resolved and dispensed with later – that’s what the Western Reserve was).

Article 5 of the Ordinance provided a path to statehood for between 3 and 5 regions within this territory. Specifically, the region was split by an east-west line that lay tangent to the southernmost reach of Lake Michigan (now known as ~41° 37’).  This is the Territorial Line: exactly east-west and tangent to the southernmost reach of Lake Michigan.  Remember this. Up to three states were to be formed south of this line, and up to two additional states north of that line.

1800: Northwest Territory split into Ohio and Indiana Territories

The three southern states — called the eastern, the central and the western states in the Ordinance — eventually came to be the states Ohio (1803), Indiana (1816) and Illinois (1818), respectively.

A quick glance back at first two Bucky Badger Red Wisconsin maps and we see that the problems are beginning to form already.  Each of these the first three states formed from the Northwest Territory have northern borders that lie north of the southernmost tip of Lake Michigan.

Chapter 2 The trouble with boundaries: Ohio snags extra territory

In 1800 the Ohio Territory was formed – split off from the Northwest Territory – in preparation for statehood, which followed in 1803. (The remainder of the Northwest Territory became, for a while, Indiana Territory).

Congress’ Enabling Act of 1802 provided the legal federal instrument for Ohio to attain statehood. Ohio’s boundaries were described in Section 2; its western boundary being somewhat of a battle owing to a feud between Federalists and Jefferson’s Democrat-Republicans.  Nevertheless, the aforementioned “Territorial Line” was to be Ohio’s northern boundary, the term being a clear reference to the wording of the 1787 Ordinance.

In 1803 Ohio submitted its state constitution for review by Congress.  Here is where the “nibble on Wisconsin” saga really begins.  Article 6 makes some vague reference: since the southern extreme of Lake Michigan was not precisely known, Ohio reserved the right to draw its northern border along a line from the southern tip of Lake Michigan to “the most northerly cape of the Miami (Maumee) Bay.” Why? This bay provided an excellent harbor on Lake Erie — (it is where the city of Toledo now sets), the river’s mouth providing potential for a nice port.

Why? Since access to water for shipping and commerce was crucial to economic success, Ohio’s first politicians wanted to ensure that this harbor site was part of their new state. [In fact, lacking precise survey data, they feared that Lake Michigan might extend so far south that the east-west Territorial Line would pass completely to the south of Lake Erie, thus leaving Ohio with no access to Lake Erie at all.  Maps and surveying being immature at the time, this wording was the safest way they could ensure direct access to commercial shipping.]

The “Toledo Strip”: the southern boundary runs directly east-west, tangent to the southern tip of Lake Michigan, and is the implied northern boundary of the state of Ohio, from the 1787 Ordinance.  The northern boundary was “usurped” by Ohio for a future port city on Maumee Bay.

This odd shaped slivery quadrilateral-ish slice of land came to be known as “The Toledo Strip” – which is not a dance that involve a pole, either. It was named for the city that would soon sprout upon Maumee Bay (which was, in turn, was named after an ancient capital of Spain).  Notice how this farther north slanted not-quite-east-west line moves Maumee Bay, and its potential port, into Ohio Territory. In other words:  Ohio simply ignored precedent, and appropriated additional land in their state constitution.

The US Congress reviewed the Ohio state constitution and made no significant comment – positive or negative – with regard to this adjusted boundary. When Ohio quickly became a state after submitting its constitution (March 1, 1803 by an Act of Congress) they naturally began to administer this additional strip of land as if it were part of Ohio.

[Note: both the Northwest Territory and the Louisiana Territory refer to the Mississippi River as their west and east boundary, respectively; but the river did not extend up to British Canada (border determined later). Thus, boundary ambiguity abounded].

Chapter 3.  Michigan, Illinois, and revised Indiana Territories formed
— Indiana becomes a state and snags extra land

Michigan & Illinois Territory formed (faint state line borders only came into effect much later and are for reader reference only).

Over the next decade, via subsequent Congressional Acts, Michigan Territory and Illinois Territory were cleaved off from Indiana Territory, as shown here.  Still no mention of Wisconsin, which temporarily became part of Illinois.  [Note: Indiana’s Northern boundary is still nominally also along the east-west line tangent to the southernmost reach of Lake Michigan.]

With formal creation of the Illinois Territory we find hints of future “nibbles” on Wisconsin.  The Illinois Territory (which contained what would be Wisconsin) was split off from Michigan and Indiana Territory by an extremely arbitrary north-south line, projected due north from the, then significant, city of Vincennes, Indiana Territory, on the Wabash River. Further east is a line projected up from the Indiana-Ohio border. To the east was Michigan Territory, to the west unassigned territory.

The map shows that a small part of the Upper Peninsula (U.P.) was assigned to Michigan, most of the rest to Illinois (what would be Wisconsin) and some was left unassigned – between the northward projections of the Indiana borders.

Indiana’s 1816 entry to the union as the 19th state was clearer with regard to its boundaries. But, they had a dilemma: should their northern boundary be laid out exactly along the east-west Territorial Line and precisely tangent to Lake Michigan? If so, there would be insufficient lakeside to have a port (in fact, geometry dictates it would be an infinitesimal point). Answer: NO. To ensure access to Lake Michigan, Indiana lobbied for, and received via the Congressional Enabling Act of 1816, significant access to Lake Michigan. As stated in Section 2, its northern border shall be “ten miles north of the southern extreme of Lake Michigan …” Indiana’s lake ports were later developed here: Hammond, Gary, East Chicago, Burns Harbor and Michigan City.

So the monkey business with the Northwest Ordinance’s east-west Territorial Line through the southern tip of Lake Michigan was well underway by the time Illinois came into being as a state, #21, in its own right, only two years later.

And that Michigan Territory toe-hold on the U.P. would become the beachhead for a much larger nibble later on.

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Chapter 4 Michigan Gets its Dander up, the First Time

Michigan Territory, with official status since June 30, 1805, made a fuss when they learned of Ohio’s sneaky appropriation of “The Toledo Strip.” This dispute roiled until, finally, in 1812, Congress agreed to have the line surveyed; but this task was postponed until 1817 on account of the War of 1812.  It didn’t matter.

Ohio hired a surveyor who traced a line according to Ohio’s constitution.  Michigan hired a surveyor who mapped an east-west line according to the 1787 Ordinance. Each was submitted to Congress. They had resolved nothing, except to more accurately trace out the shape of “The Toledo Strip.”

Chapter 5 A Continental Divide provokes Illinois aggrandizement

One of the things Jefferson hoped that Lewis and Clark would find was a water passage to the Pacific Ocean. I think we have all had that smug feeling more than a few times in our life:  What were they thinking?  How could there possibly be a water passage, even with a short portage, across the continent, connecting the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans? 

In our minds’ eyes, we know of the vast arid regions and the impossibly rugged mountains.  And yet even Lewis and Clark themselves had hoped to find such a passage.

First, it’s important to note that none of them were at all certain that such a passage existed.  And second: no, they weren’t stupid.

These were all well-read, erudite men.  They would have known of the reports of earlier travelers, like the 1776 Dominguez-Escalante Expedition and their published recollections.  The west and southwest of the continent was unimaginably expansive, very dry and had many mountains.  Surely that provided no water path.

North America’s Continental Divides

But of the northwest, little was known. However … they would have known of the reports and journals from the travels of French explorer Louis Joliet (Lou-ee Zhō-lee-ay) and his traveling missionary companion, Pere (Father) Jacques Marquette, from 1673-1674.  They had found two simple water passages from the waves of the Great Lakes to the Mississippi River; thus traversing a continental divide with ease – twice.

The first passage they found near what is today Madison, Wisconsin. The location is now the town of Portage. (To portage is to carry your small boat from one body of water to another.) By carrying their canoe about two miles, they had crossed a continental divide.

The second passage is even more important.  For their return trip, Amerindians had told Joliet and Marquette of a passage up the Mississippi to the Illinois River, then up the Des Plaines River.  There, they said, was a short flat field, often filled with water, from which they could cross to Lake Michigan.

—- People say Kansas and Nebraska and Iowa are flat. Pssshaw. Those aren’t flat.  Chicago is flat.  Go there today and – except for excavations for the overpasses, the underpasses, the skyscrapers, and the buildings – there is no elevation feature to the terrain at all.

Illinois River watershed

There is no noticeable elevation change from the Lake going up the Chicago River to its South Branch.  There is no noticeable elevation going up along the sluggish South Branch to a point just a handful of miles from the Lake.  There is no noticeable elevation change going west.  This was all swamplands that the native Amerindians avoided. Because it smelled.

And yet, travel under two miles west from the South Branch, with no noticeable elevation change, and you are at the Des Plaines River, which eventually flows to the Mississippi. Here, the “divide” is merely 15 feet higher than Lake Michigan, near a Chicago neighborhood somewhat ambitiously called “Archer Heights.” This small elevation gain is attained over a distance of some 6 miles from the river’s mouth at the lake.

That is flat.  15 feet in 6 miles. And yet it is enough to form a continental divide, separating the Great Lakes and Mississippi watersheds.

During some wet seasons, Amerindians canoed without portage directly from Lake Michigan to the Des Plaines River… and then on to the Mississippi via the Illinois. So: there was a navigable water path – or with a simple portage – across a continental divide. The glaciers had formed this tiny whimpish divide. And a good thing too: the confluence of Des Plaines and Kankakee Rivers, where the Illinois river starts, is 60 feet lower in elevation than Lake Michigan.  Without this most gentle of rises, much of the fertile mid-Mississippi River region would be under many feet of water.

This continental divide between the Great Lakes and the Mississippi basins literally hugs the coast of Lake Michigan near, what would become someday, Chicago.

With no knowledge of the areas through which Lewis and Clark would travel – areas that would become vast, parched states like Missouri, the Dakotas, Montana and Idaho – these intrepid explorers and President Jefferson had good reason to be at least be somewhat hopeful that there would be a water-borne connection from the Mississippi-Missouri watershed all the way to the Pacific Ocean. 

Chapter 6 Illinois Becomes a State: a Great Nibble

Men had long dreamed that a canal could join the Great Lakes and the Mississippi across this mild continental divide.  “In early 1814, the Niles Register of Baltimore had predicted that a canal could make Illinois the seat of immense commerce; and a market for the commodities of all regions.” [1] 

As Illinois approached its date for statehood, 1818, there was a bit of urgency.  Mississippi had been admitted in 1817, and Alabama was about to be admitted (1819). Those were slave states and there was a need to keep the pot from boiling over by preserving the number of slave and Free states at, or near, equal tallies.  

We can understand Illinois’s request to push its border north to the mouth of the Chicago River (there was no Chicago yet; however, there was a small settlement associated with Fort Dearborn, perhaps a few score in population). Here, at the mouth of the Chicago River, would be their port on Lake Michigan, with a chance to join commerce on the Great Lakes to commercial centers along the Mississippi and the Ohio Rivers, and the Gulf of Mexico… if the canal would be built (the first great Chicago continental divide canal was finally completed in 1848).  Plus, construction of a much more ambitions canal – the Erie Canal – had already commenced; when it was complete, Illinois would be linked by this 2nd route to the eastern seaboard, and world markets.

Aggressively, Illinois lobbied for, and received, a 61-mile push northward of its entire northern border, all the way up to what seemed like an arbitrary but convenient latitude of 42.50 degrees. A push of only about 20 miles – and this only near Lake Michigan – would have been required to secure a potential port at the river’s mouth, and the path for the canal.

This extra aggrandizement amounted to awarding themselves an appropriation of about 5.6 million acres. Thanks to the glacial ages’ deposition of scraped fertile topsoil from Canada and nudging it along, depositing it through the region, this was some of the most fertile land God had crafted upon the earth.

It also contained a substantial deposit of galena (lead sulfide) near Illinois’ northwest corner.  Its discovery, near what would become Galena, Illinois, led to the first major mineral rush in the United States. And the first of Chicago’s major westward railroads.

Illinois becomes a state (1818). Now, all three new states had pushed across the Territorial line, running east-west and tangent to Lake Michigan’s southern tip.

But there was a reason to push to 42.5 degrees, an additional 40 miles north of the mouth of the Chicago River. Illinois needed to show they had a population of 60,000 to become a state, as required by the Ordinance. Without that extra land, they couldn’t convince Congress that they would get there by 1818.

The region’s map now looked like this, with Wisconsin part of Michigan territory.

Chapter 7 Michigan gets its Dander up a second time, becomes a State, and reaps a huge territorial bounty

In 1835 Arkansas was about to be admitted as a slave state, and Michigan prepared to follow it as a Free state.  But there was a problem. What would Michigan’s boundary with Ohio be? Michigan petitioned again for the east-west Territorial Line as defined in the 1787 Ordinance. Ohio passed legislation declaring the northern Toledo slanted line. Neither would back down.

Each raised armed militias and marched them to the Toledo Strip. The Toledo War was on! Shots were fired, but there was only one injury – a stabbing with a pen when a Michigan sheriff went into Toledo to make an arrest. Eventually cooler heads prevailed, and President Andrew Jackson helped negotiate a deal: Michigan would become a state, Ohio would keep the Toledo Strip, and Michigan would be given ALL of the Upper Peninsula (or “U.P.”), and quite a bit more. This was the penultimate nibble on Wisconsin; and it was a pretty big bite, actually: about 16,000 square miles. That’s larger than many countries; the “nibbled away” U.P is larger than the Netherlands! Larger than Switzerland!

Michigan gets the entire UP, and a bit more!

The map shows the pink area that was given to Michigan via the compromise. Note that the rest or eastern part of the U.P. had already been nibbled away by extension of the arbitrary north-south line from Vincennes, Indiana.

Even though vastly larger than the Toledo Strip (a puny 468 square miles), acquisition of the U.P. was thought a poor exchange for Michigan at the time.  Little did they know.  The rich forests and mineral deposits of iron and copper made it a tremendous economic resource in the long run for Michigan. Today, Toledo’s significance is small, and it is a sad excuse for a city.

Wisconsin Territory formed, 1836. With land across the Mississippi added, then revoked for Iowa, 1838

When Michigan’s new borders became official in the Michigan Enabling Act of 1836 (it became a state in 1837), Wisconsin finally became its own official territory – on its way to state status.  Wisconsin Territory’s boundaries looked as shown here, still much larger than today.  The area that would become Iowa territory was added in 1836, then taken away in ‘38.

Chapter 8 On (Wisconsin) to Statehood; one final nibble — the final ignominy.

With the possible exclusion of Kansas Territory (no one knew how that would turn out) there were few real possibilities to add slave states after Texas’ and Florida’s entries in 1845. To keep up with these additions, Iowa petitioned to become a Free state. Its land size was limited to far less than that shown here, so as to maintain the possibility of adding new Free states later, if required. However, the rest of the territory was not turned back over to Wisconsin Territory, which had itself in the meanwhile petitioned for statehood.

Instead, Wisconsin’s borders were trimmed much further.

The final stripping of land: Minnesota Territory formed and given access to Lake Superior

Wisconsin Territory’s western boundary reached to the Mississippi River and its headwaters, which were deemed to be Lake Itasca, in what is now northern Minnesota. And from there north to the British Canada border, near Lake of the Woods.  In other words, Saint Paul (now Minnesota’s capital) would be in Wisconsin, pursuant to over 50 years of precedent.  And also, many of those bountiful beautiful 10,000 Lakes.

Map drawers and national legislators decided that any new state must have access to the shipping and transport opportunity provided by the Great Lakes; Lake Superior in the case of Minnesota. 

There are very few harbor opportunities along the Lake’s northern shore. Still it all ended up with Minnesota.

In one final nibble, Wisconsin was reduced in size again, in order to provide the future state (Minnesota, 1858) access to the river-fed natural harbor at the western tip of Lake Superior. A small fur trading post there would become the port city of Duluth. By my calculation, this was even larger than the U.P. “confiscation.”

Finale. Wisconsinites are known for nibbling on cheese and sausage, and quaffing a few beers; the state Wisconsin (or ‘Skonsin, to locals) has been nibbled on quite enough.  If you feel like nibbling on Wisconsin, then please do: enjoy these treats.  On, Wisconsin!

[A brief pictorial summary is provided in text and maps below.]

Joe Girard © 2020

Bibliography and notes below ….

Time line of the nibbles, with maps:

Bibliography:

[1] Nature’s Metropolis; Chicago and the Great West, Cronon, William –

Note on the canal: the Illinois-Michigan Canal was completed in 1848.  By 1892 it was deepened, thus reversing the flow of the Chicago River. At the same time, it was being replaced with the deeper and wider Chicago Shipping and Sanitary Canal, which opened in 1900.

[2] Minnesota Territory Map, Minnesota Historical Society, Accessed April 1, 2015, http://education.mnhs.org/northern-lights/learning-resources/chapter-6-land-changes-hands/minnesota-territory-1849%E2%80%931858

[3] Illinois Watershed map attributed to USGS

[4] http://www.bratwurstpages.com/dialect.html

Notes:

[1] Near the east bank of the Des Plaines River, at about 4700 South Harlem Avenue in Chicago, is the Chicago Portage National Historical Site.  Not recommended for late evening or nighttime visits.

[2] Wisconsin, current size, square miles: 65,556
      Michigan, Upper Peninsula, sq mi:        16,452
       Minnesota, east of Mississippi:             27,191
       Illinois*
      (from ~41.62 to 42.50 deg, or 60.7 mi x 125 mi = 7,590

Approx. land re-appropriated = 49,458 sq mi

Map showing Illinois counties in 1820, 2 years after statehood.  Note Indian territory and also non-existence of Cook County (Chicago).  1820 census shows all of Clark county with just a few hundred residents.

Autobiographical, Biographical, Current Events, Entertainment Industry, History, Science & Technology

Bloody Ramble: from Typos to Chaplin

I am not a hematologist. Nor an immunologist or a virologist. Just an aspiring amateur writer who has recognized that typos fall into two dominant categories. Regular readers have no doubt spotted more than a few.

The first kind of typo comes from stream of consciousness – such as just getting the initial thoughts and sentences tapped in.  Misspellings, poor grammar, dreary or ambiguous word choice, double words, lazy punctuation.  The long list continues: verb/noun mismatch; change of tense within a paragraph; chronological inconsistencies; using “their” or “your” for “they’re” and “you’re” …

These are all forgivable, and relatively painless. Many make it to draft status, when well over 90% can be cleaned up by a few proofreading passes.

It’s the second kind of typo that is really painful.  These result from late edits.  The eleventh-hour flash of brilliance that results in a “catastrophic improvement.”  At the final moment, with the cake fully iced, the product is ready for a la mode, and full reader enjoyment! 

But no! Those last flourishes require just as much proof reading as the original drafts.  Yet, it is so easy to skip. I’ve done it many times. Slow learner.

To my readers: Thank you.  Many of you have gently suggested improvements and corrections to my typos and “facts.”  The rest of you have kindly ignored them; or, perhaps in your brilliance, merely read what I intended, not what I wrote.  Exhibit A: My last essay enfolded references to (a) a famous bathroom fixture company, (b) its founder, (c) the label for a common convenience, and (d) my regular tapestry of  history, factoids, and observations.  During some post-published proof-reading I found a few major hiccups. It’s better now, but only after some help and a couple of paragraph re-writes.
 

________________________________________

Not only are there two kinds of typo; there are two kinds of Type-O.  Positive and negative.  We’re talking blood here.

I am O-positive.  That’s the most common blood type, nearly 40% of humans have it, despite O’s transmission on a recessive gene.  About 85-90% of people in need of transfusion can accept my blood. If I didn’t carry the Rh-positive antigen, 100% could take my blood.

Through the magic of genetics and natural anti-bodies, I am quite valuable to blood banks.  There is a virus connection here.  How appropriate for this time of novel coronavirus, SARS CoV-2 and international tumult.

Most adult humans have, at some point in their lives, contracted the Cytomegalo Virus (or CMV). As much as 80%.  Of those affected, nearly 100% who contract it suffer from only mild symptoms, if any. Except infants. CMV can cause severe long-term damage to new arrivals – especially “preemies” – as their immune systems are just waking up. 

Of the many scores of herpes viruses discovered, only eight are known to regularly affect humans.  Once infected, our bodies almost always eventually mount a swift and decisive victory, driving the virus from the battlefield – our homeland: tissues, organs, blood.  Better, our well-evolved immune systems retain intermediate and long-term immunity via anti-bodies (of the five main types Immunoglobulin-M and -G antibodies are of the most interest here).

Like many types of virus, the herpes family is insidious.  Even though thoroughly thwarted by a superior foe, they execute a strategic retreat, never quite leaving the body.  They “hang out” in nerve cells. Lying dormant for long intervals, they occasionally “wake up” to see if their host – us! – is healthy enough to fight them off for another round of battle.  If the response is “yes”, they retreat again to the sanctuary of our nerves, a place a proper immune system has been trained to not attack.

This happens over and over again, until we die, as sufferers of HSV 1 and 2 can attest (Herpes Simplex 1 or 2); that is, repeated blistering around the mouth, or even in the mouth.  Those episodes of re-occurrence are only mildly annoying when compared to what can happen with the Chicken Pox virus (Vicella Zoster Virus, or VZV); later in life it can manifest as what’s commonly called “Shingles” – with an agonizing and often debilitating rash accompanied by stabbing pains.

Since CMV is in the Herpes family there is always a likelihood it is in someone’s blood; that is, if they have ever had it in their life. Hence, their blood must never be used for transfusions to infants.

My blood always tests negative for CMV anti-bodies, both IgM and IgG. This means it is not lying dormant somewhere and I am a safe donor for infants.

I donate blood as often as practicable.  I am of some use to society. We Type-Os are also delicious to mosquitoes. My wife says that having me around is better than using insect repellant.

______________________________________________________________________

Until the previous turn of the century, blood types were unknown.  The micro-biological processes of transfusions and outcomes were a mystery, so it was practiced sparingly and as a last resort. Sometimes with spectacular success.  But more often with horrible, painful, fatal results.

At that time Austrian scientist Karl Landsteiner was wondering about this. He hit upon the idea of simply mixing blood from various people together to see what happened. No chemistry. No microscopes. In hindsight, this seems most unsophisticated – even elementary; but no one had done it. 

What he found was rather amazing. Some samples got along well together, and most others did not; they made globules: which was the observable effect of one blood trying to obviate the other; or each other.  Landsteiner had discovered blood types!  For this he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Medicine, decades later, in 1930.

At first he identified 3 types: he labeled them A, B and C.

Red Blood Cells

In the scaled down world of micro-biology and microbes, red blood cells are like titans. Thin and disk-like, they average about 7 microns in diameter, with a thickness of 2 microns, which “squishes” down to about 1 micron at the center, not unlike Life Saver candies. [From now on, I will give sizes in microns, with no units, for simplicity]. This topography gives the red cell a very large surface area compared to its mass and size, which is useful for its main duty: ferrying oxygen and carbon dioxide molecules around the body and passing them across its surface membrane.

A CMV virion’s size is about 0.2. The SARS nCoV-2 is probably smaller than that: about 0.1.  Bacteria, like staph and strep are bigger, but still smaller than a reddie: size, on average, about 1.

Cytomegalovirus CMV, a DNA-type virus from Herpesviridae family. 3D illustration. CMV mostly causes diseases in newborns and immunocompromised patients

A and B blood types were found to carry antigens on their surface. Antigens are anything that triggers an “attack” from antibodies. These red blood cell antigens are, surprisingly, sugars of the D-galactose family, size about 0.0005 (or 1/2000th the average thickness of a red blood cell). 

A blood type which has no sugar antigens, C, was re-named O, which basically means zero, or none. A little later it was discovered that some types carry both A and B antigens, so they were naturally named “AB” – pretty rare.  These 4 types (A, B, AB and O) comprise 99.9+% of all blood types.

Now it’s not at all complicated to tell who can take whose blood for a transfusion. Since my O has no sugar antigens, anyone can take my blood.  But my body will “see” the A, B, and AB cells as invaders. We Type-Os are picky. Although anyone can take my blood, I can only take Type-O.

But wait, not quite so simple. There were still problems.

Rh markers were found a few decades later, around 1940 (also, sort of, by Landstein [1]) – just in time for most of WW2, resulting in fewer multiple-transfusion complications … and a better understanding of baby-to-mother Rh mismatch for the baby-boom that followed WW2.

The Rh markers are proteins (there are actually about 49 of them; the most common is type-D), about size 0.003.  About 90% of people have Rh-positive blood.

Floating nearby in the plasma are anti-bodies.  For mammals these are about size 0.1 – quite small.  In Rh-negative people, these little workers are always “on the ready” to identify Rh proteins as “bad guys.”  And also to identify foreign A and B antigens.

People, especially prospective mothers, with no Rh proteins (i.e. Rh-negative) must be careful with donations and pregnancies.  The first time the body encounters the Rh antigen the process or pregnancy is usually OK.  But the body is stirred up, and it remembers. The next time it’s “attack.” If a Rh-negative patient gets more than one Rh-positive transfusion — or a Rh-negative mom gets a second Rh-positive baby in utero — it can be bad news.

____________________________________________________

Returning to the red blood cell.  It is quite large; a workhorse of the vascular system. Yet, one might wonder: why have we evolved so that its surface is laden with thousands of tag-a-longs and stowaways that seem more trouble than their load is worth?

Well, maybe those labels are a bit harsh.  Research suggests that the Rh proteins can provide a sort of osmotic-efficient pathway for the relatively large CO2 molecules (compared to oxygen) to slither through the cell membrane.  And it appeared millions of years ago – before anything like a hominoid walked on two legs. [2]

We can consider these ancient genetic tweaks as a sort of typo: a minor transcription mistake in typing out genetic text from DNA to RNA and back again to the DNA of a new cell, thus creating a new or different function for such genes.

Sugar antigens, similar to A and B, appear in the blood of all mammals. Again, these evolved in our pre-hominoid ancestors long ago. [3] Just why this is so, is a bit of a mystery.  Perhaps it was for a weird but clever type of “trick play herd immunity.”  A virus sees cell coatings as something that can provide an attach point on, or even pathway into, a cell.  If a population has a random collection of these sugars and proteins, then a single type of virus pandemic cannot wipe out the entire species.

Here I like to imagine a sports team cleverly crafted to beat any team at, say, a football match. That team is the Evil Virus. The first games for team EV are easy victories. The next several matches they stampede confidently onto apparently identical pitches, only to be confronted with rules for cricket. Or golf. And then tennis. Then speed skating.  Result?  Team EV fails. –  The species survives; the virus must go off and mutate further or die out.

All these rule changes – different cell coatings among individuals among the same species – makes our bodies suspicious of one another.  When there’s a transfusion mismatch the coatings are identified as antigens and marked for destruction by those tiny antibodies. 

Interestingly, something similar might be happening with the virus du jour, SARS CoV-2 which causes Covid-19. Early analyses of cases (and deaths) in hard hit areas of Europe suggest that those with Type-A blood are disproportionately susceptible. [6] How or why this happens is not understood but could give virologists and immunologists an understanding of the virus and our bodies’ machinations.  Perhaps the A-type sugar is a sort of 5th column for the virus; or the presence of B-type antibodies somehow distracts, diminishes, or delays the body’s defense.

I expect there will be a plethora of studies of many sorts regarding this coronavirus, its impact, and our reactions in the months and years to come. Brace yourselves.

_______________________________________________________________

Classic Charlie Chaplin Photo

The improvement and acceptance of blood type science went beyond medicine and into forensics. It helped reduce Charlie Chaplin’s embarrassment, but only a little.

Chaplin, the famous actor-comedian-film maker, was married four times and a well-know philanderer, as well as a misogynist. [4] A paternity suit against him in the ‘40s resulted in blood testing, and eventually changed family law. 

In the 1940s a young actress (with whom he was “friendly” – this during his 3rd marriage) claimed he was the father of her child. She sued him for child support. Blood tests on Chaplin, the child and mother showed that he could not possibly be the father. 

Chaplin, with recessive Type-O, could not have been the father of a Type-B child whose mother was Type-A.  Case dismissed?  No. She pressed her allegation, nonetheless.

Astounding to us in the 21st century, accustomed as we are to such quotidian data as DNA matching, blood tests were not permitted as evidence at the time. Chaplin lost the court case and was compelled to pay child support.  Worse: His trysting filled the pages of the days’ print media. His reputation was trashed.[5]

The law was changed a few years later.  But not in time for Chaplin.  He was so disgraced that – combined with other bad press and McCarthy-era distrust – he was even denied re-entry to the United States, in 1952. (He was not a US citizen, although he’d lived there for over 40 years).

He resided in self-imposed exile in Switzerland for the rest of his life. He returned to America only once before he died, for a few days in 1972, then aged 83, to receive a Lifetime Achievement Award at the Oscars.  On stage, with Jack Lemon, he received a 12-minute standing ovation – the longest in Academy Awards history.

_______________________________________________________

Even though Type-O is recessive, it has survived. Not surprisingly, its prevalence is about the same for whites and blacks; we are one race, after all.

Recessive?  Well, we Type-Os are sometimes weak, as attested to by Chaplin’s behavior.

That’s a wrap, from typos to Type-Os. Thanks for any corrections or suggestions.

Until next time, peace to you.

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

Final footnote on Chaplin.  He was soon married a fourth time.  He reportedly approached the young 18-year old Oona O’Neill with the line: you look like my next ex-wife. As he was 38 years her elder (in fact nearly the same age as her father, famous playwright Eugene O’Neill) he was disgraced again. Next ex-wife?  Wrong! They stayed married for over 30 years, until his death, producing 8 children.  The eldest, Geraldine, starred remarkably with Omar Shariff and Julie Christie in Dr Zhivago: at the tender age of 20 when filmed.

[1] Who discovered the Rh factor?  http://www.rvdoon.com/rh-negative-blood-blood-feud-which-scientist-discovered-the-rh-factor/

[2] Possible purpose of Rh proteins: https://phys.org/news/2005-05-rh-protein-biological-role.html

[3] Blood Types over 20 million years ago: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/the-mystery-of-human-blood-types-86993838/

Could be as recent as 3.5 million years ago: https://www.livescience.com/33528-why-blood-types-exist-compatible.html

[4] Charlie Chaplin: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2597412/2-000-lovers-comedy-genius-didnt-like-women-New-book-reveals-Charlie-Chaplins-obsession-young-girls-cruelly-treated-them.html

[5] Chaplin paternity, blood tests and court case: https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/63158/how-charlie-chaplin-changed-paternity-laws-america

[6] Type-A and COVID-19: https://www.news-medical.net/news/20200603/Blood-group-type-may-affect-susceptibility-to-COVID-19-respiratory-failure.aspx

Autobiographical, Biographical, Culture, History

Local Lexicon

Wow! I received some well-deserved corrections from you readers of my last essay: a bio on songstress Bobby Gentry and a review of her most famous song.  Thank you!  It turns out that the use of “dinner” for the mid-day meal extends through northern rural America from Ohio to Montana as well as the South. In fact, one reader who grew up in the Cleveland metro area informed me of this! I knew that some rural areas of Indiana, West Virginia and Missouri say “dinner.” Wow. Thanks all for the corrections and information.

Public drinking contraption is called a ______?

As long as we’re on regional word usage.  What do you call this common device shown in the photo?  On account of response to concern over the novel coronavirus, it has been eight weeks since I’ve seen one of these actually functioning anywhere.  Their usefulness is surely missed in many public areas.  Hydration is important! 

Some say it is a “water fountain.”  Some call it a “drinking fountain.”  As with dinner vs. lunch, what name you call this device varies by region across the country.  What do you call it?

As you ruminate on that, let’s consider the Kohler family, of Wisconsin.

_____________________________________________

Johann Michael Kohler emigrated to the United States from Austria, with his large brood of children and new bride, his second, around 1854.  His oldest son, and fourth child – Johann Jr – was 10 years old.  They settled in Saint Paul, the capital city of Minnesota Territory, some four years before Minnesota became a state. In fact, its Twin City, Minneapolis, across the Mississippi, was a mere fledgling: just a few houses, an original platting and the old Fort Snelling. St Paul was already over 4,500 souls.

St Paul was a like many new, inland, booming US cities of the era, such as Milwaukee, St Louis, and Chicago.  Immigrants from almost anywhere in Europe could easily feel at home: their native language was spoken at church services and theatrical productions, was read in newspapers, and used to discuss current events over a cup of coffee (or a glass of beer).  [OK, Catholics, constituting the vast majority of Austrians, even today, would have used mostly Latin in church]. And opportunity abounded.

The name of Kohler presents perhaps a fleck of interest here. In some cultures, particularly those with roots in Germanic and English lands, the family name often designates a skilled trade. This commenced in medieval times, as the importance of tracking families grew: recording land, taxes, and military service. In English, think of surnames like Baker, Smith, Cook, Fowler, Taylor, Mason.  Not hard to guess what those professions are.  Back in the day many families took their name from their ancestral trade, passed from generation-to-generation. 

The name Kohler probably was Anglicized upon immigration and certainly came from Köhler: a charcoal burner.  (In England, the name would be Collier. Neither that popular, but Collier did leave its name on a line of Encyclopedias.)

Charcoal burners were considered a lowly profession. They marched through their lives in exquisite solitude, collecting and piling wood, then turning it into charcoal with a careful, slow, low-temperature semi-burn, either in heaps of carefully assembled wood mounds, or in crafted kilns. It was an important profession: Charcoal was necessary as a heat source in smelting, forging, and smithing of many metals – from basic iron and copper to precious metals like silver.  It was also used in glasswork.

Schnepfau, Austria: in one of countless fertile Alpine dairy producing valleys

So, historically, the Kohler’s family ancestors would certainly have been charcoal burners.  As the Industrial Revolution matured, the significance of the role of charcoal burner decreased, even though charcoal remained extensively necessary.  This precipitated a move to industrial scale production of charcoal. At some point, the Kohler family left their namesake’s profession; Johann Kohler, the elder, is listed as a Dairy Farmer from Schnepfau, Austria; that’s high up in a valley above Bregenz, near Lake Constance (Der Bodensee).  Upon settling in Minnesota, he resumed this occupation.

From our travels and hikes, the alpine valleys of Austria are utterly drenched with countless dairy cows, almost regardless of slope; one hears cowbells ringing and echoing off every hill, dale, and ridge.  Often the isolated and remote dairy farmhouses serve double-duty as guest houses, where a trekker can rest their feet, quaff a crisp refreshing beverage – and sometimes even get a meal, or a room for the night.

Dairy farming – for those who don’t also provide respite to travelers – is quite accommodating to the less gregarious and socially-oriented person, but not so much so as charcoal burner. 

So, why leave?  Well, there was much general disappointment in Europe after the failed attempts to liberalize governments in the widespread Revolutions of 1848.  Other than that, people left for America because they could.  My mother’s ancestral male-side left Germany at this time (also for Minnesota), and a generation later, my father’s maternal-side did, too (for Chicago).  It was a good call for most who came to the US. My mom recalled her father and uncles speaking German around the house decades into the 20th century.

John Kohler, Jr — founder of The Kohler Company

In any case, a few years after settling into St Paul, Johann the younger – Johann, Jr, and now going by John Kohler, Jr – started to make his own way in the world.  His early schooling was there in St Paul. The eager and aspiring young Kohler picked up a variety of jobs there.  At 18, he moved to Chicago, to study at Dyrenfurth’s College, the first business college in Chicago, and certainly the closest to St Paul. 

The rapidly growing Chicago would be his hometown for a few years, as he took on more ambitious jobs – from merchant to traveling salesman. Kohler developed a sense of purpose, willpower and world-view that set him apart from his ancestral recluses.

The young, eligible, well-connected and well-traveled John Kohler, Jr met the acquaintance of a lovely young lady, Elizabeth “Lillie” Vollrath, some four years his younger.  Lillie, a first-generation immigrant from Rheinland, Germany, happened to hale from Sheboygan, Wisconsin, some 50 miles north of Milwaukee.  They shared a mother tongue. 

In the similarly immigrant-rich city of Sheboygan, where German and Polish were as likely to be heard on streets as English (and that, often with an Irish accent), Lillie’s father, Jacob Vollrath, owned substantial interests in local manufacturing businesses, including two iron and steel foundries.

John and Lillie were married in 1871, in her hometown, and settled there. John was given a small interest in one foundry, probably as a wedding gift, and a job there as well.

We are now well on our way to telling the story of “what to call that convenient public area drinking device.”  Many who are familiar with such water-spewers, and the Kohler name, might well know the story already. Especially those who live in, or were raised in, Wisconsin. But first we must separate fanciful fiction from the rest of the story.

A couple years later it’s 1873 and a great financial panic strikes brutally with icy indifference.  Across Europe and North America economies collapse. With weak, or non-existent, central banks the holes open deep, wide, and quickly.  It mercilessly lasted for several years.  It was so devastating that the crisis was called “The Great Depression” up until the 1930s.  Then, of course, that title was supplanted by the economic abyss of the ‘30s. With that lost decade, the numbing economic circumstances commencing in 1873 passed to the brink of historical oblivion, surviving now with the mere understated label of “Panic.” 

But the Panic was grave: It nearly ruined the implausibly colossal Krupp manufacturing empire in the newly united Germany. 

Panic. Depression. Prices collapsed. Currency depreciates. Cash flow seizes up. Businesses flounder, especially those leveraged with credit, as debt must be paid back with more valuable currency – and at a time with decreased receipts.  

With his employer’s iron and steel business staggering (coincidentally, Krupp’s major product was also steel) young John Kohler saw an opportunity.  He made an offer to purchase his employer’s entire operation.  Vollrath and his partners were ready to sell and get out with their skin. Kohler joined in ownership with a small team, led by him; but he was majority owner of the firm. Before the decade flipped to the ’90s he would own it all.

One of the reasons historical economists provide for the panic was the massive over-building of railroads. The US was on a rail building spree. With bank and investor support, based on expectations of an ever-expanding economy, and the need for transportation to support it, railroad lines and networks grew stunningly and precipitously in the years after the civil war.  This was perhaps, an example of malinvestment: money so cheap, and/or optimism so great, that capital which could have been either saved or conservatively invested chases after bigger returns, blind to risk. As railroads require vast amounts of steel (locomotives, boilers, tenders, cars, rails, depots), and capital to expand, it’s no surprise that many steel vendors found themselves in trouble.

_______________________ o _______________________ o _______________________

Initially making farming implements, Kohler’s company soon got into manufacturing bathroom fixtures: a product line for which they are still known around the world today.  What came to be known as the “Kohler Company” (now based in the adjoining community of Kohler, not Sheboygan) is one of the largest and most successful privately family-held companies in the world. Their first great leap forward came from an idea probably fetched from family members over on the Vollrath side. Vollrath’s main business concern (also in iron and steel) had been experimenting with adding enamel to the surfaces of products. Kohler began doing the same thing with items such as tubs and sinks around 1878.  Their great bathroom and plumbing business was born; and has since grown to be an extensive world-wide enterprise.

And now for the story of the drinking fountain.  Or the water fountain.  Call it what you will.

However, if you are very special – if you were raised in some very specific geographic areas, or spent many years there – you call this device a “bubbler.” 

The largest of these special locales is a sort of L-shaped region.  One leg of the “L” goes from Madison, Wisconsin, almost due east to Oconomowoc, about 2/3 the way to the Milwaukee city limits. From there the north-south leg goes up to Green Bay. The width of each leg, varies along their lengths, but is generally approximately 60 miles. Within this “band” the use of “bubbler” is nearly 100% among locals. The L spreads out into a bean shape if predominant use of bubbler is included, say over 50%; but definitely not beyond the western shores of Lake Michigan, and certainly never, never south across the Illinois state line. Say it there and, if you’re lucky, they look at you like you’re from a distant country. If you’re not lucky, you’ll be ID’d as a cheesehead and taunted with detestation, in ways that only people from Chicago-land (i.e. long suffering Bears fans) can administer.

Map is approximate, but fairly accurate for bubbler. The “heart of bubbler land” is the L described in the text.

Two other tiny US regions also call it a “bubbler”: Most of Rhode Island and slivers of eastern and southern Massachusetts, reaching in a few areas into New Hampshire.  (Actually, they probably say “bubb-lah”, but the root and idea are the same).

I left Milwaukee nearly 46 years ago; I still instinctively want to call them bubblers.  I’ve forced myself to say “drinking fountain,” for clarity (see Colorado, on map).  But in the company of other native Wisconsinites I drift autonomically: it’s a “bubbler.”

A commonly repeated legend about the bubbler moniker and the Kohler Company lives on, percolating outward from this special L-region, and re-energized with every local re-telling.  It seems that in 1888 a Kohler employee named Harlan Huckabee invented a device that would provide a small fountain of water, shooting up a few inches, from which a passerby could easily dampen their parched palettes by putting their pursed lips to the airborne stream and drawing it in.  The fountain made a “bubbling” sound, with water gurgling up and splashing back down; hence the device that made the sounds was called a “bubbler.” Kohler trademarked and patented the device. And successfully marketed it as such – a bubbler – coast to coast and then internationally.

This is oft repeated fable is largely false.  But repetition of falsehoods somehow makes them more credible.  Followed politics at all?

Yet, there is a strong Kohler and Wisconsin connection.  Kohler had been making a similar device since about 1900.  And it was indeed called the bubbler.  And it did make a bubbling sound (like a small brooklet) as the water shot up a couple inches for the quenching of thirst.  But there was no Harlan Huckabee, and no 1888 invention. The word and name bubbler were never trademarked nor patented by Kohler.

Yet, by 1900, the word “bubbler” for a drinking device had indeed already been around for a few decades. So, what happened?  As Beth Dippel of the Sheboygan Sun reports from her deep research:

“Wisconsin was filled with one-room schools in the late 19th Century, and each school had a pretty standard set of furniture and equipment, including portraits of Washington and Lincoln, blackboards, the old pot-bellied stove, maybe a globe and some type of container for drinking water. One container frequently used was the Red Wing Stoneware Co.’s ceramic water cooler or water ‘bubbler’ made as early as 1877. They came in three-gallon and five-gallon sizes and were prized possessions of schools.”

Sheboygan Press [1]

When students filled a cup for drinking, air would move up through the cooler and make a “bubbling” sound.  And kids in many schools called it just that: a bubbler.

Kohler’s product took the local popular school-children’s name for a drinking device.  By the 1910s a new design had modified the basic design.  Shooting the water straight up was considered unsanitary, since unconsumed water, which had touched lips, fell back onto the spout.  Most devices now shoot an arc of water, as shown in the first figure.  This invention was not from Kohler, but they adopted it and continued successfully selling “bubblers”, although they now didn’t make quite as much of a bubbling sound.

Kohler Family Plot, Kohler, Wisconsin — company founder, John Kohler, Jr passed at a mere 56 years old, in 1900, leaving a long-lasting family legacy

The product sold well for decades, and the name “bubbler” traveled with it, all the way to the east coast.  Hard to imagine residents of Chicago, Detroit and Philadelphia being anything but confused today if you were to ask them how to find the nearest “bubbler.”  But once upon a time they did call it that.

From vernacular studies, about 4% of Americans call it a bubbler, or a water bubbler. I find that ridiculously high, but perhaps “water bubbler” bumps it up a few points. I’ve never met a single person from outside Wisconsin (or who didn’t live there a spell) have the faintest notion what a bubbler is.  Some 33% call it a drinking fountain.  The rest, a whopping 63%, call it a water fountain.  The last one, water fountain, seems silly to me; that’s a place to toss coins for wishes, or to take off your shoes, roll up your pants and take a forbidden dip, or – more scandalously – fish out those coins.

Words change. They come and go.  Regions are particular.  Pop or Soda? But the name “bubbler” lives stubbornly in its homeland – that is, much of southern and eastern Wisconsin – as well as pockets of Massachusetts and New Hampshire, and almost all of Rhode Island. 

Well, that was a mouthful.  Now I need a drink of water.  Where’s the bubbler?

Popular T-shirt in much of Wisconsin: “Bubbler” is secret code for “I’m from Wisconsin” … in RI and Mass it would be “Bubb-lah”

And a Kohler is no longer a charcoal burner.  It is a fine, respectable bathroom fixture.

Happy public drinking.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2020

Footnotes and bibliography below.

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

Afterward:  Vollraths

The Vollrath name and family business remains prominent in Sheboygan, however.  One of Vollrath’s other businesses lived on and is a prominent manufacturer of commercial restaurant and food services equipment: still in the metal implement business.  Since the Kohlers and Vollraths are multiply intermarried (in fact, after Lillie died leaving Kohler 6 children; he then married her younger sister and one more: he would go on to lead the Kohler dynasty into the 20th century), the current generations sit on each other’s boards of directors.  There is a beautiful 26-acre park along the Lake Michigan shore in Sheboygan named for Vollrath, who donated the land and funded its early development.

The Kohlers are, of course, gigantic in Wisconsin.  The family has provided two state governors (not to be confused with the Kohl family, and the Kohl’s chain of stores).  In fact, founder John Kohler was once mayor of Sheboygan. Kohlers have gotten into the golf business, starting locally with two gorgeous links/dunes courses, one near and another along Lake Michigan: Blackwolf Run and Whistling Straits. These have hosted multiple major golf championships.  They’ve also expanded into the golf hospitality business, owning and running the famous Old Course Hotel in Saint Andrews, Scotland.
If you get to the area, drop by the Kohler museum in Kohler. And, if it’s summer, try to take in a festival in Sheboygan. It doesn’t matter what festival: there will be really good bratwurst, plenty of beer, friendly people … and bubblers.

[1] https://www.sheboyganpress.com/story/news/local/2014/10/31/sheboygan-history-bubblers/18254395/

Autobiographical, Biographical, Culture, Entertainment Industry, Music, Strong Women

Analysis: Bobbie and Billie Joe

“There was a virus goin’ ‘round,
     Papa caught it and he died last spring.
Now momma doesn’t seem to want to
     Do much of anything.”
– From Ode to Billie Joe, by Bobbie Gentry

Introduction. Those lyrics popped into my head – I wonder why? – during one of my recent daily social-distancing long walks and bike rides that I’ve been taking during this time of coronavirus isolation.  The lines are a couplet from the last verse of Bobbie Gentry’s 1967 smash hit, Ode to Billie Joe. [Note: if you haven’t heard the song in a while – or ever heard it – then maybe have a listen by clicking the link].

Album Cover: Bobbie Gentry’s Ode to Billie Joe

The tune became an earworm. I hummed it over-and-over to myself. Most of the melody and lyrics of the song came back to me – and of the story they told. The song remains as catchy and haunting as when it first came out. It mixes matter-of-fact family life in the Mississippi Delta with references to things mysterious and wrong, all packaged within a simple, non-distracting melody. The catchy, yet minimalist, musical arrangement even suggests naivety, such as an adolescent innocence. 

“The hardest thing in song writing is to be simple and yet profound”
 – Sting, in the documentary “Still Bill”, about Bill Withers.

Well, the song “Billie Joe” is profound … if initial and sustained popularity are any measures.  It’s simple. But it’s more. It’s memorable. It’s catchy. It sticks with you. It tells a story.  It’s moving. A story that is both awkward and incomplete. As humans, we crave completeness.  Closure. But in Ode to Billie Joe it’s not there … just out of reach. And so, we always want a little more.

“… a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.” 
–  Winston Churchill, describing Russia during WW II. 

Similarly, the mysterious story of Billie Joe McAllister, is wrapped inside the enigmatic life of author/singer Bobbie Gentry.  We don’t ever get to know the “why?” of the story of Billy Joe.  And Bobbie Gentry – reportedly still alive – simply disappeared four decades ago when she was still a culturally popular and gorgeous brown-eyed brunette.  She hasn’t been seen or heard from since. 

Tons of research and speculation about the song’s background and meaning have been published. Go ahead. Google “What happened to Billie Joe McAllister?” You’ll get a zillion hits. None has the answer.  Almost as many hits for “what happened to Bobbie Gentry?”  Again, there just really are no fulfilling answers.

Nonetheless, my analysis follows. Why? This is largely a product of this bonanza of extra time — thanks to the novel coronavirus. I’ve contemplated the details of the lyrics, in the context of Gentry’s life. The lyrics are richly textured. They reflect an uncommon authenticity, even for country songs.

The musings and reflections herein are based mostly on: my own memories from my years living in the South; my book-learnin’ for the Ag Engineering degree that I earned there; fading memories; a little internet research; as well as my thoughts and imagination.

______________________________________________________

The first Verse:

It was the third of June – another sleepy, dusty Delta day.
I was out choppin’ cotton, and my brother was baling hay.
At dinner time we stopped and walked back to the house to eat.
And mama hollered out the back door: “Y’all, remember to wipe your feet.”

Gentry was born Roberta Lee Streeter in northern Mississippi in 1944 (or 1942, depending on source).  Her family moved a few miles west when she was young, to Delta cotton country.  Not unlike eastern Arkansas, where I lived for four years: also Delta country. In the South, it’s not hard to imagine she was called “Bobbie Lee.”  She lived in Mississippi until age 13, when a messy divorce took her and her mother to southern California to stay with family. 

During those early years, her family reportedly had no electricity and no plumbing. It must’ve been a hard life.  One that gave heartfelt credibility to songs like “Billie Joe.”

Analysis: In Ode to Billie Joe, verse one starts out as a set up. Seems like regular, work-a-day life in a hot, dusty early June in the deep South.  I’m not a musician, but it’s neither a happy key, nor a somber key. It sets a mood of ambivalence and ambiguity. Not joy. Not sadness.  As in: I’m just here telling a story.

The song is a first-person narrative (“I was out choppin’ cotton …”). We instantly suppose that there are some autobiographical aspects in the story.  What details support that supposition?

— “Chopping Cotton”: This does not mean picking cotton. Picking is done in late summer to early fall. “Chopping cotton” is done shortly after the cotton plants begin to emerge; so, the June 3 date makes a lot of sense.  Using a manual hoe, the “chopper” turns over the weeds among the small, vulnerable cotton plants.  It takes a good eye to tell the weeds from the cotton – an eye that usually has sweat dripping into it.

Chopping Cotton: many weeds are herbicide resistant. Chopping requires a good hoe, sun protection, gloves and a strong back

Chopping also includes thinning the cotton plants if they are emerging too close together.  It is back-breaking grueling work. Bent over, in the sunny Delta humidity, hour after hour, row after row, acre after acre. It’s obviously a labor-intensive task that is physically demanding and boring. Yet, it’s an important task you can screw up with a slight amount of inattention, or clumsiness.  If Bobbie Gentry didn’t do chopping herself as a girl, one can surmise she saw others doing it. 

“Brother” is baling hay.  The June 3 date again makes sense.  “Hay” is usually a grass or a legume (alfalfa).  It is richest in nutrients when it is fully leafed, just as after it blooms; as it prepares for seed growth. Once pollinated, the plant puts ever more energy into its next generation: healthy seeds. So, it is cut, dried and baled before seeds can form, when its nutrition is dense. In fertile Delta country, “Brother” is harvesting the hay, probably the first hay harvest of the year.  It’s not clear whether this is done manually or with a mechanized hay harvester/baler.

Whether the family has farm animals to feed is not clear.  If they don’t, they would sell the hay to others in the area who do.

Mechanized cotton equipment slowly became more and more available, affordable, and prevalent in the decade or two after the 2nd World War. Since this is the 1950s, it’s likely that this family baled their hay – and picked their cotton – by hand. Perhaps with migrant workers, as in John Grisham’s novel A Painted House.

“At dinner time we walked back to the house to eat.”  Clearly, this is southern-speak.  Until several generations ago, across America, the mid-day meal was the main meal of the day, and hence called “dinner.” The evening meal was “supper.” 

In most of America, “dinner” has become lunch; “supper” has become dinner, and the term supper … has just faded away.

In many ways the south is traditional and slow to such changes. Lunch is still quite often called “dinner.”  I worked various factory jobs in Arkansas in the mid-70s; the mid-shift meal was always called “dinner break.”

[Close of the first verse, mama still speaking]

Then she said: “I got some news today from up on Choctaw Ridge.
Today Billie Joe McAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge.”

Boom.  Someone they all know has jumped off a bridge. A suicide. This is a sudden change. It’s not an everyday southern thing, like the song until now.  You’re on edge the rest of the song: why?

Yet Bobbie continues in her matter-of-fact and I’m-just-telling-a-story-here tone of voice, strumming gently.

_________________________________________________________

The second verse:

And papa said to mama, as he passed around the black-eyed peas,
“Well, Billie Joe never had a lick of sense. Pass the biscuits, please.
There’s five more acres in the lower forty I’ve got to plow.”
And mama said: “It’s a shame about Billy Joe, anyhow.

Seems like nothin’ ever comes to no good up on Choctaw Ridge.
And now Billie Joe MacAllister’s jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge.”

Talahatchee Bridge, Mississippi

Roberta had shown a knack for music at a young age. She sang in the church choir and learned to play piano by watching the church pianist. Her grandparents encouraged her musical interests.  They traded a milk cow for her first piano.

After the divorce, when she and her mother were in California, living at first with relatives, her life prospects improved. Especially after her mom re-married. She started writing and singing songs.  She taught herself guitar, banjo and bass.

A promising music and entertainment career took her briefly to Vegas – with a new name, Bobbie Gentry – where she performed in shows as a dancer and backup singer.  She returned to LA after a couple years and attended the UCLA Conservatory of Music, working side jobs to get herself through. There she learned, among other things: music theory, composition and arranging. She had been writing songs since she was a girl.  Now she had all the tools to do something with it.

She was completely prepared in all aspects to be a star. Mature beyond her years, she could write, sing, arrange, produce and play the music for her own songs.

Summer, 1967: Ode to Billie Joe was recorded as a demo. The session took only 40 minutes. The song immediately took off. Bobbie Gentry, an unknown country singer, crossed over to pop, and bumped the royal much revered Beatles (“All You Need is Love“) off the top of the chart. Until now, virtually totally unknown … she’d soon be awarded three Grammys. She was an instant star. Her story would be the unbelievable stuff of fancy, if it weren’t true.

Analysis: the song now mixes more everyday life on a family farm with recent news. “Papa” is very calm and unmoved.  He clearly doesn’t think much of Billie Joe (“never had a lick of sense”), then barely pausing for breath to ask for some biscuits.

“Lick of sense” is a southern and rural expression that has migrated to some other areas.  “Lick” means less than the bare minimum and is used to refer to things like “give your hands a lick” instead of a wash.  It’s merely a perfunctory effort. Less than sufficient. That’s what Papa thought of Billie Joe.

Biscuits and black-eyed peas.  Again, this is a true southern experience. The mid-day dinner is meant for a good dose of calories to replenish what’s been worked off in the morning, and for the long afternoon in the hot sun ahead. 

Black Eyed Pea stew, southern style

Black Eyed Peas are a staple of southern diets.  They are easy to grow, especially in rich Delta country, healthy to eat, full of protein, and are quite good for the topsoil.  Being a legume, they deposit nitrogen, leaving healthy and fertile earth for the next crop. So, it is often built into the regular crop rotation (as is hay). As southerners — whether share-cropping farmers or not — the Black-Eyed Pea would certainly have been a family diet staple.

And what southern meal would be complete without biscuits?  Easy to make, and so tasty (calorie rich) when smothered in gravy. 

Other thoughts and possible clues for Billie Joe’s fate. Black-Eyed peas came to the South with the slave trade. They are generally pale in color, with a small dark spot – the Black-Eye. Could there be a black-white thing between the narrator and Billie Joe? Many have surmised this. I think not. This was mid- to late-1950s Mississippi Delta country. Like “pass the biscuits”, the “Black-Eyed Peas” reference is just settling the listener into day-to-day southern life.

Whereas “Papa” doesn’t feel any pain for Billie Joe, “Mama” seems to briefly manage a modicum of pity: “It’s a shame about Billie Joe” and then she immediately minimizes even that by adding “anyhow.”

Finally, Papa must plow another five acres on the “lower forty”, meaning forty acres.  That’s a lot of land, and it implies they have quite a bit more. Whether they own it, or just work it, we don’t know. 

The lower forty is also an expression for “way out yonder.” And there’s a reason: the “lower 40” is the acreage that is on your lowest land; the house and farm buildings are built on higher ground.  The “Lower 40” would probably be the last acreage plowed in the late spring, or early summer, as they’d have to wait for it to dry out from the winter and spring rains.  You can plant that late in the South, in fertile Delta soil, and still get a crop.  So yes, June 3rd again fits.  And yes, it dried out: it’s a “dusty Delta day.”

In any case, it sounds like Papa has a tractor to pull the plow.  So, they are not completely destitute. 

Southern diet, southern language, southern rural farming workdays. The timing of chopping, baling and plowing. I conclude Gentry wrote from personal experience: both her own, and things she’d seen up close. This is authentic southern life. Her life. Not stuff you pick up from listening to stories and reading books. I judge this song to be largely autobiographical.  Gentry has pulled back some veils from her history.
_________________________________________________________

The 3rd verse:

And brother said he recollected when he, and Tom, and Billie Joe
Put a frog down my back at the Carroll County picture show.
And wasn’t I talkin’ to him after church last Sunday night?
“I’ll have another piece of apple pie. You know, it don’t seem right.

I saw him at the sawmill yesterday on Choctaw Ridge.
And now ya tell me Billie Joe’s jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge.”

Bobbie Gentry, on Music Hall TV, 1968

Bobbie Gentry worked her fame into a great career that must’ve been financially rewarding. She took personal control of virtually every detail of every tour, every show, every arrangement.  The lighting, the sound, the production.  And, she was very successful at it.

She returned to Vegas with her own show; she was a huge hit in Vegas. Her show ran quite a few years and always got rave reviews and a packed house of adoring crowds.  I was lucky enough to see her Vegas show, August 1974. I was not quite 18 years old.  I was blown away:  Great show, beautiful woman, really good music. Just, wow.

Analysis: Brother – and the whole family for that matter – still has no name, but a new name pops up: Tom.  I suspect this is only to give the line a more even meter. (As an Ode, it technically has minimal lyrical meter requirements — just a lick).

The “frog down my back” comment is, to me, very apropos.  The kind of light, odd, funny comment someone would make at the wake of a deceased person.  Or during a get-together after the funeral and burial. But … There is not going to be a wake, funeral, or get-together for Bille Joe. Or, if there is, no one from this family is going to attend. 

“Brother” and Billie Joe were friends once, perhaps just a few years ago.  This is a stunt one or two boys would dare their friend to do. I can imagine that Billie Joe had a crush on the narrator and his friends have figured this out – they tease him about it and eventually dare BJ to put a frog down the back of her shirt.  Wanting to fit in, he complies.  Billie Joe is a bit of an outsider.  He’ll put a frog down the shirt of a girl he likes just to show he “fits in.”

And what is a “picture show”?  It’s another phrase that left most American lexicon long ago but remains in parts of the South.  It’s just a word for “movie”, and “movie theater.”  Carroll County is not very populated.  Even now the entire county has only 10,000 scattered souls (although it has two county seats).  So, it’s not hard to imagine that in the ‘50s there was but a single “picture show” in the entire county.

No doubt: This song has a reverberant ring of southern authenticity.

Why did “Brother” see Billie Joe at the sawmill up on Choctaw Ridge?  I think this is a possible clue to the story.  “Brother” could be there for two reasons: 1) he worked there (when he wasn’t baling hay on the family farm); or 2) he was buying lumber.  #2 is rather unlikely (he’d probably go to a lumber yard in town), but in any case, he was there, at the mill.  But: why was Billie Joe there?  I suspect he was looking for a job.  And he got turned down. 

Conjecture: Billie Joe wanted a job to impress the narrator, or rather, the narrator’s father – who clearly disapproved of Billie Joe. Partly because he didn’t have a job. He’s not worth a lick.

_________________________________________________________

The 4th verse:

And mama said to me: “Child, what’s happened to your appetite?
I’ve been cookin’ all morning, and you haven’t touched a single bite.”
That nice young preacher, Brother Taylor, dropped by today.
Said he’d be pleased to have dinner on Sunday. Oh, by the way:

He said he saw a girl that looked a lot like you up on Choctaw Ridge,
And she and Billie Joe was throwing somethin’ off the Tallahatchie Bridge

Mmmmm. Southern biscuits and gravy

Bobbie Gentry started slowing her career down in the mid-‘70s.  She had a few TV specials, mostly for Canadian and BBC viewers. Appeared on some talk shows. 

In kind of an odd twist – and very fitting for the song and story – she re-recorded the song in 1976.  It was released again, and it made the charts.

But – she insisted – the title and words to the original song were incorrect.  It should have been Billy Joe, not Billie Joe.

Bobbie Gentry, 1969, Show Promo Pic [citation below, fair use here]

Ode to Billy Joe was the last song she recorded to make the charts (peaking at 46 in Canada, and 65 in the US).  That’s probably the only time in music history that a singer/songwriter’s last song to make the charts was the same as their first song to chart – and with different titles no less.

“Billie Joe” remained very popular in decades that followed. The song – and the mystery of what happened – was still so intriguing that it was made into a movie, in 1976.  In fact, the song was re-recorded for the movie (see album cover).

Cover to soundtrack album for movie: Ode to Billy Joe

The movie, also called Ode to Billy Joe (like the re-released song), was produced and directed by Max Baer, Jr. He’s better known as Jethro of The Beverly Hillbillies – not authentic southern – and also the son of Heavyweight champion boxing champion, Max Baer.

Gentry was originally cooperative in helping with the movie.  She worked with Herman Raucher on the screenplay, which has the lead female role named “Bobbie Lee.”  If she agreed to that name (her own!), she clearly saw the song as autobiographical.

At some point Gentry pulled her support for the movie. Raucher and Baer seemed too attached to the idea of setting up the mystery, and then revealing it to the audience at the end – a la Sherlock Holmes.  She might not have liked the movie’s purported reason for Billie Joe’s suicide (no plot spoiler here). But she was most disappointed that they failed to fully present the casual and unfeeling way that the family reacted to the suicide and her situation. 

About the time of the movie’s release Gentry started to reduce the frequency of her public appearances. This, as she went through two marriages.  One was short.  The other – to another country music star, Jim Stafford of “Spiders and Snakes” and “Wildwood Flower” fame – was extremely short.  Although she and Stafford did have one son, her only known child.  I simply cannot imagine anyone who wrote and sang “Billie Joe” being married to someone who sang about Spiders, Snakes and Wildwood Flowers.

Anyhow, by 1981 she was twice-divorced and had completely vanished.

Analysis: Verse four is curious because it is all “mama” talking (as verse three was all “brother” talking).  I suspect she is babbling nervously to fill space and mask her own discomfort.

There is only one verse left.  You can tell the song’s almost over, because if it lasts much more than four minutes it would never have made it on the radio in 1967.

What can we tell here? The narrator is nauseous. She was well enough to chop cotton in the field all morning, walk up to the house and wipe her feet … but now she’s ill. Clearly, Billie Joe meant something to her. The news of his suicide has disturbed her. But even mama has missed her own daughter’s quiet emotional pain. She’s even offended that the girl isn’t eating: “I’ve been cooking all morning!” [more evidence that the mid-day meal, dinner, is the largest of the day: cooking all morning].

Worse, Mama calls her “child.” This is a truly southern term, and one that – to my understanding – is usually part of the Afro-American lexicon.  Yet, whites use it too, especially when emphasizing that someone is not yet adult. Or they are a young adult, but not acting like it.  As in: “Lordy, child! What’s gotten into you? Clean your hands before you come to this table.”

We don’t know any other details, but we can guess the girl is at least mid-teens, maybe a tad older, and had done something(s) recently that made mama (and papa) think she’s sliding back into childhood.  Like maybe confiding to them that she thought Billie Joe (who doesn’t have a lick of sense) might be “the one” for her. 

The narrator is hurting, yet mama is thinking of her as a petulant, unappreciative adolescent who can’t act proper.  “Rub some salt in that wound for me, please, would you?”

Is it coincidence that the same day that Billie Joe jumps off the bridge, the “young preacher” stops by and announces he’d be “pleased to have dinner next Sunday” with the family? Dinner would be lunch to us non-southerners, and Sunday – especially in summer – is an all-day church-related series of events in many parts of the South and even Mid-South.  Church all morning, Church in the evening, with a church-congregation-centric social dinner in between. [Recall in verse three, the narrator was talking to Billie Joe “after church just last Sunday night”].

So, Brother Taylor.  He gets a name, and a title.  He’s young.  He’s nice. Does he have an interest in the narrator?  And, since mama gives him a proper title and name, does Mama have an interest in the “nice young preacher” as a mate for her daughter?  The inference is certainly there. Safe to assume that Gentry wants us to recognize it.

And what was he doing up on Choctaw Ridge?  Doesn’t he have pastoral duties?  In many small southern congregations preachers have a career outside of the church. These congregations tend to be small and poor; there’s not enough money to support a full-time preacher. Brother Taylor probably wasn’t up on the Ridge for work. Was he stalking the narrator?

Regarding the “Brother” title for a preacher: this is a form of address that many Christians, especially in the South, address each other with.

And the second biggest question of the whole song, besides “why did Billie Joe jump?”  — What were they throwing off the bridge?  Is this a clue to their relationship, and, hence, a clue to the whole mystery?

Ruminate on that while we tackle the final verse; the one that first popped into my head during that lovely spring afternoon.

__________________________________________________________

[5th and final verse]
A year has come and gone since we heard the news about Billie Joe.
And brother married Becky Thompson; they bought a store in Tupelo.
There was a virus going ’round. Papa caught it, and he died last spring.
And now mama doesn’t seem to want to do much of anything.

And me, I spend a lot of time pickin’ flowers up on Choctaw Ridge,
And drop them into the muddy water off the Tallahatchie Bridge.

So many flowers to pick

Well, papa died.  Mama, sensitive soul that she is, has fallen despondent and unable to do anything. The narrator is left alone; her older brother got married and moved away. Who could blame him?  This family is emotionally detached from each other. — Besides: farm work (and sawmill work) are hard labor.  So, brother’s gone, probably after getting a small inheritance.  It’s easy to surmise that “Papa” did not approve of Becky Thompson either. Given freedom by Papa’s death, “brother” marries Becky and runs away.

A little more insight into “Papa” is provided by another song on the very same album with “Billie Joe” — this one called “Papa, Won’t you let me go to Town?” [lyrics]. Papa is not a very nice man.

Oh, if Billie Joe had only waited a few more months – Papa would have been gone and then he could have courted our little darling narrator. Alas, things happen the way they do, and they can’t be undone.

The story’s narrator.  Where is she?  She’s not working the farm. Is anyone working the farm? It’s been nearly at least half a year. In fact, what is she doing?

She is up on the ridge, picking flowers.  Then she wanders over to the bridge and drops them into the water.  Apparently over and over.

Analysis: The narrator is as emotionally detached as the rest of her family, just like they were toward her and Billie Joe when he jumped.  What goes around, comes around.  With papa dead, Mama is clearly suffering; yet darling daughter is off alone, feeling sorry for herself. And Brother is off in Tupelo, with his new bride.

There’s a lot of theories about the song. What it was about? What really happened?  The song’s real meaning – the why? – will always remain a mystery.  Bobbie Gentry – mysterious, beguiling – has never really said.

______________________________________________________________________

Bobbie Gentry disappeared.  At first she made sporadic appearances — ever the mystery woman, as if she had planned to deceive us all along. She appeared on a Mother’s Day special in 1981, then disappeared for almost one full year — until the next April, when she showed up at the Country Music Awards (CMA) in Nashville, Tennessee. [We were there during CMA week in 2018 — the town is really fun anytime, but super abuzz that week]. No one has seen or reported on her since.

Fruitless analyses of the song and her life have been going on for decades.  We’ll never really know why Billie Joe jumped to his death, what was his relationship with the narrator, or what they were throwing into the muddy waters of the Tallahatchie River.  Pressed hard for an answer during an interview once, Gentry finally answered, with practiced carelessness: “Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe it was a ring.”

Endless research by inquiring reporters and fans have suggested that Gentry lives quietly in an upscale gated neighborhood near Memphis, not far from her birthplace and childhood Mississippi Delta roots.  She takes no visitors and takes no calls.  And the song? It’s meaning is left to the listener — which can change with mood and even time of day.

By many accounts, Jim Stafford is still in love with Bobbie Gentry. As a hopeless sentimental romantic, I sympathize. Alas, they simply weren’t meant for each other. In rare interviews, he is still probed about the meaning of Billie Joe.  Through a lot of digging I have found one website, wherein a reporter claims that – in an interview through an alcohol lubricated night – Stafford suggested that Gentry one time shared some dark details of her youth with him.  Details that fit with the story.

The details that Stafford recalled, and that the reporter recalled (hearsay), are all probably hazed, and the implied dark story are not worth repeating. [I lost the webpage, so I won’t tell the reporter’s text of Stafford’s take on the story.]

But I think the story/song is exquisite and sufficiently complete just the way it is.  If Gentry had told us anymore, then it probably wouldn’t have been such a hit. Let alone a long-lasting hit. That’s the genius of good song writing. We’ve been hooked for decades just trying to figure it out.  It still generates a regular healthy royalty check for her today.

Final analysis: Papa is a harsh man and stern head-of-the-household. He probably felt he had to be that way as the patriarch of a family working its own farm in 1950s Mississippi. Perhaps a WWII veteran and feeling the pain of the Great Depression. He didn’t want to lose his children (workhands) via marriage to some slackers who didn’t know the value of hard work.  He was dismissive of his children’s yearnings to find a mate.  Sadly, his emotional distancing set the tone for the family.

No one wanted to challenge Papa by expressing sympathy for Billie Joe, who’d committed suicide because of Papa. Nor did anyone dare show sympathy to the narrator, Billie Joe’s probable love interest.

Then, Papa got a virus and died. Probably between 35 and 45 years of age.  Not old. Mama fell into depression and had to sell the farm. Whatever money “brother” got, he used to buy a store in Tupelo (Elvis Presley’s birthplace). He ran away with the girl Papa wouldn’t let him court. And all the narrator-daughter got was lots of free time to pick flowers.

In the end, the children were just like their parents. They didn’t know how to console others and show compassion in difficult times. Unable to respond to Mama’s and each other’s suffering …. they just ran away.

That’s sad.  It’s a strong message.  It’s a warning, delivered by a story, wrapped in a song.

With this virus “goin’ ’round” us now, and time on our hands, let’s remember what’s really important: family, understanding and support.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2020      

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

 

Footnotes

[1] Some bio links: http://performingsongwriter.com/bobbie-gentry-ode-billie-joe/
Bobby Gentry Found?
Jim Stafford breaks silence on Bobbie Gentry for interview, 1988
[2] Photo citation: By Capitol Records – http://rock60-70.ru/albums/bobbie-gentry-%E2%80%8E-patchwork-1971-usa-folkpopsoul.php, PD-US, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58064389

Afterthoughts & Things not included
Ode to Billie Joe changed country music and paved the way for new heartfelt types of music, telling stories where something is quite wrong, like Tanya Tucker’s Delta Dawn and Jeannie Riley’s Harper Valley PTA.

The Tallahatchie Bridge is only about 20 feet above the muddy river waters.  Jumping to one’s death there is unlikely. But it fit the song well, and rhymed with Chocktaw Ridge. So unlikely is fatality, in fact, that jumping off the bridge became quite common, due to the song’s popularity.  You can’t jump off that bridge anymore.  It collapsed in 1972 and was rebuilt.  Jumping was made more difficult and a fine for jumping was imposed. Other hints.  Bobbie Gentry’s original draft was said to have been eleven verses.  It was cut to five verses for marketing, so it could fit on a 45rmp record, and manageable for radio airtime.  Gentry donated her handwritten lyrics of the first page of draft lyrics to the University of Mississippi (see below).  The only new information is in an alternate verse one, which starts out “People don’t see Sally Jane in town anymore.”  Some have speculated that what they threw off the bridge might have been the body of Sally Jane.

 

Culture, Edwardian/Pre-War, History, Philosophy

End of the World?

Halley’s Comet – named for Sir Edmond Halley, the English bloke who used Newton’s new art of calculus to surmise that frequently seen comets in history were, in fact the same comet – returns to the inner solar system once every 76 years or so, on average. [1] When this occurs, it is usually quite visible with the naked eye for weeks at a time.

76 years is quite a short period for a comet that can be so easily seen.  It is the only one that can be seen twice in a single human lifetime.

Alas, the only appearance during my lifetime – in 1986 – was far less than spectacular.  Earth’s and Halley’s orbits were sort of “out of synch” and thus minimized earth’s view of the comet when it was brightest. I was most disappointed, since I had read about it so much and had been very let down by the “flame out” of Kahoutek in 1973-74.

Such has not always been the case.

In 1066 the Comet portended the defeat of English King Harold II to William, the conqueror from Normandy at a battlefield near Hastings. [2A] So important was this astronomical sign that its significance and image are captured on the magnificent 70 meter (230 feet) long tapestry that that tells the story of conquest, and still survives in Bayeux, Normandy. [2B]

Over the millennia, many other occasions of Halley’s return and sighting have been recorded in several cultures. As there was no effective difference between astronomy and astrology, a comet’s appearance (exceedingly rare as they are) are usually associated with some momentous decision, or a historical event.

Could that event be the end of the world?

The year was 1910, and the comet’s return was certainly expected. Based on its path through the solar system since its 1835 appearance, astronomers and physicists predicted it would appear in spring. [3]

And yet, in January, a comet brighter than anything anyone had expected appeared!  Was this Halley’s?  Appearing early? Astrophysicists re-worked and labored over their calculations again.  As they did, the comet got so bright it was visible during the day!  It’s brightness rivaled that of famously bright evening and morning “stars” – Venus and Jupiter –  but with a tail painted across the sky. 

Soon enough scientists announced: No! This is not Halley’s.  This is an unrecorded comet, probably with a period of 50,000 to 100,000 years!  People alive then were fortunate to see such a spectacle. That 1910 comet is often referred to as “The Daylight Comet.”

Historians regularly call 1910 “The Year of Two Comets.” Just a few months after the Daylight Comet faded away Halley’s made its scheduled appearance in April. 

Astronomers first sighted it in early April, and it could be seen with the naked eye starting around April 10. They tracked it, and – again – many scientists and astronomers made their calculations and observations.  Those who calculate did their calculations: Each orbit of a comet is different, and everyone wanted to know how bright the comet would get, and how close it would get to earth.

From the Dallas Star, May, 1910

On April 20 the comet reached perihelion – its closest approach to the sun – and became very easily viewable from earth with casual unaided observation.  [On cue, Mark Twain passed away[3]]. After perihelion they predicted an Earth-comet approach so close that on May 18th Earth would pass through the comet’s tail. Now that’s astonishing!

What would happen then?  How should this news be treated? Should they let everyone, and anyone, know?  Would panic and hysteria ensue? What about the news that spectroscopic surveys of the tail suggested the tail was comprised of a high percentage of cyanogen, a precursor to cyanide? 

A few scientists suggested that this could make the entire atmosphere fatally toxic! But most scientists thought that there was no danger.  Yet, we couldn’t know until we actually passed through.

What do you do when the world might end?  Many people just stayed home, preferring to spend their final hours with their families. Factories shut down for want of workers. Yet, in many places around the world the answer was: have a party.  A big party.  Get all your friends, family, food and booze together and enjoy yourselves like there might be no tomorrow. Humans around the world wondered what might happen, … while partying. It was a delicious time: while the vast majority had little or no fear of the “calamity”, they took it as an opportunity to have a good time, enjoy this singular event: a few spectacular hours of passage. And by doing so – maybe – mocking those who were in hysteria.

It might have been the last time until now (the SARS-CoV-2 pandemic, March 2020) that the world has been more or less united in the same activities.  Mankind united by a single set of events.

Earth passed through the tail of Halley’s Comet. When it was over, of course, nothing happened.  They had simply witnessed and experienced an event that probably no other human had!  And no other human will for a very long time. [5]

Well, perhaps more than that happened.  Quite a few probably had hangovers – and there might have been a mini-baby boom in early 1911. (There was, in fact, a few percent jump in US births in 1911 over 1910; however, (1) that was a time of such massive immigration; and (2) birth numbers jumped consistently from 1900 until 1918 [insert WW1 comment here], so it’s not clear what we should attribute this mini-baby boom to.) [4]

Anyhow, one way or the other, this SARS-CoV-2 thing (and the illness it causes, COVID-19) will pass. Some of us have panicked.  Nearly all of us will survive, although many of us will be changed; maybe with larger waistlines.

Unlike extraordinary 1910 – with two brilliant comets, and with Halley’s extremely close-approach to Earth – an epidemic or pandemic will occur again.  For some of us, perhaps, within our lifetime.  What will happen next time?  Much will depend on what we have learned. And what we remember.

I hope it’s not the end of the world.  But in any case, we can have a party.

By the way: Halley’s is predicted to appear again in the summer of 2061.  I don’t think I’ll hang around for that one.  Gotta join ol’ Mark Twain sometime. But if I do make it to then: we’re having a heck of a party!

Until next time, I wish you peace and health

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] Halley’s orbital period varies a bit with every orbit; and the variation is random.  Why? A) The comet sheds a fraction of its mass with each inner solar system pass due to solar heating; and B) the comet is tiny and light, and thus subject to (usually) slight gravitational perturbation by planets.  Halley’s once had an orbital period of many tens of thousands of years, falling from the Kuiper Belt – or more likely the Oort Cloud – but after repeated close encounters with planets, it has been captured and now strays only about as far away from the sun as the 8th planet Neptune at aphelion – it’s farthest distance from the sun. 

[2A] My son Aaron and I walked the battlefield in April, 2010. It is actually quite far inland from Hastings. There is a lovely town there now, with a beautiful Abbey. The town is called, appropriately enough: “Battle”

[2B] My wife and I were fortunate enough to have time to walk along and see the entire tapestry during our Normandy tour, in May, 2018.

[3] Mark Twain was born in 1835, with Halley’s Comet visible in the night sky.  As he aged, he grew weary and bitter – he had lost his fortune, three of his four children perished before him, and then his wife went. In such a dark cloud he predicted his own demise in 1910, concurrent with Halley’s reappearance.  He was correct.

[4] US Live Birth Statistics   https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/data/statab/t1x0197.pdf

[5] Deaths from Halley’s.  There were quite a few deaths associated with Halley’s, almost all of them due to the hysteria.  I read a report of a 16-year old Canadian girl falling to her death from the roof of a building where an “end of the world” party was being held.

[6] Author’s note: My disappointment with Halley’s 1986 appearance was greatly relieved by Hale-Bopp in March and April, of 1997.  On a spring break trip to the Arizona desert, with perfect viewing, Hale-Bopp was magnificent.  And its brightest night was almost exactly the same as a lunar eclipse and – right next to the moon – Mars in perfect and brilliant opposition. 

Culture, Current Events, Entertainment Industry, History

Wells, Welles, Wells: Patterns

Wells, Welles, Wells: what have we here?

Dawn Wells won the title of Miss Nevada in 1959.  She went on to star in TV, live theater and movies, most memorably as Mary Ann in the Gilligan’s Island TV series.  Still a beauty at 81, she and Tina Louise (Ginger) are the last surviving actors in that ‘60s TV show – which continues to live on in re-runs.  Wells was born in October 1938.

  • Mary Ann & Ginger (Dawn Wells and Tina Louise), on Gilligan’s Island

Also, in 1938 – just a few days after Miss Wells’ birth, on the Sunday night right before Halloween – a series of “news” flashes and reports were broadcast nationwide over the Columbia Broadcasting System.  The news went out as part of a regular show: Mercury Theatre. But unless listeners were tuned in at the very beginning, they might well have not realized that the “news” was a spoof — part of an entertainment show. [2]

Orson Wells, on CBS’ Mercury Theater

The news shocked and, briefly, terrified more than a few people – and a bit of panic broke out. (The panic was not nearly as widespread as legend has it[3]).  Even some who understood that the “news reports” were fake did not understand it was actually a radio show dramatization of H.G. Wells’ famous novel, “War of the Worlds.”  

The creator and producer of the 1938 radio show? Orson Welles. (He also played several voice-roles in the dramatization.)

So, Welles produced a show based on a novel by Wells?  Put on the air the same week as Wells’ birth?

Wells, Welles, Wells. These are simply coincidences.  A sequence of events and names that present a curious pattern of no significance.

But as humans, we cannot help but notice such coincidences.  Coincidences look a lot like patterns.  And humans have evolved to be probably the best pattern recognizers in the world – outside, perhaps, of advanced Artificial Intelligence and Deep Learning Algorithms. (Such as: whatever on the internet seems to know what I might be shopping for?)  As humans, we’ve used pattern recognition to help us survive and thrive, evidence of Darwin’s theory. We hunt prey, avoid predators, plant, harvest, and socialize – including finding mates – according to evolved inherited skills of pattern recognition. 

One of the most important is patterns for weather forecasting. We recognize “Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning.  Red sky at night sailor’s delight”.  It was already ancient when Jesus said “When it is evening, you say ‘it will be fair weather for the sky is red.’  And in the morning: ‘it will be foul weather today, for the sky is red.’  O hypocrites. You can discern the face of the sky, but not the signs of the times!” [Matthew, 16:2-3].

——————————————————————–

Long ago humans recognized patterns of movement in the night skies.  For example, every 780 days the red-orange planet Mars appears very bright in the sky, and almost directly overhead at midnight.  (This phenomenon, called “opposition”, would likely have been tracked by counting lunar months, and predictably occurred every 26 lunar cycles, plus 19 days).  Such celestial movements and tracking have meager connections to our lives, try as astrologists might to make them.  On the other hand, the single biggest influence on ocean tides is the moon.  Plus, constellations and the north star have been trusty navigational tools that pre-date history. So, our planet and our fates are not fully disconnected from all celestial patterns.

———————————————————————————-

In 1894 Mars and Earth met in their regularly scheduled dance of syzygy. Astronomers were ready and turned their telescopes toward the planet named for the god of war.  Their observations, sketches and conjectures helped inspire a novel: “War of the Worlds”, by H.G. Wells. 

Percival Lowell saw the great Canali on Mars and fancied that they were massive water projects, undertaken to manage water by a civilization on a nearly barren planet that was drying up.  H.G. Wells’ imagination: Would they be interested in coming to water-rich earth? 

Further exciting scientific speculation: great flashes of light were seen on Mars during that alignment.  From the respected astronomer Perrotin in (Nice, France) to the Lick Observatory in the hills outside San Jose, California, Mars-gazers confirmed to each other that the bright Martian lights were real.  H.G. Well’s imagination: Might these flares of light be the firing of a giant gun, to send a spacecraft to earth at this opportune planetary alignment?

Like most science fiction writers, Wells was pretty well attuned to scientific developments.  And world affairs.  Thus armed scientifically and culturally, and with a great imagination, Wells wrote “War of the Worlds.”  Initially published as a series in 1897, the work was published as a novel in a single volume in 1898. 

I’m not sure why the title has the word “Worlds”.  In the Wells novel, per my recollection and re-perusing of the fairly short book [1], the only locale inflicted with invasion and destruction of the Martian “heat ray” was southeast England, in and around the London area. [4]

In Welles’ 1938 radio show, the Martian invaders’ destruction was mostly limited to New Jersey and around New York City, although he does make brief passing mention – almost like an afterthought – of Buffalo, Chicago and St Louis. [2]  

I’ve seen the 1953 movie a few times, mostly as a kid, and the “invasion” was limited to California.  Writers can be so parochial.  If it were really “War of the Worlds”, the whole human race would have been affected, and united in an effort to fight (or at least survive) the invaders. [5]

Alas, uniting our race would have done no good in any of the versions of the story.  The Martians were virtually indestructible. The annihilation from their heat ray was total. Their only weakness was that they lacked an immune system adapted for earth.  At the end they all perished due to exposure to simple common germs.

Martian Death Ray — War of the Worlds movie, 1953

Virology was not even in its infancy when Wells wrote his novel; the very existence of anything like a virus was postulated (and indirectly proven) only a couple years before that Mars-Earth alignment.  Scientists and novelists knew, of course, about bacteria.  But those are usually many, many times larger than most viruses, and had been observed under microscopes.  Humans would not truly “see” a virus until 1931, with the development of the electron microscope.

If Wells had known about viruses when he wrote his novel, he might well have included them in earth’s “victory” over the Martians.  If he wrote the novel today, he might have included a “novel virus” (ha, pun intended) as the “hero.”

Returning to patterns (like novel & novel), and the current novel virus (AKA SARS-CoV-2 and 2019-nCoV – the “n” indicating “novel”), we can understand a bit how the US under-reacted, at first, to this threat. 

The virus that causes COVID-19 is a “new” virus (that’s what novel means) but is closely related to the corona viruses that caused SARS in 2002-3 and MERS in 2015.  From a US-perspective, these were mostly well contained to Asia and the Middle East, although a nasty outbreak of SARS occurred near Toronto. 

More novel viruses will come.  They mutate easily and quickly. Some will be worse than SARS-CoV-2 or even the H1N1 variant that caused the pandemic of 1918-19 … more fatal and more transmittable.  Concurrent with another existential catastrophe, they might even threaten the species.  Not sure when … next year … next decade or in a few generations. But they will come.

In my imagined minor and more modern re-write of Wells’ story, it is a virus that saved the Homo Sapiens species.  In future, perhaps the lessons-learned from this 2020 virus pandemic will save us too.

Mary Ann and Ginger, again

Final thought: By the way, from way back in the ‘60s until today, I always preferred Mary Ann over Ginger. No contest. Is it because she was a brunette, or because Mary Ann was … well she was Mary Ann?  Or because she was Dawn Wells?

Be well, stay healthy, be nice.

Peace

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] Wells’ novel, War of the World, is in the public domain and can be read many places, including  here: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36/36-h/36-h.htm

[2]You can listen to the 1938 Radio show here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xs0K4ApWl4g
or here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OzC3Fg_rRJM

[3] There was not widespread panic caused by Welles’ production of WoW, as legend has it.  https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/war-of-the-worlds/ 
Also: https://www.neh.gov/article/fake-news-orson-welles-war-worlds-80

[4] Backstory spoiler: Wells was disheartened by the methods and human impacts of British worldwide colonization and empire building.  So, in his novel, the roles are flipped. The Brits are set upon and invaded by strange and powerful foreigners who have come to take their resources, without regard for human life, or for destruction of a civilization.

[5] Screenplay Script, War of the Worlds, 1953 movie:  http://www.scifiscripts.com/scripts/WARWORLDS.txt

Current Events, History, Media, Medicine

The Coronademic and Words

Most of us are fortunate to dwell in some land that is run by governments described with three words: Liberal Democratic Republic.  Let’s ignore the first and third words for today and focus on the second – Democratic – since it will help us address the hottest topic in the world these days, the Corona Virus, and start us on the path to decode the difference between the two similar and frequently heard words: Epidemic and Pandemic. [1]

——————————————————————–

As the English language evolves ever more rapidly many words have been discarded on the wayside. They languish there – grass and debris covering them, yet not quite dead – calling out from time to time to passersby. “Use me! Use me! I’m perfect for what you want to say.” Most of us usually ignore them.  Our minds and vocabularies have moved on. Or we’re rightfully afraid that no one will understand us; or they’ll think we are pretentious. These lonely plaintive words get scant attention.  They lived vibrant lives once. Occasionally we stumble across a few in an old text, or perhaps in a more contemporary passage tapped out by a witty writer; one equipped with either an English Degree, or a thesaurus. Or both. Or me.

Generic Corona Virus: This is a CDC image in the Public Domain

Other words remain but get morphed so mischievously that they now mean something quite different.  For example, Jealous and Envious – and their cousins: Jealousy & Envy. Until recently, these used to mean pretty much the exact opposite of each other. Jealousy meant to aggressively guard what you have. And envy meant to covet what somewhat else has.  [e.g.: The jealous girlfriend imagined the envy of her friends every single waking moment. And why is it always the jealous girlfriend, not the jealous boyfriend?].

Anyhow, now it seems acceptable that Jealous should always mean what Envious used to mean.  And Envy seems to have all but vanished from modern lexicon, left on the side of that road of language evolution. [Random person: “I’m so jealous of your trip to the Bahamas.” —
Envious, in a faint Whoville voice: “Use me! use me! I’m perfect for you!”]

Back to square one for today: Democracy.  The -cracy ending simply means a form of government, or a ruling structure.  Just think of theocracy, bureaucracy, and aristocracy and you pretty much get the idea.[2] The first part tells you who has the power.  In the painful-to-watch, but occasionally funny, movie “Idiocracy” the idiots ran the world.

In Democracy, the people have the power.  Demos is Greek for “the people.” This also gives us a key to the words of the day: Epidemic and Pandemic.  -Demic: Something that is of the people, or affects the people. 

There are some other unrelated words that end in -demic, and this moment is propitious for a note of caution: the -ic ending can confuse us, because it means “having to do with.” For example, “academic” is only faintly related to ‘demos’, or the people.  Here the -ic indicates it has to do with “academy’; which also comes directly from Greek. Academy: It was a public garden, as in a place where Plato would conduct his classes (which does indeed have to do with the people).  But the word “academic” arrived late in English’s evolution, around the 16th century, from “academy.” That was long after academy had anything to do with public gardens, and everything to do with education – I guess thanks to Plato, and other Greek academics.

Back to “epidemic” and “pandemic”, which sound so much alike, and whose meanings are so similar, that they are often used interchangeably.  That’s Okay, I suppose, as the rules in English fade away and sometimes appear in new places.  But in these times of COVID-19 – or Wuhan Virus, or SARS-Cov-2, or 2019-nCoV, or whatever you want to call it (maybe “the big panic”, or the great Toilet Paper Shortage of 2020) – it might be a bit useful to know the difference between “epidemic” and “pandemic.”

For “epidemic” go to the prefix – “epi-“ – and think “epicenter.”  Epi- means having to do with a specific, singular location.  Think about when a significant earthquake occurs; among the first two details reported are the magnitude and the epicenter.  Not just “how strong?”, but also what specific location on the earth’s surface is directly above the earthquake’s focus? That’s Epi-.

So, “epidemic” is something that has to do with “the people” and is fairly local.  Limited to a geographic location.  When the COVID-19 virus first appeared, it was clearly an epidemic.  Limited to Wuhan province.

Outbreaks don’t have to be viral or microbial to be epidemic. There have been, sadly, epidemics of suicide in some school districts, and epidemics of avocado accidents at some emergency rooms.  “Epidemic” doesn’t even have to be medical in nature – although usually people use it that way.  At my place of employment for some 34 years the misuse of the word “adverse” was epidemic among management.  Yes, I cringed, but that was neither the time nor place to correct my superiors.  The main thing is: epidemic is some phenomenon related to people that you can draw a circle around and say “it’s limited to this region.”

By now you can guess that “Pandemic” is an epidemic that is no longer limited to a region.  The prefix “pan-“ simply meaning all, or everything.  Long ago, a few hundred million years ago, all of earth’s landmass was co-joined and contiguous.  You’ve heard scientists and geologists refer to that single continent as “Pangea” (suffix as a slightly modified “Gaia”, meaning earth). 

Or for Pandemic, thick Pan, as in Pandora’s Box: all the sickness and troubles that could plague the world are set free. Such pandemonium was no longer quarantined within her box, spreading to all of mankind. Truly one of the most evil gifts ever given, even if it was mythology.

And of course, you can guess that the COVID-19 outbreak is now well beyond epidemic, having graduated to pandemic status. I think the CDC defines pandemic as three or more separate geographic locations. Continents surely qualify as separate locations. So, pandemic?  We’re there.

Another appropriate word of that day – one with identical letters at the beginning, but a totally different origin – is PANIC. Empty shelves of toilet paper; stock prices losing 10%, then20% of value in a few days.  Is this panic?  Probably.  We recognize the -IC ending as “having to do with.”  But in PANIC, what is Pan?  Students of Greek mythology and chaos (or readers of Tom Robbins) will love this.  Pan is the god of the wild: the woods, the hills, the un-tamed places. When Pan was disturbed his shouts would terrify those who heard it. Any weird or unexplainable sound heard outside the cities and villages was attribute to the anger of Pan – a very unpredictable fellow. This terror would spread orally among the people, with little apparent reason or validation.  Panic: widespread terror with little reasoning.  No toilet paper. 

For reference: The Spanish Flu of 1918-19 killed 25-50 million people in 25 months. Total deaths are pretty well gauged, but infection rates are a SWAG at best. It’s estimated that one-third of the world’s population might have been infected.[3] Those numbers, or anything close to them, are astounding! That was definitely a pandemic.  Especially since world-travel was so limited in those days (outside of travel related to World War 1), it’s hard to imagine how it became so widespread.  And deadly.  Advanced evolution? Could anything like this happen again?

With any luck, the current pandemic will serve as a warning for those to come.

At this point, I’ll call the Coronavirus a Panic-Pandemic. English has few rules, and the rules permit me to make up a word: Panic-Pandemic. Unplug the TV, turn off the radio, and behave like adults.

Wishing peace and good health (and clean hands and no nose picking) to all of you.

Cheers

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

Footnotes:

[1] I wrote on Democracy vs Republic some time ago, here: https://girardmeister.com/2013/12/25/democracy-no/
I do plan to publish a study on “Liberal” soon.

[2] Theo = God, or of God.  Theocracy is run by those who are believed to be divinely guided by god.
Bureau and Bureaucaracy: think of an office.  A really big slothful office with lots of internal rules and procedures.  Full of faceless unelected people fulfilling government roles.  Like the Department of Motor Vehicles.  In a bureaucracy, these people are in control.  Hmmmmm…
Aristocracy: Aristocrats are the wealthy, privileged and upper crust of society. 

[3] Fatality rate of 1.4% from these numbers.  That is pretty astoundingly high. (World Pop in 1920 about 1.75 billion, even after the killing fields of WW1). 

[finally] – a pretty cool website for etymology (or “how words got their meanings”) is www.etymonline.com

Current Events, Entertainment Industry, Media, Politics

Sound of Silence

“Well, there’s only one thing I can say about the war in Viet Nam.
Sometimes when people go to Vietnam, they go home to their mommas without any legs. Sometimes they don’t go home at all. That’s a bad thing. That’s all I have to say about that.”

– Forrest Gump
Forrest Gump (Tom Hanks) at speaker podium. (Forrest Gump, the movie — used here under US Copyright Fair Use law)

In the 1994 box office smash and critically acclaimed movie “Forrest Gump” there is a re-enactment of the massive May, 1970 Anti-War Rally, at the Lincoln Memorial and Reflecting pond, on the Mall in Washington, DC. In the movie, the eponymously named lead character is inserted into the speakers’ program, and he gives a short speech. 

Most of the speech was not heard by the crowd.  Movie viewers didn’t hear it either.  That’s because – per script – the sound system was disrupted by an anti-anti-war protestor, disguised as a part of the security detail, just before Tom Hanks, as Forrest Gump, stepped up to the microphone. [Forrest Gump’s unheard speech before the Reflecting Pond anti-war rally, in DC, with the whole scene. — early link was taken down, I suppose for copyright issues.]

That doesn’t mean he didn’t have anything important to say. The words above are what Tom Hanks claims to have said into the dead mike.

I recently came across some old essay notes that reminded me what happened when Wes Studi – a Viet Nam war Veteran, accomplished actor, and full Cherokee Indian – spoke at the 2018 Academy Awards.  The reaction of “the Academy” was if he hadn’t spoken at all.  Hardly louder than crickets.  He was only asking for recognition for films that honor those who fought for freedom around the world – especially when it wasn’t at home.

Much of the US population dealt with Viet Nam war veterans rather disrespectfully, especially from 1968 until about 1980.  Instead of treating them as youthful wide-eyed 18 to 20 year olds, sent off to do their country’s dirty work in a proxy war of the Cold War era, they were spat upon and derided as “baby killers.”  This was most unfair.

Hollywood and the media treated them rather shabbily and ungraciously as well, usually depicting them as damaged goods and misfits.  This is well-documented, and doesn’t even touch upon the disturbing “Full Metal Jacket” and “Coming Home.”  From last year’s Oscars … it seem the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences still feels that way.  [I stopped watching awards shows a while ago].

I touched on this in an earlier essay, but it was longer and the treatment of Viet Nam vets, particularly with regard to Hollywood, was part of a broader context.

I don’t have much more to add. But: Now that we have learned that the Pentagon has been lying about progress in Afghanistan for 18 years, we can justifiably cite the refrain of the 1970 protest at the Lincoln Reflecting pond: it’s time to bring our boys home.  Dying in Afghanistan it appears is as worthless as dying in Viet Nam. 

Staying in a war 6,000 miles away for 18 years? “You break it, you bought it” is not an intelligent foreign policy. Stupid is as stupid does. [H/T to Rep Barbara Lee (CA), the only person in either House to vote against the Afghanistan War Resolutions (2001), which she did on the basis that it was too broad, and had no “end game.” Even Ron Paul voted “Yea.” Astonishing.]

By the way, Hanks’ co-star in Forrest Gump, Gary Sinese, is doing wonderful things for veterans and first responders through his actions, words and foundation. Bravo, sir.

That’s all I have to say about that. 

Joe Girard © 2019

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] Screen Play for “Forrest Gump.” http://www.imsdb.com/scripts/Forrest-Gump.html

Autobiographical, Culture, History, Science & Technology

History and Culture: A Vacation in Croatia

“UNESCO is the conscience of the United Nations”
 - Federico Mayor Zaragoza [1]

I will not live long enough, nor do I have enough money, to see everything there is to see in this world. Yet, I have been fortunate to visit many wonderful places and see many beautiful things.  Most of them with my wife.  A great blessing.

Some of them have even been awesome.  Awesome.  What does that even mean anymore in this age of ever-fluid language and shifting definitions? It is a bit sad that this word, “awesome”, has been so overused and misused that it has nearly lost its meaning. 

Plitvice Lakes, Croatia

Alas. Only a few decades ago it was rarely used, and only then to declare an exceptional status: possessing such rich quality that its beholder experienced a state of “awe.”  As in “awestruck”; or to be overcome with reverence and emotions like wonder or fear.

Nowadays a meal, a glass of wine, a golf shot or a last second winning field goal are commonly described as “awesome.”  Pshaw.  These things happen almost every day.  Hardly awesome.

The Grand Canyon? Awesome.  A 50-year marriage of mutual support, trust and fidelity: awesome. Landing a spacecraft on another world?  Awesome. Even a total eclipse of the sun can be awesome.

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Where does the history of the United Nations begin?  Can we say it rose from the ashes of the League of Nations, whose failure:

(1) can be ascribed to political bickering in the United States; and

(2) led to the rise of fascism and World War II?

Roosevelt and Churchill, aboard the USS Augusta. August, 1941.

Alternatively, perhaps the UN rose from the thoughts and aspirations shared between Churchill and Roosevelt in a clandestine meeting off the coast of Canada, in August, 1941, aboard the cruiser USS Augusta, some four months before Pearl Harbor triggered the US entry into WW2 (and nearly two years after that war had begun).  During that meeting, they wrote and signed the Atlantic Charter: a betrothal of sorts, that the US  and Britain would support each other, not just in this struggle for the future of mankind, but to avert war and protect human rights forever afterward.

Soon thereafter, on January 1, 1942 – with the US now officially at war with the Axis Powers – the term “United Nations” became official, as the US, the United Kingdom and 24 other countries signed the Declaration of the United Nations.  An extremely brief document, it contained the affirmation to support the Atlantic Charter, and a commitment to win the war without “separate peace.” It would grow in scope and vision to become the charter of the organization we now call the United Nations.

These 26 signatories, plus some 21 more who signed during the war, became the founding members of the United Nations (notably including the USSR and China), which met for the first time to sign the Charter document, in San Francisco’s Opera House, June 25, 1945. 

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Regarding travel. My wife and I spent most of this past October in Croatia. That country – even though sizing up smaller than West Virginia – is more abundant in history, culture, terrain and beauty than I had imagined. Among the many locales and sights, we visited perhaps the most beautiful and truly awesome place either of us had ever seen:  Plitvice Lakes.  Any attempt to describe it is to fail at justice. 

Here’s my attempt.

For many millions of years the region that is now the mountain ranges and rugged islands of Croatia and Italy that parallel the Adriatic coast lay under a sea. For most of those ages the earth was much warmer than today; the sea teemed with life – including fish of many sizes, as well as shellfish like oysters and clams, all feeding on the abundant micro-plant life, like phytoplankton. When each individual perished the detritus of their life, which contained calcium, collected as sediment on the seafloor.  Layer upon layer. Under great pressure and through eons of time, calcium-rich rock formed tremendous amounts of dense, hard limestone (primarily calcium carbonate, CaCO3) extending over a vast region.

Eventually, more powerful and longer-term earth dynamics took over: plate tectonics. The Adriatic Plates began to drift and rotate, forcing these huge sheets of limestone to fracture and rise from the sea, sometimes reaching for the sky. This produced the dramatic mountains and islands of Croatia’s Dalmatian coast, including the Velebit Range, as well as the Apennines that form the spine of Italy.  While some areas are still rising, others – like Venice – are sinking into the sea due to the same dynamics, millimeter by millimeter.

Along the Adriatic, the climate and terrain of Croatia’s coastal side of these mountains tends toward the classic Mediterranean feel: rocky, warm and dry.  I was quite astonished to cross the mountains, drop to the coast, and see cactus and palm trees at the same latitude as Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where I grew up. On the inland side, where it is cooler and wetter, many streams and rivers drain the region – all of which eventually run to the Danube – including the Korana River.  [2]

Along the Korana River’s path it has sculpted a lovely little canyon from the limestone.  Here you will find Plitvice Lakes, probably the most naturally awesomely beautiful place I’ve seen in my life.  To walk its paths and feast your eyes is like walking through endless postcards.  [Pictures here: hopefully this link lives a while].  <More pics>

Within the canyon are a series of 16 lakes, each linked to the next by cascades of countless waterfalls of every shape and height – one lake flowing to the next.  At the brink of each falls, particularly where there are entangled roots of trees and shrubs, calcium carbonate is continuously, slowly, steadily precipitating from solution to form new rock; thus the crest of most waterfalls tend not to erode, but grow and change in shape.  Very.  Very.  Slowly.   

Yes, if you go, take a full day to see it.  Be prepared for crowds, even post-tourist season, in October.

Plitvice Lakes is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  UNESCO is a United Nations Agency that has been part of the United Nations practically since its beginning, also going back to 1945.  (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization).  The mission of UNESCO is to help preserve peace by promoting Education, Science and Culture. 

Currently there are over 1,100 such heritage sites worldwide.  They are recognized – and thus protected – for having great significance, either as a historic human achievement, a wonder of nature.

In the United States, you will easily identify places like the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone.  There are some 20 more, many of human construct, such as Independence Hall in Philadelphia and the Statue of Liberty.  

There are several benefits to such sites.  Yes, they do get some UN funding, but it is small.  Being so recognized brings attention – this means positive world recognition, and (sort of bad news) more tourist dollars to support the site.  Finally, the Geneva Convention on the rules of warfare protect all UNESCO heritage sites.

Croatia is dense with such sites, much more than most countries, and we were fortunate to see many.  Besides Plitvice Lakes, we

  • walked the ancient island city of Trogir,
  • saw the Venetian defense walls of Zadar,
  • were amazed by Diocletian’s Palace in Split, there also experiencing a UNESCO Heritage Intangible: an a capella performance by a local Klapa group (example here, and we watched in the same place as this performance),
  • experienced the historic splendor and walls of Dubrovnik, 
  • and we bicycled through the Stari Grad Plains on the island of Hvar, where sturdy folk have eked out an existence on the rocky ground cultivating olives, figs, grapes, lavender and pomegranate for nearly 24 centuries.
Stari Most Bridge, Mostar, Hercegovina

On side trips, we walked the Stari Most Bridge in Mostar (in Hercegovina) and beheld the eye-candy of Lake Bled, Slovenia. (The bridge is a UNESCO site; the latter is not, but could well be soon).  [3]

Lake Bled, Slovenia

A couple of places we visited are likely candidates to become such sites soon: the tiny village of Ston, with its most impressive wall – the longest stone wall in Europe (now that Hadrian’s has faded away) – as well as its salt beds, oyster and mussel farms. And, the fetching city of Korčula, on the eponymously named island, purported birthplace and later home of famous Venetian world traveler Marco Polo.

I won’t let it pass that UNESCO World Heritage Site status spared neither the city of Dubrovnik nor the Stari Most Bridge of Mostar from severe damage during the wars that followed the breakup of Yugoslavia, the 1990s.

In Mostar, the bridge crashed into the Neretva River from Croat shelling.  In Dubrovnik, thousands of buildings were damaged, many of them totally; over one hundred non-combat inhabitants were killed.  Many more were injured.  The city was left without power and water during the seven-month Serb “siege of Dubrovnik.”  Such a cultural outrage that even Hitler’s Nazi armies, nor Tito’s national partisans, would perpetrate.  

In any case, the historic and magnificent walls of Dubrovnik, built between the 12th and 14th centuries were finally used for defense of the city – and they did quite well. The city has been largely rebuilt, as has the Mostar Bridge.  Each done faithfully to their original construction.

We do intend to visit Croatia again. It is quite reasonable with regard to cost and weather, and the people are extremely friendly and English speaking. Croatia, as they say, is open for business. 

In case you are thinking of visiting the area (and I hope you are), I’ll put in a plug for the company we used: Soul of Croatia (SoulOfCroatia.com).  Robi helped us set up, and pull off, a rather complicated tour with no hitches whatsoever. 

Wishing you all a wonderful holiday season and that you find peace in your lives through all components of your heritage, including education, science and culture.

Joe Girard © 2019

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 me at Joe@Girardmeister.com.

Notes:

  1. Federico Mayor Zaragoza, head of UNESCO for 12 years.  Bio here.
  2. The Danube River watershed is large, second only to the Volga for European River watershed size.
  3. During the Yugoslav Civil Wars, Croat shelling destroyed the Mostar Bridge in 1993.  It was rebuilt in 2004 and is regarded as one of the most elegant bridges in the world, a testament to Ottoman engineering skill of the 16th century.

Final notes: The US is not starved for UNESCO Heritage sites, although on a per square mile basis, it is sparse compared to Croatia.  In the US I have visited the following: Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Olympic Peninsula National Park, Cohokia Mounds, Mesa Verde National Park, The Everglades, Independence Hall and Park (Philadelphia), Redwoods National Park, Great Smokey Mountains, Chaco Canyon and Culture Center, Monticello and the University of Virginia, Carlsbad Cavern, The Missions of San Antonio (including the Alamo, which I wrote about here).

Still have about 10 to go: Yosemite, Glacier Bay are on the bucket list.

Outside the US and Croatia, our list is larger still.  We’ve been quite fortunate …

In Germany we’ve visited and seen: Aachen Cathedral, Würzburg Residenz, Medieval town of Bamberg, and Köln Dom (Cologne Cathedral).

Austria: Hallstatt, Salzburg, Vienna, and Schönbrunn Palace.

Belgium: Brugges (Brugge)

France: Mont Saint-Michel, a Vauban fortified city (Neuf Breisach), and the post-WW2 re-built city of Le Havre.

Canada: Rocky Mountain Parks, and Head Smashed in Buffalo Jump (this last one might need its own essay)

Also: Luxembourg City Center, and Sydney Opera House

Autobiographical, Sports

Heroes: from Kerr to “The Man”

It’s the middle of the 2019 World Series, and things are getting very interesting.  So, as I’ve done at this time of year before, it’s time to weave a rambling essay of baseball lore – this one with lesser known threads connecting heroes, villains and an indelible splotch on baseball’s reputation – recalling that this is the 100th Anniversary of the notorious “Black Sox”.

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I had the great fortune getting an opportunity to earn an engineering graduate degree at Vanderbilt University, in Nashville, Tennessee.  Among the countless benefits that sprouted from those two years (1978-80) were some that came from a forward looking realization: I might not have the chance to work a fun job that involved playing golf for many more decades. I’ve always liked golf, because, like baseball, it’s a sport that a skinny, short guy like me can achieve some success at.

So, in April 1979, I donned my most attractive, contemporary golf attire (which were a bit frayed and cheap looking) and rode my bicycle to a nearby exclusive golf and country club.  How nice was it?  The following summer it hosted the 1980 Women’s US Open.

I got a job with the pro, whose name was also Joe, after a very short interview. I worked there much of the next two summers doing a variety of golf-related tasks: in the pro-shop, selling golf paraphernalia and running the till; making deposits at the bank; running the driving range; cleaning clubs and carts; even working with the grounds crew to lay sod and build bridges.

Not a great job, at least with respect to pay (I think at $2.92/hr), but the main thing was the fringe benefits.  I was at a top-notch golf facility, where I was privileged to play at least 9-holes of golf every single day and also spend hours practicing every sort of shot.  By the end of the first summer I was a pretty fair bet to break 80 on a US open caliber course – and “from the tips”, as golfers say.  (Oh!, to be able to do that again).

Another benefit was getting tickets to high end golf related events.  For example, I attended the 1980 Music City Celebrity golf tournament at another high-end golf club for free.  This was a splashy fund-raiser for local charities.  I clearly recall following along two celebs for a several holes. 

The first celeb I followed was former President Gerald Ford.  He definitely struck me as athletic, but in a “football player” sort-of-way.  A very mechanical and muscle-bound swing.  Slight fade.  Never gonna be a great golfer, but played with the stoic, almost grim, emotionless face that you’d expect from a conservative.  He did hole a green-side bunker shot on number 9, which brought a huge roar of appreciation from the crowd. 

The other was Stan Musial.  Known to true-blue Saint Louis baseball fans as “Stan the Man”,  Musial’s marvelous baseball playing career came to an end about 17 years before … just as I was becoming a serious fan of the game.  It now occurs to me that I might have seen him once or even twice before, as my father started taking me to Wrigley Field to see Cubs games in 1961.

Stan Musial: late in MLB career

Musial was certainly one of the very, very best hitters of the 20th century, and among the best 2 or 3 left-handed hitters ever, ranking with Ted Williams and Ty Cobb.  Musial is arguably above Cobb, who never put up power numbers like Stan, and it’s tough to compare with Williams, whose overall career numbers (especially hits and home runs) are unfairly well down the list, since he lost three of the best years of his baseball career to military service, serving as a fighter pilot during World War II. 

I said that Musial’s playing career ended some 17 years before I saw him in Nashville, at the Music City Celeb.  But it nearly ended before he even made it to the majors. 

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100 years ago, it was almost impossible to imagine that the Chicago White Sox team of 1919 could lose the World Series to the Cincinnati Reds. The star-studded Sox were prohibitive betting favorites.  It’s only imaginable in retrospect, knowing that their best players intentionally played well below their skill level – pitchers tossing easy-to-hit pitches, fielders kicking ground balls and dropping flyballs. 

Books and movies have been made about that team, and what happened thereafter.  The short version is that players thought they were severely underpaid (they probably were). Owner Charles Comiskey was a man of “deep pockets and short arms” – especially stingy with his money, and player salaries.  The sports-betting community connected the dots: prohibitive betting odds and disgruntled players provided the possibility of a gigantic gambling bonanza by giving a miniscule fraction of the winning proceeds to players who cooperated.

In the end, eight players were banned from baseball for life.  There is absolutely no doubt that many players cooperated, although it’s easy to make a case for Joe Jackson’s defense.  Jackson was an illiterate simple country boy from South Carolina, famously went by the nickname “Shoeless Joe” and had the prettiest lefthanded swing that any baseball expert had ever seen.  For the series, Joe hit for a .375 average, with a .956 OPS.  Hard to say he wasn’t trying, and easy to say he didn’t know what he was signing up for.

It’s also hard to imagine that there was a hero for the Sox in that Series.  A genuine hero on a team that intentionally tried to lose. But there most certainly was: the diminutive Dickey Kerr. Mostly forgotten now, Kerr was by no means the best pitcher on the 1919 Sox.  Considered a second-tier pitcher, behind the likes of Eddie Cicotte (“Chick”), who won 29 games that season with a 1.82 ERA.  During the series, Chick picked two games to throw poorly at critical moments.

Tiny Dickey Kerr, 1919

Kerr was a rookie that year.  He stood barely 5 foot 7 inches tall, weighed 150 lbs “soaking wet”. Yet Kerr won two games in that series, going 2-0 with a dodgy defense behind him, and with a 1.42 ERA.  In one game he went 10 innings to get the win; silly (now obvious) errors led to a critical unearned run.

So lowly regarded was Kerr, that Sox players who collaborated with gamblers never even considered including him in the plot.  Even though he was unscathed by the scandal, his career soon also ended after the 1921 season (all eight collaborators finished the 1920 season) – although he made a brief comeback attempt in 1925.

Kerr’s missing of the 1922-24 seasons was also tied directly to Comiskey the Cheapskate.  Feeling like he was owed more money for his performance (he did go on to win an impressive 40 games over the ’20 and ’21 seasons), Kerr sat out and played some exhibition games (for pay) with other teams.  For that, he was harshly banned from baseball by commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis (yes, that was his name … Kenesaw Mountain … his name has direct links to a major Civil War battle … at Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia).

Kerr had a good head for baseball and leadership, making his way into the coaching and manager ranks.  It was later, in 1940, while managing the minor league D-Level Daytona Beach Islanders in the lowest levels of the Saint Louis Cardinals organization, that Kerr encountered a promising young athlete.

Born in rural southwestern Pennsylvania, Stanislaw Franciszek Musial was the fifth of six children born to Polish immigrants. He impressed scouts and was signed to a minor league contract in 1938 with the Saint Louis Cardinals, at the tender age of 18, mostly based on his potential as a pitcher.

By 1940 he was learning the game at the professional level, and playing in the outfield when not pitching, since he showed hitting promise as well.  But all considered him a pitcher first, especially Stan, himself.

Musial’s vision for his future clouded when he suffered a severe injury to his left shoulder while playing outfield for Kerr’s Islanders in 1940.  As Musial was left-handed his future as a professional pitcher seemed unlikely.

Discouraged, depressed, and now with the responsibilities of supporting a wife and a child on the way, Musial wanted to quit baseball and go find a job in a different career. 

To relieve financial and professional pressure, Kerr invited the young Musial family to live with him and his wife.  And Kerr took the opportunity to encourage Musial to focus on his athletic skills besides pitching.

Re-energized and taking Kerr’s mentorship to heart, Musial took to the 1941 season with gusto. He progressed at a startling, almost unbelievable, rate.  Beginning the spring at C-Level (Springfield, WA) based solely on his hitting and raw athletic potential, he was promoted to AA Level just after mid-season.  He did well enough that he earned a brief 12-game call to the Cardinal’s major league team, where he wowed everyone, hitting .426.

Stan “the Man” Musial played his entire 22 season Major League career with the Cardinals. His career numbers – like Williams’ – could have been even better, had he not been called to serve the cause of FFF (Freedom from Fascism); he lost what surely would have been one of the best years of his career (1945) to World War II.  This is easily inferred: in ’44 Musial batted .346, second best in all major leagues; in ’46 he won the batting title at .365. 

More about Musial’s stats, life and career achievement are easily found on the internet.  It’s not just that all of these are so very impressive, it’s also that he is the most beloved, revered and honored Saint Louis Cardinal of all time. 

When I watched Stan Musial play golf in the heat of that humid Tennessee afternoon, I was kind of surprised by what I observed. 

Yes, he played left-handed just like he batted and threw, and – even at nearly 60 years old – displayed a sort of graceful flair and fluidity.  He still had large, strong shoulders and arms.  And a thick muscular neck. Clearly, he was an athlete.  He was not nearly as tall as I expected, perhaps touching six feet; but he had been a giant in my boyhood imagination.  Although he had a bit of a paunch, he insisted on walking. His shirt was mottled with sweat.  He wore no cap, allowing all to see that he still had a full – if somewhat unmanageable – head of dark hair.  He never smiled, and frequently – unconsciously – swept swaths of hair and sweat off his brow. He did not interact much with fans.

It seemed this crazy game of golf was getting to him.  Here he was, a sports Hall of Fame member, struggling with performance in front of fans, in a silly sport; fans who adored him and anticipated success with nearly every shot. 

I felt sorry for Musial. Even though he was famous, highly accomplished, and had records that would last many generations, he was not having fun.  I guess that’s what surprised me most.  He was not having fun. That’s sad.

Maybe if he’d quit baseball and gotten a job a golf country club, he’d have played better that day.  ?

Probably not.  Even I, at roughly the same age, usually mutter to myself throughout a round of golf. 

Until at least next October, that’s a wrap for World Series and Baseball History.

Wishing you all have a wonderful fall and hoping that you all have some fun every day, even if you’re playing golf.

Peace

Joe  Girard © 2019

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 me at Joe@Girardmeister.com.

Biographical, Culture, Current Events, Entertainment Industry, History, Sports

Of Disruptors and Keyholes

Recently the brand new Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Boris Johnson, suspended parliament at a moment in history that portends a possible keyhole event: a “Hard Brexit” is about to occur.  Technically the term is prorogue.  That is to say: “Johnson has prorogued Parliament.”  He simply sent them home for a few weeks.  Although not all that uncommon for a new government – it comes shortly after his placement as PM – the timing has made many Brits uncomfortable, to say the least.

One supposes that my writing has been sort of prorogued of late – not much publishing anyhow.  I don’t think many readers are uncomfortable about that. 

You can look back through a keyhole, but you can’t go back through one

I have a pair of terms for events that are so transformational that things can never return to the way they were; not even ways of thinking can return: Wormholes and Keyholes. Either way, when we pass through them – either as individuals, families, communities, cultures, countries or the entire world – a new reality emerges.

A possible alternative to keyhole and wormhole is “Rubicon”; or the full phrase “crossing the Rubicon.”  Way back in 49 BCE, a Roman general named Gaius (of the patrician clan “Julia”) took his powerful and famously successful army across the River Rubicon. When he did, he also created a keyhole through which he, his army, and Roman culture passed and could never return.

Rubicon: Reality was irreversibly changed.  A civil war ensued.  At its conclusion, there was no more Roman Republic, although it had endured nearly 500 years with a slight flavor of democracy.  It was replaced with the Roman Empire, to be led by a sovereign head of state named “Caesar” (the first one being the aforementioned general).

“Crossing the Rubicon” is a term that means total commitment, and no turning back. You’ve gone through the keyhole. Although, for Julius Caesar, there was an strong element of personal choice in the matter. That’s not always the case.

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Using the theme of keyholes, I will touch upon many a quaint and curious story of forgotten lore [1], including brief biographical glances at the lives of three individuals.

These are but three people among countless.  Passing through the same keyhole in history.  An entire nation of millions was transformed by that keyhole, through which nothing – no person and no part of American culture – could return to their previous state … forever transformed. These three people made history because of their transformations – and society’s – brought about by a major disruption to American national culture.

  1. Hattie had a sweet personality and an even sweeter voice.  And she had a quality of magnetic personality mixed with pizzazz, or panache.  Today the name “Hattie” is rather obscure – in fact, it almost completely disappeared in the 1950s and ‘60s.  It was not an uncommon name at all across American cultures in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  Hattie Caraway (ARK) was the 1st woman elected to the US Senate, in 1932. Our Hattie was born in Wichita, Kansas, to parents who had been slaves.  Although the name Hattie would later virtually disappear, her own name would not.
  2. Born and raised of pure German descent, Henry hailed from the German neighborhoods on the southside of the great beer-making city of St Louis.  But he usually went by the nickname “Heinie” (or “Heine”), since it was German and rhymed with his last name: Meine.  Of course, it was Americanized to “High-nee My-nee”; you can’t get a much more memorable name.  Nonetheless, he’s virtually forgotten, although Heinie came through the keyhole and left his name in the record books. 
  3. A first generation Italian-American, he preferred to go by “Al” rather than his given “Alphonse.”  Born and raised in Brooklyn, he’d make his name in Chicago. Known for many things – including feeding over 100,000 Chicagoans each day during the Great Depression’s early years –  Al was not known for being very faithful to his wife. That’s too bad, because she was extraordinarily faithful and loyal to him.  At least he was loyal: he treated her well and never spoke poorly of her. That, and his Depression-era food lines, are among the few good qualities we can credit to him.
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On a geological scale, the biggest disruptor to life on earth was almost certainly when the 12-mile diameter Chicxulub Asteroid slammed into the earth at 40,000 kilometers per hour, near the Yucatan peninsula (modern day Mexico) about 66 million years ago.  Scientific estimates of the energy released approached one trillion (1,000,000,000,000) Hiroshima atomic bombs.

The asteroid event is probably the biggest reason, among many, that between 99.9% and 99.999% of the all species that have ever lived are now extinct.

Dinosaurs had ruled the earth; they had for some 250 million years through advanced evolution which tracked the earth’s warming climate. (Consider how far humans have evolved from advanced apes in less than 1/1000th the time).  For most of those many millions of ”dinosaur” years, the earth was generally a very warm, even rather tropical, CO2 rich environment.  Literally, in a very few years (perhaps a handful) all had changed.  The world, relatively speaking, became a frigidly cold “ice box.” 

The asteroid, as agent of disruption, had altered reality so suddenly, and so irreversibly, that the world and its reality was forever immediately changed.  We should be thankful.  That stupendously, mind-boggling cataclysmic event permitted the survival and prominence of tiny mammals – and eventually to us: we humans and our many friends like horses, dogs, cats – over dozens of millions of years.

I should hesitate to even suggest candidates for “disruptors” in the human era – especially in our post-industrial age era.  But, eventually we must get to our three protagonists:  Hattie, Heinie and Alphonse.  Therefore, I submit some examples, starting with —ta da – the internet.  It has spawned on-line commerce and “the sharing  economy.”

The “sharing economy” starts with the simple idea that we, as humans in a free-market economy, have assets that are lying dormant. In economists’ terms: non-performing assets.  Our houses. Our cars. Our time.  The sharing economy idea suggests we can put those assets to work. Over just a very few years, this simple idea has disrupted how we consume, travel, commute and vacation.  Many of us now think of Uber, Lyft, AirBnB, CrowdFunding as powerful and preferred alternatives to “traditional business models.”  The value of Taxi Cab medallions in New York City has fallen by some 85% since their peak value of $1.3 Million in 2013. Entire industries must now behave differently – or die.

The sharing economy has been co-joined on the internet with our lust for connectivity and ease. Amazon has put booksellers out of business. Thanks to the internet, we often now shop in the comfort of our homes, in front of our computers – often clad only in our underwear (if we are dressed at all – sorry for the visual).

Merchandise is delivered to our front door, sometimes within hours – while many old and drab strip malls slowly, silently go vacant and “turn-over”, their dull slots replaced by the equivalent of pre-human mammals that are mostly just cheap “creature comforts”: nail salons, micro-liquor stores, tattoo and/or piercing parlors, micro-breweries, tobacco-friendly stores, massage parlors, pot shops (where legal), second-hand and antique shops, etc. And that’s if the vacant spaces are filled at all.  There is no telling which will survive to coming generations, if at all: evolution, disruption and their effects have their ways of being unpredictable… that is their very nature. [2]

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In American culture, looking back over the past 125 years, or so, I cannot think of any more forceful disruptor – outside of the Internet, the Depression, and the Great Wars – than Prohibition.

Prohibition. The 18th Amendment. The Volstead Act. The culmination of decades of effort by the Temperance Movement, the Women’s Movement, and Cultural Conservatives. 

I’m sort of a fan of Prohibition. Why? It was, in effect, a vast significant social scientific experiment.   It made being anti-government-control very cool.  It made counter-culture cool. It made “shoving it in The-Man’s-face” cool.   For many cultural icons and movements – from the obvious, like craft beer brewing and craft alcohol distilling, to the Beatniks, to Elvis, to The Stones, to Jay-Zee, to tattoos, to piercings, to sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll, sexual licentiousness, the prevalence of Sugar Daddies, and even NASCAR, (America’s most popular spectator sport) – Prohibition helped paved the way.

To me, on balance, those are good things. But every die comes with many sides: it also gave more profit and respectability to the mafia and the underworld. 

Our protagonists: In order of how famous they are today:

#1. In 1913, Young Al dropped out of school at 14, after slugging his teacher.  He then worked odd jobs while falling in with various young gangs of hoodlums.  Eventually, he got connected to the local mobs, and began working his way up the mob ladder – getting a nasty razor gash across a cheek in one episode – before finally getting in so much trouble that he was sent off to a different “branch of the business” in Chicago, along with his wife (the one he was not quite “totally committed” to) and young son.

Propitious timing: Prohibition was about to start.  Chicago is where Alphonse – Al Capone and Scarface to us – made it big. Really big.  Prohibition provided almost unlimited opportunity to make money … either through booze itself or through protection schemes.  Capone inherited the top position of a major Chicago crime syndicate, at age 26, when boss Johnny Torino retired and went home to Sicily.

After various deals and “take outs”, like the 1929 Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre, Capone’s gang ruled supreme in Chicago and Cook County. 

Al Capone, king of Chicago ~1926-1931

“Scarface” (a nickname he hated) escaped criminal conviction many times.  But Prohibition Agent Elliot Ness and the government finally got him on income tax evasion; his lifestyle and braggadocio were just too conspicuous during a time such as the Great Depression.  Yes, he daily fed many thousands in the early years of the Depression.  But everything ended on October 17, 1931, when Capone was found guilty and sentenced to 11 years in federal prison.

While in prison – eventually at Alcatraz – Capone’s old cronies in the Chicago mob did quite well.  But he didn’t fair so well himself, even though he was released for “good behavior” after serving only about 7 years of his term.  It turns out his good behavior was probably because he developed advanced dementia caused by syphilis. Evidently it had been attacking his nervous system since his teens – considering that his only son, Alphonse Jr, was born with congenital syphilis.

Capone’s wife, Mae, remained loyal, and took great care of him until his demise, in 1947, only one week after his 48th birthday.  He was probably not aware of that or much else, as he was given to talking to inanimate things and people not present.  Their son Al Jr, an only child – who lived quite deaf since infancy on account of surgery for syphilis-caused infections – changed his name to “Albert Brown” in 1966, to distance himself from the infamy of his father. “Brown” was an alias his father had sometimes used.

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2) In 1895 came Hattie McDaniel into this world. She was the 13th and last child born to Susan and Henry McDaniel, both former slaves. Her father was a freed slave, who fought in the Civil War and suffered the rest of his life from war injuries.

Originally from Wichita, Kansas, the family moved to Ft Collins, then Denver, Colorado seeking opportunity – as Henry had a difficult time with manual labor on account of his war injury – about the time young Hattie was 5 or 6.  There, in school and in church, her phenomenal musical skills were discovered. 

By age 14 she had a professional singing and dancing career … and she also dropped out of Denver East High School.  As feature vocalists for various bands, mostly Blues, Hattie had made something of a name for herself.

In 1930 she found herself in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, as part of a traveling theatre troupe on the Show Boat production. Then, disaster:  The Depression struck. The show and tour were abruptly canceled, leaving Hattie and the rest of the cast abandoned … and nowhere near home.

Hattie found employment as a restroom attendant at Club Madrid, a not-so-secret speakeasy run by Chicago gangster Sam Pick, just outside Milwaukee’s city limits, and just across the county line. Why there? Because that jurisdiction was largely rural and had virtually no police force. Prohibition was still in effect. 

Club Madrid was famous for great entertainment, as well as a great stash of alcohols.  It was a place to visit and be seen for politicians, high rolling businessmen and other wealthy gangsters.

Word had gotten around Club Madrid that Hattie was extremely talented; but Madrid was a “whites only” establishment. They kept her in the restroom.  Until one night when an act didn’t show.  Desperate to keep the lubricated and influential guests engaged, Sam brought out Hattie.  She brought the house down … and did so for over a year.  Her income and notoriety soared.

Whereupon her skills as a performer were noticed by Hollywood.  She’d go on to a rich film career of over a decade, most notably as Mammy in Gone With the Wind.  In perfect Hattie pose and poise, she was virtually “playing herself” as the only truly likeable and reasonable person in the entire saga. 

Hattie McDaniel was honored by the US Post Office with her image on a stamp, 2005

For that performance she was justly awarded an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress.  Hattie McDaniel was the first Black to receive an academy nomination, and the first to win an Oscar.  Bravo Hattie.

She remained popular, and used that popularity to serve in World War II, entertaining troops and performing at War Bond rallies. 

At the end of the war the role of blacks in America was about to dramatically change. Truman integrated the military with a stroke of his pen.  There was a loud popular cry to end the stereotyping of black characters as obsequious, simple-minded submissives in movies. The cry was heard.  Unfortunately for Hattie, she had already been well typecast into such roles, and her Hollywood career faded.

Not so for radio, and Hattie signed on to play a maid on the nationally popular regular radio show Beulah.  Another first: she was the first black to have a weekly appearance on any media. [3] Her years were running out, however.  Too young and too late she was discovered to have breast cancer, and she succumbed in 1952, aged only 57.

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And #3. Henry “Heinie” Meine is surely the least famous of the three who actually achieved a significant level of fame.  Born in Saint Louis in 1896, he was a sports enthusiast who took to baseball well.  He played a lot of local sand-lot and then semi-pro ball as a young man, mostly as a spit balling pitcher.

By 1920 word got around that he was pretty good – especially with his favorite pitch: the spitter. He’d been noticed by legendary scout Charles “Charley” Francis Barrett, and he was signed to a minor league contract with the St Louis Browns of the American League.  In 1922 he was called up briefly to his hometown Browns and pitched in one single game — a mop up effort in a late season blow out.  Unfortunately for Heinie, the spitball had been outlawed as an unfair pitch; and was now being enforced. His major league career seemed over.

He bounced around the minor leagues for a while, gaining a reputation for a “rubber arm”; he was kind of an energizer bunny, as he regularly pitched 250-300 innings a season during those years in the minors. Finally, Meine just gave up, retiring at the end of the 1926 season after learning he’d be demoted to the Single-A level for the 1927 season.  It seemed he had no path to the majors, especially without his spitball. There were other options: he intended to make money in his beer-happy hometown of Saint Louis running a Speakeasy. Prohibition provided opportunity.

Like Pick’s Club Madrid,  Meine’s “soda bar” was located just outside the city limits, in a German neighborhood that was known for some reason as Luxemburg. His drinking establishment was so popular, he got the nickname “Duke of Luxemburg.”

When other major league teams came to Saint Louis (the city had two teams then, so it was often), Luxemburg was a frequent stop for refreshment.  After a few drinks the players often teased him about being a good minor league pitcher, but not being good enough to make it in the majors.

This was motivation. He’d show them! After a layoff of nearly two years, Meine returned to baseball. He was determined to make it as a “control pitcher”, one who could make the ball move any direction, who could constantly change speeds and hit any spot on the edge of the strike zone.  He became an early effective “junk” pitcher. He didn’t strike out many batters; they just hit soft grounders and popups. After a couple minor league seasons, he was eventually acquired by the Pittsburgh Pirates. 

As a 33 year-old rookie, Heinie Meine made his major league debut in 1929.  Unheard of even in those days.  After two moderately successful and contentious seasons with the Pirates (including missing much time with a bad case of tonsillitis) he set the baseball world on fire in 1931, leading the league in wins and innings pitched. A phenomenal record for a Pirate team that managed only 75 wins against 79 losses that year.

Henry “Heinie” Meine

Meine was a holdout for the 1932 season – one of the first to successfully do so – demanding more money.  Starting the season over a month late, after a contract renegotiation, he still managed 12 wins and nearly 200 innings.

But Meine was now approaching 37 years old.  His rubber arm was wearing out.  Still, he managed 15 wins and 207 innings in 1933, impressive totals for any age in any era. All the league’s pitchers with more wins than Meine were aged 31, or younger.

The next year, 1934, would be his last, as Meine was getting past his prime.  He still put up a winning record, at 7-6, but he knew the end of his career had come. If he’d stayed for just a small part of the next season, he’d have seen a national superstar who was well past his prime have one last unlikely and very dramatically successful day at Pittsburgh’s Forbes Field. A very wobbly 40-year old Babe Ruth hit three home runs in one game in late May … the last three he’d ever hit. Then promptly retired a few days later.

But by then Meine had already retired to run his saloon business full time.  With Prohibition over and his reputation for Gemütlichkeit, Meine’s career as saloon keeper was safe for years to come. And with some thanks to Prohibition and the customers who teased him, he had made his place in baseball’s record books.

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Well dear readers, that was quite a ramble. Perhaps even a Keyhole for you.

I was long overdue for an essay and had a lot of thoughts in my head to somehow string together.

I hope you feel fulfilled and inspired, or at least changed for the better. 

Peace

Joe Girard © 2019

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 me at Joe@Girardmeister.com.

[1] With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe fans.  Lifted almost verbatim from verse #1 of “The Raven.”

[2] Strip Malls have a rather interesting history in the US (and Canada).  Briefly: The preponderance of Strip Malls exploded in the 1950s in North America, along with the expanding post-war economy and our love affair with cars.  Ubiquitous on the edges of urban areas, and within the new suburban areas, they were a “strip” of available business spaces in a single building with parking in front.  Sometimes “L-shaped”, they lined major and semi-major roads, near residential areas, but seldom near central business districts.

They provided convenient, if not “drab”, space for respectable businesses like pharmacies, butcher shops, barbers, and sellers of fresh produce and groceries … where everyone seemed to know everyone else and friendly chit-chat was interwoven with business. In an America that no longer exists.

But cars got bigger and ever more plentiful.  Available parking for strip malls was too small. So then came the “Big Box” strip malls, with huge parking lots anchored by one or two major retailers, like Walmart, or Home Depot.  The small strip malls lost business, tenants and most public interest.  Also came the super malls … and strip malls were just so-o-o 1950s and ‘60s.

If not already scraped away, strip malls still exist, but ever more with spaces that are vacant, or populated by the likes of businesses I listed above. Always drab.  Always an eyesore.

[3] At about this time, only about 10% of US homes had televisions. Nearly 100% had radios, and people built their daily schedules around radio shows. By 1960, this had reversed: nearly 90% had TVs, and Americans lives revolved around their favorite shows, on only 3 networks.

Regarding Strip Mall history: One of the better sources I found was here.

Other stuff:

Heine Meine Biography: https://everipedia.org/wiki/lang_en/Heine_Meine/

Popularity of name “Hattie”: https://www.behindthename.com/name/hattie/top/united-states

Autobiographical, Biographical, History

Crockett to Court-Martial

“Be sure you’re right, and then go ahead” – Davey Crockett

Any American kid who grew up in the 1950s or ‘60s knows that line from the theme song to the Davey Crockett television series.  Davey Crockett, played by Fess Parker, was the quintessential American Frontiersman – self-reliant, painfully honest, honorable, and capable at every conceivable skill. The line was taken from a supposed direct quote by Davey Crockett. 

Perhaps unusual for a frontiersman born and raised in the rugged, untamed Appalachian Mountains: Crockett became an early vocal defender of Native Amerindian rights.  First as one of America’s most celebrated “western” heroes, and then as an elected member of the Tennessee state legislature, and finally as a Congressman in Washington, DC. Crockett had little success in promoting his beliefs or recruiting others to share them. Amerindians have inalienable rights, too; yet no government instituted by man was able to secure them. The “Indian Wars” and westward relocations of tribal nations continued.

As congressman, Crockett was twice defeated for re-election, mostly because of fellow Tennessean Andy Jackson and his Democratic Party’s anti-Amerindian views. [Aside: it is awfully shameful that the image of such a racist man is on one of our most commonly traded pieces of currency: the $20 bill. I say: get Harriet Tubman on there ASAP].   Shortly after his second Congressional defeat, Crockett abandoned his native country and went to Texas where he hoped to help build a more free and liberal country from the ground up.  It was time to fight another revolution.  He probably wanted to get land, too. 

He was sure he was right.  He went ahead.  In early 1836 Crockett found himself in the Texas frontier, at a compound that had long ago been a Catholic mission called Mission de San Antonio de Valero – a place that came be known as The Alamo.  One of America’s most loved heroes and admired adventurers did not make it to age 50.
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I thankfully still have many memories of growing up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin besides simply watching TV shows like Davey Crockett. Some memories are of the many place and street names.  I was recently reminded of the prevalence of the name “Mitchell” during a trip to Milwaukee, on the occasion of a class reunion for the 45th anniversary of our high school graduation.

I probably first became aware of the name “Mitchell” when the domes at the Mitchell Botanical Gardens, near Mitchell Park, were completed in the 1960s.  Along the Menomonee River, south of the I-94 corridor and just a few miles from downtown, the domes are a beautiful landmark as you make your way through the area, easily visible from the Interstate. 

The Domes at the Mitchell Park Conservatory [Photo courtesy of Park People of Milwaukee. Here under Fair Use]

It was probably about the summer of 1968 when my folks took my siblings and me there, sometime shortly after the domes were were completed. There were six of us kids, the youngest born in January, ‘68; my parents were quite brave. I remember being so very impressed with the huge glass dome structures. They seemed enormous! I wandered off from my family, trying to read all the labels … eventually getting very bored and sleepy.

Before moving away in 1974 I don’t recall noticing any Mitchell name prevalence: but there is also Mitchell Street, Mitchell Boulevard, the Mitchell Street Neighborhood and, of course, Mitchell Field Airport, which serves as Milwaukee’s commercial and international airport.  There are probably more.

The Michell Domes, Botanical Gardens and Park are named for the donor of the land upon which the park, and later Botanical Gardens, were built: John Lendrum Mitchell. 

John L. Mitchell was born and raised in Milwaukee in a very wealthy family, owing to the business success of his father, Alexander Mitchell.  The elder Mitchell had immigrated to Wisconsin from Scotland, becoming the wealthiest person in Wisconsin principally through his ownership and leadership success in banking and The Chicago, St Paul & Milwaukee Railroad (AKA “The Milwaukee Road”), one of the most successful and far-flung railroads from the mid-19th to mid-20th centuries.

One of The Milwaukee Road’s logos

John served in Wisconsin’s 24th Infantry Regiment during the Civil War, alongside Arthur MacArthur, Jr. 

Awarded the Medal of Honor during the war, MacArthur, Jr later fathered Douglas MacArthur … a curious coincidence, we will soon see.  Well, John Mitchell made his way into politics, first holding the Congressional seat his father had held (Wisconsin’s 4th CD) and later representing Wisconsin in the Senate. 

In December, 1879, while living in Nice, France, John Mitchell and his wife Harriet welcomed their first child into the family – a son whom they named William.  He would be the first of ten.

Described as small, wiry and fearless, young “Billy” (as he came to be known) grew up speaking French as well as English, and also was able to communicate in German, Spanish and Italian. He had his own nannies, but they could not keep up with his high energy and antics. Always bright and ambitious, his education took him to the nation’s capital in DC (where his father was serving as a Senator), to Columbian College — later renamed to George Washington University.  But, he dropped out in 1898 to join the Army and fight in the Spanish-American War.

Billy took to the military life well and made it his career.  His intelligence and capabilities always caught the attention of higher officers, and, in 1913, that resulted in a chance appointment to the US Army General Staff.  This is where Mitchell really got exposed to Aeronautics … the art of flying.

Seeing the almost infinite potential of flight, especially in combat and for reconnaissance, Mitchell “caught the bug,” and it seems at this point his tendency toward brash behavior started to manifest itself.  In 1916, Mitchell, anxious for action and opportunity, quit the General Staff and simply assumed command of Army Aviation until a commander could be appointed and placed in command.

He desperately wanted to pilot himself, but the Army would not train him.  He was too old, they said, at 36.  So, he took lessons on his own, at his own cost, and on his own time.  Now flight qualified, and with a war going on in Europe, Mitchell was anxious for adventure and bristled at being under anyone’s command who did not see the future as he did.  In 1917 he asked for leave to visit the front as an observer.  It was granted. Four days later the United States entered the Great War.

Mitchell continued to learn as much as he could about flight and its uses in warfare, constantly pressing British and French pilots for intelligence, able to discuss technology and tactics in their mother tongues. Although denied overall generalship of US air flight, it was he who discovered from the air the size and direction of the last great German attempt to win the war in July, 1918. And he led the largest air force in the world up until that time – some 1,500 aircraft – in fighting back that salient.

The war soon ended. Mitchell, now a war hero and with a field promotion to Brigadier General, returned to the States more convinced than ever of the significance of air power.  The Great War was certainly not “the war to end all wars.” There would be more great wars, and his country must be prepared.

Billy Mitchell: Aviation Visionary

He pestered everyone he could think of – from military brass to politicians – to get more emphasis on developing the science and technology of flight. The way he saw it: the significance could not be underestimated; its potential was endless.  Literally, the sky was the limit. 

He maintained this enthusiasm despite losing his brother John L Mitchell, III in a plane crash in France, during the war.  He used it as a selling point: planes could have been made better, thus they had to be.

Mitchell was sure he was right.  And went right ahead … finally getting an opportunity (through congressional intervention) in the spring and summer of 1921 to demonstrate the ability of aircraft to sink naval craft.  The climax of the demonstrations was the aerial attack on the seized German battleship, Ostfriesland.  During the “exhibition”, Mitchell and his men violated the rules of engagement by flying lower and dropping larger bombs than permitted.  Nonetheless, Mitchell won the day and the argument, much to the chagrin on Navy staff and military brass.  The Ostfriesland, defenseless and immobile the entire time, went to the bottom of the sea.

Despite the contested “successful” demonstration, the development of American military flight technology – for speed, altitude, payload capability and safety – languished.  Mitchell continued to pester everyone. 

Finally, at his wits’ end due to a series of deadly military flight accidents, he decided to go dangerously ahead.  He was sure he was right.  By this time, September, 1925, Mitchell was now only a Colonel (he had permanently lost his wartime General rank) and had been “put out to pasture” at a Texas Army base … coincidently located in San Antonio, not far from the Alamo. 

What did Mitchell do?  He publicly and openly defied military leadership, and in statements to the press, he called them “incompetent, criminally negligent and nearly treasonous.”  The bodies of many of his fellow military aviators, he said, were buried because of “official stupidity.” Mitchell was sure he was right, and he had simply run out of buttons to push.  He went ahead with open defiance of his superiors.

The military is all about obedience.  And such acts of insolence cannot go unprosecuted, or unpunished.  The court-martial of Billy Mitchell is the most famous court-martial in United States history, and one of its most famous trials, too.

Mitchell’s jury included General Douglas MacArthur, the son of his father’s Civil War army friend. Some further irony and coincidence:

“ … a senior officer should not be silenced for being at variance with his superiors and with accepted doctrine.” – Gen’l Douglas MacArthur, jurist in the Court Martial trial of Billy Mitchell.

Mitchell had already prophesied many fantastic things, many of which he repeated at his trial.  For example:

  • The use of aircraft to fight forest fires
  • The importance of air control in battle 
  • Transcontinental flight in mere hours
  • Trans-oceanic flight
  • The end of naval battleships, since they could be sunk with a tiny fraction of the cost to build them (via air power)
  • The significance of aircraft carriers
  • The creation of national military Air Forces totally separate from the Army and Navy  
  • Indeed, he even foretold of Japanese aircraft surprising and sinking American battleships in Pearl Harbor at dawn someday, perhaps just a few years hence.

Many testified on his behalf during the 7-week trial, which became rather a media spectacle. This included America’s most famous “ace”, Eddie Rickenbacker, and one of its most recognized congressmen, Fiorella La Guardia.

Despite all the testimony and a strong defense that substantiated the veracity of Mitchell’s claims, he was found guilty.  For sentence, he was suspended from active military duty for five years without pay (which President Coolidge, as Commander-in-Chief and President amended to half-pay).  Nonetheless, Mitchell resigned from the Army a few months later, spending the rest of his life – free of military chain-of-command – attempting to promote air power.

He died ten years later, his visions largely still unrealized, in 1936, aged only 56, from heart ailments and flu complications … after having some success persuading FDR to begin investing in national air power.  He is buried in Forest Home Cemetery, Milwaukee, near his father and grandfather in the Mitchell family plot.

“On March 17, 1941, the Milwaukee County Board voted to change the County airport’s name to Billy Mitchell Field. It is a source of pride for Milwaukeans that our main airport is named in honor of General William Mitchell, who, though impatient with those who did not share his beliefs, nevertheless retained until his death his boundless faith in aviation’s future which he so unerringly visualized.” (Mitchell Airport History Website)

Just outside the Mitchell Field terminal is a retired B-25 bomber. Design and development of the B-25 began in 1938, more than three years before the US entered WW2, thanks mostly to Germany’s growing belligerence and Mitchell’s earlier lobbying of congress and the president.  The plane was named the “Mitchell” and flew in every theater of operation during WW2; most famously, 16 Mitchells took off from the deck of the carrier Hornet to bomb Tokyo in The Doolittle Raid of April, 1942.

Mitchell B-25, medium range bomber, in front of Mitchell Field Airport, Milwaukee

The name of the airport, with its Mitchell B-25 out in front, is testament and monument to Milwaukee’s pride in her visionary native son. Mitchell is considered the “Father of the American Air Force.”


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My wife and I made a stop by the Mitchell Domes while in Milwaukee earlier this summer. To the domes that are named for the park, that is named for the father of Billy Mitchell.  I hadn’t been in them in about 50 years, back when they were brand new.  While inside, a large thunderstorm moved over the area as we looked at flora from around the globe.  It got very dark.  It rained very hard.  Water came dribbling in, through cracks in the domes, and the leaks collected in many dozens of puddles. Sadly, the domes are in serious disrepair. 

Dark gloomy clouds and uncontrolled rain puddles are a fair metaphor for the domes themselves.  Milwaukee is in a crisis over what to do.  I imagine that Billy Mitchell fought feelings of despair, too, but then rallied to the very end.  I hope Milwaukee can rally and “go ahead” to save the domes.  They were visionary in their time, too.

Within the Domes: walkway with brick commemorating visionary dome architect, Donald Grieb

While strolling through the domes – dodging drips and puddles – thinking about the amazing Milwaukee Mitchell family, I couldn’t help thinking about my own family and the sunny Sunday my parents took me there, so long ago, when they were shiny and new.  Thanks mom and dad for taking us there.  You were good parents in countless ways.  You even let us watch Davey Crockett on TV… after our homework was done.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2019

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 me at Joe@Girardmeister.com.

Autobiographical, History

Taking Flak: Denver Names and History

I’ll probably take some flak for writing this essay.  Oh well, I have before, and I probably will again. 

Recently I took a bus to downtown Denver for an event.  Why the bus? Traffic and parking anywhere near there are just another form of self-inflicted brain damage. And I don’t need any more of that than is absolutely necessary. Just ask my wife; or my neurologist.

Just after exiting I-25, the bus came to a stop right behind center field of the baseball stadium called Coors Field – the Colorado Rockies’ home park.  I got to wondering about the street names at the intersection:  Park and Wewatta.

Surely Park was not named after the ball park.  That didn’t come until 1995. So … what was the street named after? Or for?  I could not think of a significant park along its diagonal path, from northwest to southeast. In fact, after consulting a map, it does not have one. It surely did not really come that close to City Park, or the Park Hill neighborhoods.   

What to say about Denver’s Park Avenue? How many times did Audrey and I traverse its entire length en route to the old Children’s Hospital?  How many grains of sand in a bucket?

First to discuss is the non-cardinal direction of Park Avenue, and all the streets in downtown Denver.  The city, and its twin – competing – city Auraria, were founded during the early years of the first Colorado gold rush, in the late 1850s, at the confluence of the South Platte River and Cherry Creek – water being very important to civilization in the arid west.  The original streets naturally ran parallel and perpendicular to the water flow there: Cherry Creek enters the South Platte at nearly a right angle; Cherry Creek flowing from southeast to northwest, and the South Platte flowing from southwest to northeast.

Streets were numbered moving northeast away from the city’s southwest-most corner. The street that would one day be called Park Avenue was then called 23rd street.  Around 1873 there was a major city effort on improving street naming conventions, and – for reasons I have yet to discover – 23rd street was re-named Park Avenue.

I found a great interactive map of Denver made in 1878 with almost infinite zoom – I surely thought that would help me. But there were no parks along Park Avenue. 

Park Avenue does cross over the the South Platte River, and its flood plain. Maybe some land there was set aside – as a sort of park – before the railyard there became so expansive. Surely you wouldn’t build where it could flood.  [There has not been a severe flood of Denver from the South Platte since 1965.  Flood control has improved greatly.  Building on that flood plain used to be a dicey proposition. Now it is cluttered with buildings, many of them apartments and condos].

Perhaps it was wishful thinking about “Parks of times yet to come” –  (Denver does, indeed, have many parks) – maybe someday there would be a park at the end of the Park Avenue.  The “end” is where it meets Colfax Avenue, and yields to the more traditional North-South-East-West grid found throughout the rest of the Denver area, and many “planned cities” everywhere.  

Or perhaps, Park Avenue was named after something else. 

Plenty of things in America, particularly the west, are named after other things and other places well-known further east – whether “further east” is somewhere in America, or across the Atlantic.  One of our former “hometowns” – Erie, Colorado – was named after Erie, Pennsylvania … each one hardly a “wonderland.”

“Park” is the fifth most common street name in the United States, according to the National League of Cities (NLC).  [Oddly, #1 on the list is “Second”, or “2nd”.  I assume “First” sometimes gets renamed to Front, or Main, as it is still is #3 on the list].

Probably the most well-known Park-named street is Park Avenue, linking Manhattan and Harlem in New York. And indeed, it was named after a park – sort of, anyhow.  It was originally 4th Avenue, but a rail line was built along its length in the 1830s, connecting the two neighborhoods.  To minimize slope, a cut was made through Murray Hill.  Once the rail line was in, it was covered with grates and grass in the 1850s, which became a sort of common area known as “the park.”  Grand Central Station is there now.

I cannot tell you why Denver’s street is called Park Avenue. For now, I’m going with Denver’s Park Avenue being named after New York’s famous and more glamorous Park Avenue.

It’s a bit quicker to get the source of the names of three “W” streets lumped close together, starting with the intersection where the bus stopped, near Coors Field: those are Wewatta, Wynkoop and Wazee Streets.

 Wynkoop Street.   Edward Wynkoop was one of the first white settlers in Denver, one of its founders, and was appointed the first sheriff of the county and territory in which Denver lay at the time (Arapahoe County, Kansas Territory). 

When the Civil War broke out, and there seemed to be a need for soldiers (there were actually some battles in the west), Wynkoop was part of the 1st Colorado Volunteer Cavalry and became an officer.  Both as sheriff and as commander at Fort Lyons in Colorado (some 150 miles to the southeast of Denver), he tried – in vain – to promote peaceful relations between Denverites and the local Amerindians, mostly the Arapahoe tribes. 

Unfortunately, in late 1864, he was re-assigned further east, to Fort Riley (in modern day Kansas).  Only a few weeks later, on November 29, 1864, one of the saddest, bloodiest, and tragic crimes in Colorado history was perpetrated near Fort Lyons along the banks of Sand Creek.  Under the “leadership” of John Chivington, several hundred mostly Arapahoe and Cheyenne Amerindians, who had camped near Ft Lyon under the promise of protection, were attacked and butchered without warning.  We still mourn the event, a black spot on America’s soul and history, now known as the Sand Creek Massacre. 

The location is now, finally, federally protected as a National Historical Site, and part of the National Park System.

Not exactly a savory bit of history, but it closes the loop on the Wynkoop street name.  To put a better looking ribbon on the story we’ll continue, to well over 100 years later. 1988, a few guys with an urge to make beer, and not much else to do, got together and founded the first micro-brewery in Colorado: Wynkoop Brewery, right there on Wynkoop Street.  One of those guys was an unemployed, laid off geologist named John Hickenlooper.  After a very successful business career at Wynkoop, he went on to become mayor of Denver, governor of Colorado and is currently a candidate for president of the United States.  It seems likely that “Hick” will change horses and run for US Senator … we shall see.

Wynkoop Brewery is still a fantastic setting to have a craft beer, chat with Kurt the bartender about ANYTHING related to sports, get a burger, and catch up with friends.  And it’s only a few blocks from many good things to do and see in Denver, including catch a Rockies game at Coors Field.

Wazee, Wewatta.  Another of Denver’s founders and early residents was a “mountain man” who began life in Scotland, William McGaa (Also known as McGau). He kept moving farther and farther west, finally settling at the confluence of Cherry Creek and the South Platte. He had lived, on-and-off for several years, among the Arapahoe. He had a reputation as a rather unruly vagrant. 

He began naming some early streets, including one after himself and two after his Arapahoe wives, naming three parallel streets (evidently skipping a block each time) as McGaa, Wazee and Wewatta.  McGaa’s own street (where he apparently lived a while) became quite notorious as a street full of grifters, drunks, prostitutes and gamblers.  At the time it carried the nickname “America’s most lawless street.”

[According to legend, McGaa also named Champa after himself, claiming it was one of his Amerindian names. Champa is still called that today]

The names of his Arapahoe wives, Wazee and Wewatta, still adorn downtown Denver street signs over 150 years later.  McGaa, ever the prototypical, free-spirited, western mountain man, was not really cut-out for city living – even a city as new and raw as Denver.  He himself was a regular rapscallion there on McGaa Street; notorious for his excessive drinking, gaming and womanizing.

Not unsurprisingly, McGaa kicked-off a tad young, age 43, in 1867.  Upon his death, and seeing no reason to preserve his name, Denver changed the street name to Holladay.  This was to honor Ben Holladay, a successful businessman who had developed the Overland Stagecoach Trail and the Overland Mail Trail. Denver essentially recognized his – and the trails’ – contributions to the city’s early economic development.

Overland Trail as spur to Oregon/California Trails

Unfortunately, due to the circumstances of the era – and unfortunately for Holladay himself – the street continued to be home to much of Denver’s amoral behavior and business.  Two years after Holladay’s death, and under petition from Holladay’s family, the city changed the name again, in 1889, to Market Street. Not really being a market street, per se, city historians believe this was done with a smirk and a wink to acknowledge all the “activities” going on there.  It still carries that name Market, yet now has a much cleaner image.
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There’s an old saying “If you are taking flak, then you must be close to the target.” Flak is an interesting word, isn’t it?  You, dear reader, might feel like flinging some “flak” at me right now. In that case, I’m over the target.

It’s a term that comes from WW2, and it’s interesting that we English speakers don’t use the term “ack-ack” instead.  Both terms have similar military jargon origins. 

In early electronic communication – both telephonic and wireless – words, and even spelling, could be confusing.  The Brits came up with using “ack” instead of saying the letter “a”; because even saying “a” could be misinterpreted (like a bad cell phone connection), especially given dialects which might prefer “ah”, “ay” or even “eh”.  Anti-Aircraft fire simply became abbreviated as “ack-ack”, which they started using in WW1.  Somehow, we Americans never really picked it up, not doing much flying “over there.”

Flak has a more curious germination. I deciphered it recently while wading through William Manchester’s exceeding dense history of Germany’s most famous industrialist family, the Krupps.  Flak comes directly from German “Fliegerabwehrkanonen”; or literally “Flight Defense Cannons.”  Germans, of course, having that propensity to smash words together. In there we can detect Cannons (Kanonen), Defense (Abwehr) and Flight (Fleig-) … in this just a single word!  [As usual, almost always in reverse order of significance: just think: Flieger Abwehr Kanonen; Or: guns defending against flight … easy, huh?].

How or why the Allies began using the German term “flak” is still a mystery to me.  But, it does seem to have better flow and onomatopoetic value, does it not?

Well I’ve drifted rather a long way from Park, Wewatta, Wazee, Denver, baseball and apple pie. So, I’d better quit before I catch any flak – which originally would refer to the guns that are shooting at us,  – and not  the nasty stuff that might hit us!

Peace, take care, and remember: if you’re taking ack-ack, you’re close to the target!

Joe Girard © 2019

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 me at Joe@Girardmeister.com.

Autobiographical, Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History, Music

Medley

Nat King Cole had perhaps the sweetest and smoothest voice of all the 20th century American male singers. His voice easily evokes feelings of warm, genuine love.  I’d vote him to the top of that class of crooner. After all, I’ve admitted before that I am a hopeless, sentimental romantic.

Nat King Cole, 1952 — as good looking as his voice

Some people attribute his tone and resonance to a rugged life that spared neither alcohol nor heavy smoking (he died of lung cancer, in 1965, shortly before reaching age 46). That is simply not true.  Cole was truly gifted and worked hard at his craft.  For evidence I submit the sweet and professional voice of his daughter, Natalie Cole.

I have a Pandora station that I like to play at low key get-togethers and quiet evenings that include, among other genres, some harmonica-based blues, ‘70s soft rock, ballads, bossa nova, and love songs. Cole’s voice comes up frequently.  I’m never disappointed.

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The year 1911 stood at the twilight of the Edwardian Era, ‘twixt the death of King Edward and the outbreak of The Great War. That year an amateur musician named Charles Dawes composed a little instrumental tune for violin and piano that he called, simply, “Melody in A Major.” Dawes was a self-taught pianist and flautist who composed merely as a hobby. The tune become somewhat popular in his lifetime.

That Dawes should have success in far-flung fields would not come as a surprise to anyone who knew him.  Born in Ohio in 1865 just after the close of the Civil War, he was the son of a hero and general of that nationally tragic and transforming war. After college and then law school Dawes went off to Nebraska – a frontier land of opportunity. There, in Lincoln, he established himself as a successful lawyer and made friendships with both John “Black Jack” Pershing (who would go on to command all US forces in WW1) and Williams Jennings Bryan (who would go on to promote Free Silver – i.e. liberal monetary policy— and thrice secure the Democratic Party nomination for president of the United States, eventually serving as both Secretary of State under Woodrow Wilson, and, later, as prosecuting attorney in the famous “Scopes Monkey Trial”).

Dawes also got interested in business.  An opportunist, he moved to Evanston, Illinois (just north of Chicago) during the 1893 Panic, and began acquiring interest in various companies at bargain prices, beginning with a slew of gas companies. Success gained him attention, and in 1896 he managed the Illinois presidential campaign of William McKinley (against his Nebraska friend, Bryan). From McKinley’s win, he was rewarded by being named Treasury Department’s Officer of the Currency. In this roll he was able to recover many millions of dollars that banks had lost during the ’93 Panic.

Dawes resigned from the administration in 1901 to set up a run for Senator. He believed the timing was right, since he had McKinley’s support (who had been recently re-elected and was hugely popular). But McKinley was assassinated at the World’s Fair in Buffalo in September of that year.  The new president, Theodore Roosevelt, would not be supporting Dawes (this was before direct election of Senators). Dawes fell in his attempt to become Illinois’ 16th Senator to fellow Republican Albert Hopkins.

He returned to business, expanding into banking and investment management, forming the Central Trust Company of Illinois.

When Dawes wrote “Melody in A Major” in 1911, he was already a successful lawyer, businessman, banker and government official. 

____________________________________________________

June 1, 2019 – It’s late evening and my wife and I are relaxing in the Colorado mountains. She’s doing a little work on her computer. I’m reading Le Ly Hayslip’s autobiographical book, When Heaven and Earth Changed Places (subtitled: A Viet Nam Woman’s Journey from War to Peace). 

We’re listening to the aforementioned Pandora station, when a beautiful and well-arranged father-daughter duet comes on: When I Fall in Love (it will be forever), sung by Nat and Natalie Cole.  That duet, which won a Grammy in 1997, was made possible by the magic of technology, since Nat had passed away some 30 years earlier.

I wondered if it’s true. Does “falling in love” last forever?  It makes a nice tune, but ….

I put the book down.  Le Ly had mostly terrible luck with men.  And more than just a few. Can someone be simultaneously in love with more than one person?  Like Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Berman) in Casablanca?  Or Dr Zhivago (Omar Shariff) in the eponymous movie? What about falling in love multiple times?  Does that count? What does falling in love even mean?  It’s June 1, the birthday of the young lady I fell for in 1978.  I still remember so many details, even her birthday, and I still have many fond memories and a small place for her in my heart.  Does that count?  Probably not.  No matter how far, or hard, you fall, it’s not love if it can’t be returned.

My one forever love is Audrey.

Why do I even ponder these things?  Is it because I’m a hopelessly sentimental romantic?

A half dozen songs later and Nat comes on again, this time with “It’s All in the Game” – with the great lyrics “Many a tear has to fall, but it’s all in the game”— as in the “game” of falling in love.  No one said it would be easy.

Cole’s smooth voice and recording is one of many covers – and perhaps the best – of a 1958 hit song by Tommy Edwards; others had recorded it as well, but the Edwards version made it to #1 on the charts in both the United States and England. 

The song (often simply called “Game”) had actually been lying around since 1951. That’s the year that songwriter Carl Sigman put lyrics to a decades old melody with no words.  It was a tune that had been lying around since 1911; a tune called “Melody in A Major.”

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Established as a successful banker and businessman with a can-do attitude, Dawes was made chief of Procurement and Supply Management for “Black Jack” Pershing’s American Expeditionary Force during the Great War.  He achieved the rank of Brigadier General by war’s end. 

Charles Dawes

After the war, he returned his attention temporarily to private business, only to be appointed to be the first ever Director of the Budget, in 1921 by President Harding.  This is now called the Office of Budget Management.  Dawes helped grow the bureau into one of the most important serving under the president: producing the president’s budget, tracking expenses against the budget, and monitoring and tracking the efficiency of the many agencies that serve every president’s administration.

By 1923 Germany was in great economic distress:  hyperinflation, vastly diminished industrial capability,  unable to pay reparations. Dawes was assigned to a commission to figure out what to do for Germany.  Excessive war reparations and allied occupation of industrial districts had ruined the economy.  The situation led to social and political – as well as economic – instability; it inspired Hitler to attempt the Beer Hall Putsch.

The commission’s plan, which came to be known as the Dawes Plan, called for complete re-organization of the German national bank (Reichsbank) and a reset on their currency, to be anchored by a loan from the United States. Re-industrialization was begun as was acceleration of France’s de-occupation of the Ruhr district. Concessions from the French also allowed for slower, more gradual, and less painful reparations.

As a result of the Plan’s success, Charles Dawes was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1925. 

Dawes’ star was shining.  At the Republican convention in June, 1924 he was chosen to be the running mate to Calvin Coolidge in that fall’s election.  He then served as Vice President of the United States (and president of the Senate) for the next four years.

Dawes also served in the Hoover administration that followed, first as ambassador to England and, later, as head of the newly formed Reconstruction Finance Corporation to help fight the depression.

After leaving the Hoover administration he served on many industrial and bank boards and continued running his own banking businesses from his home in Evanston, until his death, in 1951. 

Not coincidentally, Sigman was inspired by Dawes’ lifetime of accomplishment and wrote the lyrics to complete Dawes’ “Melody in A Major” shortly after he learned of Dawes’ passing.

Charles Dawes had a remarkable life. And if you remember him for one thing, well, here’s something that might help you in a trivia contest: Dawes is the only person in history to have co-written a song that made it to #1 on the charts, served as Vice-President of the United States, and been awarded a Nobel Peace Prize.   

This sentimental romantic wishes you all a lifetime of fulfillment and fully requited love.

Peace,

Joe Girard © 2019

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History

Dark and Light

“The willingness with which our young people are likely to serve in any war, no matter how justified, shall be directly proportional to how they perceive the Veterans of earlier wars were treated and appreciated by their nation.”

— President George Washington

There are many places that are dangerous to look, like your spam folder. Who knew so many people would be so interested in me, my pleasure and my anatomy? Dangerous also are boxes of old handwritten letters you’ve received and stashed (relics of some distant past that this generation will seldom know the joy of) because you are someone who doesn’t throw such things away, like some sentimental fool or a hoarder.

It just occurred to me that perhaps hoarding is – in effect – some manifestation of sentimental foolery. That topic is a dangerous place I shall not look soon.

Occasionally we are sufficiently motivated to look in dark places anyhow; perhaps from idle curiosity (Danger! Danger Will Robinson), or perhaps we feel the need to know something … and carefully looking in a dangerous place offers a chance we could learn something useful.

9/11 Commission Report

I have a copy of the 9/11 Commission Report, which I’ve read thoroughly once; I’ve scanned over my notes and highlighter marks at other times. It is an exhaustive account of what happened both inside and outside our government. What happened outside could happen largely because of the missteps inside our government.

If you trust our government, it is indeed a dangerous place to look. Fear of government is as justified as respect for it, and probably much more. And that’s regardless of who is president, who runs the Houses of Congress, and who dons the robes and hears arguments at #1 First Street Northeast, in Washington, DC.

Learning from dark places: The 9/11 Report reminded me to beware of the consequences of what appear to be actions taken with good intentions. For example, it was government direction that put up a “firewall” between the CIA and FBI regarding sharing information gathered overseas pertaining to individuals currently on US soil – including those ID’d as likely terrorists. The 9/11 Commission that authored the report, airbrushed away that one of its own members, as Assistant Secretary of State, had authored the latest version of that directive. The CIA had identified many individuals involved in the 9/11 attacks, and their global movements, including into the US, but were not permitted to communicate the information to the FBI.

As a slight aside, I once started research into the 2008 economic meltdown for a multi-part essay. I got so discouraged – looking into dark, dangerous places – that I abandoned the project for the sake of mental health.

At some point, I suppose, that at least perusing the Mueller Report will have to be done. You know, curiosity and a desire to understand just what’s in there – not what someone (with a bias) tells me.

Casting an eye further into the past, we come to United States foreign policy. Many rightly consider that to be a dark and dangerous place as well. But we’re curious, and often want to know how we got to where we’re at.

The Viet Nam War for example. Few issues have so violently and viciously divided American public opinion since the Civil War. Looking back, it’s easy to find more reasons to not trust our government: from the Gulf of Tonkin “incident”, to supporting a dictator, then organizing his overthrow (and hence abetting in his assassination), and further support of leaders chosen in completely rigged elections.

But we shall have to go even further back, to 1946 to get slightly better perspective of that bit of foreign adventure.

President Harry S Truman was the president: the last US president to not have a college degree, whose middle name was literally “S”, and who, as Vice-President, assumed the duties of President when FDR died in April 1945. Immediately post-WW2 Truman was concerned and alarmed at the world’s prospects for freedom and economic growth. The Soviets clearly intended to violate any promise regarding their limited “sphere of influence” and to export Marxist-Leninist Communism wherever possible.

That’s when Truman invited Winston Churchill to come give a talk at tiny Fulton College, in central Missouri. And that’s when the world came to know of the “Iron Curtain” that the Soviets had draped across Europe.

Moving forward to 1949. The Soviet Union was exporting Marxist Communism around the world. Thanks in part to their espionage on both the German and the US/UK Manhattan nuclear bomb projects, they were successfully building and exploding atomic weapons. The Soviets blockaded West Berlin from all supplies – hoping to starve out freedom – for one year. Of course, they failed, thanks to the Berlin Airlift (Die Berliner Luftbrücke).

1949: China, recently a WW2 ally under Chiang Kai-sheck, had fallen to the Mao’s Reds, and they seemed intent to seize gentle and defenseless Tibet as well. They soon did.

The Cold War was real. Truman and most of the west believed that any losses in that war meant that many millions would lose their chance at individual freedom and economic prosperity.

In late June 1950, the North Korean Army stormed across the 38th Parallel in an unannounced and unprovoked war against their peaceful neighbors – South Korea – who were promisingly well on their way to a true liberal democracy (except for that nasty bit about suppressing communists).

Truman sent the order for MacArthur and US army divisions in Japan to support Korea. The UN stepped in to support, too (thanks largely to the Soviets boycotting the UN at the time). The Cold War had turned Hot, and – by early 1953 – South Korea’s independence was preserved. Thanks largely to (mostly) US troops stationed there, it remains that way. It is a remarkably successfully country, with the world’s 11th largest economy, one of the largest GDP per capita, trade around the globe and extensive individual rights.

The Korean War, and our continued military support for South Korea, can be viewed as a resounding success. Veterans of that war, like those of WW2, were and always have been respected and highly regarded.

When Truman issued the orders to support South Korea, he also issued another military executive order. The first US military “advisors” were sent to Viet Nam (then French Indochina) to help the French in their struggle against mostly communist guerillas, led by Ho Chi Minh, in restoring their pre-war colonial base there.

And thus, in this context, we can begin to understand The Truman Doctrine. Essentially to fight communism wherever and whenever it tried to expand.

By mid-1954 Viet Nam was split in half at the 17th parallel. The French, after Dien Bien Phu, had departed – and the US had not done any more to support them, despite serious consideration by then-president Eisenhower to do just that – including the use of atomic bombs. There was a communist North and a separate non-communist South with some potential (it was hoped and believed, anyway) to become a liberal democracy.

The next president, Kennedy, felt especially pressured to continue the Truman Doctrine. Partly because that was how he campaigned against Nixon, and because of the disastrous Bay of Pigs invasion (April, 1961) following the communist revolution in Cuba. This was quickly followed by Kennedy being berated and “savaged” (his own description) by Soviet Premier Nikita Krushchev at the Vienna summit meeting, in June. Two months later came the sudden erection of the Berlin Wall, an attempt starve out freedom.

And then the October surprises. Previously, Krushchev had threatened the West with his claim of “we will bury you”, and he showed they could, too; in October 1961 the Soviets detonated of the largest nuclear bomb in history: the yield was an astounding 58 Megatons … over 4,000 Hiroshima bombs! We cannot forget the Missiles of October (1962) when the Soviets deployed nuclear tipped missiles in Cuba.

It was as if Krushchev intended to win the Cold War by virtue of his superior belligerence.

The Soviets and China were supporting the North Viet Nam communists. Kennedy had the comparatively “measured response” of expanding the number of “advisors” in Viet Nam to 16,000 by the time of his assassination. President Johnson eventually expanded the troop tally to well over 500,000; mostly after the 1964 “Tonkin incident.”

With hindsight the judgmental and self-righteous have regarded this engagement negatively. That may be fair, but that was a different time. With different fears, and with different circumstances than we live with today.

The Viet Nam War in many ways was not that different than the Korean War. Fight Communism. Support a fledgling “free” country that could be expected to be nurtured to liberal democracy. Win the Cold War. We Americans come to liberate and protect, not to conquer.

And yet it turned out so much different. Especially for the veterans. Sadly, they were generally disrespected for many years. In fact, they were suspect. They were damaged goods. We spat on them. We called them Baby Killers. Otherwise, we didn’t talk to them. Vets were not properly honored, even disrespected.

This was particularly true in Hollywood and entertainment, where for several years both the Viet Nam War and Viet Nam vets are almost always shown in a negative light. Contrarily, we never saw then, or see today, anything like that about veterans of the Korean War or WW2. ‘Nam Vets were often shown as addicts, alcoholics and/or the prime criminal suspect – or even the actual villain. They fought in Viet Nam, so they were naturally just mentally unstable and untrustworthy.

Francis Ford Coppola’s “Apocalypse Now” is a deeply disturbing, fanciful take on what happens to people when they go to Viet Nam (if not a rather creative re-make of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness). Oliver Stone gave us “Platoon” and “Born on the 4th of July.”

None of these gave a positive or encouraging image of Viet Nam soldiers or vets. Also include: Outside In; Welcome Home Soldier Boys; There is a No 13; The Boys in Company C; and Rolling Thunder. In The Deer Hunter all of the movie’s vet characters ended up wounded and disturbed.

Message: The Viet Nam veteran is mentally deranged, unstable and not to be trusted. Even Coming Home has a mixed dark message about Nam vets.

Yes they could have been trying to lecture us about how bad war is. I get that. And the Viet Nam War especially so. Still …

Today, decades past the 1973 “Treaty” that supposedly ended the war, and the 1975 fall of Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City), it’s now generally acceptable – and to a large extent expected – to openly show gratitude to Viet Nam War vets. And they are now more willing to wear caps and jackets identifying them as Vets. This is fitting. Regardless of the war’s intents and outcomes, those men gave “the best years of their lives” in doing what they thought was right and fulfilling a duty: putting muscle behind their country’s attempts to stop communism’s infringement on individual rights around the globe.

Robin Williams, in Good Morning Viet Nam (Image contained per Fair Use)

Things started to change for the better in the ‘80s and I want to finish up by giving credit where it’s due.

  • 1987 – The movie “Good Morning Viet Nam.” Robin Williams portrayal of a DJ for AFRTS (Armed Forces Radio and TV Service) was a touching and sensitive telling of life in Saigon … albeit before the major escalations.

  • 1980 – 88 – The TV series “Magnum PI.” Insanely cool and good looking

    Main Cast of Magnum, PI (Image contained per Fair Use)

    Tom Selleck as Tom Magnum, and his merry bunch of fellow Viet Nam vet friends, including “TC” (Roger Mosley) and Rick Wright (Larry Manetti) are in Hawai’i and have successfully moved on with their lives. Yes, the past is there, but that doesn’t stop them from solving crimes and enjoying life – such as somehow being able to drive a red Ferari 308 whenever you want and live in an Oahu mansion. They are never suspected of any crime or being mentally unstable.

Congrats to those who wrote, produced, directed and acted, including Robin Williams, in these productions. It was finally becoming somewhat respectable to be a Viet Nam vet again. And I don’t think Rambo had anything to do with that.

Now, I have to include some “real life” special people.

  • When President Clinton decided it was time to put an embassy in Viet Nam again, he needed someone special. He chose Doug “Pete” Peterson. Peterson had spent nearly seven years as a POW in Viet Nam. Talk about losing the best years of your life! His attitude was healthy: Although he could never forget the “bad old days” and his years in captivity, those dark memories should not stand in the way of the future. Despite still bearing the mental and physical scars from his torture there, he helped build a formal international relationship with Viet Nam. It’s now a partner in trade and security in the dynamic and dangerous western rim of the Pacific. They have also cooperated in returning bodies of many MIA.

  • Of course, there were many thousands of American POWs, but I shall only go on to include John McCain. His grandfather and father were both navy admirals, thus he was a prize catch for Viet Nam. He did not escape significant torture either during his 5-½ year stay in the “Hanoi Hilton.” Despite his enduring memories of that time McCain put them aside, and, together with fellow Senator and Viet Nam vet John Kerry, was one of the earliest strong proponents of normalizing relations with Viet Nam – including re-opening the Embassy, easing trade restrictions and the nomination of Peterson as ambassador.

Even in the dark places we can find some light.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2019

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Current Events, History

Hate and Love: A Brief Essay on Race in America

Hate and Love: A Short Conversation on Race in America

The Clayton area of Denver is a historic neighborhood of vast cultural and architectural diversity, dating back to around 1880 – just about the time Colorado became a state. Unfortunately, Clayton currently also has one of the highest rates of crime of any of Denver’s 78 neighborhoods.

This past weekend a really awful crime was committed on personal property in Clayton; a family’s home was defaced with racist graffiti, shown here. As reported in the Denver Post, the family has decided to leave these most distasteful markings on display to show what is going on in their neighborhood. [1]

Hate graffiti, Denver. By Sam Tabachnik, Denver Post

Racism exists. It’s a fact that we’d often rather not be reminded of – especially in normally placid neighborhoods and social gatherings of white-collar light skin people – across the country.

Racism. It can be explained as ignorant; but that does not excuse it. It can be explained as something that is learned from family, or peers; but that does not excuse it. No explanation can excuse it.

Despite regular occurrence and reporting of such “real” hate crimes, I bring hope. A fair look at ourselves shows trends that among we Americans such dark, putrid idiocy is becoming a waning part of who we are as a country.

For evidence, I will herein only address the topic of interracial marriage, and our attitude toward it.

When, in 1967, the Supreme Court pronounced its unanimous 9-0 decision in Loving v Virginia – thus giving the Lovings and every other couple the sacred human right to marry whomever they love, regardless of race or where they live – only about 3% of marriages in the US were interracial. Today that number is over 17% – or more than one of every six. That is astounding, and it is good news.

Mildred Jeter and Richard Loving

More important, I believe, is the overall acceptance of interracial marriages. In 1958 approval of mixed black-white marriages stood at 4%. Today it is near 90%. Those ignorant bastards are a shrinking minority, and the trend is irreversible. I say: Good.

The internet has helped. So many seekers have gone in quest of extra-racial soulmates that sites have sprung up just for such searchers. Supply meets demand.

It’s not just apparent to me as I walk through airports, stores, museums, parks and zoos. I’ve noticed that TV ads, cereal boxes and store posters regularly show mixed-race families… With children.

Add to that the increasing frequency of inter-faith marriages. According to Pew Research, this has more than doubled from 1960 to 2014: from 18% to 39%. One easily suspects it is even higher now.

Taking both together (interfaith and interracial) the arithmetic says that well over one-half of marriages in the US are now very mixed by any standard, especially standards before 1960. This is a good thing, and a great positive point to keep in mind when confronted with the divisiveness so prevalent in our modern media and communications. The evidence suggests that most people can see through differences and get to agreement … even love.

On another tangent, I presume there are additional mixed couples who cross political boundaries. Well, good for them! In the current environment, it’s understandable that those numbers seem to be dwindling.

Back to interracial marriages and their beautiful mixed-race offspring. I will cite three of the most accomplished and good looking:

  • Barack Obama (½ black, ½ white);
  • Jennifer Lopez (Puerto Rican with mostly unknown mix of Spanish, Amerindian, Black); and
  • Tiger Woods (½ Asian, ¼ Black, 1/8 White, 1/8 Amerindian).
  • — [Let’s leave politics and life-style choices aside … but I’ll venture to mention that Woods did take a very blonde Swedish wife … who infamously did take a 9-iron to his car’s rear window – and to part of his cheek bone.]

I don’t expect that racism and the stupid, ignorant, hateful acts that come with it will completely disappear in my remaining lifespan. Or even my children’s. But the trend is real and irreversible. Thus, I do have hope that the simple, honest light of human love and dignity will continue to shine into the dark corners of hate whenever and wherever possible, and thereby extinguish that darkness before the 21st century ends.

Or, more simply: React to hating with Loving.

Shalom,

Joe Girard © 2019

Update note: the 17+% interracial marriage statistic includes all possibilities, not just black-white.  This is: all possible pairings of Amerindian, Asian, Black, Latino and European White.

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To contact Joe just email him at joe@girardmeister.com

Links:

[1] Hate Crime / Spray Paint in Denver: https://www.denverpost.com/2019/03/05/racist-graffiti-denver/

[2] About the Clayton Neighborhood, Denver: https://claytondenver.org/

[3] Another source on frequency of interracial marriages: https://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Society/2017/0706/Growing-acceptance-of-interracial-marriage-in-US

Biographical, History, Philosophy

Eternal Life

Something has definitely changed.  Or maybe it’s just me.  Outside of a funeral or memorial service (of which I’ve attended far too many lately), when was the last time you heard about, read about or discussed the topic of Life After Death?

Wasn’t this an infatuation of humans about their temporary condition for – oh, I don’t know – forever?  Maybe it’s me and the change is that I haven’t been paying attention.  If this topic is much less of a curious passion of our attention than it used to be, then that is probably one of the few good things to come out of the recent decades of self-awareness and self-absorption: living the life we have now – and doing it right – rather than for the life we don’t know about.

Personally, I profess to harboring a sense of ambiguity – or perhaps a resigned agnosticism – on the subject.  I don’t know a thing about it (Greek: a = not/non; gnosis = to know) and yet accept that there is probably some form of post-death existence that defies human description.  Can God completely and eternally allow something – someone – He loves to be destroyed for evermore?

In a less spiritual sense, can we deny that the world is changed by the existence of each and every one of us?  And once changed, the world is irreversibly changed.  It can’t go back.  Each of us affects the others in our life, who in turn affect and change the experience of others in their lives.  Is that not a form of Eternal Life?  The memories of our ancestors is carried on in our descendants … if we take the time to pass along their stories.
___________________

A few such stories surpass those of all the rest.  The names and stories of some people become part of everyday life, become part of everyday thought and become part every person’s consciousness –- and thereby bring a form of not only life after death, but eternal life.

I bring you three short stories, each very different.

— – —

1. Is it Life after Death if  your name is spoken nearly daily by every English speaker hundreds of years after you die?

John Montagu was born in the early 18th century in the flats near the coast of the English Channel in northeast Kent, England.  Born to the large land-owning upper classes of British society, he was well educated at the renowned schools Eton and Trinity College.  He went on to distinguish himself in service to His Majesty’s government.  He was a delegate to the Congress of Breda [1] and Ambassador to the Netherlands.  Returning home, he served as First Lord of the Admiralty (in effect the civil head of the Navy).  Later, he also served as Secretary of State for the Northern Department and also as the Kingdom’s Postmaster General.

John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich

Though impressive, it is not for any of these achievements or services for which Montagu has become immortal – and for which his name is spoken virtually daily by every English-speaker.  Montagu’s father was an Earl, and Montagu inherited his title.  That flat region of northeast Kent is called Sandwich.

Montagu was the 4th Earl of Sandwich. One evening at a social engagement (some say a session of gambling) the Earl is said to have asked his orderly to bring him a slice of meat between two pieces of bread – as a matter of convenience to keep from getting grease on the cards.  Although the facts of the story – in fact its very occurrence – are often contested, the Earl’s name was eternally lent to an emerging fad: The Sandwich.

— – —

 

2. On Christmas Day, there was born to us a wonderful gift.  A gift direct from heaven.  For on December 25, 1821 a tiny girl was born in a simple house on a farm in rural south central Massachusetts.  From a young age she developed the knack – and the love – of caring for others in medical need.  First her family, and then the people of her community.

When the Civil War first broke out, she began tending the wounded near Washington DC, especially after the Confederate rout of Union troops at Bull Run (Manassas).  As the war continued its deathly spiral she was able to get medical supplies directly to the bloody front lines herself — a task that, disappointingly, no man was able to conceive and achieve.

After the war, she traveled the country, speaking about her experiences and the need for proper and better medical care. She explained that it wasn’t just wars and battles that led to the need for medical care on a massive scale.  Disasters of all sorts bring this need.  We could be prepared for such disasters and the human need they bring.  Finally she was heard, and in 1881 the American Red Cross was founded.

Clara Barton’s name graces schools and streets and communities across the United States.  In 137 years the American Red Cross has provided unmeasurable support to people in every sort of disaster, in every sort of way.  From wild fires, to earthquakes, to floods – and from hurricanes to HazMat spills – the Red Cross provides medical service, housing, food, transportation and counseling to those in great need.  Foresightfully, the Red Cross also helps prepare communities for disasters well before they occur.

— — – —

3. For a complete change of pace we look to Annelies Marie, born in Frankfurt, Germany.  She was indeed a very precocious child.  Like many intelligent, witty and maturing pubescent girls, she was quite a handful for her loving parents, who were trying to steer her through the awkward years from gangly youth to comely young lady.  She acted up and acted out as she experimented with her self perception and with her outlook toward the world and her family (parents and one older sister).

To help cure her of what her parents perceived as an over-developed attention to herself, they gave her an autograph book as a gift on the occasion of her thirteenth birthday.   Autograph books, considered quaint and old-fashioned today, were used at the time to collect autographs of friends, family, acquaintances and any famous people you could get to sign it.  In addition, it was customary to collect their writings, quips, quotes and even poetry.

But Annelies would turn even the autograph book into an ongoing investigation of herself.  No, she decided. It would not be an autograph book used to focus on others; instead it would be her diary.  In it she shared everything about herself and her life: from the most mundane details of her life as a frustrated teenager, to her unabashed desire to metaphorically live forever – to create or do something so majestic and so wonderful that, even after she died, the world would not (could not) forget her.

Annalies Marie died tragically young, just before her 16th birthday.  Yet, her name and her life are known the world over. And always will be.  Annelies and her Jewish family left Frankfurt in 1938, due to the severe oppression imposed by the Nazi regime.  They relocated in Amsterdam, in the Netherlands, where young Annelies wrote not in German, but in a beautiful expressive Dutch.  Her father’s family took its name from the ancient tribe of Charlemagne (Karl der Grosse), a tribe that also gave name to the city of her birth: Frankfurt.  The Franks.  …. Yes, that Frank.  Yes, that Anne Frank.

We cannot forget you.  We must not.

The Earl of Sandwich.  Clara Barton.  Anne Frank. Like everyone else who has ever lived, they have a sort of earthly life after death.

Live large my friends. Think big. Do the right thing. Don’t spend much energy wondering what others think. Any Life After Death may give us a form of eternal life.  But our physical life here is short.  Very short.

Joe Girard © 2010, 2019

[1] Congress of Breda: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Congress_of_Breda

Current Events, History, Politics

On the Border — a Library in Defiance

The US-Canada Border Runs Through this Tiny Library.

Meet the only library that operates in two countries at once.

by Sara Yahm (c) of Atlas Obscura

Rumor has it the 18th-century surveyors who drew the official line between the U.S. state of Vermont and the Canadian  province of Quebec (*) were drunk, because the border lurches back and forth across the 45th parallel, sometimes missing it by as much as a mile. But the residents of the border towns didn’t particularly mind, mostly because they ignored it altogether.

The Haskell Free Library and Opera House stands athwart the US-Canadian border, on the Derby Line

{Link to the entire article here.  For copyright purposes I did not want to cut and paste the entire piece.}

Enjoy

Joe

To contact Joe just email him at joe@girardmeister.com

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* Editor note: actually the British colony of Lower Canada.  The line was to be surveyed as the international boundary per the Treaty of Ghent at the conclusion of the War of 1812, which was signed on Christmas Eve, 1814, and formally ended the war.  We will never know what would have happened if Col Andy Jackson and his ragtag army, allied with locals and pirates, had not defeated the British at the Battle of New Orleans, just a few weeks later.

History, Politics

On State Sizes and Power

Anyone who has glanced at a map of the United States has had this thought: Look at all those big states with straight lines, something like Tetris assembly blocks.  Perhaps you’ve expressed it out loud: What’s that all about? — All those straight lines?

All US States have at least part of their borders made up of “straight lines”

Perhaps none draws your attention more than my home state of Colorado, and not just because it is somewhat large; in fact the 7th largest of all states south of 49 degrees.  It’s because its boundaries are four perfectly “straight” lines (as is Wyoming): two east-to-west, spaced exactly 4 degrees of latitude apart; and two north-to-south, spaced exactly 7 degrees of longitude apart.  [Since the world is curved, the east-west lines are, of course, not perfectly straight].

Tetras Blocks

Now why is all of that?

The history of state shapes — and straight line boundaries — long precedes the incorporation of western states into the union.  It’s a fact that the shapes of each of the original 13 states also had straight line boundaries, mostly along lines of latitude. And each of those, in turn, got their straight lines from charters issued by the Monarchs of England, in the 17th and 18th centuries.

All of the original 13 colonies that made up the original US had straight lines in their colonial borders

Those original colonial charters, issued well before the Declaration of Independence, laid down much of the DNA for the political conflict we suffer today, now well into the 21st century.

Hearkening back to those original charters, with boundaries following straight lines as well as hill crests and river channels, led to colonies of vastly different size and population.  When the colonies’ representatives assembled in the Continental Congress – eventually to seek independence from England – the smaller colonies (think Delaware, Rhode Island, and 9 more) were wary of the potential political power from larger, more populous and economically more brawny, muscular colonies, especially Virginia and New York.

Once independence was attained – de facto after victory and Yorktown in 1781 and officially by the Treaty of Paris 1783 – the 13 independent states hammered out their differences by many compromises to became a single nation, which we generally respect today as the Constitution of the United States; it became the federal rule book on March 4, 1789.

When the Paris Treaty was signed the new government immediately had some very important questions regarding states’ relative powers to address.  How to administer all the new land west of the Appalachians, and what are the details of how new states are to be transformed from territories to state stauts?

A top criterion for this evolution was that no state should have excessive power over the others.  This was a lesson learned through the tribulations of the Continental Congress. Sadly, this is largely unwritten and not in any legislation that I know of or could find.  Nonetheless, upon entering the Union, a state would necessarily be comparatively weak, since only 60,000 residents were required to apply – most original states had many times that.  But, by allocating a fairly consistent amount of land area to new states, their power could be constrained to reasonable limits as their populations grew. Expecting that it would take many generations to populate “the west”, and believing that the climate was consistent with reports of “the vast American desert”, most of the western states were allocated larger areas.

In short, new states were allocated area commensurate with the expected ability to grow a population that would make them all roughly equal in political power.

There were a few errors made here, including: 1) the westward emigration occurred much more rapidly than expected; and 2) without a full understanding of various western climates, they could not accurately forecast what the full and final population of these new states would be. Spend much time in the vast lands between the Pacific coast and the Appalachians and you can attest that they are much more varied than anyone in 19th century DC could expect.

To address these needs of expansion, new states and balancing state powers:  there was first the Land Ordinance of 1785 followed by its sister legislation the Northwest Ordinance of 1787, which allocated five states in the new Northwest Territory (north of the Ohio River and east of the Mississippi River). These eventually became, in order: Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan and Wisconsin.  Removing the quirk of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula we can compare their landmasses and today’s Electoral Vote power as shown in the table here.  I’ve also included the first two “western states”, Tennessee and Kentucky, which joined the Union before Ohio, under the same general guidelines.

Land Area and EC votes of first 7 States admitted after independence (but not Vermont: a freak of history)

Although there is certainly some variation, it is not nearly as wide as the original 13. Among those, Virginia had area of 67,000 sq miles* to Rhode Island’s 1,500sq mi.  And an Electoral College weight of ten to R.I.’s three votes.  In fact, Rhode Island was so put off and fearful that they did not ratify the Constitution until 1790, and hence their Electoral Votes, although it mattered little, were not counted in George Washington’s first election. [* – This is not the exact area of the original Virginia; I have stripped off most of the lands west of the Appalachians that was removed as part of the 1st Bank of America compromise; this also happened to other original states, especially North Carolina and Georgia. These sizes can be seen in the second map, above].

The allocation of most subsequent new states was intended to keep a balance between the states more or less in order.  Using lines of latitude and longitude, a long and established practice dating back to the monarchs, was continued with each and every new state (with the exceptions of Hawai’i and Alaska: the latter’s eastern border was established by treaty) as this was a convenience in the drawing of territory and state lines.  Although this approach had very little regard to geography (for example, the towering Rocky Mountains run right through the middle of Colorado) it was easy to assign areas in this way.

[A coincidental oddity: the border between Colorado and New Mexico, along the 37th parallel, passes within a few feet of the peak of Raton Pass]

There were certainly some anomalies, and in some regard, they curse us today.  Of course, Hawai’I and Alaska, admitted in 1959, were freaks of history.  But, they are quite small with regard to population and will forever remain that way.  But there were others.  “Free” West Virginia was split off from Virginia during the Civil War.  Virginia’s area was further reduced to 42,700 sq miles and West Virginia comes in at a relatively puny 24,200 sq mi.

Before the bloodletting of the Civil War, two other states were admitted under relatively “unplanned” circumstances.  States that bore no resemblance to the unofficial rule of keeping states’ powers relatively balanced.  Those two were Texas and California.  And the circumstances were directly related to haste — and in trying to cement the United State’s ownership of these lands during and after the Mexican-American War.  The California Gold Rush (“In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for mine; dwelt a miner, 49er and his daughter Clementine … “) added to the urgency of speeding California into the union, in 1850. The government played up the urgency of admitting them rather quickly without regard to (and without understanding) how large their populations could grow.

These two, Texas and California, came in massively at 268,600 and 163,700 square miles.  Wow. So much for planning and vision. Their populations have since swelled so (California far more than Texas) that they carry much more sway on national politics than was ever envisioned in our country’s long history.

At the time those states (CA and TX) could conceivably have been split into 3, 4 or even 5 territories, each slated to become a state at some point.  However, that would have disrupted the delicate balance between the number of slave and free states.

So we carry these historical relics and artifacts with us today in our national politics.  The impacts on things like the Electoral College and political clashes is huge.  Most people have a complaint about how it is working out.  Many workarounds have been suggested.

As of today, eleven states, plus DC (Colorado is now on track to become the next) have passed legislation to join a Compact wherein they are committed to giving all their Electoral Votes to whoever wins the national popular vote.

As during the Constitutional Convention, most small population states will remain wary of the larger states, especially California — especially as the size of the Compact grows — and as the Compact threatens to drown out their their Whoville voices. At some point, perhaps only Horton will hear them. As of now, the 18th century constitutional compromise that protects smaller states from the massive vote generating capability of the larger states still protects them … at least for now.

Anyway, that’s the short story on all the straight lines, how we got them and how it affects us today. Thanks for reading — and there’s a final note below with plots showing that, overall and excepting CA, TX, HI, AK and the original 13, the allocation of state sizes and shapes was actually done pretty well.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2019

To contact Joe just email him at joe@girardmeister.com

You can add yourself to the “New Essay Notification List” by clicking here.

Final Thoughts.

  1. I must acknowledge a fun little book by Mark Stein that gave me some factoids and insights, called “How the States got their Shapes”, Smithsonian Books, (c) 2008
  2. For completeness and visualization: Below I have plotted the states’ area vs their number of electoral votes.  In the first plot, all 50 states are included.  The visually obvious Electoral outliers with extraordinary power according to the founders, are (in order) California, Texas, Florida and New York.  California and Texas — and to a certain extent Florida — are freaks of historical circumstance.  New York is of course one of the original states.  (California currently gets 55 votes; New York and Florida 29, and Texas 38).

In the second plot, the original 13 have been removed (as have West Virginia and Maine, since they were spin offs of original states) and the historical freaks.   Florida is retained.  The 2nd plot is on the same scale as the first, so that one can see that these remaining states make a nice little cluster and one can deduce that, odd historical circumstances aside, the federal gov’t did a pretty good job of controlling and normalizing states’ relative power.  A few states have very low Electoral Votes (e.g. the Dakotas, Wyoming, Montana), and that’s understandable, as the government did not really understand how these areas could not support much population.

Scatter of State sizes and Electoral Vote Compared: 2nd Plot does not include original 13, TX, AK, CA.

I contend the Electoral College method of choosing presidents and Veeps would be nearly bullet proof with a few changes; and the first change would be to make the total cluster plot of states population and power look like the second plot, and not the first. It can reduce the likelihood of winners losing (and losers winning), and respect the choices of smaller states without completely doing away with the Electoral College, which is effectively what the States Compact does.

 

 

Autobiographical, History

Berlin and Verbs

My wife and I returned from a fairly short trip to Belin last week.  I guess I’d be remiss in my attempts to get back into writing if I didn’t take this opportunity to share and muse a little bit.

We took the opportunity to take in quite a few sites, take some guided history walking tours, visit some museums, monuments, memorials and a handful of the countless Christmas Markets.

I must tell you that Berlin in December is very cool, wet, usually breezy and quite dark.  The sun is “up and out” only about 7 hours per day, but that is misleading.  It’s usually very cloudy.  That might explain the love of Glühwien (German mulled wine, nice and hot).  Berliners don’t seem phased by it at all.  They are out living life.  The tourists, and many ex-pats, too.  Only a few people we met were actually native Berliners (and three of those were tour guides).

Since the 2014 car crash I’ve been attempting to learn German.  I thought I had a good foundation from High School and a semester at university.  Au contraire … or however you say that in German: Gegen something, I suppose. Just a hobby to keep my brain engaged and plastically growing.

I here in advance apologize to any German speakers.

One of the many ways to approach much of the vocabulary is through verbs. It’s a lure, since at first glace it seems like the language doesn’t really have that many root verbs; and each verb has so many subtle differences that one could hope that there is a little learning magic there.  First, let me disabuse you of that notion.  There are many unfruitful approaches to learning German, especially if one is looking for learning magic.  I don’t know of any fruitful approaches.  At least at my age.  But I digress.

Back to verbs.  If one is to think, then that is the basic German verb “denken”.  If one is to remember, that is another more difficult verb “errinern.”

Unfortunately, this second verb, errineren, is somewhat more difficult to use than your “normal” German verb, since it is a mandatory “reflexive verb”, which means you don’t ever just say “somebody remembers something”; instead you have say “somebody remembered themself of something.”  [Jemand erinnert sich an etwas.] Awkward, yes, but German is full of these little pitfalls.

The following list of verbs are made from the extensive list of mandatory reflexive verbs: a) to be interested, b) to be happy, c) to sit down … etc. Of course! You do all these things to yourself.  It’s all quite simple, as explained on sites like GermanVeryEasy.com (Ha, that site name should have #sarcasm in it).  There they have thousands of words dedicated to something most languages find totally unnecessary and get along quite fine without.  Namely, mandatory reflexive verbs. But again, I digress.  (German can do that to you).

Anyhow, it’s a start.  Think and remember.  Denken and Errinern.

In Berlin there are many memorials, monuments and commemorative sites.  There’s a lot to remember: the first Reich, the second Reich, the wild ’20s, the Third Reich, the Reichstag, the Holocaust, the splitting of city as well as a country, the thumb of Soviet influence, the Berlin Airlift.

“Street Art” is usually very good in Berlin, the former East Berlin, that is.

The places are identified by using the roots of these two verbs.  One place might be a Denkmal or Gedenkstätte, which one supposes are the sort of memorials intended to stimulate thought.  And another place might be an Errinerungsstätte, which are places to preserve memory of someone or something.  One of our tour guides informed us of a third word form for very special places like this: Mahnmal.  According to him this is a rather contrived word – a portmanteau, if you like – of Mahnung and Denkmal.  The source of the front of this third word, Mahnmal – namely Mahnung – is not a verb at all, but rather a noun.  It means “warning” or “reminder.” How appropriate, because much of what is to be remembered and thought about in Berlin should also serve as a stern warning: never, ever again.

Let’s spend time with one more German verb, which is “fahren” and means to drive, or to travel. One reason I chose it is because its simple root, “fahr”, forms the first part of a very fun word that many Americans have heard quite often, “Fahrvergnügen” (Vergnügen meaning “pleasure” or “fun.”  Hey Volkswagen, you’re welcome!)

The other reason I chose fahren is because it leads us nearly everywhere.  Add “Aus” to the front and you get a snicker from English speakers: Ausfahrt.  This would be an exit.  Add Ein for Einfahrt and you get an entrance.  (These only apply if one is driving.  If you are walking it’s Austritt and Eintritt; and in general it’s Ausgang and Eingang – Tritt based on the verb to step, and Gang based on the verb to go.)

Tweak the vowel, a to ü, and you get führen, which means “to lead” … a clear path to Führer, one who leads. So your tour guide is your Reiseführer, a guided tour is a Führung.

See, Fahren can take you anywhere.

Tweak the vowel a little differently to get fähre, which is a Ferry (and that’s pretty much how you’d say it, too).

There are dozens of little prefixes you can toss onto the front of a verb to tweak its meaning, overhaul its meaning, or, sometimes, not change its essential meaning at all. That’s German for you.  For example, add an Ab prefix for abfahren and you get the verb “to depart.”  Which I guess is what it’s time for me to do now.  The noun, departure, is just wonderful: Abfahrt.

Gute Fahrt!

Be well,

Joe Girard © 2018

To contact Joe just email him at joe@girardmeister.com

You can add yourself to the “New Essay Notification List” by clicking here.

The Brezhnev-Honecker kiss of socialist brotherly love … or the kiss death. As depicted on wall art (Mauerkunst).

 

 

 

Autobiographical, Biographical, History

Looking Forward

1967: It was found in the south part of the city, in the attic of the oldest part of a mid-19th century mansion.  Thanks to a grassroots groundswell, the mansion survived the routing of the new Interstate Highway – I-55 – but just barely.

During restorations to preserve this structure representing local history, and to make it into a museum, an electrician found a large bundle of buffalo leather.  Something was preserved inside, wrapped carefully in the skins. Miraculously, the contents were nearly perfectly preserved – despite six score years – as they were otherwise unprotected from the wild temperature and humidity swings of the mid-Mississippi basin climate.

 

 

1846: America’s vast western plains

Her name was Mathó-shina (Bear Robe), short for “She who wears a Bear Robe.” She was the daughter of one Lakota chief and sister to another.  She was young – probably mid-20s – a mother and a wife; with bright, dark piercing eyes that hinted at great intelligence and determination.

There, on American wind and storm-swept western plains, in a large tipi made of buffalo skins and lodge pole pines harvested by her father, she lay dying of a lung infection.  Witness accounts that have reached us today say that there is no reason she should be alive, lingering among her people and family for so many, many days … breathless, not even speaking.  Yet she did. She tenaciously clung to life … waiting … waiting. Her father had sent out a search team; she was waiting for their return.

___________________________________________

Henri Chatillon was one of those adventurous souls who had roamed the west for nearly twenty years since leaving his home in Carondolet, Missiouri (now a neighborhood on Saint Louis’ most south-eastern extent) where he had been born to a famous French family.  He left home at age 15 to trap and hunt for furs.  He worked for both himself and eventually for large enterprises like the American Fur Company.

Over that time, he had learned the languages of many of the plains’ tribes; and there was enough cross-over that he could communicate and be friendly with virtually all of them.  Never underestimate what a determined, yet largely illiterate person, can accomplish.

That year, 1846, two young easterners, Francis Parkman and Quincy Adams Shaw – both recently out of Harvard – were passing through Saint Louis en route to “the west.”  They wanted to see the buffalos, the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains. Who knew how long the buffalos would survive, or the west would remain pristine? It was the sort of a “rite of passage” journey that two young twenty-somethings who had a privileged life and zest for adventure might undertake.  It was also ignorant.  They had no idea what they were doing or getting into.

Fortunately for them, Chatillon was briefly back home and they crossed paths in St Louis. Probably out of mercy – or pity – Chatillon agreed to be their guide.  And off they went, mostly along the Oregon Trail, toward the great Rocky Mountains.

Somewhere out on the plains a young Lakota man on horseback found them.  He had an urgent message for Chatillon.  Your wife is dying.

The small group immediately terminated their tour and headed off, toward eastern Wyoming, to find Bear Robe’s tribe.

They arrived to find her still struggling for each breath, struggling for life … and still lacking the energy to talk.

Chatillon was tired and very sad – upon arrival he also learned that their young child had just died. Strengthened by love, devotion and duty, he spent that entire night awake with his wife. Inexplicably, she regained the strength to speak with him.

They spoke of many things that night, but all of it we cannot know.  The next morning, Parkman and Bear Robe’s father came into the tipi to find Chatillon holding her … and just in time to see the death rattle of her final breath.

 

I’ve long thought that death, for many people, can be pushed off until some special event is reached.  And, as a corollary, that people who have nothing to look forward to (or have to wait a long time for something “special”) might experience a higher death rate.

It turns out there has been some research to suggest that this is true. I’ve listed a few citations. The most likely days to die are: your birthday [1] ; right after Christmas (or New Years’) [2] ; and I postulate other major family events, like weddings.

With regard to special relationships – like courtship and marriage – I suspect that if our experience is a valid data point, then having something to look forward to is just as important to the relationship as it is to life itself.

Looking forward.  It means a lot.

During a whirlwind courtship (49 weeks from first date to engagement) Audrey’s and my relationship fell to tatters at least twice.  Each time it was resurrected by having something to look forward to.

First, we had committed (both financially and training) to climb Mount Rainier together.  Although we had fallen on rough times, the fact that we were looking forward to the climb – and achieving it – brought us closer together, even if only for one more time.  Neither one of us would back out. It was a time of re-connecting.

Audrey and Joe atop Mt Ranier, July 31, 1982. Ignorant of the eventual long term significance of this event and picture, I am so-o-o-o glad that I had the presence of mind to lean close and put my arm around the love of my life.

Second, a few months later, in November, I needed a knee surgery and “wisely” scheduled it the day before Thanksgiving, so that I could recover with minimal time off work.  OK – not so wisely.  Not wise at all: when you have surgery, you need someone to drive you home. Every friend I contacted had conflicting commitments.

I needed Audrey, even though we were on the “outs.”  So, I called her and we had something to look forward to, even if it was post-surgery rescue.  Yes, she rescued me – and our relationship.  Picking me up from the hospital and taking me to her parents’ house for the turkey and stuffing festivities. Again, it was a time of re-connecting.

Thinking back, it’s always been that way. There have always been “rough patches” here and there.  But we endure.  And largely because we always have had some major event or trip to look forward to.  For that, almost all the credit goes to Audrey.

When things are rough, there’s no sense looking around – or looking backward – to find where any blame might lie.  Best to keep your eyes and attention forward.

My suggestion is to make whatever you are looking forward to not general (like retirement, or take a trip), but specific: Climb a certain mountain, bicycle a specific location, make a specific person feel special on a specific date, tour a special place.

For a long and rewarding life anyhow.

Here’s looking forward to many more adventures and uplifting life experiences for all of us.  It’s a simple thing we can do to keep us going.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2018

 

Epilogue and afterthoughts:

After Bear Robe died, Chatillon returned to St Louis and settled down.  In gratitude, Parkman gave him his Hawken rifle – a true prize possession.

Chatillon commissioned a painting of Bear Robe.  It was soul-piercing. It showed a handsome sad-eyed man in quiet, mournful reflection gazing into space – and a beautiful squaw looking down, trying to offer consolation.

Henri Chatillon found a new wife, and had a house built on the main road half-way between St Louis and Carondelet.

Chatillon’s new wife had no interest in his past life, including his past wife.  Now having a full life to look forward to with his new bride … Chatillon tenderly wrapped the painting and the rifle in his best buffalo leathers.  He “buried” the bundle in the attic of his new house; and he buried the memories of his past life in his heart – only to be brought out in private solitary moments, and never to be spoken of again. With some anguish, he let go of his past.

“Bear Robe’s Death” — I believe the artist is unknown.

Parkman wrote of his adventures out west in a book that became wildly popular: “The Oregon Trail”, published in 1849. It provides much of what we know of Chatillon and Bear Robe. It’s still in print and available for a reasonable price.

About 10 years later, Chatillon sold the house to the DeMenil family, who enlarged it into a magnificent mansion.  You can get a guided tour of the Chatillon-DeMenil mansion — and learn some fascinating St Louis, mid-west and western history — March 1 through December 31 most weekdays and weekends.

To contact Joe just email him at joe@girardmeister.com

You can add yourself to the “New Essay Notification List” by clicking here.

Citations and bibliographical kind of stuff:
[1] The Birthday Effect: https://www.thisisinsider.com/death-more-likely-near-your-birthday-statistical-physiological-psychological-reasons-2018-9

[2] Post holiday deaths: Giving up. https://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-4063122/The-tragic-reason-deaths-spike-Christmas-Researchers-say-sick-big-day.html

[3] The Holiday Effect: https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/to-your-health/wp/2016/12/22/mystery-of-spike-in-deaths-between-christmas-and-new-years-gets-curiouser-and-curiouser/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.e668a673f266

 

Autobiographical, Medicine, Philosophy

Brief and Fragile

Food makes its way through the 30-foot alimentary canal at an average rate of 0.00023 miles per hour. Kind of slow. That’s about one-third the speed of a standard garden snail, if it could crawl for 24 hours without stopping, which is about the duration of an average trip down the canal. But snails usually don’t do that (they are ambitiously lazy), so – one assumes – food moves through you at about a snail’s pace.

After chewing, the first part of the digestive process along the canal is the protein enzymes carried by one’s saliva. In addition to the enzymes that begin breaking down carbohydrates, the mucus they produce helps facilitate swallowing. Although we each have thousands of salivary glands, there are six major glands that produce most of our saliva, and they come in three pairs:

  1. The Parotid Glands, which are wrapped around the mid- to aft part of the mandible (lower jaw)
  2. The Submandibular Glands, located just above the Adams Apple, each about one inch off center, to the side, sort of astride the chin area.
  3. The Sublingual Glands, which – as you might suspect – are under the tongue. They are toward the front.

These glands produce some 90-95% of our saliva. The submandibular glands produce about two-thirds of that; most of its juice is enzymes for digestion, not watery mucus for swallowing.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

My wife and I just returned from a long out-and-back road trip to the Pacific Northwest. The primary reason was to pick up some of her mother’s furniture. Over a few days, we were able to visit with several dear friends and all her family who still live in the area. The weather was spectacular: we were able to really enjoy some typically Seattle touristy things: Lake Union boat tour, Pike Place Market, Elliot Bay and Snoqualmie Falls.

We also made a wide swing on the return leg to see Crater Lake. A place we’d never been to – but always wanted to – despite several previous vacation trips through Oregon. Simply stunning. Gorgeous. We had fantastic weather … again.

When a couple who are dear friends of ours (she arranged for Audrey and me to meet in 1982) found out where we were (thanks Facebook!), they made the three-hour trip from northern California to visit with us in Oregon. Hadn’t seen them since April, 1984.

________________________________________________________________________

I was reminded on this trip, yet again, how brief and fragile an individual’s life is here on our home planet. And not just because we made another trip to Tahoma National Cemetery, where we visited Audrey’s parents’ final resting place, and again walked the beautifully maintained grounds to look at various tombstones and enjoy quiet “alone time”, meditating and rolling thoughts around while on the sacred tracts.

Even considering that many of those buried there died in military service, or shortly thereafter, the average lifespan shown was only about 70 years. That’s only about 1% of the length of recorded history. Yet only about 0.1% of the duration of the Homo Sapiens Sapiens sub-species. And only about 0.000001% the age of the earth.

Life is brief.

Yet on a beautiful Sunday evening I was also reminded that life is fragile.

I’m in pretty good shape. Good diet. Extraordinary exercise discipline. Good BMI. Good BP. Solid core. Probably should drink a little less.

Yet on that Sunday evening I felt unusually tired and lay down for a short power nap. Short? I was down over an hour.

Upon awaking, my tongue felt thick and uncoordinated. Aside my tongue felt sore. I did the stroke test: smiled in the mirror. All good and symmetric. I went outside the house for a social gathering, greeted everyone, and took a piece of cheese from what remained on the snack plate. They had been waiting on me to commence with the meal. I felt awkward.

But I felt more awkward when the cheese would not go down my gullet. And some got stuck under my tongue. I suddenly felt difficulty breathing and talking, as well as swallowing.

I put my hand up to my throat – why? – to find that underneath the left side of my jaw was enormously swollen. Pushing painfully into the swelling I could discern a substantial hard mass. Lymph nodes?

When I showed Audrey – she who could see how large it was – she decided immediately: we are going to an Emergency Room. So off we immediately go to Overlake Hospital, Bellevue Washington.

As the swelling continued growing, the gentle yet attentive Doctor Chang told me that these things often get worse before they get better. As that would be life threatening, he gently suggested that I should spend the night in hospital.

I responded: Gee Doc, I don’t know. This is our first date.

He smiled, briefly. Then shot me a serious look.

“OK, if I need to.”

At first, he thought it was an immune reaction to a medication I have been taking for many years. Apparently common. But, as a precaution against a possible infection, he ordered a CT scan.

Over two hours later the results came in. Yes, I did have an infection (even though I had no fever). Right near the infection that nearly killed me after a dental procedure some four and a half years ago. I still bear the scar on my jaw, under tooth #18.

So … here’s what happened. The enzymes and such carried by salivary glands can crystallize into tiny, tiny stones. Which can block the duct. Which backs up. And then gets infected. That dang left submandibular salivary gland! Of course, I should have known (actually, I had no freaking idea; I had to look all of this up).

What causes this? Apparently, age is a big indicator: I’m no spring chicken. Also, dehydration. Well, it had been very hot and dry in Colorado recently, and I’d been working out … a lot. So, it all fits.

I had a very positive reaction to the IV anti-biotic and steroids. In a few hours I was released – well after midnight – to the care of my loving wife.

Now, suppose we had been driving through the middle of nowhere (as we often were on this trip) or on a long hike or backpack trip – without cell service.

That would have been very serious indeed.

On oral anti-biotics the swelling reduced to nil over a few days. A week of pills and it’s all gone. So, don’t worry about me.

I get my annual physical next week. Can’t wait to tell them about this one.
_______________________________________

Life is fragile. Life is short. Hug, call, or write someone special in your life. I’m writing to you.

Wishing y’all get all your days, which are numbered at only about 29,000, on average. That’s not a large number.

Peace
Joe Girard © 2018

 

To contact Joe just email him at joe@girardmeister.com

You can add yourself to the “New Essay Notification List” by clicking here.

Biographical, Guest Essay, Sports, Strong Women

Young Champ

Guest essay, by John Sarkis

July 7, 1962 – 56 years-ago today, Karen Hantze Susman, a teenaged bride from St. Louis, won the Women’s Singles Championship at Wimbledon. She had also won the doubles title at that year’s Wimbledon, along with her partner, 17-year-old Billie Jean Moffitt. A year earlier, they had become the youngest team to ever win the women’s doubles championship. Moffitt would (of course) become better known by her married name, Billy Jean King.

Karen Susman in July 1962, after winning Wimbledon; and six years ago, at her home, on the 50th anniversary of her victory.

Karen Hantze, a native of San Diego and just eighteen years-old, moved to St Louis, the hometown of her husband, Rod, who had attended Ladue’s Horton Watkins High School before becoming a professional tennis player. Marrying against the advice of her family and friends, she and Rod just celebrated their 56th wedding anniversary at their home in suburban San Diego.

Karen would win three Grand Slam Doubles titles in her short career, but gave up playing competitively because there wasn’t enough money in women’s tennis to earn a living at that time.

Wimbledon didn’t award prize money until 1968. The winner of this year’s Wimbledon Women’s Championship, which is currently underway, will take home 2.25 Million British Pounds, the equivalent of just under $3 Million. Each of the Doubles Tournament winners this year will win 450,000 Pounds, or about $600,000.

[editor’s note: gently edited essay by John Sarkis, a Saint Louis native and retiree, who posts and writes regularly as a hobby about St Louis history]

 

Biographical, History

Nashville’s Shelby Street Bridge

“Give to the world the best you have, and the best will come back to you.” – John Seigenthaler

Nashville’s Shelby Street Bridge crosses the Cumberland River near the heart of downtown, just one block south of Broadway.  Built in 1907-9, it was originally called the Sparkman Street Bridge, as it connected Sparkman on the west side to Shelby on the east.  The 3,150 foot triple span bridge (about half that over water) was the first in America to use concrete trusses.

Sparkman Street Bridge, circa 1920

Sparkman Street was always a very short street (it now exists only as a short pedestrian mall, renamed Symphony Row – the rest obliterated by modern structures like the Bridgeman Arena where the NHL Predators play). So, the bridge was soon renamed Shelby Street Bridge.  Shelby Street (later upgraded to Shelby Avenue) is named after Dr John Shelby –  a mid-19th century Nashville postmaster and owner of much of the land east of the Cumberland back then, when the streets were laid out. It still exists on the east side of the river. But it now bends south as it approaches the river, to cross river over the newer, flashier Korean Veterans Bridge.

From the bridge’s high point you can fetch some breathtaking views of this rapidly modernizing city, as well as its history.  You can see the AT&T “Batman building.”  Nissan Stadium, where the Tennessee Titans play.  You can see “Honky Tonk Row.”  And one can see the site of old Fort Nashborough, now reconstructed,

Shelby Street Bridge, 2008

where John Robertson and James Donelson led a rugged group of Revolutionary War soldiers called “The Over Mountain Men” when founding the city, in 1779.

You can also get an unobstructed view of the Cumberland River, nearly 120 feet below – except for when the river runs high. Neglecting drag, an object dropped from here would hit the water at 60 miles per hour.

 

“Through early morning fog I see
Visions of the things to be,
The Pains that are withheld for me.
I realize and then I see …”

In 1949 John Seigenthaler, aged 22, joined one of Nashville’s major newspapers, The Tennessean, as a journalist.  He had just completed three years of service in the Air Force.  He was assigned to the Police Beat and had a nose for a story.  In a few years he had earned the respect of all the staff, even the older gray beards. He did that while simultaneously studying literature and  sociology at Peabody College (adjacent to, and now part of, Vanderbilt University).

In 1953 Seigenthaler first gained national prominence when he tracked down someone in a famous missing person case.  The son of a local wealthy businessman had disappeared way back in 1931.  Six weeks later so did his secretary.  Coincidence? They were never found.  Never found, that is, until Seigenthaler tracked them down in Texas, 22 years later.  For his dogged determination, research, article and coverage he earned a National Headliner Award.

“… That Suicide is painless.
It brings on many changes.
And I can take or leave it if I please.”

There is nothing painless about suicide. It leaves holes and wounds.  In people’s lives.  Friends’ lives.  Acquaintances. Family – spouses, parents, children, nieces, nephews, cousins.  Holes in their hearts, minds and souls. Holes that last decades … the rest of their lives.

People choose this escape for many reasons, I suppose.  Mental illness and drug addiction.  And serious depression, which can result from anxiety, disgrace, social isolation, despondency, chronic pain, rejection, remorse or dysphoria. Some see it as an honorable exit. Or any combination of the above.  Those who succeed cannot answer any of our questions.

I know several people who’ve had friends and family members leave this way.  Their pain is immeasurable. Often devastated … and they are totally gutted.  Suicide is not painless – M*A*S*H’s famous theme song notwithstanding.

If you or anyone you know find yourself inconsolable and even remotely considering this, please talk to someone; or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255). It’s a free, 24-hour hotline available to anyone in suicidal crisis or emotional distress.

“That game of life is hard to play.
I’m gonna lose it anyway:
The losing card of some delay.
So this is all I have to say …”

In the late ‘50s Seigenthaler tried to bring corruption within the newspaper’s ranks to management’s attention, with little success. More than a little discouraged by this, and The Tennessean’s management in general, Seigenthaler took a break from his journalism career to work in the Kennedy administration in 1960 as an Administrative Assistant in the Justice Department.  In 1961 he was directly involved in trying to help the Freedom Riders get through Alabama with minimal violence.  In Montgomery, while representing Attorney General Bobby Kennedy, and trying to help two Riders to safety, he was severely beaten and knocked unconscious by a police baton blow to the head.

While he was away, The Tennessean’s management team and style changed.  They were to become the hard-hitting team that Seigenthaler had imagined.  By 1962 he was back, and as editor.  Under him the Tennessean become famous for taking on corruption in many areas, labor issues (including Teamster corruption), civil rights, and even fixed elections. They won Pulitzer Prizes.

He also became a fierce defender of the First Amendment, founding the 1st Amendment Center in Nashville’s Vanderbilt University.  No slouch, he also went on to help found the newspaper USA Today, in the early ‘80s.  He remained active professionally and intellectually well into his eighties.

“…That suicide is painless.
It brings on many changes.
I can take or leave it if I please.”

On October 4, 1954, Nashville resident Gene Bradford Williams, age 55, was completely despondent over his pending divorce.  He was going to end his life by jumping from the Shelby Street Bridge.  He called the Tennessean, saying “send a reporter and photographer if you want the story.”

Seigenthaler hurried himself over to the bridge.  He walked out onto the bridge, soon cordoned off by police. He proceeded to talk with Williams for 40 minutes, slowly approaching him as the minutes wore on.  Finally, Williams had had enough.  As he climbed over the railing, announcing his farewell to the world, Seigenthaler was close enough to race the final few steps and grab his collar, just as Williams went over the side.  Seigenthaler held him until police could help get Williams back up onto the bridge.

At first Williams was angry.  “I’ll never forgive you.”  But he did.  Seigenthaler saved much pain that day.  Williams soon thanked him.  Just 20 days later, Williams wrote Seigenthaler.

Dear friend,
Inasmuch as I did say “I’ll never forgive you,” I feel I owe you an apology for said statement.
I also feel that I owe you eternal gratitude for saving me from the briny deep.

In 1992 the Shelby Street Bridge was deemed too aged for vehicular traffic and too uneconomical for restoration. In 1998 it was converted to a pedestrian bridge, and also put on the Register of National Historic Places, thus affording locals and tourists a peaceful, most wonderful view of the city, and a sense of its history.  Including the life and service of John Seigenthaler.

You see, for his service to the community, to journalism, civil rights, and the First Amendment – and for saving a man’s life –  the Shelby Street Bridge was renamed the John Seignethaler Pedestrian Bridge, shortly before his own death, in 2014.

“A brave man once requested me
To answer questions that are key.
‘Is it to be or not to be?’
And I replied, ‘Oh, why ask me?’ “

To John Seigenthaler (1927-2014), of Nashville Tennessee —  if you ask me: a brave man, indeed.

Plaque at east end of the Seigenthaler Pedestrian Bridge, Nashville, TN

Peace,

Joe Girard © 2018

To contact Joe just email him at joe@girardmeister.com

You can add yourself to the “New Essay Notification List” by clicking here.

 

  1. Short Bio: https://www.theclio.com/web/entry?id=12771
  2. Other stuff: http://www.the-wood-family.org/Tom/Nashville/SeigenthalerTimes_final.pdf

https://news.vanderbilt.edu/2014/07/11/seigenthaler/

3. I don’t know how he pronounced his last name.  As a lifelong (failing) German language learner, I’d say it like “Z-EYE-gen-taller.”  Anyhow, that’s how his ancestors would have said it.  🙂

 

Mid century photo

Autobiographical, Biographical, Philosophy, Sports, Strong Women

Last At Bat, Good Sport

Three remarkable young women
+ Two unlikely events
+ One selfless decision
=
One unforgettable moment in sports history
Plus two great life lessons

“Being nice matters and I think sometimes our society forgets that.” – Mallory Holtman-Fletcher

Central Washington University is a medium-sized state university of some 10,000 students.  It is a solid school, providing a breadth of education to students for about 150 different majors. It provides fantastic value; it was recently rated by The Economist magazine as providing the most positive economic impact on its students of all colleges and universities in the state of Washington. It offers 17 NCAA sports, usually competing at the Division-II level. You don’t hear a lot of noise from or about CWU; they just go about their job, doing it well and moving along just fine, thank you.

Central Washington University’s Historic Barge Hall

Students and alumni of other Washington state schools often disparagingly refer to CWU as “Car Wash State.”  But CWU, staff, students and grads don’t mind much.  And they don’t retaliate.  It is a respectable school.

Ellensburg, Washington – located just over 100 miles east of Seattle, across the Cascade Range, where the mountains blend into the drier Kittitas Valley, and then to the even drier and flatter semi-desert of eastern Washington – is the host city to CWU.  Ellensburg is a small, functional and well-located town of under 20,000 hearty souls.  Ellensburg is a lot like CWU to me: there is no chest-thumping, no braggadocio, no flash.  Just simple efficiency.  Folks from Seattle and other towns west of the Cascades often like to knock it – sometimes as they breeze past on Interstate-90 – as a nothing, sleepy town.  As the equivalent of fly-over country for road trips.

Due to a fleeting, shiny fleck of personal history, both CWU and Ellensburg will forever occupy a tiny, but special, place in my heart.  A soft spot.  Let’s call that soft spot a piece of cake.

Due to one of the most unlikely series of events (and sportsmanship) in all of NCAA history – if not all of sports history – that Ellensburg/CWU piece of cake now has a nice crown of icing.  Very tasty.

There are a lot of sports that I don’t pay much attention to, except maybe into and through the playoffs when the best teams are playing, and they have something important to play for. NCAA Women’s Softball is one of those sports.  I’ll catch a glimpse when in a sports bar, or channel flipping. Then I’m like a moth around a late-night light: I just can’t help myself. My attention is drawn to the pure athleticism and grace of the players under pressure; the pace of the game; the strategies and the drama.  Perhaps their reflexes are the most impressive.  Pitchers can throw the ball – underhand mind you – at speeds that approach major league pitch speeds.  But the pitching rubber is some 14 feet closer than the majors! What a softball pitcher can make that ball do as it speeds along that distance of 46 feet at 80+ mph is astonishing! The pitches rise; they dip; they slip, and they slide. How do batters even touch the ball?

One thing that always amazes me is the size and physique of so many of the young women.  I’ve always thought that most of the better players could swap uniforms with their school’s football players and you could use them as actors in making a realistic movie about linebackers.

I knew of the following story, and at least one other somewhat similar.  Somehow, I forgot almost completely about it.  But sportsmanship in competitive dramatic moments came up in a conversation with my wife recently, and my non-linear brain pulled up this story and quite a few details.  At first, I contorted my brain to try and recall much more. Well the internet is an astounding resource.  After finding many more details there, including some school records, I was overcome with the urge to write it down.

__________________________________________________________________________

When the Western Oregon University women’s softball team traveled to Ellensburg to play a double-header against Central Washington University on April 26, 2008, the teams were neck-and-neck for the season conference title, which would end in about a week.  It was a special day at CWU: Senior Day.  Their seniors were being honored as they would be playing the final home games of their career.

Playing first base for CWU that day was senior Mallory Holtman.  During those last few weeks of the season she was playing through terrific pain.  She really needed two knee surgeries. Those would have to wait; she did not want to let herself or her team down.  She wanted one last chance for a conference championship. She was certainly one of the stars of the team – in fact the entire Great Northwestern Athletic Conference.  At the time she was the conference’s all-time home run and RBI leader; she is still the all-time conference leader in those statistics. At season’s end she was chosen the GNAC Player of the Year, leading it in home runs and batting nearly .400.

Across the infield was friend Liz Wallace, another senior and team leader – also hoping to help lead CWU to the league championship and playoffs. Liz stood second to Mallory at almost every offensive statistic, and she held down the very important defensive position of shortstop.  She had played in almost every single CWU game over her four years there.  The day and the games meant a lot to these young women.

___________________________________________________

In 2008, Western Oregon was having one of their best seasons in years.  In fact, their best season ever. They had momentum and they could feel it.  And on that last Saturday in April they had just rolled into town from Idaho, having taken both ends of a double-header from Northwest Nazarene, in Nampa.

Petite and plucky Sara Tucholsky was a senior on that 2008 Western Oregon squad.  She had been through the WOU bad times with good cheer.  [The previous three years the team’s won-loss records were 14-33, 17-32, and a promising 26-25].  And, although she had only briefly been a full-time player –  during part of her sophomore year – she was certainly enjoying being part of this team.  It was a team of extraordinarily deep talent and chemistry. When she got a chance to play, she gave it her all – athletically, energetically and enthusiastically.

At only 5-foot 2-inches tall Sara stood nearly a head shorter than most other players.  Add to that her rather slight frame and she would never be confused for a linebacker, no matter what she was wearing.  This season, as during most of the previous three, Sara played only sparingly, sometimes against a non-conference foe, or – like today – in a double-header during a long stretch of games so that some players could rest.

Western Oregon took game one easily by a score of 8-1, behind star pitcher, team MVP and conference all-star Katie Fleer. (Fleer won 25 games that year).

For game two, Sara was inserted into the 8th batting position and right field.

Her career batting statistics until this day raised no eyebrows.  They were fodder for little conversation.  Her college batting average was a humble .149, and she had but one lonely extra base hit in those four years – a double that fell in way back in her freshman year.  Not only did she not have a single college home run, she had never hit a home run – ever.  Not in high school, not in youth sports.

When Sara’s first turn to bat came up in that second game of a double-header, April 26, 2008, in the top of the second inning, her batting average for that 2008 season was an unimposing .088 – a mere three singles in 34 at bats.  Yet she battled on.

She had diligently taken her turn at regular batting practice; taken advice from coaches; worked on drills.  She exhibited a commitment to improvement when many others would have given up.

With one out and two runners on base Sara now made her way to home plate.  A few jeers and giggles came from the crowd when her lack of height and brawn became evident during her stroll. She gave herself a little pep talk: ignore them, be brave, be focused, don’t give in, do your best, Sara – whatever that may bring.

She dug in to the right-handed batter’s box.  The first pitch was a rising fast ball, about letter high.  A borderline pitch. Sara let it go.  Strike one!

Well, whatever happened next, she told herself, she wasn’t going to let that happen again.

She doesn’t remember where the next pitch was.  Sara simply remembers swinging.

And that’s when the first unlikely event happened.  Sara made solid contact.  Very solid contact. Contact like she had never made before.  Right on the sweet spot.

The batted ball soared out to centerfield and kept going … and going.  The two base runners paused so they could tag up when the ball was caught– Sara certainly couldn’t hit the ball over the fence.  Could she?

She did.  That ball cleared the fence.

While the other runners jogged around the bases to home, Sara – a very jubilant lass – jumped and skipped as she ran to – and past – first base.  In her excitement she initially missed the base.  Every player and fan knows that a ball hit over the fence is not a home run until the batter touches all the bases, in order.  Even though she had never hit a ball over an outfield fence before, Sara of course quickly realized she had missed the base. She stopped. Then she turned around – maybe a bit too quickly in the excitement. She had to return to, and touch, first base.

And that’s when the second unlikely event happened.  Sara let out a short yelp – and crumpled to the dirt. Something was terribly wrong with her right knee.  As it turned out, she had torn her ACL.  She crawled back to first base, practically in tears.

And now the dilemma.  Sara could not be expected to crawl around the bases like that, let alone walk or trot.  The rules of baseball and softball do not permit physical assistance by a player’s teammates or coaches. If so, she would be declared out, and her home run would not be counted. If she were replaced by a pinch runner, it would be a dead ball substitution: The replacement runner would begin the next play at first base, Sara would only be credited with a single, and her run would not count.

After a few minutes of discussion – frustrating discussion between WOU coaches and umpires – there occurred the third surprise event: the unselfish act.  Perhaps not quite as unlikely as the long hit and the sudden crippling injury, but one of the most wonderful decisions and events in sports EVER.

Just as Western Oregon’s coach was about to put a replacement runner at first base for Sara, Central Washington’s star first baseman, Mallory Holtman, asked if she and her teammates could help Sara around the bases.  They conferred with the umpires, who concurred that this would be within the rules. Holtman, joined by teammate Liz Wallace, carried lame Sara the rest of the way around the diamond, pausing a moment at each base and gently lowering Sara so that her left foot could tap second, then third base … and then home plate.  Whereupon Sara was handed over to her teammates.

Three great young women [photo credit: NCAA.ORG and Blake Wolf]

It was now official! Sara had hit a three-run home run!  Those were her only three RBIs (Runs Batted In) for the entire season.  It was, of course, her last at bat in college.  Her improbable hit – and CWU’s extraordinary act of sportsmanship – were the unlikely difference in what turned out to be a 4-2 victory for Western Oregon.

________________________________________

The idea of carrying Sara around originally occurred to Holtman.  And she had the gumption to approach the umpires and WOU coaches on her own. But she has always brushed off the praise.  She’s always insisted that it’s something anyone could have thought of; and almost everyone would have done.

The event was highly documented and discussed at the time.[1]  The three young women won an ESPY for “Best Sports Moment” of the year that summer.[2]  They all would go on to a few years of notoriety, giving motivational speeches, usually Sara and Mallory, who formed a lasting friendship as a result. The video of their performance is still burned into their memory and that of many sports fans.[3] 

2008 ESPY Winners: Best Moment in Sports

Western Oregon indeed went on to win the conference championship.  It was the school’s first conference championship – in any sport.[4] They were eliminated from the Division II sectionals a few weeks later by another conference rival, Humboldt State (from California).

All three young women soon graduated.  That was ten years ago. They are all now married and, near as I can tell, still live in the Northwest or West.

Mallory Holtman went to graduate school at CWU, became the school’s assistant softball coach, and just over two years later, became the head coach, beating out nearly 50 other applicants for the position, aged only 25.  She recently retired from the demands of that position to spend more time with her family.

Liz Wallace is very involved in youth softball, helping to develop the coming generations of good athletes, and good sports. She also works as a human resources administrator. She’s living the life of a military spouse, so locating her at any time can be difficult. 

Sara works as Area Manager of recruiters and representatives for various therapy services: physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech pathology, etc.  She still gives motivational talks.  She volunteers for various agencies, including Ronald McDonald House.

Sara and Mallory remain friends, although they live about four hours apart.

The two CWU young women [5] — Mallory and Liz — gave us all something to cherish and remember –  whether or not we are sports enthusiasts.  It’s this lesson: We must consider our fellow humans as part of the same team – before we can consider them competitors.

The second life lesson is thanks to Sara: no matter how down you are, no matter how bleak the outlook, you are never defeated if you don’t give up.

To this day Central Washington, Ellensburg and those three very special women don’t brag about it.  That’s class. Actions speak for themselves.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2018

 

Acknowledgement to my good friend Marcy, who helped with proof reading and editorial suggestions. She is a delight. It turns out she rather enjoyed the story for personal reasons as well: her cousin attends CWU. I apologize, Marcy, if any typos, errors, or uneven reading have crept through into the final draft. Your effort, as always and in all regards, is greatly appreciated.

 

Notes:

1)     The umpires were in fact wrong.  NCAA rules did permit a substitute runner in such a rare event to continue running the bases in a dead ball situation such as this. It’s an understandable error, and the sports world is better off for it. The rules have been amended to make this clearer.

2)     ESPY = Excellence in Sports Performance Yearly

3)     Watch a video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jocw-oD2pgo

4)     However, as a club sport, the WOU men’s lacrosse team won the non-NCAA sanctioned PNCLL conference that year, 2008.

5)     I almost used “Young Ladies” here and throughout.  It was sort of a title, as in “Lord and Lady”, or “M’Lady” – as they had certainly earned a title.  Upon reflection I was led to conclude the term could be considered disparaging, so used “Young Women” instead.

6)     Box score for the game: http://www.wouwolves.com/custompages/Softball/SCStats/2008/wou41.htm

7) Yes I know that I named an earlier essay Last At Bat, but I couldn’t help myself. So this essay got an appropriate subtitle: Good Sport

 

Some resources:
NCAA: Where are they now?

Sara Tucholsky – An Inspiring Softball Story

Western Oregon Softball historical stats:    http://www.wouwolves.com/sports/2018/1/15/SB_0113093741.aspx?path=softball

 

Current Events, Generational, History, Uncategorized

What’s the G2?

What’s the scoop?  What’s the poop?  What’s the G2? What’s the 4-1-1??

Old Reliable — those suckers never wore out

These are all slang ways to ask about what is going on, what is the “insider” information.  In military parlance, the “2” group is intelligence.  “G2” refers to divisional (or above intelligence), whereas, say S2, is staff intelligence at a lower level, usually brigade.

A cool, hip way to ask “what’s going on” about 10 to 20 years ago was to say, “Hey, what’s the 4-1-1.” This was a play on the phone company’s information number, 4-1-1, a way to get phone number listings in most locations.

It’s a surprisingly little known fact that n-1-1 is a useful number in most locations in the US and Canada, and is governed by the North American Numbering Plan, which sets standards for how phone numbers are set up.  I just learned this last month (or was it the month before??).

What are the other n-1-1 codes or phone numbers? We all know about 9-1-1. That’s for emergencies. And now we all know about 4-1-1.  What about the others?

2-1-1 provides information and referrals to health, human and social service organizations. Think United Way, or how to get help with housing, health or simply paying the electric and water bills.

3-1-1 is for getting non-emergency help or assistance from local government (usually your municipality).  Some examples might be: an abandoned car, general public safety concern such as burned out street or traffic lights, dead animal removal, or roaming packs of dogs with foaming mouths.

5-1-1 is one that you might have seen before.  It is for getting information on local traffic conditions. In some areas you can also learn about public transportation and carpooling options at the 5-1-1 number.

6-1-1 is for reporting problems or concerns with phone equipment.  Many cell phone service providers use *6-1-1 to get help with your cell phone.

7-1-1 is used for the Telecommunications Relay Service to translate from TDD (telecommunications device for the deaf) to speech, and vice versa. I’m not quite sure how it works, and hope to never need it (although my hearing is fading while the tinnitus is as strong as ever) … but it is important enough to be a federal code and have the FCC (federal communications commission) chime in that it must apply to VoIP phones, too.

8-1-1 has different purposes in the US and Canada.  In the US the number is used to get help locating buried utility lines.  You might have seen or heard the line: “Call before you dig. ” Well, the number to call is 8-1-1.  In Canada the number is for getting health care questions answered and in assisting with individual health care, such as for patients who are far-flung from most medical services and doctors. Canada is big … really big.

There is no 0-1-1 or 1-1-1 phone number.  This would conflict with rules of the aforementioned North American Numbering Plan.  0-1-1 is the code that an international phone call is being made.  After 0-1-1 the country code is expected to follow … so while you are waiting for someone to answer the call, the phone computers are waiting for you to enter a country code (e.g. 49 for Germany).  And 1-1-1 is equally confusing: the beginning “1” signals the computer you are calling long distance — the computer is then waiting for 10 more digits.

I suppose these rules could be modified to account for more n-1-1 codes.  I say that because it wasn’t too long ago when all area codes had a “0” or a “1” as the middle digit (out of three).  And local exchanges never had a “0” or a “1” as the middle digit. These have fallen away, driven mostly by the need for so many more phone numbers (and area codes).

It’s often said that the only thing constant is change.  So probably all the phone rules we now take for granted will change too.  Hey, who remembers rotary dialing?  Not that long ago, was it?

Now you have the poop, the G2, and the 4-1-1 on n-1-1 phone numbers.

Joe Girard © 2018

Autobiographical, Guest Essay, History, Sports

Baseball: Reflecting on some April History

I guess every baseball fan knows that this past weekend, on April 15, the sport “celebrated” Jackie Robinson Day — the day in 1947 when Jackie Robinson became the first black man to play in a major league baseball game.

I put “celebrated” in quotes, because it is also a muted acknowledgement that baseball’s major leagues shut blacks out of participation for some 80 years until then … much to both their great loss and their fans’ loss.

Last summer my wife and I visited the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum in Kansas City.  I knew many of the names, but seeing them displayed Hall of Fame-style was very powerful.  Rube Foster, Satchel Paige, the two “Bucks”, Buck Leonard and Buck O’Neil, Josh Gibson.

Negro Leagues Baseball Museum entry

Josh Gibson, oh my gosh Josh.  Gibson hit so many home runs, about 800, that fans and sportwriters who had seen them both play often referred to Babe Ruth as “The White Josh Gibson.”  And he accomplished that while playing catcher, without a doubt the most physically demanding defensive position. And quite likely the most mentally demanding, as well. It was with a bit of a heavy heart that Robinson, and those blacks who soon followed, broke into the majors in those years.  Josh Gibson got a brain tumor and eventually died quite young, aged only 35, of a stroke from complications in January, 1947 … just months before Robinson’s first game with the Brooklyn Dodgers.  As the tumor started affecting him several years before — well …. there’s no telling how many more home runs he could have hit.  Or if he’d even made it to the Major Leagues, too.  <Sigh.>

As the current baseball season is already some three weeks old, modern baseball fans might wonder what took the Dodgers so long to play Robinson. Well, April 15th was Opening Day back then.  And anyone watching the weather throughout the Midwest and Northeast this spring will understand why.  Baseball is a summer game and it is pretty stupid to be playing all those games with temperatures in the 20s and 30s and snow flying around — in nearly empty stadiums.  Not to mention making for dangerous travel (lots of team buses back then).

Even with a “later” mid-April start, they pretty much had the entire season wrapped up — World Series and all — by the close of the first week in October; when the weather was usually still quite pleasant.  Compare that to today when the threat of snow and freezing weather is almost as bad at the close of the season (often the first week of November) as it is at the season’s opening.

Baseball is a summer game. How did they do it? Back then they only played 154 games a season (162 now) and had scheduled double-headers throughout the season. Most teams played as many as 25% of their games as double-headers well into the late 1950s. And playoffs weren’t the four or five week elimination ordeal they are now, with nearly one-third of teams making it to the playoffs instead of only two.

I well remember the joy of double-headers as a boy, two games in the hot sun with dad, lots of hot dogs and peanuts, yelling and screaming.  Trying to keep a score card. Watching scores from other games around the country on the outfield scoreboard. Game one in the early afternoon — noonish — and game two only 30 or 40 minutes after the last out of game one, barely long enough to re-chalk and drag the infield — in the late afternoon.  Falling asleep on the way home…. memories.

Well, speaking of history, April 17, 1945 is quite a famous day in baseball history, especially for St Louis Cardinal fans.  I’ve borrowed the following from a post by John Sarkis, who has given me permission to “lift” his work. He writes regularly regarding St Louis regional history.

____________________________________________________________________________

April 17, 1945, Albert “Red” Schoendienst played his first game in a Cardinal uniform. The Hall of Fame second-baseman from nearby Germantown, IL would play for the Redbirds for 15 seasons, the New York Giants for two years, and the Milwaukee Braves for four seasons before returning to the Cardinals for three years of limited action. As a player, coach, or manager he wore a major league uniform more than 70 consecutive years, and is currently the oldest living member of the Baseball Hall of Fame.

On that same day native St. Louisan Harry Carabina, who became known as Harry Caray, made his debut as a Cardinal broadcaster. With the Cardinals and Browns sharing Sportsmans Park, the schedule provided that one of the teams would always be home, which allowed Harry to broadcast both Cardinals and Browns home games that season. He became a full-time Cardinals broadcaster in 1947. After being fired by Cardinal owner Gussie Busch, Caray spent 1970 calling Oakland Athletics games, then joined the Chicago White Sox in 1971. After 11 seasons on Chicago’s Southside, he moved to Wrigley Field in 1982. Harry suffered a stroke on Valentine’s Day, 1998, and passed away two days later.

Also on that day, the Brown’s legendary one-armed outfielder, Pete Gray, made his major league debut, getting one single in four at-bats off Les Mueller of the Detroit Tigers. As the MVP in the Southern League, Gray’s contract was purchased for $20,000 from the Memphis Chicks and he was called up as many of the regular major-leaguers were serving in the war. He had his best day in the majors on May 19, playing in Yankee Stadium and collecting five hits and two RBI as the Browns swept the Yankees. He was sent back to the minors when regular players began returning from overseas. Playing left and center field for the Browns, he appeared in 77 games, batting .218 with a .958 fielding percentage. Pete Gray, the only one-armed person to ever play in the major leagues, died on June 30, 2002. His glove is in the Baseball Hall-of-Fame.

(Thanks John!)

[Editor notes.

There have been a very few other players who were similar to Gray, but having most of an arm yet no hand.  Most notably I remember one-handed Jim Abbott throwing a No-Hitter!!

Checking the almanac, the Browns played that game at home.  So Harry Caray called the game. ]

____________________________________

Joe Girard © 2018

Autobiographical

Piece of Pi

March 14; or 3/14.  AKA “Pi Day” to geeks around the world.  We geeks are somewhat irrational.

Pi is an irrational number, which means it cannot be represented as a ratio of any two integers, although 22/7 comes pretty close.  This comes in handy in some calculations, especially when there is a 7 to cancel out. As written almost everywhere but the US, 22/7, or July 22, would be another good candidate for Pi Day.  An even better approximation is 355/113 … which isn’t really very useful.  And it’s nothing like a date.

Speaking of dates.

March 14 marks a sort of anniversary for me.  It was way back in 1981.  A Sunday morning. [1]

I awoke resolved to make a change.  My career was zooming.  My life was changing: I could now read. My horizons were widening.

And yet — at 24-1/2 — I knew that I was not quite yet the person I would turn out to be. Not the person I could be; not one who could make my momma proud.  I knew that I wanted to have a long marriage — the whole enchilada: kids, house, grow old together, make each other coffee and walk on the beach together at 75 years old.  Yet that was nowhere near happening; even though I had been dating.  I was not yet that kind of person.

Just as a High School athlete with promise decides to be a professional ball player, I knew that simply making the decision to change — to be THAT person — was not enough.  I thought it would be a few weeks; it would take some time and effort. Turns out it took more than a few weeks. And it certainly wasn’t a “piece of pie.”

I moved out of my apartment. I ended some relationships — that was awkward. I sought new relationships — that was exciting. I got involved in the community. I consciously tried to be a better person.  And hopefully a potential candidate as the lifelong soulmate for someone special.

I made some mistakes along the way. I confess to still making mistakes. I went far up one blind alley — although meeting some interesting and even inspirational people while blindly wandering that alley.  But the decision was made. All who wander are not lost. Stay the course, Joe.

Fifty-one weeks (357 days to be exact) after that Sunday morning the woman who would be the love of my life showed up. It was awkward and I was not quite ready, but she was willing to be patient.

The excitement of those few years of growth, from being an illiterate, hopelessly stammering underachiever to aerospace rockstar with a rockstar for a mate, still blows my mind.  I wish I could bottle up that experience and figure out the key triggers … and give it away to every young person.  Alas, life doesn’t work that way.  We all have our own paths, our own stories and our own memories.

That’s my irrational autobiographical blurb for now.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2018

 

[1] My friend Gil pointed out that Mach 14, 1981 was a Saturday.  So — my memory isn’t perfect.  It was definitely a Sunday.  So it was really March 15.  I went to bed on 3/14 thinking those thoughts, and awoke on 3/15 convinced. A chrysalis event!

History, Politics, Sports

Olympischer Nationalismus

It’s Olympic time again.  The athleticism and elegance have been, so far, most extraordinary.  Most memorable.

Her name is Aliona Savchenko, and I suppose it’s possible to forget her name.  Even her story.

His name is Bruno Massot, and I suppose the same goes for him.  Sigh.

____________________________________________________________________

The modern Olympic games were founded mostly on the energy and vision of Pierre de Coubertin. He sought to improve international relations and harmony through the (supposedly) non-political path of sports competition. It was certainly a beautiful vision; but I’m not sure he’d be quite so happy with how things have turned out.

I’m also not sure how or when the Olympics became so nationalistic.  I personally find all the nationalistic shouting a bit embarrassing and – considering Baron de Courberin’s vision – a bit shameful. It pains me to hear of nations’ medal counts, and the focus on athletes’ nationalities.

In the first few modern Olympics – 1896, 1900 and ’04 – athletes competed only for themselves, and perhaps their local sports clubs. Like “The Milwaukee Swimming Club.” There was clearly no nationalism.

So, how did it start? Perhaps the first inkling came at the 1908 London Olympics.  The Games had first been awarded to Rome.  But Italy was struggling and in recovery from a massive eruption of Mt Vesuvius in 1906.  The games were reassigned to England.  It was the third consecutive time that history had contrived to put the Olympics in the same city as the World’s Fair.  In those days the World’s Fair was a much bigger deal than it is now; much bigger than the Olympics.  They almost didn’t survive.

In those early years, when the Olympics were held alongside the World’s Fair (1900 in Paris; 1904 in St Louis), it was often not clear to spectators and competitors what sort of event it was. An Olympic event, an Olympic demonstration, or even a World’s Fair competition? Decades afterward, Margaret Abbott went to her grave never knowing that she had won an Olympic Championship in 1900, as discussed here: Olympic Lyon and Abbott.

That’s when the first “Parade of Nations” in an Opening Ceremony occurred. It seems to have been a pageantry and marketing ploy to make the Olympics standout against everything else going on around.

In that “parade”, the American flagbearer Ralph Rose – a shot putter and giant of a man at over 6’-5” and 250 pounds – refused to “dip the flag” as the American contingent passed before King Edward VII. Throughout the games the British judges and referees were perceived by many to be more than a bit biased against the American athletes.  So petty.

I suppose some flames of healthy patriotism will naturally spill over into blatant nationalism.  Consider the Cold War, and the heavy, boot heeled Soviet oppression behind the Iron Curtain, and especially upon the states of Hungary and Czechoslovakia – the brutal suppression of pleas for freedom there in 1956 and ’68. Or anti-colonialism, as teams from around the world competed against, say, the United Kingdom.

On the other hand, thumping of chests over medal counts, and hoping for a victory by someone – an otherwise nameless and faceless person – who wears the colors of your country, or the country of your ancestors, strikes me as out of bounds.  Strikes me as unsportsmanlike and well outside of what Baron de Courberin envisioned for all of us.

And worse, shouts of “U-S-A!! U-S-A!!”, accompanied by fanatic flag waving, bring, for me, visions of 100,000 Germans singing “Deutschland über Alles” in Berlin, 1936, under countless Nazi flags, their right hands extended in salute to their Führer. All this as German athletes – whether they ascribed to the Nazi political philosophy or not; and many did not – racked up victory after victory.

Even with Jesse Owens and “The Boys in the Boat” participating, a united pre-war Germany overwhelmingly “won” the medal count at the Summer Games in ’36. There were plenty of opportunities for nationalistic and enthusiastic German sports fans to throw out their right hand, show off their Nazi tolerance – if not complete sympathy and allegiance – and shout “Deutschland!!!!”

(Of course, Norway easily “won” the medal count in the ’36 Winter Games, hosted also in Germany, in beautiful Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Bavaria. For some reason the IOC allowed the same country to host the winter and summer Olympics in 3 of the first 4 Winter Olympics.  The only exception was 1928, when Amsterdam hosted the Summer Games; clearly The Netherlands was an inappropriate Winter Games host. The games were held in St Moritz, Switzerland.  Then, both Olympics were suspended for ’40 and ’44 for WWII. After that, each has been hosted in separate countries. Since 1994 they are not even in the same years)

The games are for the athletes and their performances are for us to admire.  Period. The end. Unless you are from very, very tiny Liechtenstein, I don’t see any need for particular pride for a country’s medals.  [Per capita, Liechtenstein has certainly won the most medals in Olympic history.  At a population of under 40,000 they have gained a total of ten winter games medals, two of them gold, over the years.  Astounding. If the US had won at the same rate, they’d have about 90,000 medals, all time. “We” have fewer than 300 Winter medals; and only 28,000 if you tally Summer Games – which are heavy on track and water events and in which Liechtenstein has never seriously competed.)

______________________________________________________________

Aliona Savchenko is a world-class figure skater.  At age 35, she is “ancient” compared to many of her competitors. As her name suggests, Aliona Savchenko is Ukrainian, competing for that nation in the Salt Lake 2002 Olympics, as well as the Goodwill Games.  Before that she won the pairs competition Nebelhorn Trophy “for the Ukraine” in 1999.

A new coach and a new partner led Savchenko to move to Chemnitz, Germany.  After initial struggles, they soared to German and European prominence.  She earned German citizenship and won bronze medals at the 2010 and ’14 Olympics (in Vancouver and Sochi).

Again, she changed partners and coaches, hoping to beat the “biological clock”, and perhaps give gold one last shot. 2018 would be her 5th Olympics. Her new partner was a Frenchman, from Normandy, Bruno Massot.

Yet again, after initial struggles with a new partner and coach, the team blossomed, earning the German championship and gaininig world recognition.  However, their participation on the great world stage was hindered: As nationals from two different countries, they could not be a team, unless the native’s country would permit it.

Of course, France would not simply let Massot skate for Germany; they eventually made him pay 30,000 euros for a release.  Blatant blackmail if you ask me. The French say they let him off easy: they first asked for 100,000. But the Olympics would be something different.  How much would that extortion cost? So, Massot applied for German citizenship. It was approved just last November.

So here we have Germany – who will long be remembered for their ancestors’ hateful attitude and treatment toward outsiders – long be remembered for their horrible occupations of France and Ukraine – long be remembered for Nazi atrocities – today accepting over one million Middle Eastern Refugees.  And now accepting a mixed French-Ukrainian figure skating team as their own.

Massot is a strong, powerful and graceful skater.  Six feet tall and solid muscle.  Savchenko is a bit of a “doll” at a full foot shorter.  But all five feet of her is dynamite.

Savchenko & Massot: Beauty, elegance, grace and athleticism

Of course, they won: a Ukrainian and a Frenchie ironically competing under the German flag. Sorry to repeat: It was Savchenko’s Olympic fifth try — with two different countries and three different partners. That’s persistence.

When the final scores for the Russian team went up (the last team to skate), and it was clear Savchenko and Massot had won, the bronze-winning Canadian team – led by the adorable and ebullient Meagan Duhamel – rushed over to congratulate and hug them. Yes, there were tears of joy all around – they don’t call it “kiss and cry” for nothing – and for a moment I felt like joining them in a “tissue moment.”

Yes!! This! This is what the Olympics should be about.  We don’t care which countries win the events; or the most medals.

The athletes are showing us what it is about.  Breaking down barriers.  Ignoring international boundaries.  Ignoring politics.  And simply admiring the human spirit… in ourselves and in each other. And demonstrating what that spirit can lead athletes – what the human spirit can lead all of us – to accomplish. Isn’t that why we loved and remember Nadia Comaneci?

Tomorrow the women’s teams from Canada and the US will compete for the gold medal in hockey.  Personally, I win (and lose) either way; I have allegiances both ways.  And, yet, I’m sure that after a very hard-fought re-match they will sincerely hug and congratulate each other.  And many will probably cry.

And that will be in keeping with the hope, spirit and intent of Baron de Courberin. Or, in other words: something we can all aspire to.

As to the French? Well, we will be in Caen — Bruno Massot’s home town in Normandy — later this spring. My guess is they will have a plaque or a sign up, trying to steal away a little of Bruno’s glory. And M. De Courberin will toss in his grave.

Thanks for reading

 

Joe Girard © 2018

 

 

 

 

Autobiographical, Biographical, Entertainment Industry, History

Shaw’s Jaws

“In that clear water you could see the sharks circling. Every now and then, like lightning, one would come straight up, take a sailor, and take him straight down. One came up and took the sailor next to me. It was just somebody screaming, yelling …” – Loel Dean Cox, USS Indianapolis survivor [1]

In August, 1989, my wife and I “did” southern California.  Including Disneyland and Universal Studios.  Then we only had two kids: the oldest nearly four years old, the next just over one year old.  I doubt they remember.

I clearly remember the robotic sharks at Universal Studios tour that were used in the thriller movie “Jaws.”  Parts of the movie flickered through my mind’s projector screen.  Intrigued, I resolved to watch it again, the next chance I got.  I think we rented the video tape and played it on VCR shortly thereafter (remember VCR?).  I don’t think my wife watched much of it.

Great Whites can exceed 20 feet

I can vividly remember the day that I first watched “Jaws”, in August of 1975.  I was not quite 19 years old and I was working a 7-to-4 job in an unairconditioned Arkansas sweatshop factory that summer ‘twixt my freshman and sophomore years at A-State.  I had a high school friend on his way, via Continental Trailways bus, from Wisconsin. We planned to go to a late evening showing when he arrived. It was a Friday.

Right after work was the company picnic.  It was my first introduction to southern-style deep-fried catfish and hush puppies. I was a strapping growing lad.  “Self-indulgent” doesn’t begin to describe my ravenous consumption.  I stayed late to make sure there were no leftovers. Then I hustled down to the bus station to fetch my buddy.

A few hours later – in the theatre – well, I didn’t feel so good.  Pretty rumbly in the tummy.  And a rather gruesome film didn’t help.  When shark expert “Hooper” suddenly and unexpectedly sites Ben Gardner’s face while investigating the underside of Ben’s fishing boat late at night … of course, late at night … well, I got the sudden urge to lose about five pounds of southern deep-fried crap food.  I did make it to the toilet in time — just barely.

_____________________________________

Even though my wife and I are already members of a great health club (Camp Gladiator) –  each 1-hour session is a team event –  we recently joined a second club.  It is only a couple minutes from our new home.  It is quite inexpensive, especially considering the many benefits available.  We use it to augment our team workouts with individual strength and cardio work in its huge facility. It has hydro massage, hot tub, sauna … One of the blessings of being mostly retired.

Benefits and cardio work.  In one of the cardio rooms the club has the largest video screen I’ve ever seen, outside of a theater. Probably 40 feet across.  Very wide screen. Last weekend I dropped into it for the first time to burn several hundred calories and to watch that old ‘70s suspense thriller movie that I had seen twice before.

_______________________________________

“Jaws” is blatantly a modern twist on Moby Dick. It has a great white shark instead of a great white whale; and has a crazy old seaman named Quint instead of Captain Ahab.  Directed by young, still-largely-unknown, 26-year old Steven Spielberg, and based on a book by Peter Benchley (subbing for Herman Melville), the movie stands out for a few more parallel reasons with “Moby.”

[Warning: a few minor plot spoilers ensue]

First, as a sort of old-time adventure story, there are no major female roles in the storyline.  Second, even though there is a lead protagonist in each story (Ishmael in Moby, Chief Brody in Jaws) the roles most remembered are those of supporting characters.

Roy Sheider does a very good, yet non-showy and straight up, portrayal of Police Chief Brody.  Yet he was, in my estimation, totally upstaged by two remarkable performers, playing their roles expertly.

A very young looking Richard Dreyfuss plays the shark expert Hooper.  Hooper is the rich, over-educated, know-it-all, smart-ass city boy.  Dreyfuss is convincing as Hooper, the outsider here on the island, who gets roundly antagonized for it, and refuses to change. This was when Dreyfuss was just becoming a big star (his only big hit ‘til then was “American Graffiti”); he was only 26 at the time of filming.

To me, even Dreyfuss is quite upstaged by Robert Shaw, who plays crazy seaman Quint.  Quint, it becomes obvious from his first appearance on set, is quite attracted to the idea of hunting and killing large sharks. As it turns out, he had good reason.

Robert Shaw as Quint

We learn that reason in back-to-back scenes aboard Quint’s boat, while the three main characters are out hunting the killer great white shark at night.  Of course, it’s night.

These are two of my favorite scenes in cinema history, even though overall the movie is not all that spectacular. These scenes come back to back; in fact, technically, they are probably from the same scene.

In the latter of two scenes, all three have had a bit to drink – Quint of course acting as ringleader. He starts mumbling one of his crazy sea songs and is interrupted by Hooper (Dreyfuss) who breaks out into “Show me the way to go home … (I’m tired and I wanna go to bed.  I had a little drink about an hour ago, and it got right to my head)”.  Soon, the other two have joined in – I wouldn’t call it harmony – pounding in synch on the table.  To this point in the story, the three have gotten along poorly.  Now they have bonded. That’s when the shark rams the boat.

Immediately preceding this scene comes – in my opinion — one of the best and most memorable monologues in cinema history.

Hooper and Quint have been at each other for most of the movie.  The scene has gotten a bit testy – alcohol enhanced – when Hooper and Quint start comparing injuries and scars. Antagonism is turning toward warmth and respect.

Eventually Quint wins the scar contest.

How? He is asked about a scar on his arm that turns out to be from a removed tattoo.  What did the tat say?  Hooper teases: “Don’t tell me: MOTHER”, then roars at his own joke.  Softly, Quint replies: “USS Indianapolis, 1945.”

Brody seems ignorant of the significance. Hooper is incredulous that Quint was on board.  And then Shaw/Quint breaks into a 670-word monologue describing his experience as a survivor of the USS Indianapolis.

Clearly whoever wrote the script for that had done some in-depth research on survivors’ testimony and knew how the lines should be delivered.  Turns out that person was Shaw, himself.

Besides being a terrific actor, it turns out Shaw was also an accomplished writer of novels and screenplays.  Correctly sensing that it would be one of the most important scenes of the movie, perhaps the one most remembered, Shaw did not like the original versions and convinced author Benchley and director Spielberg to let him re-write it himself.

One reading – with Shaw’s newly acquired crazy-seaman-northeastern accent – and they were all confident: Shaw had nailed it perfectly.

Filming the monologue took only two takes.  The first did not go according to plan.  Shaw was a hard drinker his whole life – had been since losing his alcoholic father to suicide at age 12 … those damned genes – and he decided he should do the scene a little under the influence.

Except, he was a lot under the influence.  He awoke the next morning with little recollection of the shoot and feared it was terrible.  I suppose everyone else thought it was OK, but Shaw begged to reshoot it.

He did it straight up sober and magnificently. [Video: Shaw’s USS Indianapolis talk] [4]

Born in England (Lancashire), and moving first to Cornwall and then to Scotland after his father’s death, Shaw must’ve had quite the breadth of accents down before coming to acting.  It’s kind of unfortunate that he got typecast in movies; it’s just that he played the crusty old-guy so well.  He was an accomplished theatre actor, touring widely and doing mostly Shakespeare, into his mid-twenties. But he did have a gift for accents; in his film career, he played a 16th century British king, an Israeli spy, a Russian spy, A German WWII officer, and a crusty Long Island fisherman.  [3]

Crusty old guy? Shaw was never an old man.  He was only 46 for filming Jaws – although he looked and acted about 66.  His hard-drinking and workaholic ways — both exacerbated by losing his beautiful wife rather young (age only 42), just before Jaws was released — led to stress and poor health. He passed on, age only 51, from a heart attack, on the road just outside his cottage in Toormakeady, Ireland.

Anyway, at least he left us some cinematic memories.

Ben Franklin famously quipped that nothing is so sure as death and taxes.  I’ll add that the quip will never die; and both can be so unfair.

Speaking of taxes, Shaw essentially made nothing for his role as Quint – even though Jaws was the first movie to gross over $100 million, was probably the first Summer Blockbuster, he got first line billing and it is probably his most remembered role.  Why? Taxes, taxes, taxes.  The jaws of taxes. His taxes were excessive that year from reported income in Canada, Ireland, Britain and the US, reducing his US take-home pay to nil.  I wonder if those governments spent his millions wisely?

Here’s hoping for some modicum of fairness in your lives, dear readers.

Adieu for now.  “Show me the way to go home.  I’m tired and I wanna go to bed ….”

Joe Girard © 2018

Footnotes:

[1] http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2384393/Survivors-1945-sinking-USS-Indianapolis-explosions-shark-attacks-worst-sea-disaster-U-S-naval-history.html

Shaw made one slight mistake.  The torpedoes hit on June 30, not June 29.  However, the torpedoes hit at 12:03AM, so a survivor could be forgiven for thinking it was the day before. The movie script was adjusted so that the shark attack on the young boy was June 29.

[2] Story of Robert Shaw as Quint: http://www.legacy.com/news/celebrity-deaths/article/robert-shaw-as-jaws-quint-8-facts

[3] Short version of Shaw’s filmography:
From Russia, with Love
A Man for All Seasons (as Henry VIII)
Battle of Britain
Young Winston (as Winston Churchill’s father, Lord Randolph)
The Sting
The Taking of Pelham One Two Three
Jaws
Black Sunday
Force 10 from Navarone

 

[4] Copyrighted text to Jaw’s screen play: Shaw’s talk about the USS Indianapolis.

[Actually I’ve come across two versions of this.  Not sure which is more correct.  Guess I need to see the movie, again].

HOOPER: You were on the Indianapolis? In ’45? Jesus…

(Quint remembering)

               CLOSE UP ON QUINT

QUINT

Japanese submarine slammed two torpedoes into our side, chief. It was comin’ back, from the island of Tinian ta Leyte; just delivered the bomb. The Hiroshima bomb. Eleven hundred men went into the water. Vessel went down in twelve minutes.

Didn’t see the first shark for about a half an hour. Tiger. Thirteen footer. You know, you know that when you’re in the water, chief? You tell by lookin’ from the dorsal to the tail. Well, we didn’t know. `Cause our bomb mission had been so secret, no distress signal had been sent. Huh huh. They didn’t even list us overdue for a week.

Very first light, chief. The sharks come cruisin’. So we formed ourselves into tight groups. You know it’s… kinda like `ol squares in battle like a, you see on a calendar, like the battle of Waterloo. And the idea was, the shark nearest man and then he’d start poundin’ and hollerin’ and screamin’ and sometimes the shark would go away. Sometimes he wouldn’t go away. Sometimes that shark, he looks right into you. Right into your eyes. You know the thing about a shark, he’s got… lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll’s eye. When he comes at ya, doesn’t seem to be livin’. Until he bites ya and those black eyes roll over white. And then, ah then you hear that terrible high pitch screamin’ and the ocean turns red and spite of all the poundin’ and the hollerin’ they all come in and rip you to pieces.

Ya know by the end of that first dawn, lost a hundred men! I don’t know how many sharks, maybe a thousand! I don’t know how many men, they averaged six an hour. On Thursday mornin’ chief, I bumped into a friend of mine, Herbie Robinson from Cleveland. Baseball player, bosom’s mate. I thought he was asleep, reached over to wake him up. Bobbed up and down in the water, just like a kinda top. Up ended. Well… he’d been bitten in half below the waist. Noon the fifth day, Mr. Hooper, a Lockheed Ventura saw us, he swung in low and he saw us. He’d a young pilot, a lot younger than Mr. Hooper, anyway he saw us and come in low. And three hours later a big fat PBY comes down and start to pick us up. You know that was the time I was most frightened? Waitin’ for my turn. I’ll never put on a lifejacket again.

So, eleven hundred men went in the water, three hundred and sixteen men come out, the sharks took the rest, June the 29, 1945.

{pause}

Anyway, we delivered the bomb.

Autobiographical, Biographical, History

Gravely Speaking

Well, it’s more confession time for Joe.  Here is a new one: I like cemeteries.  Not so much the end of life part, or the eerie part about thousands and thousands of earthly remains gathered in one place. I’m not a Poltergeist-kind-of-guy.

No, it’s the countless untold stories. Just because stories are lost doesn’t make them less real.  Each stone has a story with many, many chapters.

I’ve liked walking through cemeteries for over 40 years now.  It’s not exactly something I go out of my way to do.  Except, perhaps, to visit my parents’ final resting place a couple times a year, and to pay silent, solemn tribute at Military Cemeteries, such as in Luxembourg, the Netherlands (both Arnhem and Margraten), and Arlington National. This spring we hope to visit Normandy’s.

I’ve sort of converted my wife now.  Wherever we travel – when we have a few minutes to spare – if we find ourselves near a cemetery … well, we take up the interesting task.  We’ll stroll up and down aisles, looking at names, dates, inscriptions.  We’ll stop at a few and try to imagine the stories of their lives.

As you dear and devoted readers know: I like stories.

_________________________________________________________________
It’s been over a decade now, but I used to coach quite a bit of competitive youth soccer.  We were a “travel team.” That means our “away” games were truly away. In addition, we traveled to several tournaments each year.

One of the Denver metro locations for soccer matches is Fort Logan, on the west side of town.

Ft Logan was, as the name suggests, a military post for many decades.  It was shuttered shortly after World War II, its grounds converted to recreational pursuits (as in soccer fields) and a large military cemetery.

Large military cemetery. You see, every US veteran is entitled to a free plot in a military cemetery.  Plus, a spot for their spouse.  I use the word “free” advisedly.  They all paid dearly in blood, toil, sweat and tears – some also with their life, others with their sanity. At a minimum, they gave up some of the best years of their lives. In fact, Ft Logan is where my parents are resting.

For away soccer matches we typically car-pooled.  Distances could be from 10 to 100 miles, one way.  Normally the kids vied for a chance to be in my car.  I was pretty easy going, usually not saying much beyond game prep (are you hydrated, got your gear, morning menu), until the kids ran out of stuff to talk about.  Then I’d jump in with a non-stop commentary, interweaving strategy, tactics and training with multiple clean jokes. The goal was to get the players simultaneously at ease and focused.  I was a gas – most of the team tried to get in coach Joe’s van.

The car-pool to Ft Logan, some 20 miles away, was different.  After our first match at Logan the word spread: don’t drive with coach Joe.  You might get a burger afterward, but between the end of the game and the eating there would be torture.

Here is the reason.  Instead of going straight home or to McDonalds, I’d drive the kids over to the adjacent cemetery.  I’d drive slowly and aimlessly until they agreed on a plot where we should stop.  Then we all got out of the car and walked together, slowly, up and down rows, sometimes criss-crossing between rows. Occasionally I’d stop at a stone for a few moments before moving along.

We continued doing this until they all could agree on a particular stone we should stop at.

When they agreed, and we stopped, I looked at the stone.  It would say something like:

Francis J. Ferrari
 1924-1969
 SFC US Army WWII
 Purple Heart
 He Loved All

After a minute of silence or so – I’m sure it seemed like an hour to the kids – I would begin telling the story of Ferrari’s life (This is all made up.  I can’t recall any of the names today.  I just know I did this “imaginary history telling” quite a few times).

“Francis went by Frank.  To his mom he was always Francesco (being sure to pronounce the c as “ch”).  That had been her father’s name. She was from the old country, Sicily. She had moved to the US when she was only 13.  Frank was born just a few years later.

“Frank was the oldest of six kids from a very loud and mixed Sicilian-Italian family in New York.  In fact, he spoke Italian, although his father didn’t like it. ‘We’re in a new country now’, he insisted.  It was his dad who demanded he be named Francis, not the classic Sicilian ‘Francesco.’

“Frank was a senior in high school when Pearl Harbor was bombed.  Two friends and he rushed down to the Army Recruitment Office a couple days later to volunteer, after war was declared. He graduated early, passed his physical examination, and went off to basic training a few months later, in Georgia.  He had never been out of New York City before.

“He fought with Patton in North Africa.  Then he fought to free Europe from totalitarianism. “

—  “Coach Joe.  What does all that other stuff mean?”

“Oh, the SFC means he was promoted several times before the end of the war.  SFC means Sergeant First Class.  He was a leader without being an officer. He fought alongside his men.

“The Purple Heart means he was wounded during his service in the military.”

—  “How did that happen?”

“It was September, 1944.  About 2-1/2 years after he signed up and had endured many hardships like illness, hunger and loss of dear friends already. In a bold stroke to try and free the Dutch people of the Netherlands quickly — and possibly end the war by Christmas — he was part of a massive Allied surprise attack behind enemy lines.  His regiment was supposed to hold many of the small towns and bridges in eastern Netherlands – a stretch of about 50 miles – so that mechanized divisions – tanks and such – could drive up a major highway and clear out the Nazis. Unfortunately for the Allies and the Dutch, that plan didn’t work out very well.

“And, unfortunately for Frank, his platoon took a near direct hit from an 88mm artillery shell.  Shards of metal were implanted deep in his leg and butt. Many of his buddies perished.  He survived, but also suffered permanent hearing loss — I think it was his right ear — and a severe concussion from the shock wave.  He was never the same again.

“By the time he had physically healed, in a hospital in England, the war was nearly over.  So he was sent home to his parents.

“You can see here that he died fairly young.  Only about 45 years old.  Some of your parents are that old already; some older.

—  “Oh.  How did that happen?”

“He never got over the sight of so much blood and dying.  He never quite got over not being able to play sports anymore; the injuries took that away from him.  And he never quite got over the brain damage from that concussion.  Although he married and had children and was a loving father, he never got over being generally sad.

He fell into poor health habits. He moved the family to Colorado for the clean air, but a flu virus came around, he caught a bad case, and he died rather quickly.  He left three children, probably about your age.

“This stone here.  This stone engraved with his name, age, rank – this stone is all the thanks he ever got. So, let’s thank Frank.  Let’s thank Frank for giving so much of himself to make this world a better place.”

After another brief moment of silence, the kids were rewarded with a trip to McDonalds – even if we had lost the match.

____________________________________________

Last month my wife and I went over to Tahoma National Military Cemetery, in Kent, Washington.  Her parents are there.  Her dad is a Pearl Harbor survivor, USS California.  Regular readers know that Audrey recently lost her mom, a Holocaust survivor.  We dropped by to pay our respects, leave a few pebbles, and ensure that the stone had been engraved properly.

Since it was an unusually pleasant Pacific Northwest January day, we took a stroll around the beautifully groomed grounds.  We walked into and out of a few plots.  We walked both together, usually holding hands, and sometimes alone. Probably almost a mile around a wide loop. We took note of some stones and exchanged a few thoughts on what the personal stories might be.

Jesse Barrick, Medal of Honor Awardee

When, to my astonishment, we came across this stone pictured here. In my wildest imagination I wouldn’t have ever expected to come across a Civil War Medal of Honor Awardee tombstone this far west of the Mississippi. Now here is a story that surely cannot be made up.

Quite a story it is, too.

I will spare you my telling of his story, and how his remains came to rest just outside Seattle.  The links are below. They are short, interesting reads.

It is a tremendous testimony to the efforts we as Americans go through to give veterans their proper and honorable recognition. No matter how much time has passed and no matter the distance.

And rightly so.

Wishing you all peace and happy story telling – tall or real, stories are important.

Joe Girard © 2018

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to a real person or anyone with the name of Francis J Ferrari is purely accidental.  I had and have no intent to intrude on anyone’s history in this way.

[1] Jesse Barrick, Home of Heroes Biography and story. 

[2] Jesse Barrick Bio, Seattle Times, http://community.seattletimes.nwsource.com/archive/?date=20000911&slug=4041754

 

Autobiographical, Biographical, Philosophy

Honor

“Honor your Father and your Mother”
– Exodus 20:12, Deuteronomy 5:16

Some stories and lessons are so important that they are repeated.  So it is with many things in the Bible. So it is with many things in life.

For example, the creation story is told twice (in both Genesis 1 and then again in 2) – and they are not exactly the same, although the messages are similar. A wonderful book that explores these messages within the context of the marvelous mystery, joy and perseverance of the woman-man relationship – and the elusive mysteries of the human heart – is Bruce Feiler’s “The First Love Story: Adam, Eve, and Us.”  I recommend it.

The story of the Ten Commandments is also told twice: once in Exodus and again in Deuteronomy.  And elements of these are referred to throughout the bible.  Take for example the Commandment “Honor your Father and Mother.”  Seems straightforward enough, and for the most part it is.

Honoring one’s parents is important enough that Paul restates it in Ephesians 6-2.  He wisely goes on to write, by the way, in the next sentence: “Fathers, do not exasperate your children.” Also, wise advice.

My parents are gone now.  I was blessed with good parents (and pretty good genes, too; evolution – that thing really worked for me).  They cared. They modeled good social skills.  They were loyal.  Above all, they really, really tried to be good, involved, caring parents – clearly showing as much love and patience as they were capable of, nearly all the time. Nearly.

I’ve written tenderly about my parents, referring to them more than a few times.  In “What Dreams May Come” I expressed a notion that, when it comes my time to pass, my dad will come to fetch me from this world. Recently, in “I Got a Name” I traced some of my mom’s life trajectory; and in “Letting Go” I re-lived some of my dad’s special experiences through my own eyes and emotions.

Hitting pop-flies and fly-balls to kids is difficult

One of the unusual things that most impressed me about my dad was his ability to hit self-toss fly balls and popups with a ball and bat.  This is not a skill that comes naturally to anyone.  If you are not athletic, then the awkward swing-and-a-miss is almost guaranteed every time.  If you are athletic, and have played some baseball (like my dad), then the natural swing produces line drives and groundballs.  Popups and fly balls are supposed to lead to easy outs.

When I was 6 years old I started playing organized baseball.  From my earliest memory my dad had thrown me pitches to hit and played toss with me.  But in a real game, I was bamboozled by the easy can-of-corn flyball.  It was embarrassing. Reading a flyball off a bat in a game was completely different than catching a soft toss.

He knew I was ashamed.  Heck, he probably was, too. So, he took me out in the back yard and tossed me higher popups.  We soon progressed to self-toss batted popups that he would hit 30-50 feet.  As I got older, he could hit them 75 feet, then 100 feet, then 150 feet.  Whatever distance kids my age were hitting flyballs, he could duplicate in our yard, or – later – in a nearby field.  It was quite an impressive skill.  He was a coveted assistant-coach on my youth teams, as he would willingly spend hours hitting flyballs to any kid who wanted to practice. My teams had the best outfielders.

As the years went on, I was pretty much the best fly-ball shagger I knew.  That I developed this talent and confidence was attributable almost solely to my dad dedicating himself to developing the skill to hit  such popups and flyballs.  And the fact that I would bug him to do so whenever there was a chance to practice; he rarely said no.

I only had one child who ever asked this of me.  I tried my best, and over many hours, managed to only become mildly successful at it.  I can attest that it is a difficult and unnatural skill; my well-developed baseball skills were almost a handicap.  Yet, I never said no.

Yes, Dad could be a very patient man.  He proved that in 51 years of marriage and raising six kids. Yet he was demanding at the same time.  He always insisted that I make a good throw back to him, even after a great catch.  No lollipops.  No dribblers.  “You want my time, you have to put forth your best effort.”

It wasn’t always so, however.  When I was in the third grade our family had its 5th delivery from the stork.  That was five kids in only 8-1/2 years (a 6th came only 3 years later).  My dad was painting one of the bedrooms after a minor re-model and furniture adjustment to get all of us into the tiny rambler. I was “helping” – which means standing around, asking dumb questions, and learning by watching how to be a man, a father and a husband.

He was almost done with the job.  Perhaps I had begged him to hit me flyballs when he/we were through.  Quite likely. He thought he had poured enough paint into the roller pan to finish the bedroom, but it turned out he was a bit short.  Maybe 10 or 20 square feet of the last wall remained.

Finally, my chance to help.  “Dad, can I bring the can up from the basement for you?”  Exasperated, tired and a bit amused, he said OK.

I went down to our unfinished basement, where my dad had a small work area, and fetched the can of paint.  It still had the lid on it.  Perhaps I’d be more help if I removed the lid?

I pried the lid off.  In the process, somehow, the can teetered over and fell onto the concrete floor.  Oops.  I quickly got it upright, and stood there gawking in amazement at the mess I’d made.  This was not an accident I could get out of; could not blame it on my sisters or bad luck.  I had screwed up.  And I didn’t know what to do. Except own up and take responsibility.

Spilled can of white paint. Ugg.

Sheepishly I went back upstairs and told my dad what had happened.  He did that heavy-breathing-through-the-nose thing, made the “shhh –” sound without finishing the word, and we traipsed downstairs to see the mini-disaster.  That’s when it happened.

My dad saw the paint can sitting there next to a white puddle on the floor. He pulled his right foot back like a football player for a 60-yard field goal and kicked that can as hard as he could.

To his amazement (and mine) the can was actually nowhere near empty.  My reflexes had been quick enough to save quite a bit of pigment.  Most of what was left splattered all over the cinder block wall of the basement.  It was like a magnificent piece of single-color modern op art.

We stood there a moment, dumbstruck and shocked at what had just happened.  Then my dad hustled over to the can, which had crashed and bounced lamely off the wall, and was lying on its side. He set it upright and looked inside. It still wasn’t quite empty.  Neither of us said a word.

There still was a cup or two of paint in the can, which my dad calmly dumped into the roller pan.  He went upstairs to finish the bedroom – amazingly there was still enough paint to complete the task, even after two paint-tastrophes. I stood there alone — shocked, ashamed, flabbergasted — in the basement. I couldn’t move from the incredulity of the last two minutes’ events.

After the room was done, “we” cleaned up my spill from the concrete floor.  But my dad never cleaned those spots off the wall, or painted over them.  Even though we stayed in that house over nine more years.

We never talked about that event again, until just before he died.  In those slow agonizing months before death you know it is coming, you just don’t know when.  You want desperately to spend time together, and after all those months you run out of things to talk about. Yes, we talked about all those hours hitting and catching fly balls. Childhood friends. Old girlfriends. Courtship. Marriage. Raising kids. Staying married. Family road trips. Whatever came to mind. (Why hadn’t we talked about much of this decades before?  When it could have helped? Oh well).

Finally, out of topics and dreading silence, I worked up the courage to ask about his recollections of the can-o’-paint incident.  Even after 50 years — and knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door — he recalled it vividly.  Yes, he was sorry and ashamed.  And that’s why he left the paint spots up all over the wall – he wanted to be reminded of how rash and impulsive and destructive he could be.

Brilliant!

And that’s another thing that impressed me about my dad was the ability he developed to monitor and curb many of his natural negative energy tendencies. It was partly because those paint spots told him the lesson, over and over again.

I know that I received a lot of traits from my parents.  Some inherited and some by nurture.  Among them I lean more toward my dad in terms of being impatient, making quick decisions and taking impulsive actions.  If jumping to conclusions and flying off the handle were sports activities, I’d be in great shape; I’d be Olympic caliber with little training.

I consistently need to respect and be aware of that. I have dark moments.

I also know that I have good genes and have had very good role-modeling from my parents.

I consistently need to respect and be aware of that, too. I know to do the right thing.

Some lessons are so important they need to be repeated.
So it is with many things in life …
Even if you have to repeat them to yourself.

Here’s to parents and parenthood: the good, the not so good, and all the blessings.

And here’s to honoring your Father and your Mother.

Peace

Joe Giard © 2018

Autobiographical, Biographical

I got a name

Like the pine trees lining the winding road,
I got a name, I got a name.
Like the singing bird and the croaking toad,
I got a name, I got a name.
And I carry it with me like my daddy did… 
— Songwriters: Charles Fox, Norman Gimbel
© Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.
(made famous by Jim Croce)

Yes I have a name.  And this is how I came to receive it.

My father was named Donald Joseph Girard.  As my name is Joseph Donald Girard, one might easily imagine — as I did for years — that I simply have his name, turned around a bit.  I was an adult before I learned “the rest of the story.”

My mother was a Catholic nun for about a year and a half.  That’s an important part of the story.  But first we must touch upon her biography a bit.

She was the youngest of three children from a broken and very dysfunctional family.  After the divorce, she, her mom and sister emigrated to the US from Canada (illegally overstaying a visa, by the way — an illegal immigrant; a Dreamer) when she was age 11. They struggled with poverty and moving from house-to-house through her difficult pubescent and adolescent years.  She has confided that she lost all interest in religion, faith and lived with a gray set of morals.

Always a “connector”, she had formed a few close friendships with girls who seemed to have their “stuff together.”  Two I can recall — because they remained life-long friends — were Lorraine and Joan. Both sweet ladies, whom I got to know much later, and both Catholic.

My mom came to the realization she needed some direction in her life.  She started occasionally attending Catholic church with her friends and took to it well.  More frequent attendance and instruction in the faith followed.  Then full conversion. It’s said that “There is no believer whose belief is stronger than that of a convert”; and that was certainly true of my mother.

A few years later she entered the convent, first as postulant, then as novitiate. She took the vows of service and poverty, donned the habit, took a new name (Sister Mary Lourdes) and began her new life.

It was — up until then — the most wonderful thing that had happened to her in her life.  A new city where she was welcomed (St Louis).  A loving, caring, generous faith community.  A beautiful Convent, with her own room (although tiny), where she wouldn’t have to move every few months. Having given up money and possessions and image — well — she didn’t have to worry about those danged things anymore. A world of possibility and freedom and love opened up to her that she couldn’t even have otherwise imagined.

It lasted just over a year until she had her doubts.  After a period of counseling and meditation she became our own version of Maria, from The Sound of Music.  She left the order before taking her final vows. Something else was calling her.

Whereupon she returned to her previous hometown (Chicago) and took up the life of a single woman again.  But this time dedicated to virtue and service, with a clear direction on morals.

A few years later she was whisked off her feet by a very good dancer.  A witty, charming, energetic nice young man, with a promisingly budding career, and at least a nominal commitment — at the time — to the same Catholic faith.  Heck, they met at a CYO dance (Catholic Youth Organization).

The relationship soon got serious, and they began discussing kids.  In that regard, she had only one criterion.  The first son, if they were so blessed, must be named Joseph.

Now I can tell you why that name was her firm choice.  The name of the Order that so transformed her life was … The Sisters of St Joseph of Carondelet.

My parents remained loyal to each other the rest of their lives.  They remained loyal to the church.  They remained loyal to St Joseph, donating to many different charities named after him, including Little Sisters of the Poor, whose patron saint is St Joe.  [1]  [2]

I’ve carried my name proudly.  I’m not Catholic — or even very religious — anymore. Yet I have kept a little plaque of St Joseph the Carpenter up in my room for many decades, wherever I go. It was a gift from my mom when I was a lad. I keep it as a reminder of the loyalty and commitment of my parents. And why I have my name.  And what I have to do.

Plaque of St Joe. I’ve taken it to every bedroom I’ve had since I was about 9 or 10 years old. Thanks Mom.

I must be loyal to my parents by living a life they would be proud of.

Well that’s my blubbery autobiographic piece. Sorry for any apparent “virtue signaling.”

Peace

Joe Girard © 2018

[1]  My mom passed in 2006.  My dad’s devotion to St Joe and my mom continued, as he wrote these checks until he passed in 2014.

[2] Some of these charities are now supported by my wife and me.

 

Current Events, History, Politics

Supreme Thoughts

Supreme: 1) Highest in rank or authority; 2) Highest in degree or quality; 3) ultimate or final
–  Merriam-Webster

I recently read a fun and interesting article by Jonah Goldberg.  (Yes, I know – that Jonah Goldberg – please don’t roll your eyes and give up on me). At once randy and riveting – sending insults in many directions –  he does cite and make some interesting points.

After starting out on the topic of the weird magic of orbs, he quotes an Annandale Public Policy survey that determined 75% of American adults cannot identify all three branches of government. (Yes, I know – shocking).  And more than one-third of Americans cannot name a single right conferred by The Bill of Rights.  (As my wife and I say at this point: “And they vote.”)

Trump touches “The Orb” in Riyyad, Saudi Arabia, with Saudi King Salman and Egyptian President al-Sissi.

It’s a good enough starting point for me, but I’ll go off into theory and conspiracy-land instead of slinging poison-dart words.

The US Constitution’s first three Articles deal with the three branches of government.  Article I – The Congress; Article II – The Executive Branch; Article III – The Judicial.

Digging into Article III, it is interesting to note that the Constitution does not – I repeat: the Constitution does NOT – set the number of Supreme Court Justices.

Seal of the Supreme Court of the United States

In fact, the number we have come to know and grow accustomed to – specifically, nine – has not always been the total number. The number is set by acts of Congress. And can be modified by acts of Congress.

When the Supremes first sat, in 1790, the odd number was six. [1].  Why is six odd? It is not, generally speaking, a good idea to have an even number of people deciding things.  Ties can result, and in the Supreme Court, ties lead to no action at all.  Whatever was law before is law after.

In 1807 they judiciously raised the number to seven.  In 1837 it was raised to our familiar nine (perhaps some sort of north-south compromise … I’ll have to look into it).  Oddly, in 1863 it was raised to an even ten.  [At this time the South had virtually no representation in Congress, they bolted to their own government, and it was pretty clear that the North would probably win the war. Not sure if that’s why a seat was added.]

Finally, in a fuss over President Andrew Johnson (Lincoln’s successor … remember, he was impeached and avoided getting removed from office by a single vote), the number was reduced back to seven.  This precluded Johnson, a Tennessee southerner, from appointing any judges.

Then in 1869, with Johnson out and Grant in office, the number was raised back to nine – I suppose to re-enforce the government position on Reconstruction. Or to spite Johnson.

And there, at a total of nine, is where the number of justices has remained for nearly 150 years.

The Supreme Court has had its own building, shown here, since 1935.

Upshot #1 is that Roosevelt’s plan to “pack the court” was not the least bit unconstitutional; although it did represent the sort of power grab that was a hallmark of the his presidency.  Roosevelt believed in “go big, or go home”; he attempted to jack up the number to fifteen, thus giving himself a slam dunk on any issue before the court. Probably no other president did more to establish the tradition of a very powerful executive branch.  [After Obama, and, especially, now Trump, it looks like people in both parties have recognized this danger].

Upshot #2 is a wild long-shot prediction – or perhaps observation of the possibility – that something supremely weird could happen, most likely in 2021: Expansion of the court to 11 members, or more.

My thought process. The backlash against the Republicans for painting themselves into a corner: first with Trump, and then with Moore. These will yoke their general popularity numbers in the ditch for years – and will almost surely result in Congressional seat losses in 2018.  Even popular presidents lose seats in off-year elections (see Obama in 2010).

Unless the Reps can bump Trump and field a Knight (or Dame [2]) in shining armor for 2020 – or the Dems run another truly “horrible” candidate, as in 2016 – there is a good chance the Dems will hold the Whitehouse and both branches of congress come 2021.

Here’s where current events come into play.

  • The Senate has gone “nuclear”. That means the good old days of needing 60% and plenty of compromise to get anything passed (used to be two-thirds) are basically gone.  No one plays nice anymore.  Could blame Harry Reid, but there’s not enough mud or ink for all the villains.  Now it takes only 50-50 (if you have the Whitehouse … the VP casts tie-breaking votes in the Senate).

[The lower house of Representatives has always been designed to go fast: only a simple majority has ever been required … except to commence the Amendment process]

  • Some Supremes are destined to retire, or pass away, soon. So, look for good odds that Trump will get to appoint at least one more judge, securing the Right’s slight advantage (currently approx. 5-4, even noting that Kennedy and – in a few cases – Roberts have swung left a few times).
  • Anthony Kennedy is 82. Although the left sees him as a hateful ideological enemy, he sides with them frequently and is always the “swing” vote in closely decided 5-4 cases.  He probably isn’t sure about Trump (who is?), and, as a relative moderate among right and left sharks, might be hanging on to see what happens in 2020.
  • Even older is Ruth Bader Ginsberg. She is 85 years old and looks 105; her energy is visibly dwindling to all court observers.  A true Progressive/Leftist believer, she is surely hanging on, hoping that Dems win the Whitehouse in 2020.  But she could pass any day, and no one would be surprised.
  • Steven Breyer, at 79-1/2 could keel over too.

If Trump gets to appoint even one more judge, look for the Left and Dems to get super energized. Even more than the hornet’s nest we are observing now. Why? This could “lock in” a perceived rightward slant for at least another decade (even though this court did uphold “Obamacare”, AKA The Affordable Care Act, and Same Sex Marriage rights).

They will seek to overturn any perceived disadvantage by adding at least two seats to the court.

That’s my Far-Out-From-the Center-Field-Peanut-Gallery prediction for now.  Call me out on it in a few years if the Dems take the elections in 2018 and 2020.

Well, the future beckons.  Let’s be careful servants out there!

Cheers and best wishes for 2018.

Joe Girard © 2018

 

[1] Actually the number was five, although Congress set the number at six.  The sixth justice was not confirmed by the Senate until a few months later.

[2] The equivalent of Knight for females is Dame. When she receives her title, she is said to be “daymed”, not “knighted.”  Link

Autobiographical

Girardmeister 2017 Review

Our favorite attitude should be gratitude.
— Zig Zigler

A writer writes.  A writer writes for reasons.  One reason is to be read.  And so it is with me.  That is one reason among several.

Readers read. Readers read for reasons.  When it comes to leisure time reading, usually it’s because they believe, or at least harbor the hope, the writer has something useful or interesting to say. And so I hope it is between us, dear readers.

Thank you for reading my on-line musings this year.  Whether you are a new follower or a seasoned one, whether you read them all immediately – or just occasionally when you get around to it – please know that I cherish your attention, and our on-line acquaintanceship.

I know you are all as varied as the thoughts that course through my moody, reflective and inquisitive brain.

You should know that I do have at least something of a filter; not all these thoughts make their way to words and full sentences, and, eventually, even on to the website.
But you should also know that I do not filter you all; I don’t screen or block who can read material. I don’t filter or edit comments (much); and e-mail comments are kept confidential.

It’s nigh impossible to tell how widely an essay, or post, will be read for many months. Thus, for this review I’ll go back and include the last few months of 2016.

I published seven essays that were biographical in nature, including my very favorite, Young Kate Shelley (the girl with two first names), which was completed with substantial editing help from my wife and my good friend Marcy. Kate Shelley ended up the #3 most popular for the year.

The surprising #1 most popular was another biographical sketch, Maximum Factor. [1]  Sandwiched between these two, coming in at a surprisingly strong #2, was one of my autobiographically wistful pieces, Happy Anniversary, Baby.

One of the biographical pieces, Last At Bat, was one of two baseball focused essays. The other was Can’t Touch This, which described some odd and exceptional pitching performances.

Two guest essays made solid showings.  One, posted very recently, was a lovely short essay, The Man on the Corner, written by my mom, back in 2004.  It is running strong and may make it to near the top of the “hit list” if, and when, I do this essay again a year hence. The other, a brilliant piece by my good friend Ken Hutchison, is called Remembering Lisa – a deeply heartfelt tribute to a co-worker of ours at Ball Aerospace, which came in at #5.

A considerable number – an embarrassing fifteen! – ended up being at least somewhat autobiographical.  These ranged from travelogues, to pet peeves, to random musings, to reflections, to confessions.   Thanks for putting up with all of that. Although all of them were therapeutic and cathartic to some extent, I feel best about a very short, very recent piece, called Letting Go.

I’m grateful for the time you spent reading.  Even if it was just once. Thanks for commenting, even if it was just once.  Thanks for the emails.  Thanks for the suggested edits, for calling out errors, and opportunities missed to explore topics more interestingly.

Interacting with you all – even if it is mostly one way – is somehow fulfilling for me. It scratches an itch.  It is part of who I am.

Writers write to be read.  For what it’s worth (probably not much to you) I also write with the fervent hope to be read by generations yet to come, so they will know something about crazy ol’ Joe.

Insofar as writers write to be read, I will share a prayer my mother kept over the desk in her writing studio.

The Writer’s Prayer

I ask for an insight and sensitivity to people and events around me that I might always have an abundance of stories to write.

I ask for the ability to write wisely and well, to write in a way that will enrich and enlighten the hearts and minds of others.

Help me to make people laugh when they want to cry in self-despair;
and to make them cry when they are insensitive to the pain of others.

Help me to remember always that words have the power to destroy – or build;
the power to spread ignorance –  or dispense knowledge;
the power to darken the world with hate – or light it with love.

Help me to continue writing through those black moments of discouragement,
especially when I feel that nothing I write is good or worthwhile or will ever be read by anyone.

And daily help me to have faith in my writing and in myself, even though no one else may have faith in either.

Looking forward to communicating with all you in the year(s) ahead.

Wishing you all a blessed and peaceful 2018.

Joe Girard © 2017

 

In case you missed them: Top 11 essays by popularity, normalized
100: Maximum Factor [1]
97.9: Happy Anniversary, Baby
92.4: Young Kate Shelley
88.5: Long View – 2016
86.4: Remembering Lisa
82.1: Election 2016
80.7: P is for Privilege
77.2: Modest Proposals for American Football & Elections
74.5: Hope for Ferguson
70.0: OzzieLand-1
68.8: Can’t Touch This

[1] — Once in a while there are Russian and Ukrainian IP addresses that “fall in love” with hitting a particular page.  That may be the case with Maximum Factor. That’s partly why I listed a top 11.

Autobiographical, Current Events, History

Coffee, Culture and History

Confession: I drink a lot of coffee.  Probably too much.  I also like to observe people.

Recently, when in coffee shops, I’ve started casually making a tally of the of people who are spending their time in these special places with their attention focused on some digitally connected device.

Not counting customers in line, or placing an order, the ratio consistently runs at around 65-75% percent.  My how things have changed.

____________________________________

The year 1683 marked one of the most dramatic turning points in European history, at least as pertains to central and western Europe. For one, it marked the high-water mark for Islamic influence and territorial martial acquisition by the Ottoman Turks.

To push their domination further and more completely into Europe, they laid siege to Vienna.  A massive army of 170,000 under Ottoman Grand Vizier Kara Mustafa — allied with rebellious Protestant Hungarians, who chafed under Austrian rule — surrounded the fortressed city and cut it off from supplies and communication.  And then proceeded to wear down the great city’s defenses over two months’ time.

Greatest extent of the Ottoman Turk Empire

There is no end to imagination of how the history of Europe would be different had this siege succeeded, as was expected by most. Or if the Ottoman armies had simply bypassed Vienna and moved onward into, say, modern day Germany and Poland.

But Vienna was the center of culture for many hundreds of miles, and – as the capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire – was a much desired jewel for both the Turks and their rebellious Hungarian allies.

In early September, as the Viennese defenses were beginning to fail and capitulation seemed imminent, there was a great surprise!! A huge rescue force arrived. Many armies, formed from dozens of German and Polish principalities, appeared on the hills outside of Vienna.  The city had held on just long enough, despite a defense garrison of only just over 1,000 fighting defenders. Early on September 12th the Ottoman army moved to attack the rescuers.  But they badly underestimated the size and breadth of the northern allies’ position.  The Ottomans charged.  Most of the German and some of the Polish northern armies – usually estimated at some 74,000 men total – swept down to meet the Ottomans on their flank and rear.

The battle raged for some 12 hours; nearly a quarter of a million men engaged in bloody, ruthless, hand-to-hand combat. Attack and counter-attack. Over and over; back and forth. Just when it appeared as though the Turks might claim the day – and Vienna – they were blunted by another surprise.  The Poles had effectively kept 18,000 horse-mounted men in reserve; this because they were delayed in their long slog through the mountains and forests.  Immediately perceiving their opportunity, the Poles thundered along a wide front … down from the wooded hills into the plains, striking the Turks who were already engaged with Germans and other Poles. At some 18,000 strong, military historians regard this as the single largest cavalry charge in history.  [And, now that we have entered the asymmetric-terrorist-nuclear-digital-cruise missile-drone era of warfare, it will ever likely ever remain so.]

Caught quite unprepared – the battle had already waged 12 hours; where did these fresh horse-mounted troops come from?? – the Turks were delivered a coup de main, in fact, the coup de grace, by the Poles, who nonetheless suffered heavy casualties themselves.  After two more withering hours, the surviving Turks fled the battlefield, but only after butchering their prisoners and attempting to destroy much of their military matériel. They soon abandoned their encampments in nearly complete disorder. [1]

Vienna, the center of culture and power in central Europe, was saved.

The booty left behind by the Turks included innumerable tents, much grain, many sheep & cattle (soldiers had to be fed, after all), horses, mules, and, according to King John Sobieski who led the largest Polish army, “… no small number of camels.”

Two other items of interest they left behind.

The first was a vivid memory among the Viennese: a memory of countless Ottoman Turkish flags emblazoned with the Islamic crescent flying outside the city walls. As a consequence of this, the Viennese are said to have invented that delectable morning snack called the croissant (which in addition to being the French word for “croissant” is, of course, the French word for “crescent”).

This legend has much merit.  The croissant did not become hugely popular in France until nearly a century later, in 1770, when Marie Antoinette – she who was born in Vienna and of Austrian royal blood – arrived and married the young man who was soon to become Louis XVI. [2]

[To be fair, there is evidence that versions of the croissant were enjoyed in and around Vienna before 1683.  So perhaps the victory merely inspired its colossal growth in popularity.]

Ottoman Military Flag — 17th Century

The second item of interest left behind was mountains of coffee beans. The confused Viennese, Germans and Poles thought this might be some sort of food source. Ugg, it tasted awful. Perhaps it was food for cattle, or camels. But they wouldn’t touch it either. So they began burning it as fuel; mmmmm – it did smell pretty interesting.

Coffee beans, grinding and imbibing for solo pleasure and social drinking was known to few in Europe, principally only the Mediterranean trade-centric towns like Venice. But it was unknown inland and to the west.

It took enterprising world-traveler and Viennese citizen Georg Franz Kolschitzky to figure out the secret. Through his earlier travels in eastern Europe and the eastern Mediterranean, he had learned the magic of roasting and grinding the beans for use in preparing something very akin to the stimulating beverage we know today.

And so was born the legacy of the Viennese coffee house.

The coffee cache rescued, Kolschitzky’s coffee recovery became the basis of the very first coffee house, as we know it. In fact, there is a street named after him and this “gift” in Vienna: Kolschitzkygasse.

There were tables for cards. Tables for pool. Available newspapers and pamphlets provided stimulus for conversation. Life slowed down long enough to enjoy the company of old friends, and new acquaintances: to chat about current events, young children, doddering uncles, or a spouse’s quirks.

Please excuse me while I tell an old but appropriate story.

A professor once placed a large glass carafe on a table in front of his class and poured it full of golf balls. He asked the class if the carafe was full. They all said “yes”.
—
He then took out a bag of marbles, and poured them in too, bouncing and jiggling the carafe, until not a single marble more could be added. Is it full now? Most still said “yes.”
—
He then produced a large bag of sand, and poured that in as well, until every conceivable pore was filled. Is it full now? Still, most said “yes.”
—
Then he walked over to his pot of freshly brewed coffee. He poured two cups and dumped them into the carafe before it came right to the brim.
—
Is it full now? Yes, they all agreed.
—
The professor concluded. Yes it is now full. And here is your lesson for the day. Life is never so full that you cannot enjoy a cup of coffee with a friend. Especially if you take care of the big things first.

The concept of the coffee house – a place to catch up with friends, chat idly or heatedly – took off and spread across Europe. And came to America. It was a beautiful thing.

But now I see all those people with their faces and attention drawn to electronic screens – not even looking or talking to their friends alongside them who are at the very same table (who are doing the very same thing) – and I can’t help thinking: have we lost something important? Is our social fabric decaying that quickly?

If I had a coffee shop, I think there were would be no wifi and I’d make it a faraday cage so customers couldn’t get data or calls on their phones… unless they went outside to the sidewalk tables. I’d have a payphone and front desk phone. But, I would supply free music, newspapers and refills. It would bomb terribly, wouldn’t it?

Wishing you peace and hoping to share a cup or two with any, or all, of you in the near future.[3] Perhaps we can share a croissant too, and raise our cups in a toast to the salvation of the good parts of European culture; as long as we take care of the big things first.

Adieu,

Joe Girard © 2017

[1] At the battle’s conclusion, the “Christian” victors returned the favor by slaughtering many of the surviving Turks who could not escape and could not be exchanged.
[2] Davidson, Alan (1999). Oxford Companion to Food. Oxford University Press. p. 232

[3] In MY version of the story, the professor poured in a couple of beers.

Current Events

XY

I often miss what’s going on right in front of me. Just ask my wife.  That includes before the brain injury.

For example, evidently there is a significant amount of cheating going on in marriages.  In anywhere from 25% [1] to 80% [2] of marriages at least one partner cheats. Eventually.

Now, I have  known literally hundreds and hundreds of couples in my lifetime.  I can cite exactly one case of cheating; and that was so obvious that even a drunk couldn’t miss it.

But, statistically speaking, I must have known many couples where this had happened.  Even if it was only once.

I have no idea which couples to guess. Zero.

Likewise, I suppose I must be missing similar clues with regard to  sexual bad behavior and sexual predation.  Really.  There seems now to be no end to the list of men being credibly accused of this vile behavior. In fact, as a candidate, Donald Trump even identified himself as an offender on tape.  I have to wonder: Have I missed this, too, in plain sight?

“Just what is going on with men?” I found myself wondering aloud at work the other day (a dangerous thing), asking no one in particular. “What is it with all these creepy old men? How the mighty and admired have fallen: Bill Cosby, Charlie Rose, Matt Lauer, Al Franken. Who next?” A co-worker, just out of sight, immediately piped up: “My news feed says Garrison Keillor!”

Garrison Keillor? You’ve got to be kidding me! But no, it’s true.

________________________________________________________________

I found myself browsing the screenplay script for Casablanca a few days ago. Why? I was writing an email and wanted to get a quote exactly right. I’ve written about Casablanca before, in That’s Entertainment.  I probably will again. It is one of my favorite movies of all time. It is a powerful story of human struggle and emotion amidst the wild throes of history. Classic Good vs. Evil, with a few gray areas. In That’s Entertainment I delved into the personal lives of two actors who played important supporting roles.

One character I didn’t discuss is Louis Renault, the French Prefect of Police in the city of Casablanca.  Claude Raines plays the part and — even as a supporting character — he nearly steals the whole show.  He played “a poor, corrupt public official” so well, and with such flair, that he earned a nomination for Best Supporting Actor. [He lost to Charles Coburn, from The More, The Merrier, which I’ve never seen]. It was Claude Raines who delivered the famous and frequently spoofed line: “I am shocked — shocked!! — to find that there is gambling going on here!”

I started reading at the scene where Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman) sits down and talks to Sam, the piano player (Dooley Wilson).  She finally convinces him to play and sing the song “As Time Goes By” by saying “Play it once, Sam, for old time’s sake” and then humming a few bars for him.  He can’t resist.

“You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss. A sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply, as time goes by.”

Once you know the story, you realize this is a pretty emotional scene.  Each one is having difficulty letting go of memories.

I kept reading.

The panache of Raines as Prefect Renault came out more clearly than ever before.  I’ve seen the movie many dozens of times.  Yet reading the script — while seeing the scenes only in my head — was different. The story was oddly different.  Somehow clearer.

Renault is a powerful man, but in a difficult position. As Prefect of Police, he is, by law, one of the most powerful people in Casablanca, French Morocco.  Virtually no one can leave Casablanca without his signature on an exit visa. Many people are in Casablanca because they are refugees from Europe — from the expanding Nazi empire — and they wish to do exactly that: leave Casablanca for some safe place, especially nearby Lisbon, in neutral Portugal, from where they can sail freely to America.

But Renault is in a bind, too.  As an official of Vichy France, which is subject to the whims of Nazi-occupied France, he must be careful to not bring too much attention to himself.  “In Casablanca, human life is cheap”; even his. Therefore, he permits very few people to leave.  His choices for who leaves are typically based on two types of bribes.

The first type of bribe is cash.  In fact, he probably is poorly paid for his responsibilities. This makes sense. The second type of bribe can be guessed by the fact that he is probably a lonely man; your guess assisted by inference from a scene you will please allow me to describe.

_________________________________

Rick Blaine, the protagonist played by Humphrey Bogart, owns and operates a night club in which he also operates an illegal casino in the back; a casino which is an open secret.

A young wife — a refugee from Bulgaria — approaches Blaine, asking whether Renault can be trusted to keep his word. Blaine acts as if he’s not paying the young lady much attention, answering somewhat curtly and rudely. He soon abruptly cuts off the conversation. He walks away, and goes directly to the Roulette wheel, where the young lady’s husband is gambling and losing badly.

He is down to a final few chips, about to quit. Blaine says softly to him, but loud enough for the croupier to hear: “Have  you tried twenty-two tonight?”

Blaine: “Have you tried 22 tonight?” … while eyeing his croupier

The young man puts his chips on 22.  Blaine and the croupier exchange knowing glances. Renault, at a nearby table, takes notice of Blaine’s presence, and with whom he is speaking.

The marble lands on 22.  A 35-1 winner!

“Twenty-Two, Black” — a winner. Roullette is French for Little Wheel.

The young man is about to pick up his pile of chips.  Blaine barks: “Leave it!!” He knows the young man does not have nearly enough money, yet.

The marble again lands on 22.  A gigantic pile of chips — probably representing the illegal casino’s entire profits for the night — now rests near 22 on the board.

Blaine snaps: “Cash it in and never come back!”

At a nearby table, Prefect Renault’s interest in this exchange of words and chips grows to what could be interpreted as alarm.  The young man soon openly approaches Renault with a fantastic pile of money.  This is clearly going to be an Exit Visa bribe.  But it is clearly also not what Renault intended. When it is established that they can meet at his office at 10AM  the next morning, “to do everything business-like”, Renault goes over to Blaine and says: “You’re a rank sentimentalist. … Why do you interfere with my little romances?”

Oh my gosh!  How had I missed this for decades? Right there in front of me.  Renault was using his position of power for sexual gratification.

___________________________

I don’t think any less of Casablanca, the actor Raines or the character Renault because of that.  It is still a great movie and, in the end, Renault turns out to be something of a hero by standing up to Nazidom … at some sacrifice to himself.  In fact, the movie ends with Blaine and Renault at the “beginning of a beautiful friendship.”  Presumably based upon their mutual interest in fighting fascism.

______________________________

I do, however, think a lot less of the XY half of the human race about now. I have been such a naïve simpleton. I know that most men are not pigs.  At least I think not. Certainly none with whom I am acquainted — so far as I know. But with such a cannonade of credible accusations my confidence in the gallantry of the testerone-half has been severely shaken.

Hey XY.  That’s you, men!!!! Let’s start noticing and calling out each others’ piggish behavior and speech.  And holding ourselves and each other to high standards.  The world really needs it.

“You must remember this” —

“The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.”

The world will indeed always welcome lovers and sentimentalists and romancers. Even when they fail. But not pigs; especially when they succeed.

Peace

 

Joe Girard © 2017

 

[1] https://psychcentral.com/blog/archives/2013/03/22/how-common-is-cheating-infidelity-really/

[2] http://www.catalogs.com/info/relationships/percentage-of-married-couples-who-cheat-on-each-ot.html

Autobiographical, Philosophy

Letting Go

I can vividly remember the house I grew up in, in Brown Deer, Wisconsin, just north of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.  It still amazes me to no end that my parents raised six kids in that tiny rambler.

White and blue, with a modicum of brick façade, it sat, conveniently, part way up a gently sloping hill.  It was downhill from our house, along North 49th street, south and down to “the creek” where 49th stopped for a few blocks and you had to turn onto Churchill Lane.  The creek, in turn, meandered from there a mile or so to the Milwaukee River: that brown, slothful, murky body of water that I sometimes walked to for fishing — until I turned 16 and needed a fishing license. Along the creek friends and I would sometimes plunge in to catch frogs and crawdads.  I guess that’s what young boys do. It’s astonishing I didn’t get ill more often.

I called the hill convenient.  That’s because the gentle slope helped all of us learn to ride a bicycle.  Each of us progressed from trike to bike, with training wheels of course.  Day by day dad would raise the training wheels until we could demonstrate that we’d keep our balance without the wheels touching pavement very much.  Then one training a single training wheel would come off.  We were on parole.  After another few days, or a week, the big day came: dad took off the other training wheel.

This is where the hill came in handy.  You need a bit of speed — especially as a beginner — to steadily balance a bicycle.  The hill helped.  The hill plus dad, running alongside for 50 or 100 yards, holding the bicycle, helping with speed and balance.  Back up the hill we’d walk, pushing the bike. Then again. Then again.

Each successive iteration dad held the bike less firmly, until — finally he let go (without telling us!) — he was just trotting alongside … smiling widely.  He did this for each of six children.

____________________________

My wife and I had three children, whom we raised in two different houses in Colorado.  Each house sat on a street partway up a slight hill. How convenient.

Those were some of the simplest, yet happiest, moments of fatherhood.  I can still see myself, thinking of my dad’s beaming face, trotting alongside each child.  Did they know how loved they were?  In their own joy and pride … could they sense any of the same in me?

Finally it is time.  You let go.

Sometimes they still fell, or forgot how to use the brakes, scraped their knees and hands.

Then you meet them at their needs.  Retreat to simply running alongside, or gently holding. Encourage.

And finally it is the very last time.  You let go.  One last time.  You stop running after them…

You smile, knowing that they, with their back to you — swerving wildly — are probably smiling too.

____________________________

That was decades ago. They are all grown now. I’m pretty good by now at letting go. There are still a few things I should let go of.

But those memories?  Never.

Joe Girard © 2017

Six Kids, Spring 1968

Guest Essay

The Man on the Corner

by Milli Girard, 2004

Southwest Mall Plaza is just a few blocks from our home. That’s where I’ve seen him when I’m on the passenger side in (husband) Don’s car, and also when I’m behind the wheel. He’s a skinny shaggy looking man, maybe fifty years old, on crutches, holding a “Need Help” sign.

There is a double left-turn lane at this intersection.  I’m uncomfortable when we make our left hand turn onto Cross Street and pass him by. If I’m driving and in the left hand lane when I come to the stop light I reach for my wallet and manage to give him a dollar; but usually I’m not in that lane and the light is green and I feel badly for him.  It would be a huge traffic hazard to stop to help him if the traffic has the green arrow.

Don dutifully writes a check each month for our favorite charities. I’m as tight with my money as anyone, yet when the weather was wet and cold I hated to see the man trying to stand on his crutches depending on the mercy of us all.

One time, as the light began to turn green, I saw him hurry to hobble back onto the island curb after reaching for a donation in the far lane. Would he make it without falling?

The last time I was in that left turn lane going south on Wadsworth I had plenty of time to get my wallet out.  The light turned red and I had to stop.  I handed the almost toothless scrawny man a single dollar bill.

“Thank you and God bless you!” he exclaimed. After another God Bless You, he said: “I’m a Vietnam veteran. I go to the Unemployment Office every morning. I don’t like to stand here.  It’s humiliating.”

With yet another “Thank You” and “May God Bless You”, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable — a little stingy — like a cheapskate.  It was only a dollar for heaven’s sake.

Would the green arrow ever come? Enough was enough.

And then he said the strangest thing. “You smell good.”

The green arrow came … at last.

Milli Girard 2004

 

Autobiographical

Pet Peeves – II

Here’s round 2.  Buckle up.

Most Americans speak only one language.  I don’t have a problem with that.  That fact, by itself, does not mean we are lazy or stupid.  But the fact that so many speak it poorly surely does.  Here are a just few of this Grammar-Nazi’s language Pet Peeves.

  1. Me, Myself and I.  These all serve different purposes and CANNOT be used interchangeably.

    How to console the Grammar Nazi

    “Me” is an object.  Something must be done “to me” or “for me”.  People can talk about me, complain about me, kick me and disparage me.  But “Pete and me” cannot go to the store, or go out drinking.

    What is being done to me? Nothing! Therefore, the proper pronoun to go with Pete, above, is “I”.  This pronoun “I” is the nominative case.  As such, it gets to do things. Like go to the store. “Pete and I go to the store.”

    Further, “myself” cannot be used in place of either “I” or “me.”  The pronoun “myself” is reflexive, which means it is used when you do something to yourself.  I can bathe myself; I feed myself, I cut myself; I educate myself, I monitor myself, and I gratify myself.  In each case the word “I” must also appear in order for “myself” to correctly appear.

    We do not say “Myself and Pete went to the store, then went drinking”; where is the “I”??  “Myself” does not DO things. And we do not say, “If you have any questions, please address them to myself.”

    What?  It’s “Please address questions to ME.”

    Advanced users: “myself” can also be used for emphsis. “I wrote the code myself.”

2. Your, You’re and Ur.  OK, I get that when typing quickly this is an easy mistake to make.  We sometimes type “your” when we mean “you’re”; or the other way around. But “Ur” is a total collapse, effectively giving up on a nice bike ride or a hike after the first drop of drizzle.

“Oh, it’s so hard, I’ll just type Ur.”  Use of Ur and repeated Your/You’re errors just show laziness.

3. Their, They’re and There.  Occasional such typing errors are expected, even when proofed.  Repeated errors?  Lazy.

4. Affect/Effect.  This one really bugs me.  One simple rule will get you the right answer 99% of the time.  “Effect” is a noun.  As in: “What was the effect of your efforts?”  Effect is a thing.

Affect is a verb.  “Do you see how your word choice affects me?”

Rarely “effect” can be a verb.  But if you get that far, you’re already an English expert.

5.  Who/Whom and prepositional phrases.
Like “I”, the pronoun “who” is nominative.  That means it gets to do things.  Who is doing that?  Who is singing?  Who pinched me?  Who is there?  Who won the race?

See? Who is doing, who is singing, who is pinching, who is winning and who “is” existing. Substitute a name and it works the same: Joe is doing that, Joe is singing (badly), Joe is pinching, Joe is there.  And, happily, Joe won the race.

Like “me”, the pronoun “whom” is an object.  That means it gets things done to it, for it, about it.  “To whom are you speaking?” or “For whom is this gift intended?”

Whoever and whomever follow the same rules.  Whoever is nominative and does things.  Whomever is objective and gets things done to it, things done for it and things done about it. “Will whoever is farting please stop?” And …  “We will hire whomever you recommend.”  In the first, “whoever” is doing something … namely farting.  In the second “whomever” is getting something done to them … namely recommended.

A reasonable exception is that an entire clause can make up the object.  So: “I will give the award to who deserves it most.”

A particularly sharp Pet Peeve is trying too hard and missing this last rule.  “I will give the award to whom deserves it most” is so painful; because it is an equivalent error to “me deserve the prize.”  As is “Will whomever is farting please stop?”  Ewwwww.

6.  Last and most Peevish: Apostrophes.
6a) There is not a single case where an apostrophe should be used with the possessive pronouns: my, mine, ours, yours, his, hers, theirs, its.  These are clearly possessive and need NO apostrophes … ever.  “That book is her’s  ….”  “That is it’s nature … ”  ewwwwwww. Just … don’t … do it. Then there the doubly erroneous “That is its’ nature.”  Holy moley.  An apostrophe AFTER the “s” in possessive “its.”

6b) Apostrophes should only be used for plurals in very rare cases.  “The decade’s went rolling by …”   “All of her T-shirt’s were too small…”    ewwwwwwwwww.  Not necessary, not acceptable. It is a waste of a character.

The exceptions are few, but understandable.  See below.  Plus, many people accept things like “There are no if’s, and’s or but’s on those posts”; although most style manuals recommend against it.

6b) Acronyms and apostrophes.  What is the plural of CD?  You might answer CD’s.  But then what is the possessive of CD?  It is also CD’s.  So what’s the difference?  The fact is, like above, that the apostrophe for plural is redundant.  Using “CDs” (no apostrophe) is just fine for the plural of CD.  DVDs is the plural of DVD and STDs is the plural of STD.  (Yes, there are more than one).

And years don’t use apostrophes for plural either.  The decade from 1930-1939 is correctly called “the 1930s” … and  not “the 1930s’. ”  Using the apostrophe indicates possessive: “The 1930’s characteristic events include the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, Social Engineering and the outbreak of World War II.”

[An exception is the plural of lower case letters (“mind your p’s and q’s”) and plural of abbreviations with mixed lower and upper case letters (“she had already earned two PhD’s”).  But these are rare and well beyond any reasonable Pet Peeve.]

7) That pesky “s”.  What started this latest Pet Peeve rant?  Well this week Daylight Saving Time ended.  I’m not a big fan, but — as they say — “It is what it is.”  Deal with it. But it is not Daylight Savings Time; it is Daylight Saving Time … because we are “saving time”; we are not “savings time.”

Attention to details shows that we Americans — we who are generally assumed world-wide to be lazy and parochial — have at least shown a modicum of mastery of at least one single language: our own one mother tongue.

Self Control is paramount for any Grammar Nazi wishing to be accepted socially

Ok.  That bug is crawling out of my orifice now. Have a wonderful week.  As for me, “It is what it is” — I will have to deal with this with a smile on face indefinitely.  I can do it.  Yes I can.  But silently, internally … every day … all day long … I am correcting grammar.

Peace and happy speaking

Joe Girard © 2017

Autobiographical, Current Events, Medicine

Pet Peeves – I

The most important thing about Pet Peeves is that everyone has them. Things that bug us. A careful thing to remember about Pet Peeves is that it’s everyone’s Pet Peeve when they encounter someone who has a lot of griping to get off their chest. So I’ll keep this short — for now. That’s why it’s Pet Peeves – I.

ARGGGG. Pet Peeves.

Warning: Edward Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire took up six volumes.  Euclid’s Elements, thirteen.

The potty.  The restroom.  The powder room.  The necessary room. The Loo.  Room 100.  The WC.  The toilet. Or, as Americans call it: The Bathroom.

Why do we do that?  We certainly don’t intend to bathe there, unless you include a little splashing at the sink.

  1. People — especially men — who don’t wash their hands after using the convenience.  Really? You are the reason I don’t touch restroom door handles.
  2. Toilet Paper Over or under.  Can we get it over with? The free end goes over the roll; it should not come from underneath. Why? You can find the end easier.  You can tear off the paper easier.  You don’t have to risk scraping your knuckles on the wall behind the paper. And that’s what the inventor, Seth Wheeler, had in mind when he patented the perforated paper roll dispenser in 1891.  See for yourself.  Here it is.

    Inventor Wheeler says: “Over”

    However, if you have a cat (or two, or more! — you crazy cat people) I get why under appeals to you: it’s more difficult to get the roll spinning and unraveling if the free end is behind.  But I don’t have cats.

    And cats can’t explain “under” in offices, restaurants, and other public places. [1]

  3. Men. Seat up or Seat down?  I don’t care.  Just do the right thing.  Not doing the right thing is a daily double of Pet Peeves for me.
    a) If you’re gonna put the seat up, fine.  Just put it down when you’re done.  Men, I know it’s hard to believe, but there are women in this world who hate to have to put the seat down (that means touching it — ewwww).  Get over it.  I grew up in a house with two sisters who came marching down the birth canal right behind me (ok, 15 months and 36 months younger).  If I can do it, so can you.
    b) If you’re gonna pee with the seat down, then by gawd please sit.  Your aim is not good enough to completely miss where the next sorry soul will have to sit.  You lazy bastard. Honest to Pete, guys. Don’t ruin our delicate balance of the sexes by being stupid.
  4. Still on hygiene, but no more potty talk.  Cold and flu season is approaching.  Time to address some PPs there as well.
    a) Covering your mouth when sneezing or coughing.  My Pet Peeve is when people do this directly into their hand.  Particularly the palm of their hand.  Well, isn’t that just dandy?  Hi! Nice to meet you, too.  What else are you gonna touch besides my hand?  Please, please, please use a tissue, hankie or the crook of your elbow.
    b) That quick-and-dirty, sneaky, casual nose wipe.  Don’t think no one saw you. And even if no one did, do you think that nasty slimy mess your sniffer was trying to get rid of cares where it goes next?

That’s enough ewwww and gross for now.  I don’t want to be your new Pet Peeve.

Stay careful and healthy out there.

Oh! The moral to the post??  Cat people shouldn’t marry dog people.  Corollary: Over people shouldn’t marry under people.

Feel free to comment below or Email Joe with your own Pet Peeves.  Or to just berate me.

Joe Girard © 2017

[1] There is a lot (I mean a LOT) of internet based discussion on this topic.  Surveys nearly all fall in the range of 65-80% prefer OVER, and much of the remainder don’t really care.

Biographical, Entertainment Industry, History

That’s Entertainment

During the summer of 1938 a New York school teacher spends his three-month break visiting distressed friends in Vienna.  He has stopovers in a few European cities along the way.  These experiences, augmented by a keen eye and a vivid imagination, inspire him to write a play.  The play is not published; it is not produced.  And yet, the play’s story would soon go on to inspire, captivate, and enthrall millions of entertainment seekers almost immediately, and well into the future.

Thanks to Netflix, we’ve been already able to watch a fair fraction of the movies acclaimed this year (2012) by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences – this, within only a few months after the Academy’s big awards ceremony.  So far our reaction has been: Yawn – a big fat Yawn.  Yes, there is some evidence of good acting, with occasional clever writing.  But really, there is nothing to recommend.

 The biggest disappointments are (if it’s not too late to save you considerable time): The totally forgettable “The Descendants”, ”Hugo”,” Midnight in Paris”, “The Bridesmaids” and the almost memorable “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.”  It’s not unlike what Gertrude Stein said about Oakland: “There isn’t any there, there.”  [Disclosure: “The Artist” just became available and is nearing the top of our queue].

This justifies, yet again, why we’ve been turning more of our “couch leisure entertainment time” to European-produced TV shows and movies.  There is much more enjoyment, meaning, risk and diversion – both just plain fun and also intellectual diversion.

Take for example one of our favorite actors, Bruno Ganz, from Switzerland.  Ganz is an established successful actor, with a long career of dynamic performances in challenging roles.  Most Americans barely know him, if at all, since his movies are all filmed in foreign languages: German (various dialects, including Swiss German — Schwiizertüütsch) and Italian.  At age 63 he, along with many other actors, took a crazy chance and risked their careers and reputations to make a terrifying movie about despicable people during a horrific time in history.

Hardly anyone doesn’t know about The Downfall (Der Untergang), with Ganz as Adolf Hitler during the final days of the Third Reich.  Sadly, our era’s familiarity is mostly accidental.  Even comical. There are almost infinite parodies to be found on YouTube and across the internet of the critical scene wherein Hitler reacts to being informed that there are no armies left to defend Berlin.  Ganz brilliantly portrayed the man who is maniacally delusional, emotionally unstable and violent.  And ultimately, suicidal.

Decades before Ganz, other actors had more personal reasons for making such “statement” movies.  Here I’ll touch on two:  Conrad Veidt and Laszlo Löwenstein.  And we’ll peek at the unpublished and unproduced play that brought them together, while imprinting them both forever on the cinema psyche.

Veidt (pronounced like “fight”) was born in 1893, in Kaiser’s Germany, in Berlin.  He became interested in theatre and acting while away on the eastern front in World War I, when he received a letter from his girlfriend saying she had taken up an interest in acting.  Veidt became very ill at the front, returned home, and took up acting – originally as a way to contribute to the war effort by performing for troops.

Conrad Veidt as Major Strasser

That relationship quickly dissolved, but soon after the war Veidt’s career took off in the silent movie era.  He was bold and brave from the beginning: in 1919 he played an openly homosexual character in Anders als die Andern (Different from the Others)

Veidt ground out a couple dozen movies in the 1920s (including Germany’s first “talkie” in 1929), as he worked through a couple of marriages.  In the early ‘30s he finally met the love of his life: Lily Prager, a Jew.  He courted and married her.  Then came 1933.  Hitler rose to the German Chancellorship as Der Führer.  Veidt and his new bride fled to England.

He continued making movies, and eventually moved to the US to make movies in Hollywood, where he found himself typecast as a German on account of his accented English.  He passed away suddenly of a heart attack, aged only 50 – without knowing that the last major movie he ever appeared in would go on to win the Academy’s Award for Best Picture, as well as Best Adapted Screenplay.

_________________________________________

Laszlo Löwenstein (pronounced like LOO-ven-sh-tine) was born in 1904, in Rózsahegy, part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, moving at a young age with his widowed father to Vienna, which he considered his hometown. Born and raised Jewish, he began acting while quite young.  His career blossomed: he was frighteningly effective as the first serial murderer ever portrayed in cinema in an early talkie, usually called simply “M”, released in Germany in 1931 (Actual full name: “M – Eine Stadt sucht einem Mörder”:  “M – A City Looks for a Murderer”). Löwenstein  began to draw a lot of attention.

[one reason I liked the movie is that whistling — one of my favorite little hobbies and skills — plays a key roll in finding the murderer]

In 1933 Löwenstein also fled from Germany, for the same reasons as Veidt and thousands of others, ending up first in London.  Here, his talents, creepy looks, success in sinister roles such as in M, and odd accent attracted the attention of producer Alfred Hitchcock.  Although this connection got him a few roles, he moved on in the mid-‘30s, thereafter making a successful Hollywood career of second-tier roles, mostly playing sinister villain-type roles.

Peter Lorre as Signor Ugarte

Middle age brought on severe gallbladder problems, and Löwenstein eventually became addicted to morphine, as he struggled to find a balance between pain and awareness.  Eventually, complications led to a stroke, and he too died relatively young, aged only 59.

_________________________________________________________

Murray Bennett was a vo-tech (vocational/technical alternative high school) teacher from New York when he took his 1938 summer vacation to travel to Vienna to visit and help Jewish relatives in Vienna.  Austria had just been annexed into the Third Reich only a few months before.  His experiences in Europe, traveling to and from Vienna, through cosmopolitan and vibrant cities like Paris and Marseilles, led him to write a play based on the sights, sounds and feelings he experienced.  He worked with cohort Joan Alison on the script.

A quick synopsis of the three-part play reveals colorful, cynical people living in difficult times; a play about people who get overwelmed by history, and try desperately to balance between doing the best thing for their own self-interest on one hand, and just plain doing the right thing on the other.  Its action is centered on a night club — called a café — with a casino and live music.  Bennett called the play: “Everybody comes to Rick’s.”

Marquee for Rick’s Café Américain

After a few years of failure trying to sell the script for theatre production, Bennett was eventually able to get a movie company, Warner Brothers, to buy the script for $20,000, almost exactly 70 years ago from this writing (*1st draft 2012*), in early 1942.  This was shortly after war had come to the US in the form of the bomber troika at Pearl Harbor: dive bombers, torpedo bombers and high altitude bombers.  Warner was eager for a cosmopolitan script in an exotic setting that could be re-crafted into a war theme. A plot with a positive allied-friendly story line.

Recruitment of actors began almost immediately.  Filming of the movie, set exotically in Vichy-France-controlled Saharan Morocco, followed very soon thereafter.  In fact, the screenplay was not yet complete when filming began.   Much of the script was written – or made up – a day or less before shooting.  But the plot remained largely the same, which can be re-summarized as:

·  Man and beautiful woman with a mysterious past meet, and fall in love;

·  Man loses beautiful woman in the tumult of unfolding history that steamrolls their lives, and due to an unexpected arrival from the woman’s past;
· Man grows crusty and cynical, becoming purely self-interest driven and “sticks his neck out for nobody”;
· Beyond all odds, they find each other again;
· Through personal growth, self-discovery and new sensitivities to the world, the man turns out to be not so cynical and selfish after all; … and,
· Man gives up the beautiful woman for the good of mankind;
· An unlikely and “beautiful” friendship begins.

Such a movie could not be complete without villains, and two convincing villains are required for “Rick’s”.  One was a slimy parasite, who by nefarious crimes — probably including murder — comes into possession of important valuable documents.  When the couriers of the documents turn up dead – and the documents turn up missing – police are instructed to “round up the usual suspects.”

The other convincing villain is a Nazi officer – a refined man of culture and high society; a man who is not concerned so much with the missing documents, but rather with ensuring that Nazi resistance fighters don’t go free.  In the end, the heretofore cynical protagonist, Rick, turns heroic.  He gives the woman the freedom she needs to help fight oppression – and then shoots the evil Nazi officer, Major Strasser, in cold blood.  Police are instructed, once again, to “round up the usual suspects.”

Strasser, deliciously evil, was played exquisitely by Conrad Veidt; his German manner and accent coming into perfect play.  The slimy character, Signor Ugarte, was played by Laszlo Löwenstein, had since changed his name to a much more American screen-friendly name: Peter Lorre.

Of course, the hero of the story – the selfish cynic who proclaims throughout the movie “I stick my neck out for nobody” and at the end of the story sticks his neck out for little more than “a hill of beans” in order to make a statement against fascism – is Rick Blaine, played by Humphrey Bogart.

     For the movie the title was changed to Casablanca, which premiered in November 1942, with its nationwide release delayed until January, 1943.  Thus it was withheld for Academy recognition until 1944, whereupon it won Best Picture, with Jack Benny as emcee.

Casablanca is consistently rated among the best 10 motion pictures ever, usually among the top three.

As with many great films, the real heroes of the story were not the characters played by the glamorous actors — Ingrid Berman’s natural beauty, Bogart’s rugged good looks, and Claude Raines’ personality that almost stole the show completely — but rather the actors who played the non-headline roles.  Actors who had fled the terror of Nazidom, and through their acting in support roles, were able to make a token strike back at the evil that had pervaded their homeland.

Ingrid Bergman as Ilsa Lund — certainly one of the most beautiful women in the world

Much too late for the would-be playrights Bennet and Alison, “Everybody Comes to Rick’s” was eventually produced in 1991, fifty years after its writing, receiving  fair-to-poor reviews.  It’s just hard to match up with a historic five-star movie.

Remember when movies meant something?  Remember when you actually went to the movies?  You went “there”?  And there was a there, there?

I wonder what generations hence will say about Hollywood’s current millennial films.  Probably: YAWN.

Joe Girard © 2012, 2017

 

Comments Welcome below or at joe@girardmeister.com
Ping me to get on distribution list

Notes:

[1] So anxious was Warner to get the movie made, that Casablanca has one of the most blatant and significantly historically inaccurate plot holes in the history of successful films.  The supposed missing documents were two “Letters of Transit”, signed by General de Gaulle, that permitted its holders free passage out of Vichy territories like Morocco.

In fact, there were not only no such things as such “Letters of Transit” – especially blank Letters, for that matter, for anyone to use – de Gaulle had no standing with Nazi-friendly Vichy France, having fled France almost immediately after the June, 1940 Armistice.  Thereupon he helped found and then lead the Free French Forces, which were quite technically in an open and declared state of war with Vichy at the time.

[2] Almost exactly coinciding with Casablanca’s premier, the actual city of Casablanca was captured by Allied Forces as a part of Operation Torch, under General Eisenhower.  Most French military stationed there put up no resistance and subsequently joined the Allies, fighting with the Free French against Vichy and Nazi Germany.

Autobiographical, Philosophy

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

First and foremost, I’m declaring myself “healed” from the brain injury. It has been a most interesting and revealing three and a half years since “the crash.” I suspect that some effects will linger indefinitely (zaps and swirls), but the worst is over. I so declare it!  I’m functional. I can drive. I can think clearly. All … the … time.

Dear Diary

I have gained immeasurably, mostly renewed appreciation for many things at the highest levels. For my wife. For my oldest son. For siblings, nieces and nephews. Cousins. For my life. Health. For so many friends past and present.

Speaking of past. As hinted at earlier, many hours of “healing quiet” led to a fairly detailed reconstruction of my life. I compiled a very long list of people.

To qualify for “the list” required that the person be most likely alive (or that I could find a close relative). Further, (a) I owed them a long outstanding Thank You; or (b) I owed them a similarly aged apology; or (c) they were a friend or special acquaintance with whom I’d lost contact because of the winds and vagaries of fate.  In several cases, it was all three reasons. Seems, dear Diary, like I’ve written that before, most likely in Happy Anniversary, Baby, my most soul-baring entry, among many, in your pages to date.

Oh, Diary. At this point my pretty-darn-good memory became rather a burden.  The list was long.

Alas, I was not able to contact everyone.  Some keep a low profile.  Some have names that are too common.  Still, thanks to the internet (Facebook and LinkedIn were big helps) and some sleuthing (sometimes I felt like a stalker), I was able to contact a vast majority.  I have loosely labeled these as “Repairs.”

In some cases I was able to reach close family members. Or friends of theirs I could recall. These also qualify as Repairs.

Unfortunately, most on-line “people finders” eventually want money to get beyond simple, insufficient, tantalizing information.  I wouldn’t do that, which limited my success, I suppose, in some cases.

The List included old professors, mentors, lady friends, roommates, teammates, officemates, workmates, golf buddies, business partners. All touched my life in positive and meaningful ways.  In one case I am in very positive, but light, contact with a wonderful couple who will never recall who I am — not sure I want them to; so I have not revealed to them the reason for our correspondence. (Maybe I am a stalker).

Some of us are now connected on Facebook or LinkedIn.  Mostly just by email.  A few were by cards and in two cases, just a short phone call. Weird.  I felt like a 16-year old boy again, asking a girl for a date, all the way from the phone ringing, all through the phone chat, and until we hung up.

Like the continual diminishing of my head injury symptoms, achieving this is like an oppressive weight being expunged — or at least lightened — from my soul. Sometimes we’ve rehashed old memories; in some cases that seemed unprudent — still, in those cases, I was able to replay good times and bad in my head without tormenting them.

I confess, Diary, that it was fruitful to relive joys, mysteries, disappointments and frustrations.  It’s all in the past, and all for the better.

Nonetheless, the List and the Repairs are nearly at a close.  A few tasks will linger, but that’s life.

In coping with the task, I compiled a list of quotes to inspire me.  To soothe me.  Below a few are shared.

While they talked they remembered the years of their youth, and each thought of the other as they had been at another time
— John Williams

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art… It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival. — C.S. Lewis

Every time I thought I was being rejected from something good, I was actually being re-directed to something better. — Steve Maraboli

A clear rejection is always better than an insincere promise. — unk

Friendship is always a sweet responsibility … — Kahil Gibron

Well diary. That’s it for now.

Oh, one last thing, Diary.  I may be “healed” but don’t think that this means I’ll be scribing upon your pages more often.

Joe Girard © 2017 {yes it’s weird to put a copyright symbol in a diary entry. 🙂 }

 

Other quotes:

You not wanting me was the beginning of me wanting myself.  — Nayyirah Waheed

… when a door closes it can feel like all doors are closing.  A rejection can feel like everyone will reject us.  But a closed door leads to clarity. It’s really an arrow.  Because we cannot go through that door, we will go somewhere else.  That “Somewhere Else” is your true self.  — Tama J Kieves

Poetry

Halloween Visitor

Written for my children, and children everywhere … of all ages.

_________________________________________________________________-

‘Twas the first and thirtieth of October,
That occurred this story so strange and sober.
In his bed, not asleep, a young boy lay
On that Hallowed Eve, for his mind was at play.

His siblings around him were all long adrift
In that sea where one’s thoughts tend to wander and shift.
And in the next room his mom and his dad
Were getting some rest from the day that they’d had.

And in through the windows the clouds and full moon
Teamed up to make shadows like goblins and goons
And witches and creatures of horrible fright
Who only came out on a Hallowed Eve Night.

Then the night’s breezes, they blew and they blew,
Till the windows and curtains, all open they threw.
Thus came a chill o’er the children within,
And each pulled his blanket right up to his chin.

A full bank of clouds moved in front of the moon;
The room grew dark; the boy realized soon
That a chill settled in, from his head to his toes.
So he ‘rose from his bed, for the windows to close.

When all of a sudden, to his great surprise,
In climbed a young boy, right ‘fore his eyes.
“Excuse me,” he said, “this is my annual chance,
To be yet alive, and exit Death’s trance.”

You mean,” asked the boy, remarkably calm,
“You’re a spirit, a ghost, attaché from beyond?”
“Essentially right, though you’ve nothing to fear.
Please be still and listen to the reason I’m here

.

“I’ve a task this one night to be ‘mongst the living:
There’s a message, a story, for me to be giving.
All I ask is that you hear and receive it.
After that, it’s for you to dispose or believe it.

“Please hear me out, just let me start.
I’ll tell you a story that may break your heart.
See, there’s no way I’ll assume Heaven’s Glory,
Till somebody finds the end to my story.

“I’m stuck here between my death and my life;
It all has to do with an old whittling knife.
I’m just ten years old, the same as are you;
‘Though my last birthday was in ‘twenty-two.” (i.e. 1922)

Then the guest, he paused, and looked at his host,
He who was poised, and looked back at the ghost.
The living boy nodded in tacit approval.
He would not be asking for this guest’s removal.

He began: “I lived a youth full of bliss
Ten years in this town with my mom dad and sis
In a quaint little house at the edge of town.
It wasn’t fancy, but it was our own.

“To support the war effort dad worked the mines;
I seldom saw him not covered in grimes.
Then in ‘eighteen, in came the flu;
I seem to remember a sister named Sue.

“Mom brought in work, she cut and she sewed,
Earning some cash for the debts that we owed.
Oft’ my live sister was seen or heard,
With me picking fruit in the old orchard.

“Things got much better when the war ended,
‘Though it took a while till broke hearts were mended.
Dad left the mines and worked in a store.
He so much enjoyed those clean shirts that he wore.

“He then had some time to put Life in his life;
To do what he wanted: dote on his wife
And his two children that she bore.
‘Though they never said it, they wanted some more.

“He worked with my reading, worked on my writing,
And taught me how to walk ‘way from fighting.
And how to ‘preciate some fine things in life.
What I ‘member most was that old whittling knife.

“Dad had got it from his own dad,
At a young age and a time so sad,
When he’d left forever – the story was told –
To go and work building the new railroad.

“Dad taught me the safety, taught me the care;
How to oil the stone and always beware:
‘Whittlin’s mostly for your relaxation
Whilst playing around with your imagination.’

“And by the time my birthdays reached ten
I’d whittled all sorts of neat things for them.
And ‘though they weren’t great works of art,
I could see that my parents were proud from the heart.

“And then didst come that October so cold;
The wind was merciless, endless and bold.
We fired the stove up day after day
To stave off the cold; ‘twas the only way.

“Chilled to our bones came the thirty-first;
It seemed that then the wind was the worst.
Nearly overcome were we by our plight;
Dad chose to fire the stove through the night.

“We fell asleep slowly, with tumultuous dreams,
For all ‘round the house the devil’s breath screamed.
And then ‘round midnight it came down the flue
And into hot embers a new life it blew.

“It blew so hard it opened the stove’s front door
And that is whence the flames did pour.
It was then that I felt my small world shake;
Dad had us outside ‘fore I was awake.

“I watched in amazement. I watched our house burn.
Oh what a sadness! A terrible turn.
It was good, I remembered, that dad saved my life.
And then I remembered that old whittling knife.

“Without further thought I rushed in through the door
To my own place where my treasures were stored.
When I reached my room I heard a ‘crack’;
The roof was collapsing – my head was whacked.

“I was pinned underneath heavy oak timbers;
My face pushed into a floor of hot cinders.
I heard my dad’s voice; he’d come after me.
He lifted me up — … but it was not to be.

“The walls caved in, and exposed to the weather
And fire around us, we died together.”
The ghost stopped here, to catch his breath.
The host wiped a tear, saddened by death.

The lonely ghost then slumped right down to the floor,
Still donning those flannel pajamas he wore
On that fateful night, so long ago,
With burn marks and rips, all riddled with holes.

“I cannot enjoy all of heav’n’s pleasure,
Without knowing for sure the fate of that treasure.
It must be safe or I won’t go on
To be with my father in the Great Beyond.

“So always since then
I’ve been caught in between
The Heaven and Earth: Forever Halloween.
And once each year, on the Hallowed thirty-first,
My spirit takes form, and I visit the earth.

“I visit young boys in my old home town
To see if that knife has ever been found.
And insure its eternal safe use and care
As if my devoted dad were still here.”

The live boy shifted – looked away from the spirit.
“I’ve something to say; I think you should hear it.
‘Twas years ago that this land was cleared
Of a burned-out old wreck to build our house here.”

He quivered and shuttered, and wept as he talked;
While toward his bureau, ‘cross the bedroom he walked.
“ ‘Twas my uncles and dad who performed that work;
They rescued some odds and ends from the dirt.”

When he reached the bureau, he breathed a few sighs,
And cleared out some wetness from his nose and eyes.
“They found many things; several they saved.
Among them are two, later to me they gave.”

He pulled out a drawer, and reached therein deep
Where his few precious things he did within keep.
“It’s with some regret that to you these are shown:
An old whittling knife and well-worn whetstone.

“Now that your story by me has been heard,
I must confess: I believe every word.
You’re welcome to have this knife and this stone.
They surely are yours, as your story has shown.”

He held them out plainly for his guest to see,
And them take away into e-ter-ni-ty.
The guest’s eyes were wide with surprise and delight:
“I can’t take these along on a heaven-bound flight.

“All I ask is a promise, from you to me:
That always cared for, this knife shall be.
That you love your parents, respect and kiss them.
You’ll never know how much you may miss them.”

The living boy nodded, accepting the vow.
The ghost then said: “I’ll be leaving now.
I thank you for the great evening I’ve had.
I can finally go and be with by dad.”

He went to the window; waved a silent good-night –
Then slowly, slowly, faded from sight.
The wind ceased its blowing, and then the full moon
Resumed its glowing – Casting light in the room.

The boy closed the windows, and then shook his head –
Replaced the items, and went back to bed.
His mind ceased its playing, so soundly he slept.
To this very day, that promise he’s kept.

Joe Girard © 1994, 2017

 

Biographical, History, Sports

Last At Bat

Situation:
Archrivals in a World Series game; two outs in the 9th inning. The score is close. Tensions very high. Emotions bare.

A wily veteran strides confidently to the plate. His steely eyes are focused. All of his life and long professional All Star career have prepared him for this moment, which is most certainly destined — one way or another — to go down in shining unforgettable sports history.

He is seemingly unaware of much of the situation, which includes a screaming over-capacity crowd in the major leagues’ most famous stadium: often called “The House that Ruth built.” Most of the 64,519 attendees want him to fail, screaming their desire.

He steps into the left-handed batters box to go up against a pitcher who is otherwise little-known. A pitcher who seems destined to not be long remembered. A pitcher who is at the end of a moderately successful year, yet in the midst of a mediocre career. A pitcher whose last appearance on a baseball mound, just a few days ago in this same World Series, was an unmitigated disaster, rather than as pitcher for baseball’s proudest team in one of their most important games.

_______________________________________________

First Pitch:

The right-handed pitcher, a career starter, does not even use a windup. He gets his sign, nods, takes a single long stride and throws his cut fastball, falling awkwardly toward first base after delivery.

It fades outside.  The veteran holds his swing.  BALL ONE.

_________________________________________________

The Batter

This moment, this kind of circumstance, was exactly the situation for which Dale Mitchell was now standing at home plate.  He’d been acquired by the Brooklyn Dodgers on July 31 — just over two months ago — to add experienced hitting savvy to their pennant run, and to their possible World Series roster.

Mitchell’s professional career was outstanding, if not also a bit unlikely. Except for these last 10 weeks, he’d spent all his Major League career with the Cleveland Indians.

If any statistic stands out over his career, it is the near impossibility of striking him out.  In 4,358 plate appearances over 11 years Mitchell struck out only 119 times, and astounding 2.7% rate, and placing him in 7th place all time in most unlikely to strike out.  Ranked against all batters with over career 100 plate appearances, Mitchell was approximately in the 99.9th percentile for least likely to strike out.

But Mitchell’s career was far better than simply not striking out.

He broke in with the Indians in September 1946 – after three years’ service in the Army in WW2 in Europe – and put up a .432 average in the season’s final 11 games.  For the next 7 years, as a full-time player, he batted over .300 … and was a 3-time American League All Star.

A few stats that should get any baseball fan’s attention.

  1. For the years 1946-1960 only two players had better career batting averages than Mitchell: Hall of Famers Stan Musial and Ted Williams.
  2. In 1949 Mitchell put up more than twice as many triples (23) as strikeouts (11) … that’s a scant 11 K’s in 685 plate appearances!!

World Series experience?

Dale Mitchell, career .312 hitter.

In 1948 Mitchell was among several stars – including Hall of Famer Lou Boudreau – who led the Indians to a Series victory over Boston (Braves) … after defeating the other Boston team (Red Sox) in a one game playoff to break the AL pennant tie.

In 1954 the Indians won an astounding 111 games (out of only 154 games in a season back then) for a winning percentage that might be the best forever – a prodigious .721! They lost the series to the New York Giants.

However, at the start of that 1954 season Mitchell was moved to the bench as part of an Indian youth movement; he got mostly only pinch appearances.  Still, he hit .283 and struck out only one time in 69 plate appearances; half his already extremely low strike out rate.

Loren Dale Mitchell was born in the west central plains of Oklahoma to tenant farmers in 1921. With farms spread far and wide, he had no one to play baseball with – except occasional toss with his dad, who bought a used lefthanded first baseman’s glove for his son to practice with.

At age 10 he survived being struck by a car while walking home from school on a country road, breaking his collar bone and suffering deep gashes on his face – and a severe concussion.

Through these years his family endured the Great Depression and the worst of the Dust Bowl.  They were among the toughest Okies; they stayed.

Besides his dad and 15-year older brother, Dale had few others to learn and play sports with. This changed when he went to Cloud Chief High School, where a mere 160 students came from a huge agricultural Dust Bowl-swept school district.  Here his athletic prowess stood out. He earned 12 letters in three sports over four years: in baseball, basketball, track. Not just a local star, Mitchell set the state record in the 100-yard dash at a state meet, a fleet footed 9.8 seconds, a record that stood for many years.

Mitchell’s accomplishments caught the attention of the University of Oklahoma.  So off he went to study and refine his baseball skills, at OU. There Mitchell developed his proficient hitting style – focus on contact and line drives, spraying the ball to all fields. After his sophomore season, when he hit a very impressive .420, he was drafted into the Army Air Force.  The next three years were spent in Europe – where he served as quartermaster, helping the allies free Europe from fascism.

Returning home to Oklahoma – to meet a 2-1/2 year old son he’d never seen – he completed his education and college baseball career in a phenomenal season – he set the University’s single season Batting Average at an astounding .507 … A record that still stands today.

Jobless, in need of money with a wife and young son, Mitchell sought out the AA minor league affiliate of the Cleveland Indians, in Oklahoma City.  They signed him.  Soon, his performance caught the attention of the mothership, and in September 1946 Mitchell was called up to the majors.

L Dale Mitchell: War veteran, survivor of the depression and dust bowl, survivor of getting plowed into by a car as a child pedestrian … and a long major league career of frustrating pitchers with his bat control, great eye and superb eye-hand coordination.

Yes, he was uniquely qualified to be at the plate at this golden moment in baseball history.

Second Pitch:

Working quickly, the pitcher gets a sign for a curve ball.  He nods, steps and slips a nasty pitch at the bottom of the zone.  Again, Mitchell does not swing.  The umpire puts up his right hand. STRIKE ONE.

_______________________________________________________________

The Pitcher

Of all the pitchers, in all of major league baseball, over all of time … the man standing on the pitcher’s mound this sunny October afternoon was surely one of the least likely to be in this moment.

His name was Don Larsen.  Today, until now, in Game 5 of the World Series, he had faced 26 batters.  None of them made it to first base. Only Dale Mitchell remained between him and baseball immortality … a Perfect Game.   Not just a Perfect Game – 27 up, 27 down – but a Perfect Game in a World Series game.

Maybe if it were Whitey Ford or Don Newcombe this moment could be at least a little bit believable.  But Don Larsen??!!

Don Larsen. Off balance delivery. First pitch, game 5, 1956 World Series. Copyright Time-Life/Getty Images

Larsen’s career was far from impressive.  It was mediocre, and it was pretty much otherwise unnoticed.  His career stats are nearly feeble.  His lifetime win-loss record was 81-91 (and this included several seasons with the powerhouse Yankees).  Heck, as recently as 1954 he lost 21 games in one single season.

He walked an average of 4.4 batters per game, and struck out only 4.9 per game. [1] Not only are these rates fair to poor for any era of the game, the ratio of 1.1 strikeouts per walk is among the very poorest of any pitcher with a resume of over a few seasons.

And yet … 1956 had been a relatively successful year for Larsen. Bouncing in-and-out of the starting rotation, he managed a 11-5 record … going 4-0 in four starts in September.

The sweet taste of this past September was severely soured by his performance in Game 2 of the series, three days ago, across town in Brooklyn. He didn’t make it out of the 2nd inning, walking four, striking out zero, and giving up 4 runs.

With the series tied at two games apiece this was a critical home game.  One the Yankees could not afford to lose. Now, just three days after pitching horribly, Hall of Fame manager Casey Stengal called on Larsen to pitch game 5. Fans and sports writers were amazed.  What was Stengal thinking?

He had a hunch about Larsen.

Don Larsen. He’d had faint glimpses of success.  But never, ever greatness.

Now he was looking at immortality.

_______________________________________________________________

Third Pitch:

Still working quickly – staying in rhythm – the sign is for a fastball.  The one that Larsen’s been getting to fade away all game.  He nods, steps and fires.

The wily veteran Mitchell takes a swing, trying to poke it to left field.  He whiffs!  STRIKE TWO.

_____________________________________________________________

The Umpire

“Babe” Pinelli certainly knew baseball.  He knew its ins and outs; he knew every angle; he knew every rule; he knew its history.  He was at the end of a respected 21-year umpiring career.

Before that he had an on-and-off 10 year career in the Major Leagues, up and down on the roster, mostly with the Cincinnati Reds.  For four years (1922-25) he was their regular third basemen, and compiled a very respectable .293 average over those seasons.

Perusing his statistics, it’s easy to surmise that he did – perhaps – think rather too much of his abilities.  He was caught stealing 80 times out of 151 attempts.  During his prime (’22-’25) he was caught 72 times out of 130 attempts.  This is a very, very poor success rate.

Born Rinaldo Angelo Paolinelli, Babe grew up hanging around the wharfs in San Francisco. “Babe” was well respected among players.  He was regarded as fair (he had the gumption to call strikes on the more famous “Babe” – Babe Ruth – when Ruth was at the end of his career and attracting thousands of fans to stadiums wherever he went, and Pinelli was at the beginning of his umpiring career).  And players regarded him as pleasant; was generally considered one of the least likely to throw a player out of a game, regardless of how loudly they protested.

And yet, he was fully aware of the situation, the potential for history, and his place in that history.  This is, of course, hearsay, but Pinelli confided later to players that if he had a chance to make this a Perfect Game, he was going to take it.

______________________________________________________

The Catcher.

Behind the plate, in front of Pinelli, is the Yankees’ catcher, Larsen’s catcher. He is one of the most well-known and famous names and people of all time – inside or outside of baseball.  He is Lawrence Peter Berra, affectionately known for all time as simply “Yogi.”

Certainly, one of best all-around catchers and athletes of all time, Yogi knew the game.  Yogi knew hitters. Yogi knew pitchers. Yogi knew how to call a game.  If anyone, besides providence or the almighty, oversaw this game, it was Yogi. He knew exactly how to help a pitcher “work” a batter.

Of his countless famous quips, Yogi said: “It ain’t over till it’s over.”  This game was not over, yet. Yogi studied the batter, Mitchell, closely.  He knew Mitchell well from his 10 years with the Indians in the American League. He knew how to “work” Mitchell.  Now, … if only Larsen could deliver.

Fourth Pitch:

With the count one ball and two strikes, Larsen suddenly breaks his routine for the first time all afternoon, finally showing some stress.  He removes his hat.  He wipes his brow.  He paces around the mound, pausing to gaze at the outfielders, and the fans beyond. Yogi shouts some encouragement.

Larsen stops pacing, and climbs the mound. Deep breath. Toeing the rubber, he looks in to Yogi.  Switching speed again.  Another curve.  A nasty one.  But Mitchell is tough, and he fouls it off. Still ONE BALL and TWO STRIKES.

____________________________________________________

The Batters Eye.

Have you ever been to, or watched, a baseball game and wondered why there are no seats in straight-away centerfield?  Or, if there are seats, they are covered with a dark tarpaulin?

It’s been a well-accepted fact since the 1890s that batters can see a pitched ball better, and sooner, if the background behind the pitcher is a flat, consistent, simple dark color.  Today, post about 1960, all ball parks have the “batters eye.”

But this was not always the case. Nor was it so in Yankees Stadium on this day, October 8, 1956.

Game 5, 1956 World Series. No Batters Eye in Center Field. Lots of white shirts. Copyright Frank Hurley.

I’ve reviewed old pictures, and it appears that it was customary to remove the batters eye when there were large crowds, and uncover the centerfield seats.

It’s well known that enough fans in the batters eye would don white shirts when the visitors were batting, and dark shirts when the home team was batting, to give the latter an unfair advantage.

Photos show that, across town, in Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, the Dodgers used the same tactic during the Series.  One wonders why there weren’t more no hitters – and Perfect Games – in those days.

Fifth Pitch (the Final Pitch):

As Larsen waited for a new ball (the previous pitch was fouled off), the outfielders moved a few steps to their right, toward left field. A pretty good indication a fast ball is coming.

Mitchell is wise, catches the small shift, and suspects the fade fastball — the one that runs away from him is coming.  He is correct.  It is the fade fastball.

At this point history diverges.  There are many different assessments as to what truly happened.

According to Mitchell – and several of Larsen’s Yankee teammates in the field – the pitch was higher and probably more outside than any other pitch called a strike that day.

Video shows that Mitchell started to swing, but checked up, stopping short of committing.

Umpire Babe Pinelli was working his last game ever behind the plate at the end of a 21-year major league career.  What a way to go out – as the umpire who called a perfect game in the World Series.

He was not going to miss this opportunity.

Up went his right hand.  Out came some words that sounded like “Strike Three! YER OUT!!”

Some say Mitchell did not check his swing. Other say it was a poor strike three call. Others, that it was a good call.  The record books say it was a called strike three.

Catcher Berra, who, from the only surviving video, was likely already halfway up out of his crouch to catch the high pitch, jumped up and ran to hug Larsen.

Yogi Berra jumps into Don Larsen’s arms moments after the Perfect Game

Mitchell turned to protest the call, but Pinelli was already gone!

Larsen, Mitchell and Pinelli are all answers to famous baseball trivia questions.  Larsen is the unlikely hero.  Mitchell (and many say Pinelli too) is the goat.

I’ve watched the video a few times and it’s just too grainy.  And the film frame rate is wrong, so it seems to be going too fast.  Also it’s from an unfamiliar angle: from up high and not quite directly behind home plate.

But I’m going with what some Yankees on the field said, as well as Mr “Contact-Hitter-Who-Almost-Never Strikes-Out” Mitchell said himself. That pitch should probably have been called a ball. He should have been able to see at least one more pitch.

From experience I can say that (1) yes, umpires make mistakes; and (2) sometimes they can also get caught up in the moment.

The umpire is always right.  So … on October 8, 1956 Don Larson threw the only No-Hitter – and Perfect Game – in World Series history.

Box Score, Game 5, 1956 World Series — the Perfect Game

Larsen and Mitchell afterward.

Don Larsen enjoyed his life of celebrity … even as his career faded into less than mediocrity.  He’d always been known as sort of a funny and fun-loving guy, willing to tip a glass and break team curfew. He even ended up pitching with the Chicago Cubs in one of their truly horrible years.

Larsen was also a military veteran, giving up two years in the prime of life, to serve in the Army during the Korean War.

Later in life he tried his hand at several careers, from liquor to paper peddling. Evidence and stories suggest he was not very successful.

Of all coincidences, Larsen was in attendance at David Cohn’s Perfect Game for the Yankees, in 1999, throwing out the ceremonial first pitch to – of all people – Yogi Berra.

Still among the living, Larsen recently sold his Perfect Game uniform to help pay for his grandchildren’s college educations.

——–

Mitchell invested almost all his playoff and bonus earnings during his professional baseball career into Oklahoma real estate near his home town.  After his ball career he developed these holdings into a successful oil and gas business.

His success drew the attention of Martin-Marietta, and he was recruited to be VP and run their concrete division.  He retired from there in 1985 to live in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

The University of Oklahoma opened a new baseball park in 1982, named for Mitchell: the L. Dale Mitchell Baseball Park.

He remains the all-time batting average champion for the University of Oklahoma, and was enshrined in the Oklahoma Sports Hall of Fame in 2005.

He maintained his “innocence” on that final pitch until his death.  He refused all interviews and media orchestrated “truce” reunions with Larsen for years afterward. “I ain’t going to talk about a fake strike out.”

Mitchell passed away in January, 1987 – aged only 65 – of a heart attack.

Baseball is America’s Game, and I wish it could bring us together again.

Joe Girard © 2017

[Feel free to comment below or Email Joe.]

[1] actually these strikeouts and walk rates are per nine innings pitched

Other stuff

  • Although this was the last At Bat in Game 5, Mitchell had one more at bat in the deciding Game 7.  He made an out and the Yankees also won that game. Mitchell retired after the 1956 season.
  • Pinelli umpired two more games — games 6 and 7 of the Series — but not behind home plate.  He then retired.
  • October 8 is also the day the Great Chicago Fire started (1871), as well as many other horrific fires across the Midwest.  In Peshtigo, Wisconsin up to 2,500 died.
  • Let’s give Larsen his due respect.  On that Dodgers team was Jackie Robinson, Gil Hodges, Duke Snider, Roy Campenella, Jim Gilliam.  A great line up … and all had a good year in 1956.
  • Jackie Robinson also retired after the 1956 season.
Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History, Philosophy

Titanic Redemption

“From Tragedy to Redemption: Where to from Titanic Failure?”

Or

“The Amazing Life of Charles Lightoller”

“Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, – act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead.

Lives of great men all remind us,
That we can make our lives sublime,
And departing leave behind us,
Footprints on the sands of time. 

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again!”

–       Several verses borrowed from Longfellow’s “Psalm to Life”

 

From the 100,000 foot level, in general, human lives by and large do not vary much from one to the next.  On the one hand, we are all blessed with talents and gifts and opportunities; on the other, we all have handicaps and obstacles and unfair struggles.  We rise, we fall.  We try things, we experiment, we succeed, and we fail – sometimes titanic failures.

And yet, lives are not so much the same.  It is in the periods of time following failure and doubt that separate lives of the ordinary from lives of the marvelous.  Consider the time after disaster, after failure, after ignominy; these are the milestones where the gift of free will – about our attitude – can so affect our futures, … and the lives of others.

The courses of lives are then steered by answers to the question:  how long are we able to persevere, to believe in ourselves and prepare ourselves, awaiting the opportunity for redemption – even if that opportunity is a truly singular moment?  For some the answer is: as long as it takes.

______________________________________

It is a uniquely beautiful April night in the north Atlantic.  Clear skies gaze down upon two young men, the lookouts in the Crow’s Nest, some 100 feet above the ship’s main deck.  They eagerly await the passing of the next twenty minutes until midnight when their shift will come to a merciful end on this crisp, cold night.  The atmosphere is so clear and calm that the multitudinous stars of God’s glorious and infinite creation are not even twinkling.

Below, on the main deck, most of the senior officers have just retired for the night, ending a long, exciting, exhilarating, yet stressful day.  Command of the breathtakingly huge and beautiful ocean-liner is left to the first officer, third in command overall.

At 41.8 degrees north – farther south than the California/Oregon boundary – and nearly 51 degrees west, the crew has received, via Marconigram, reports of ice in the very area that they now traverse.  Yet so confident are the senior officers, based on 100 years of North Atlantic experience and their crew’s ability to detect and avoid danger, that the magnificent vessel bounds along at 22.5 knots, her greatest possible speed.

A billion-to-one convergence of circumstances will soon prove that the crew’s confidence was wrong – in fact, dead wrong.

  • Experience had shown that icebergs are easily spotted by their effect on the wind; the wind was absolutely dead-calm that night, a situation seldom before encountered.
  • Experience had shown that icebergs are easily spotted by the waves that break against their sides; the ocean was – unprecedentedly – as calm as a monk.
  • Experience had shown that icebergs reflected even the faintest moonlight; there was no moon that night.
  • Experience had shown that experienced lookouts using simple optical aids could spot icebergs at night in clear skies by the faintest reflection of stellar light that originated millions of years distant; yet the ship’s equipment inventory lacked even a single set of binoculars for the Crow’s nest for this voyage.

No other nautical disaster has had so much written about it.   The sinking of the RMS Titanic in 1912 remains undoubtedly one of the greatest stories of all time.  Excitement, arrogance, glamour, disaster, death, larger-than-life characters: Titanic had it all.  It even remains one of the greatest sources of stories-within-stories of all time.

  • I enjoyed the 1995 movie Titanic, even though it was rife with factual error and fictional license, thanks to the totally fabricated abbreviated love-story portrayed by the absolutely breathtaking Kate Winslet (despite the portrayal of her opposite by Leonardo DiCaprio).
  • Raise the Titanic, by Colorado’s own Clive Cussler was one of my favorite reads around 1980 – just about when I finally started steadily again – and was turned into a rotten move about the same time.

You cannot possibly read all there is to read about the Titanic, fiction OR non-fiction.  But this is not about the Titanic.  This is about redemption.  This is about the infamous ship’s most senior surviving officer:  Charles Herbert Lightoller.

Charles Lightoller, 2nd Officer on Titanic. Copyright to http://www.titanicuniverse.com/

He was the 2nd officer on ship, the fourth most senior officer.  Just as “Lights” Lightoller was about to slide off to sleep, the lookouts spotted the iceberg.  They immediately notified the bridge.  About 50 seconds later, despite evasive maneuvers, the Titanic struck the iceberg along its starboard side.

Lights was, of course, immediately notified.  In fact, he already had a sense of what had happened.  There was not much for him to do at first, and he remained virtually alone for tens of minutes.  Accounts vary, but it was surely evident within 40 minutes of impact that the “monument to hubris” was doomed to ultimate demise.   In fact, merely two hours and forty minutes after impact, the Titanic was totally submerged.

Lights was given responsibility for loading of the portside lifeboats (the even numbered boats).  By all accounts, he performed splendidly and calmly.  He was persuasive, unnerved and professional: boats were loaded with women and children only.  Some survivors recall that he did this to such an extent that some lifeboats were deployed less than full; but such accounts vary widely.  Lights was provided a gun, which he was not loathe to display, to insure that men did not enter the lifeboats if women or children were available.

After all available women and children were safely away, he permitted the final lifeboats to be substantially loaded with men.  He refused to enter a boat himself.  And the band played on.

Shortly after 2 AM the final rigid lifeboat had put to sea, one last collapsible lifeboat was being filled.  It was then that the Titanic – already listing and pitching heavily – lurched and took water across the deck.  Lightoller was pitched into the ocean.

While trying to find his bearings in the 30F (-1C) degree water, Lightholler was sucked against one of the intake gratings of the Titanic’s boilers, their giant volumes creating a suction as they plunged beneath the water surface.  While struggling mightily and vainly to free himself, one of the massive funnels (smokestack) began to come free, allowing water down into the boilers.  This sudden reverse of pressure propelled Lightoller free of the intake, toward the surface and the final collapsible raft, which was floating upside-down in the water.  While he and other survivors clung to the collapsible, wondering how to get away from the sinking ship, the loosened funnel fell from the Titanic, crashing into the water near the collapsible, and pushing them away from the ship as it eerily slipped into the calm sea, below calm skies.

Until the arrival of the RMS Carpathia, around 4 AM, Lightoller kept his fellow survivors calm.  As night grew to early dawn, the ocean began to swell heavily; Ligholler kept the inverted lift craft stable by instructing the several dozen survivors to move from side to side across the still inverted boat.  During those hours, some of the initial survivors perished.  Near dawn, the Carpathia pulled 708 survivors from the water.  He was the last.  [Ironically, the Carpathia was sunk by U-boats in WWI off the coast of Ireland].

_____________________________________________________

Charles Herbert Lightoller was born the last of seven children to Frederick and Sarah Jane (nee: Widdows) Lightoller, in Chorley, Lancashire, England, on March 30, 1874.  Sadly, his mother died from the complications of his birth, aged only 31.  His father re-married twice, outliving each wife, and fathered six more children with his third wife.   Weary of the younger children and seeking adventure, his father abandoned Charles when he was only thirteen, moving half-way around the world to New Zealand.

Keeping the proverbial English stiff upper lip, determined to make something of himself, and determined to lead a life of excitement, young Charles signed on as a sea-faring apprentice aboard the Primrose when he was not quite 14.  Thus began his life of excitement, indeed.

Heading to India, the Primrose was caught in a storm while rounding Cape Horn.  Pushed to 65 degrees south in late June, Lightoller saw the ship skirt along Antarctic ice floes.

His second sea trip was as crew member of the sister ship Holt Hill.  A terrific storm forced them to put into port in Rio de Janerio in the midst of a smallpox epidemic AND a revolution.  Later the boat ran hopelessly aground on a tiny uninhabited island in the Indian Ocean.

By the time he was 21 he had also survived a case of African malaria and was recognized for fighting an on-board fire.

For some reason, many British were intrigued and drawn to the adventure of the Yukon Gold Rush.  In 1898, Lightoller abandoned a promising sea career to prospect for gold.  As with the vast majority of fortune hunters, and characters of Robert W. Service (Sam McGee, Dan McGrew), he ended up a dismal failure, broke, and thousands of miles from home.  Returning through the plains of Canada, he worked as a cowboy for a while.

By age 24 Lightoller was back in England, penniless, and re-starting his life in a sea-faring career.  In 1900, age 26, he started his employment with the famous White Star Line, which was to contract and own the famed Olympic class of trans-oceanic liners: the Olympic, the Britannic and the Titanic.  These were designed and advertised as the most luxurious of all ocean liners.

Lightoller quickly became a highly regarded officer of the White Star Line, serving as high as first-officer (third most senior behind captain and chief officer) on many assignments.  He was fun loving, well liked, and respected.  He progressed well in his career, serving as first officer on such prestigious ocean liners as the Majestic and the Oceanic.For the honor of serving aboard the prestigious Titanic, Lightoller took a “demotion” to second officer.

Career after the Titanic.

Lightoller arrived in New York on April 18 with the other Titanic survivors.  On and off for 14 days he was questioned and gave testimony before the US Congress.  Shortly thereafter, an inquiry by the Board of Trade in England went on for 18 days.

A reading of the testimony and questions indicates that there was probably polite professional courtesy on all sides.  Yet the content of many questions clearly showed a combination of ignorance about sea navigation and frustration at the lack of caution exhibited by the staff.  And there were slight inconsistencies in his testimony describing some timing and where he was when certain events occurred.  But he always kept his wits:

Senator Smith: “What time did you leave the ship?”

Lights: “I didn’t leave it.”

Smith: “Did the ship leave you?”

CHL: “Yes, sir.”

The hearings led to several useful recommendations regarding the use of wireless (continuous and not to be distracted by commercial traffic) and capacity of lifeboats (to be based on head count, not tonnage), briefing the passengers on lifeboats (like flight attendants today).

Lightoller returned to the White Star Line, although mention of his name usually caught attention.  It is hard to imagine that Lightoller’s presence was anything more than barely tolerated in most company and general discussions.  I’m thinking officer of Lehman Brothers, or AIG here.  He was the walking, talking, living face of the arrogance, the hubris, that led to the Titanic disaster.

The Great War broke out in August, 1914.  Lightoller, now age 40, was assigned as lieutenant on the Oceanic, the same ship he had been serving on, which was pressed into service and converted to an armed merchant cruiser.  He served on several more ships before being given command of a destroyer and later a torpedo boat.  He is credited with successfully driving away an attack of a Zeppelin on civilian sites and sinking a U-boat by ramming it.  By war’s end he had earned two Distinguished Service Crosses and been promoted to commander.

After the armistice ended the Great War (See my essay 11th hour) Lightoller returned to his career with White Star.  As with all surviving crew of the Titanic, Lightoller soon found that the event was an anchor on his career.  As with the other surviving officers, White Star was unable to find worthy assignments for even such a distinguished and experienced seaman.  Lightoller grew disillusioned and retired.

Retirement.  Lights put himself to work in his post-sea career.  He tried his hand at chicken farming, as hotelier, and even as real estate speculator.  Based on his fame (or infamy) he wrote and successfully published his autobiography which was well received.   For this he was successfully sued by the Marconi Company for some of his explanations about the Titanic – explanations that were interpreted as negative comments about the wireless operators, all Marconi employees.  This is a bit odd, since the recommendations from the inquiries, which were implemented, in effect made the same insinuations about the wireless operators.  He was forced to pull the book from publication.  (However, I found it online [2])

He also bought a 50 ft boat that he used in a side business for tourists and sight-seers, and for the fun of getting out to sea whenever he could.  His wife since 1903, an Aussie he had found and courted on one of his early round-the-world trips, named it Sundowner; Aussie-speak for “wanderer.”

Forward to 1940.  Operation Sichelschnitt (Sickle cut)

World War II broke out on September 1, 1939, with the Nazi invasion of Poland; quickly followed by the Soviet rush to claim her portion of that unfortunate country.  Despite declarations of war by France and England, Europe went uneasily silent until April, 1940.  Then the Third Reich moved quickly to take and occupy Norway and Denmark; while the Soviets expanded by forced annexation of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania.

By May anything could happen, and on May 10 it did.  The Nazi German army launched Operation Sichelschnitt – a clever facsimile of the Schlieffen Plan, a plan that had nearly won WWI in one fell swoop in 1914.

Early in WWI, the German’s Schlieffen plan called for a rapid surge against and through neutral Belgium, followed by streaking behind French lines to the west and south of Paris – which could be attacked from the rear.  This nearly ended The Great War in the first weeks.  Unfortunately for the Germans, they turned east too soon, and ended up meeting the French outside Paris on its Northern outskirts – a direct frontal battle ensued, rather than an attack against an unprotected flank and city.

Now, in 1940, the first major blows of Sichelschnitt were blitzkrieg attacks against neutral Holland and Belgium, luring the British and French into thinking this was a re-enactment of the Schlieffen Plan – an attempt to swing wide in order to attack Paris away from the Maginot line.   By taking Holland, which they had not done in WWI, the Nazis enhanced the ruse, seemingly intent on firmly securing their right flank to anchor the wide sweep.  (Not swinging wide enough is the main reason, according to many military historians, that Germany turned to soon and narrowly in WWI).

The Allies had studied history and were well prepared – for the last war.  The British Expeditionary Force sent nearly a quarter million men, together with nearly as many French, from the France-Belgium border northward to protect Belgium’s neutrality and thwart the wide sweep before it could begin.

Once these Allied forces were fully committed, and began to engage, the Wehrmacht unexpectedly launched its main attack behind and to the right flank of the Allies – through the difficult terrain of the Ardennes.  German modernized mechanized divisions were able to punch through this terrain in Luxembourg and race westward across the northern French countryside straight to the channel behind the British and French forces; – together with the first army group from Belgium this effectively trapped about 400,000 British, Canadian and French soldiers.  The entrapped allied armies eventually withdrew to the small coastal town of Dunkirk near the France-Belgium border.   A complete and total disaster – one that could force even a Britain led by the newly appointed Prime Minister Winston Churchill to withdraw from the war – was imminent. [American participation, of course, was nowhere to be seen; Pearl Harbor was over 18 months away].

There was no way for the British armed forces to rescue all of these men, even at only a few miles away across the channel.  Yet rescuing them was terribly crucial to continuing the war against Fascism, against Nazism.  It was the last week of May, 1940; and it was nearly the last week of the war.  And yet … Hitler left a small opportunity: To preserve his army for the later swing to Paris, he was persuaded by Hermann Göring, Field Marshall of the Luftwaffe, to hold the army back from administering the final, fatal blow.  The Luftwaffe with near total air superiority would bomb and strafe the Brits to annihilation.

Thus the actions of men set up one of those magical moments in history:  the people rise up to rescue their government.

Save an army, save the government.

Save the government, save the world.

In addition to several dozen ships of the Royal Navy, an armada of over 700 water craft – most of them owned by private citizens and private operations – engaged in the largest sea evacuation in history.  Churchill called it “one of the greatest military defeats of the centuries”; he meant that as a good thing.

_________________________________________________

When the government came to appropriate Lightoller’s personal boat – his precious last connection to the sea, his Sundowner – his response was “no way.”  He intended to pilot that boat himself.  He and his oldest son set off for Dunkirk.  Across the channel they went.

While waiting in the shallow harbor, a Luftwaffe bomb landed so near that seams of the wooden boat’s fittings shifted and began to leak.  No worries; Lightoller loaded 137 men (140 total with his crew and himself) nonetheless onto a boat designed to carry no more than a few dozen.

Lightoller was age 66 and veteran of virtually every sea-adventure one could have; the best was the last.  He set the leaky yet functional Sundowner toward England – the Luftwaffe overhead.

In the days of dumb-bombs and dumb ammunition, planes attacking ground and sea assets would line up their bombing and strafing runs moments ahead of the actual attack to “guide in” their delivery.  Boats’ wakes left easily visible lines to help them do this.

Lightoller and his son kept a lookout for planes looping around on them.  As each plane dove down, accelerating to a vector with such speed that they were fully committed, Lightoller suddenly turned the surprisingly responsive boat; every attack narrowly missied the Sundowner.  Halfway across the channel, the Luftwaffe gave up – returning to Dunkirk.

After Dunkirk, Lightoller returned to a quiet private life.  He ran a small boatyard.  He remained married.  He died in 1952.

Lightholler’s Sundowner, one of the hundreds of “little ships” that saved the day at Dunkirk, is safe at the Ramsgate Maritime Museum, UK

Charles Herbert “Lights” Lightoller (1874-1952): Adventurer; survivor of epidemics and multiple shipwrecks including the Titanic; extinguisher of shipboard fires at sea; gold prospector; cowboy; world traveler; hotel operator; chicken farmer; real estate speculator; author; cruise boat owner and operator; shipyard operator; faithful husband (49 years); father; war hero in uniform and out of uniform;  titanic failure and (most important) 28 years later, a national – if not world – redeemed hero.

May we always have real heroes, even if their stories are forgotten.

Joe Girard © 2009, 2017

  1. Immediate family: http://boards.ancestry.ca/surnames.lightoller/11/mb.ashx
  2. Read Lightoller’s autobiography: http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks03/0301011h.html
  3. Lookouts:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fredrick_Fleet

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reginald_Lee

  1. And the band played on: http://www.titanic-titanic.com/titanic_band.shtml
  2. Boards of Inquiry Testimony: http://www.titanicinquiry.org/USInq/AmInq01Lightoller01.php
  3. Picture of Lightoller’s Sundowner: http://www.east-kent.freeserve.co.uk/PictureGallery/RamsHarb1/sundowner.htm http://www.janeandrichard.co.uk/photos/20021227/img_3777/
  4. Ancestry help: http://boards.ancestry.ca/topics.obits2/16435/mb.ashx
  5. Excellent on line essay: http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qa4442/is_200807/ai_n27899260?tag=content;col1
  6. http://forum.axishistory.com/viewtopic.php?f=54&t=26505
  7. The character Mr Dawson in the 2017 hit Movie “Dunkirk” played by Mark Rylance appears to be based largely on Charles Lightoller.

 

Afterward:  I’ve read so much history, especially WWII stuff, that I am astounded that I have not come across the life of this astounding man until recently.  There are other pretty good pieces on him.  I just felt like I had to write one of my own.

Autobiographical, Current Events, Philosophy

In Search of Meaning

1. “For the meaning of life differs from man to man,
from day to day and from hour to hour.
What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general
but rather the specific meaning of a person’s life at a given moment.”
— Viktor E. Frankl (Man’s Search For Meaning)

As mentioned earlier I endured nearly eleven years of being pracitcally illiterate during my adolescent and young adult years.  Obviously I missed out on a lot.  During my ravenous quest to catch up — and become literate in every sense of the word, including culturally and intellectually — I came across Viktor Frankl’s classic of Existentialism: “Man’s Search for Meaning.”

Someone told me it was important.  They were right.

No synopsis can do it justice, although many have tried.  With many millions of copies sold since its first publication in 1946, you can and should read it yourself, if you haven’t already. In fact, it’s time for me to read it again.

Frankl completed the manuscript of nearly 200 pages in only nine days.  He was an Austrian Psychiatrist who had only weeks before been liberated after enduring three years of “housing” in Jewish ghettos and four concentration camps — including Auschwitz and Dachau.

It is short, but dense and challenging in several dimensions: emotional, thought provoking, revealing of human nature. Recollection: It is translated from the German, so sometimes reads a bit stilted and awkward.

If we learn nothing else from Frankl’s deeply reflective work: A) We have it so good we don’t even know how good we have it; and B) Our life has meaning … if we decide that it does; in some cases, making that decision is a prerequisite for life itself.

Those dark 11 years: One of the things I evidently missed out on was a meaning to life.

________________________________________

Indeed, I — in the late autumn of life — now feel a bit lost for “meaning.” Meaning varies not just “from day to day and hour to hour” as Frankl said; it varies with the seasons of life. Now at the end of a “successful” career — and as a more-or-less empty nester — I find myself musing on this very topic.  Frankl reminds me — reminds ALL OF US — that this is up to each one of us, to decide for ourselves.

I have a friend who has ALS.  Holy moley. That’s an existential crisis if there ever was one. Compared to Frankl and my friend … heck, compared to almost all of humanity who has ever lived … I have no problems.  Like Frankl, my friend has embraced a marvelous attitude about his situation.  He relishes the reality and the challenge. And he remains engaged with the concept of meaning in his life. He realizes he still has choices … and he is making them.

2. “Between stimulus and response there is a space.
In that space is our power to choose our response.
In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
— Viktor Frankl

Well before my ALS-stricken friend’s awareness of his upcoming struggles with this horrible disease, he made a decision to begin raising service dogs for children with “silent” disabilities, such as diabetes, seizure disorders and severe food allergies.  The results of this work are truly life-changing … and incrementally world-changing.  In time, our Kiwanis Club adopted this effort as our Flagship Project.

He remains engaged in training dogs, families and new trainers … despite his failing health. He sets an intimidating and inspirational example.

Reflection. To make a difference: affect someone’s life positively. I believe that the “save the world” approach is a poor investment of time and treasure.  At least for me. Best to help one or a few people at a time.  And to make a difference that impacts the future, be a positive influence on a young person’s life.

My stricken friend has this for an email tagline, and I may start borrowing it.

“A hundred years from now, it won’t matter what my bank account was, the sort of house I lived in or the kind of car I drove…..but the world may be different because I was important in the life of a child.”  —  Forest E. Witcraft

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With all the furore over DACA lately, superimposed on the disasters of hurricanes and earthquakes, it’s re-assuring to remember that America is overwhelmingly, by and large, a generous and merciful nation.

Americans participate in donating their time and money at a higher rate than almost any other place in the world. Although only 60-70% actually give money during any year, when rated as percentage of GDP, the US is the world’s most generous nation, donating to organizations both domestic and international … all efforts to improve the human condition across the globe. This of course does not count government foreign aid.

Toss in the fact that Americans are also most likely to help a random stranger and they are the world’s most generous folks as well.

In time, God permitting, and after many months, the affected communities will recover, thanks to human resilience, generosity and mercy.

_________________________________

I’ve changed my home page to show a few of the charities my wife and I support. The explanations and links are duplicated below.

[Feel free to comment or Email Joe.]

We’ve been blessed in many ways, including being financially healthy enough to financially support meaning in life. Reprised, here are some of our Favorite Charities, almost all focused on children.

Foothills Kiwanis Club Foundation: Primary activity is providing service dogs for economically disadvantaged children with invisible ailments like seizure disorders, diabetes and severe food allergies.
Also supports many child-related organizations with funds and manual labor, including Sweet Dream in a Bag, who provide personalized bedding for children in social and economic crises.

Alert Service Dogs for Kids: photo copyright of Foothills Kiwanis Foundation

Rocky Mountain Honor Flight: Treating WW2 and Korean War vets with extreme dignity and gratitude by providing “red carpet treatment” for tours — with personal escorts — of monuments and historic sites in Washington, DC.

Smile Train: Repairing cleft pallets in third world countries. The stigma of this unfortunate defect is too difficult to understand and puts victims at an impossible social and economic disadvantage.

NAMI – National Alliance on Mental Illness: Depression is epidemic.  Suicide is at the highest rates in several generations.  And it is the second leading cause of death among 15-35 year olds. This age group is as disaffected as they have ever been.  I weep when I consider the long term consequences of this on families, social fabric, our nation and the world.

Maji Safi Group: Bringing clean water and safe hygiene practices to villages in Tanzania.

Ethiopian Education Fund: enable disadvantaged youth and young adults, especially girls, in the Kaffa zone of southern Ethiopia to realize their full educational potential. Just one or two more years of education can make a huge difference.

Real Choices Pregnancy Centers: Helping woman in pregnancy crises in all aspects.

Wish there was peace on earth, but it seems now that it cannot happen anytime soon — at least in our lifetime.  May it come some day decades hence … and may we pull together to make that more possible.

Cheers,

Joe Girard © 2017

Joe-LOC-pic-small

 

Autobiographical, History, Sports

Brains

“Football combines two of the worst things in American life.
It is violence punctuated by committee meetings.”
― George F Will

 

Brains are a mystery.  Mysteries within mysteries.  It reveals its secrets slowly and after great effort. But there are natural experiments that allow us to comparatively easily peel back one or two layers of this exceptionally exquisite enigma.

One natural experiment is the cumulative effect of extreme brain trauma on its health and performance. These trauma events can come from a variety of causes.  Some are accidental; some are on purpose. For me it was mostly from surviving two very violent car crashes.

Although the first crash was arguably more violent (see Driving Alive), it was the second that “did me in.” That one was just over three years ago.

Here is an update.  I still get brain “phenomena.” It is very confusing to suddenly get zaps and swirls and illogically migrating headaches.  They come and go without warning; some appear sharply and cruelly.  Some fade in and fade out.  I rather prefer the “faders”, but I have no control.

Sometimes I just don’t feel human.  At those times I don’t want to be around people (not the usual extrovert Joe), and I don’t want to be around Joe, myself.  I smile when I should look contemplative, and scowl when I am happy or content.

Sometimes I wonder why I’m even alive. I know that’s not logical; but that’s just how it works.

I cannot possibly imagine the consequences of additional brain shakes.

Well, actually I can.  We are seeing the consequences in Football. The effects on middle-aged (or younger) men who have withstood multiple brain shakes is staggering.

Love or hate George Will, but he writes thoughtfully and (usually) readably about a wide array of topics.  Last weekend he wrote a column about football and its long term effect on players’ brains.  It’s not pretty.  Granted, Will has obviously and openly favored baseball over football for quite a while (see quote).

Good Brain Bad Brain — This combination of photos provided by Boston University shows sections from a normal brain, top, and from the brain of former University of Texas football player Greg Ploetz, bottom, in stage IV of chronic traumatic encephalopathy. (Ann Mckee, Md/ASSOCIATED PRESS) <Credit given; please don’t sue me>

 

Still, he speaks truth.

From 1900 to 1905 some five dozen young men died — mostly on the field and 19 in 1905 alone — while playing football.  [1] A national outcry induced none other than President Theodore Roosevelt to call the governing bodies and prominent leaders of the sport together to, literally, save the game.

The result was some of the changes that make it a more exciting game today.

Today, September 5, 2017, we celebrate the 111th anniversary of the first forward pass.  Accomplished by St Louis University, when playing Carroll College in Waukesha, Wisconsin. Back in the day when scores were often in the single digits, St Louis played a much more wide-open style, and ran up an 11-0 record that year, cumulatively outscoring their opponents 407–11. [This at a time when touchdowns only tallied 5 points].

Another major rules change: 10 yards were required to make a first down. Previously it had been 5.

The game changed; the uproar faded a bit — although some fatalities continued, albeit at a lower rate. Yes, they added pads and helmets. But arguably the most important changes, cited above, opened the game to make it much more exciting.

Football MUST adjust to the revelations that repeated head knocks literally ruins brains — and lives.  We cannot have men checking out on their families, friends and their own lives at middle age, or younger. Followers of Colorado University football should also hearken to the warning of the early demise of one of their greatest players, and Heisman Trophy winner, Rashaan Salaam.

History shows that intelligent changes can make the game both safer AND more exciting.

Wishing you spiritual and mental peace,

Joe Girard © 2017

 

Footnote

[1] death count 1900-5: http://www.chicagomag.com/Chicago-Magazine/The-312/May-2012/A-Brief-History-of-Football-Head-Injuries-and-a-Look-Towards-the-Future/

Autobiographical, History

Driving Alive

        On a back country two-lane highway in rural western Tennessee, it is a wet evening under low November clouds, just past civil twilight. [1]  A heavily loaded 18-wheel tractor-trailer is laboring northwest over gentle hills, its speed dropping to 40 miles per hour uphill, and rising to 55 downhill.  Following closely behind that truck is a small Toyota Corolla with a 22-year old driver who awaits a chance to pass.  The Toyota’s windshield wipers flick away the spray kicked up by the truck at the end of a day that has dropped over an inch of rain.  His 21-year old companion has drifted off to sleep beside him, her seatbelt unlatched.  Finally, after what seems like hours, but is only several minutes, a straight flat section of highway opens up – a section fairly well-known to the driver.  He pulls out to pass, checking for the headlights of possible oncoming traffic, and makes his move to pass.

The tiny 1974 Toyota Corolla

    Moments before, an Oldsmobile Delta 88 leaves home in a small rural community in western Tennessee.   The big 2-ton 88 enters the highway, heading southeast.  In a few moments its 450 cubic inch 8-cylinder engine has accelerated it to nearly 60 miles per hour, its driver not yet aware that only her parking lights are on — but not her headlights — as twilight continues to fade and three small children clamber about the car’s spacious interior.

    The Toyota’s little 1.6L aluminum 4-cylinder engine, reacting to the driver pushing hard on the accelerator and down-shifting to passing gear, pushes the little 1,500 pound tin can to nearly even with the truck’s cab, which is itself still accelerating on the flat to nearly 55mph.  Anxiously, the Toyota’s driver pushes the tiny engine — which has just been refreshed with new plugs, points, condenser and a very clean carburetor — with more intensity.

Suddenly, and to his dismay, two tiny lights appear directly in front; not headlights (!), but the dim parking lights of a much larger car.   There is not enough time to complete the pass; indeed, there may not be enough time to safely drop back and slip behind the truck on such a rain-slick road.  The cars are approaching each other at well over 100 miles per hour.

The massive 1973 Olds Delta 88

The following events happen in a mere moment or two.

________________________________________

Backing off the gas, the Corolla’s driver maneuvers the car onto the highway’s left shoulder.  There, the soft and wet shoulder grab the car’s left wheels and tug it – tug it toward a water-filled ditch that now appears in the headlights and parallels the road.  Until now there was little time to waste; there is less time now, and zero margin for error.  The driver tries to gently navigate a path to split the difference between the ditch and the on-coming Olds … too much!  The tiny Corolla spins out of control and careens back into the oncoming lane – directly in front of the much more massive Oldsmobile.  The last thing the Corolla’s driver sees is the front grill of the Oldsmobile plowing directly into the driver-side door.

Such a meaningless waste of lives.

___________________________________________________________________________

    Traffic fatality rates in the United States have fallen dramatically, although not steady, in the last four decades.  In the early ‘70s, we lost consistently well over 50,000 lives annually to traffic accidents … as much as the entire death toll for our long involvement in Viet Nam – I recall being reminded (which lasted from 1950 – really! – until 1975, although we ceased fighting in 1973).  By 2009 our auto-related death toll had fallen to just over 30,000 lives [2].  This great drop in death despite a population growth from just under 200 million to well over 300 million in that period.  Or, if you prefer, a per capita drop in traffic fatalities of over 50%.   This, despite unquestionably more crowded roads and highways.  And less sane drivers.

    There are many reasons for this.  The leader is probably safer cars and driver practices in general – cars with 4, 6 and even 8 air bags, energy absorbing frames, engine mounts that drop, seat belts and shoulder harnesses.   Add to that better road and highway design and signage, driver training, alcohol awareness and we have a safer America.

______________________

    There are other factors for sure, including better driver education training for young drivers, as well as some wonderful programs targeted toward our younger drivers and citizens, such as Alive at 25 and Every 15 Minutes.  Insurance companies are placing more emphasis on well-trained, well-behaved and more responsible young drivers, especially those under 21, our most endangered segment of the driving population.

__________________________

 All of this notwithstanding, there is some disturbing evidence that traffic death rates have leveled off and may soon be increasing.  Growing road crowding and evidence of increased road rage are combined with more occurrence of pervasive distracted driver.  Perhaps none should be more alarmed at distracted driving than pedestrians, cyclists and even motorcyclists – who seem more affected than others when drivers make small mistakes with significant consequences.

_________________________

    But sometimes it is nothing more than dumb luck that turns a possibly fatal traffic accident from its worst-possible-outcome to one much, much better.  Providence – God? – may deem that it is not the time.  I am not quite so comfortable with that, because – sometimes – the end results are so much worse than they could have been.  Does God have a hand in that as well?

______________________________________

    All life has potential, and as such I believe that there is a plan for each of us.  But I cannot presume to know what it is.  It is simply there.

__________________________________________

    Life is a sequence of unexplainable miracles.  A short list includes the meeting of our parents – and grandparents, ad infinitum – as well as the miracle of mitochondrial splitting of cells and formation of organs.  When miracles lead to a life full of potential – when miracles lead to a life with a great role – then we think that it was meant to be.  Even ordained.  When the miracles stop, and lives and their potential cease along with the cessation of miracles, we wonder what the Almighty was thinking.

That is where I have spent a good deal of time over the past several decades.

And what of car accidents?  And miracles?  At about 5:30PM on November 17th, 1978 just outside Bells, Tennessee on a dim, rain-slickened State Highway 20, I was the driver of a 1974 Toyota Corolla.  My life did not “flash before my eyes” as I watched the Olds 88 smash into the driver’s side of my tiny car.  I do recall thinking “so this is it?” and seeing a flash of light and then … nothing.  The Corolla did a full gainer and a few twists before landing wheels down in a field on the side of the highway.

______________________________________________

    Somehow the Olds managed to direct most of its energy into the Toyota’s frame forward of the cabin where the driver and passenger were sitting … virtually shearing the Corolla off where the dashboard connects to the frame.  Still the driver’s side was almost completely caved in … yet … miraculously, no deaths.

____________________________________________

    And I don’t use the word miraculously lightly.  Lots of other factors have led to decreased traffic fatalities: better tires, reflective highway paint, anti-lock breaks, Jersey barriers, daytime running lights, those little ridges on the sides of roads.  In 1978 my personal little Olds-Toyota collision incident had the benefit of not a single one of those factors.  Considering the events: There is no good reason for me or my passenger to be alive.  She suffered a bang on the head and a twisted knee.  The kids in the Olds bounced around, but their (uninsured) mother refused treatment for herself and them at the scene; to be seen only once again.  She appeared a month later in traffic court and testified that she never hit the brakes because she thought I was safely off the road.  My left wrist, hand, knee, ankle and calf were shredded … yet survived with quite a few stitches.  All are now cursed with arthritis, and I have a single bad disk (C6/C7), but yea verily, no complaints. I also suffered the first of my concussions.

___________________________________

    Maybe there are good reasons for me to be alive.  My wife of almost 27 years (edited: now 34 years).  Three grown children; two daughters-in-law.  Countless lives and friends and experiences.  Many questions will remain unanswered for me until I finally do meet my end.  Questions.  Did someone, something, somehow nudge the Olds over? What is it I am supposed to do with my life that justified my survival?  Have I done it already?  Am I on borrowed time?

_____________________________________

    Hardly a day goes by, my friends, when I don’t recall that night.   [Edited: and also the evening of my violent May 1, 2014 car crash]. And I am left with only this:  Life is an unbelievable series of wonderful and unexplainable mysteries and miracles.  And not just from the moment of conception and through literally trillions of mitochondrial reproductions; the miracles that make up our lives and make our lives possible go back through the chance and circumstances of our parents’ lives to the dawn of time.  Yes, each life is an accumulation of incredible numbers of miracles.  Use it wisely.

If you believe that there is a future day of reckoning — a day of judgment — with your Maker — you just might be a better person today (allowing of course for human weakness) … thus granting justification to all the infinite little miracles of the past that made it possible for you to be you.

Peace
Joe Girard © 2010, 2017
[1] Evening Civil Twilight is when the sun passes 6 degrees below the horizon, or about 12 solar diameters. On clear evenings some activities are possible without lighting.  On heavily overcast evenings lights are required for just about any outdoor activity.

Other Notes: Highway 20 at this location is now a four lane highway … much easier to pass.

Other notes
My Corolla was yellow.  Not orange as the image shows.  I don’t know the color of the Delta 88, but it was large. My car was totaled.  As I was grad student with little money, I had no collision insurance.  So it was a total loss.

Autobiographical, Biographical, Generational, History

Transitions, Awakenings, Gratitude

“Every time an old person dies, it’s like a library burning down.”

 — Alex Haley

There is now one less faithful reader of my rambles and musings. Audrey’s mom — my mother-in-law — passed away last week. She was 87-1/2 years old. She lived a full life. RIP Eleanor “Elle” Rolfe (Nee: Stork).

She was a Holocaust survivor, escaping Nazi Germany in late 1938, thanks to the Kindertransport, which safely evacuated some 10,000 children (not nearly enough) to England in the dark and fearful few months following Kristallnacht.

Her father, Kurt, had been a very successful lawyer in Hamburg. He was pulled right out of a courtroom during a hearing, arrested, and sent off to a concentration camp.  The story is a bit vague at this point (see Haley quote), but her mother Paula and Kurt’s partner managed to get Eleanor onto one of the children evacuations. Her brother Eric, older by some three years, had been sent to a boarding school in England a couple years earlier.

Not quite age nine, she lived in England for about a year, staying with several families and even an orphanage. She arrived without knowing any English.  The first English word she recalled learning was “soon.” Every time she would ask when she could be with her brother (asked in German, of course, but I think they could understand “Bruder”) her guardians would answer “soon.”

Of course, they didn’t really know. Everything was chaos.  The Brits — mostly country folk, since the government was so terrified of the city bombings that would indeed come, starting in September, 1940 — were generous to care for these children.  (Many stayed after the war; they were orphaned).

Eventually she and brother Eric were re-united. Some time later their father was extracted from the Nazi grip by his law partners’ connections and bribes.  We owe a great debt of gratitude to law partner Kurt Sieveking, from a famous Hamburg family, for helping to get the family out of Hamburg in those dark, fearful months.

The family was re-united in Amsterdam, was able to obtain visas to the US, and sailed away the next December.  They arrived in New York harbor on New Years’ Day, 1940.

Hers is truly an epic story.  The family has a collection of epic stories, really.  Enough death, sorrow, and broken families to make you fill Amsterdam’s canals with tears. And these are just a few of many millions of stories.  What we know of the family alone could fill volumes; could be turned into several screenplays.  And that’s not half of it.  So very sad; and yet so very real.

________________________________________

My wife and I watched a rather odd, painful — yet interesting — movie earlier this week: Sleepwalk with me. It’s a mini-autobiographical biopic, written, and directed by the main character, who also stars as himself. [1]

[Warning: Plot spoiler] Brief synopsis.  The protagonist is a nice guy, but sort of a loser.  He’s in a nowhere job, but aspires to be a stand-up comic.  The aspirations are going nowhere too.  He has a beautiful, wonderful girlfriend. The relationship is eight years old, stale, and not really going anywhere.

He finally proposes marriage, more out of desperation than love.  This occurs just as his stand-up career starts improving immensely, as unlikely as that appears. She starts making bride-zilla scale wedding plans. She seems so excited.

As the wedding date approaches, near the end of the story, he admits that marriage is a bad idea for them.  To his astonishment, she agrees!  They break it off as easily as snapping a single uncooked spaghetti noodle.  Poof!  She never really thought the relationship would work out — for almost the entire eight years! And yet, she had accepted his proposal.

So why, why, why — he asks — did you keep hanging on with me???

Answer: I didn’t want to hurt you.

______________________________________

And it is a pretty weird story.  But it made an impression on me in a couple of ways, because it has such a ring of truth.

First, this guy (Mike Birbiglia — he is called Matt Pandamiglio in the story) put a lot of effort into telling an elaborate story that shows himself in a bad light. That’s honest and honorable. It ended up being kind of funny too, in a mostly awkward way, but that’s not the point.

Second, it got me to thinking about relationships, and how often they lack useful candor.

I don’t want to try and count the number of relationships I’ve had that have ended awkwardly.  And you know? … I almost never had a solid clue.  Am I dense?  With few exceptions, it seems like the young lady just sort of lost interest, but never had the nerve to tell me. Or maybe I did something wrong — and they never told me what it was. Never told me to “bug off.”

My wife can tell you that I’m a hopeless, sentimental romantic. With one exception, I just blithely thought any lady who’d date me more than two or three times was a potential lifelong mate.

And then .. and then … what?  Who knows?  I was just supposed to figure out from  their change of affection, or body language, or how they said my name  — or not being available next weekend, or the one after — that I just wasn’t their cup of tea. I’m not a good mind reader, especially when it comes to the opposite sex.

Except for once, every single break up just sort of happened when I stopped calling — with no regrets or “what happened?” from them. Or ended when I specifically made a point of saying something like: “I’m mystified.  With no more useful information, this is over.” This generally was just fine with them. [2]

With regard to exceptions, the most mature approach was probably the youngest, a lass we’ll call Susan (because that was her name).  Aged only 17, I dropped by one day, unannounced, fishing for clues, and asked “what’s up?”

She hemmed a few moments, then pulled a fresh sprig from a spruce tree and handed it to me. “This is a gift for you. See?  It smells nice.”

I said something like “Yes, it does. But, I don’t understand.”

She said “It will die soon. Even nice things die.”

Brilliant!  I eventually figured it out.  But I kept the dried up, dead old sprig for several months. Sentimental me.

____________________________________________________

I made a lot of mistakes when I courted Audrey.  Even more since we married. There was a lot of growth potential for Joe; but there was a long way between where Joe was and where that potential suggested he could be.

And that was — and is — one of her principal qualities. She held out for the potential. She has seldom been reticent about telling me how I could be better.  What I’d done wrong.  What she was expecting.

What a relief.  Yes, it hurt sometimes. And sometimes it’s even been kind of funny; for example I’ve even had to change how I fold socks and make a bed.  Pleasing a woman can be difficult and mysterious. It’s so much easier when she tells you what she wants and expects. And when she’s disappointed.

I’m pretty sure we owe quite a bit to Elle for these and many other of Audrey’s wonderful qualities.  The object of my affection saw potential and set a high bar for me; then she helped me get there — instead of just harrumphing and leaving me to guess, or divine the answers from a Ouija board.  Add to that her desire to be a devoted mother of children, something her mother faithfully and consistently displayed (fact: this was something we discussed on our first date!) and I knew I had a winner.  That was clear pretty early on.  I’m pretty sure around our 3rd date. And Audrey herself helped me earn her.

I’m a lucky man.

I’ve thanked Elle more than a few times for the gift of Audrey.  But let me say it again, here and now.  Elle: for anything and everything you had to do and endure to get Audrey to be the way she is, I thank you.

Joe Girard © 2017

Read Elle’s interview for Kindertransport history. Or listen to her interview for the US Holocaust Museum.

[1] Sleepwalk with me was produced by Ira Glass, he of fame from the Radio Series “This American Life.” The story was first made public on the show, narrated by Mike Birbiglia,and was very well received. The film premiered at the 2012 Sundance Festival, wherein it won the Best of NEXT Audience Award.

[2] Miss E(B)K, in case you ever read this — you were different: very nice, generous, mature and interesting lady.  Simply a poor fit, although it was a pretty good run for a few months.  The lessons on this one were: don’t wait too long, and don’t break up over the phone. Sorry about that. I also learned that live theater in a small venue is cool; so are older women.  Thank you.

Autobiographical, Poetry

Verse: of Fog and Snails

“Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

…

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the glorious Present!
Heart within, and God o’er head!”

— excerpts from “A Psalm of Life“, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

 

Hi again,

Just about finished going through old papers. And processing them mentally.

Here I present two poems that I wrote long ago.  I’ve put at least one up online before, but coming across early drafts of them has again helped me crystallize some “foggy” memories. These drafts were in that “folder of folderol”, referenced in “Wish I knew, ooh baby.”

As poetry should be, they could have many interpretations. Feel free to try your own. I won’t be offended.

Although they were meant to be ambiguous, the author also intended them to be very, very specific for himself. When you’re done, you will find those interpretations … far below the main texts. Thanks to my memory and those scribbles the thoughts and thought process at the time have become quite clear, yet again.

Crumpled up old poetry drafts

This first draft of the first poem (Foggy Sonnet Breakdown) was inspired in November, 1981. I was having some “issues”, as readers might have inferred from recent essays.  I took a day off work from Boeing (Seattle) to drive up into the Cascades for a solo hike.

Foggy Sonnet Breakdown
[The name is a twist on Foggy Mountain Breakdown, a banjo-based Blue Grass classic created by Earl Scruggs. It pretty much defines the Blue Grass style all by itself.  I learned to appreciate Blue Grass during my grad school years in Nashville, TN.]

Cascade mountain hiking. This is NOT a good idea for the Pacific Northwest in November.  The weather and road conditions matched my mood perfectly; it was very foggy, cold and drizzly. At least I had the roads and trails to myself.  During the drive up and back, and during the 9-mile “forced march” hike up and down Denny Creek (which left me near hypothermia and through which I endured multiple aggressive attacks by swooping Cascade Gray Jays when attempting to snack on my “gorp” — conditions I actually rather welcomed at the time), I composed most of these lines. My notes show that I originally called it “I-90 Fog”.

Later I transformed it into a “perfect” sonnet: not only 14 lines, but also 14 syllables per line.  Here you go.

Foggy Sonnet Breakdown
–
Praise the Fog around us now: Hides the vileness that we shun,
Protects us from other worlds till another day is done.
Curse the Fog around us now: Hides the beauty that we seek,
Causes us to lose our way and so makes the day seem bleak.
—
A Fog lies in our valleys, but ne’er upon our true peaks.
Fogs are chosen by the Prideful, as sure as by the Meek.
—
Fog can be the product of sympathetic tears that greet
The Victims in their own undoings when touched by Passion’s heat.
—
As for me, I am resolved; for who of us is to tell
If the path I’ve chosen leads to my heaven or my hell?
–
I wish that I could ask you Fog: “What makes you so damn sure
That we’ll lose sight of our goals, and our patience won’t endure?
For the day is very young and the Sun is rising fast;
Soon she’ll cauterize you canker: free from ourselves at last!”
–
— Joe Girard © original 1981; edited in 1993 (during another self-induced crisis)

_________________________________________________________

Ahem.  Well … chew on that a while, if you’d like.

The second and shorter piece, entitled “Snail People” was written in January, 1982.  I had — more or less — accepted defeat (although the Coup de Grace was some three months away).

Do I need to explain Seattle’s January weather?  It’s Dreary and Damp, with capital D’s. That’s D, as in fending off a Dark mood.  Defeats are singular … life is longer: spring and opportunity were on their way. Like Longfellow’s Psalm of Life, it was time to move on; wiser, stronger, bravely and more resilient.

Snail People

See Ye now the snail,
So timid,
It crawls upon the sand.
See Ye now the snail,
I grasp it,
And crush it in my hand.
—
Poor stupid creatures,
Not knowing
That living in a shell —
Poor stupid creatures
Not LIVING.
A corpse would do as well.
—
See ye now a man,
So lonely
Within his shell — how strange!
See ye now a man.
I wonder:
Why won’t he ever change?
–
Joe Girard © January, 1982

Ahem.  Interpretations?  Feel free.

They were written from lengthy and deep introspection.

Hint: There is acceptance of flaws … and determination to deal with them, through faith in self.

I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried
I’ve had my fill, my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing

To think I did all that
And may I say – not in a shy way
Oh no, oh no, not me
I did it my way

— from “My Way”; lyrics by Paul Anka, first and most famous English recording by Frank Sinatra.

Author recreates his interpretations, several decades later:

Fog covers parts of the Smoky Mountains at the break of day.

Well here goes. Fog is cluttered and clouded thinking.  It both shelters and obscures; it can be comforting or disorienting.  Mountain fogs tend to lie in valleys; at mountain high points the view is far and clear, for you are above the fog. (Fog is simply a cloud that reaches down to the ground). Climb to be your best self; and the fogs simply fall away.

Such obscuration can be caused by both pride and self-pity. Dwelling on your depths leaves you in the fog; dwelling on positives gets you up the mountain, above the clouds.

The fog, or clouded thinking here, abruptly turns to reference the tears of self-pity.  This is not true victimhood; not when a condition is self induced. The heat of emotion turns tears to vapor, where they re-condense into a fog.

It is of course, about me. I was the victim of my own in-doing.  I accepted responsibility.  Now what?

Yet, it is still early in the day (my life). The Sun is my own fiery self-determination, which can, and will, cure — even if it requires burning the wounds to cease their oozing.

Capitalizations.  No apologies.  Note that Longfellow did the same. These were to emphasize that the subject referenced is me, myself, or some quality of mine. I capitalized and made the S of sun bold, to make that (i.e. my self determination and  willingness to use it to cure, even through metaphoric searing) especially pronounced and memorable. A point of focus. To burn it into my psyche. The sun, like self-determination can both burn and heal.  Simultaneously.

Well, I think that’s it. That’s all I can recall for now about how, why, and when I first wrote it … and what it meant to me. What it meant about me.

Foggy Sonnet Breakdown …
[The idea of fog along mountains ranges and lying in their valleys also came from my years in Tennessee. Each spring a friend and I would make a lengthy vacation at the end of the school year in the Smoky Mountains to hike, camp and raft rivers.]

———————————–

Snail People is more about accepting self, dismissing isolation, and moving on. Acknowledging a large world beyond oneself.

Living a small, shallow protected life is a choice.  It can feel comfortable.  But it is self-limiting and leads to metaphoric death: a life void of meaningful interactions.  Yes it is safe, and life without a shell will — certainly, eventually — involve some pain.  Get over it.  Crush it. No one will ever feel sorry for you for long.

So, don’t be lonely.  Shed that shell. Have people in your life. Learn! Time to move on.

————————————

Until next time, I bid you Adieu. And, I wish you many heights above your fog.  And life out of your shell.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2017

 

Autobiographical, Biographical, Entertainment Industry, History, Music, Politics

Another Love Story

Another Love Story

“There’s no tick-tock on your electric clock,
But still your life runs down”
— Harry Chapin (song: Halfway to Heaven)

The Long Island Expressway is often called by its acronym LIE, and seldom by its assigned number ID: I-495.  It is also often called the Long Island Distress-way, a tribute to its notorious snarly traffic jams that can go on for miles and miles and several hours each weekday.

Monday through Friday the expressway turns into a slothful snake, slithering on the cold concrete as it stretches from the Queens Midtown Bridge out east to Suffolk County.  Late in the morning and early in the afternoon, the LIE wakes up.  The traffic drops below a volume threshold, and — voila! — cars can often zip along at 65mph (105 kmh), sometimes even with a few car lengths between them.

________________________________________________________________________________

I have a confession to make.  During my high school and college years, I didn’t like the contemporary popular music as much as I let on.  Sure, I learned the words to many of the more popular songs and was, thereby, able to fit in.  I faked it.

The songs that attracted me were more earthy.  Songs with words that could be understood; songs with words that told stories; songs where the words were more important than the music.  The music was simply the walls upon which murals were painted; murals that told stories of a vast range of “ordinary” people, trying to do their best, survive the world’s vagaries, and just – somehow – get along.

Thirty or forty-five years ago a guy would rather die before admitting that Barry Manilow’s songs about a washed up show girl (Copacabana) or a man who mourns that he is no longer in love (Tryin’ to Get the Feeling Again) were his preference.  Include Gordon Lightfoot’s saga of a doomed freight ship (Edmund Fitzgerald).  Or maybe worse, “chick” songs: Judy Collins singing a ballad about someone who did all the right things in life, except the important things (Send in the Clowns), or acknowledging that everything important we think we know about life might be wrong (Both Sides Now).

____________________________________________________

At lunch hour the LIE offers an enticing route for mid-day errands.  Clients to meet.  Lunch with friends.  Errands to run.  Doctor appointments.  In the summer, pick up or drop off kids at camp, make an early get away to – or late return from – the outer beaches.  Trucks are out making deliveries and pickups.  Noon hour traffic usually zips, but it’s a crap-shoot: sometime it’s a bit tight for 65mph, and – with just one accident, or breakdown, or a little precipitation – it can return to “the Distress-way”, slowing to a sudden and unwelcome complete stop.

_____________________________________________________

Shoot, I even liked some ballads, like Marty Robbins’ cowboy ditty “West Texas town of El Paso” and Simon & Garfunkle’s “The Boxer.”  Among the “story teller” singers and songwriters, by far I liked Harry Chapin the most.  He wrote and arranged his own songs.   His voice was just bad enough that anyone could convince themselves they could sing them.  But the stories — the lyrics — captivated me.

Harry Chapin, Album cover: Heads & Tales

By Chapin’s own admission, he was a delusional dreamer.  His first songs (he often joked) went something along the lines of “If only everyone could hold hands and hum along to the wonderful songs I am singing, the world would be a wonderful place and we’d have peace and friendship and boundless goodwill.”

Born to a musical and theatrical family, Chapin even made a brief yet successful foray into movie making, writing and directing a documentary for which he earned an Academy Award nomination.[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Legendary_Champions]

Harry found his stride in music in his own form of ballad, telling stories of life.  His breakthrough song, in 1972, was Taxi, a story about a taxi driver who has lost his life’s dream and purpose — and then, without warning one night, he picks up a fare who turns out to be a former lover needing a ride home.  Her life has also not turned out so well.  They briefly reminisce.  Among his many studies:

  • Sniper – a confused and frustrated young man seeks notoriety ·
  • Better Place to Be – a midnight watchman fills his empty life for one night, and then, maybe, for the rest of his life. ·
  • WOLD – a washed up DJ is still trying to make something of his life and career
  • Mr Tanner – A dry-clean shop owner with a talent for singing ·
  • Corey’s Coming – an aged railroad worker still hangs out at the rail yard
  • What Made America Famous – Hippies living in a communal hovel survive the scare of a life [which he also wrote into a full length musical play,The Night that Made America Famous; it ran a full season at the Ethel Barrymore Theater in Manhatten]
  • Dance Band on the Titanic – title tells it all
  • 30,000 Pounds of Bananas – a young truck driver negotiates the hills of eastern Pennsylvania
  • Dogtown – Life in the old whaling town of Gloucester, MA ·
  • Mail Order Annie – Life on the North Dakota Plains
  • Vacancy – A Motel Keeper’s Life
  • Six String Orchestra — Harry makes fun of his guitar abilities
  • Tangled up Puppet — A father’s love for his daughter is clouded by the mystery of transition from young girl to young woman

It was in telling the stories of simple salt-of-the-earth people’s lives that Harry made his mark, but it took a while before he made it really big.  Most of his good songs were quite long, six to ten minutes.  That makes good concert material, but doesn’t get you on the radio. After a few years, with the help of his wife, Sandy, he finally made it really big.

Sandy had already been in an unhappy marriage and divorced with three children – and nine year Harry’s elder – when they met.  [Of course, Chapin adapted their meeting and falling in love to a song: I Want to Learn a Love Song]. When they married, Chapin adopted her children and became the loving father that they never had.

The Chapins’ marriage and coming together as a family began a happy story just as it ended a sad story for Sandy — a sad story she wrote into a poem … and Harry turned into a song.  All at once the story describes both the relationship between her first husband and his father, as well as the relationship between her first husband and her children.  The song was poignant, touching and of the right length, under four minutes.  Harry had his only #1 hit with Cat’s in the Cradle.  Now he wasn’t just famous and well off, he had a substantial cash flow.

______________________________________

There is a lot to do to set up a benefit concert.  Especially when you have to — okay, maybe when you insist on — doing most of it yourself.  Better leave plenty of time, just in case the LIE gets all jugged up.  After a few hasty phone calls and a quick check to make sure that the contracts, music and guitars are all packed – oh, and a fast food lunch – it’s time to hit the road.  The LIE is remarkably smooth.  To heck with that silly 55mph speed limit, 65 is plenty safe.  And besides, the oil crises are long over.

___________________________________________

Born exactly one year after the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, perhaps Harry Foster Chapin was destined to great things. He surely had great visions. Great aspirations. Harry was out to change the world. He received a commission to the Air Force Academy. But he dropped out: the military was certainly not his style. He transferred to Colgate in his home state of New York to study music and theater, through which he — of course — intended to change the world. He soon learned it wasn’t so easy. When his music couldn’t change the world, he figured out another way: he would use the money and notoriety that his musical success provided to change the world.

Among Harry’s many concerns were the inanity and the evil of Hunger.  And not just hunger, but hunger on a global scale.  Harry founded and funded the WHY (World Hunger Year, which is now called Why Hunger … http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_Hunger_Year).

The foundational beliefs of WHY are: 1) that the world produces every year more food than we can all possibly eat and, yet, people suffer in hunger around the world, and 2) that most causes for hunger are local, and therefore can be solved locally.  But he didn’t just think globally; he also founded the Long Island Food Bank.

Harry was in love with the human race; and wanted to make a huge positive impact.

_______________________________________________

I saw Chapin in concert only once — at Arkansas State University.  I think it was April, 1977.  He was alone.  Perhaps one of his brothers Tom or Steve came out to do a few songs with him.  He had a rather large band and following at that time, and I wondered why he was mostly alone.  Well, it turns out that by this time most of the concerts Harry did were benefits, usually supporting a combination of local charities (philharmonics, theaters and food banks were often favorites) as well as his world causes.  He was WAY ahead of his time; before FARM-AID and LIVE-AID he was putting together concerts with other save-the-world types like John Denver and Elton John. Turns out he often had a falling out with his band, and they wouldn’t perform with him – sure his causes were great, but they wanted to be paid.  Harry didn’t care about the money and couldn’t figure out why they did.

At least two of his songs were views of his own life.  One an overview: the appropriately named Shooting Star, in which a man lost in his own visions is given meaning to life by his wife.  And another song was a portent: 30,000 lbs of Bananas, in which a young distracted driver must negotiate a potentially deadly situation while driving a truck.

______________________________________

Harry lived fast and hard, always on a mission.  He wrote and performed constantly.  Even with a large income, he gave so much money away that he had no idea how much money he had.  He lived simply, driving a 1975 Volkswagen Rabbit, eating quickly and horribly.  Nonetheless, he had the ear of President Jimmy Carter, and lobbied congress on the president’s behalf to get support and funding for the Commission on World Hunger.

____________________

The LIE is really moving now.  Not much farther now.  The concert will be just past the next exit; from there to East Meadow, near Levittown, the humble first post-war planned community — the one that set the model for suburban sprawl.

The 1975 Rabbit has moved to the center lane, preparing to exit soon, as it shoots down the expressway, when — suddenly — it slows from 65 mph to 50, then to 40, then to 30.  The emergency flashers come on.  Cars are whizzing by on both sides.

The driver is trying to make it to the right shoulder.  Something is terribly, terribly wrong.  It slows to 20, then 15 mph.  Is there a chance to slide into the right lane?  No, a car is there and the Rabbit nearly collides with it; the Rabbit’s driver over-reacts, veering to the left.  It hits the car to its left. Careening and over-correcting again, it turns to the right, entering the right lane ahead of an 18-wheel tractor-trailer semi-truck, en route to a delivery at a Long Island supermarket.

__________________________________________

<updated> Thirty-six years ago this summer, on a glorious, sunny and beautiful Thursday noon hour, July 16, 1981, Harry Chapin made his way down the LIE, as he had so many times before.  Heck, New York City was his hometown.  Along the way he passed signs and exits (“that he should have seen“) for parks, buildings and humanitarian institutions that would one day bear his name.

He was a man with a big heart and big dreams.  He had spent his adult life giving from his heart, sharing his dreams.  Now, his big heart had little left in it; on that sunny afternoon Harry Chapin had a massive heart attack right there on the LIE, and at that moment it became, truly, a Distress-way.

His car came to a nearly complete stop, directly in front of a grocery store delivery truck.  The truck was unable to stop.  In a cataclysmic collision, the truck not only rammed the tiny Rabbit, it ended up on top of Chapin’s VW Rabbit.  Ironically, he was under a truck carrying 30,000 pounds of groceries. Miraculously, brave passersby, together with the truck driver, were able to extract him from the car, through the window, just before it erupted into an inferno.  To no avail.  Harry left his heart and dreams behind and moved on, aged only 38.

_____________________________________

When I heard the news that night, where I lived with two friends in a rented house in West Seattle, I got physically sick.  This was a punch to the gut.  My intestines roiled and their contents emptied out.  As was our custom, when someone famous died, we would have an Irish wake – which meant drinking.  For me it was a drowning of sorrow.  And at that time, I didn’t know the half of it.  I just liked Chapin’s music.  I had no idea of what a big dreamer and doer he was.

_____________________________________

I don’t think I would have liked his politics much.  As a dreamer he had the opinion that every problem should be fixed with a big societal toolbox.  He was hanging out with Michael Moore before he was famous, helping keep his little protest-print-shop in Flint, Michigan alive.  I’m sure Harry would be touring the “Occupy” protests, going from city to city, country to country, putting on free concerts and offering encouragement.

But Harry was way better than that.  He didn’t just demand that somebody else, or government, fix problems.  He set out to do it himself.  He poured himself into his beliefs and humanitarian causes.  And THAT I admire.

My lessons from Harry:

  • Life is short, sometimes tragically short.  Get over it.
  • Get a dream and just do it.
  • Tell your stories.  Share your dreams.
  • Be in a bit of a hurry.
  • Enjoy the Music of Life, whatever it sounds like to you.
  • Make no excuses for whatever inspires you, no matter what others may think.
  • Pick causes greater than yourself
  • Listen to your wife

 

Don’t let this be you:

“Oh, I’ve got something inside me —
Not what my life’s about.
I’ve been letting my outside tide me
Over ’til my time runs out”

— Harry Chapin (song bridge lyrics: Taxi)

Joe Girard ©November, 2011 (republished, slightly edited ©2017)

Notes:

(1) this essay’s title “Another Love Story” is derived from the title of Chapin’s Album: Sniper and Other Love Stories.
(2) Long Island Expressway: I don’t know why it is I-495.  The rule is that the first digit (“4”) is supposed to indicate a loop or bypass to the nominal route (I-95).  Not only is it not a loop, it is a spur and doesn’t even formally connect to the I-95.  Those crazy New Yorkers.
(3) Disclosure: “Even though Chapin was driving without a license, his driver’s license having previously been revoked for a long string of traffic violations, his widow Sandy won a $12 million decision in a negligence lawsuit against Super Markets General, the owners of the truck.” — Wikipedia
_______________________________________________________

 

Joe Girard’s other older essays at essays

 

Final thoughts: Some choice songs:

 

Autobiographical, Music

Wish I knew, oh baby

At the end of your life you will groan,
    when your flesh and body are spent.
You will say, “How I hated discipline!
    How my heart spurned correction!
I would not obey my teachers
    or turn my ear to my instructors.
And I was soon in serious trouble …”
—Proverbs 5: 11-14

The 1973 song “Ooh, La, La” by the British rock group Faces has been covered many times, and gets

Folder of Folderol

resurrected from time to time in pop culture by inclusion in movies, TV shows and commercials. [1] No surprise, I suppose, since — in short select snippets — it has a pretty upbeat melody and palatable message:

“I wish that I knew what I know now
When I was younger.
I wish that I knew what I know now
When I was stronger.”
— Faces, 1973 (Lyrics by Ronnie Lane & Ronnie Wood)

In reality the song is bitter-sweet at best, its balance consisting of regret, remorse and wistfulness.  It’s actually part of a big club; there’s a pretty substantial list of songs that sound pleasant yet can pain one’s heart when you listen carefully — or read the lyrics.

Consider Abba’s “Mama Mia”, the Spinners’ “I’ll be Around”, The Doobie Brothers’ “What a Fool Believes” and Elvis Costello’s “Allison.” Or even previously mentioned “Happy Anniversary, Baby.” These all come off OK as elevator music and even party music; but they all have a bittersweet and even dark side.[2]

I suppose Rod Stewart might want to have known in 1973 what he learned a few years later.  When Faces cut their last album “Ooh, La, La” with the eponymously named single, well, Sir Stewart already had a very large and growing personal music career outside of Faces, even though he was also simultaneously lead singer for Faces for most songs.

Stewart and Faces were already falling out when he decided that “Ooh, La, La” was a crappy song and beneath his dignity.  It would never go anywhere.  Or so he thought. The producer insisted it stay on the album, and convinced co-writer Ronnie Wood to do the lead vocals.

The song was a winner, and has been ever since. It reached #1 in the UK, and #21 in the US.  Stewart finally covered the song himself in 1998, and his raspy voice is often associated with it, although “Woody” did the original and classic version.

Simply read the lyrics and the song’s meaning is fairly clear, although open to some interpretation, as all good works of art are.  My interpretation: a man is reflecting back on a chat session with his grandfather from very long ago.  Grandpa seems bitter and gives him only a few hints about women, perhaps as a metaphor for life.  Then gramps sort of stops and says something like: “oh, you won’t really listen anyhow. You’ll just have to go out and learn by yourself.  I was the same way.  Good luck with that. Be prepared.  It will probably hurt.”

And then the man reflects: … wish I knew then what I know now … now that I’m older.

It is an old message. An old story. See Proverbs.

_____________________________

I’m going through a lot of old “crap” that we’ve saved over the decades.  This is partly to simplify my life, partly to make it easier for our kids when we move on, and partly to refresh some memories.

A few weeks ago I came across a sheet of paper that staggered me. Notes I’d made to myself a very long time ago.

I’ll try to shorten the backstory. But from 1969 to 1979 I was practically illiterate.  Turns out that I had a rare form of epilepsy that, among other things, made it almost impossible to read intently for more than a few minutes at a time.  I just learned to fake it, listen closely in class, and passed all my courses, although I recall “earning” a grade of D in one high school literature class.  Mercy was in play. I tried to hang around the smarter kids in lit classes (usually girls) … if and when they would put up with my stuttering and facial ticks.

Coming out of grad school in late 1980, now treated with medication, I was determined to catch up.  I read everything I could. Motivation? I felt culturally lost.  I stayed up very late on many nights. Went through piles of books.

I picked up a faddish book of the time: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I really struggled with that book.  What a waste of time. Or so I thought.

Several months later, in November of 1981 {when I thought there was still a chance with Miss Summer of ’81 (See Happy Anniversary, Baby)} I spent many hours in deep reflection and self observation. Revelation: Clearly  Joe, you have some problems.  But, what are they? And what would motivate me to dig critically deep and make some changes?

I scribbled some motivation.  Growing old together.  Just time at the mall, or on a beach. Sledding after a surprise snowstorm. Or lingering over a morning cup of coffee.

Now, dig Joe.  Dig down where it hurts. For some reason some paragraphs from “Zen” came back to me.  I went back to the book.

There is a section in “Zen” on Gumption Traps worthy of review.  I copied some sentences. Then, as memory becomes clearer, I spent hours and days thinking about them.  How could they be expanded and applied?

I really wanted to be worthy. In “Zen’s” words: exhibit Quality.

The Gumption lessons apply mostly to setbacks and struggles. Now slightly expanded, slightly edited and made more blunt by time, these can be simplified to:

  1. Develop patience and fortitude — the good things in life are worth waiting and working for.
  2. When there is a conflict or a setback: step back, mentally slowly walk 360 degrees around the issue to consider all points of view. (i.e. eliminate “rigid thinking“).
  3. Be open to the possibility that others have a good reason (to them) for why they do what they do.
  4. Make yourself a subject of study.  Especially: Know your weaknesses and personality flaws. Then: manage your life and behavior appropriately. If you think you have no serious flaws and weakness — then pride is the first one to identify.
  5. Seek and accept counsel of elders.
  6. Be creative in finding things to be grateful for; and be creative in expressing gratitude.

[* By the way, most of these lessons were in play while courting the wonderful Miss Audrey soon thereafter, although I wasn’t a very good student

** I’ve always thought about the topic of candor, but haven’t included it.  I’ll just say every relationship needs it, and from the beginning.  Too much, too soon is dangerous. And too little too late is dangerous too; in fact, catastrophic.  Be careful out there.  It’s a timing thing.]

Portion of “Notes to Self”, mid-November, 1981

Sad, I suppose, but I have to keep re-learning all of these.  I had only a vague recollection of even writing them down. I had stuffed them in a box with a bunch of other notes of folderol I was accumulating from all that reading.

I nearly wept upon finding them and the decades of memories they brought.  How … could … I … always … be … so … dense?

And … of course … my wonderful mother had been telling me all of these lessons since my earliest memories.

Guess I’m just like the old proverbs, stories and songs: You’ll just have to go through life and learn it on your own. And oh, it will often hurt.

Q: “What words of wisdom can I give them?
How can I help to ease their way?”

A: “Now they must learn from one another …
Day by day”

— Tevye asks; Golda replies. From the  song Sunrise, Sunset, from  Fiddler on the Roof.

I’m also going through piles of stuff from my parents that have been haunting me in the years since they’ve moved on.  Time to thin all this down too, for the same reason: our kids shouldn’t have to do this.

Came across one more gem from my mom’s collection of notes.

Be nicer to everyone than necessary — nearly everyone is fighting some kind of battle.

It’s now my tagline. The only really significant regrets I have are that I’ve hurt others.

Wishing you all peace and strength in dealing with your battles and foibles.

Cheers

Joe Girard © 2017

 

Footnotes
(1) “Ooh La La” has been featured in the following movies: Rushmore (1998); Without a Paddle (2004).  In the following TV series: Grass (2003); Blackpool (2004), Entourage (HBO) and Californication.  It’s also been used by Nike in a 2005 commercial that used images of a very young Tiger Woods playing golf.

(2) Some insightful lyrics [I’ve added the words in brackets that I think can be inferred]
Mama Mia:
“Look at me now, will I ever learn?
I don’t know how but I suddenly lose control”
….
“Yes, I’ve been brokenhearted
Blue since the day we parted
[Oh] Why, why did I ever let you go?”

What a Fool Believes
“The sentimental fool don’t see.
Tryin’ hard to recreate what had yet to be created”

“No wise man has the power to reason away … [what a fool believes he sees]”

Allison
“Sometimes I wish that I could stop you from talking
when I hear the silly things that you say.”

“Oh, Alison, my aim is true.”

I’ll Be Around
“You made your choice, now it’s up to me
To bow out gracefully”

and yet …

“Whenever you call me, I’ll be there
Whenever you want me, I’ll be there”

Happy Anniversary Baby
“…when I look back baby
…look back to what we had.
And I know I’m countin’ good times,
But there were just as many bad.”

 

 

 

History, Sports

Can’t Touch This

This essay is for lovers of baseball and history.  Or rather: lovers of Major League Baseball history. We’re going to look at some of the most unlikely of baseball games in history: the No Hitter.

In baseball a Hit is when a batter strikes the ball such that he makes it safely to at least first base without benefit of a defensive player making a mistake (an error) or a play where he could have retired the batter, but chose not to (a Fielders Choice).  The definition of a No Hitter has always been a bit in flux, even though it sounds simple enough. What if the game is shortened to 5 innings because of rain?  What if the home team wins with only 8 At Bats, so the losing pitcher only has to pitch 8 innings (yes, a pitcher can throw a No Hitter and lose; I recall Andy Hawkins doing so).  What if the game goes into extra innings?

Here I’ll briefly present 3 of the most famous No Hitters in professional baseball history

==>

1. The Double No Hitter, May 2, 1917.

It was in the early days of Wrigley Field, which then was known as Weegham Park, an edifice that stands as a monument to the history of the game, complete with brick walls and ivy covering much of them. A horrifically bloody war raged in Europe with apparently no end; the US had just joined the fray.  Baseball provided an excellent distraction.

The Cincinnati Reds’ Fred Toney was up against the Chicago Cubs’ Jim “Hippo” Vaughn.  Toney had started his career with the Cubbies.  Playing first base for the Cubs that day was the famous (or infamous) Fred Merkel, the man who — as a 19-year old rookie with the Giants — made a baserunning mistake so pivotal it is still known as “Merkel’s Boner” and led to the Cubs’ appearance in the 1908 World Series … which the Cubs won (their last world series win for 108 years, until 2016).  Playing Right Field for the Reds was none other than Jim Thorpe, the 4-sport superman (fifteen if you count an NCAA Championship in Ball Room Dancing and the Gold Medal in the Olympic Decathlon)

Through nine innings both Toney and Hippo Vaughn had pitched No Hitters. The score was 0-0. Vaughn had allowed only one baserunner, on an error.  Toney had walked two, but allowed no hits.

In the top of the 10th inning, with one out, the Reds’ Larry Knopf stroked a clean single to right field, breaking up Hippo’s No Hitter.  He advanced to third base on the second Cub error of the game, by center fielder Cy Williams.  With two outs the Greatest Athlete of the 20th century came to the plate: Jim Thorpe.  Thorpe hit a dribbler half-way to third, in no-man’s land (to use a WWI term). Catlike, Vaughn got to the ball; but he determined that the super speedy Thorpe would beat his throw to first. Vaughn made a snap throw to home plate, where he had a chance to catch Knopf running home.  Unfortunately, Cubs catcher Art Wilson was anticipating a throw to first.  Vaughn’s throw bounced off his chest protector.

Thorpe was credited with a hit and the game winning RBI.

In the bottom of the 10th, Toney completed his No Hitter.  Toney only had 3 strikeouts the entire game (reminiscent of Cubs’ Ken Holtzman’s No Hitter in their love/pain season of 1969, when he completed one of only two No Hitters in MLB history with exactly zero strikeouts).

Finial Score: Reds 1.  Cubs 0.  [The single run was unearned, because of the error that put Knopf at third]

The official attendance for that game is listed at a mere 350.

==>

2. More than Perfect is not enough: May 26, 1959

The most remarkable of No Hitters is the Perfect Game. In a Perfect Game the pitcher goes through a game without allowing a single baserunner. No one gets on base by hit. Not by error. Not by walk. Not by Hit Batsman.  Not by Catcher Interference.  27 consecutive batters retired without reaching first base. There have only been 23 perfect games in all of baseball history; out of nearly a quarter-million total games (and two teams per game), that means that a Perfect Game is a very rare accomplishment, indeed. Very rare.

Or is it?

The year was 1959.  The Eisenhower-Nixon administration was in office.  The Civil Rights movement was just beginning to bud, from Branch Rickey’s brave move to get Jackie Robinson into the Major Leagues in 1947, to the seeds sown by Truman’s integration of the military in 1948. Brown v Topeka Board of Education was 1954; Rosa Parks refused to give up her bus seat in 1955. In 1957 a showdown in Arkansas between governor Orval Faubus and President Eisenhower led to the integration of Little Rock Central High.

The times they were a-changin’. The French had given up in Indochina … leading to a concern about communism there that would lead to cataclysmic cultural clashes in the US just a few years later.

Communism.  The great red scare.  Eisenhower had significantly shrunk the headcount of the US military, hoping to save money and lives by investing in the deterrence of nuclear weapons.  Nuke tipped missiles. The Soviet Union built them bigger and faster. “Duck and cover” was standard domestic training.

Baseball again provided the drama for a great distraction.

The Milwaukee Braves were a very good team in 1959. In 1957 they had won the World Series over the mighty Yankees, 4 games to 3.  In 1958, a World Series redux led to the Yanks winning 4-3.  When 1959 ended, the Braves tied for the NL pennant with the Dodgers, only to lose a mini-playoff series for a possible third straight WS appearance. The Braves were good. Very good.

The Pittsburgh Pirates were a budding powerhouse.  1959 would prove to be their first winning season since 1948; and springboard them to their surprising World Series appearance in 1960, where they would shock the sporting world — and the Yankees — with a 4 games to 3 victory, with Bill Mazoroski’s historic walk-off home run. [The only time a World Series game 7 has ended with a walk off home run]. But that was in the future.

This May night Harvey Haddix was perfect for the Pirates. Through 9 innings it was 27 up and 27 down. No Baserunners.

Unfortunately for Haddix and the Pirates, the Pirates scored no runs…. although they did eke out 10 singles against the Braves’ pitcher, Lew Burdette.

After nine innings the score stood 0-0.

Haddix pitched the 10th inning. Perfect. He pitched the 11th and 12 innings.  Perfect again. No Baserunners. All outs.

Unfortunately, the Pirates scored zero runs also, while Burdette continued pitching for the Braves.

Harvey Haddix came out to pitch the bottom of the 13th inning, the score still tied 0-0. He and Burdette had each already thrown well over 150 pitches, unheard of in the modern era.

The Braves’ slight second baseman, Felix Mantilla (man-TEE-ya), led off, hitting a groundball to third. The throw beat Mantilla, but it short-hopped first baseman Rocky Nelson (what a great sports name) in the dirt, and he couldn’t “pick it.” The Braves had their first baserunner, benefit of a Pirates’ throwing error.

The next batter was lefty Eddie Matthews, one of the greatest home run hitters of all time (512 total).  But Haddix was also lefty, and — as such — had a huge advantage over Matthews with his devastating assortment of breaking balls.  Matthews bunted Mantilla over to second.  [Championship teams do these sorts of things].

One out and Mantilla was on second.  At least the No Hitter was intact.

The next batter was also a great home run hitter: Hank Aaron.  Discounting Barry Bonds steroid-assisted numbers, “Hammerin’ Hank” Aaron stands as the greatest home run hitter of all time.

The Pirates chose to walk Aaron. One out, runners on first and second.

This brought up Braves 1st baseman Joe Adcock. At the time, Adcock was one of the most feared hitters in the league.  Adcock once hit four home runs in a single game, in 1954; a record that has never been broken, although tied some 15 times. Also, back in 1954 Adcock, had hit a line drive off Haddix that struck him in the kneecap so severely that it forced poor Harvey to permanently alter his pitching delivery.

With Mantilla on 2nd and Aaron on first Adcock hit a blast to deep right center field.  As there was only one out, Mantilla waited near second base to tag up.  Aaron took off for second. Adcock cruised to first, watching to see where his mighty blow would end up. Pirates Right Fielder Joe Christopher, a late inning replacement, went to the wall and leapt.  Mantilla tagged up and Aaron, thinking that Christopher might have caught the ball, paused.

As it turned out, the ball cleared the fence for an apparent game ending walk off Home Run.  Aaron, now apparently aware of what happened, leapt for joy — and celebrated as Braves players left the dugout to swarm the infield.  But the game was not technically over.  Adcock kept running, and passed Aaron somewhere just past second base.  At this point Mantilla was heading home.

The very alert second base umpire Frank Dascoli called Adcock OUT; it is not permitted to pass a preceding baserunner, regardless of where the ball is. But as a dead ball award, Mantilla and Aaron were permitted — once made aware of what was going on — to continue on to home plate. The final score was 2-0; Haddix had lost.

Later the scoring was altered.  Since Adcock could not be awarded a home run, Aaron’s run was nullified.

The official MLB final score was Braves 1, Pirates 0.  Adcock was awarded only a double for hitting the ball over the fence.

One can only imagine the chaos that would have ensued had there been two outs when Adcock passed Aaron.  Or if Adcock had passed Aaron, then Aaron passed Mantilla on the bases. That would have been the 3rd out, and — as Mantilla might not have touched Home Plate yet — could have kept the score at 0-0.

Considering that the Braves were a powerhouse team, playing at home … Harvey Haddix had probably pitched the most fantastic, amazing, unbelievable game of all time: Twelve innings of perfection. Sports writers and historians usually agree.  And, yet, he lost.

==>

3. Perfect beats really, really good: September 9, 1965.

This is a game that I might have listened to.  At least part of the game.  The loveable losing Cubs were in their losing hey day.  I had been a fan since my dad took me to Wrigley Field one hot August afternoon in 1961; I saw Billy Williams hit a home run (1961 Rookie of the Year) and I was fan of him and his sweet swing ever since.

The Dodgers were a powerhouse then, mostly on the strength of a phenomenal pitching staff, which was led by the incomparable Sandy Koufax.

On this September evening, in Chavez Ravine’s Dodger stadium, probably the most unlikely and memorable pitching duels of all time took place, at least in the modern era.

Koufax was up against the Cubs’  Bob Hendley, a mediocre pitcher of the era, who compiled a lifetime record of 48-52.

Lyndon Johnson was in the White House — this  time on his own, not as the guy who was VP when Kennedy was assassinated — having won the 1964 election in a landslide … mainly by portraying Barry Goldwater as an unstable warmonger.  Yet Johnson was now fighting two very expensive — and doomed to fail — wars. His War on Poverty eventually cost the country trillions of dollars, and left the country divided, with a higher poverty rate, lower literacy rate and lower marriage rate than before.

More devastating was Indochina.  After the Gulf of Tonkin incident (or non-incident, depending on your reading of history), Johnson convinced the Congress to begin expanding the US engagement in, what we would come to call, the Viet Nam War.

Civil Rights continued moving forward in fits and spurts.  In 1964 the Civil Rights Act became law … and Dr Martin Luther King, Jr was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. The Civil Rights Act was challenged, and upheld, in the Supreme Court in Heart of Atlanta Hotel v United States: hotels everywhere would now be required to provide lodging to non-Whites.

Dr Timothy Leary was experimenting with, and publishing papers, on the uses and benefits of psychedelic drugs such as LSD.  By the next year he was an icon of America’s tidal wave of counter-culture, preaching us to “turn on, tune in and drop out”, and “question authority.”

Not all Americans agreed with Johnson, the wars, the Civil Rights movement or Dr Leary.

Yet baseball, the ancient game of pastoral settings with no time line and green grasses, unites us.

Back to the game. By the bottom of the 5th inning, both pitchers — Koufax and Hendley — had perfect games: no base runners.

The speedy Lou Johnson was playing outfield for the Dodgers and was in the run of a few good years in his career.  He had come up with the Cubs, and would play some his career’s twilight seasons a few years later in right field with the Cubs. [Johnson was subbing for the injured Tommy Davis, one of the most feared power-and-average hitters of the day. He had won the batting title two of the previous three years, but he had suffered a season-ending injury that spring].

Johnson, batting 4th, led off the bottom of the 5th inning with a walk on a borderline 3-2 pitch. When Cubs’ catcher Chris Krug caught it, he framed it a moment, and then pegged the ball to third — standard routine for a strike out with no one on base. But Krug was wrong; it was ball four.

Hendley’s perfect game was over.

That brought up Ron Fairly, a good batsman, known for handling the bat well (not striking out often).  Fairly bunted a ball that Hendley was able to get to quickly.  Thinking he had a play on Johnson at second base, Hendley rushed a bit and bobbled the ball. He recovered though, and threw Fairly out at first.

Johnson was now on second base with one out. Sensing that Hendley might be a bit shaken, he took off and attempted to steal third base on the very next pitch — the first pitch to rookie Jim Lefebvre. Cubs’ catcher — Krug — apparently also a bit startled, threw the ball over the third baseman’s head, up the Left Field line. Johnson popped up and trotted home. [Cubs third baseman was eventual Hall of Famer, Ron Santo].

Dodgers 1 — Cubs 0.

And that’s the way the game’s score would eventually end. The Dodgers scored the game’s only run without benefit of a single hit.

Hendley still had his No Hitter until the bottom of the 7th.  Lou Johnson — that guy, again — hit a blooper into short Right Field near the foul line.  No one could get there, although second baseman Glenn Beckert nearly did, and Johnson ended up on second base — a clean double, although not pretty.

Hendley ended up pitching a one-hitter.  And losing. On an unearned run.

The one hit he gave up was poorly hit … and did not figure in the scoring. Baseball can be so cruel —- a metaphor for life in many ways.

Although there have been 23 Perfect Games in MLB history — including this one by Koufax — this one stands out as the best performance by far by the opposing pitcher.

Oddly, Koufax and Hendley had a rematch five days later, this time in Wrigley. The Cubbies won, 2-1.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2017

 

 

 

 

[1] Box score and game description, Vaughn v Toney, 1917.  http://www.baseball-almanac.com/box-scores/boxscore.php?boxid=191705020CHN

[2] Box score, Haddix’s “Perfect Game.”  http://www.baseball-reference.com/boxes/MLN/MLN195905260.shtml

–> Harvey Haddix, the greatest game ever pitched; http://www.baseball-almanac.com/boxscore/05261959.shtml

–> in a rare and desperate 9th inning relief appearance, Haddix was the wiining pitcher in that famous 1960 game 7 Pirates World Series victory.

[3] Box Score.  Koufax perfect, Hendley nearly so.  http://www.baseball-reference.com/boxes/LAN/LAN196509090.shtml

 

 

Autobiographical

Happy Anniversary, Baby

Ah, June 27. A baring of one’s soul.

Happy anniversary baby.
Got you on my mind. [1]
— Little River Band

Riff-raff: people, or a group of people, regarded as disreputable or worthless

As the date approaches each year, decade after decade, memories flood back. The good, and the not so good. The joys. The pain. Then the date itself: the crescendo.  Eventually, the waves break. [2]

Since the car crash and brain injury I’m still prone to extraordinary periods of insomnia … and lingering headaches. I try mediation and acceptance, which now seem to be the only treatments worth attempting. This often drifts off to periods of contemplation, and almost as often drift further to what I call “Existential Contemplation.”

One consequence of this contemplation is that I have replayed much of my life in greater detail than ever before. I’ve made a long list, dragging up instances of gratitude not shown, apologies not given, friends lost to the winds of fate whom I’ve lost contact with. I’ve directly attempted to fix a lot of this. Often I’ve succeeded.

Another consequence: the summers of 1981 and ’82 come back more clearly, more joyously, — and sometimes more painfully — than before. The summer of ’82 consisted mostly of the courtship of the wonderful Miss Audrey. Success! We wed the next summer.

With absolutely no lack of respect or admiration for my wife … The summer of ’81 started for me on June 27, when the most remarkable and dazzingly beautiful young lady who ever spent more than one minute in conversation with me (in my life as a single man) fell out of heaven and — quite literally — into my lap.

Of course I noticed the wedding ring she sported from a distance; I noticed it well before we chatted that one minute. Men don’t have to be taught to look for details like that.

As chit-chat turned to flirtation (why did she fixate on “ME?”) I asked about the ring. She said: “Oh, that’s my grandmother’s. I wear it to keep the riff-raff away.” Then she pantomimed “oops” with her mouth and shoulders, while simultaneously, deftly, moving the ring over to her right hand.

After a simply wonderful hot summer that went suddenly very cool, as I recall, right around Labor Day [3] — out of respect I will spare you the details; perhaps teasers in a later essay — well, it didn’t work out.

[3] Seattle had a most glorious and warm summer in ’81.  In Late July a heat wave hit, and several more arrived, lasting on and off until just after Labor Day.  For five days in August, the mercury hit 100F, and more, in many places in the metro area.  Although things turned cool, the faux courtship lasted — on and off — another several ambiguous and agonizing months. Quite the coincidental parallel.

Thanks to two goddesses — one a healing therapist, the other my patient wife — I’ve finally after 36 years come to a reasonable peace with that long-ago wonderful adventure of ’81. The adventure that ended awkwardly and a bit painfully.  Last night, again thanks to them, I worked up the courage to find – and go through – some old cards and letters. These were items I knew that I had kept — somewhere — fearing to touch, or even search for, these many decades.

I’m so glad I did.  Although the collection is clearly incomplete (for example, I have no copies of what I sent her; only her references to them), it shows that I treated her  better than the lies my recollection was telling me. I really was a good person. What a relief. Certainly not perfect; I admit to missing some growth opportunities.

Here is what I’ve learned, about matters of love and the heart.  What I would share with any and every searching young single person. Some things that no one, not my parents, not anyone, ever told me explicitly.

  1. Sometimes the man does not get the woman.  But, he can always deserve to win her. [4]

  2. In relationships, timing is critical.  Even the “perfect” match might not work out if party XX is not quite yet ready for party XY. There’s no shame for either XX or XY.

  3. These matters are subject to many unexplainable vagaries of the universe. That implies pain … which leads to 4 and 5:

  4. Forgive yourself and your potential mate. To do this:

  5. Focus on on what you’ve both done right, not the outcome.

[of course XX/XY and man/woman can be plugged into each slot].

Epilogue 1. I looked up Miss Summer of ’81 and reached out to her. She was difficult to locate; maintains a very low internet profile. [Updated: 7/18/2017]. We are now in light email contact.  I call this a “repair.” [5]

Epilogue 2. Last year my wife asked me if she could join her grandmother’s wedding ring to the one I slipped onto her finger back in wonderful 1983. Of course she could.  Most certainly.

Her grandmother’s wedding ring is on her left hand ring finger.

I am not riff-raff.  Never, ever was.

Peace,

Joe Girard © 2017

 

Footnotes
(1) “Happy Anniversary, Baby” is a wistful song by Little River Band about a lost love that can’t be forgotten. Feelings well up on their anniversary… probably the anniversary of the breakup, unlike this short bio story, which is on the beginning.

(2) I do not contend that I am the only one who suffered pain.  Nor that I did not cause pain … through my neglect and thoughtfulness.

(4) I do not contend that I “deserved” Miss ’81.  Only that I tried to.  Sometimes seems like the harder you try, the more you fail. <Sigh>

(5) Since connecting I’ve re-learned that she is a good woman. Devoted mother and wife.  Still dazzling. Absolutely no surprise there. The aforementioned wedding ring has been on her right hand pretty much ever since I met her.  Until spring, 2017.  That ring was then given to her daughter and sent to a jeweler.  It is now joined with Miss ’81’s mom’s ring for the occasion of her daughter’s wedding (September, 2017) — both integrated together into one wedding ring — to adorn her left hand ring finger for many decades.

Autobiographical

Australia, mate II

We’re b-a-a-ck. Back from our five-plus weeks of travel to Australia. Here’s the second and final report.

I know you are all wondering if the toilets and sinks swirl “the other way” … when draining due to the Coriolis effect.  And how do boomerangs work? We’ll get to these and other compelling topics in due course.

Australians are generally very happy, even though their electrical outlets

Australian style electrical outlets (off position)

look kind of sad.  And nobody can sing.  Can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Oh where is Olivia Newton-John now?  I base this conclusion from our experience of coming across five birthday parties at geographically and culinarily diverse sites like pubs, parks and restaurants; not a single group could sing “Happy Birthday to You” without making us cringe.

Don’t you think these outlets look sad?  Every outlet has to be turned “ON” in Australia before you can draw current from them.  Do you think they’d be happier if we flipped them ON?  Sadly, no.  Take a look.

Switched ON. They still look sad to me.

They might be sad because they are lonely.  Australian building codes are quite different than we spoiled Americans are used to.  Each room we stayed in had only ONE pair of sad looking outlets. And at least one of those usually had a light plugged in.

Compare to US and Canadian outlets which look kind of surprised.  And you don’t even have to turn them on.  The “surprised” look is suggested by the open mouth (ground port). They also kind of look like they’re trying to wink at you : One socket port is slightly larger than the other. (This is to maintain neutral potential polarity on devices that require it.)  So they look surprised and like they are winking at you. “What?!?! You mean Donald Trump won?!?  I’m so surprised!  I’m shocked!  (winkie winkie).”

US-style “surprised” outlet … with winks.

But this is supposed to be about Australia. Australians are happy.  And friendly.  And helpful.  Often TOO helpful.  We’d get a list of 50 things to do for every hour we had to spend.  And just listening to the lists was time consuming.  And that was from EACH single person.

Maybe they’re happy because they get to go around a lot.  Around and around. It looks to us like Australians LOVE Traffic Circles. Except they are probably called Roundabouts. You can go days and days, miles and miles, traveling (oops, travelling) from one good sized community to another (which we did) and never, ever see a traffic light.  And maybe not even a stop sign.  Just look right, enter the circle, and go around.  Clockwise, of course.

Australia is big.  Really big.  And sparsely populated.  I think 98% of it has fewer than 0.1 people per square mile.  So, outside of the cities, people get used to doing a lot of driving.  Their vehicles have odd names (few recognizable model names) and odd nicknames.  A pickup truck is called a ute.  And a 4-wheel drive will almost as often as not have a snorkel.  Here’s a picture of our AirBnB host Steve, in Dunsborough (Western Australia)

Steve, our AirBnB host and road warrior, with his snorkeled 4-wheeler.

standing in front of his 4-wheeler with a snorkel.

He’s a retired truck driver.  Well, actually, he drove “Road Trains”; those are gigantic rigs with three or more trailers.  [Road Train video demonstrations]. So Steve’s vacations are actually Busman’s Holidays: huge epic road trips with his patient wife Marg  as they drive across every sort of landscape one can imagine.  And that’s where the snorkel comes in handy.  Fording a deep river with water halfway up the windscreen?  That snorkel will get plenty of air to the engine.  Driving across the wickedly hot and dusty Outback?  The snorkel will fetch the cooler and cleaner air, up off the desert floor.

By the way, if you watched the Road Train video, you might have noticed that some of the trucks had massive front bumper assemblies.  Those are called Roo Bumpers, and many civilian vehicles have them too.  Travelling cross country, across the vast bush and largely unpopulated regions (by humans), it is inevitable that you will eventually hit a kangaroo.  Usually at dusk. The damage they can cause is immense.  A high speed collision can even destroy a road train cab.

Well, since we’re on transportation by road.  There are no “free left turns” anywhere in Australia.  This would be the equivalent of our ubiquitous “free right turn on red.” Unless it is marked specifically as permitted, of course, which was very rare.  Waste of time, if you ask me.

There are plenty of marked crossings for pedestrians, but autos always get the right of way – unless clearly and specifically marked otherwise, which also is rare.  Fortunately there is a “Pedestrian Refuge” half-way across many busy streets. Run halfway across, wait for an opening, cross the rest of the way.

License plates displaying an “L” or a “P” designate beginning drivers.  They must be clearly marked.  L is a learner and P is, I guess, probationary.  They have pretty extensive programs for getting drivers ready to go solo; these vary somewhat from state to state.

Asphalt is bitumen.  A paved route might be identified as “take the bitumen road.”

Navigating is an issue.  First, many street signs are simply not there, or not easily visible.  Their standards for most types of street signs and navigation aids are quite low. Second, my trusty standby the sun is to the north (not south), and moves right-to-left throughout the day.  If you can find it.  We had many cloudy days.  A reliable trick is that satellite dishes point fairly directly north; the opposite of here. It’s that geostationary thang.

I thought I saw some beautiful pines.  But they weren’t pines.  First fooler was the She-Oak.  Nice needles.  But the needles only came in singles and were actually very spindly leaves.  And no cones.  And it’s not at all an oak. These are fairly ubiquitous, wherever there were trees there were typically also some sort of She-Oak.

Second fooler was the magnificent Norfolk Pine.  Heck it’s even actually called a pine.  But it’s not.  It is such a beautiful and rugged tree, growing almost always perfectly straight to heights of over 50 meters, that the Brits brought it to Australia from Norfolk Island, a small island in the South Pacific.  You can now find them in almost any populated coastal region.

The Norfolk Pine is now considered invasive.  But they are beautiful.  Funny how that happens.

Did I say invasive? The Brits also missed their fox hunting.  So they brought foxes over.  Well that wasn’t such a good idea.  Foxes have decimated the native fauna, including the tender quokka, wallabies, turtles and birds.  Fox scat spreads seeds that then become invasive in new regions where they are dropped. And they cause tremendous economic damage to agribusiness such as sheep, goats and poultry.

The main approach to fighting the fox infestation seems to be baiting and poisoning with a substance called “1080.”  There were 1080 warning signs almost everywhere in the bush.  Basically put out tasty looking meat cutlets and when the foxes eat it … a horrific death ensues.  Same for rabbits, which were brought in for the foxes – and then became invasive.  For rabbits the bait is usually carrots … laced with good old 1080.

Back to happy.  Australians might be happy because they are absolutely sports crazy.  Yes they play cricket and soccer (really boring games by the way).  Cricket seems to award the team that can hit the most well-placed foul balls, while simultaneously not letting the ball hit the wicket or your private regions.  Soccer, schmocker.  Just hours of keep-away, with an occasional oh!-oh!-awwwww.  And finally after 2 hours the score is 1-0.

They actually do call it “soccer”, as we Americans do, and not something like Football, like the rest of the world. Why? Because they do play a sport called football. They usually call it Footie, but it’s technically Australian Rules Football.  What a blast to watch!! The scores are usually like basketball, often in the range of, say, 100-90.  Points usually come 6 at a time.  There are eighteen players for each team on the field at once (18!!!), and they can stand anywhere.  What we’d normally call a field or pitch is called an Oval because it – is – one – huge Oval.  From 150 to 180 meters end to end. That’s almost 200 yards! Well they have to fit 36 players on it.  The evolution of Footie is that Cricket players used the game to stay in shape during the off-season; so the Ovals are the size/shape of cricket fields.

Great Footie rule: if a player can catch a pass before it touches the ground, and that pass comes from a foot (usually like a punt), then he gets a free kick; the other team can’t defend his kick. (This is called a Mark). He can try to kick it to another teammate, or kick it between the goal posts for 6 points (there is no cross-bar; brilliant!  A ball can dribble across the end of the oval between the posts to score).  Oh, you missed the goal? Don’t worry, there is another outboard set of posts; kick the ball between them and you still get one point (called a “behind”).  Almost every re-start is a 50-50 ball.  Example: Ball goes out of bounds; the nearest referee stands on the  boundary and throws the ball backward over his head onto the field! Simply the most fast moving, exciting, high scoring, athletic sport I’ve ever watched.

One more interesting Footie rule is that very shifty and fast runners are penalized.  When running with the ball they must touch the ball to the ground once every 15 yards.  At the advanced levels the open field runners will do this “ground touch” by bouncing the ball once off the turf while at a full run.  Most impressive!  As a consequence I saw more than one family picnic where young fathers were standing around practicing bouncing a Footie so that it would come right back to them.

Of course, like Rugby, there are no helmets or padding, and the clock never really stops.  I think I watched 4 or 5 games. On TV. In pubs.  OK, could’ve been 6 games.  ESPN really needs to start carrying these games.

Ok, enough sports, per se.  I won’t even try to describe Netball. Except to say they seem fond of that, too.

Are they crazy about sports?  Well, if betting is any indication, they are.  Every town has multiple off-site betting parlors called TAB. Soccer, cricket, footie, netball, horse racing. Gambling seems to be a bit of problem.  The government is thinking about cracking down on TV and billboard advertising for sports gambling.  However, they have a bit of a dilemma: revenue from taxes on legal sports betting fetches quite a nifty sum for the government tills.

Australians are crazy competitive, even if it’s not sports. We spent almost an hour and a half in the gallery watching the lower house of Parliament in session during a question-and-answer session. Very exciting, and brutal – just like Footie. The Prime Minister and his cabinet sit on one side of a narrow table (just wide enough that a sword can’t reach across); the Leader of the Opposition and his shadow government sit on the other side. The behavior and words were just plain rude. At every possible opportunity, they called each other liars. They turned their backs on the speaker.

Three or four members were kicked out. “Sent off under rule 94a” the speaker would say.  Bye bye.  Ministers sent off seemed quite proud of themselves, smirking as they exited, often yelling at the Prime Minister on their way. Many others were warned by the Speaker, who, I must say, was a most impressive Parliamentarian (Mr. Tony Smith). He had memorized every name, and which district they represented. He tracked all debate and cut off argument if responses went off subject.  He also tracked all side conversation and would shut down all Q & A to scold others in the house if they were behaving badly. “The gentlemen from Brighton is warned!”  or “the Lady from Bundoora – you have been warned before.  You are sent off, under 94a.” One thing he apparently could not do was stop anyone from being rude.  (Australia’s House Rule 94, explained).

Australia has an abundance of beautiful oceanside, much of it beaches.  And many beaches have great surf for the boarding enthusiast. We saw surfers, sail boarders and even kite boarders.  A thrill seeking culture, no doubt.  Oh wait, that’s sports, too.

Speaking of water, if you, as a man, need to purchase a swimsuit, you might be shocked to learn that there is no “support” for men’s stuff down there.   They just expect you to be free-hanging.  Most men will augment their swimsuit with supportive poly underwear.  That’s practical.  Here’s the awkward part: sagging.  Men, even into their 30s, wearing their swimwear half-way down their buttocks so that everyone else has to see the wet underwear they had to buy to support their maleness. Uggg.

A word or two about driving in Melbourne.  More uggg.  On the tollway there are bright lights overhead advertising local businesses and sports betting.  I mean LED super bright.  Talk about distracted driving. Then, in the core of the city, there is the “Hook Right Turn.”

My description of the Hook Turn can’t do justice. But I’ll try. If you intend to turn right (remember, they drive on the left) and you see the hook sign, you must immediately go to the FAR LEFT LANE. When the light turns green, pull ahead and block the intersection … which is okay since that cross traffic is stopped for their red light. By the way, this gets you away from the tramlines that run down the middle of the street, which is apparently the idea.  Now wait until the light turns RED.  The cars travelling in the same direction as you who are to your right (going straight) will have to stop.  Be bold.  Step on it.  Turn hard right and full grenade.  Supposedly the trams stop too, so you won’t run into one. People will know you are doing this, so – as Doug Addams wrote – “Don’t Panic.”

Kitchens?  We never saw a garbage disposal.  Never.  And we never saw a GFI in a kitchen either.  Like I said, different building codes.  I guess people don’t electrocute themselves in Australia.

Naturally there were no GFI outlets in the bathrooms either.  But the bathroom outlets did look sad. ☹  At least with those sad looking outlets, they never struggle with putting an electrical plug in backwards.

Now we can move to toilets, tubs and sinks.  And the swirl direction.

We lodged mostly by AirBnB, and we stayed with friends a few times.  Every time the toilet and the bathroom were in different rooms.  So: you do NOT go to the toilet in the bathroom.  You bathe in the bathroom. Some toilet rooms had very tiny sinks, or no sinks at all.  How to open the door and go to the next room (where the sink and shower are) without spreading disease?? Why aren’t they all sick all the time?

I must confess that my earlier comments about Australian toilet paper were premature.  Although not up to German or Dutch standards, the TP everywhere else was quite sufficient.  I think that earlier “breakthrough” was the result of a poorly designed and over-aggressive experiment.

Before we get to toilet swirl, we must briefly touch on the topic of boomerangs and public restroom stalls (not related, by the way).

Boomerangs. If Bernoulli’s equations (fluid energy balance) and the bizarre dynamics of gyroscopic effects (lots of cross products that are most very unintuitive) make any sense to you, then you’ll have a chance.  Cross-products and gyroscopic effects are the things that have physics and engineering students holding their right hand out in front of them – thumb, index finger and bird finger extended – while twisting their wrist or arm in some awkward rotation.  Oh they don’t make sense? No worries.  Boomerangs work.  Simple.  Good. Let’s move on to public restrooms.

Public restroom stalls have handles that seem to turn the wrong way.  Nothing like that brief moment of  panic you get when the door won’t open and your mind goes to “oh my gawd, I’m stuck in the stall; now someone will need to call 0-0-0 (not 9-1-1) and a crew of  emergency workers in bright yellow fluorescent  colored bibs will whoosh in here like a footie team to rescue me – Oh, never mind, the handle turns the  other way. Whew.”

Toilet swirl.  Get over it.  Toilet water does not swirl in Australia.  All toilets provide a thunderous WHOOSH when you push the flush button.  Best to stand back. Did I say button?  Yes.  No whimpy flippers for flushing in Australia.  A good solid button, just like in Germany.  But not one button.  They always have TWO buttons, usually one smaller than the other.  The big button provides a really powerful WHOOSH for the larger loads; the smaller button a softer woosh for the yellow load.

Actually I did detect that water in some toilets has a slight tendency to swirl clockwise, like a traffic circle.  Upon close scientific observation, I noted that in these cases the water was dispensed into the bowl with a certain spin orientation.  Just like in the US. Toilet swirl direction depends on how the water flows out of the tank, and not on Coriolis spin effects.  As a sidebar, I also noticed that if you inspect this phenomenon too closely, you are likely to experience a slight sea-spray effect. You will want to wash up in the sink, where I also could not detect a drain swirl direction; actually, I never filled a sink up full enough to tell. Nor a bathtub; I’m a shower guy.

As you can tell, it was an arduous trip.  We are glad to be back.

Cheers

Joe  Girard © 2017

 

 

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History, Strong Women

Young Kate Shelley

Young Kate Shelley (the girl with two first names)

Table of Contents
Preview
1. Kate falls asleep
2. Transcontinental Railroad?
3. Prelude to The Storm … and Destiny
4. The Shelley Family
5. The Storm, July 6, 1881
6. Kate & the Bridges
7. Aftermath and Later Life
Notes and Author’s comments
More Notes and afterthoughts

Preview

Some swear they have seen it.  Many refuse to look. Others, those who deny the romance of heroic history, say it is just plain nonsense.

Two mighty railroad bridges stand side-by-side out in the middle of Iowa. One is well over a century old; its steel trusses betraying its age. The other is gleaming and new … a 21st century engineering marvel.

The older structure is slowly being retired. At first it no longer carried passengers.  Now the engines of trains that cross her are required to crawl slowly as they haul their freight over the Des Moines River. Someday even that will cease; the clack of steel on steel will be relegated solely to the new bridge.

The New Kate Shelley High Bridge, under construction, 2008, next to the Old Kate Shelley Bridge.

And yet, as a National Historic Site, the older sibling may never be torn down – preserved forever as an American icon.

Until then the tiny, lonely, swaying light on the older bridge will still shine for those who believe. For them, late at night, when swollen rain clouds roll across Iowa’s fertile center, a faintly visible figure will move along the rusting old bridge, gently and deliberately swinging a light from side-to-side.

Some say it is the ghost of famous civil engineer George Morison, who passed away shortly after the older bridge was built. But most believers – trainmen, history buffs and lovers of local lore alike – well they know that it is something and someone else.

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1. Meet Kate as she Falls Asleep

Out in the plains of Iowa, on a small family farm, there once lived a 15-year old girl named Kate Shelley.

Most nights she lay in bed keenly awake until very late. Until long after the sun went down. After the chores were done. After her mother and siblings were fast asleep.

What was Kate doing? She was patiently waiting, carefully listening. She heard the sounds of sleep – snorts and sniffles, tossing and turning – coming from her three younger siblings. She not only shared a room with them, she had become their principal care taker.

That’s not what she was listening for. Wait for it Kate. Be still. Be quiet. Be patient.

She heard the creaks of the boards and nails in the farmhouse her father had built. She remembered him building it; she could recall many evenings he had continued to work on that modest farmhouse, keeping it in fine repair through all sorts of weather until just a few years ago.

House creaks were not what she was listening for. Wait Kate. It will come.

She heard the gentle sweep of prairie breezes, as they bounced over Honey Creek – with its swales and cottonwoods. She heard the shimmer of leaves, the waving of grasses, and sway of weeds up against the barn walls and farm fences.

That’s not what she was listening for. Be still Kate. You can do it … It won’t be long now.

She paced her breath. She wanted to be able to hear it as soon as possible – at the earliest possible moment. It was her trigger. Her window to an escape. An escape of fantasy from this life on the farm, to places far away from her endless duties.

A bullfrog croaks, then jumps into Honey Creek. Kind of late for mating season. Maybe that sly vixen fox had scared him; she does have a litter of kits to feed. Or maybe that Great Horned Owl had tried for the frog; she thought she’d seen one way up in a cottonwood along the creek last summer.

She was not listening for frogs, or foxes, or owls.

A horse from the barn whinnies – that would be Sady, Kate’s frequent companion in sleeplessness. Maybe she was waiting in anticipation, too. Or maybe arthritis; or maybe too many apples from that Thomson girl up the road.

No, not listening for Sady either.

There! Could that be it? She heard the distant clack-clack-clack of steel on steel.

Kate’s bed trembles ever-so-gently. Was that her quivering? Or the ground?

She can surely feel it coming now. The Midnight Express is coming! It is crossing the river now.

[1] The Midnight Express was formally known as the “Chicago Limited”, which ran from Omaha (with the new Union Pacific bridge across the Missouri since 1872) to Chicago. It was also sometimes called “The Fast Atlantic Express”, depending the locality. Of course it was known as the “Express” or “Limited” since it made only a few stops along the way – to pick up passengers from connector lines, or to get coal and water. Lighter loads and tender cars had allowed the Express trains to speed past most of the tiny railroad towns.

The Express is heading to Chicago. From there many passengers will go on to any exotic distant land. To whatever places they go, all are far from this farm. Soon people on the Express will be visiting with important people – Kings and Queens; beautiful princesses and handsome princes. They will be doing important things – selling lumber, buying steel, building factories, trading grain contracts, building the country.

The Express draws nearer quickly. It rumbles across the largest river she knows, by far: the Des Moines River. She knows well the hum and buzz of the trestle bridge under a heavy load.

She imagines herself as one of the well-dressed passengers, well fed, with finely coiffed hair. She imagines her own head full of worldly thoughts. A Pullman Porter checks on her to make sure that last jostle hasn’t disturbed her – or her precious cargo. Is it a briefcase of bonds, important coal contracts, or simply valuable jewels?

In less than a minute the coal-fired steam engine will cross another bridge, at Honey Creek, right behind the Shelley Farm. There’s the coming crescendo: one last loud set of rumbles and trembles. The boiler chugs some steam to push the mighty pistons; the engine belches smoke. Steam, having done its work to move the pistons, hisses out the steam ports. She can hear the rattle as the tire flanges clatter on the steel rails. [2]

[2] Train wheels have a very hard layer of steel around their perimeter, called tires. Much like car wheels have special tires around them. Tires have flanges made integral with them to help keep the train “on the rails.”

Kate holds tight to her fantasy most nights; she cherishes each night the Midnight Express rolls by; she is only a few hundred yards from a journey to the world.  Outside of Iowa.

Then the sounds of the Express begin to slowly fade. As long as she can hear it, Kate stays awake. After the rattle of the bridges, after the chug of the steam engine. After the last cry of the steam trumpet [3] as the Iron Horse passes a distant depot, and when the jangling blast-furnace strengthened wheels screeching around turns laid out by steel rails have faded completely away … after all that, Kate allows herself to drift away.

[3] Steam Trumpet: name for the train’s whistle on a 19th century steam engine train. To use it was “to blow off some steam.”

 

Some nights, when the air and breeze are just right, she can catch a whiff of something more: The air grows perceptibly denser, as if perfumed by some unseen censer [4]; it’s that Iowa bituminous and sulfur-infused coal. With the fading sound of the Midnight Express, the faint hypnotic smell of locomotive smoke, and carried by her fantasies, Kate Shelley hopes for a night of sweet dreams.

[4] This text is inspired by Poe’s The Raven, wherein the 14th verse begins: “Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer // Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.”

 

Soon enough a new day will dawn and, with it, hard reality.

And so the days passed. And the weeks. And the summer months…. One after another.

Although Kate loved her family and liked her life on the farm … well, maybe one night it would be different. Maybe one night, one special night, Kate’s life and the Midnight Express would come together in much more than fantasy.

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2. Transcontinental Railroad?

Most people know as certain fact that “The Golden Spike” driven at Promontory Point, in Utah, on May 10, 1869, joined the Union Pacific line with the Central Pacific line, thus completing America’s first transcontinental railway.

Fewer know that this is actually false. There was, technically, not then a true “transcontinental railroad.” At the time of “The Golden Spike” the eastern end of the Union Pacific line terminated in Omaha.  There was yet no bridge across the Missouri River to connect Omaha to Council Bluffs, Iowa, and to America’s much more populous east.

The construction of the “transcontinental railroad” to connect Omaha with California’s Great Bay had begun in the summer of 1865, shortly after the Civil War ended.

Yet the Mississippi had been crossed with a railroad bridge way back in 1857, at Rock Island, Illinois – near what is known today as the Quad Cities. This was a magnificent transportation achievement for its day, and was accomplished largely thanks to an engineering survey conducted some years earlier by a young Army officer named Robert E. Lee.  That the Rock Island bridge maintained this vital rail connection after a severe accident shortly after it opened was thanks largely to a railroad lawyer, named Abraham Lincoln.

Linking Chicago to America’s heartland, the Rock Island bridge had the effect of almost guaranteeing Chicago’s ascendancy (over front-runner St Louis) as the King City of America’s western empire.  Through Chicago would flow the great bounty of grain and coal from America’s Breadbasket.  And through Chicago to the Breadbasket would flow the great pine timbers to build towns and cities; the endless manufactured goods, such as stoves, furniture, tractors, cutlery …

By 1867, the railroad had made it all the way across Iowa, to Council Bluffs – directly across the Mighty Missouri River from Omaha. A bridge across the Missouri was finally completed in 1872; until then trains were ferried across the Missouri.  Along the 300 miles across Iowa – as the railroad linked up cities, railroad towns, distribution centers, and coal mines –  the rail line had to cross many rivers and streams.  The largest of these was the Des Moines River, in Boone County, near Moingona, Iowa.

Built rather quickly, the bridge was quite narrow – only a single track with a slender maintenance walkway beside the line.

The walkway was not intended for pedestrian traffic.  To discourage foot-travel, the nails on the boards were not pounded down flush.  The boards were unevenly spaced. They were roughhewn, with open spaces between them; Looking down between gaps in the walkway’s board, one could quite intimately see and feel the river flowing below. There was no safety of a hand rail.  Nonetheless, it was a remarkable bridge: its four spans over the river traversed about 675 yards.

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3. Prelude to The Storm & Destiny

As she had hoped – but surely not as she had dreamed or imagined – the destinies of Kate Shelley and The Midnight Express were forever joined one night: July, 6, 1881.

The rain came down all afternoon like Kate and her mom had never seen before.   It was hard to tell when the sun went down, the sky was so dark.  The barn, and windows and doors were all shuttered; but they all rattled in a way that made relaxing impossible.  Lightning flashed across the sky every few seconds; then down to the ground.  Heaven was letting loose some sort of evil rage.

After an anxious dinner none even tried to sleep.  Sleepy little Honey Creek roared almost as loud as when the Midnight Express came by.  Kate, by virtue of listening so intently almost every night, grew very worried.  She wasn’t worried about the fox den getting washed out. Or the branches coming off trees; or trees falling into the creek.  She wasn’t worried about the livestock. She wasn’t worried that the rain flattened their crops.  She wasn’t even worried about the house or some small leaks that began moistening the kitchen.

She was worried about the Midnight Express.  It was “her” life; it was “her” fantasy that was in jeopardy. In her own way, Kate considered the 100 or more souls on that train to be her friends. Would the Express come?  And if it did: Would it be safe?

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4. Shelley Family History

The Shelley family had emigrated from Ireland in 1866, before Kate, her parents’ first-born, was even one year old.  They ended up in central Iowa, near the tiny town of Moingona, where her father could get some land, run a farm, and work for the railroad.

Like most of the country, the economy there was beginning to really boom. Countless repeated ebbs and flows of glaciers from multiple ice ages had deposited rich soil across the great American Midwest.  Thus blessed, farms produced grain and livestock to feed the county’s rapidly growing population.

Many ages before that, ancient seas had left vast deposits of aquatic biomass: these became the Iowa coal fields that helped feed the region’s rapidly growing industrialization and railroad tender cars.

It was a place rich with opportunity for those who were ready to work.

Michael Shelley built a small but sturdy farmhouse overlooking Honey Creek.  Four siblings followed. Kate was a big sister.

Michael Shelley was especially fond of Kate, his oldest daughter.  From her youngest memories they were very close. She especially loved when he came home in the evening. He would place his trusty railroad lantern on the mantle, then give her a hug, tousle her raven hair, and tell her how beautiful she was.  Kate’s usual expression – and the look in her eyes – gave the impression of a deep sense of seriousness and resolve; a seriousness and resolve that could not easily be dismissed with a smile or a laugh.

Yet her father could make her seriousness melt and her spirit soar. He’d glide easily from hugs and tousles into a round of stories about his work in the railroad yard.  The excitement of so many cars – so much cargo, so many people – moving from place to place. And it all depended on him.

At the end of every night’s telling of stories – some tall, some true – Michael would tell his daughter: “Kate, you can do anything. When the time comes, you will know what to do.”

Then, calamity.  When Kate was only 13 her father fell gravely ill, and quickly passed away.  Only a month later her 10-year old brother James, the next child after Kate, drowned in the nearby Des Moines river.  Kate’s mother fell into despondency, perhaps depression.  Now young Kate was more than just the big sister: over the next few years she took on more and more of the family’s responsibilities … raising her siblings, managing the house and farm. Her solemn nature of serious resolve became a great asset.

Soon enough, her resolve would grow stronger.

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5. The Storm – 2: July 6, 1881

There’s no telling what Kate was doing when her attentive ears first heard the noise on that fateful Wednesday, July 6, 1881.  Perhaps she was finishing a turn at churning the butter. She could’ve been making lye, being careful not to give herself a chemical burn.  Possibly feeding livestock, hoeing or weeding.  Fixing a fence.  Putting up hay. Plucking a chicken. Darning some socks, or repairing a shoe sole. If she wasn’t doing these herself, she was seeing to it that one of her siblings were on the tasks.

But she heard it.  A deep long, ominous rumble.  Most definitely: a thunderstorm was coming.

No doubt she found a way to quickly finish what she was doing. She put her things away … and had her siblings do the same … maybe in the shed, or in the barn, or in the cupboard.

Then she ran to the clothesline.  Those skirts and shirts, pants and knickers would never dry if the storm came before she could get them inside.

Once inside, Kate and her family watched the storm clouds build, grow dark, and move over them – from horizon to horizon.   They probably began preparing some stew or soup, heated over the wood or coal-fired stove. The rains came hard and fast, like they’d never seen before.  This was no ordinary summer thunderstorm, what they sometimes called a “gully washer.”  The clouds poured buckets down on central Iowa for hours.  The lightning flashed; the thunder roared.

To fortify their nerves, Kate led her siblings in faux bravado through retorts to the thunder and wind.

“Is that all you’ve got??” They shouted. And: “Oh! That was nothing! Show us more!”; or: “Fart like you mean it!!”

It was whistling past the cemetery.

On and on it went.  The rivers rose.  The creeks rose. The streams and rivulets that fed the rivers washed out over the gently sloped Iowa fields.

Around dusk – with clouds so dark it was difficult to tell when dusk was – young Kate feared for the livestock sheltering in their humble barn, down close to Honey Creek.

Kate realized the animals in the barn might drown should the creek swell much further.  She donned a shawl and straw hat, then ran down toward the creek, sloshing through the mud and puddles, skittering along like a water beetle.  Just as she opened the barn door, a mighty gust of wind swept her hat away … and vigorously tousled her wild mop of dark hair. The mussing of her hair gave her a momentary sense that her father was near.  She re-focused and, undistracted by the wind and storm, she opened each stall and led their few livestock – two horses, two cows and a sow –  up a gentle rise to some woods behind the farm. Then she returned to the barn to fetch two piglets, which she carried up to the farmhouse.

Safely inside the farmhouse, her clothes and hair drenched, and sticking to her slender frame, Kate’s senses grew even more alert. Now she could not just keenly hear and see the storm; now she could feel and smell the evil in this storm. She sensed the potently electrified atmosphere, and the way the rain and low pressure sucked the primordial scents of the earth right out of the soil.

As her siblings and mother nervously poked at their dinner after watching Kate’s heroics, Kate sat by the stove to warm up. She had changed out of her work clothes and into her pajamas, and was wrapped in a woolen blanket. They all looked nervously at each other, taking bites between gusts of howling wind and peeling cracks of thunder.

Right after the Midnight Express of the Chicago & Northwest railroad crossed the wide Des Moines there was a much smaller bridge, across Honey Creek, at the edge of the Shelley farm. It really was just a tiny bridge, as far as railroad bridges go.  Perhaps 25 yards across.

Rebuilt bridge over Honey Creek.

But the growing intensity of the creek’s roar gave Kate reason for great concern.  The Midnight Express was due to cross in just a few hours. Would the bridge hold up?

Kate adjusted her ears to listen even more closely. Beyond the rain, beyond the thunder, beyond the wind she listened to the whoosh of Honey Creek. It was normally just a trickle.

Suddenly. Around 11 PM … she heard a booming colossal “CRACK!” through the cacophony of the storm.

About a mile and half to the west of the Shelley farm, across the Des Moines River, at the railroad station in Moingona, the night station manager grew anxious too. He’d never seen a storm like this either, and the Chicago & North Western crossed numerous creeks on its way east to tiny Harmon Switch, on the Jordan River, and then to Ames, home of the still rather new Iowa Agricultural College and Model Farm. [5][6].

[5] – The town of Harmon Switch was first called Midway, for its central Iowa proximity. In the 1850s it was renamed Harmon Switch after a local farmer and large landowner (William Harmon), and its small railroad junction. Later it was changed to Jordan, and remains so named today, the same as the river, which runs there. [History of Boone County, Iowa, Volume 1.(1914) Edited by Nathaniel Edward Goldwait. Pg 222.]
[6] – Iowa Agricultural College and Model farm is now, of course, Iowa State University.

 

Layout of Locations for events of July 6, 1881. Photo of sign outside the museum. (At the you are here pin). North is up. [credit to Kate Shelley Railroad Museum and Park]

At about 10:30PM, he sent out a pusher locomotive to check on the line … at least as far as the next station, near the Jordan, some 10 miles away. As soon as the boiler was fired, it took off east, across the river.

Leaving the station with four men the locomotive almost immediately crossed the long bridge across the Des Moines River. As lightning flashed they could see the water had risen nearly to the bridge.

A few minutes later they came to Honey Creek, with its tiny trestle bridge.  They could not have known – they did not see – that some support timbers beneath the bridge had cracked and others washed away.  As the locomotive crossed the bridge it failed completely, collapsing into swirling Honey Creek.

 

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6. Kate and the Bridges

Kate knew immediately what had happened.  She re-wrapped herself in a shawl, took her father’s railroad lantern off the mantle and lit it. Then she fetched her father’s oversized railroad mackintosh – a rare extravagance in Iowa in those days – and briskly strode to the door as she slid her arms into the Mac.

“Mother.  There’s a train in the creek!  There are people down there.”

“Kate”, her mother yelled. “Please don’t go outside again.  It’s too dangerous.”

Kate paused pensively. Then: “Mother, if father were still alive, that could well be him in the water. And if it weren’t him down there, then he’d be going down to help. I have to go.”

Her mother’s eyes softened and she tacitly nodded her consent.

Kate made her way down to the bridge.  As it turned out, two men had perished in the collapse; but Kate couldn’t know that. But, there were two survivors. When they saw the light of the railroad lantern they yelled with all the energy their lungs could muster.  One man clung to the upper branches of a collapsed tree; the other to bridge timbers.

You can do it Kate.  You know what to do.

Indeed, Kate knew what had to be done.  She had to cross the Des Moines River bridge, in the dark, in the storm, go to Moingona station, and stop the Midnight Express … otherwise it would surely plunge into Honey Creek atop these men.

The time was too short, and the slopes too muddy and steep, for Kate to try and save them herself.  She violently swung the lantern from side to side to let the men know they’d been seen. Then she set off to the Des Moines River bridge.

Guided by her father’s lantern, Kate nimbly danced along the line, over the ties and between the rails – through the wind and rain –  about a quarter-mile to the Des Moines River bridge. At the bridge’s beginning she paused a moment – to gather her courage and resolve – before stepping onto the perilously narrow walkway.

Suddenly, the mightiest gust of wind yet staggered her.  Rain beat upon her face and her hands like sand … and stung as if they were a thousand tiny salt pellets.  And worse: the lantern’s light went out.

Without the lantern’s light Kate could not possibly walk across the bridge without a dangerous, deathly stumble.

For a moment Kate lost her resolve, her focus.  Dark was all around.  The wind eased, whispering into her ears — it seemed to carry her father’s voice: “Kate. You can do this.  You know what to do.”

Then she began to crawl across the bridge, plank by plank.

By her calculations, she had about 45 minutes to get across and make it to the Moingona station.

As Kate crawled on and on – board after board – splinters and nails tore at her coat, her pajamas, at her knees and at her hands.  When she looked down she could see that the river had risen nearly up to the bridge.  Halfway across, in a flash of lightning, she could see an enormous tree coming right for her. At the last moment a swirl in the river –  or was it Providence? –  diverted the tree … its mighty trunk and groping branches slipped safely past her.

At some point, perhaps halfway across the bridge – reaching almost blindly for each successive plank of the walkway – hypothermia began to set in. Now soaked and chilled from the rain, Kate fought back the delirium with determination. She must save the Express.

You can do it Kate.  You know what to do.

On and on she went, feeling her way for each plank.  One after another.  And then … Finally! … Kate had reached solid ground!

She had a half-mile remaining to get to the station.  Stiff, sore and cold, Kate managed to get up off her scratched and bloody knees, onto her feet, and begin running to the station along a footpath she had walked before in better weather; it paralleled the line’s north side.

The men at the station were astonished to see a dripping wet, exhausted 15-year old girl collapse in front of them.

Through her chattering shivering jaw she managed to squeak out: “S-s-s-top the ex-s-spress.  S-s-stop express.  Honey Creek Bridge ….”

As the men rushed to help Kate, one recognized her.  “That’s Michael Shelley’s girl. That’s Kate. From Honey Creek.  The bridge is out.”

The express did not stop in tiny Moingona. But it was scheduled to stop at the next station up the line, Ogden.  Immediately the station’s telegrapher started tapping a message for Ogden station.  The Morse read: STOP XPRESS. BRDG OUT.

The telegrapher did not receive a reply.  It turned out that at that moment all the telegraph lines along the Chicago & North Western went down from the storm’s ferocity.  A backup plan: The night’s head switchman ran out with a lantern to stop the Express.

Well, it turned out that the telegraph message got through.  The Express stopped in Ogden.

Kate Shelley had saved the Midnight Express.

As Kate sat shivering by the stove, sipping some hot tea, she suddenly stood bolt upright.  “There are two men in the water at Honey Creek! We’ve got to save them.”

Another engine was fired up, pulled up from the yard’s sidetrack, and three men and Kate climbed into the cab, behind the firebox. In a minute they were safely crossing back over the very same bridge Kate had just risked death to crawl over.

When the train’s headlight revealed the calamity at Honey Creek bridge, the engine stopped. In the dark, by the light of two faithful flickering railroad lanterns – one Kate’s father’s, the other the switchman’s – they found that the two men were still alive, clinging desperately to stay above the water.  But they were on the far side of the creek; there was no way to get to them from the west side.

The wind, ebbed momentarily, and sounded like a ghostly whisper: “You can do it Kate.  You know what to do.”

“Follow me!” Kate yelled above the roar of rushing waters.  Carrying her father’s lantern, she led the rescuers upstream, nearly a quarter-mile, above the farm, to the next bridge across Honey Creek, which they found intact. Her sure feet showed them the way along the slippery soil of the creek bank. They crossed over the bridge, went back past the farm and then down to the collapsed bridge.

By the light of  the lanterns they located one man close to shore clinging to a trestle timber. The rescuers, with Kate holding “her” lantern, risked their own drowning, linked their arms, and pulled him from the water.

The other was too far out in the flow to rescue that night. The three railroad men returned to the engine, dropping Kate off at the farmhouse, making sure her mother knew of Kate’s heroism.  They spent the night in the engine’s cab, keeping an eye on their co-worker and friend, thanks to the light of a lantern.  He was rescued the next morning, after the creek flow had abated, when sunlight had returned and evil had left.

 

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7. Aftermath and Later Life

As it turned out, there were 200 people on the Midnight Express that night. They took up a donation for Kate; it came to about $200 – no small sum. The Chicago and North Western Railroad gave her a cash award too; the state gave her a gold medal.

Soon enough, Kate was a national hero.  Songs and poems were written to praise her.

The Railroad raised money for the Shelley children’s education.  Kate was given a lifetime pass on the railroad; whenever she came home, she was able to get off right next to her family’s farm. For a few years the train frequently stopped at the Shelley farm so that admiring and well-wishing passengers could get out and greet Kate.

Even with her lifetime pass, Kate left Iowa only once. Of course she went to Chicago. That was to visit the Columbian Exposition, also called The 1893 World’s Fair.  Despite her dreams and fantasies, as it turned out, Kate’s heart really was in Iowa. There she remained the rest of her life.

Kate got an education at nearby Simpson College, and tried teaching for a while. She bounced between various jobs, always in central Iowa, including working for the state and even running the Moingona station for a while.  A woman running a train station; her dad would have been proud.

Many men were interested in courting Kate, especially a switchman at the station. Always her own woman – fierce, serious, determined, resolved – she never married, although she was engaged once.

In 1901 a new bridge was built across the Des Moines by George Morison a few miles to the north. It was called the Kate Shelley Bridge. When it was re-built, just a few years ago, the new bridge was dubbed The New Kate Shelley High Bridge. In the 1950s the Chicago and North Western began running a very modern streamlined train from Chicago through Iowa: It was called The Kate Shelley 400.

During the 1890s and first decade of the 20th century, the Shelley farm fell into mortgage arrears.  The railroad helped the farm stay afloat.  Kate’s mom remained always in poor health – perhaps that’s the reason Kate never married or left Iowa – and Kate spent much of her time and energy on her mother.  Mrs Shelley passed away in 1909.

Shortly after her mother’s passing, Kate began to fall into poor health herself. She struggled through a variety of illnesses. In 1911 she had her appendix removed.  Very sadly, she never recovered, and passed away in January, 1912—age 46 – from Bright’s Disease, an acute failure of the kidneys – probably due to infection.

Kate Shelley is a true American Heroine.

The railroad line no longer crosses the Des Moines River at Moingona.  Amtrak passenger trains pass far to the south, freight to the north, over the New Kate Shelley High Bridge. But you can go to what remains of the railroad station there. It now houses a museum, most of which is dedicated to honor the life and heroism of Boone County’s most famous resident: Kate Shelley.

In one of the museum’s most special and cherished displays stands an aged railroad lantern.  That’s Kate’s father’s lantern, the one that led her to the barn, led her to the creek and led her to the brink of the Des Moines River bridge that fateful night, July 6, 1881.

The Kate Shelley Railroad Museum, Moingona, Iowa

If you go there, and you are all alone, and the museum is very quiet, and you are very patient, and you stand motionless before the lantern, and you listen very, very closely, history calls to you. “You know what to do.  You can do it.”

The museum is closed at night. Even on summer nights when thunderstorms roll across Iowa. On such dark and stormy nights, when the “believers” have seen a swaying ghostly light appear to crawl slowly along the old High Bridge, no one has ever, ever gone to the museum to see if the lantern is resting in its display.

Joe Girard © 2017

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_______________________
Notes and Author’s comments – 1

Other Notes:

Kate and locals were not unfamiliar with train disasters. Evidently there had been a significant derailing near Stanwood, Iowa, the previous year.

Author’s Comments.

I initially came across this story in a small display at the “Steamtown National Historic Site”, a sort of museum to steam locomotion, in Scranton, PA, several years ago.

Since then I’ve been poking around libraries, book stores and the internet to find more information. I was astonished to find that no significant magnificent single body of work exists to relate this remarkable story of a heroic young woman.

I came across many, many sources … most very brief … that often conflict with each other in details. For this story, I chose to interpret everything in the most exciting and extravagant way possible. For example, some sources say Kate was 15-years old; others say 17. Which is more exciting? I say 15.

Some sources say the train had already stopped in Ogden; some say Kate’s message saved the train. Which is more extravagant? Kate saved the train.

Some say the telegraph went down before Kate arrived at the Moingona station; others say well after she arrived. I dramatically split the difference and chose to say it happened just as the message was received.

Where there were no details I did historical research; it was important for me to place Kate and her story appropriately within US, Iowa and railroad history.

Where other details were missing, well, I simply made them up – or skipped over them. For example, I have no idea what life was like for the Shelleys – life on the farm and schooling for the children. I do not know if or how Kate got the lantern across the long bridge. I have no idea what Michael Shelley might’ve done for the railroad — except that he DID have a lantern — whether he had a Mackintosh, and what Kate’s relationship with her father was like. I made all that up. Still, it’s all very plausible. I make no apologies.

Many Boone County locals do insist that the ghost of Kate Shelley roams the region and is partial to railroad lines and bridges. Of course this is silly. Or is it? I chose to include it as a possibility. For me, after this much study, Kate Shelley lives.

Finally, I had to finish this story and publish it for two reasons. First, it had rolled around in my addled head for so long that it was more or less “now or never.” I nearly deleted my work: the drafts and notes. Thankfully my wife not only talked me out of it, but she lovingly helped craft the structure of final drafts. Second, there appears to be a fairly substantial book to address Kate’s life and heroics coming out soon, called Boone County, by Misty McNally. I wanted to get this out so that I could not be accused of plagiarism.

I also must acknowledge the final draft editing help I received from my good friend Marcy.

As many of you know, I’ve been fighting headaches on-and-off for quite some time. My periods of intense focus are often quite short – and longer “free” periods are often devoted to the many details of life; so this was a bit of a labor of love. I worked on it a few minutes at a time, sometimes an hour or two, over the past many months. Why? It’s important to tell stories and personalize history. And I feel called to do so. Despite the desire to personalize the story, I chose not to include a picture of Miss Shelley. None I found did her any justice. Yes, I love history, I love writing, and … now … I even love Kate Shelley.

“I do believe in ghosts. I do. I do. I do.” – Cowardly Lion, Wizard of Oz

 

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Even more Notes and Author’s comments
More notes:

Another reason I was fascinated by this story, and how it evolved, is that it reminded me of a rather obscure song I like, by an obscure singer/writer I like. I call the song “Old John Joseph, the man with two first Names”, although the song’s singer/writer, Harry Chapin, named it “Corey’s Coming.”

Old John has worked for decades in a slowly dying railroad yard. He has stories and visions to share. You can listen here: Corey’s Coming.

I’ve written about Harry Chapin (Another Love Story) here: Another Love Story

The first Kate Shelley High Bridge was completed in 1901, essentially replacing the bridge Kate crawled across 20 years earlier. It’s one of the last projects of noted bridge engineer George Morison. He was trained as a lawyer. A famous civil engineer in his day, he was influential in getting the location of the great Central American canal changed from Nicaragua to Panama.

He does not appear to have aged well, was likely in poor health even during the Boone Viaduct (first official name) construction, and died two years after the structure was completed, aged only 60. The bridge was the longest and heaviest viaduct of its time, and also may well be the longest extant double-track railroad viaduct in the world. It is listed in the National Register of Historic Places. So, it will stay up as long as nature permits. Some say his ghost haunts the bridge as well.

Joe Girard

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Current Events, Politics, Sports

Modest Proposals for American Football and Elections

Somethings need to change.  And I’m not shy about making some suggestions from an “originalist” point of view.

American football and American elections are dying. Let’s make some changes.

Football first.  The games are too darned long. And unnecessarily violent.

Does anyone remember why there is a two-minute warning?  Well I’m old enough to remember that the remaining time shown on the stadium clock was unofficial.  It was just the best guess of a skilled guy up in the booth.  Imagine the home team driving for a winning score with 30 seconds left.  They could try for a field goal, or try to get a little closer and score a touchdown.  And then — shockingly and suddenly — the head referee blows his whistle and announces the game is over. They never got a chance to do either one.  The game — just — ended. Because the time on the stadium clock was unofficial.

The two-minute warning was just that: a warning.  The stadium clock might show 1:32, or 2:32, left in the game.  But no worries, the head referee would stop the game, walk over to each head coach, and announce that there was precisely two minutes remaining. Plan accordingly. Then the game would resume.

Now, decades later, the two minute warning is just a chance to sell more commercial time.  It’s a waste of fans’ time. And a free time out for the team that should probably lose anyhow.

More wastes of time.  TV timeouts.  Team A scores a touchdown.  What happens? TV timeout. Then there is a kickoff.  What happens after the kickoff (which is usually a boring touchback) … another TV timeout.  That’s about 5 minutes of wasted time for a score.

Plus, most punts are followed by several minutes of TV timeouts.  Yes, TV and commercials pay those insanely stupidly high salaries.  I guess that’s why there’s Tivo; to tolerate those 4 hour games.

If you’ve ever been at a football game, you’ll notice all these awkward moments when the teams are just standing around for several minutes.  What’s up? They are waiting for the TV commercials to end. That’s one of the main reasons real Football fans (read: soccer) just don’t “get” American Football.  All that standing around time; all those commercials.

I have more ideas, but will stop with this.  Who really cares if the receiver gets two feet in-bounds? That concern leads to more replay reviews, which can take several minutes a piece.  Go with one foot, like college.  It leads to more scoring, more offense and a faster clock.  That’s what fans want anyhow.

Here’s another one, but not so much about wasted time.  When a player commits a personal foul he should get red-carded, like in soccer.  Then his team must play with only 10 players (or less if more players commit such an egregious foul). Ok, maybe it’s like hockey and it’s only for two or five minutes.

Dead ball personal fouls completely mess me up.  Apologies to non-football people, but consider the following situations.  Team A punts to Team B, who returns the ball a few yards after a tackle. It’s first and 10.  After the play is over, a player from Team B commits a flagrant personal foul for a 15-yard penalty.  Why is it not then first and 25 when the offense comes on?  Nope, first and 10.

Also I’ve seen where team B’s offense converts a first down, and then there’s a dead ball personal foul.  The ball is moved back 15 yards, but it’s first and 10.  Why?  Penalize the malicious penalty. The current process is going way too easy on violence.

Politics and elections have gotten way too divisive.  Yet, the electorate has told us something. Mrs Clinton received 48% of the popular vote; Mr Trump 46%.  We are divided.

Yet Mr Trump won 58% of the electoral votes.

The problem is not the Electoral College system, per se, but the way most states choose to allot their Electoral College votes: winner take all.  Even if the winner gets less than 50%!  For example, in my home state of Colorado, Mrs Clinton took 48% of the popular vote, Mr Trump only about 43%. And yet Mrs Clinton was awarded ALL 9 Electoral Votes (although at least one “faithless” EC voter from Colorado tried to cast votes for someone other than Clinton; and were thrown out by the Colorado Secretary of State).

As Electoral College voters are not permitted to vote their conscience in most states, and the division of votes in most states clearly does NOT reflect the balanced concern of the voters, I make the following suggestion.

Simply: award each states’ Electoral College votes according to how that state votes on a pro rated percentage basis. Assigning only whole numbers of votes, and using the Girard-system, this past US presidential election would have ended up: Mrs Clinton, 261 votes.  Mr Trump 261 votes.  The remainder would have gone to Gary Johnson (14), Jill Stein (1) and Even McMullin (1).

For example: Instead of ALL California’s 55 votes going to Clinton, Trump would’ve gotten 18; Gary Johnson 2; and Jill Stein 1. Further, amazingly, in Wyoming Clinton would’ve gotten 1 vote, and another 3 in Alabama and 7 in Georgia.

In such a situation where no candidate receives a clear majority (270 required out of 538 total) the House of Representatives must decide among the top 3.  Almost certainly they would have eventually chosen Trump. But he would’ve had to negotiate with the likes of Paul Ryan, and he certainly would have been much less of a braggart about his “electoral landslide.” (In the final actual tally, Trump had 304, and Mrs Clinton 227.  There were 7 “faithless electors”; 2 fled Trump, and 5 left Clinton).

Speaking of the House of Representatives, I have one final modest proposal for these bi-annual elections as well.  We all know that many Congressional Districts are highly gerrymandered by political parties to give themselves as many seats in congress as possible. And we know that many Representatives have been in their seats for decades.

Here is my proposal. It has two parts.  First, award a state’s seats proportionally.  Suppose a state gets 10 Congressional Seats. Each party submits the name of 10 candidates.  There are no districts. There is no gerrymandering — at least for CD (Congressional District) seats. Award the seats just like for the presidential electors.

And here is the kicker.  Pick the “winning” names randomly from the original slate.

For example: In Colorado the seats would have been awarded 3 Democrat, 4 Republican and 0 Independent  (the same as the final turned out). Now the excitement starts: Have a lottery show!!  Pick the names from ping pong balls.  No more safe seats.  Even if your party wins 6 out of 7 seats, there is no guarantee that your #1 candidate gets picked. Eventually a de facto term limit kicks in.

Have fun with that.  And it’s all constitutional!!

The two-party system, with entrenched and loud-mouthed politicians, will certainly kill us.  I could at least have football as a distraction as we swirl down the toilet bowl, but they need to fix that too!

cheers

Joe Girard (c) 2017

 

Biographical, Current Events, Guest Essay, Strong Women

Remembering Lisa

By Ken Hutchison, Feb 3, 2017

Yesterday was a sad day for me. I walked in the building, along with hundreds of my co-workers, former co-workers and friends. I was handed the folded piece of paper; on it was one of my photographs. It’s happened before to me. I should be used to it, but not this time.

It was the portrait I took of Lisa Hardaway (that’s DR. Lisa Hardaway). In the photo, she’s holding a scale model of the New Horizons spacecraft. The spacecraft that passed Pluto last year, capturing the first ever, high resolution, up close and personal images of the furthest thing in our solar system. I remembered taking the shot; it was for various press releases, social media, education outreach, and because she was recently named as the Engineer of the year by the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics. Lisa was so proud, and who wouldn’t be, because that’s the Holy Grail of aerospace engineering. Lisa was the program manager for the Ball part of the mission.

Then, on the paper, were the dates. The date she was born, and the day when she left us with only her memories and legacy. On the cover were two other pictures, of her and her husband, and the shot of her kids. Lisa, mother, wife, friend, co-worker, and damned smart American, died at the young age of 50.

We filed into a beautiful light filled room, hundreds standing and sitting, hugs, tears, handshakes that turn into hugs because men have that awkward “do I hug?” thing that we do.

The Rabbi came out. Now, I’m a flunky Presby kid from Pueblo, not exposed to the Jewish religion at all. I’ve never been to a Jewish funeral, only a wedding. That dance with the bride and groom in chairs is, well, different from our fussy traditions. Looks a lot more fun.

This, hands down, was one of the most beautiful services I’ve been to. The Rabbi began with what I guess was a call to worship or mourning, I’m not sure. It was Yiddish, ( 2/4/2017, author’s update: Hebrew, not Yiddish; pardon my ignorance) and my depth of that language is about as deep as saying “Oy!” Still, it was haunting, moving, having an ancient tone of thousands of years long. The Rabbi spoke, and then gave an outline of who would be talking with us. First up was her husband, James.

I’ve known James for years as a customer and colleague. He proceeded to wrap the entire room around his little finger with stories of how they met, the food and wine they loved, their children, and the things he learned from his wife. The last thing he mentioned that he learned was “courage”. At that point, and that point alone, is when his voice broke… Along with all of the hearts in the room, for we all felt the same. Next, her daughter Jaella Hardaway came up, and captured the room with her charm and grace, her laughter, humor, and stories, some of which she’d never shared. That girl has a future, you could see why Lisa was so proud of her.

There were a couple of more speakers, family and friends. Then the Rabbi addressed the family. At this point, the tears started for me, because she was a rockstar with her words. She asked the folks in the room that would be willing to provide life guidance to the children should they ever need it to stand up.

The entire room stood.

Then there were the closing prayers, chants and other Jewish customs which were alien to me, and the service was over. Upon exiting, I walked past the two men I noticed on the way in. They had pistols on their belts…private armed guards. You see, the Jewish Community Center had a bomb threat phoned in two days prior, along with dozens others around the country.

It was not only a sad day for us, but for our country as well, when those who are grieving need to be protected.

May God bless the family of Lisa Hardaway.

Editor’s Notes: Ken Hutchison is the Senior Staff Photographer at Ball Aerospace & Technologies Corporation.  He also gives tours, entertains high level guests (Congress persons, Generals) and is a heck of a writer.  He lives in Longmont, Colorado.
I also had the honor of working with Lisa on the New Horizons mission (Ball’s instrument was called “Ralph”). Ball is a very close community.


Current Events, History

Long View — 2016

Confessions lead to perspective.

Confession 1: I did not vote for Barack Obama.  Try not to be shocked.  And yet, a month after his first election I wrote an upbeat essay with a generally positive outlook for the United States and its new president. Remembering 1968; Honoring 2008

I recall very well watching his inauguration, in the living room of our friends, the Kroesens, in Amsterdam. I beamed with pride for my country.  I was happy that they saw me glowing. Happy that the world saw our country aglow. We were in the spotlight, and in a good way for a change.

We were showing the world how it’s done.  No, not the pomp and circumstance of the inaugural parties, celebrations, balls and lime-light performers.  Toss in an eloquent speech.  That’s all just puffery. Rather, I was proud of how we had an election that nearly amounted to a revolution; yet the transition was smooth and peaceful.

An inaugural swearing in is a historical event.  Obama’s even more so. People of all shades and political persuasions were invited to — and attended — the inauguration. Politically and culturally they were diverse; as citizens they were united. It’s hard to believe now, but President Obama enjoyed very favorable ratings among Conservative and Republicans in his first days as president, per Gallup. How quickly things changed.

Confession 2: I did not vote for Donald  Trump.  Try not to be shocked.[1] Combined with confession 1, and the fact I vote in every election (but only once), this puts me in a very, very tiny minority. Nearly alone, I’m pretty sure, and with a very special perspective. It’s like I’m perched on high, on city hall’s mezzanine veranda, looking out over a vast and busy city square with its throngs of people: many going about their business in the market, yet many, many others worked up and fussing about in emotional tizzies. The more they talk with each other, the deeper their dithering tizzies become.  From this perspective I find it difficult, if not impossible, to be upbeat.

We are as divided as we’ve ever been.  Scores of politicians, personalities and pontificating people find it necessary to not only reject the incoming president, but to make it a point to protest and not participate.

I ascribe much of our deep political divisions to the behavior of our last two presidents, particularly #44 [2], and to the apparent total inability of either major party to come up with a likeable and “clean” candidate.

Yes, Trump speaks, acts and tweets divisively.  Even childishly.  I cannot condone that.  Reacting in kind does nothing to unite us.

I know scads and scads of people who supported and voted for Mrs Clinton.  Since I’ve not voted for a presidential winner in nearly three decades, I should be able to understand how  they feel.  Yet I don’t. I feel miles and miles away — a universe away. I’ve never experienced such depth and breadth of disdain for a president-elect in my entire adult life. This doesn’t bode well. Can’t people at least wait until he’s president, and in the meanwhile celebrate our American democracy, with its bloodless changing of the guard?

I also know quite a few Trump supporters. Not one is racist, homophobic, stupid, unthoughtful, hateful or a Troglodyte.  They seemed to me to go about their citizens’ duty with a sort  of  grim determination, like a detective investigating a grisly crime.  “I’m not happy about it, and it’s dirty work — but is has to be done.”

Quite a few left-leaning luminaries will be attending Mr Trump’s inauguration.  I applaud them.

Begin with the Clintons.  Together again.

Jimmy Carter.

And of course, Barack Obama.

And the 200 or so Democratic Senators and Congressmen who will attend.  Good for them all.  This is not their day to grandstand.  It is America’s day.

If we cannot stand united to honor our democratic functions, then we have little chance of uniting when destiny calls upon us to deliver our very best in her hours of greatest need.

Peace

Joe Girard (c) 2017

[1] I almost wear this as a badge of honor.  I vote for losers.

[2] Almost immediately after the 2009 inauguration, President Obama took to belittling, lecturing and (legislatively) ignoring Republicans.  With both houses, he lectured: “Elections have consequences.”  And “We won, you lost.”  And finally, “Eat your peas.”

This demeaning behavior was the cake. The thick icing was a nearly perpetual state of campaigning, and passing of legislation without so much as consulting the other side of  the aisle, nor soliciting a vote of support.  Message: you’re not needed here.

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History, Media

Maximum Factor

He was deathly afraid as he lay in the safety and comfort of his own bed. 

An unusual circumstance for such a successful and honored celebrity.

Sometimes it is best to tell a story pretty much just the way it unfolds to you, as an observer and researcher of life.

Doggie with the circle around his eye

Doggie with the circle around his eye

So … I went to the dog-friendly neighborhood jewelers with my wife the day after Thanksgiving. While waiting for service, I spied an adorably cute bulldoggish looking pup, well-behaved on a short leash. Yes, we have soft spots for dogs, but this one was special. Not just the way it furtively followed us with its eyes; but we were drawn to practically staring at its face: It sported a nearly perfectly round patch of dark fur around one eye on a head otherwise bright white.

Where had I seen something like that before?  Of course: the series of movie shorts called “Our Gang” from the 1920s and ‘30s. All the main characters were children, decades before almost anyone thought of such a thing.  Our Gang wasn’t just the first movie to show blacks and whites, males and females, side-by-side as complete equals – they made a whole series of movies for over twenty years. Countless movies.

Alfalfa -- Our Gang/Little Rascals

Alfalfa — Our Gang/Little Rascals

Starting in the early ‘20s and spanning the Great Depression and early World War II years, Our Gang (also known as “Little Rascals”) taught us – through the eyes of children – one of life’s most significant truths: we are all equal.

[Ok, I’m old, but not THAT old.  I’ve seen these movies in syndication.]

Who can forget Alfalfa and his crazy spiked hair, or the way he’d pronounce Buckwheat? Or Buckwheat’s hair and wonderfully expressive face.  Or how he’d said “Otay” for “Okay”?  Portraying Buckwheat, Billy Thomas was probably the most famous, popular and successful Black actor or actress for most of that entire era.

Buckwheat -- OTAY!

Buckwheat — OTAY!

Those kids could act … naturally.

Of course there was a dog to help them achieve at being mischievous.  That dog was “Pete the Pup”, or often, just Pete.

Turns out the first Pete really did have a nearly perfect circle around one eye. But not quite perfect.  Maybe some makeup would do the job. Hollywood had just the man for the job.

He was born in 1874 to a Jewish family in Zduńska Wola (modern day Poland), then part of czarist Poland. Maksymilian Faktorowicz was the fourth and last child born to Abraham and Cecylia (nee: Tandowska). [Some sources have him born as late as 1877.  Records were sketchy in those times and in those regions].

Two siblings died young, and soon thereafter, so did Maksymilian’s young mother.  Abraham soon remarried, to another simple, local farm girl, Leah Dobretzky.

Abraham sired nine more children by Leah over about as many years.  Although three of these half-siblings died young, that still left a lot of mouths to feed. As noted above, official records were dodgy at best, but by Max’s and his brother Daniel’s recollection, that left eight total children.

Abraham’s profession or means of income is not known for sure, but it seems most likely he was a part-time grocer and infrequent rabbi.  Certainly not a great income there, and as a Jew in Russia-ruled Poland Congress*, these were hard economic times for the Faktorowicz (fact-TOR-uh-vitch) family.                      [* Poland Congress]

The message for young Max was simple and clear: life is short, hard and often cruel.

Maksymilian’s formal education ceased at age eight, and he was sent out to work as an apprentice to a dentist, who doubled as a pharmacist. Apparently, that didn’t work out.  At age nine he was moved to Łódź, 50km away, to fulfill an assignment as apprentice to the local wig maker, who doubled as a cosmetician.

The next decade was a whir, as Faktorowicz gained experience, expertise and then … fame as a renowned hair stylist and cosmetician. He had stints from Berlin to Moscow, even serving as a cosmetician to the Imperial Russian Grand Opera.

After compulsory service in the Imperial Russian army, Faktorowicz opened his own stores in Russia, selling his own line of wigs, lotions and cremes.  Soon he was appointed the official head cosmetician to the Royal Family, and the highest ranked cosmetician to the Imperial Russian Grand Opera.

With success came marriage and soon four children.  But life grew burdensome.  As a Jew in an ever more anti-Semitic empire, and with frequent close encounters with the Romanoff Royal Family that were watched very closely, Faktorwicz felt oppressed.

In 1904, during the violent and bloody Russian pogroms of 1903-6, Faktorowicz and his family emigrated to the United States.

He had his eye on the 1904 World’s Fair, in Saint Louis, officially known as The Louisiana Purchase Exposition.  One of the largest extravaganzas in human history presented opportunity to sell his products and show his skill to the world.  There he could make a small fortune from his experience and wares, selling cosmetics, creams and lotions.

Upon passing through Ellis Island, with thousands of other Ashkenazi Jews, the officials found his name – Maksymillian Faktorowicz – too difficult to write and pronounce.  So he officially became, simply, Max Factor.

Factor’s business enterprise flourished.  His father, step-mother and half-siblings soon followed him to Saint Louis.

Alas, his business partner found more fortune in stealing their joint venture’s stock and capital than in contributing much effort himself.

Broke and forced to start over, Max did just that.  With help from his brother and uncle he started a barber shop that also did hair, beard and mustache styling.

Unfortunately, his wife died soon thereafter, in 1906. Factor rebounded, again — perhaps too soon — into a new marriage, which soon failed.

Adjusting to the hardship, Factor rallied. He assessed his assets and opportunities. He married his neighbor and set off for the setting sun.  Off he went to California, where an embryonic movie industry could surely use his talents and skills.

It was there that Max Factor made cosmetics chic.  He made nice-looking actors and actresses even better looking. Until he arrived, and made his impact, make-up was non-existent to appalling. It’s hard to imagine the moving picture industry evolving without Max Factor.

In 1916 he started selling eye shadow and eyebrow pencils. This was the first time such products were available outside the movie industry. By the late ‘20s he had invented his own complete cosmetic line and started marketing his water-proof mascara. In 1930 he invented lip gloss.

Petey, AKA Pete the Pup, Pete the Dog, and Pete the dog with a circle around his eye

Petey: AKA Pete the Pup, Pete the Dog, and Pete the dog with a circle around his eye

Besides making actresses better looking, Factor made Petey, or Pete the Pup, better looking, too.  Max Factor is credited with the perfect make-up job on Petey, and the several reincarnations of Pete that followed over the years.

And now, the rest of the story.

Yes, Max Factor grew indescribably rich from his ascent to the king of make-up in Hollywood, and from building upon that to develop a huge business making and marketing  a line of cosmetics and skin treatments that still bear his famous name today.

In 1938 Factor was in Paris, on a business trip.  While there he received a death threat by note – they’d spare his life in return for money.  Police employed a Factor-decoy in an attempt to fool and capture the extortionist.  But he wasn’t fooled, and didn’t present himself for the money.  Or maybe it was all just a very, very bad joke.

In any case, Factor was so shaken up he was unable to function.  The rest of the trip was canceled.  Factor returned home for bed rest.

Factor died soon thereafter, age 64, or thereabouts.  He was still in bed, scared – literally frightened to death.

The Factor is here

The Factor is here

Factor’s remains are now at the Hillside Memorial Park, in a mausoleum behind the plaque shown here.

{read on}

 

 

The Factor Empire. Growth and acquisition.

After his death, Factor’s sons grew the business.  His grandchildren grew it further.  Yet, by the 1970s only a few of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren were still involved in running the enormously successful Max Factor Company.  Family interest declined, and It was merged with Norton Simon.  This company was then acquired by Esmark, in 1983, which continued to market products under the prestigious Max Factor label.

Just a year later, the conglomerate Beatrice Food bought Esmark and merged the Factor line with its Playtex beauty line (brassieres and make-up – now those go together!). Soon thereafter beauty empire Revlon bought the Factor-Playtex line of products and rights to the Factor name.

All this time the Factor line of products continued to sell well, increasing the brand’s value.

In 2001 Proctor & Gamble bought the Max Factor product line from Revlon, and retains rights to it today.

As of now, it looks like “The Empire that Max Built” is dying a slow controlled death.  Factor products are difficult to find in the US, except on the internet, and are only actively marketed in a few retail outlets in Europe.

But at least it’s not dying of fright.

And we still have Petey, or Pete the Dog, to look back on. And the archived films of beauties like Jean Harlowe, Bette Davis, Bette Grable, Rita Hayworth and Claudette Colbert – even German beauty Marlene Dietrich and everyone’s darling, Judy Garland –  all wearing Factor’s make-up and wigs, often applied by the master himself.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2016

Notes:

Max Factor's star, on Hollywood Blvd

Max Factor’s star, on Hollywood Blvd

  •   Max Factor won an Oscar (Academy Award) for his contributions to the big screen and has a star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame.
  •   Random biographies of Maksymilian Faktorwicz, who came to be known as Max Factor

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Max-Factor

http://inventors.about.com/od/fstartinventors/a/MaxFactor.htm

{read on}

PS. Dark Footnotes, for anyone who read this far. This is evidently a famous case that I just learned about through extended research for this essay.

Factor’s Great-grandson, Andrew Luster, was arrested for three incidents of sexual assault using the date-rape drug GHB in 2000.  The rest of the Factor family, heavily involved in civic service and philanthropy, quickly disowned the million-dollar-trust-fund baby.

Luster failed to show in court, jumping his $1 Million bond, and fled to Mexico.  He was convicted anyhow, in abstentia, of some 86 criminal counts, and sentenced to 124 years in prison.

After conviction and sentencing, Luster was still on the lam, living under an assumed name. A bounty hunter named Duane “Dog” Chapman found him in Puerta Vallerta.  Upon kidnapping Luster for return to the US, both men were arrested by the Mexican police.

Luster was extradited to the US and is now “serving his time.”  Well, not all of it. Upon petition, his case was reviewed and the sentence was reduced to 50 years. He will be eligible for parole in 2028, at the age of 86.

In civil court his victims were awarded $40million in damages.  Luster paid that and is now financially bankrupt … as well as morally bankrupt.

And now, back to the dog, this time “Dog” Chapman.

Dog Chapman, bounty hunter

Dog Chapman, bounty hunter [Photo credit: By U.S. Navy photo by Photographer’s Mate Airman Dominique V. Brown (RELEASED) – http://www.news.navy.mil/view_single.asp?id=24572 as PUBLIC DOMAIN — cropped]

Chapman jumped bail in Mexico and fled to the US soon after his arrest, in 2003.  Wanted by Mexico, Chapman was arrested in Hawaii, in late 2006, and held for judicial hearings that would lead to his extradition to Mexico to face kidnapping and bail-jumping charges. There, in Hawaii, he was released on $300,000 bond.

After numerous court proceedings in the US, and appeals to the US Senate and Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice, somehow, eventually, the Mexican government dropped charges against the Dog.

Dog Chapman remains a bounty hunter and something of a celebrity.

And now you know much more than you wanted. Thanks for reading.

http://usnews.nbcnews.com/_news/2013/03/11/17274124-124-year-rape-sentence-thrown-out-for-max-factor-heir?lite

 

Good night!

Autobiographical, Current Events

Hope for Ferguson

Or … finding hope in a Brewery and Zantorian.

December 4, 2016

Zantorian gives me hope for Ferguson.  And hope this country.

My wife and I travel rather frequently to the Saint Louis, Missouri, area.  The story of how we came to enjoy our little get-aways, away from beautiful Colorado, to the rusty and gray heartland Midwestern city will, perhaps, come in a later essay, or memoir.

As there have been no noteworthy protests, or riots, or fires in the past year, or so, many have forgotten about Ferguson, a community near St Louis. We have not.

As quick refresher, on August 9, 2014, 18-year old Ferguson resident Michael Brown was shot and killed on a street in Ferguson by police officer Darren Wilson. This was the spark.  Protests followed, and quickly by riots and arson and looting.

Black Lives Matter, which was birthed by the killing of teenager Trayvon Martin the year earlier, organized mostly peaceful demonstrations across the country, and sprung to newfound significance in the St Louis area. These were BLM’s first in-person demonstrations.

When a St Louis County Grand Jury declined to indict Officer Wilson that November, heated protests began anew.  Some violence flared up, and then – again – fires were set.  To businesses and, this time, to police cars.

My wife and I visited Ferguson several months later, in early 2015.  Burned out businesses were evident. Up and down both Florissant Avenues (the city has two major north-south streets named Florissant, the eponymous name of an adjacent city, just north of Ferguson). Also a few abandoned burned out businesses in nearby Dellwood, which didn’t seem to make the news.

Among all that despair and destruction, we found hope … in a brewery.

The Ferguson Brewery serves fine craft beers and a mixture of classic American cuisine – from burgers, to St Louis-style Barbeque, to Mexican – in its lovingly refurbished 100-year building at 418 South Florissant.

Ferguson Brewery

Ferguson Brewery

We stopped in, not knowing what to expect, just after visiting the floral memorial at the site of young Mr Brown’s death, on Canfield Drive.

Even on a weekday afternoon, toward the end of what you’d consider lunch hour, the place was nearly full.  Patrons included blacks and whites, some sitting together, all chatting, enjoying the food, the beer and the atmosphere.

I’d met people from Ferguson, and the surrounding area, who were proudly pro-Ferguson.  They believed the community was much stronger than what the news had shown.  A BUYcott were organized to get St Louis locals to go to Ferguson and patronize local businesses.

I was hopeful.  There seemed to be promise of recovery and the Brewery was a good sign of it. But things soon changed.

Fire broke out again, in June, 2015.  At the friendly little brewery and restaurant a fluorescent light was left on overnight in the kitchen. Sadly, the aged wiring was not up to the job, and a fire broke out.  It spread quickly. By the time the fire was discovered around 2AM, by a policeman on patrol, the fire was extensive.  There wasn’t much for the heralded and award-winning Ferguson Fire Department to do but control the fire. [1 [2]

There was significant damage to the kitchen, the interior building structure, roof and all furnishings.  Worst was perhaps the smoke and water damage.  Just about everything had to go.

Like many other of the local businesses, victims of fires, the Ferguson Brewery shut down. But not for long.

Brewery owner, Mike Loreno, set his mind to re-opening as soon as possible.  Brewery operations were moved off-site.  Restoration to the structure relied on Loreno’s will, as well as a tight relationship the local restaurants had formed with each other – and the community – to stay afloat during the difficult times of the riots.

Ferguson pulled together for their brewery, raising funds and pitching in.  It’s the kind of positive news you don’t get on CNN or Fox.  Just not sensational enough.

Less than 6 months later, Ferguson Brewery — in the same 100-plus year old building, complete with kitchen, new brewery and dining area — was open for business.

My wife and I stopped in last weekend, on our way out of St Louis, to Lambert Airport.

It was beautiful.  We were struck by how everything simply looked and smelled splendid.  Evidently the bar – the centerpiece of the establishment’s beauty – was recovered and completely restored.  Everything else was replaced … but you couldn’t tell. It looked like before and had the same comfortable chairs, stools, tables and atmosphere we remembered.

We sat next to a table of 20 or so blacks from the Trinity Mount Carmel Baptist Church having their holiday party for their army of ushers.  It was pretty cool to see this twist: an overworked White wait-person serving a party of Blacks. [TMC Baptist’s website]

Ferguson Brewery and Restaurant: A comfy and welcoming establishment

Ferguson Brewery and Restaurant: A comfy and welcoming establishment

Not drinkers by faith, they seemed to be having a great time, nonetheless – even the two young boys, occupied with each other mostly. (Although one lady confided – on the QT – that she enjoys an occasional glass of  wine).

One of the boys grew bored and was offered a large cell phone to play with.  After a while he was still looking a bit bored, clicking and swiping, and he noticed, between his games, that I was sneaking peeks at him.  He soon walked the few feet to our booth and showed me what  he was doing: playing Wheel of Fortune.

Tory and "Grandpa" Joe

Tory and “Grandpa” Joe

“Hi. What’s your name?”

A reply as firm and snappy as you like. “My name is Zantorian. That’s Z-A-N-T-O-R-I-A-N. But you may call me Tory. Tory with a Y. I’m six years old and I’m pretty good at this game.”

Neither Tory nor his aunt or mum had any reservations about him climbing onto my lap so we could play together.  My grandpa juices started flowing.

I don’t know how long it was – too short for me (thank goodness Audrey took a few photos) – but too soon it was time for Tory and his merry group of ushers to begin leaving.  He was not very happy about that. He didn’t complain, he was too polite for that, but it showed in his body language.

Hey, this is fun!

Hey, this is fun!

One of the older ladies – the same one who confessed to an occasional glass of wine – made sure we knew that we would be very, very welcome if we visited them at Trinity, in neighboring Florissant.  “Wouldn’t we please visit them next time we get a chance? That’s Trinity — Mount — Carmel!”

She said it slowly and deliberately. She really meant it and wanted us to remember. Gosh, how could we say no?

Tory’s aunt took her phone back, and a few minutes of long good-byes among the Trinity Mount Carmel ushers ensued … during which time Tory took the opportunity to wonder what fun he could have with Grandpa Joe’s phone.  Without hesitation, he picked it up and scrolled back-and-forth through the panels, looking for an icon that appeared interesting.  Unfortunately for him, there aren’t any, except maybe Duolingo – the language learning app.

So he tapped that, and a review lesson for German came up.  “Ein Junge” – appropriately enough.  The only thing better would have been if Duolingo popped open with “Ein Enkel.” [These mean “A boy” and “A grandson].

The Duolingo Icon

The Duolingo Icon

“What’s THAT!?!” Before I could answer (thankfully, it would have meant nothing), he closed that app, and waved panels to find “Sky Map.”

“Tory, this will show you the names and places of all the stars you can see in the sky.”

“REALLY?  That’s cool”

“Tory, we really have to go now” said auntie and mom.

He gave me back my phone.  He hopped down, and obediently let each of them take one hand.

As they walked out, Tory’s head was turned like Linda Blair’s, trying to keep eye contact with me and Audrey.  We waved.

“Bye Tory. Hope to see you again soon.”

 

Joe Girard © 2016

Final note: The Mall of America, near Minneapolis, has hired a Black Santa.

Santa Larry

Santa Larry

It’s quite the rage on the internet (for some reason) and looks wonderful.  His name is Larry Jefferson, but prefers to go by “Santa Larry.” This picture is just great.

 

[1] Ferguson Fire Department website: http://www.firedepartment.net/directory/missouri/saint-louis-county/ferguson/ferguson-fire-department

[2] Awards for the Ferguson Fire Department: http://www.stltoday.com/news/special-reports/heroes/greater-st-louis-fire-chiefs-association-awards/article_41275877-9166-5f6b-9ca5-00e4e9863279.html

 

Current Events, Politics

Collegial Codes and Conspiracies

November 20, 2016

A few Tuesdays ago – a day we will all recall for decades to come, if we live that long – I just couldn’t bring myself to watch the election returns. I was disgusted by the campaigning, the candidates, and the pompous potshots by everyone from ants to asshats.

After reading that Nate Silver had the chance of a popular vote/electoral mismatched vote as high as 10% [1] – and hoping to dear God that would not be the case – I squirreled myself safely away from outside earshot of the TV and commenced to thinking about the Electoral College.  Its birth.  Its history.  What it means today.  Then I tapped out a pretty good rough draft of an essay.  A Joe Girard classic format.

The essay was overtaken by destiny. As Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogard) said in Casablanca: It seems destiny has taken a hand. Maybe someday I’ll finish it and publish it.  Here’s what happened.

I tapped my notes out on my ASUS tablet, onto which I’ve installed the Politico app (a well-regarded and usually considered slightly left-leaning news source).  Politico feeds news headlines – usually very, very occasionally – across the bottom of my screen.  After a couple of hours I took a peek.

Virginia for Clinton.  Of course.

Florida for Trump.  Odd, but Okay, not totally unexpected.

North Carolina for Trump.  Less unexpected.

Then the feed that Ohio was looking like a Trump win.  And possibly Pennsylvania too.

Now to Central Time Zone.  Wisconsin looks like a Trump win.

Oh… My… God.  This could really be happening. It IS happening. I saved the draft essay and browsed to the CNN and Fox sites for maps shaded red, pink, purple, sky blue and navy blue.  Some quick math showed Trump with a very plausible path to 270, well before 10PM Mountain Time.

And THAT was the end of the Electoral College essay.

_______________________________________________

Soon, on December 19, 2016, the 538 Electors from the 50 states, plus DC, will meet in their respective states and District, and cast their votes for President and Vice President of the United States of America. Presumably at least 290 will vote for Donald Trump, and 232 for Mrs Clinton, with the destiny of Michigan’s 16 electoral votes STILL not determined at this writing (although it is looking like a slim margin Trump win at the time of this writing).

This is the “Real” Election for President and Vice President.  When we voted for Clinton or Trump (or whomever) on November 8, we were actually voting for an entire slate of Electors who are pledged to vote for those candidates on December 19.

Some people are saying it ain’t over til it’s over; it ain’t over till the fat lady sings; and other such mixed metaphors. Well, they’re right.  That’s how the system works and Mr. Trump is not officially President-elect until those votes are cast.

Before discussing that, let’s talk about who these Electors are.

They are not just Joe and Jane average-citizen who have signed a pledge to vote a certain way, if they should themselves get elected.

They are party loyalists.  The life blood of their respective parties. Almost always they’ve been very active in their state’s political parties.

For example, an elector from California is Christine Pelosi.  The daughter of Nancy Pelosi.

An elector candidate from Maryland is Michael Steele, the (black) former head of the Republican National Party.  [Maryland went for Clinton, so Steele will not be voting as an Elector on December 19].

All potential candidates for Elector are screened by their state parties well in advance of the election. It’s obvious that the main qualification is party loyalty, and the bar for party loyalty – as you can surmise and see from the examples – is very high.

Can you imagine a Pelosi voting for anyone other than Mrs Clinton?

No, of course not.

But for those who simply fall ill at the very thought of a President Trump, let me offer an alternative outcome.  It involves my own wildly conceived conspiracy.

The Electors were chosen, in most cases, well before it was clear that Mr Trump would be the Republican candidate.

Since their selection by their state parties as Electors, an astounding number of Conservatives and Republicans have gone quite public with their disdain for Mr. Trump.  So much, that they did not support or vote for him.  From the ranks of politicians there is, for example, Mitt Romney and all the Bush families. Karl Rove considers Trump “a complete idiot.” Three term South Dakota Senator Larry Pressler didn’t support Trump. Neither did former Minnesota Senator Norm Coleman (who lost his seat to comedian Al Franken by a few hundred votes in 2008). John Huntsman.  Christine Todd Whitman.

It’s actually quite a long list, which I will spare you the tedious task of scanning.These are big name Republican politicians who openly did not support Trump.  Trump was publicly shunned.

And then there’s the “conservative” intelligentsia.  Jonah Goldberg, chief editor at at National Review (William F Buckley’s magazine!! For crying out loud) lambasted Trump every chance he got.  Glenn Beck ran far away from the “idiot” Trump.  George Will brilliantly pointed out on a Sunday Talking-heads news show this summer that Trump “has been a Republican for all of about 15 minutes.”

These were the “Never Trump” folks. Their cast was large, significant and influential.

That Trump won without much support from the faithful Right is truly astounding.

But could it also be his undoing?  As most of the Electors were chosen before it was certain that Trump would be the Republican candidate … could they turn the tables on him since so many “Conservatives” and “Republicans” don’t consider Trump a true Republican? Not a qualified representative of their “party of values” to serve as President.

That’s the genesis of my conspiracy theory.

Now, don’t presume that ANY Republican Electors will vote for Mrs. Clinton.  Not gonna happen. Mrs Clinton is stuck at 232 and no petition is going to get her to the 270 needed to be President.

But … What if 37 or more Electors conspired to cast their Presidential vote for someone more … uh, digestible… than Trump?

That would reduce his tally from 306 to 269, or less.  A person cannot be elected President outright by the Electoral College with fewer than 270 votes.

But whom would these 37 (or more) unfaithful Electors vote for, and how would they choose such a person?

Well, consider the Constitution’s provision in such a case. The House of Representatives chooses the next President, and they can only choose from among the THREE candidates who receive the most Electoral votes. [In 1824 John Quincy Adams ran second to Andrew Jackson in the Electoral tally, but was chosen by the House as 6th President, since Jackson did not secure a majority of Electoral votes and was considered, by many, to be too wild and uncivilized to be President.  He eventually did win outright in 1828 and 1832).

Here’s how the House of Representatives chooses: Each state gets only ONE vote.  And a clear majority, that is 26 states, is required.

When the new Congress is seated, next January, the Republicans will have a majority of Congressional seats in about 33 states, the same as now.  Suppose … now just suppose, a band of unfaithful Republican Electors spoke secretly with Republican House leaders, including Speaker Paul Ryan (WI) and decided to bump Trump.

In this conspiracy, 37 Electors (who are sworn and pledged to vote for the Republican candidate, Donald Trump) break their pledge.  Most vote for the pre-arranged preferred candidate, let’s say it’s Joe Girard.  Ha!! Just kidding.  Let’s say Mitt McCain (another fictional character). Who then comes in third place.

When the votes are sent to Washington, no single candidate has a majority.

The top three candidates are sent to the House for consideration.  And John Romney is chosen.

Yes, this is the stuff of cheap fictional novels.

And it’s not going to happen.

But it IS possible. Trump COULD still be thwarted.

Sincerely, I am your conspiracy theorist …

Joe Girard © 2016

[1] Nate Silver has become something of a highly regarded prognosticator in election season.  I think he’s more of an eccentric and talented statistician.  A wizard with numbers.  Here are a couple of his newsfeeds in the last week before the 2016 election.

(a) http://fivethirtyeight.com/features/the-odds-of-an-electoral-college-popular-vote-split-are-increasing/

(b) http://fivethirtyeight.com/features/election-update-the-campaign-is-almost-over-and-heres-where-we-stand/

[2] Politico is highly regarded. I take it to be slightly left leaning by this review, and that it’s editorial leadership came from Washington Post. http://www.allsides.com/news-source/politico

Also slightly Left per this research (as well as NPR’s taxpayer funded slight Left lean):

http://www.forbes.com/sites/jeffbercovici/2011/03/22/science-settles-it-nprs-liberal-but-not-very/#414296f499e8

 

Generational, Guest Essay

Hutch

— By Ken Hutchison

I meant to post this yesterday, on Veteran’s Day, but the day got away from me.

hutch

Staff Sergeant EB Hutchison

Dad never really talked about the war. As a boy, I always wanted to know how many Germans he killed. He said he didn’t know, wasn’t sure if he did, etc. Looking back now, I remember seeing his blue eyes glaze over, and a heavy breath would follow.

In reading his letters it’s evident that he was in house-to-house, close quartered bullshit. One of his scars went from his elbow, radiating in a spiral across the inside of his forearm to nearly his wrist…it was about a half inch wide. He was searching a house when a “potato masher’ (German hand grenade) broke through the window. He got as far as he could before it went off, costing him a majority of hearing in one ear, plus having his flesh torn apart by red hot shrapnel. It’s the only one of his injuries I heard about first hand. The others I discovered in his letters home. Sniper fire that nearly bled him to death, machine gun wounds in both legs during a battle in a frozen marsh. Despite being hit in the legs, he was able to run to cover, no helmet, rifle jammed with mud.

Despite that, he did tell a few funny stories. In one, he and his men arrived in a train station, largely abandoned, except for the lone tanker car that had a guard (I don’t remember from where, non-US though). The boys thought they’d found fuel. They told the guard to get lost or get shot. He was smart. Efforts to open the valve were in vain, so one of the GIs hit it with the butt of his BAR (rifle).

The valve stem broke off. It wasn’t fuel. It was wine. Rich. Red. Wine.

Being the proud American soldiers they were, they didn’t shy away from the obvious threat at hand. They proceeded to rip out the liners of their helmets and then get six-ways-to-Sunday shitfaced … drinking from their steel hats. Dad maintained, sort of, as he was the sarge, and had to get his men into the boxcar when the time came.

The other story he told was of the tank. Panzer tanks were colossal hunks of powerful deadly steel. Dad and the boys came across one abandoned somewhere in the Ardennes, and of course, boys being boys, they decided to drive it around. Whoever was driving pushed the throttle forward a wee bit too much, too fast, sending the occupants flying into the walls. Then they couldn’t figure out how to steer or stop the multi-ton hunk of German engineering. Poor guys took out a farmhouse, barn, haystack, and God knows what else before stalling it in a dry riverbed.

I would have paid money to see it.

Guest Essay, History, Science & Technology

Lambert

by John Sarkis

November 12, 1946 –

lambert-pic

Albert Bond Lambert — aviation pioneer, champion golfer

Seventy years ago today, Albert Bond Lambert died in his St. Louis home at the age of 70. As the Missouri state golf champion, he competed in the (Paris) 1900 Olympics, finishing 8th in the individual event. Returning home, he won several local and national tournaments before competing in the 1904 Olympics, held in his hometown of St Louis.

The event was held at Glen Echo Country Club, which was owned by his father-in-law, Col. George McGrew. Lambert finished 8th once more, but his team won the Silver Medal. [1] [2]

The 1900 Paris Olympics had been held in conjunction with the Paris Exposition, and it was here that Lambert first saw men soaring aloft in balloons. So he returned to Paris in 1906, where he learned to become a pilot. [3]

In St Louis, he became one of the leading members of, what at that time, was considered a sport. Competing in many national events, he would often have his balloon filled by Laclede Gas at South 2nd St and Rutger St, and later at Chouteau and Newstead.

On one occasion, the wind took him over the mountains near Chattanooga and into northern Georgia where he was taken hostage by moonshiners, who thought he was a Revenue Agent.

Realizing he needed a field better suited for balloon ascensions, several sites were considered. One was on Olive, just beyond the city limit, and another was near Creve Couer Lake. A third location, north of downtown, between the river and North Broadway, was also a serious contender.

In 1910, the St Louis Aero Club leased a farm near Kinloch [4], and this would be the site of many aviation “firsts”. Kinloch Field would have the first aerial tower, and was the site of (some of) the first aerial photograph(s). [5]

Taking off from there, Teddy Roosevelt would be the first President to fly in a plane. [6]

In 1912, a plane took off from Kinloch Field carrying Albert Berry, who would make the first parachute jump from a plane (landing at Jefferson Barracks — just outside the city’s southern boundary — from an elevation of 1,500 feet).

Albert Lambert bought an airplane in 1911 from the Wright Brothers, and, becoming accomplished in this field, he began promoting St Louis in aviation circles. In 1920, he leased an additional 160 acres at $2000 a year. Buying the property in 1925, he spent his own money on improvements, and then offered it to the City of St Louis at the price he paid for the unimproved land. The City bought it in 1928, and “Lambert Field” became the first Municipal Airport in the country.

Albert Bond Lambert was able to pursue his many hobbies because of the wealth he inherited from his father’s company, Lambert Pharmaceutical. His father, Jordan Lambert, was a St Louis druggist who invented a product called Listerine. Now known as a mouthwash, it was originally marketed to sterilize medical equipment.

Editor’s notes:

a) John Sarkis is retired, residing in the St Louis Area. He posts regularly on the St Louis, Missouri. History, Landmarks and Vintage Photos Facebook page. All content is his Intellectual Property. Screwups are my fault. This essay is gently edited, mostly as denoted by parentheses.  Footnotes below are the editor’s.

b) ==>Can you imagine filling a balloon with natural gas to fly??.

c) ==>Lambert was the first major donor to Charles Lindbergh’s efforts for a non-stop trans-Atlantic flight, and the publicity helped LIndbergh raise quite a bit of money from St Louis.  His plane was named after the organization that Lambert helped found to help Lindbergh: The Spirit of St Louis.

Footnotes.

[1] In 1900 the Olympic Golf competition was a simple stroke play event.  In 1904, there was a 36-hole qualifier.  Sixty-four players went on to a single elimination competition, where Lambert was defeated in the quarter-finals.

[2] Contestants represented their various athletic associations and clubs.  Lambert was on the Trans-Mississippi Golf Association team. Golf teams had ten players each, and their score was the summation of all 10 players over the 2-round qualification.

Although golf returned as a medal sport in the 2016 Olympics – it had not been an event since 1904 – the team event has not returned.

[3] The 1904 Olympics were also held concurrent and alongside a World’s Fair: the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St Louis

[4] Kinloch is just Northwest of Saint Louis, between Ferguson and I-170. At the time, known as Kinloch Park. This area is now part of the city of Berkeley, although Kinloch (in a much reduced state) still exists as a municipality.

[5] First aerial photographs.  This is of course contested and subject to interpretation.  The first true aerial photograph was from a hot air balloon, by Frenchman Gaspar-Felix Tournachon, in the 1850s.
Swedish inventor Alfred Nobel successfully designed and launched a rocket with a camera aboard that took aerial photographs in 1897.

Aerial photographs were also being creatively taken from kites as early as 1888. And by birds about the same time.

Wilbur Wright is most often credited as taking the first aerial photographs from a plane, in 1909. He also made “moving pictures” at this time, while in Italy. Actually the shots were made by his passenger, an Italian military officer.

[6]  At the time, Roosevelt was former president – the flight was in 1910).

[Sources] [Another Source]

Current Events, Politics

Election 2016

Here it is election eve, November 2016.

For the most part, I’ve bit my tongue — and muzzled my keyboard — with regard to politics this election season. And I promise to go easy now that I’ve loosened my leash a little bit. I’ve certainly had a lot go through my mind. I’ve often felt like sharing it here. But this election season has been so terribly awful and disappointing that I decided to exercise considerable restraint rather than subject anyone to even more abuse.

What follows is brief, and based mostly on a short email that I sent to my good friend Kevin, who in turn included it in his daily Good News Today newsletter.  I wish it had more good news, but sometimes the truth is not all good.

This is regarding election choices and exercising your right to the franchise.  And the fact that many of us, Kevin included, dared to share their decisions and the reasons for them.

There are obviously going to be differences of opinion. It is a difficult year for many of us.  Recent exchanges of banter and bickering have spawned several thoughts in my busy little head. Mostly, I try to not be critical of people’s selections and thinking.  Voting is a personal choice and I realize we are all of us individuals.  And that means “different.”  But there are some cases where I can’t help myself, I grow critical and judgmental — although I try to keep these thoughts to myself and would not squelch such people even if I could.  There are two such cases.

One is voting for someone because of what they have between their legs, even if it is only one of many criteria. That’s sexist and shallow. Intelligent votes are based on what’s between their ears and their resume’.

The second is when people attack a candidate they don’t prefer on non-policy grounds (e.g. Trump is a sexist pig who can’t string two simple sentences together; Clinton is a lying criminal who got rich without ever producing anything of value that Joe-or-Jane average US citizen can relate to). This second type of opinion that causes me to be judgmental only applies when it is pretty obvious that the argument is made by someone who almost certainly would have voted for the other candidate anyhow.

I cannot help but see such attackers as draped in their own self-made mantle of sanctimony while sitting on their imaginary throne of self righteousness. “News” provider people who do this are even worse. (e.g. Sean Hannity, Don Lemon). I’m not proud that I do this judging. Maybe it’s my own form of sanctimony and self-righteousness.

99% of the attacks on Trump (and there are many good reasons for them) that you see and hear are from people who would have voted Democrat anyhow.  And vice versa. Probably 100%.   I wear myself out with restraint when I read or hear someone criticize a candidate that they wouldn’t vote for even if that person were a saint.

So, finally, at long, long last, this will soon be over.  This squabbling over candidates only increases the chance that we as a nation will continue to grow ever more fragmented and distrustful of one another — a Grand Canyon growing between us.  Neither Mrs C or Mr T have demonstrated an ability to unite us; let’s not make it worse by doing the work for them, and tearing ourselves apart.

It’s okay to praise a candidate. Even the other side once in a while.  It’s okay to respect others’ voices.

When it’s all over, Clinton or Trump in the White House makes no difference to your happiness, your health, your human dignity and your relationship with others.  They can’t make you happy, successful, pleasant, magnanimous, rich or generous.  You have to own all that yourself.

So, no matter what happens tomorrow, November 8, go out there everyday and make it a point to not just be nice to people who voted differently than you. Take time to listen when they dare to share their points of view, their logic and their passions. If they “attack” your candidate, this is a great opportunity.  “Yes, I can see that.  Of course. But what if it weren’t Trump or Clinton?  What if they were a truly decent human?  How would you vote then? What is important to you?” Listening is the most important quality. If you haven’t really learned anything, then you probably weren’t genuinely listening.

Really try.  Otherwise this election will just drive us farther and farther from each other.

Wishing you peace.

Joe Girard (c) 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

Autobiographical, Current Events

P is for Privilege

CW (Content Warning).  Please stop right now if you’re expecting a lofty essay on privilege in our culture.  This essay contains a few more thoughts and observations from our recently concluded extended expedition through part of Europe. Regarding privilege, see note [1].

The musical Urinetown must have one of the most unlikely plots – and titles! – to ever go on-stage and  be regarded as a critical success. [2]

My short version of the plot set up.  At some dark time and dismal place in the future there has been a decade’s long drought so severe that there is virtually no water for almost any use. So bad, in fact that the government creates a preposterous scheme to limit water consumption. In fact, it’s cockamamie: They make it illegal to urinate anywhere except at a public facility operated by a company that possesses a government sanctioned monopoly (called Urine Good Company, or UGC).

Facilities are few and the cost to use them are high.  Any infraction gets the violator immediately sentenced to serve an infinite term in penal colony called Urinetown.  It’s not really described what Urinetown is, or what it’s like until late in the play.  But you’re led to believe it is very, very bad.

One of the key songs in the Tony Award winning score is “It’s a Privilege to Pee”, for obvious reasons.

The reason I recalled all of this is that it’s what came to mind while on tour almost anywhere in our tour through Europe (primarily Germany, Austria, and Netherlands, with small side trips to Belgium, France and Luxembourg).

My advice for American travelers is (1) practice peeing when you think you can’t (2) practice not peeing when you think you absolutely must (3) and always keep some coins in your pocket in the event that you do manage to find a WC/toilette and it requires either a fee to enter, or an implied tip to the person who cleans them and sits immediately outside (as quite often is the case).

As a last resort, you can usually duck into a pub or coffee shop … as long as you buy a pint or a kaffee. They might very well run you out if you don’t.

Toward the end of the 7-week trip I did find myself unconsciously slipping into a European habit (confirmed by unscientific poll by discussing this with several) of reducing liquid consumption from morning to mid-afternoon.

This was a big change for me (I suppose it happened gradually), and I wondered if it didn’t have health consequences; namely, kidney stones. I did find some evidence that Germans suffer from a much higher rate of stones than do Americans.  [4]

Still, there were many positive experiences, even the worst of times, such as traffic jams on the Autobahn, when the observed max speeds quite often drop from close to 200 kph (about 120 mph) to essentially zero.  The Germans have such a useful word for “really horribly bad traffic jam”; it’s “Stau” (sort of stick an “h” between the “s” and “t” and it rhymes “how”: shtow).

Also, you can easily find interesting history almost anywhere in western Germany and this region, extending all the way back to the Romans, and beyond. Also, German wines sold locally are mostly quite spectacular … and often spectacularly inexpensive.

Don’t expect many pleasant surprises in navigation in Europe, which most Americans would regard as very, very unfriendly toward automobiles.  For starters, it’s also a privilege to park. For many cities it’s probably best to save time and frustration by parking at the edge of town, and then getting to the sites by walking, taking bus or tram.

Address numbers are so different from America that one can regard them as almost unusable.

Numbers are assigned sequentially, beginning from the beginning of a street.  So on one side they are usually 2, 4, 6 … etc; and on the other 1, 3, 5 …  If a new building is built then it might need an address like 21a, which of course is between 21 and 23, … unless there is a 21b.

Grid systems are virtually non-existent, so it’s pointless to think, for example that addresses with 200 are about one block past those with 100. Addresses are generally from center to out, and clockwise.

They simply don’t like big address numbers, like 2101 or 1508 (which would be one block beyond 2001 and 1408 in the US).  If and when a number gets too big, like close to 100 or 200, then they simply change the name of the street where there’s an intersection or a slight bend.  They have so many historical figures to name streets after that, even with this puzzle of seemingly never-ending street name changes, they will never run out of possible street names. I think the main ring around Aachen has seven names.

Also, it is quite likely that address #55 is nowhere near 54 or 56.  A few much larger or much smaller lots on one side of the street might lead 55 to be across from 15 (which of course could be ½, 1 or even 3 blocks away). One place this was not true was in Dutch towns with a canal on one side of the street.  Obviously there is no building in the canal, so – unless the street on the opposite side of the canal has the same name – these house numbers are indeed exactly sequential on one side of the street … 1, 2, 3 …

All of this means you could be at the very edge of a city and encounter an address number 1 or 2.

Confused?  Well, there’s more. These oddities, and a near blackout of visible street name signs near intersections in many cities at critical intersections, will leave you grateful for your satellite navigation system. Grateful that is, provided it doesn’t direct you to a pedestrian area such as a city square (Platz in Germany, Plein in Netherlands), down a one way street, onto an apparent farm road, or onto a side street that’s two-way, but is only about 10 feet wide with parking on both sides – all of which unfortunately happens unnervingly often.  We also experienced a major construction on a country road with no hope of deciphering an alternate route without also having a very detailed map of the area available.

And the GPS navigation warning finale: SatNat receiver programmed with an English speaking voice (or worse, an actual English accent) will absolutely butcher the pronunciation of many streets and city names, so that you’ll really want a competent co-pilot to help decipher where the heck you are supposed to go.

Back to numbering, this time on the Autobahn system. The exits are also always numbered sequentially.  Exit 25 (or Ausfahrt 25) is the next exit past 24 – or past 26, depending on your direction of travel.  It could be 1, 5 or 30 kilometers away, but the exit number increment is always one.  Americans are spoiled by the numbering (in most states); Exit 200 is one hundred miles from Exit 100.  Easy-peasey.

Is there a new exit added to the Autobahn?  It will be numbered 25A.

One unexpected and very agreeable thing about the Autobahn: pre-programmed detours.  There can be frequent experiences of a Stau, whether due to volume (usually near larger cities), construction or crashes.  That said, the Germans are prepared.  Most exits are marked with a “U” and a number, like U-22.  U stands for Umleitung (Detour): if you leave the Autobahn at that exit and U-number due to a Stau, then you simply follow the pre-arranged detour (U-x) signs through the city or countryside several kilometers down the road to where there is, hopefully, no more Stau.  I think this is very clever.

Bathroom talk. One concluding warning and tidbit on the European bathroom experience regarding the (usually very tiny) one-person shower stall.  They are elevated by several inches and usually sport a significant “lip” that you must step over; the lip is generally 7-8 inches above the main bathroom floor level.  You can imagine how carefully this naked and barefoot exit must be performed when you consider that none of the shower floors we experienced (I think 22 of them) had a significant anti-slip surface and there is no safety handle to secure yourself to.

End on the positive. One more positive part of the European Experience: we didn’t have to follow US politics at all, unless we wanted to.  And what kind of masochist would do THAT?

Probably more travel thoughts to come …

Peace

Joe Girard ©  2016

 

 

[1] Regarding privilege. The greatest privilege you can have is to be well-reared such that you have appreciation for values that include respect for others, the inherent values of hard work and delayed gratification, the beauty of self-respect, patience, grace and fortitude.

[2] Even more unlikely, the “hero”, Bobby Strong, gets killed off midway through Act 2.

Awards, besides multiple nominations.

2002 Tonys: Best Book from a Musical; Best Original Score; Best Musical Direction; and Best Musical Actor.

[3] a good way to improve your “performance” on “holding it” is to practice the Kegel exercise.  http://www.healthline.com/health/kegel-exercises#Overview1

[4] https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2931286/table/T2/

From this report: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2931286/

Autobiographical

Tramp Random Update

So …

6 day Main bicycle tour is complete. Three days sunny; 3 days cool and grey … some rain. About 200 miles.

Cognate of the week: Schleusse. If it makes you think “Sluice” then … good. It’s a lock, as in getting river cargo boats up and down stream.  Lots of them along the Main River.

False cognate of the week: Mainstraße. This is NOT Main Street, which would be Hauptstraße. It’s simply a street named after the River Main (like “Mine”), of which there are many, many when you ride through so many villages, towns and cities along such a major river.

Pleasant surprises: many!  Würtzburg, Aschaffenburg and even Marburg … if you have the gumption to get all the way up the hill, to the Altstadt and even higher, to the castle/palace (Schloss). Also, many more Fachwerk structures and houses than we expected, especially here in Franconia (this region of Hessen).  Really delightful looking structures. Surprisingly sturdy. Many being refurbishec in the old bright colors … not just brown anymore. We’re currently near Münschhausen, and the famous tale-telling baron is nowhete to be found. But man uh Fachwekhäuser.

Also pleasant in the abundanxe of inexpensive fine-tasting wines. It seems the Germans and Austrians hoard all the good stuff for themselves, or those who can venture here.

Good/Bad surprise. Church bells. Every town goes crazy for them Several times we’ve been near two towns separated only by the river — each with at least two churches: one Catholic, one Protestant — and heard the utter caucaphony that occurs at noon. All audible frequencies, with overtones. It goes on for almost 10 full minutes. For some reason the same goes on at 7PM, which is usuallt called 19:00 here; the 24-hr clock is definitely “In”; so military. And practical.

Unfortunately we’ve stayed in several towns at locations quite near similar churches … like right next door … and the same clanging commences at 6 AM. Uggghh.

More good surprises: such helpful people. Almost everywhere people want to help (we seem to often have that “lost” expression … especially when reading German plaques or city maps). One lady in Wertheim gave us an impromptu personal city tour — turns out she writes tour guide information and has pretty good English skills, which she was eager to practice.

Really good surprise: merting and making friends with fellow bime tourists Rich and Bärbell Combs (AKA Cisco & Roadrunner). They did the same route … so bravely on a tandem! Here we are this morning at our farewell, auf wiedersehen, goid-bye at our final resting hotel, then Golden Carp.

Farewell in Aschaffenburg

Farewell in Aschaffenburg

Not many bad surprises. I do need to repeat that hurches seem to have the same bell ringing enthusiasm at 6AM.

Also, the River Main has quite a few tourist river cruise boats. These stop at all the mid-to-large sized towns along the river. Consequently these towns are overrun by Americans every day — from June until now — who have no interest in speaking German, or any sensitivity to German customs. And, understandably, we’ve been mistaken for these “Ugly Americans” when not attired in our cycling clothing, or when not sporting a fanny pack or rucksack. For example, a young lady scolded me yesterday evening at a deli for not being prompt with my order. At least she concluded with (a rather perfunctory) “schönen Abend.”

As an English-speaker who attempts German, I implore anyone trying to do yhe same that you to watch those umlauts. Pronunciation can really befuddle the unaccustomed ear. You won’t get much trouble pronouncing ü as u (in fact, the difference is difficult to hear or create for English speakers). But “ä” vs “a” can really muck up a conversation.  Apfel should sound hardly anything like Äpfel; and trying to get meat that is geräuchert (smoked) and forgetting the umlaut will get a severe and questioning look. Who the frock ARE you?

I’m stll convinced the Germans haven’t done anything good for beer for 500 years — since the Rheinheitsgebot (purity law). But that’s OK, the basic beers they stay with are basically all session beers — you’re there for a while, enjoy company, and “have a few.”

Good beer surprise: The recent creation of the Radler and the Russ.  Best German contribution to beer in 500 years. A brilliant mix of beer, citrus juice and a bit of spritzed water (Radler is with a pils, Russ with a Weiß bier) each provides an exceptionally refreshing adult beverage (or two) for a warm day after (or during) an afternoon bike ride or workout.

Well, until next time, I am the Girardmeister.

BTW: I’m putting near daily updates on Facebook.  Uo to four weeks now.

Tschüß

Joe Girard (c) 2016

 

 

 

Autobiographical, Current Events

JG: The Tramp Abroad – continued

Updates and corrections. (sorry for smaller font; still on mobile device … it’s hard enough with umlauts and ess-tset).

1. Thank you Regina.  Turns out most major stores are closed all over Europe on Sundays; it’s not just a Catholic thing.  Some groceries are open for a few hours, and you can always get a coffee, a beer or a Donner somewhere.

2. Fans, they have issues with fans.  It’s cold and rainy today, so I used a fitness center. No fans. And no water either.  I guess they just expect to be uncomfortable and constipated. How people can live without fans AND without air conditioning will forever be beyond the understanding of most Americans.

3. Met a cool 77-year old from small town of Ringgau, just on west side of former east-west Germany border.  He’s eight years past a stroke, and looking very fit — although his right leg is a bit withered.  Stroke was behind left eye, which he’s lost the use of.  Still, he plays golf, and every day he works out and walks two miles.  He knows virtually no English, so FINALLY my knowledge of this most difficult language paid off a little bit (more on this below). A very friendly fellow.

4. The common generic greeting here in Austria is not “Morgen” (short for good morning), or “Guten Tag”.  It is “Gruß Gott”, a sort of shorted form of May God Bless you.

This IS a Catholic-thing, and I read that if you speak it to a northern German (likely a Protestant) then you’ll get a semi-sarcastic reply of something like “yes, maybe the next time I see him.”

5. Body art.  It’s everywhere just as in the US and Canada. People must be ashamed of their bodies or feel some sort of perverse peer-pressure to take their perfectly beautiful faces and bodies and put hunks of metal through them. And tattoos too.  I haven’t learned the German for “tattoo” yet, but it looks like it’s just tattoo.   I have learned that “tramp stamps” are commonlly referred to as “ass antlers”, but probably only by those who are not in the body-art community.

6. Turns out that I’m wrong, again: Norbert Hoffer has sworn off leaving the EU, but he had entertained the idea earlier — he is an EU skeptic. However, his left/green oppostition has stuck that label on him and his party, so Austrians are stuck with the word Öxit.

7. Now I share with you a wonderful essay on the German language by Mark Twain. Even our good German friend Regina has shared it with me on at least two occassions.  Enjoy.

Mark Twain: The awful German Language

bis bald

Joe Girard (c) 2016

 

 

 

Autobiographical, History

What I Learned on Spring Break, 2016

O Canada,

or: What I did (and learned) on my Spring vacation.

Niagara Falls!?!  Slowly I turned. Step by step.  Inch by inch.

My wife and I, along with two very good friends (Dan and Kristy Weprin) flew in to Buffalo.  We then took 13 days over the end of May to circumnavigate Lake Ontario, counterclockwise.

Niagara - American side, from below

Niagara Falls – American side, from below

Here’s a bit of we did.  And a bit of what we learned.

Niagara Falls is cool.  Very cool.  In fact, while we were there, it was cold.  Frigid even.  It snowed on us (May 15).

Niagara has three (3) A’s in it.  I did not know that.  I always thought it was “Niagra.”  See!?! I’m not perfect.

The Canadian side of the falls is way, way cooler than the US side.  That’s because 90% of the water flow goes over to the Canadian side, over Horseshoe Falls.  If you go, do the really dorky touristy thing and take the Maid in the Mist boat ride.  It takes you right up to the brink of the tremendous waterfall; you get covered in mist, … and sometimes snow.

Also, make the trip up to Niagra-by-the-Lake (Ontario side).  Just lovely and nice micro-brewery in an old Anglican church too.

Socks will wander.

What causes socks to go missing indefinitely? By an unintended experiment, I determined that this mysterious phenomenon has nothing to do with your own house.  It has nothing to do with your own hamper, nor you washer or dryer, nor the gremlins in your house.

May 9 is Lost Sock Memorial Day

May 9 is Lost Sock Memorial Day

Yes, I lost a sock on this trip.  Of course, I have no idea how.  As it has not reappeared, I deduce that this is a problem for socks in general, wherever they may be.

Socks just want to be free.

According to my research conducted to date on this subject, I’ve learned that May 9 is National lost sock Memorial Day. So the problem isn’t me — it’s the socks!! I guess we’re supposed to hang Wind Socks in front of our houses, in place of flags, in a sort of memoriam for all those who have served in sweaty, smelly, confined shoes. And then gone missing.

The Big Ditch. A Really, really big ditch. A 363 mile ditch.

Buffalo embraces its history as the eastern terminus of the Erie Canal, which opened in 1825 and changed the trajectory of North American History.  In the downtown area you’ll find a fun little micro-brewery called “Big Ditch”, which has a fine menu of foods as well as beers.  [Come to think of it: … is there a microbrewery that isn’t “fun”?]

If you don’t like feeling really cold, avoid Buffalo when the temperature is around 40F, the humidity is high, it’s cloudy or dark, and there’s a stiff breeze off the lake.  Must suck to be a Buffalo Bills fan.

Nearby is Lockport, where the westernmost locks on the canal are located.  They have a fun little museum and we were fortunate to see some pleasure craft pass through at the very start of tourist season.

Thousand Islands?  Is that the salad dressing?

At Lake Ontario’s eastern extent she gently drains into the St Lawrence River.  So gently that the transition is marked by a zillion islands of all manner of shapes and sizes.  Some with houses on them; some with castles.  Ok, there aren’t a zillion.  There are 1,864 islands.  Somehow it got the name Thousand Islands. Some are in Canada; the rest in the US.  The river’s main channel is the border.

It’s beautiful.  Do the dorky touristy thing and take the three hour boat tour, with the side trip to Boldt Castle on Heart Island.

Oh yeah…  Apparently the salad dressing does trace its roots to the 1000 Island area.  There are many unverifiable stories on how it originated, but the best bet is that this beautiful area is where it all started.

Canadian Beef is just the Best

Just trust me.  I’m not sure how they do it.  And if you can, get Dan Weprin to grill it for you.  Outside.  At sundown.  Then life is perfect.  We chowed down a lot of fine Canadian grain-fed beef.

Canadians are fat

OK, not to the same extent that folks are fat in the US; but disturbingly, a very large percentage of Canadians are … well … very large.

Muffin tops, jiggly arms, roly-poly bellies, ample behinds … Canadians have it all, and they don’t seem shy to show it off. It might have something to do with all that great beef. Sorry Canada, but we saw it in big cities like Ontario and Toronto, and small towns like Perth, Renfrew , Calabogie, Mamora and even Peterborough (where the world’s tallest hydraulic canal lift is located).  Of course, this is not a scientific study.  Just our observations based on about 10 days in Ontario.

 

Indians are fat, too

A few of the places we visited were typical tourist attractions: Niagara Falls, Thousand Islands, Toronto, even airports.  Here we always crossed paths with many East Indians. I’m talking now about “India Indians”, like from India.

Indians are fat.  And I’m pretty sure it’s not the beef.  Maybe it’s a bit unfair: any Indian wealthy enough to travel from Mumbai to New York and Ontario probably has access to more than a few extra calories.  Still, my previous image of Indians built around old pictures of Mahatma Gandhi is seriously shaken.  I’ll try to say something nice: most of the weight seems confined to the mid-section and buttocks.

It’s not a big deal (sorry for the pun).  It’s just that I’m getting sick of hearing how fat Americans are when I’ve seen the same things in Canadians, Indians, British.  It’s more of a First World Problem.

Speaking of Indians.  The first leg of our flight home was spent with a group of about 40 very enthusiastic and excited Indians … probably part of their dream trip to America.  I was able to discern that they were from Mumbai.  I’ll stop now and just say this: Indians have a very, very different concept of “personal space” than do Americans.

By the way, through our son Aaron we have a friend who an Indian-Canadian.  For the record, he is not fat.

Moving along.

Joe has a body image problem

“But the Lord said to Samuel, Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; because I have rejected him: for the Lord sees not as mortals sees; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” — 1 Samuel 16:7

OK, I admit it.  I practice appearance-ism.  Yes, that’s a real thing.  It’s not that I judge people on that, per se, it’s just that I can’t help myself but to notice it.  Yet, I have an excuse and a reasonable cause: I live in Colorado – probably the healthiest and thinnest population in the US.  The peer pressure here is subtle, yet intense.  Everyone’s always talking about their workout routine, recent bike ride, which 14-er* they’ve climbed or will climb.  There is a subtle persistent pressure here to stay fit and healthy. [*A 14-er is a mountain peak at over 14,000 ft in elevation; Colorado has 57 of them].

I need to get over this.  People get heavy.  They get a tummy.  Everyone is beautiful, created by God in his image.  (oh gosh, did I just say that? Is God really fat? Is God a “he”?  Yes … No … and, probably, No)

Oyez, Oyez, Oyez*: Ontario still has Town Criers

When we travel we prefer to not schedule every day from dawn to dusk.  We like to leave time for serendipity.  You never know what you might find. Plus that way, you don’t feel guilty for sleeping in late, taking a nap or turning in early.  {Those can be serendipitous too. 😉 <sly grin and wink>}

[*- Oyez is pronounced “OH-YAY” – it is apparently the old French imperative for “to listen.”  I guess it’s like “HEAR YE”, or “Listen up, y’all, I got something important for you to know.”]

Competitor at the Ontario Town Crier Championship. Perth, Ontario, 2016.

Competitor at the Ontario Town Crier Championship. Perth, Ontario, 2016.

One day we made a side trip to Perth.  Why?  I guess because we have a son who lives in Perth, Australia.  Perth (Ontario) is named for Perth, Scotland.  Turns out the Brits were eager to have the region settled and developed after the struggles of the War of 1812 – when those nasty Americans were beaten back.  In fact, we learned that Canadians have a very serious (and different) view of that war than we do.

A settled and economically developed area is easier to defend:  Put people in a position to gain and lose something and they’ll fight.  Britain and British Canada were so desperate to settle the area that they even permitted – in fact they recruited – Scots and Irish to settle the area.  That’s how Perth got settled and got its name.

Well it was Victoria Day Weekend. Even though Victoria was a British Queen, and died in 1901, this is a huge 3-day holiday Weekend in Canada.  Who knew?

Over these three days – in addition to fairs and shows and the shops opening for the season now that all of the big-city folks were getting out of Ottawa and Toronto – Perth hosted the Ontario Provincial Town Crier Championship.

Yes, the Town Crier Championship.

We watched much of round two (out of three). While the others in our group lay in the shade, I braved the 30C temps and sunny skies to sit in the front row.  What a gas.  There were other sites to see, coffee shops and micro-breweries to visit, so we moved on when the round was barely half over.

[Learn more about Ontario’s town crier guild here at http://www.towncrier.on.ca/]

Words: some spellings and pronunciations are different.

Part of this I had expected.  My mom, who started her schooling in Alberta, was always proud of the “u” in flavour, colour, and neighbour.

But there is a bit more.  The Business center of a city is the “City Centre.”

The “pro-“ in process rhymes with the “pro-“ in professional.  But the “pro-“ in produce rhymes with the “pro-“ in product.  Or something like that. It could also be like “aw”.

And then there’s “out”; as in about, outside, let’s go out.  It would take a while for a US English speaker to get this one right, but the “OU” in Out is somewhere between “OH” and the “OO” in “food”.

The word “again” is often, although not always, more like “ah – gain” (rhymes with “a- grain”).

When in a restaurant or pub, do NOT ask for the bathroom.  Do you take a bath there?  And don’t ask for the restroom either.  It’s simply the washroom.  I kind of liked that.  I don’t intend to bathe or rest there; just relieve myself and wash up.  It’s a washroom.

If you mess up and ask for the bathroom or rest room, a Canadian will smile and politely say something like: “The *WASHROOM* is just down that hallway, on your left.” And they KNOW you are from “the States.”

In casual conversation, it’s polite to turn a statement into a question with a form of Canadian “up-speak”.  For example, “It’s lovely weather today, eh?” It conveys a sort of coziness and a “it’s nice to be around you, even though you might be a stranger” sort of feeling.

Which reminds me of the old joke on how Canada got its name.  They put all the consonants in a hat and started pulling them out.

“C – eh?

“N – eh?

“D – eh?”

“Sounds good.  C-A-N-A-D-A”

The use of “The”

There is only one future.  Canadians say “in future I will try harder”.  No need for “the.”

When someone is injured and they need hospital care, then “someone is in hospital”.  No need to say “the”, unless you know specifically which hospital, then you may use the definite article. “Joe is in the St Albert Hospital.”

They may over use the letter U, but save by using less of “the”.

Toronto is a big, big city.

Canada is a really, really big country; more than 20% larger in land mass than the lower 48 United States.  Yet it has a population of only about 35 million. The US is pushing 320 million.

The population of the Toronto metro area is over 6 million.  That’s kind of insane.  That would be like if the largest city in the US (New York, New York – so big they had to name it twice) had a metro population of well over 50 million!! JEESH.  All of California only has 38 million.

And Toronto is really, really crowded.  Difficult to get around due to density.  I don’t need to go there again.

Airports in Canada

I once wrote an essay about O’Hare Airport in Chicago, saying it was one of the very few airports that had an IATA* code wherein none of the letters reflected either the name of the city it served, or the name of the airport. [https://girardmeister.com/2015/03/14/ord/]
– [*IATA: International Air Transport Association].

Well now I know of another one.  Toronto’s main international airport, Pearson International, goes by YYZ.

Turns out codes for Canada’s airports have a curious history, connected to radio, telegraph and weather station history.

Almost all Canadian airports start with “Y”, and the history is as quirky as it is Canadian.

Weather is important in Canada.  It can be violent, swiftly changing and also life changing.  As communication improved (first telegraph, then radio), weather stations were attached to each telegraph, then radio transmit/receive station.  These generally had two letters.

When airports came along, they tacked on the weather identification.  If a weather station had an airport, it got a “Y” in front (for Yes); if there was no airport, it got a “W” (for Without). “X” and “Z” came along for places that are rail stations, marine stations, or where confusion with a US airport could occur. Seems to me the opposite of YES (Y) should be (N); oh, those Canadians.

The original commercial airport in Toronto, Billy Bishop Field, is on an island out in the harbor, oops, harbour.  It’s IATA identifier is YTZ.  So the middle “T” is for Toronto; the “T” for Toronto was taken.

Pearson International is named after former Prime Minister, Lester Pearson, who’s also the winner of the 1957 Nobel Peace Prize.  It is the very large international airport that most Toronto commercial passengers and cargo pass through – which is actually in the municipality of Mississauga, a “small” Toronto suburb of about 725,000.

Pearson got the designation YYZ. Turns out that “YZ” is the old Morse station code for the town of Malton, which is now incorporated within Mississauga, and where Pearson Field is located.  In fact, Pearson Field was originally known as Malton Airport, from its opening in 1939.

When Malton Airport arrived, it simply became a telegraph/weather station with “Why, YES, [“Y”] it does now have an airfield”, so another Y was just attached to the front of pre-existing “YZ”. It became YYZ, which Pearson simply inherited for simplicity. I have no idea how – and cannot find out why – the YZ somehow stood for Malton.

Must make sense to someone. I hope it’s a little less confusing for you now.

The Canadian Healthcare system is not all Rainbows, Lollipops and Unicorns

Sorry to dump this disappointment on you.  While on vacation I was in steady communication with my cousin who lives in Edmonton.  He suffered an aggravated assault in mid-March and has been trying to get treated for some very serious shoulder injuries.

In talking to other Canadians and locals, I’ll say this. First, if you have basic needs like stitches, a physical, a bad cold or flu, a sprain, a strain, then you can get great treatment almost right away.  Second, for non-serious and non-basic needs, you will definitely get the care you need if you can wait for your deviated septum repair or knee-replacement for several months, or years.  But, thirdly, if you have serious needs that require medical attention right away, well – good luck unless you are rich, are a famous hockey player, or are in parliament.

My cousin waited over 10 weeks for the MRI that confirmed his injuries.  Ten days later the surgeon said “good luck, get PT*” and never asked for a follow-up visit. [* PT = Physical therapy, which Canadians prefer to call Physio Therapy]

Seven weeks after that his special-needs PT finally began.

Subsequently he has incurred new damage, largely due to the slow diagnosis and treatment.

Still, it’s a great country. They are our faithful, peaceful and mostly civilized neighbours to our north. In fact, I’ve been back since and will likely visit often in future …

I wish you peace and hope you have a safe rest of your summer.

Joe Girard © 2016

 

 

Various sites chime in on IATA codes in Canada, eh?

 

 

Autobiographical, Science & Technology

Chaos, Entropy, and Stuff

Got Milk?

 

Through the 1990s I was frequently told that I looked like Cal Ripkin, Jr, the Baltimore Orioles super ironman who was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2007.  In fact, from California, to Florida – to even Scotland – I’ve been mistaken for Cal. As a matter of fact I was asked for my autograph so many times it got embarrassing. I was addressed as “Mr Ripkin” more times than I could count.

I was always kind and patient, asking folks where they are from, how old are their kids, etc.; I then explained I’m not Cal: he’s 6 foot-4 inches tall and I’m stretching to get over 5-10.  Sometimes they insisted on an autograph.  I declined, saying I’d be happy, however, to sign my own name.

In fact, it’s the other way around: Cal Ripkin Jr looks like me, since I’m a few years older.

Pic1-Cal-GotMilk

Cal Ripkin, Jr — 1998 “Got Milk?” promotional advert

The frequency of this sheepish embarrassment seemed to hit its peak around the time this “Got Milk?” advertisement came out.  But with that “milk-stache”, we shouldn’t look alike at all. Or would we?

Ripkin is probably most noted for defying age and setting a baseball record that will likely never be broken.  He played in over 2,600 consecutive games.  That’s over 16 years. Almost all of the games were played at shortstop, the most physically demanding position in baseball, besides catcher.

This achievement stands as not just one of sports’ most remarkable of all time, but it is outstanding for its long-running defiance of the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics.

This Law is Nature’s way of saying: “You can’t win, and you can’t break even.  In the end, I win.”  As time progresses there will always be more net chaos and disorder than there is order.  In the big picture, eventually, the entire universe will be totally without structure or order of any recognizable form.

To explain this, I’ll start with the more familiar 1st Law of Thermodynamics: Energy can be  neither created nor destroyed.  It can only change form. [1]  

For example, the solar panels on my roof do not “create energy”; they merely change solar energy into electrical energy.  In a very short period of time, nearly all of this energy is converted to heat energy (mostly via friction and electrical resistance); this heat energy then slowly diffuses out to the universe.

This leads to the essence of the 2nd Law.  Energy and order are inevitable losers; energy is lost (to unusable forms) and order becomes chaos.

The highly ordered and structured energy of the sun is irreversibly “lost” (but not destroyed) to a very unordered and unstructured heating of the universe.

In fact, it’s even worse than that.  A great deal of energy is “consumed” (i.e. changed from one form to other less useful forms) in order to mine, refine, and manufacture the many common and obscure elements required for the solar panels to do their job.  Each and every time energy changes its form, part of the process contains a fraction of energy transfer that is irreversible; hence from ordered to disordered energy … and the universe takes another tiny step toward ultimate chaos and disorder.

This is the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics. Every time energy that is converted from one form to another, the net disorder (referred to as “Entropy”) in the universe must increase.

As humans we observe this most through the process of aging.  The order and structure in our bodies and in our lives breaks down as time progresses.  It is a fundamental truth that as energy is transformed over any period of time, the net disorder must increase.  Or: We fall apart.

We consume food (energy stored in chemical bonds) and convert it to kinetic energy to move our limbs, to pump blood, to breathe.  As we do so, most or all of the kinetic energy is converted to heat … which leaks away.  The ordered energy (chemical bonds in plant and meat molecules) is converted to disordered energy (heat), which leaks away.

In our lives we’ve observed organizations that micro-manage their projects and personnel. This never ends well, and, even when the project turns out well, the lives of the individuals on the team are heavily disrupted. Chaos wins.  Disorder wins.  Entropy wins.

Eventually, Cal’s streak came to an end. [As is Venezuela’s centrally controlled economy]. Entropy defeats everything.

Personally, as I approach age 60, my streak of living in a high maintenance house is coming to an end.  The energy and time I expend to maintain the house is not worth the degradation on my mind and body. I call this “entropy management.”

So it’s time to simplify, downsize, and sell the house.  In fact, we had an Open House this past Saturday.

Pic2-Prickly-Pear

Prickly Pear in bloom at the Girard Hacienda

A few days before the Open House, as I was policing the yard, looking for anything out of order (like the odd weed), I was distracted by the gorgeous patch of prickly pear cactus that had burst into bloom in a xeriscape area alongside our driveway … just in time to boost our house’s curb appeal.  Yay nature!

The blossoms reminded me of my lifelong struggle with allergies.  Pollens and molds are my worst allergy enemies, but I have reactions to all sorts of things.  This year, so far, my allergy symptoms have been unusually mild, especially considering that we’ve had a wet spring.  Mostly I just get itchy eyes, and that’s usually in the mornings. (In defiance of allergies, we often sleep with windows open).

Oh, those lovely prickly pear cacti.  Bees buzzed and flitted about the blossoms.  I could see, with gleeful expectation, that in a few days, dozens more buds would bloom. The bees would be happy.  Possible house buyers would be happy.  I would be even happier.

Then I detected a minor flaw in the picture.  Some grass had somehow sprouted up and dared to take root among the cacti; the blades were climbing high to seek the sun, which exposed them to my ever-observant eye.  Somewhere deep inside my ADD riddled brain – deep in that part of my heart that dared to take on entropy and its brutal law – I decided to remove those blades of grass.

The cactus needles (or spikes) were plain enough to see.  Surely I could avoid them. Even without gloves. I’m such a daredevil.

Carefully I reached along the ears of several cacti, and – clear of the spikes – I clutched and tugged at all the grass, freeing even their roots.  Success!! I looked at the cactus patch with pride: it was pristine.

It took about 10 seconds to realize something was wrong.  I looked closely at my left hand, which I’d used to pull out the grass.  Nothing.

I looked closer.  Closer.  Closer.

There!  I saw them. Dozens. No! Hundreds of the tiniest little stingers you can imagine.  Where they were clumped together I could see them best, although not easily.

Now it’s time for a new science lesson. A lesson with unpleasant and severe consequences and as undeniable as the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics that I have learned since this little grass-and-cactus adventure. A few cacti, and all dozen or so of the Prickly Pear type in the Opuntia genus, have a second and much more insidious type of needle.  The evil glochid. This picture accompanies an article by Steve Schwarzman on the topic, which informs….

Look at all those tiny glochids

Look at all those tiny glochids

 

“Just about everyone is aware that many cacti protect themselves with long, sharp spines. That’s true of the prickly pear… the lower portions of its large spines can turn yellowish or even reddish-orange, as shown here. Less well known, and much more insidious, are the short and very slender spines that you see surrounding the base of the large ones. Known as glochids, these tiny spines pull out of the cactus very easily, find their way into your skin just as easily, and don’t come out of that invaded skin at all easily. Once glochided, twice shy, we might say, if we’re willing to customize—cactusize—a familiar proverb.” [2]  

And, according to gardeningknowhow.com …

“Cactus glochids are not a feature with which to fool. Glochids in skin are irritating, difficult to remove and stay in for a long time.

“Glochids occur in tufts, often around a main spine. They … have backwards pulling barbs that resist removal. Glochid spines dislodge with even the gentlest touch. They are so fine and tiny that removal is almost impossible. You can barely see them but you can sure feel glochids in skin.” [3]  

At the time I realized the fingers on my left hand itched like hell … well, I had no idea of any of this. Glochids!!! Who knew?? Not me, even after 32 years in the arid west.

I could pull out a few that I could see which were clumped together.  But there were others scattered all over my hand.

I’m sure I appeared quite the fool to anyone watching.  Just standing there in my front yard … What a fool, staring at his hand and trying to pick out immovable and invisible nits. That was nothing (in the way of appearing foolish) compared to what was to come.

Finally, in desperation, I instinctively resorted to suction.  I put a sore finger spot to my mouth and sucked as hard as I could.

Well, … I wasn’t really thinking, was I?  Now I had another problem.  My lip hurt almost the same as my fingers.  “What!?!” you say. It’s spelled D-U-M-B-A-S-S.

As I walked briskly into the house I thought of something I’d heard once.  Sticky things work. Put tape on your fingers and rip it off.  Or cover your hand with cheap white school glue (think Elmer’s ® Glue).  Let it cure and peel it off.

Fortunately my wife keeps our house pretty well organized. After all these years I still have to ask her where many things are stored, even in our well organized house.  She wasn’t around, but – again fortunately – I knew where the tape and adhesives were stored.

It takes time for the glue to set, so I went to the tape shelves first.

Repeatedly I wrapped my fingers and hand in clear packing tape.  And ripped it off. Over and over again. Then I put the tape up against my mouth.  Then I ripped it all off.

After several such iterations I realized the tape was not going to work.

Over to the glue cabinet.  I found the bottle of cheap generic white school glue.

I twisted the lid and tried to squeeze out enough to cover my hand.  But the glue was old and the tip was clogged with old, hard, cured glue. Should I delay and fetch a toothpick or fork tine to poke out the old glue? No! The time to act is now.

So I just unscrewed the whole lid and started dumping white glue on my hand.  It smelled just like I remembered from – what? – 6th grade?

Before the glue could set, it started to run onto the kitchen counter.  How long would this take?

Oh crap! My lip.  Ouch.

OK, for this next 5-minute stretch I did in fact look like Cal Ripkin, Jr in the “Got Milk” poster.  Yes, I poured white school glue onto my lower lip.

I had enough dignity remaining to NOT look in the mirror to see how I looked (super goofy, no doubt) … or take a selfie … but the image from the closing scene of the movie short with Gene Wilder in “What is Sodomy” from Woody Allen’s movie medley “Everything You wanted to know about Sex* (but were afraid to ask)” came to mind. [4]  

Used wads of tape on the counter.  School glue on my hand and drooling from my mouth. Perfect. That’s when my wife came unannounced in through the door.  I don’t think she noticed the glue (not Woolite ®) on my lip, but she could tell immediately I was up to something.  My body language of “shame on me; oh woe is me” justified a reasonable assumption of guilt.  Experience is usually a pretty good teacher.  Especially a bad experience. I’ve found it best to just confess everything.

About 10 minutes later I’m peeling the glue off my hand and lip.  That worked for about 80% of the little devils.

Upon Dr Wife’s suggestion, I then soaked my hand and lip for about another 10 minutes in hot soapy water and, thereafter, I almost felt normal.

The rest of the evening was annoying but tolerable. Several itchy spots on my left hand, mostly on my fingers, which could suddenly hurt intensely when touched the wrong way. Close inspection of most spots revealed … nothing. Plus a blotchy red spot on my lower lip.

I resolved to let nature take its course.  I resolved to simply live with it until it passed, which in all likelihood, it eventually would. Let it be a lesson Joe; suffer the consequences. This bad experience will be a good teacher.

After a lovely night’s sleep I awoke refreshed.  Upon rising, as usual, the first things I noticed were (1) the ringing in my ears, (2) the stiffness in my shoulders and knee, (3) a mild headache, and (4) a great joy to be alive – almost all of these attributable to the consequences of the car crash, now over two years ago.

Then I noticed that my allergies had again manifested in itchy eyes.  Instinctively I reached up to give them a “good morning” greeting with a gentle rub.

Oh Good Lord. I could feel those little bastard glochid needles touch my eyes.  Didn’t I just say that experience is a teacher?

I blinked and then flushed my eyes.  Whew. No harm done.  Just a scare.

By the end of the next day I was free of those despicable and invisible glochids. I was lucky.  Those bastards can cause all kinds of problems – even progressing to death – if you are stupid enough to take them lightly. And especially if you did what I did and ingest them, or touch your face, eyes, etc.[5]  

So here are some takeaways:

  • After your cactus encounter: never, ever put your hands anywhere near your face.

  • Putting tape and glue all over your fingers and lips might be cool in middle school, but not when you’re standing there, looking guilty in the kitchen, and your wife suddenly walks in the door

  • Yes, cheap white school glue smells and tastes just like it did when you were young.

  • If you want to look cool like Cal Ripkin, Jr, pouring white school glue on your lips is probably not the way.

  • Chaos wins. Entropy wins. By trying to enforce a bit more order in our xeriscape garden I released a dam’s gate through which there poured a Pandora’s Box world of disorder.

    Corollary: – It’s okay to accept a little disorder in life.  It’s not without some good reason that it’s said “A neat desk is a sign of a sick mind.”

 

With that, I wish you all an acceptable and tolerable level of chaos and disorder.  Because, believe me and thermodynamics, they will be with you always.

 

Peace and be careful out there.

 

Joe Girard © 2016

 

 

Afterward: By the way the cholla cactus (also called the “jumping cholla”) has a similar dastardly secondary needle, although in the US these are usually only found in the harsher deserts of Arizona and California).

The dangerous Southwest Cholla

The dangerous Southwest Cholla

 

At right: Jumpin’ Cholla

 

 

 

 

Footnotes:

 

[1] With thanks to Albert Einstein, for noting that matter is, effectively, energy.

[2] https://portraitsofwildflowers.wordpress.com/2012/02/09/a-soft-view-of-a-sharp-subject/     by Steve Schwartzman

[3] http://www.gardeningknowhow.com/ornamental/cacti-succulents/scgen/what-are-glochids.htm

[4] Explanation of the Gene Wilder reference.  The 1972 Woody Allen movie “Everything you wanted to know about sex* (but were afraid to ask)” is a collection of movie shorts, each maybe 5-10 minutes long.  In “What is Sodomy”, Gene Wilder plays a psychiatrist who falls in love with a sheep. He is discovered, loses everything and appears in the final scene as a homeless person, disheveled and holding onto a bottle of Woolite®, the contents of which appear to be dribbling out of his mouth.

[5] Short essay by Chris Clark for Social Wanderer.  Dangers of and removing cactus needles. https://www.kcet.org/socal-wanderer/how-to-remove-cactus-spines-from-your-perforated-body

 

 

 

Autobiographical, Guest Essay, History

From Roly to Phones

Life of Roly and other weird stuff

 

Happy Friday the 13th. I was wandering around my yard in Erie, Colorado early this morning (garbage day!) and found several of these delightful little creatures.  What do you call them?

Three yoga poses of a Roly Poly

Three yoga poses of a Roly Poly

As a kid, growing up in Wisconsin, we usually called them “Roly Polies”; which is the plural of “Roly Poly” I suppose. Sometimes we called them “Potato Bugs.” I don’t know way. We would tease and taunt them, so they’d curl themselves up into little balls; then we’d wait until they ventured to “come out” and then scare them into little balls again.  Kids are mean. It’s a universal rule, … no?

Now I learn that many folks call them “Pill bugs.”

But they’re not “bugs” at all.  At least they are not insects.  Nor arachnids (i.e. spiders and the like).

Pill bugs are actually, amazingly (!), crustaceans, more closely related to crabs, lobsters and shrimp than beetles, worms or spiders.

Marty Robbins (who wrote and recorded “Out in the West Texas Town of El Paso” … one of my favorites) recorded a cute little song called “Roly Poly” in 1946, … seventy years ago.  Although it sounds like it was about something other than our terrestrial crustacean pals.

Well, my wandering mind. That odd fact got me to thinking about some of the trees in the yard this fine morning.  Got me to thinking about those that are green all year long and commonly all referred to as “Pine Trees”.

Well, they are all related (Coniferous), but they are not all “pine trees”; to be a pine tree it must have more than one needle attached to their branch at any one location where any needles appear.  The most common around here, the Austrian Pine (no, not Australian) – more correctly called a Black Pine (pinus nigra)– has two needles per bundle.  A little higher up in elevation we get a lot more of the rugged Ponderosa pine; those bundles can be either two or three, but most trees have more “threes” bundles than “twos.”

Trees with single needles are not pines; they are either spruces or firs.  A flat two-sided needle indicates a fir.  More frequently found around here are spruces.  The single spruce needle has four sides.  The easiest way to tell a fir from a spruce is to pluck a needle and try and roll it between your fingers; the four-sided spruce needle rolls easily; the flat fir needle, not so easily.

An exception is the lovely larch tree, which we don’t see much around here.  These sweeties have 20 to 50(!) needles per bundle.  So you’d think they are pines. But they are generally deciduous; the needles turn yellow and most of them fall off during the winter. So they aren’t even pines, claiming their own genus, Larix (or Larch).

 

Moving to one final Kingdom (crustateans = animal kingdom; conifers = plant kingdom; best I know there are 5 or 6, but I can’t name them) we come to what I call “The Magic Kingdom”; or the kingdom of fungi. Yes, the ugly, but often loveable, fungus.

I call it Magic Kingdom because of its mind-boggling diversity and for what its members do: which is a lot of the very cool (and dirty) work in this world.

Among these tasks is a very special assignment for yeast.  At least I think it’s important. Yeast can transform carbohydrates and water into carbon dioxide – and ethanol.  It works this magic on everything from grape juice, apple juice to a brewed concoction of malted barley – turning them into wine, hard cider and beer.  Let us give thanks for the Magic Kingdom!

Finally, returning to 70 years ago (in fact 70 years ago today!) I’ll share this very short guest essay from John Sarkis, whose work I’ve shared before.  [John is a retired St Louis native, who regularly posts interesting St Louis-area history blurbs on the FaceBook page “St Louis Missouri, History, Landmarks and Vintage photos.” He’s given me permission to re-post his material].

 

__________________________________________________________

May 13, 1946 – 70 years ago today, Southwestern Bell announced that the Federal Communication Commission (FCC) had granted them a license for radio-telephone service, which would enable those in St Louis to be the first in the nation to make and receive phone calls in their car.

1946 -- First Mobile Car Phone support equipment

1946 — First Mobile Car Phone support equipment

Covering a 75-mile radius of downtown, calls to an auto had to be placed through a mobile operator at 2654 Locust. This was transferred over normal telephone lines to the office at 1010 Pine, where the call went out over VHF radio from the 250-Watt transmitter on the building’s roof.

Service cost $15 a month, after a $25 installation fee. There was an additional charge per call, depending on time and distance.

As seen in this photo, necessary equipment took much of the trunk space.

(Thanks John!)

[Editor Joe: I think the range was very optimistic.  Still, even at 10-20 miles, Not bad]

See you all in June.  Ciao

 

Peace,

 

Joe Girard © 2016

Current Events, Politics

Decision 2016: Not Lard Dump

 

Not Lard Dump

 “He (Donald Trump) is a good and honest man.”
– Larry Arnn (President of Hillsdale College)

“… I will never look at that fleshy pile of vanity, crudity, and deceit and say: ‘There’s a good and honest man.’  ”
– Jonah Goldberg (senior editor of National Review)

Fairly regular readers will note that I’ve pretty much avoided politics for quite some time.  I’ve ventured slightly into that area occasionally; for instance last month I risked a brief walk into the mine field, touching on the issue known as “Citizens United”.  [We are all citizens, not united]

Discussing politics turns people off; drives readers away.  So I only dabble in that arena.   And then Donald Trump happened.

I was searching for the right words to describe The Donald. I had an overly long list going: boorish, crass, braggart, childish.  He’s … he’s … and then I came across an essay by Jonah Goldberg with the words in the header.  [Jonah Goldberg will not “come around” to supporting Trump]

“Fleshy pile of vanity, crudity and deceit.” Concise, descriptive and complete.  That’s why Goldberg is the professional writer, and I am not.

I have no horse in this race.  I could go off on Clinton, Sanders or Cruz ad nauseum with facts – chapter and verse – to justify my loathing.

Yet, I’m aware that each of these candidates has loyal followers who are decent people; who can rationalize their support.  Yes, the rationale ranges from shallow and simple to deep and profound.  In fact, a good reason to support any one of them is that they are not the other three. I generally don’t criticize other citizens for whom or for what they support; but I feel completely authorized to analyze and criticize candidates, parties and issue positions.

This one is for Donald Trump.  Sure he’s smart.  He’s rich. He’s slick and irreverent. To some extent I “get” the support for him (which I see as rather similar to Sanders’ support): people are angry.  But, as Goldberg writes: “Let me ask you something: How many times have you been justifiably angry in your own life yet still let your anger lead you to a bad decision?”

And it is, indeed, justifiable anger.  The “system” has not worked.  Blue collar jobs are waning.  Average is synonymous with mean. And average wages are mean: adjusted for inflation mean wages have decreased for the middle class (and below) over the last 25 years. Virtually all of the Fed’s Quantitative Easing money has ended up with the 1%, with the banks and financing mergers.  Banks are bigger than ever.

And there’s confusion, and frustration, and complexity. The world is complex.  The economy is complex.  There’s creeping evil and chaos in the world.  Trump (and Sanders) offers catchy slogans for responses (although few valid solutions). For Trump: Let’s Win!  I’m smart and rich; trust me!

Looking at the larger world milieu, we can see that Trump is not unique. In a world context, the “right wing xenophobic reactionary anger” that Trump seems to represent is on the rampage, like Rommel racing across the open fields of France.  In Germany and Austria the xenophobic “Alternativ” parties are very vocal (AfD and AfÖ). In Great Britain, it’s the anti-immigration Euro-skeptic UKIP. In France, it’s the National Front (FN).  Netherlands? Geert Wilders leads the xenophobic nationalistic Party for Freedom (PVV).

Not to be outdone, such parties have not just come to prominence; they’re running the country in Poland and Hungary. And more: populist right wing xenophobic parties are running countries from Finland to Macedonia, from Switzerland to Norway, from Estonia to Norway.

So, Trump and the US are not unique here.  Accepting that Trump is rich and smart, and accepting that he is a clever media-playing populist, let’s go just a bit deeper.

Going a bit deeper we find, as Gertrude Stein famously said: “There is no there there.”

Insofar as intellectual depth, intellectual breadth and even intellectual curiosity are concerned – I submit that Trump is a lightweight.  A self-loving, bombastic, emotional simpleton.

I submit three examples.

__________________________________

  1. I’ve watched a majority of the debates and town halls. [Yes I have a disease.]

In a recent CNN Town Hall Trump was asked: what are the 3 most important duties of the federal government?

This is a classic “softball question.” It is the sort of question that any thoughtful person – and especially a candidate for any national office (let alone President) – will always have a ready answer for.

Here’s what happened. Via my paraphrasing Trump said “the most important thing the government can do is protect its citizens.  So security is number 1.  It’s so important, that the top three duties are security, security and security.”

Good start. Security. Then … completely feeble.

Anderson Cooper tried to help him.  “Is there anything else the government should do?”

Trump: “Well there’s Health Care and Education, and you go on from there….”

You go on from there?  Is he a statist?  At this point, Trump has clearly knotted the noose, tied it to a branch, climbed up on a stool, and stuck his neck into the loop – at least to any thinking Republican voter.

Cooper tried to help him again.  “So you’re saying that the Federal government should be more involved in Health Care and education?”

Trump then kicked the stool over: Yes.  What’s being done now isn’t right.  We can do better. Security, Health Care and Education.”

For the next 30 minutes Trump continued to display ignorance and lack of thought. He pouted and smiled.  He has more facial expressions than Jackie Gleason. And more one liners than Henny Youngman.  He swayed gently in the breeze, hanging from the tree.

As a populist Republican, Trump could have said something like:

“Every nation must protect itself and its interests.  Every citizen of every country has a reasonable expectation of safety to be provided by their government. So priority #1 is security.  It’s the only ethical and common reason for any government to exist since the beginning of time.

“Moving on we have to consider what makes us unique as Americans.  So #2 you have the defense of individual rights.  We can start with the enumerated rights of the Constitution’s Amendments, especially the Bill of Rights: freedom to assemble, freedom to worship, speak, … and legal rights like fair legal processes.  And, for #2, we expand to rights that we’ve come to expect that are not in the amendments.  We have a reasonable expectation of privacy, to travel, to conduct commerce,  … Because really, this is a beautiful country.  I love this country.  And it’s often called a free country. The 9th Amendment basically states that rights of people not listed in the Constitution are still rights. So #2, we protect the citizens’ rights from government.

“And now #3, which is consistent with the spirit of American expression.  Government must do all that is practicable to ensure a level playing field.  All individuals have gifts, skills and intellect; and it’s in our DNA to desire to grow these, to use these, to contribute these gifts to the greater good of society, the good of ourselves , the good of our family, and for our posterity.  If a bright hard working young man in Detroit can’t have a reasonable path to individual actualization – similar to a young lady, say, from Beverly Hills – then we are all being cheated.  That young man is worse off.  Detroit is worse off. America is worse off.  We are all worse off when all of us – in all of our diversity – do not have as level a field as possible to aspire, grow, contribute.

“So the top 3 responsibilities – and not by any means all government responsibility – are security,  rights and a level playing field.”

FAIL

_______________________________________

  1. Trump recently fielded a hypothetical question from MSNBC’s Chris Matthews about abortion (Matthews is hard left and always eager to trap any Republican). It is mind-boggling that any candidate – especially a Republican candidate for national office – would not be well-coached and well-prepared for such a question.

    The paraphrased question was: If abortion becomes illegal, should the woman be punished?

Trump’s simplistic answer (which he made several attempts to walk back later): Yes. You need to have some punishment.

Matthews actually tried to help him!  What punishment?  10 cents?  10 years?

To which Trump had no answer other than: I don’t know.  It’s complicated.

Really? Complicated?  This was such an easy trap to avoid. If he gets the party nomination, this video will haunt every Republican candidate come November.

Let’s start with Trump’s own words and try a better response.

“Abortion is complicated.  It’s because life is complicated.  Look, reproductively speaking, it’s unfair that woman carry the burden – literally – of carrying a baby to term.  Of giving birth.  And since life is complicated, pregnancy is complicated.  I’m sensitive to the myriad stressful and inconvenient circumstances that could lead a woman to consider abortion. Really, I am sensitive.  I’m sympathetic. My heart goes out to them.

“Look, this is a hypothetical question.  Right now the law of the land has been established by Roe v. Wade.  And that says woman have the right to confront life’s complications armed with the option of abortion.  As president I will enforce the law of the land.

“If and when abortion becomes illegal, I would never push for any punishment for the woman who’s made that choice.  In many cases, most cases I’ve been told, she will likely carry a psychological burden for years, if not the rest of her life.  That’s punishment enough.

“Do I like abortion?  No.  It is a violent option.  It ends a beating heart.  That’s why I support so many wonderful organizations – not Planned Parenthood – organizations that help women struggling with problem pregnancies. They’re encouraged to carry the baby to birth.  We give them financial and health resources.  Sometimes they abort; mostly the don’t. They baby is adopted – there are so many loving couples who’d love to adopt. Sometimes she keeps the baby to raise as her own.  We provide more financial and health resources so that the child can grow up in a healthy and loving environment.

“Chris, there are no easy answers.  We do what we can.  Even though I said I’d enforce the law as chief executive, I’d never enforce punishment on a woman who decided that abortion was the right option for her unique situation.”

_____________________________________

  1. Number 3 is a bit shorter. In a recent interview with the Washington Post’s Bob Woodward (of Watergate fame), Trump predicted that we’d soon have a major economic meltdown.  The system is screwed up.  Fair enough.

But he went on to say that if he’s elected president, the federal debt of $19 Trillion (a truly mind-boggling amount) would be eliminated in 8 years.   HA!

In the shadow of disaster he’s going to eliminate a debt that took almost 90 years to amass? [Here, I’m dating back to the dawn of the Great Depression].

When pressed how he’d eliminate the massive debt (let alone the annual deficit, which is currently running at one-half trillion dollars per year, and projected to run at least that high through 2020) Trump said simply that he would re-negotiate all of our trade agreements.  Citing an annual balance of payment trade deficit with China of about $500 Billion, Trump offered no other explanation, except “I’m a great negotiator.”

[Actually our entire worldwide trade deficit is about $500 Billion [1]; our deficit with China is about $360B [2]]

Evidently Trump seems to think that if the trade imbalance were removed – trade that occurs between corporations and individuals and has little to do with the government  – all of that money would somehow end up in the federal treasury.  And that wouldn’t even extinguish the annual deficit, let alone the Everest-sized total debt.

And how in the world could this be achieved in an atmosphere of imminent financial doom?

Trump may be a genius in real estate, media manipulation, reality TV, getting people riled up, and bankruptcy law.  But he is not intellectual or thoughtful or careful enough to be allowed anywhere near the Oval Office and the Executive reigns of power.

The more he talks, the stupider he sounds.  Keep talking.

Joe Girard © 2016

Note: the subtitle “Not Lard Dump” is an anagram of “Donald Trump”. Of the many options, I did not use “Damn Turd Pol” or “Dump Lord Ant.”

 

[1] https://www.census.gov/foreign-trade/statistics/historical/gands.pdf

[2] https://www.census.gov/foreign-trade/balance/c5700.html

 

 

 

 

Current Events, History, Politics

We are all Citizens, but not United

Author’s note: 3/13/2016 — On the occasion of my first visit to Barr Lake State Park, Colorado

We are an organization dedicated to restoring our government to citizens’ control.
Through a combination of education, advocacy, and grass roots organization, we seek to reassert the traditional American values of limited government, individual freedom including freedom of enterprise, and national security.
Our goal is to restore the founding fathers’ vision of a free nation, guided by the honesty, common sense, and good will of its citizens. [1]

There are very, very few natural lakes in Colorado, outside of the mountain area. Probably zero. Grand Lake, from which the Colorado River flows, on the western extreme of Rocky Mountain National Park, is the only significantly sized lake in Colorado, but it is in a pretty mountainous area. Fact is: most of Colorado – particularly east of the Rockies – is parched most of the year. Hence: no lakes.

This was a problem for 19th and early 20th century farmers. Creeks and shallow draws would fill with water during spring and early summer snow-melt run-off, only to go mostly dry for most of the rest of the year. Farmers united to form cooperatives and local water management corporations to manage water so that food could be produced for Colorado’s rapidly growing population. And for its growing economy.

Even a mildly casual observer of eastern Colorado’s terrain notices that it is crisscrossed with ditches and pock-marked with man-made lakes. These provide water – with senior and junior water rights – via Western water law. Such laws can appear as twisted as the ditches and canals that were developed along with them.

One of the water gems in the Denver area is Barr Lake. Originally a buffalo wallow [2] near current Brighton and Lochbouie, it was a low draw that gathered water in the spring and early summer, allowing grasses to grow and attracting animals like the bison, rabbits, coyote and hawks. The location gained interest as a potential reservoir when the Burlington & Quincy railroad came through in the early 1880s (a well-used Burlington-Northern line still passes by there).

Over the decades a ditch was dug which drew water from the South Platte River to this low-lying area. The ditch was enhanced and — for a while — others added. A dam was added, and  large reservoirs were built that provided a huge number of benefits. Eventually the reservoirs were joined into a single large water management body of water: Barr Lake.  But the bottom line was it provided a steady supply of water. Water for farmers – at first mostly sugar beet farmers: at the time referred to as white gold. Water for native trees like Cottonwoods to grow. Water attracted waterfowl. Fish came. Eagles, osprey, even seagulls. It became an end-point and a stop-over for migrating birds. A gem.

Since the early 1900s the Barr and Milton Reservoirs have been owned and managed by the Farmers Reservoir and Irrigation Company (FRICO). FRICO was incorporated in Colorado in 1902, as a corporation with the mission of protecting the water quality, and steadying the quantity, of water available for agriculture in and on the front range of Colorado. This is the beginning of how many of the Farm-to-Table and fresh Farmer’s Markets products get to our tummies every week, every day. Agriculture is a multi-billion dollar industry in Colorado. It provides food, and jobs. Barr Lake is central to that.

FRICO manages Barr Lake in coordination with the State of Colorado’s Wildlife and State Park departments. Eagles nest and winter there. Osprey spend their summers there. It is host to an education center and a raptor center. It is the locale of some of the best birding in Colorado. Barr Lake is central to the wonderful wildlife of Colorado’s front range prairies.

Birding at Barr Lake, Brighton, Colorado

Birding at Barr Lake, Brighton, Colorado

Now, I want you to imagine a situation wherein a legislator or executive of the state of Colorado (or the Federal Government) wished to do something to harm the interests of the farmers, nature enthusiasts, and birders of Colorado. Perhaps they wish to allow a little more industrial effluent into the canals that feed the lake. Perhaps lay state’s claim to the water for some use they deem could help raise more tax dollars; like more suburbs.

Would we allow FRICO to speak in defense of the lake? If the politician had a shady past and questionable judgment, would we allow FRICO to allege that the politician had ulterior motives … that they didn’t hold the best interests of our citizens in high priority? Would we allow them to produce a documentary movie?

Hold that thought.

I live in the town of Erie, which is an incorporated Town in the state of Colorado. Naturally, it has a Chamber of Commerce, which is an incorporated corporation in the state of Colorado with the mission to promote the community; to promote its economics, businesses, environment and culture.

Imagine a situation wherein the state has legislators, or candidates for office, who wish to impose their own visions on Erie. More fracking, less fracking. Taking 10% of our water rights for state needs. Revoking access to commercial areas. Limiting annexation possibilities.

Would we allow the Chamber of Commerce to speak in defense of the interests of Erie?

To point out where said politicians had demonstrated poor judgment in the past? To produce and market a movie about said politicians?

_____________________________

For almost all groups of individuals who have some common interest … corporations are formed. Be they Home Owner’s Associations, Labor Unions, Kiwanis Clubs, Optimists Clubs and Rotary Clubs, or Wal-Mart and Home Depot.

Some groups, like from the quote atop this essay, wished to inform the public about a candidate for president whom they found especially egregious. The year was 2007 and her name was Hillary Clinton. Do we allow people to express their concern about her qualifications and history? They made a movie about their concerns and were subsequently sued.  The suit ended up in the Supreme Court. In the end — long after the election — they won their case: the freedom to express their views.

You might recognize this as the famous/notorious “Citizens United” case. (Actually Citizens United vs. Federal Election Commission). Perhaps not. But the claim (mostly from the Left) is that “corporations aren’t people.” At least insofar as freedom of speech is concerned.

Many are very agitated that “corporations” have a free voice in politics. About how our country is run. I can’t completely disagree with that. I’m concerned too.

Great. Let’s go with that. Let’s shut down free speech for corporations. If free speech and access to deliver a message is bad for Citizens United, and Nabisco and Hersheys and Exxon and Chevron and Monsanto … then it’s bad for the Farmers Irrigation and Reservoir Company, most Chambers of Commerce, most community service organization, Home Owners’ Associations, Unions and …

Let’s hold on a minute. Magazines, and Newspapers and TV stations are corporations. Or they are parts of corporations. They often do the hard legwork of investigative journalism that tells us what is wrong with US politics.

Think early 1970s: Woodward and Bernstein at the Washington Post. Deep Throat. Exposing a sitting president (Nixon) as obstructing justice. A defiled president then resigns in ignominy. And rightfully so!!

If we shut down political free speech by corporations, we are effectively saying that magazines and newspapers and radio programs and TV programs and even on-line blogs have no right to express their opinion. Or attempt to express their opinions. Or make movies …

Because … OMG! … they might be corporations.

Maybe all these “Citizens United” worry-warts are all correct. But it is a very, very slippery slope. Here in the United States we protect freedom of speech, even if it is from a corporation, or from someone whose message we really don’t like.

And if it’s money in politics we’re actually afraid of, remember this: for the 2016 election … no one was better funded than Jeb Bush. After that, it’s the same Hillary Clinton, who has had no problem tripping all over that money and — perhaps fumbling the ball directly into Bernie Sanders’ arms.  Or worse: Donald Trump’s.

I admit to being conflicted. I might be wrong. Yet, even in this case I choose to cling tightly to expansive interpretation of First Amendment rights, which includes freedom to express thoughts and freedom of press — whatever we might construe “press” to mean in this digital era. I welcome your comments, either below or via emails.

Joe Girard © 2016
joe@girardmeister.com

[1] My adaptation of the mission statement of Citizens United.

[2] Officially, there are no “buffalo” in North America. Any such animals are actually Bison. Still, terms like Buffalo Wallow are commonly used.

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History, Poetry, Sports

On Paternal Ancestry

On Progeny and patrimonial lineage

A Girl named Poppy

CNN has been sporting quite a few interesting documentaries recently: Steve Jobs, Life Itself (Roger Ebert), the Sixties, the Seventies, The Black Panthers. Last month they aired a different kind of documentary; it was comprised of a dozen or so “shorts.” Each segment was a story by one of their news anchors on the topic “The Person who Changed my Life.”

Unfortunately, I did not see most of the segments. I did see the one by Poppy Harlow. I was moved by whom she identified as “the person who most changed my life”, and the story she told about him and their relationship. That person was her father, who died when she was still a young teen. It’s a very good production video of a touching story; a success story that is both likely and unlikely.

Poppy Harlow: CNN Anchor

Poppy Harlow: CNN Anchor

Likely: we all “like” to think that success can, in most cases and in some way, be traced from a parental influence. Unlikely: Poppy’s career turned out to be nothing like her father’s. You can watch the video here. Poppy Harlow: The Person who Changed my Life.

It reminded me of several other stories that I’ve been holding onto for no particular reason, except to maybe share them here. I won’t say these are similar to Poppy’s story, but they are not all that different either. I will limit them to a total of a mere three segments. (And a very brief fourth follow-up).

  1. “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not gonna take this anymore!”
    – Howard Beale (Network) –> watch the     Mad as Hell Scene.

If you haven’t watched the iconic 1976 movie “Network”, then watching the scene via the link above is probably all you need in order to get an excellent cultural reference. It applies as much today as ever. It will probably always be “timely.”

Peter Finch as Howard Beale: "I'm as Mad as Hell! And I'm not gonna take it anymore!"

Peter Finch as Howard Beale: “I’m as Mad as Hell! And I’m not gonna take it anymore!”

Peter Finch’s (1916 – 1977) portrayal of crazed news anchor Howard Beale in “Network” earned him an Oscar: the Academy Award for Best Actor. The award was posthumous; he died suddenly – age only 60 – of a heart attack January, 14, 1977, two and a half months before that year’s Academy Awards ceremony. He was the first person to be awarded an Oscar posthumously for an acting performance.[1]  

Finch’s award for “Network” was no fluke. Before that he had earned five BAFTA awards for Best Actor (that’s British Academy of Film and Arts). He was also nominated by both the British and American Academies for several other prominent awards.

The effect of Finch’s patrimony is difficult to ascertain, but it is very interesting to investigate.

Australian George Ingle Finch had a very successful career as a chemist. Among his achievements: developed an improved catalyst for synthesis of ammonia; conducted groundbreaking research into solid state physics, surfaces and thin films, electron diffraction, electron microscopy; and the electrical ignition of gases. In 1944 he was recognized with the Hughes Medal of the (British) Royal Society. He was president of the esteemed Physical Society of London 1947-49. And yet, this is not what he is most known for, nor (probably) his greatest effect on young Peter Finch.

In 1914 Finch the elder was in London, where he was doing research at the Imperial College of Science and Industry. That’s where and when he met Alicia Fisher, daughter of a Kent barrister. Soon after World War I broke out he was assigned to the Royal Field Artillery. Sometime shortly after the start of his military service, in 1915, George and Alice were wed. [As an Australian he was still a subject of the crown, and duty-bound to serve].

While George was away, Peter was conceived. He arrived September 28, 1916 – with George obviously still away. Officially named Frederick George Peter Ingle Finch – perhaps in a way to honor Alicia’s absent husband – he went through most of his life as Peter.

When George returned there were some accounts to settle. He soon divorced Alicia and, with his sister, took full legal custody of Peter. Shortly thereafter young Peter was sent off to France to live with relatives, where he was mostly reared by George’s mother – Peter’s putative grandmother. In the meanwhile George had some dreams to fulfill. He wanted to be a mountain climber.

Those were still the days of the great British adventure; adventure as experienced by, and performed by, the privileged gentry. Yes, the British gentry, of which Finch was certainly not a part. Sailing the world, going to the Yukon gold rush, safaris in Africa, climbing mountains – these were things done with as much creature comfort as possible. Often smoking cigars, dining on quail and herring, sipping brandy, while attired in tweed – that was how to adventure. At least the British gentry’s mode.

That was not how to attack a beast like Everest. Finch joined the Alpine club and set out to join three attempts to make the ascent of Everest in the 1920s with the much more famous climber, the legendary George Mallory.

Finch was an outsider, a colonial farm boy. He had done some climbing in the Alps while studying in Zurich before getting his post at Imperial College. For the Himalayas he brought oxygen canisters, which came in at a hefty 16kg for eight hours supply. On the second British Everest attempt in 1924, Finch was allowed on the ascent team; he made the highest effort on Everest to that date, over 27,000 feet. (Everest tops out at 29,028 ft; that’s 8,848 m). He might well have summited, had he not felt compelled to assist an enfeebled novice companion back to safety.

Finch was, in the eyes of many experts, the best technical climber of his time, despite it being merely a hobby, and he not being a gentlemen. He was sneered upon as a country boy, a colonialist, and an outsider who would “cheat” by using oxygen. He was left off the other two ascent attempts.

In the end, Finch was right. [2]

And in the end, it’s hard to know his influence on his “son”. When Peter was 10, George fetched him up and took him back to Australia. Peter always knew that George openly denied that Peter was his biological son.[3] He also knew of his “father’s” attempt at Everest, and his contributions to science – although George was never much recognized for either until later in his life, when Peter was already well on in his acting career.

The younger Finch’s career started out as bumming across Australia during the Great Depression with a traveling troupe, picking up odd acting roles. During World War II he served in the Army, manning an anti-aircraft gun to fend off Japanese during the bombing of Darwin, and serving in the Middle East.

He didn’t let the war slow him down much: he produced, directed and acted in plays for the troops. When the war was over, his career only delayed a bit, he hit the ground running, took every opportunity, worked hard, and became one of the most famous actors of all time: British, Australian, or, of the world.

  • 2. “Tell yer uncle why there ain’t no snow in California”
    — “Don’t look at me! I didn’t take it!” – Cousin Peal and Jethro (Beverly Hillbillies)

 

1960s sitcoms. They were corny. Some were corny and popular. Among them, “The Beverly Hillbillies” was regularly the top rated TV show in America. During its eleven year run it was only occasionally bumped from #1, usually by The Ed Sullivan Show.

The adorable Donna Douglas, who played Ellie Mae Clampett on the show, passed on about a year ago (January, 2015) at age 82, leaving Max Baer, Jr (Jethro Bodine) as the last living member of the cast.

Both skilled and successful actors, Douglas and Baer would end up with constricted acting careers, as they were so very type-casted by their successful roles on Beverly Hillbillies. [Although Douglas made a 1959 pre-Hillbillies recording in The Twilight Zone episode “The Eye of the Beholder”, wherein she played a woman undergoing a surgery to have her appearance fixed so that she would look more normal. The surgery was a failure: she was just as beautiful after the bandages were removed. The episode was not shown until 1960. — Yes, Donna Douglas, even as Ellie Mae, was inherently beautiful.]

As a Beverly Hillbillies side note and question: can anyone provide an accurate description of the familial relationships between Granny, Uncle Jed, Ellie Mae, Jethro, and Aunt Pearl? (Whom did I forget? Was some sort of incest implied?)

Hopelessly typecast, Douglas more or less gave up acting when the series ended in 1971 and moved on to a successful career as a Gospel singer and inspirational speaker.

Baer, however, did not give up the camera.

Sports enthusiasts might recognize the name Max Baer as a former World Heavyweight Boxing champion. A big brute of a man, with a literally deadly right hand, Max Baer, Sr was indeed the Heavyweight Boxing Champion. That would be “Jethro’s” real life father.

Max Baer, Sr was one-quarter Jewish – acquired from his half-Jewish father. Although he rarely practiced Judaism, he eventually decided to embrace it as a public gesture, nonetheless.

Baer broke into worldwide recognition as a champion contender just as Adolf Hitler assumed the German chancellorship, and ultimately the dictatorship, of Nazi Germany. He became a bona fide contender when he beat the great German boxer, Max Schmeling, in June 1933. Schmeling was a recent (although not current) heavy-weight champion. He was the reigning German Heavyweight champion.

Max Baer, Sr, in his Star of David embroidered boxing trunks. I think this is the fight with Max Schmeling

Max Baer, Sr, in his Star of David embroidered boxing trunks. I think this is the fight with Max Schmeling

Baer was disgusted by the warmth and favoritism shown by the Jew-hating Hitler and the Nazi party apparatus toward Schmeling. Baer was willing to make a public statement, and so he began wearing a very prominent Star of David on his boxing trunks for matches. He started wearing the Star for the match against Hitler’s favorite, Schmeling. And he continued to do so. He was wearing the Star of David embroidered trunks when he won the World Heavyweight Title a year later, June, 1934, when he defeated the then current title holder, Prima Carnera.

And he was wearing the Star, 364 days later, when he lost the title in The Cinderella Match against Irish-American New York longshoreman, James (Jimmy) “Cinderella Man” Braddock.

Unfortunately the otherwise terrific movie about that fight (The Cinderella Man) casts Baer in an extremely negative light. However, it was based partly on fact: Baer considered part of the job of boxing champ to be an entertainer, and he could be pretty darned silly when in that role. The movie played up the goofy and obnoxious role-playing of Baer (in an obvious shallow attempt to get viewers to appreciate underdog Braddock all the more). The movie also failed to prominently show Baer’s trunks, and their plainly visible Star of David. (Blame that on the producer, Ron Howard — Opie).

Shortly after Baer Sr’s boxing retirement, World War II broke out for the United States. Baer served as a physical conditioning trainer for the US Army Air Force. He continued to sporadically act in films (he had started in 1933) and served as celebrity referee for boxing matches.

In November 1959 Baer was in Hollywood for several television commercials (they were done “live” in those does – very few 2nd takes). While shaving at the Roosevelt Hotel, Baer felt a chest pain. He called the front desk, asking for a doctor. They told him they’d send a “house doctor” right up. Ever playful, Baer replied: “No dummy, I need a people doctor.” In hospital later that morning he was joking with doctors when … a second attack hit him. “Oh God, here I go …”

He was only 50 years old. (I am often humbled by how people achieved so very much … and then died … far younger than I am now). His son Max Jr would be making his first appearance on TV in just a few weeks, under contract with Warner Brothers, with whom he would eventually star in The Beverly Hillbillies. Baer, Sr is rated #22 in Ring’s list of all-time boxers. He is among a very few boxers who’ve won by knock-out over 50 times. Two deaths are attributed to his mighty right arm. He was devastated by each.

Max Baer, Jr -- as Jethro Bodine on Beverly Hillbillies

Max Baer, Jr — as Jethro Bodine on Beverly Hillbillies

Max Jr’s career after the Beverly Hillbillies remained in the entertainment industry. Hopelessly typecast by his role as Hillbilly Jethro Bodine until 1971, his acting career was largely over. After that he wrote, produced and directed movies, including “Macon County Line”, in which he also played a rare serious role. That movie made $25 million for an investment of just over $100,000 – a record ratio that lasted until the Blair Witch Project (1999).

He also had the idea of turning popular songs into movies. It was Baer, Jr who came up with turning Bobby Gentry’s “Ode to Billy Joe”, a hit ’60s song, into a cinematic feature. [The lyrics are below… if you’d like to follow along while listening).

In retirement, Baer continues to make a few TV appearances and has long been attempting to develop a casino in Carson City on the Beverly Hillbillies theme. It has been fraught with legal issues and odd competition.

 

  1. Do I dare
    Disturb the universe?
    In a minute there is time
    For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
    – The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

William Greenleaf Eliot died January 23, 1887 in St Louis, Missouri. He founded the first Unitarian Church west of the Mississippi in 1837, at the corner of 4th and Pine – perhaps 1000 ft from where the famous Gateway Arch has stood since 1964. Outgrowing that location, in 1852, Eliot led the congregation in building and moving to a larger worship space at 9th and Olive. This is only a few blocks from where the stately Post Office and Customs House, and the Library, would be built decades later; those still stand. In 1880, Eliot again led the building of a new Church, at Locust and Garrison. This site was on the Register of National Historic Places. It unfortunately suffered a devastating fire in 1982, and was completely razed in 1987.

St Louis Unitarian Church -- on National Register of Historic Places, until its demise

St Louis Unitarian Church — on National Register of Historic Places, until its demise

That’s just the beginning of William Eliot’s curriculum vitae and significance to St Louis. He’s most notable for founding Washington University in St. Louis (initially called Eliot Seminary). He was influential and critical to founding many civic institutions, including: the St. Louis Public School System; the St. Louis Art Museum; the Mission Free School; the South Side Day Nursery; and the Western Sanitary Commission that provided medical care and supplies during the Civil War. He also contributed to the development of the Colored Orphans’ Home, Soldiers’ Orphans’ Home, Memorial Home, Blind Girls Home, Women’s Christian Home, and many other charitable institutions.

When Ralph Waldo Emerson visited St. Louis, he had the opportunity to meet Eliot and subsequently called him “the Saint of the West.” Besides founding Washington University in 1853, Eliot donated generously to its construction and served as chancellor from 1870 to 1887.

In 1859 William Eliot founded Mary Institute, a school for girls which he named after his daughter, who had died very young. It is now part of the co-educational Mary Institute and St. Louis Country Day School (MISLCDS).

Same Church, after the tragic fire.

Same Church, after the tragic fire.

It’s hard to know the further effect he had on American culture and literature. In fact, his effect on world culture and literature. Why? William Eliot was also the grandfather of Thomas Stearns Eliot, who was born the year after William’s passing. Going by his initials, T.S., Eliot is renowned in his own right as one of America’s and the world’s most acclaimed poets, essayists, playwrights and literary critics.

It’s hard to imagine young Thomas, spending his youth going between St Louis and New England (due to family ties in the Boston area) and not being very aware of his grandfather’s contributions to society. Frail as a child, “Tom” turned to literature, embraced it, and found inspiration in fellow Missourian, Samuel Clemens.

I’ve read, recited and committed to memory quite a bit of verse over my many decades. Poe, Frost, Longfellow … even Lewis Carrol. And yet, somehow, I’ve not connected much with Mr Eliot the younger. As an aerospace engineer and amateur historian, perhaps I can be forgiven.

As a sop to fellow enthusiasts of the 1904 World’s Fair: As a teen, young Tom attended the Fair – it was in his hometown, after all. The 47-acre Philippines Igorot “village” living exhibit inspired him to write some short stories and poems. This experience also probably influenced his decision to pursue anthropological studies at Harvard – where his grandfather’s name still stood large. [4]

Yes, perhaps I can be forgiven for not taking to Eliot’s writings. T.S. eventually turned away from much of what his grandfather was proud of. In 1910 he moved to Paris; then, in 1914, to England. And there he stayed. He eventually gave up both his Unitarian faith and US citizenship, becoming both Anglican and a subject of the crown.

T.S. Eliot won the Nobel Prize for Literature, as a British subject, in 1948.

  1. Depression Youth; Military Service

My wife and I think of, and talk about, our fathers quite often. They had a lot in common. Both grew up in humble households during the Great Depression. It’s easy to see that this helped make them thrifty, resilient and loyal. They both served in the US military in the ‘40s, Audrey’s dad in the US Navy – in fact a Pearl Harbor Survivor; my dad in the occupation of Japan. It’s easy to see how this helped mold them into the prototypical “Greatest Generation” male: the strong quiet type; able to lead and command; yet equally capable of following and taking orders: organization men. They each loved their family and country dearly, loyally, sincerely … yet often from a reticent and in-charge position and point-of-view.

For the rest of their lives, they felt it was a duty to stay very informed on current events, and they loved to encourage discussion that swirled around world events – including past and current.

I have no idea how our three children’s lives will play out … hopefully very long after we are gone. I’d like to think that there is something of the following in them, and that – in some way – part of it comes from their parents. Just as we received something in this regard from our parents:

  • Inner Strength and Self-Discipline
  • Loyalty and Love
  • Kindness and Compassion
  • Service and Simplicity
  • Living in the Moment
  • Honesty and Humility
  • Graciousness and Generosity
  • Patience and Perseverance
  • Forgiveness and Fortitude

 

Obviously no one is perfect. I certainly am not; neither is my wife. Neither were our fathers. Still – we cling to the positive influences and traits … and gently release the rest. Life is too short to be concerned with anything else.

And I wish the same strengths and virtues for you and yours.

Peace

Joe Girard © 2016

email joe: Email Joe (for addition to email list, or discussion not related to this post.  Comments can be added below)

 

Footnotes:

 

[1] Heath Ledger duplicated this sad/happy circumstance, passing on before he could be receive the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor for his role as The Joker in 2008’s Batman sequel “The Black Knight.” Ledger died from a prescription drug overdose (likely due to abuse from ongoing viral infections and insomnia issues). Ironically, both Ledger and Finch were Australian. Ledger was only 28.

 

[2] The air pressure at 28,000 ft elevation is only one-third that at sea level. That means 67% less oxygen for the lungs while working severely hard at steep ascent grades. Famed Kiwi Sir Edmund Hillary and his Sherpa, Tenzing Norgay, were the first humans to summit Everest, in 1951. They used supplemental oxygen, as have the vast majority of those who’ve successfully achieved the full ascent.
The first summit without oxygen was not until 1978. In 2013, a total of 658 climbers attained the summit; only 9 did so without oxygen. There were also 8 deaths.

 

[3] Finch’s biological father was Wentworth Edward Dallas “Jock” Campbell, an Indian Army officer. Alicia Fisher Finch later married Campbell in 1922. (what’s with the Brits and all those middle names?)

[4] The St Louis 1904 Exposition was huge. Hyuge. Just the Igorot Village living exhibit was larger than many famous World’s Fairs … e.g. The complete 1962 Seattle World’s Fair (which gave us the Space Needle and the Monorail) was only 32 acres … vs the Igorot village at 47 acres … the whole 1904 Fair covered nearly 1280 acres (two square miles)!

Final notes: You can watch The Twilight Zone episode online (The Eye of the Beholder). It’s easier to listen to Bobbie Gentry singing Ode to Billie Joe … one of my favorite Ballads (right up there with “West Texas Town of El Paso.” If you do, here are the lyrics so you can follow along.

 

 

And just for grins….

Ode to Billy Joe

(written, sung and performed by Bobbie Gentry)

It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty Delta day.
I was out choppin’ cotton, and my brother was balin’ hay.
And at dinner time we stopped and walked back to the house to eat.
And mama hollered out the back door: “y’all, remember to wipe your feet!”
And then she said, “I got some news this mornin’ from Choctaw Ridge.
Today, Billy Joe MacAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge”

And papa said to mama, as he passed around the black-eyed peas:
“Well, Billy Joe never had a lick of sense; pass the biscuits, please.
There’s five more acres in the lower forty I’ve got to plow”
And mama said it was shame about Billy Joe, anyhow;
Seems like nothin’ ever comes to no good up on Choctaw Ridge.
And now Billy Joe MacAllister’s jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge

And brother said he recollected when he, and Tom, and Billie Joe
Put a frog down my back at the Carroll County picture show.
And wasn’t I talkin’ to him after church last Sunday night?
“I’ll have another piece o’ apple pie; you know, it don’t seem right.
I saw him at the sawmill yesterday on Choctaw Ridge
And now ya tell me Billie Joe’s jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge”

And mama said to me, “Child, what’s happened to your appetite?
I’ve been cookin’ all morning, and you haven’t touched a single bite.
That nice young preacher, Brother Taylor, dropped by today.
Said he’d be pleased to have dinner on Sunday, oh, by the way …
He said he saw a girl that looked a lot like you up on Choctaw Ridge,
And she and Billy Joe was throwing somethin’ off the Tallahatchie Bridge”

A year has come and gone since we heard the news ’bout Billy Joe.
‘n’ Brother married Becky Thompson; they bought a store in Tupelo.
There was a virus going ’round, Papa caught it and he died last Spring,
And now Mama doesn’t seem to wanna do much of anything.
And me, I spend a lot of time pickin’ flowers up on Choctaw Ridge,
And drop them into the muddy water off the Tallahatchie Bridge.

 

 

Autobiographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History

Dam Good Flow Control

“To string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering and sometimes purposeless way, and seem innocently unaware that they are absurdities; that is the basis of the American art …” – Mark Twain (How to Tell a Story).

Like most who’ve dwelt for any length of time along the Colorado Rocky Mountains I have a habit of regularly quaffing water through most days. Sometimes copiously. Given our semi-arid climate, mile high altitude and generally active life styles – all circumstances that lead to high rates of water expiration – keeping hydrated is never far from our minds. In fact, in many ways for us just east of Colorado’s mountain divide, water is very important – whether we know it or not.

Typical Weekend Jam on I-70, west of Denver, CO

Typical Weekend Jam on I-70, west of Denver, CO

The westward drive along I-70 from Denver, winding up into Colorado’s scenic Rocky Mountains, can provide both eye-popping and ear-popping exhilaration. The type of high elevation experience you get depends largely on the wild mountain weather, road conditions, time of day, your attitude, and – sometimes – flow control. Traffic flow control. Sometimes it moves swiftly; yet often it slows to a crawl (or slower) … so popular and loved are these mountains. And subject to the whims of weather.

A very few miles after you exit the Eisenhower Tunnel [1] (completing your passage under the continental divide), after twisting down and around a few bends, you are treated to the view of the Dillon Reservoir [2]. At about 9,000 feet elevation, and covering over 30,000 acres, the man-made lake lies, more or less, between the mountains of the Great Divide on the east, and the Gore Range and Tenmile Range on the west.

Approaching Dillon Reservoir descending along I-70

Approaching Dillon Reservoir descending along I-70

Most winters find it frozen-over solid for at least part of the season. On summer days its surface is bedecked with sail boats and usually a few kayaks and canoes. Most evenings are clear and you’re likely to catch a lunar reflection, or even a stellar reflection. Buffalo Mountain, magnificently dome-shaped and looming visibly from nearly every point in the Dillon basin, is likely to have a bit of snow on it even in summer. Within all that is a glimpse back into history.

Long before there was a Dillon Reservoir, way back in the first decade of the 20th century, during the Edwardian Era, Denver’s long, lustful and thirsty gaze finally began crystalizing into a vision of conquest: it yearned to own the water of the Blue river basin.

As Denver’s population surged past 150,000 – part of its 50% growth in that decade – and no end in sight to its growth – city planners knew there would always be demand for water. Denver has virtually no physical boundaries to expansion, and it enjoys a dry, semi-arid climate.

The 19th century Colorado gold rushes led Tom Dillon to set up the first settlement near the confluence of three mountain rivers in 1859. These were the Snake River, the Blue River, and Tenmile Creek. The settlement became incorporated into the Town of Dillon in 1883. Much of the population of a few hundred was connected, directly or indirectly, to the extraction of gold, particularly farther south up the Blue River, near Breckenridge.

The town was moved twice, just a mile or two, in order to accommodate better service from rail lines. But, when the gold rush slowed down, the Town of Dillon and the Blue River region stopped growing and slowly began shrinking. Still they hung on … and on. Many people left for Denver or other cities and towns with better prospects, and ranching became the main commerce of the area. A third move for the Town of Dillon – much more significant and decades hence – was yet to come.

The Great Depression gave Denver the opportunity they sought. Dillon’s population crashed: from over 800 to fewer than 100. Denver’s Water Board began buying up the land in and around Dillon at bargain basement prices, primarily via tax liens. When they had 75% it was enough to get serious and file plans with the Federal Government: plans for a great dam across the Blue River. After several rounds of planning and proposals, eventually an achievable and acceptable plan was approved. It included a long, wide earthen dam to be built across a narrow spot in the Blue River valley, just downstream from the three-river confluence.

By the late 1950s the small Town of Dillon’s fate was sealed: its current site would be flooded, deep under a new reservoir, and it would have to endure yet one final move, this time to a hill on a site near the northeast end of a dam yet to be built – far above the river. Many chose not to make the move, instead leaving the area.  At the time of this final move Dillon’s population had dwindled to a mere 57 souls.

The dam itself, which was completed in 1963 and just over a mile in length, is a marvel of engineering and dam good flow control. The flow control consists of four principal flow features.

The first flow control feature is the primary reason for which the dam was constructed. It’s the Harold Roberts Tunnel measuring just over 23 miles long. The tunnel draws water through a 10 foot diameter tube that passes underneath the continental divide, and – with one slight jog – into the North Branch of the South Platte River. As an engineering and geological marvel, the tunnel took about 19 years to complete, beginning in 1942 – although there was some down time for World War II. Once the water enters the South Platte watershed, it is eventually used in the Denver area for washing dishes, bathing, and flushing toilets. About 5% is estimated to be used for landscapes.

Dam flow control feature number two is its hydroelectric plant, operating at nearly 200ft of head. I’m pretty sure it only operates in the late spring and early summer when the mountain runoff is sufficient to keep the reservoir’s level high. At peak it can generate 1.8 Megawatts. If my math is correct, this is enough to provide average electrical power flow to an estimated 1,500 households. [3]

Flow control feature three is actually the primary and most regularly operating feature: gates that permit a fairly steady flow of water downstream to the Blue River of 500 to 1,300 cubic feet per second. The low end keeps both anglers and trout happy; the upper end is achieved during spring run-off and keeps rafters happy. Anything above 1,800 cfs puts the Blue’s channels and rafters at risk. Just very recently flow control feature #3’s six gates were replaced; after 50-years of service they required some updating. [4]

From here the Blue flows generally north, between the Gore Range and the Continental Divide to one more dam, the Green Mountain Dam. This provides more water to the eastern slope via the Colorado-Thompson water project. After another 13 miles, the Blue joins the mighty Colorado River – so mighty it was once called the Grand River – at Kremmling.

Morning Glory Spillway

Morning Glory Spillway

The final form of flow control, feature #4, is sort of a “flow control of last resort” to protect the dam itself. If the water gets much above 9,025 ft elevation the structure of the dam could be at risk. This feature of last resort is the dam’s Morning Glory Spillway, which is set at an elevation of 9,017 feet. The water that “spills” into it, bypasses the gateway and the power plant and goes downstream to the Blue River (This is a few miles from the Thompson Tunnel inlet). [5]

{!!!Warning! This dam feature used to be called “The Glory Hole” – in fact, sometimes local publications still refer to it as such. This term has been used for dams in general for a long, long time. Unfortunately parts of modern culture have appropriated that term for darker usage. If you’d like to find out, go ahead and use an internet search engine – but PLEASE don’t have children in the room. I won’t discuss further and … you have been warned.!!!}

Four main features. That’s a lot of flow control.

The Dillon Dam and Reservoir do a lot more than provide the city of Denver (and its customers and partners) plenty of water… in fact about 40% of their annual water usage, on average. [6] There are ample recreation opportunities too. I’ve mentioned downstream fishing and rafting, as well as sailing, kayaking and canoeing on the reservoir itself.

But there’s more. Around the lake are bicycling, hiking and walking paths. There are parks. There are on- and off-road bike paths with opportunities for wildlife viewing. And there are some campgrounds too.

Near the north bank of the reservoir, just west of the dam itself, is a favorite campground of ours called Heaton Bay. For several years we used to go there at least once a summer. The campground is popular: We’d secure a few adjoining choice sites well in advance for ourselves and some close friends of ours, the Weprins and the Cronks.

Our families and couples (Girards, Weprins and Cronks) are all about the same age, as are our eight combined children. When the kids were all teens we’d love to hangout at the campground for a weekend. The days would be filled with some combination of biking, canoeing, hiking, and grilling. The evenings for BBQ, chatter, singing and beverage sipping. Later at night we’d exchange stories (often scary), drink a bit, and lie on our backs and spot satellites passing overhead, and sometimes the occasional shooting star.

Truth be told, the later hours included burping, farting, and – eventually – snoring.

It was probably about 10 years ago that we three families (read: wives and moms) had just such a relaxing weekend organized. The original plan was to arrive early Friday afternoon, and stay until Sunday afternoon.

Plans always have at least one hiccup. I provided that hiccup. I had some task at work that seemed important at the time … and so I could not leave until mid-afternoon. Long ago I forgot what that task was; but I cannot forget what it caused.

So I stayed at work a few extra hours while the family motored up to Dillon Reservoir. No worries. I could just drive up the mountain later, on my own, through the tunnel, and arrive at Heaton Bay … about 90 minutes after departing … and still avoid rush hour and arrive in plenty of time for dinner.

By 1:30 I’d finished work, gone home, and loaded my car with my clothes and gear pre-staged the evening before. As I left the house I satisfied my usual habit of grabbing a water bottle for the road. It’s important to stay hydrated in Colorado (see above). I was feeling a bit dried out already due to busy day, so I grabbed a bottle that was bit larger than normal for me, at a generous 24-oz (~0.75 liter).

And off I went. I made great time down to Golden, the last town with easy access to gas stations, provisions and facilities, before getting onto I-70. Gosh I was making great time, especially for a Friday. As I passed the last easily-accessed gas station I glanced at my gas gage to ensure there’d be enough fuel to comfortably get up to the mountains.

Even though I had plenty of gas I had that feeling like “maybe everything was not okay.” I checked the dashboard: engine running ok, not too hot. I knew the tires were filled right. All my clothes were packed; at home I’d verified all doors were locked, appliances turned off. I felt I had enough water, even though my bottle was already less than half full.

Had I forgotten something Audrey wanted me to bring? No. What a great day! I guess maybe everything is okay after all.

About 15 minutes later I was dropping down into the last valley outside Genesee Hill on I-70 before heading up to the divide. Traffic was growing a bit thicker, but still moving briskly, when I received a biological tickle that suggested perhaps something was indeed missed back at Golden: the last good chance to take a pee.

No worries. Snappy traffic with sane Colorado drivers and a beautiful clear-sky day. I’ll be in Heaton Bay in well  under an hour.

15 minutes later, I finished the water bottle while rounding a curve and approaching the eastern outskirts of Idaho Springs in the left lane at about 70mph. That’s when I saw it – a tremendous parking lot along the westbound lanes. Everything had come to a complete stop for a far as the eye could see.

Complete. Stand. Still. Now aware of my filling bladder, I wondered if I could force my way off the freeway. No dice: bumper-to-bumper. I’m feeling a little tense.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. There really is no way to get out and pee…privately. Traffic news says that recent rains have caused a large mudslide just west of Idaho Springs.

The slide is all the way across both lanes of westbound traffic.

For distraction I call Audrey. I might be late.

Perhaps at this point I wasn’t thinking logically. The adult bladder can comfortably hold up to about 1/3 liter. Uncomfortably perhaps ½ liter, or a bit more. I’d just consumed ¾ liter. Plus I’d had some coffee and tea before that. My rear molars were preparing to do the backstroke.

Once the bladders are quite full, the ureters can no longer disgorge urine; backpressure builds up into the kidneys.

The kidneys’ reaction is to slow, and eventually cease removing fluids and toxins from the blood stream.

When toxins are no longer removed, the muscles grow weak, the eyes grow bleary and the brain’s processes are less than optimal.

How much fluid in my bladder now? Well, I recalled that once after a surgery, under narcotics for pain control, my urinary system stopped. Completely. Finally, after what seemed forever, I suddenly spewed forth nearly one full liter. [Nurses are compelled to measure such things.]

I got the (obvious) idea to use the now empty water bottle as a receptacle. Could I manage?

I began studying the woman in the large Chevy Yukon beside me. Would she notice if I did my own great “Southern Exposure”? Perhaps not, if I timed it correctly.

This would be my own exercise in damn good flow control… I had no interest in spillage. A further challenge to flow control: once the dam’s gateway was open, how would it stop at the bottle’s ¾ liter capacity when as much as a liter could be required?

At this level of desperation there is only one method of flow control: damn good will-power.

I have a bit of a sensitive nose, and so I’ve been known to sneeze … suddenly and violently. As the barn door opened and the plumbing interfaces successfully engaged for a tight connection … I got the tickle. The nose tickle.

Focus Joe. Focus. If you feel a sneeze coming on, sometimes you can avoid or postpone it by breathing slowly through the mouth, with no air flow over the sensitive nasal hairs.

During this important meditation … focus, focus, stay engaged, breath gently, through the mouth … two things suddenly happened that startled me. One: the lady to my right got curious and glanced into my car. Oh my! The shame! Did she see Little Joe? Two: the car in front of me began to inch forward. Through all of my focus and will power I had failed to notice that far ahead the cars had begun to crawl. The inch-worm wiggle had made its way to me.

Engaged in will-power and mind control – engaged in a tight plumbing connection – I allowed my car to move perhaps one car length. Whereupon the line stopped. Five seconds later it started again … for one more car length. This repeated itself again, and again.

This was going to be “difficult.” I’d say “hard”, but “difficult” is more appropriate. Inching along, with Mrs Kravits (of I Dream of Jeanie, oops, Bewitched [7]) sneaking peaks, the morning glory spillway began to flow.

First a trickle, and then a full throttled torrent cascaded into the previously empty Dysani bottle. The good old ’99 Acura inching along, Gladys Kravits almost hitting the car in front of her … the fluidic seal miraculously held tight and there was no spillage.

Gladys Kravitz, the nosy neighbor. [8]

Gladys Kravitz, the nosy neighbor. [8]

I became aware of the rate the bottle filled by its new warmth. Urine emerges at the full 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit of the body.

One final challenge remained. Enjoying this full and sensational release,… I wondered how my will power – my flow control – how Little Joe would perform in the task of stopping at ¾ liter when there would be so much pleasure to be had in going the distance? So much pleasure in unloading the last full measure of … bodily fluid.

Somehow I managed everything. Keeping a steady distance between cars in stop-and-go traffic. A tight fluid seal. Stopping at 100% bottle volume, with a little something left in my tank … so to speak. Getting the cap neatly back on the bottle. Little Joe back home where he belongs. Good material for nosey Mrs Kravits to have future gossip sessions … or sweet dreams.

Just as mission was accomplished traffic started moving steady. First 1 mph. Then 10mph. Then 15. Then 30. In a few minutes I was passing the mudslide on a single inside lane that had been cleared.

What a mess the road was. But my car, bottle, pants and car seat were not a mess. Whew.

As soon as traffic opened up a bit, and access to the right shoulder opened up too, I spied about 20 cars pulled over with gentlemen who were facing away from the highway.

I couldn’t hold it quite as long as they did. But my flow control was still damn good.

 

Wishing you safe travels and clean flow.

Joe Girard © 2015

 

Footnotes:

[1] The westbound tunnel is the Eisenhower. Officially the eastbound tunnel is the Johnson Tunnel, although usually both are referred to as “Eisenhower.”

[2] Dillon Reservoir is often referred to as Lake Dillon, or Dillon Lake.

[3] http://www.eia.gov/tools/faqs/faq.cfm?id=97&t=3

Average household consumes 911 kWh/month divided by 24hrs/day and divided by 30.4 days/month = average burn rate of 1.2kW.

1.8×106W divided by 1.2×103 W = 1,500

I also estimate this takes only ~260ft3/sec, or 15,600 cfm.

[4] Recent work at the dam:

http://www.denverwater.org/Recreation/Dillon/OutletWorks/

http://www.graconcorp.com/dam-refurbishment-projects/dillondam.html

[5] The Morning Glory Spillway was also upgraded during the recent work at the dam

[6] Roberts tunnel and Denver water supply. http://summitcountyvoice.com/2012/09/02/colorado-roberts-tunnel-turns-50-this-year/

[7] oops, I got confused between two magical women shows from the ’60s, and the nosy neighbor lady.  Thanks to Gil G for catching this boo-boo.

[8] The role of Gladys Kravitz was played by Alice Pearce, from 1964-66, when she passed away, aged only 48.  She was awarded an Emmy for her portrayal posthumously. She was known as “the chinless wonder.” Sandra Gould took over the role until filming ended, in 1971. Pearce and Gould were good friends. Resource==>  Gould gets role of Mrs Kravitz

I might have this confused a bit with the role of Amanda Bellows (married to NASA doctor, Dr. Bellows) from I Dream of Jeannie, played by Emmaline Henry.  Ms. Henry also died rather young, on 50 years old.

 

Autobiographical, History

1968: An Odd Odyssey

1968: An Odd Case Odyssey

Dateline: December, 2015

Well, it’s that time of year for a wave of new movie releases. This year the rage seems to be another sequel to Star Wars, which evidently, like its predecessors, has the usual constitution of social commentary shrouded with futurism, sci-fi technology and special effects.

The annual pre-Christmas roll out always gives me a special set of flashbacks. This year, with Star Wars gathering so many headlines, the memory is especially strong.

——————————-

It was 1968, a most tumultuous year. Fraught with violent riots that had spilled-over from 1967, and violent police reactions, the country was gripped by an intense anxiousness that even I, as a wide-eyed innocent 12-year old, could sense.

One series of riots – and especially severe police violence – occurred at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. There, the sitting vice-president, Hubert Humphrey, was nominated for president over the anti-Viet Nam war candidate Eugene McCarthy.

It was a chaotic year. In February the Tet Offensive put the War front and center in everyone’s mind – and mostly in a very negative lighting. Sitting President Lyndon Johnson, his popularity sagging, announced in late March that he would seek neither re-election nor a nomination. That sent Bobby Kennedy – JFK’s younger brother – to multiple primary victories as another anti-war candidate going up against, mostly, McCarthy and Humphrey. Kennedy could well have gained the Democratic Nomination had he not been assassinated in June by Palestinian Sirhan Sirhan at a celebration in LA on the night he had won the California primary.

Earlier, in April, civil rights leader and pacifist Dr Martin Luther King was slain by James Earl Ray in Memphis, Tennessee.

On the home front more chaos: my parents’ sixth child had arrived in January.

It was now December. Nixon was president-elect, winning on a law and order platform, with a secret plan to end the Viet Nam war. Alabama governor George Wallace had run as an independent and scabbed electoral votes away from the, formerly, secure Democratic tally in the south.

——————————

Our dad was probably expecting a relaxing weekend. Each weekday he’d rise and leave early, — after enjoying a bowl of Rice Krispies and a quick perusal of the morning paper – and almost always work long days. Often he spent Saturday mornings at the office to catch up when there was not a kid’s baseball game or other family event to attend. But this was December – the printing business slows down a bit.

At home, the tree and lights were up. The presents were all purchased, wrapped and hidden away (little did our parents know that we older three kids usually found where they were hidden well before Santa arrived).

Yes, he was probably expecting a relaxing weekend. With six kids, my guess is that there was no way my mom would have any of my dad relaxing. I’m supposing she told him to take half the kids, any half, and go do some parenting.

As it was, the Stanley Kubrick movie – created with author Arthur C Clark – “2001: A Space Odyssey” had recently made its way to the Milwaukee area. My dad got the idea that he’d like to see the movie; since it was billed as a sort of metaphysical sci-fi thriller, he’d take the three oldest kids. I was 12; Beth had just turned 11; Julie was 9.

Scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey

Scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey

Up to that point, we’d pretty much been raised on plain vanilla as far as the big screen goes. Wizard of Oz, Marry Poppins, Nutty Professor, Batman, The Incredible Mr Limpit. I’d seen “The Sound of Music” by then, but had no idea what a dark movie it really was until years later. I thought it was just another cheesy kid-in-the-mountains movie, like Heidi.

Earlier that year the original “Planet of the Apes” had come to town. So my appetite had been whetted for Sci-fi and I was excited when dad told us, with little warning, that we’d be seeing “2001: A Space Odyssey” that night.

If you know the 2001 story at all, you know that taking three kids our age to see this movie is a mistake. Yes, it turned out to be an odd evening, and probably a mistake too, but not for the reasons you’d think.

The Fox-Bay Marquee, as she's looked for decades

The Fox-Bay Marquee, as she’s looked for decades

I can still see the Fox-Bay theater marquee on Silver Spring Boulevard on that dark December evening. She was brightly lit, blending in among the beautiful Christmas boughs and lights all along the boulevard; and there it was! … the promotion for 2001. I was very excited.

We probably bought some popcorn, maybe got some drinks. That was probably when my excitement crested, to be crushed only a few minutes later, after we’d luckily found four seats together. It would be crushed for most of the remaining three hours of the film, and not just because it had a scant 40 minutes of dialog.

I don’t think I’d be giving away any of the plot to say the movie starts out about a million years ago with a couple tribes of apes who don’t get along very well, don’t make many noises besides grunts, and are pretty violent. I suppose we are to understand this is where – and what and who – “we” the modern human came from. It is extremely boring and drawn out. Although the pounding drums for Also Sprach Zarathustra were pretty impressive, that was not the sort of thing I was there to absorb.

Right about this time one of my sisters spontaneously erupted. I don’t recall which sister. Julie? Anyhow, it was a genuine Technicolor Mount St Helens-type oral ejection. It included popcorn, and Christmas cookies, and dinner, and whatever other partially digested food was in her restive tummy.

Dad reacted immediately. With his well-trained look of grim determination, he escorted my sister (as quietly as possible) out to the restrooms. They returned a few minutes later (there was that large obelisk in the movie now – but no words) together with an usher who must’ve wondered why he was so lucky this day. Dad and the usher did their best to clean up the stinking putrid mess off the floor.

As pleasantly as possible, with the scent of vomit stuck in our nostrils from a cloud that would not move away, the obelisk is now flying into space. I am not enthused, but I am confused; and I don’t presume my excitement will return anytime soon.

And then – Excitement!! But not the kind you’d want. Mt St Helens had multiple eruptions in 1980: my other sister duplicated, as well as she could, her sister’s eruption.

God bless my dad. Next he takes both girls to the rest room. He gets sister-puker #2 cleaned up (Beth?) and settled down. Again he returns, two girls and the same poor sad-sack usher, to our stinking theater row.

When it’s more or less clean (but still stinking to high heaven) my dad whispers: “Joe, we’re leaving now.”

I would have none of it. This was the sci-fi thriller of the year, about to produce for me the meaning of life, and I was not going to miss it. It couldn’t be this boring and confusing for the full three hours, could it?

Did I say God bless my dad? Yes I did. He told me I could stay if I was sure that I was not going to throw up as well. He’d return after the movie was over (about a 15 to 20 minute drive from our house, as I recall).

And they were gone. I was giddy with excitement: All alone, unescorted and only twelve years old, in a crowd of strangers, in a part of town I rarely go to. It was almost enough to help me ignore the irremovable stench of vomit. Almost.

I waited for the movie to get more exciting, and to reveal the meaning of life. I tried to memorize the key parts of the movie so I could talk about it later. The missions to the moon and to Jupiter. The computer run amok. Something about Daisy, Daisy and a bicycle built for two. The floating fetus. The white room. The breathing. The multi-colored light-speed trip to … where did they go? And then, … and then the three hour movie was over.

As I walked out of the theater to the cold street among the crowd, I listened to the discussion. I was giddy again because I was now not alone: no one else knew what the heck had just happened, but all seemed to think it was pretty cool.

I stood mute and dumbfounded on the street corner near the theater for what seemed like half an hour in the damp Milwaukee December cold. Knowing my dad, it was actually probably about two minutes before the easily identified family “woody” station wagon drove up. He’d probably been there for 15 minutes already, driving around, trying to pick my coat out of the crowd. I climbed in.

Once we were safely into traffic, dad asked the obvious question for which I’d try to prepare myself: “So, how was the movie?”

I’d like to think I responded with something like: “I’m sorry dad. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Instead, I’m sure he heard the sound of a phone off the hook: a long pause, and then a monotone “Ahhhhhhhhh.”

After several moments he patiently tried to help me with a simpler question: “So, can you tell me anything that happened?”

I started babbling. I described the discovery of the obelisk on the moon, the mission to Jupiter, the floating fetus. A computer named Hal. I could sense I’d lost him. He was not following the story. Heck, nobody could follow the story. So I hummed a few bars of “The Blue Danube Waltz” … I didn’t know the name at that time.

Then I just stopped talking. So did dad. It was a very quiet drive home. This – this – was his “relaxing time” for the weekend. Now I wished I’d asked him how my sisters were doing. How was he? How was mom?

But I didn’t ask. I said nothing. He said nothing. All the way home we just sat in silence. Just like nowadays, when I visit him at Fort Logan National Cemetery, over in Section 52.

I noticed then, perhaps for the first time, that he was a very good driver. Just a few years later, he was my driving instructor. One Saturday we were out for a lesson, driving along Silver Spring Boulevard – I’m giddy in the driver’s seat, he’s on the passenger side – and I couldn’t help but notice the Fox-Bay Theater marquee up ahead.

“Hey dad! Remember that night you left me alone to watch 2001 …”

I was interrupted by a calm, yet stern: “Keep your eyes on the road, Joe. They’re stopping up ahead.”

He was a good driving instructor too.

Miss you dad.

Joe Girard © 2015

Autobiographical

Commitment Weekend

 

It never occurred to me that the glare produced by the sheen on my bald pate served as a great target.

Most universities have a recruiting event called something like “Commitment Weekend.” It goes something like this: admitted students who have not yet accepted are invited onto campus for a few days. They get to attend real classes, live on campus with host students, visit with professors and advisors, and get the feel of campus.  After a couple of days, the idea goes, the student makes the final commitment – “Yes, I want to attend here!”

By spring of his senior year, in 2006, our middle child had been admitted to (as I recall) some seven different colleges and universities, from coast to coast. He had not visited a single one. During spring break we squeezed in a quick visit to Harvey Mudd, an elite math, engineering and science school on the Claremont, CA campus – co-located with several other outrageously expensive private schools.

Our son, Mark, a habitual over-achiever, was insanely busy at the time. He carried AP level classes every hour of his school day; he was acting in theatre productions and traveling to compete on his high school’s drum line team. Why we wasted time to visit Mudd, which offered a paltry scholarship, is beyond me.

So it was to be some other school. I can’t even remember them all.  We had a single remaining weekend when Mark could get away.  Early April as I recall. That limited us to two schools to choose from: Lehigh University, in Bethlehem, PA; and Trinity University, in San Antonio, TX.

At the last possible moment we chose Trinity. Mark’s drum line team was in a competition in Greeley, CO on a Thursday, as I recall.  The wonderful Audrey drove him down US-85, where we rendezvoused in Commerce City.  I met them, my car packed ready to go, and off Mark and I went to DIA (Denver Internat’l Airport). We flew to Austin and drove the I-35 to San Antonio. [The over-worked Mark slept the whole way from Denver to San Antonio]. Inexpensive EconoLodge saved me a few dollars.

Friday morning began Commitment Weekend, or what Trinity calls “Trinity 360.” Mark would be taken away for the weekend, hosted by an upperclassman, and there would be parent activities for me. In fact, that very night the school was putting on a production of Cole Porter’s “Anything Goes.” Cool, very cool. I knew some of the songs, but had never seen it. Starts at 7PM. I went to the ticket counter and it was sold out; but there would likely be no-shows.  They’d open a waiting list at 6PM: first come, first served.

I quickly planned the rest of my day to be first in line.

After a couple of parent events (your child will be safe; San Antonio is a fun town; Trinity is in its own “bubble” within San Antonio, yeddah, yeddah – but I saw that Trinity is a wonderful and beautiful campus) I was off for the ultimate tourist trap: The San Antonio River Walk.

Trinity University is a lovely campus

Trinity University is a lovely campus

First open to the public as a scenic path in 1941, the original San Antonio River Walk was one of the last of the Depression Era WPA projects. As such, it serves a dual purpose. First, it addressed repeated flooding of downtown by the San Antonio River; an upstream dam provided flood control. Second, a small diversion of flow through the downtown business district promotes tourism and commerce.

I’d seen it once before. Coincidently it had to do with another more historic event of 1941: the bombing of Pearl Harbor. My wife’s dad, Art, is a survivor of that attack. He was a Radio Man on the USS California that December morning in 1941.  For the 60th anniversary a reunion of survivors was held in nearby Fredericksburg, TX. How glorious it was for us to see these survivors recognized as heroes decades later; history buffs poured in from around the country!  Escorting Art were his oldest son (Steve, Audrey’s brother), his oldest grandchild (Aaron, my son) and of course me.

The weather was brisk and cool, with occasional light showers. I caught a nasty cold at the close of the weekend ceremonies.  Then we drove over to San Antonio, about an hour away, to see and experience some history.

Early in the afternoon I spent most of my dwindling energy touring the Alamo with Aaron. So, that evening, I didn’t really get a chance to fully appreciate San Antonio, or the River Walk. I did find a pharmacy that sold throat lozenges though. We all dined at a restaurant on “The Walk.”

Well, several years later I got another chance to “do the River Walk” — this time in good health and in good weather. Here is my one word evaluation: Overrated.  The slightly longer evaluation: The water is dirty. The crowds are monotonously thick, white, and giggly. The few exceptions are dominated by military personnel due to all the bases located in and near San Antonio. It’s all dedicated to consumerism, with an evidently endless stream of pubs, shops and restaurants.

I grabbed a walking map and made it a goal to speedily perambulate the River Walk’s entirety, along all the twists through an amazing tourist trap … and finish in time to see the play.

The San Antonio River Walk

The San Antonio River Walk

It was a gloriously warm and sunny spring day. The Texas humidity wore me down a bit, but I wore comfortably light khaki pants and a weather-appropriate golf shirt.  In my haste I had neglected to bring a cap or hat; this is a precaution I usually take to protect my bald scalp from the sun.  No worry, I thought; I’ll make quick work of the famed “Walk.”

And so I did. I marched double-time up and down, through side-walk cafés and restaurants.  Past pubs, high end restaurants, low brow restaurants and plenty of trinket shops. The River Walk’s serpentine path takes you underneath many bridges that carry downtown San Antonio automobile traffic overhead.

The under-structure of those bridges serve as a perfect protected place for many thousands of pigeons to nest, perch, mate and generally be a messy, noisy, disgusting nuisance.

It never occurred to me that the glare produced by the sheen on my uncovered and bald pate served as a great target.  A pigeon poo target.

With an audible splat that tickled my scalp, I knew immediately what had happened. I had been crowned! Just ahead was an Irish-themed pub. I ducked in, went immediately to the men’s restroom and cleaned the mess off my dome as best I could.

The successful target practice cost me precious minutes. Triple-time speed marching the rest of “The Walk”, I made it back to my rental car and zoomed back up McAllister Freeway (US-281) to Trinity University campus.

Arriving at the lobby and box office outside Trinity’s Laurie Auditorium right at 6PM I was able to get my name at the top of the standby list for a ticket. I had an hour to wait. I decided to stay in the lobby, strolling casually around looking at the many fine pictures showing local history and displaying the talent of local artists. Gradually the lobby filled with dozens, then hundreds, waiting for the auditorium doors to open … or their name to be called. I kept walking around and around the lobby– doing several 360s, if you will – always keeping my face to the pictures on the wall, and my back to the swelling crowd.

Shortly after 7PM my name was called. I strolled through what remained of the throng, purchased my ticket, and found a fine single seat. It was about two-thirds of the way back, one or two seats in from the left side aisle.

Almost immediately I thought that I recognized the nearly bald, well-groomed, slightly stocky man seated directly in front of me. No, it couldn’t be him. He’s a bit shorter than I thought.

The play production was far, far better than I had expected. Like many musicals, the plot is silly, but – if they’ve survived this long – the music, singing and dancing are phenomenal.

As intermission approached I resolved to stay seated so that I could get a good look at the gentlemen in front of me as he arose and left his seat for a few minutes of leg stretching. Until then he seemed to be enjoying himself, just like a normal human being, although reservedly so.

Immediately after the final Act One number, the lights came on. People slowly got up to aimlessly mill about.  Is it him?

Yes. I could not believe it.  Karl Rove was sitting right in front of me!  In the spring of 2006, as the chief political advisor to President George W. Bush, Mr. Rove was certainly one of the most powerful political figures in the world.

I went out to the lobby for a possible closer look. There he was(!), chatting casually with a small group of folks (Friends? Admirers? Protectors from riff-raff like me?). It was certainly Mr. Rove.

I did not muster the gumption to introduce myself. But, rather, I stood a few feet away and slowly turned myself in place, round and round, multiple 360s, whistling softly and further admiring the pictures and architecture of this fine building…sneaking a good peek once per revolution. He probably thought I was a stalker.

The rest of the play went as the first act. Mr Rove directly in front of me. Each of us enjoying the production immensely, joining in a standing ovation for the cast at the play’s conclusion.

I couldn’t wait to get to my hotel room. I had to clean off that slightly “icky” feeling you get from carrying a layer of dried sweat all over your skin for several hours. Plus I wanted to give the top of my head a more thorough scrubbing. It seemed like a very long time for the crowd to thin out enough for me to leave, and also for the parking lot to clear out.

The first thing I did after the door to my hotel room closed was take off my shirt. As I put my hands on the back of my collar I felt something that was not at all like the lovely fabric of my golf shirt.  What I felt was a mixture of crusty and gooey.  And thick.

Holy Crap! Most of the pigeon poo had splashed off my head and run down onto my shirt! That must have been one very well-fed pigeon!

I thought of all of those 360s I had slowly turned, my back toward the nice people visiting Trinity University, … and I was showing them a big fat blob of pigeon poo!

And that is a Trinity-360 that will probably never be duplicated.

Here’s to commitment. And here’s a commitment I recommend: if you ever stroll outdoors where there are overhead structures … wear a hat!

Peace

Joe Girard © 2015

History, Sports

Morton: Hart to Smith

By 1950, the effervescent consumption potential of the world’s largest single national economy — the United States economy — had been restrained like over-carbonated champagne in a bottle for two decades. At first the role of cork was filled by The Great Depression, then the Second World War, and finally, by massive demobilization of the armed forces, and conversion of industry from war to a peace time economy.

That cork was creeping out, the bubbly about to spew forth. One way that was beginning to occur was manifest in the strong desire to live outside of the urban jungles; to move outside of the cramped, dirty confines of cities like New York, Chicago, St Louis. And yet, not move so far away that they couldn’t commute to the jobs that stayed in the cities … that is, commute via that great symbol of personal freedom of the era: the automobile.

In metropolitan areas where open available spaces were relatively close, brand new planned suburban communities sprang up in land that was previously agricultural, or wooded, or simply empty. The prime example of this was the Levittowns built by the  Levitt Company  in New York, Pennsylvania and New Jersey.

Some large cities had established communities – usually small simple towns or hamlets – that were only close enough to be suburbs when highways and expressways were built to ease motor transportation to and from the cities.

Welcome to Morton Grove (Illinois)

Welcome to Morton Grove (Illinois)

One of these towns was Morton Grove, Illinois, located some 14 miles or so North-northwest from Chicago’s central Loop. The Eden’s Expressway – which was soon incorporated into the Interstate Highway system as I-94 a few years later – ran north across Cook County, and by 1951 connected Morton Grove to Chicago.

In the decade of the 1950s the population of Morton Grove more than quintupled, from about 4,000 to over 20,000 by 1960. I was one of those “newcomers”; so were my parents, soon followed by two sisters. Just a few months before my birth, in September 1956, my parents bought a humble, tiny ranch home in one of those planned neighborhoods. It was my first home, my sisters’ first home, and the first home my parents owned.

Morton Grove’s population has remained relatively flat since then; I suppose we are part of the reason for that too. With a fourth child now in tow, we moved at Christmastime, 1962, to a suburb of Milwaukee.

The area that would become Morton Grove was first settled by whites of European descent in the 1830s by Germans and English. The population remained low, about a hundred or so, until 1872, when a spur of the Milwaukee Road Railroad came, thanks to the vision of New York businessman and financier, Levi Parsons Morton. The grateful residents named their locale after him.

[Morton would go on to serve as Vice President of the country, getting elected in 1888 with president Benjamin Harrison. Oddly, Morton would be much better remembered than he is – even better than the town that bears his name – had he accepted an earlier offer to run for Vice President with James Garfield, in 1880. For, in September 1881 Garfield was killed by deluded assassin Charles Guiteau. Morton would have ascended to serve as 21st president; instead it was Chester Arthur.]

After the railroad came, the Morton Grove area began to attract a few more settlers, and commercial businesses, including the Poehlmann Brothers greenhouse company. They achieved worldwide attention and acclaim when their Poehlmann Rose won First Prize at the 1904 World’s Fair, in St Louis. This would not be the first star Morton Grove sent to St Louis.

The community had grown to about 500 when it was formally incorporated as a municipality, the Village of Morton Grove, in 1895.

____________________________

A couple years before I arrived, another lad moved to Morton Grove, adding to its ’50s boom. James “Jim” Warren Hart was born just north of Chicago, in Evanston, in 1944. His father died when he was only seven. His mother remarried and they moved in with his stepfather in nearby Morton Grove. A bit on the small side for a football player, his stepdad encouraged him to give it a try – even forcing him out of the car on one occasion to partake in a junior football skills competition. Jim first started playing football as a freshman at Morton Grove’s high school, Niles West. A competitive athlete, Jim earned letters in baseball and track, although, conspicuously, not in football.

Undeterred, Southern Illinois University offered him a scholarship to play football. A small school that competed in lower divisions at the time, Jim was their quarterback for most of the years 1963-65, amassing, at that time, a school record 3,780 passing yards.

Coming from a small school, playing a short, weak schedule — and with a losing record — it was no surprise that Jim was undrafted by any National Football League team. He signed a contract to try out with the nearby Saint Louis Cardinals.

Jim Hart, St Louis Cardinals (Displayed under the Fair Use Doctrine).

Jim Hart, St Louis Cardinals (Displayed under the Fair Use Doctrine).

In sports, it is as near a certainty as possible that undrafted free agents don’t make the team in the NFL, especially at quarterback. Jim made the team.

___________________________

Jackie Smith was born in 1940, in southern Mississippi, in tiny Columbia (thirteen years later Walter Payton was born there). As a boy, his family moved a few miles south, across the state line to Louisiana, to another small obscure town, Kentwood, LA.

It was at Kentwood High School that Jackie ran track; he began trying out for football as a sophomore. Due to injuries, his entire high school football career amounted to a mere five games. Most of the time, he admitted later, his play was so goofy that the other teams never knew what he was doing. He didn’t learn any fundamentals of the game.

He was recruited to run track at Northwestern Louisiana State University (now Northwestern State University). They could only offer him a half scholarship. If he played football too, he could get a full scholarship. So he played football.

He did not have an impressive college career, but he displayed enough speed and determination that he impressed a Saint Louis Cardinals scout. They took a chance and drafted him in the 10th round in 1963. 10th round draft choices have as much chance of making the team as an undrafted free agent. Jackie made the team.

________________________________________________

By 1967, Jim Hart had worked up from sixth string to starting quarterback for the Cardinals. Jackie Smith was the regular tight end. Two unheralded athletes, with unimpressive football backgrounds, competing at the highest level of football.

Jackie Smith, St Louis Cardinals

Jackie Smith, St Louis Cardinals (Displayed under the Fair Use doctrine)

For eleven seasons they played together, putting up electrifying numbers. During this period they helped transform the game of football. With contemporaries like quarterbacks Johnny Unitas and Joe Namath, and other tight ends like Mike Ditka and John Mackey, they showed how exciting and entertaining a more wide-open style of offensive football could be.

Unfortunately, Saint Louis often had poor talent teams in that era, but with a wide-open air attack that thrilled fans (they were then known as the “Cardiac Cards”) the league saw what football could be. At that time receivers were mauled at the line of scrimmage, their legs often cut from under them at the line. Quarterbacks were regularly severely roughed well after the ball was thrown. Tight ends were for blocking.

Jackie Smith was strong enough and fast enough to block linemen and linebackers. Yet with his track speed he could get open, and with his soft hands he could catch passes. With his physical and mental toughness he punished defensive backs who tried to tackle him. This is the prototype of tight ends we know 40 and 50 years later, but it wasn’t always like that.

For three successive magical seasons, 1974-76, under head coach Don Coryell and his “Air Coryell” approach, the Cardinals won 10, 11 and 10 games; at that time the regular season was only 14 games. Still, the Cardinals only made the playoffs two of those seasons, and never won a playoff game with either Hart or Smith on the roster.

Jim Hart was inducted to the Missouri Sports Hall of Fame in 1998. He was a four-time All Star and NFL Offensive Player of the year, in 1974.

Jackie Smith is in the NFL Hall of Fame, the Louisiana Sports Hall of Fame, and the St Louis Walk of Fame. He was a five-time All Star.

If and when you watch a football game these days, and you see receivers getting open off the line, tight ends catching passes, when you see a defensive holding call on a receiver, when you see a roughing-the-passer call, know that this goes back to the Smith-Hart era, and other similar brave players of the ‘60s and ‘70s, who showed how fun and exciting a wide-open game could be – even when they got physically punished for doing it. It wasn’t until later that rules were changed to protect players and promote this more exciting style of football.

_______________________

I guess if there’s a moral it’s that your past doesn’t define your future. And anyone – anyone – can change the trajectory of history. Sports can be a great metaphor for life that way.

A corollary is that when choosing teammates, when hiring to fill a position, — and you have the long term in mind — choose for potential and heart, not for how impressive the resume looks now.

If there’s a second moral, I guess it’s that Americans’ appetites for excitement and freedom in life (cars, travel, suburbs) are reflected in their desire for excitement, creativity and freedom in sports, however they choose to enjoy them.

Wishing you peace and bravery. If you can have only one, pick bravery.

Cheers,

Joe Girard © 2015

 

[1] Jim Hart went back to Southern Illinois for several years to serve as Athletic Director, after a short career as a sportscaster. He remains married to his wife, his college sweet”hart”, for nearly 50 years.

[2] At the time of his retirement, Jackie Smith was the NFL’s all-time leading receiver for tight ends. He was only the third tight end inducted into the NFL Hall of Fame, after Ditka and Mackey. He’s led a quiet retirement, and started a small business building one-man fishing boats.

[3] This essay is a (very rambling) response to Adam’s comment to an earlier essay: Week in New England, and a Quandary

[4] The Cardinals moved to Arizona in 1988. The current NFL franchise in St Louis is the St Louis Rams.

[5] Morton Grove lies within Niles Township, and is/was part of the township’s school district.

Guest Essay, History, Politics

Dewey felt Bluey

When Dewey Felt Bluey (And Harry Didn’t)

Guest Essay. By John Sarkis 2015 ©

November 3, 1948 – 67 years-ago today, President Harry Truman boards his train at St Louis Union Station, and is handed a copy of the Chicago Tribune, bearing the headline, DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN.

Probably the most famous election headline ever -- Dewey Defeats Truman, 1948

Probably the most famous election headline ever — Dewey Defeats Truman, 1948

As the incumbent President, Truman covered more than 22,000 miles, making 271 speeches in his “whistle-stop” election campaign. But FDR’s previous Vice-President, Henry Wallace, had decided to enter the Presidential race on the Progressive ticket. And Democratic Governor, Strom Thurmond (SC), was running on the “State’s Rights” ticket, also known as the Dixiecrats. So with the party divided into factions, most polls and political pundits were predicting an easy Dewey victory. As a U.S. District Attorney, and later as special prosecutor, Dewey came to prominence by his pursuit of organized crime figures, Dutch Schultz and “Lucky” Luciano, as well as white-collar crime figures, including sending the former President of the New York Stock Exchange to prison. [editor’s note: Take that, current DOJ).

For those of us not alive at the time, it might be hard to understand, but Thomas Dewey was the American Hero of his day, considered second only to Charles Lindbergh in popularity. Several movies, and a top radio show of the day,”Gang Busters”, were modeled after his career. Having been the Governor of New York since 1943, he had been the Republican nominee in the previous election, which had been FDR’s narrowest victory.

After voting in the city of Independence, MO, the Truman family spent the night in Excelsior Springs, where Harry went to bed early. Based on the results available at that time, Truman assumed he would lose.

Editors of the Chicago Tribune assumed the same, and with their regular staff on strike, the first-edition deadline was even earlier. Managing editor J. Loy “Pat” Maloney had to make the headline call, and he relied on the record of Arthur Sears Henning, the paper’s longtime Washington correspondent. Henning said Dewey would win. When they realized their mistake, the papers were recalled, but it’s estimated 150,000 made it into circulation, including those headed to St Louis.

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John Sarkis posts regularly at the Facebook page for “St. Louis Missouri. History, Landmarks & Vintage photos”
John is a native Saint Louisan, is retired, and now lives in Kirkwook, Missouri, a suburb of Saint Louis.

Editor’s further notes: I know about the fractured ticket, the Dixiecrats and Dewey’s “Rock Star” status.  However, the strike at the “Trib” makes the story of the headline more understandable.  — JG

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, Guest Essay, History

Beautiful Miss Audrey

Beautiful Miss Audrey

Guest Essay.  By John Sarkis 2015 ©

Few today are familiar with the name Audrey Munson, but depending on your age and location, it’s likely you’ve seen her image hundreds, if not thousands of times.

Audrey Munson, the "American Venus"

Audrey Munson, the “American Venus”

In today’s terminology, Audrey would be considered a supermodel, and quite possibly, the first in America. Born in upstate New York, her divorced mother moved the two of them to New York City when Audrey was fifteen. After a chance encounter with a local photographer, she soon found herself modeling for the top civic artists in the country. And as a result, her likeness can be found in museums and municipal buildings around the country, on canvas and in sculpture. But it was Adolph Weinman who immortalized her. A sculptor by trade, Weinman produced two of the most iconic coin designs in U.S. history, using Audrey Munson as his model.

1916-S Walking Liberty Half Dollar, obverse (w/ Audrey Munson as Liberty)

1916-S Walking Liberty Half Dollar, obverse (w/ Audrey Munson as Liberty)

The Walking Liberty half dollar, minted from 1916-1947, shows Lady Liberty, draped in the American flag, striding toward the rising sun and a bright future. His other coin, which many mistakenly called the Mercury Dime because of its wings, was actually a Winged Liberty, with Lady Liberty wearing a hat with wings, symbolizing one of our basic rights, freedom of thought.

Utilizing her fame, Audrey went to Hollywood, where she starred in four silent films [1]. This was before the industry adopted the Motion Picture Code, and many films of the day, including Audrey’s, featured nudity. Which finally leads us to the local [St Louis] connection of this story.

_____________________________________________________________________

1916 Mercury Head (Winged Liberty) Dime, Obverse

1916 Mercury Head (Winged Liberty) Dime, Obverse

October 1, 1921 — 94 years-ago this month, Audrey Munson was appearing at the Royal Theater, 210 N. Sixth Street, St Louis, Missouri, where her movie, “Innocence” was being shown. The movie began by showing many of the statues for which she had posed nude, including some which had been exhibited at our 1904 St Louis World’s Fair. [2] Following each statue, were scenes of Miss Munson dancing, fully clothed. But in her personal appearance, she wore a gauzy drapery, posed on a platform under spotlight, in front of the screen. She remained fully covered until the last pose.

Seated, with her back to the audience, she lowered her drapery, exposing her back. She and the theater owner were arrested; the film confiscated. They were charged with conspiracy to commit acts injurious to public morals. Unbelievably fast by today’s standards, the trial was held later that week. After viewing the film, and hearing testimony, the Jury was only out five minutes before returning a verdict of not guilty. Afterward, Munson said, “Clothes we began to wear only when guile and evil thoughts entered our heads. They do harm to our bodies and worse to our souls.”

Sadly, Audrey’s life unraveled when she could no longer find modeling work, and the following year she attempted suicide. Spiraling into depression, she was committed to a psychiatric facility at the age of 39, where she remained for the last 65 years of her life. She passed away in 1996, at the age of 104.

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John Sarkis posts regularly at the Facebook page for “St. Louis Missouri. History, Landmarks & Vintage photos”
John is a native Saint Louisan, is retired, and now lives in Kirkwook, Missouri, a suburb of Saint Louis.

Editor notes:

[1] IMDB lists only three movies for Miss Munson, failing to include Heedless Moths, a sort of autobiography of Miss Munson herself (although she doesn’t play herself) and in which she appears in several scenes in various stages of undress.

Audrey Munson in "Innocence"

Audrey Munson in “Innocence”

The movie cited here (Innocence) does not show up on IMDB or her biography. But surely it was filmed and presented, for here is an advertisement I found from a 1922 Duluth, Minnesota newspaper, the Duluth Herald.

So, perhaps she was in at least five movies.

[2] Also known as the Louisiana Purchase Exposition.
Audrey Munson could not have posed for the actual statues seen at the 1904 Fair; she was only 12 or so as the sculptures were being made, and hadn’t yet been “discovered.”  As most statues were made of temporary materials, including staff, she had likely posed for re-sculpturing of many of them.
Munson did model for statues at the 1915 San Francisco world’s Fair, the Pan Pacific Exposition.

Guest Essay, History, Sports

That’s the $pirit!

That’s the $pirit!

Guest Essay.  By John Sarkis 2015 ©

October 17, 1974 — 41 years ago this month, The Spirits of St Louis basketball team played their first home game, marking the return of professional hoops, after the St Louis Hawks had moved to Atlanta in 1968.

Logo — Spirits of St Louis, ABA basketball franchise

Logo — Spirits of St Louis, ABA basketball franchise

I could mention the team’s budding young stars, as well as their misfits, or how it helped launch the career of their play-by-play broadcaster, recent Syracuse University student Bob Costas [1]. But in the stories I write, I try to tell of lesser known facts, that most aren’t aware of. So this isn’t so-much about the team, but rather, their owners. And what most — not only in the sports world, but throughout all businesses — consider to be the best business deal of all time.

Many who are younger, or aren’t basketball fans, might not remember when there were actually two professional basketball leagues operating in the United States, the National Basketball Association (NBA) and the American Basketball Association (ABA). The ABA was started in 1967 as an attempt to end the NBA’s monopoly on professional basketball, and at the time, posed a significant challenge to the NBA’s dominance. ABA team owners started an all out salary war by offering young players larger contracts than their NBA counterparts could afford, and introduced new ideas since adopted by the NBA, like the three-point line and the All Star Game dunk contest.

Brothers Ozzie and Daniel Silna were sons of Latvian immigrants who had settled in New Jersey in the 1930s. Their father ran a textile business which both brothers later took over, until they sold the company in the early 1960s. Ozzie and Dan then started their own business that eventually became one of the largest manufacturers of polyester in the world. Dan Silna, a lifelong basketball fan, attempted to purchase the Detroit Pistons for $5 million, but their offer was rejected. So instead, they purchased the ABA’s Carolina Cougars in 1974, moved the team to St. Louis, and renamed them the Spirits.

At the time, most ABA teams sensed there would be a merger with the NBA, and by moving the team to St Louis, the largest market without professional basketball, the Silnas felt this enhanced their chances of joining the enlarged league. But with attendance averaging about 2000 a game, and the highest salary structure in the sport, the team was losing money.

After the 1975-76 season, four of the former ABA teams were absorbed into the NBA, but St. Louis and the Kentucky Colonels weren’t included. Kentucky owner John Y. Brown took a $3 million settlement. But the Silnas bargained for more. To keep the St. Louis owners from fighting the merger in court, the NBA and the St. Louis team owners forged what turned out to be an incredible deal. The Silnas agreed upfront to a $2.2 million cash payment, and a one-seventh share of the TV revenue from the four ABA teams going in the NBA – the New York Nets, Denver Nuggets, Indiana Pacers and San Antonio Spurs. These payments would be made “in perpetuity”, meaning – FOREVER.

At the time, the TV contract was worth almost nothing. But with the sport growing in popularity, broadcast rights are now in the hundreds of millions of dollars.

They have no association with the sport, and most don’t even know who they are. But for nearly 40 years, the Silna Brothers have walked to their mailbox nine times a year to pick-up checks from the NBA totaling nearly $300 million.

Always a thorn in the side of the NBA, they have repeatedly tried to reach a cash settlement with the brothers, and last year, an agreement was reached. It was reported that the NBA would give the brothers a one-time cash payment of $500 million, to end the contract. [2]

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John Sarkis posts regularly at the Facebook page for “St. Louis Missouri. History, Landmarks & Vintage photos”
John is a native Saint Louisan, is retired, and now lives in Kirkwook, Missouri, a suburb of Saint Louis.

editor note [1] — Bob Costas did not earn a college degree, dropping out of Syracuse university, first to do broadcasts for the Syracuse Blazers, a minor league hockey team. His drop out was complete, when, at age 22, he got the opportunity to do play-by-play announcing for the Spirits.  A native of New York city, born and raised, he also considers St. Louis warmly as his co-hometown.  [St Louis Magazine, July, 2013: Q&A with Bob Costas, by Wm. Powell –> http://www.stlmag.com/Q-A-A-Conversation-With-Bob-Costas/]

[2] Silna-NBA Deal reached: http://www.newsmax.com/TheWire/nba-silna-brothers-settle/2014/01/08/id/545903/

Autobiographical, Current Events

Week in New England — and a Quandary

On October 3, my wife and I returned from a week in New England. Mostly northern New Hampshire, to be specific. Historically, that supposedly would be the pluperfect leaf-peeper week, or at least very close to it. Toward the end of our stay the crowds began showing up in great hordes, even in the remote areas of the White Mountains, thus giving that supposition some credence. Lamentably for us all, the dry summer and warm September seems to have pushed “peak peeper period” back a few weeks. Hence we saw lots of beautiful green leaves. And yet, in a few of the upper valleys there was enough leaf color to give a hint of how spectacular it can be.

Along the Kancamagus Highway, White Mountains, NH

Along the Kancamagus Highway, White Mountains, NH

 

Most of the locals seemed happy, nonetheless: seems like the Patriots’ 4-0 start had a lot to do with their cheer.  It’s always mystified me how a local sports team — with dozens of players and coaches and an owner making millions of dollars THAT YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW, but play in a stadium paid for by taxpayers— can affect the local mood just by winning or losing.

We not only caught the beginning of leaf season, but, as a bonus, we caught the beginning of presidential primary season. Since 1952 New Hampshire has held the first presidential primary in the nation.  Why?  Well, they like it that way.  So much so, that it is a state law that they must be first! Indeed, the “New Hampster” Secretary of State has the power (and the duty) to move the primary date, when needed, to insure their first-in-nation-primary status. For the 2016 elections the date is set for February 9th. Even though only a very few delegates for the summer conventions will be selected, New Hampshire is regarded as something of a bellwether state in terms of national sentiment. Maybe it’s because their motto is: “Live free, or die.” It’s fitting too: we came across quite a few liberals and libertarians.

Throughout the week I did an informal count of bumper stickers, yard signs, posters and buttons. Assuming that is a reasonable proxy for the nation’s bellwether:

I feel the change coming;
I feel the wind blow;
I feel brave and daring;
I feel my blood flow.

– from Weekend in New England, by Barry Manilow

Based on my informal count: “I feel the Bern.” Yes, Bernie Sanders. The 74 year-old socialist 8-term US representative and 2-term senator from Vermont had more visible support than all other candidates (Democrat or Republican) combined.  Maybe it’s spill-over almost-native-son appreciation for the guy from next door Vermont.  Maybe not.  By the way: Hillary had a big fat zero.

Over on the Republican side there was scant early visible support anywhere.  From what I saw, it looked like Carly well out in front, with a few stickers for Ben. (That’s Carly Fiorina and Dr Ben Carson).  Thankfully, The Donald also had a big fat zero. I do believe that none of those three have a snowball’s chance in hell of becoming president — although it’s interesting that the current top four polling Republicans (an orange-haired orangutan, a woman, a black brain surgeon, and a first-generation Spanish-speaking Cuban) demonstrate a lot more diversity than the top thee polling possibilities from the “party of diversity,” which has just three old white people.

Old White People lead the polls for Dems

Old White People lead the polls for Dems

Becoming president, I suppose, is one of those rare opportunities wherein what you say and do can have huge consequences. In the case of president, it’s how that country performs, and how that country is perceived.

Perhaps there’s an analogy in sports. Maybe once or twice in a long season an individual player will have a sudden opportunity to either: a) shine brightly, making the whole team appear marvelous; or b) fail to execute a basic skill or tactic, making them – and their team – appear ordinary at best, and pathetic at worst.

Since it’s football season I’ll bring up the ill-fated Jackie Smith and the 1978 Super Bowl. In the twilight of a Hall of Fame career, Smith finally got his one chance on the world stage as a backup tight end for the Dallas Cowboys.  Late in the 3rd quarter, wide open in the end zone, on a critical third down play, Smith dropped a perfect pass from Roger Staubach.  It was such an easy and critical catch.  The Cowboys lost the game … and that drop was one of the biggest reasons why they lost.

Which is a long way of getting to the quandary.  I’ve been in a few conversations with a friend named “John” lately. He’s been sharing his personal quandary that he’s been having regarding a friend of his named “Rich.” (Not their real names). It has to do with one of those rare opportunities we get in life wherein one simple act or choice can be a large statement of goodness and integrity, or a statement about mediocrity and hum-drum mushy morals.

John and Rich have been friends for a long time, and hold each other in pretty high regard.  Well, they held each other in high regard until recently; until Rich shared a “Jackie Smith” sort of story that has caused John quite a bit of anguish.

As John tells it, Rich has had a decades long very successful career in a lucrative and glamorous profession.  He was highly respected, well-compensated, and recently able to retire in his mid-50s with a nice retirement package plus a send-off bonus. He lives in a splendid home in a high end neighborhood, owning a house worth nearly 7 figures.  Rich recently unloaded an investment property scoring several tens of thousands of dollars more than he originally expected to fetch.  Things are pretty good for Rich, financially speaking. Among the lucky few percent.

Now it came to pass a few weeks ago that Rich told John a story that goes something like this: It seems that Rich was doing some home re-modeling and stopped by a major hardware store to pick up a large stock of merchandise. Distracted by a minor allergy attack, Rich did not check his receipt at all.  Once Rich had his car loaded he noticed that the checkout clerk had made a huge error: a bill that should have been around $2,000 was only about half that.  Rich had no compunction about keeping the money.

As Rich proudly told this story, John cringed internally. His mind ran wild for several days. “If this is what ‘good’ people do, what does this say about the human race?” — “If this is my choice of friends, what does this say about me?” — “How is this morally different than people who took advantage of the broken windows and rioting in
Ferguson to make off with stereos, large screen TVs and cases of booze?”

Eventually John confronted Rich and put the friendship on hold after hearing disappointing morally-ambiguous and squishy explanations.

What would you tell John?

I suggested he come up with a pro/con type of list.  He came up with a different list, which (as well as I can reconstruct) looked something like:

Regarding judging people

How do they act when they think no one is watching?

How do they treat people who can do them no personal good?

Don’t judge people based on their worst behavior, or decisions made at weak moments

Judge not, that ye not be judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged… Matthew 7: 1-2

Look for basic goodness.

In bad times, no person or no situation is as bad as it looks. In good times, nothing is as good as it looks.

I praised John for his list.  He told me it could have been longer.

I asked him if he valued friendships, and if he could be a better person himself. John answered “Yes, of course” to each.

“In that case”, I told him, “You hold the answer yourself. ”

Friendships are like warm pleasant autumns: there might be an occasional chill, but when they come to an end we usually miss them.

Peace,

 

Joe Girard © 2015

 

 

Edwardian/Pre-War, History, Sports

Olympic Lyon and Abbott

Olympic Reigns

Next August 6 through 21 the 2016 Summer Olympics (Officially: “Games of the XXXI Olympiad”) will be contested in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil — which is a bit weird, since it will technically be winter in Rio. This is consistent with other summer games held south of the equator. The 1956 games in Melbourne – the southernmost city to host the games – were held in November and December, Australia’s spring.  The 2000 Sydney games were played in the 2nd half of September, bridging winter and spring.

Toward the end of the Rio games the world is guaranteed a new Olympic champion in an old sport.  When the gold medal is awarded the moment should be extraordinary in a most unusual way:  It will likely represent the longest running Olympic championship reign to ever come to an end. And it might well remain that way forever.

I’d forgive you if you’re thinking of Usain Bolt (100-m, 200-m) or Michael Phelps (any number of swimming events) – but they might well win again, and their reigns would not end.

Think farther back.

You get points if you thought of Rugby, which has not been an event since the Paris games of 1924 (the “Chariots of Fire” Olympics).  That year the United States won the gold medal and Olympic championship, successfully defending the crown they had won in the 1920 Antwerp games. Rugby comes back to life for the 2016 Rio Olympics for both men and, for the first time ever, for women.  Even if the US men’s team manages to qualify for the tournament, it is highly unlikely they will successfully defend their 92-year running Olympic title. So, there will be a new champion, and that reign will come to an end.

Still, quite a few other Olympic events have been dormant even longer.  Some will almost surely never return, so those reigns will last for as long as there are records.  The Tug-of-War, a 5-time Olympic event from 1900 to 1920 (there were no games in 1916, due to the Great War), was won twice by teams from Great Britain, including the final championship, in 1920.

Two sports even more unlikely to make an Olympic re-appearance were last contested in Paris, in 1900: (1) Live pigeon shooting (won by Belgian Leon de Lunden), a ghastly, messy, bloody affair; and (2) Obstacle Course Swimming, won by Australian Frederick Lane.  We can safely assign the Olympics’ longest reigns to these men, … forever.

————————————-

Back during the Edwardian Era, in 1904, Saint Louis hosted the Olympics, prying the games away from Chicago well after the Windy City had been deemed the host city by the IOC and USOC (International and US Olympic Committees).  The short story of this Olympic host-city purloin starts with the award to Saint Louis the honor of hosting the 1903 World’s Fair, which they dubbed “The Louisiana Purchase Exposition” — to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the Louisiana Purchase.

But wait: 1903? The extent of the fair was enormous — it covered 1,270 acres and had over 1,500 buildings, including more than a dozen Palaces (just the Palace of Agriculture enclosed over 23 acres, equivalent to more than 17 football fields).  Yes, so enormous that the year of the Exposition was pushed back a year, to 1904.

At this point, the aggressive and ambitious leaders of the Exposition, led by accomplished and beloved President of the Fair, David Rowland Francis, lobbied hard (again) to host the 1904 Olympic Games, now to be concurrent with their World’s Fair. At this point Chicago had long since defeated St Louis for the honor of hosting the Games.

Francis was well-connected financially and politically: he had previously served as St Louis’ mayor, Missouri’s governor and as Secretary of the Interior during Grover Cleveland’s second term. Not just bluff and bluster, the Fair’s leaders credibly threatened to dilute the Chicago Olympics by simultaneously hosting World’s Fair Exhibition Games if their request was denied.  Eventually the IOC and USOC acquiesced.  Saint Louis got the games. Most events were contested just west of the fairgrounds, on the campus of Washington University, which was (and is) just outside the St Louis city limits.

The 1904 Saint Louis games of the III Olympiad were nothing like the extravaganzas we’ve come to expect over the past 50 years, or more. Now the games are over-hyped, over-marketed, and absurdly over-nationalistic. The Olympics then were still in their infancy.  They were innocent, simple, often poorly organized, and decidedly non-nationalistic.  Due to this simplicity, innocence and under-hype — and partly due to St Louis’ location deep in the American heartland — there was discouragingly low participation in the games.

Besides the Olympics, there were many athletic events held during and in conjunction with the Fair, and historians have had some difficulty ascertaining just how many events were actually Olympic events, and how many athletes, too. Adding to the confusion, there were Olympic Games that were more like demonstration events: the handicap games (where time or distances were added and subtracted based on athletes’ abilities, as in golf or bowling handicaps) and the very non-politically correct Anthropology games.

According to “1904 Olympic Games, Official Medals & Badges” (Greensfelder, Lally, Christianson, Storm) only twelve nations participated in what we’d call official Olympic “medal” events, and only 673 contestants.  For comparison, in the 2012 London Olympics, there were 204 nations and nearly 11,000 athletes represented.

A huge majority of the athletes were from the United States: 539 of the 673. A further 52 athletes were from Canada. In any event, the athletes did not represent their own nations anything like today; they represented themselves and their local sports or swim clubs. No national anthems; no flag waving.

George Seymour Lyon was one of those 52 Canadians – a businessman from Toronto, born and raised near Ottawa.  Although already 46-years old, he arrived with the confidence of an accomplished and natural athlete.  As a young man, he had held Canadian national records in the pole vault and as a cricket batsman. And he had demonstrated prowess in baseball, lawn bowling, and rugby. There is a lot of river ice in Canada in the winter: Lyon was accomplished at hockey and curling as well.

With great physical conditioning, concentration, and demonstration of eye-hand coordination in baseball, hockey and cricket – Lyon had begun playing golf relatively late in life, at age 38. By the time he showed up in Saint Louis, in August, 1904, he had already won an astounding three Canadian National Amateur championships (’98, ‘00, ’03 – he would go on to win a total of eight such national championships, the last at an astonishing 56-years of age).

Seventy-Five contestants were entered for that Olympic Golf tournament.  All but three of those seventy-five were from the US; the other three – including – Lyon, were from Canada.

The site for the golf matches was the nearly brand new course at Glen Echo Country Club, completed in 1901, just outside St Louis, in Normandy, Missouri. Well, actually, almost all courses in the New World were nearly brand new: Shinnecock Hills on Long Island was the first course in the US, built in 1891.  Chicago Golf Club, in 1894, was the first course west of the Appalachian Mountains.

Glen Echo Clubhouse, 1904. Converted from the Hunt Mansion. Normandy, Missouri

Glen Echo Clubhouse, 1904. Converted from the Hunt Mansion. Normandy, Missouri

The 1904 Olympic golf competition was an absolutely grueling competition, by any standard.

Day #1 was a 36-hole qualifier.  Players with the low 32 scores qualified for an elimination match play tournament: 36-holes each day. The finalists would have to play five more consecutive days.

Needless to say, Lyon qualified for the tournament, and over the period of 6 days he played 12 rounds of golf (two to qualify, and five 36-hole elimination matches), defeating men much younger than himself along the way, to win the championship and the gold medal.  Ever the athlete, he celebrated by walking on his hands through the clubhouse after the award.

Lyon’s is the only gold medal ever to be awarded in golf, since golf has not been an Olympic event since then, and the St Louis Olympics were the first games to award gold, silver and bronze medals for first, second and third places. [The winner of the 1900 Olympic golf tournament, American pro George Sands, one of only 12 contestants, was awarded a silver medallion, after a stroke play tournament of only 36 holes).

George S. Lyon, the only Olympic Golf Gold Medalist (until 2016, in Rio).

George S. Lyon, the only Olympic Golf Gold Medalist (until 2016, in Rio). Defending Champion for 112 years.

Olympic historians may well disagree that George Lyon is the longest reigning Olympic Golf champion.  It turns out that the 1900 Paris Games (also simultaneous with a World Exposition) held an obscure 9-hole golf tournament for women.  Conducted 30-miles outside Paris in Compiègne on a course laid out within a horse racing track – and so poorly organized that the ten contestants had no idea they were competing in the Olympics – the tournament was won by a 24-year old American, Margaret Abbott, with a score of 47 strokes. To underscore their ignorance of the significance of the event, many women showed up to play in high heels and rather tight skirts. I wonder what those heels did to the greens?

Since there was no women’s golf competition at the 1904 games (perhaps they decided that 12 rounds of golf in 6 days was too much), Abbott stands as the longest reigning Olympic golf champion.

Abbott, born in India, had learned golf after moving to America at the Chicago Golf Club.  She was in Paris with her mother at the time of the 1900 Paris Olympics and Fair to study art. She heard of the tournament and entered matter-of-factly.  In fact, her mother also competed in the event, finishing 7th – the only time in Olympic history that a mother and daughter have competed in the same event.

Fifty-five years later, at the time of her death, Abbott still had no idea she was an Olympic Champion.  At the end of the tournament she was awarded only a porcelain bowl.  As the games’ significance grew through the decades, Florida University professor Paula Welch spent 10 years tracking down her family and let them know they were descended from an Olympic champion. 1900 was the first Olympics with women’s participation; so Abbott is the first American woman, and 2nd woman overall, to win an Olympic championship. (England’s Charlotte Cooper had won the women’s tennis tournament just hours earlier).

In 1902 Abbott met and married humorist Peter Dunne while in Paris.  She also won the Femina Cup, precursor to the French Women’s Golf Championship.  Quite a year.  They then moved to New York, when, it seems, her competitive golf career came to a quiet end, partly due to a nagging knee injury she suffered in a bicycle fall as a child.

Margaret Abbott on golf course, circa 1904

Margaret Abbott on golf course, circa 1904

I can’t find what happened to Abbott’s porcelain bowl, but we do know that somewhere through the years Lyon’s gold medal somehow got lost.  His family and the Canadian Olympic Committee have pleaded for a new official medal to be issued, but it has been denied.  A duplicate medal hangs on display at the Rosedale Golf Club, in Toronto, only about 35-minutes from Canada’s Golf Hall of Fame, in Oakville, Ontario, where Lyon was inducted in 1971.

Lyon was also named to Canada’s Olympic Hall of Fame (in 1971) and to Canada’s Sports Hall of fame in 1955, coincidentally, the same year that Abbott passed away. (Lyon had died in 1938). If you wish to visit and achieve a two-for-one: Canada’s Olympic and Sports Halls of Fame are located in Olympic Park, in Calgary, Alberta (site of the 1988 Winter Games).

George Seymour Lyon's 1904 Olympic Golf Gold Medal

George Seymour Lyon’s 1904 Olympic Golf Gold Medal

Well, either way, the longest Olympic champion reign to come to an end will be in Rio de Janeiro in the golf competitions.  There will be both a women’s and a men’s Olympic competition for the first time in more than a century — and a gold medal for each. It would be nice if there will be tributes to Abbott and Lyon when it happens.

Peace, and … Fore!

Joe Girard © 2015

 

Notes:

  1. a biographical book (and possible movie) is coming out on George Lyon soon.  You can find out more here: http://www.georgelyon.ca/
  2. Lyon also entered 15 Canadian Senior Golf Championships (Presumably for seniors, from age 50 to 64).  In those 15 years he compiled a most amazing record: He won 10 times and finished runner-up 4 times.
  3. The Normandy, MO school district includes Ferguson, MO.

Acknowledgments: Thanks go to my wife Audrey and to Max Storm (Founder of the 1904 World’s Fair Society and co-author of the 1904 Olympic book cited) for reading and re-reading this and for making editorial and structural suggestions.

 

Miscellaneous resources:

http://www.womengolfersmuseum.com/Famousgolfers/AbbottMargaret.htm

http://www.georgelyon.ca/search-for-gold/

http://www.ottawacommunitynews.com/sports-story/5806459-richmond-born-george-lyon-only-olympic-gold-medal-winner-in-golf/

the search for Margaret Abbott, by Paula Welch: http://library.la84.org/OlympicInformationCenter/OlympicReview/1982/ore182/ORE182s.pdf

http://www.stuffmomnevertoldyou.com/blog/olympics-female-gold-medalist/

 

  • Chicago loses the 1904 Olympics: http://library.la84.org/SportsLibrary/JOH/JOHv12n3/johv12n3k.pdf

 

Autobiographical

Update

Greetings Readers,

Some of you have commented that I’ve not written lately.  In fact in the past 4.5 months only five posts have gone up on this site.  Three have been guest essays (by Ken Hutchison, my son Aaron, and an old rescued manuscript that my mom composed in 2000). The other two essays have been about some of the things going on in my brain.

It’s been 16 months since “the crash.”  I’ve been trying quite a few things to manage the headaches. Among them are some acupuncturists, several specialty massage therapists, and some medications. Also on the list was not writing much.

This is notice that the “not writing much” part is quite likely coming to an end — at least on a trial basis. I’m hoping to get back on some sort of modest publishing schedule.  I’ve studied the trends of headaches over the past several months and it seems like the only consistent helper is time.  Time and rest.  The headaches have generally abated quite a bit, although I’ve had a few significant flare-ups lately, perhaps not unlike the paroxysm of a star going through its final flame out.

I’ve gathered some thoughts and notes over the past couple of weeks and hope to have some new pieces up soon.

Thanks for your thoughts, expressions of encouragement and concern, friendship and patience.

I hope you all had a wonderful summer.

Peace,

Joe

Autobiographical

Box of Rocks; or: Ralph and Alice

Box of Rocks

or

Ralph and Alice, a sort of Love story

I’d been balancing rocks for about five weeks when the box arrived.

But first the balancing thing. In early June, 2014 — about one month after the May car crash that left my noggin a bit scrambled — I received an email with this link in it. It seemed like the right thing to try.

Girard Front yard, Erie, CO -- Joe's first "double"

Girard Front yard, Erie, CO — Joe’s first “double”

Becoming intimate with rocks provided me with hours of quiet meditation. Just me, the rocks and the demons whirring around inside my head. By the time I’d begun with the rocks I had learned that the odd headaches, the whirring, the buzz, the eye-tracking coordination needed for balance – all of these could go on for many, many months. Even years.

The balancing helped bring me to a place of peace. At first it was small and flawed stones. The smaller and the more flaws the rocks have, the easier they are to balance.

Last July 4th was particularly challenging. I obviously avoided the various fireworks shows. I still couldn’t take much stimulation. I walked our star- spangled neighborhood at dark, wearing sunglasses, with the constant bang-bang-bang echoing through the streets all silenced by my head-gear: noise cancelling headphones.

I found myself at a lot with a nice house and landscaping full of river rock. Lots of smooth large rocks.  I thought: “I could spend quite a bit of time here.” And I did. This balance at right was done in the dark, with sunglasses and headphones on… just by feel. (the camera had a flash…)

July 4, 2014 -- Nighttime balance

July 4, 2014 — Nighttime balance

Later in July our middle child was married. For the day before the wedding, my splendid wife Audrey organized and ran a wonderful picnic for all the wedding invitees.

Wise woman that she is, she knew that in Colorado a summer afternoon storm was likely; if not the rain, at least the wind would almost surely make an uninvited appearance. Winds could catch the tablecloths, sending cups, plates, beverages, bratwurst and condiments everywhere.

So she ordered a box of river rock from a landscape company. The rocks – after being appropriately decorated – would be used to hold down the tablecloths. Brilliant!

Several days before the picnic the box of rocks arrived. I took a peak. They were perfect samples of river rock. Simply beautiful. Just the sight of them excited a young, new, inexperienced balancer of rocks, like me.

Let’s call specimens of perfect river rock Ralph and Alice. Ralph and Alice weren’t born perfect. They are igneous, born of a volcano. Through their upbringing, they were literally raised up – riding high up through the interior of a mountain – through their eons of youth and adolescence. Finally, their days of freedom can begin: they emerge at the mountain’s surface in their young adulthood.

Like any young adult, they already contain the essence of their personalities. Their individual chemistry is complete. Their shapes are more or less final; although time will certainly change that, somewhat. As with any young adult, they have plenty of rough edges. If you casually brushed up against them you could be recklessly scratched or cut. Sharp hard ridges protrude all around them. There is nary a spot where you can contact them and not be bruised, cut or injured, unless you are very tender and careful.

But these are not the perfect Ralph and Alice – the perfect river rocks – we will become endeared to.

Over more eons Ralph and Alice begin their arduous trip down the mountain. Sometimes they tumble quite far all at once. As they collide with and bounce off of other rocks, some of Ralph’s rougher edges are broken off; some of Alice’s abrasive roughness is grated away. For a million years at a time each of them – Ralph or Alice – may lie in one spot or another, with other rocks tumbling over them. Through this process, many more rough edges are rounded off.

Eons and eons of wind and rain erode their rough and pointy abrasive features further. And then … they arrive in a tiny mountain stream. Glaciers come; glaciers go. Tremendous annual snowmelt washes over them, with tiny rocks polishing their surface.

Now it is possible to touch them without much thought — without preparation, without caution — and not get cut.

The journey is not over for Ralph and Alice. Eons of flooding and flow washes them; tumbling and rumbling they go into a mountain river. Here the flow is year round. Tiny stones, many invisible to the human eyes (not just because this is before human life) are swooshing along in the river like a slurry, applying a fine polish to any exposed surface all around Ralph and Alice.

Some years, the springtime current is sufficient to flip Ralph over, so his backside is also ground smooth. Other years, Alice gets flipped and turned over, over and over again, until she looks positively aerodynamic.

Finally, man arrives. Early man does not appreciate their endless beauty, crafted by an eternity – ok, not eternity, but nearly a rock’s full life – of slow, steady work. And so the work goes on, and on, and on.

Ralph is now so smooth that man can rub him across his face and detect nothing of Ralph’s original roughness. There is no abrasiveness; no sharp corners or edges. Or perhaps Alice could be drawn across a bare buttock and elicit a most pleasant reaction. Ralph and Alice are nearly flawless. There is not a crevasse, nor a ridge, nor a crack that the human eye — the human fingertip, the human buttock — can detect.

______________________________________________________________

First balance with box of rocks. Girard backyard.

First balance with box of rocks. Girard backyard.

A box of such rocks arrived at our house the week before our son’s wedding. Ralph and Alice, and lots of other nearly flawless rocks, lay before me … the new and excitable rock balancer.

To a beginner, balancing rocks with no flaws presents one of the greatest challenges. It challenges your patience, your perception, your concentration.

And such a challenge was just what I needed for my buzzing scrambled noggin. Alone that evening, for an unmeasured duration, I balanced lots of perfect little Ralphs and Alices.

At the time we were hosting some dear friends (we like to say that we go back to the war; and in a real way we do) from near Amsterdam: Peter and Audrey Kroesen, and their daughter, Aurora. My wife arranged for Audrey and Aurora to decorate the rocks so that they’d be ready for the picnic.

Each rock had a pair of google-eyes glues on, and each was embellished with green and white ribbon.

After all the rocks were decorated, and everyone had retired for the evening, I decided that I had to do a bit more balancing with Ralph and Alice.

Alone and in the dark, we patiently achieved the perfect balance … all was done by gentle touch.

Ralph and Alice's first balancing act

Ralph and Alice’s first balancing act

It took about an hour, but we attained culmination.

Hoping you all attain some balance in life.

 

 

 

 

Peace

Joe Girard © 2015  (with apologies to the memory of Ralph and Alice Cramden — the eternal Honeymooners!)

 

 

More pics.

First nighttime balance with River Rock -- before the "eyes" were added. There may not have been any "ayes" either.

First nighttime balance with River Rock — before the “eyes” were added. There may not have been any “ayes” either.

 

 

 

 

 

Ralph and Alice, the original Honeymooners (Jackie Gleason and Audrey Meadows ... RIP)

Ralph and Alice, the original Honeymooners (Jackie Gleason and Audrey Meadows … RIP)

A triple in the neighbor's yard. They did not like this and knocked it over the next day.

A triple in the neighbor’s yard. They did not like this and knocked it over the next day.

Guest Essay, History

Wesley Calhoun and the Panama Canal

 

                                                     by Milli Dersch Girard   ©2000

 

This past January 2000 my husband Don and I spent twelve hours traveling through  the Panama Canal on board the cruise ship  Sun Princess.  This piqued my interest in  the details of my cousin Wes Calhoun.

 

Orville Calhoun was one of my mother’s older brothers (she was one of thirteen).  He and his wife   – Lilly Corsby Calhoun – had three children.  The eldest was George Wesley, born October 9, l912.  Two sisters followed: Mildred in l914 and Elberta in l927. Their only son was always known as “Wes.”

Orville died in l930.  Wes enlisted in the U.S. Navy sometime before l932. He became a crew member on the BB Colorado (Battleship) in which he sailed in l932 or ’33 from San Diego CA around Cape Horn. He was privileged to go on liberty in many South American ports, and considered the best to be Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Earlier he sailed to China and southeast Asia. He was extremely proud of his permanent rank as Chief Boatswain’s Mate granted to him by an Act of Congress, which means it takes an Act of Congress to demote or “bust” him.  There were not too many of those appointments around.

In l934 Wes met and married Ruth Lebbin in Chicago. They subsequently had  two children, Patsy and Russell.

The Navy sent Wes to New Jersey  in ’37 or ’38 for “The Lighter than Air Service” in Lakehurst. Around l940 the USN was testing dirigibles to experiment with sea rescue. Wes was in that experimental sea rescue off the coast of New Jersey shown in newsreels at the local movie theaters. Radio and newspapers and the movie theaters were our only sources for the news in l940. We do not believe he was in Lakehurst for the Hindenburg disaster in May l937.

(My source for most of this detailed  information comes from Wesley’s brother-in-law Lavell Ferris, who was in Africa and Arabia serving in the U.S. Army  Air Force in l944. Earlier in Feb. l944 Lavell was on his way overseas when he met Wesley in Miami.  Wes was a Chief Warrant Officer at that time. Communication was difficult between the two therefore we’re a little fuzzy on some details of Wes’ whereabouts at all times.  Millie Calhoun Ferris, Wes’ sister and Lavell’s wife, passed on in l996.)

The U.S. Navy had provided well for this young little family – including during the Great Depression –and as WWII wound down Wesley decided to make the Navy his career. “He didn’t know what else to do.”

Sometime after serving in Miami in ’42 and ’43 Wes was sent to Panama, to the Canal Zone. Dirigibles were used all along the U.S coasts and near the canal for defense against submarine sabotage schemes.

US Coastal airships used to patrol during WWII

US Coastal airships used to patrol during WWII

As an officer Wesley’s duty did not entail checking the “bag” — the buoyant envelope filled with helium gas; however, he felt obligated to share the duties of his men periodically.  To do this safely you picked up a mask and then attached an oxygen bottle from the stack allowing you 30 minutes of safety inside the bag.  Although there was always supposed to be two in the danger area, Wesley went in alone; in any case, there was always an observer watching through a window.

Unfortunately the bottle he chose from the stock of oxygen bottles was nearly completely empty — poor Wes was asphyxiated! Evidently the last person to use it didn’t place it in the appropriate “Used” pile. Wesley was gone by the time the observers reached him! The date was December 2, l944.

Meanwhile at the same time that Wesley died in December of l944 other tragedies were taking place; the l06th Infantry was “nailed” down in Belgium. The Battle of the Bulge in Europe had the 101st Airborne hammered down at Bastogne where Patton had to go to their  rescue.  On Oct 12, l944 the Allies invaded the Philippines…so very many U.S. Servicemen were dying!

The Graves Registration Department — the people who take care of the name tags of the deceased — were overloaded and not able to notify Wesley’s wife Ruth promptly.  Compounding the tragedy were some of Wesley’s officers who, unaware of the overload at the Graves Department, began sending sympathy cards to Ruth.  It was some time before his Mom — my Aunt Lilly — and his sisters Millie and Elberta, and Wesley’s wife Ruth and their two children Patsy and Russell, were able to discover just what exactly had happened.

As Millie Calhoun Ferris’s husband Lavell, tells it,  “Somebody tossed the damn empty bottle down into the WRONG pile!” Someone’s fatal carelessness!

Not only was his immediate family proud of Wesley, so were his aunts, uncles and  cousins.

George Wesley Calhoun is buried in Arlington National Cemetery, Washington D.C.

 

Joe’s Notes:

Milli Girard, Joe’s mum, passed away in her sleep, in October, 2006. She is buried at Ft Logan, National Cemetery, alongside her husband of 51 years, Don Girard, Joe’s pop, who passed on in March, 2014.
Millie Ferris, my mum’s cousin, is also buried at Ft Logan, alongside Lavell, who passed away on Pearl Harbor Day, 2011.

In 1937, the USS Colorado (BB-45) assisted in the search for Amelia Earhart, in the Pacific.  We don’t have any tales of that either, so presumably Wes had left the deck before July, 1937 for his assignment in New Jersey.

WesleyGeoCalhoun-gombstone

Wes rests here, in Arlington, VA, in peace

Wes can be found in military records as Wesley G Calhoun.  http://www.mocavo.com/Wesley-G-Calhoun-Dec-02-44-Us-National-Archives-Gorgas-Hospital-Mortuary-Records-Index-1906-1991/17877024242333342095
Best I can tell, Wes was initially interred at the Corazal US Military Cemetery and Monument, near Panama City, Panama, on Dec 5, 1944.  Row 15, Grave 1. Records show an astonishing number of deaths there, at Gorgas Hospital in the CZ, during that time.  My guess is that many wounded from the Pacific theater were sent here and succumbed during treatment.
His final resting place is indeed at Arlington National Cemetery, Plot: Sec: 12, Site: 3845.

Autobiographical

What Dreams may Come

 

“To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life …”
– Hamlet’s soliloquy, William Shakespeare

Dreams. What do they mean? Most of the time, probably, nothing. Just a healthy mind having fun and being sporty while the body rests.

And yet … some dreams stay with us. Comfort us. Haunt us. Inspire us. Sometimes over and over again, they revisit us randomly in time, form and sequence.

I’m going to share three of my vivid and often recurring dreams. But first I’ll need to tell you why.

I’ve always had a fascination with the tremendous miracle that is life. Life is an innumerable collection of miracles; it is an awesome wonder in all of its forms.

Lately I’ve also had what could be called a fascination with death. Maybe it’s because I’ve realized that time wounds all heels, like me; eventually those wounds are fatal. More likely it’s because of several close encounters with The Reaper himself over the past year and a half, including the passing of my father, just days from the 86th anniversary of his birth.

I’d like to think that I’ve come to a sort of emotional and spiritual peace with the process. Part of this acceptance is that – I now believe – the mind must provide us a sort of easing through this passage via visions … or a dream.

———————–

Dream 1: The Monarchs

This dream is a repeated re-visitation to a real life event.

I am 4 or 5 years old. It is early summer. My dad is working in the yard, and I am “helping” him. He’s perhaps mowing lawn, trimming trees, pulling weeds. I am not actually helping, of course: only watching him model adult male behavior.

A butterfly appears. It is beautiful. It flutters by. I am enthralled.

Then another appears. Then ten more. Then a hundred more. A thousand. Ten thousand. Countless.Monarchs

Now I am frightened. The butterflies bounce off me – off my face, my arms. In my little-boy brain the terror switch flips. I look and can see only butterflies swooping by; my view is largely obstructed by butterflies.

My dad realizes what’s going on. He senses my terror. He comforts me.

With a hug and whisper he tells me: “This is wonderful. You are experiencing a rare and special moment. This is the migration (what does that word mean?) of the Monarch butterfly to Canada.”

(“Canada” was some exceptional land to the north – like Oz – where my mother lived as a girl. She spoke of it often. Yes, of course, butterflies would want to fly there so they could be with the little girls of Canada, like my mum when she was young).

In his comforting embrace, together, we enjoy the spectacle of a million billion beautiful little creatures in flight, on a mission. It lasts but a few minutes. It is a singular experience of a lifetime.

It is a vision and experience I’ve been able to recall consciously. And one that pops into my dreams from time to time.

_______________________

Dream 2: The Time Traveler

This dream is also based, I’m pretty sure, on a real life experience.

The real life experience: Way back in about 1990 we had only two young children. I was at work on a warm weekday summer afternoon. As my wonderful wife Audrey tells it, she was about to take the  boys on a walk in our quiet townhouse neighborhood. She was fetching the classic Radio Flyer red wagon in the garage so she could pull Mark, the younger – about 2 years old – when he got tired. Aaron – the older, about 5 – was “helping” her and Mark was at the end of the driveway, waiting.

The classic Radio Flyer wagon. Ours had a "license plate" with "Aaron" written on it

The classic Radio Flyer wagon. Ours had a “license plate” with “Aaron” written on it

Suddenly a sports car came careening and screeching around the corner, roaring down the street. Audrey was helpless as the car turned wide, missed Mark by only a few feet and disappeared as rapidly as it appeared.

Audrey had that moment of panic and fear that only a parent can feel. Her fear was palpable even hours later when she told me after I got home (remember: no cell phones).

The time travel dream. My dream occurs either moments before or after this event. It is lunch time and I am walking down the street toward my family. Instead of the young me (the virile me, the me with hair) … it is the old me. The “me” from whenever I have the dream: 15, 20 or 25 years later. In my dream, I have time traveled to this exact day and minute for a reason.

My face is time worn. My hair is spotty and silvery. I walk slowly. I have the knowledge of all the hard times that my wife will endure from that moment in 1990 until the time of the dream. The countless surgeries, accidents, illnesses, disappointments, careless and thoughtless mistakes. Our arguments. Our enduring love and commitment.

She looks at me and recognizes me, – and she recognizes that something is off. “Joe? Did you come home for lunch? Is that you?”

I have only a few moments to comfort her. I am permitted but few words to give her a comfort that will last decades. I take off my hat and get up close so she can see that I am the Joe from the future, decades hence.

“No, I’m still at work. This is the me from far in the future. I’ve come to tell you something. Listen closely and never forget. Everything – EVERYTHING – will be OK.”

One last moment for us to exchange the-look-of-love. She is young and as beautiful as I remember her, even though a little scared. I am old, and saggy, and slow moving. It’s time for my exit.

“I have to go. I love you.”

I turn around and walk away. I’m not permitted so much as a glance back over my shoulder. I’m hoping and praying that I’ve made the most of our brief miraculous encounter. I just walk away and neither of us say anything more. And then … I … just … slowly … melt … away.

 

___________________

Dream 3: The Park

This recent recurring dream has no such direct link to a specific real experience. And still, it haunts me.

Of course we’ve had a third child. Although now 23, in the dream that child is about three years old. I take a summer afternoon off work to take him to a local park. For some reason, it is the Old Joe, about the age I am now, not the Young me when our son, Kurt, was three years old, around 1995. The park bears a strong resemblance to Scott Carpenter Park, in Boulder, CO.

Carpenter Park, Boulder, CO -- named for one of the original 7 astronauts, and Boulder native, Scott Carpenter

Carpenter Park, Boulder, CO — named for one of the original 7 astronauts, and Boulder native, Scott Carpenter

We climb on monkey bars and on the rocket. We bounce on see-saws. I push him on the swings. What a beautiful, glorious day. We are both gleeful. Almost delirious. But it gets better.

More people show up. Dozens more. A tent goes up. Then hundreds more people with children appear. Clowns with painted faces, bright clothes and bright hair begin entertaining the countless children. There are brightly colored balloons, banners and clothes everywhere. The tent and banners have purple and pink polka dots. On a bandstand a musical group is playing delightful children’s music.

What a pleasant surprise! How were we so lucky to happen across this festival? Everybody is so interesting and having a good time. We are meeting such interesting people. And then, …

And then every parent’s greatest fear. My child!!! I can’t see, I can’t hear, I can’t find my child. And I’m in a huge crowd of complete strangers.

I try to yell out my child’s name: “Kurt”, but the name catches in my throat – “K—kkk!!!!!!!”

“Where are you?!?!!?”

No one is paying attention.

Over and over I try: “K—!!! Kkkkk!!!!”

If I whisper ever so softly, I can say it: Kurt!!! But no one hears that.

My child is nowhere. Lost in the enormous ever expanding crowd.

Frantically I run from person to person. Few seem to care. They ask what does my child look like? What was it wearing? “Oh shit. What was he wearing? Bright clothing. But everyone has bright clothing.”

I try to find someone in authority. I try to recruit people to set up a perimeter so that children cannot leave. In return for my effort I get – Absolutely No Cooperation.

I – have – TOTALLY – screwed up. Royally.

My child is gone. I am not capable of saying their name, nor even describing them.

But – everyone else is having such a wonderful day. The sun is out, the music is gay and all the colors are bright.

I am sweating and crying … and gasping and thrashing. What a way to wake up.

_____________________________

When I die, I’m really hoping for some version of the first two dreams.

monarch_butterflyPerhaps, if I’m lucky, when I pass, it will go like this: A monarch butterfly lights gently on my hand.  How lovely.  The monarch metamorphoses into my dad.  Not the old frail man of recent years, but the young virile 30-something stud who patiently modeled and taught me important things.  He comforts me, hugs me, and then whispers ever so gently … he explains that I’m experiencing a rare and wonderful once-in-a-lifetime event. Everything will be OK.

Joe Girard © 2015

Autobiographical, Guest Essay

Time Wounds all Steeled Memories

Guest Essay by Ken Hutchison

Dateline May 14, 2015: Random Memories

__________________________________________

418 W. 6th Avenue, Pueblo, Colorado. 1969

I was probably around seven or so when Dad bought the property at the above listed address. On it sat an old dilapidated house. The paint was gone; elm trees grew out of the cracks in the foundation. I was dumbfounded by that as boy. It didn’t seem possible. Trees grew out of dirt, not concrete. Elms, I’ve discovered, grow out of anything. Even in Pueblo.

This was the location of the new Hutchison Pest Control. It was going to be a gleaming cinder block building with two garages and plenty of parking. Now, his old business was in the office of an abandoned grain elevator down across from the Pueblo Tent and Awning Company. Almost as ghetto as it can get. Just off the highway, small, dingy, and just down the street from some of the best steelworker bars known to mankind. But not a place where you went at night.

On this particular morning a group of us had assembled next to the house. The gigantic yellow backhoe was sitting on the vacant land next door, salivating hydraulic fluid as if it was hungry. The death of the dilapidated structure of wood was imminent. Dad came over with a brick. He got down on one knee to be at eye level with me. “Okay, son, this is your chance. You can break every window in this house and not get in trouble. Here you go…”, and the brick — this big heavy brick — was placed in my hands. It was rough, used, and had some left over mortar from its prior life.

I stepped up to the side of the house, placed my feet about five feet away from the house, and threw that sucker as hard as I could at the window.

Where it hit and fell to the ground with a thud that hung in the air like a pickled egg and beer fart.

Leaving the pane of glass in place.

The construction workers — or I guess destruction workers for lack of a more appropriate name — broke into laughter. I stared at the brick for a few seconds in disbelief. I didn’t understand. The brick hit the glass at a perfectly direct angle and the impact was distributed evenly. The tremendous throwing arm of a kindergartener didn’t help the cause at all. All of the big burly workers pointing and laughed.

I turned to my Dad, (who I’m sure had an internal laugh at my expense); the expression on my face must have been “help”. The old lower lip tremble pre-cry expression must have been on my face. He came over, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Let’s try that again, son. Throw it like this…”. And he tossed it.

My memory shows the brick flying in slow motion. Sort of like the super cliché scene in movies where the actor is walking away from the bad guys house when he flips his cigarette over his shoulder into the gasoline, never bothering to look back. (seriously, they never even flinch a little…right). The impact was, well, shattering.

Dad picked up another brick. This time it was a broken one. A “bantam-size” window breaker if you will. And I nailed that bitch right in the center. This time, baked clay won over fifty year old fused silica. That sucka was destroyed.

Dad and I proceeded to take care of all the windows before the Cat fired up his diesel engine and reduced the house to splinters in minutes. It was a bonding moment I’ve never forgotten.

A couple of years ago, I went by the old office. It’s empty. A faded “For Lease” sign in the window, phone number barely legible. I walked around the side, standing where I had stood some 45 years earlier. It was a lot smaller than I remember.

And then I saw this next door.

Ye Old HPC building, Pueblo, CO

Ye Old HPC building, Pueblo, CO

The sadness overwhelmed me. I couldn’t even photograph the old HPC storefront. What was once a gleaming clean proud new building was ghetto, just like his old one…

That was down near skid row.

Ken Hutchison © 2015

______________________________

Thanks Ken. I ever-so-gently edited this -JG

You can email Ken at  ==> Email Ken H

Autobiographical, Guest Essay, History

ANZAC Day

Dateline: Saturday, April 25, 2015

Guest essay by Aaron Girard

ANZAC1

ANZAC Memorial

100th anniversary of ANZAC in Perth

Today is the holiday in Australia to commemorate the men and women who have served in the Australian and New Zealand armed forces. Today also marks the 100th anniversary of the Australian and New Zealand Armed Coalition forces landing on the shores of Gallipoli during WWI.

I was fortunate enough to be involved in the events today in Downtown Perth, which included a sunrise service at King’s Park and a parade down St. George’s Terrace, and included representatives from Normandy D-Day veterans to soldiers from the Afghanistan conflict. I must say that I was pleasantly surprised to see a wide diversity of backgrounds including Greek, Vietnamese, Korean, Malay, German, Bornean, Māori and Aboriginal peoples, as well as a representative from the Turkish government. It was an exciting experience filled with historical context and the chance to meet a cross section of the world’s population that I have never had the opportunity to mingle with before.ANZAC2

It seems like an appropriate time to remember my trip in December to the new ANZAC Museum in Albany, Western Australia.  One of the things I saw there gave me a very emotional moment. There was a plaque posted with a statement from the first President of Turkey, Kemal Ataturk (which you can see here).  It came to my attention that exactly 100 years ago today, Kemal Ataturk and Stanley Bruce, the future Prime Minister of Australia, met on the battlefield in Gallipoli, Turkey. When both of those men eventually became leaders of their countries, they met to proclaim governmental agreements and future peace, and exchanged gifts of memorabilia that they had carried with them on the battlefield, those many years ago. Until the day he died, Bruce kept that golden cigarette case as one of his most cherished possessions. Chilling and heart-warming at the same time, it gives an example of how things can come full circle and actually have a chance to work for the benefit of the people and countries of the world.

Interestingly enough, yesterday marks the 100th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide, as recognised by many countries in the world.  Also interesting is that the events that ocurred within 24 hours of each other on either side of the modern day country of Turkey are recognised very differently around the world after 100 years. If you are not familiar with the history of Armenia and the Caucasus region in general, I strongly suggest you read about it from multiple sources.  The region sits in the relatively small distance between places that you may know very well from modern events: Sochi, Russia; Mosul, Iraq; and Tabriz, Iran.  The region is smaller than Texas, for frame of reference.  So many different cultures, languages, and religions squeezed into a small area bordered on two sides by seas (Black to the west Caspian to the east) has caused significant hardship but also amazing historical figures and stories over the last several millennia.

In any case, I am not trying to profess or make political statements. I just found it very interesting how two similar events involving similar peoples on almost exactly the same day have such different outcomes after a century. They both were represented here on the other side of the world.  It’s a very interesting dialogue about how the world works, and I have not seen the two events remarked upon at the same time.  It also made me think about how important education of events in our world, past and current, is so important to how things turn out in the future.

Keep thinking and keep educating yourself and others. I’ll continue thinking and writing (this time I promise). 🙂

Aaron Girard © 2015

You can email Aaron ==> Email Aaron

Autobiographical, Generational, History, Sports

Simply Degenerate

Date line: April, 2015.

My wife and I made a little getaway to Missouri this past February. If you’ve been there in winter, there’s a good chance you’ll understand why I often call it “the state of Misery.” Anyhow, en route from Saint Louis to Hannibal we spent time in the formerly not so well-known — but now very well-known — community of Ferguson, Missouri.

Two rounds of riots there in 2014 resulted in multiple cars and buildings being burned. Businesses were ruined. These riots were the aftershocks from (1) the killing of Michael Brown by police officer Darren Wilson, and (2) the Saint Louis County Grand Jury’s decision to NOT indict said police officer Darren Wilson.

Ferguson Brewery, Ferguson, MO

Ferguson Brewery, Ferguson, MO

We found the community of just over 20,000 to be really quite delightful. Churches and grocery stores and homes of all sorts: like you’d expect anywhere else. We stopped in at the Ferguson Brewing Company, a cheery micro-brewery with a full kitchen and pub menu. There we enjoyed lunch and a beverage. The place was hopping, and the beers we selected were hoppy too. The patrons were mostly pale faced, but scattered about were ebony and ivory-skinned customers, even sitting at the same tables.

We made it a point to drive through the sections of town where buildings and been torched – destroyed by fires from the riots. Laundromats, liquor stores, auto parts stores, restaurants. Pretty much without rhyme or pattern, concentrated mostly in two different parts of the city. Actually, some destruction spilled over into nearby Dellwood, MO.

We stopped at the spot where young Mr. Brown was killed. Even in February, six months after the shooting, there was still a memorial to him there, on Canfield Drive, near Copper Creek Court.

We felt it important to spend some time there: to contemplate the location and its significance. It’s only a few blocks from the Ferguson Market, on Florrisant Avenue.

[What city has TWO major streets near each other with the same name? In this case “Florrisant.” Oh yeah, Atlanta. Almost every other street is named

Michael BrownMemorial, Canfield Dr, Ferguson, MO

Michael BrownMemorial, Canfield Dr, Ferguson, MO

Peach Tree.]

The Ferguson Market is where the petty theft – and physical abuse of a 120-lb weakling store clerk by 290-pound Mr. Brown – occurred that resulted in Officer Wilson locking onto a young man of Mr. Brown’s description. That theft occurred about 10 minutes before their most unfortunate fateful rendezvous.

This was all brought freshly to mind for me a few weeks ago during the NCAA basketball tournament. March Madness.

“What?”

Right. The College basketball national championship tournament. Why? Because white people riot too, and for really, really stupid reasons. Over and over again.

Kentucky was the odds-on favorite to win the championship. Basketball is religion in Kentucky. The Lexington-based school has won 8 National championship titles, including as recently as 2012. They’ve been runner up twice, including 2013, and National semi-finalists, an additional four times, to my counting at least, including 2011.

That’s a pretty impressive record, given that there are, oh, I don’t know, something like 400 colleges and university basketball teams competing at the Division-I level.

But this year they lost to Wisconsin in the National semi-final match. Which means if there are 400 schools, their basketball team is better than 398 of them. So what did their fans in Lexington, Kentucky do after the semi-final match? They rioted. Burned cars. Trashed buildings. Barricaded the streets. Fought Police.

Really? — Really.

And this is nothing new. Last year, 2014, Kentucky made it all the way to the National Championship game and lost to Connecticut. Guess what?

The fans in Lexington rioted.

Ah, precedence.

In 2012 Kentucky made it to the National semi-final. That time they defeated in-state super-hated arch-rival Louisville. Kentucky won the game. Win? They won? Yes, they won.

The fans in Lexington rioted.

Two nights later Kentucky was in the National championship match and won, defeating Kansas. This time another win!! A National Championship. Oh the glory.

The fans in Lexington rioted.

More precedence.

Back in 2011 Kentucky was defeated in the National semi-final by Connecticut (a bit of a nemesis) …

Yes, you guessed it …

The fans in Lexington rioted.

You know. Just the basic stuff. Burn cars. Tear down light posts. Throw rocks at police. Vandalize buildings. Mug passers-by.

You’d think the police and city fathers in Lexington would be a bit wise to the whole thing by now.

What is weird is that the fans are mostly well-lubricated white people rioting because the mostly black student athletes performed so well that their expectations were that they would win a Nation championship … or else. Or else what? We’ll riot either way.

In 2013 Kentucky’s record was not good enough to even get into the championship tournament (a fate that befalls the vast majority of teams). So, Kentucky pretty much sucked that year … at least by Kentucky standards. Guess what? NO RIOTS! Go figure.

White people rioting for stupid reasons (or no reason) is nothing new. Even in my current “home” metro area – Denver, CO – fans rioted when the Colorado Avalanche won the NHL’s (National Hockey League) Stanley Cup in 1996. Sure this was the first major championship in Colorado. That warrants a riot. (#sarcasm).

The next year the football Broncos won the Super Bowl. No riot. But then they won their second straight Super Bowl, 1998, … more riots. Really? Yeah. Let’s get really pissed and burn some sh*t. No riots when the Avalanche won the Stanley Cup again in 2001. A whiff of sanity.

They don’t riot for no reason in Milwaukee. Or in the whole state of Wisconsin.

I do remember the summer riots of 1967: Barricades in the street. Our humble suburb blocked off at the municipal city limits. Restrictions on gasoline sales: it had to go right into auto tanks; not into portable tanks. People who wanted to mow their lawn (pre-electric mowers) had to bring the grass-cutter right to the gas station.

A permanent scar on our country and on our memory. Newark, NJ, 1967

A permanent scar on our country and on our memory. Newark, NJ, 1967

It was a time of tremendous social unrest – upheaval – and Milwaukee was not spared. Those ’67 riots were not senseless or without reason. They were tied in with the civil rights movement, disappointment with lack of progress from the ’64 Civil Rights Acts, and the move toward freedom of expression, and of course the anti-war movements of the ‘60s. There were a shocking 159 riots in the United States in 1967. One Hundred and Fifty-nine. Mostly race related, they broke out in LA, Cleveland, Minneapolis, everywhere it seemed. The most violent were Detroit and Newark. Too vivid. Too vivid. I remember this gruesome Life Magazine photo from the Newark riots. Burned into my RAM.

The causes, racial participants, locations and provocateurs of these riots were far ranging. From Encyclopedia.com:

“… the year 1967 ended with a final act of violence in late October, when antiwar protesters from around the country moved on Washington, D.C. Those who gathered at the Lincoln Memorial on 21 October were largely white, largely middle class, largely educated, and formerly mainstream in their politics. But, when U.S. Army units met them with fixed bayonets, they took to the streets of the capital in an out-break of destructive rioting and constructive confrontation, and 650 were arrested.”

Fixed bayonets for those expressing freedom to assemble? Freedom of expression? Hell yeah, riot. We don’t turn the military on the public in the US. Riots!

Still, I don’t think that places like Wisconsin or Minneapolis have experienced totally pointless riots, like Lexington. And Denver. Maybe I’m wrong. But I doubt it.

I’ll get in trouble for this, but I can’t help but wonder if this behavior doesn’t carry some sort of genetic pass-me-down from each area’s ancestral settlers.

Wisconsin was mostly settled by the “quiet disciplined” sort. Mostly Germans. Many Poles and Norwegians. Some English, with their stiff upper lips. Work hard. Don’t make a fuss. Stick to your own business and do it well. Get it done and move quietly along to the next thing. “Don’t rock the boat” type of settlers.

Early Irish and Scottish immigrants to the New World were largely unwelcomed by the English and moved west, settling in the rugged Shenandoah and Appalachian Mountains. When the Cumberland Gap popped open they began moving into the territory that would become the states of Kentucky and Tennessee.

I’m not calling the Scots and Irish “rioters” (in fact, I love them, their culture and sense of humor), but they probably don’t have a reputation for spontaneously breaking into (a) drink, (b) song, (c) dance, and (d) fight for no reason. Germans, Poles, Norwegians … they just don’t do that. Ok, maybe they do the drinking part. ☺

Before I get in any more trouble, I’ll close with saying that Wisconsin lost in this year’s (2015) NCAA championship match to Duke University – after defeating Kentucky in the semi-finals. I’ll admit to being partial, but there were many questionable calls during the second half. It seemed that every 50/50 out-of-bounds ball was awarded to Duke, and Wisconsin frequently fouled Duke players with their chins, foreheads and eye-brows.

Nevertheless: There were no riots.

Wisconsin fans did not riot when they beat Kentucky in the semi-final, nor when they lost to Duke in the final.

For emphasis: Last year, 2014, Wisconsin made it all the way to the semi-finals, losing to Kentucky (by one point!, 74-73).

There were no riots.

Meanwhile, in late 2014, while overwhelmingly mostly peaceful riots were going on around the entire country in sympathy with the mostly peaceful protests in Ferguson, something weird was going on in Keene, New Hampshire. Keene State College – mostly white, upper class privileged kids – had their annual Pumpkin Festival.

Yes. You guessed it. … Riots broke out.

Riots broke out.

Drunken brawls. Random fires and mayhem. Burned and overturned cars. Vandalized buildings.

The media are deluding us.

Well, New Hampshire is the “Live Free, or Die” state.  Love the motto.  Hate the riots.

Wishing you peaceful, riot-free and headache-free spring, summer and fall.

Peace,
Joe Girard © 2015

[1] Encyclopedia.com: 1967 Riots. http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1G2-3401803621.html

Autobiographical

Old Faithful

Old Faithful

A normal placid trip through the canal takes, oh, about 24 hours most of the time. Passage requires transport through various locks; gates have to open and close.  It’s all pretty closely monitored with a computer and a closed-loop control system. Traffic jams are to be avoided; smooth flow for all cargo is highly desirable. Smooth, slow and steady wins the race.

Leisurely Canal Travel

Leisurely Canal Travel

Powered movement is usually quite slow and leisurely. That’s ok, because we really don’t want these things to move in a hurry along the old canal.  That can put stress on the system. It was designed for slow, almost casual, progress.

There actually are some interesting, um, sights along the way.  And some noteworthy stops as well.

The particulars of your genetic makeup, your lifestyle and diet can affect the time for passage through the canal.

For instance I — as an aerospace engineer who works on a secured campus where access to every building requires a computer controlled scan of an RFID security badge — well, my lifestyle includes a few cups of coffee every morning.  Also, lots of water and eight to ten servings of uncooked vegetables and fruit every day.

Consequently, a trip through my canal is usually only about 12 to 18 hours.  Of course, I’m speaking here about the alimentary canal. Yes, the old digestive tract, the canal that begins at one’s mouth, proceeds through several locks and gates, hits a couple lay-bys, and ends at … how do I put this nicely? Well, I can’t … it ends at one’s anus.

Thanks to the hydration, the fruits and the vegetables, the locks and gates for me are usually wide open.  To spice it up a bit: Beverages with caffeine in them are often nicknamed “Morning Thunder”, and for good reason. This means that sometimes the 12 hour delivery catches up with the 18 hour delivery, so it can be rather a significant cargo.

My office is in a building with two men’s restrooms.  When Morning Thunder happens – usually around 8 to 9AM – it’s simply astounding how often the first restroom I go to is closed for its daily cleaning.  I mean, what are the odds? I love the cleaning staff, but, wouldn’t 6AM or Noon be more appropriate?

Also – I know this is weird – why does this often happen to several people at the same time?  I mean, sometimes both restrooms are occupied.  As luck would have it, that’s usually when the gates and locks are wide open; the freight train is coming downhill, with a full load of coal, and the brakes are getting weak.

Runaway Steam Locomotive -- full load of coal freight

Runaway Steam Locomotive — full load of coal freight

I do have a recourse. The adjacent building has a restroom that has never, ever, ever, failed me.  I call it “Old Faithful.” There is a dark hallway in that building, just past the closest door to my building – it of course has a security badge reader — and for some reason no one is ever in it.  And I’ve never found the restroom in that hallway occupied.

I’ve only told one other person about this restroom, and if he ever tells anyone else about it, I swear I’ll kill him.

Often as I make my way to Old Faithful a remarkable phenomenon occurs: “Gophering.”  Or sometimes it’s “Prairie dogging.”  Just knowing that Old Faithful is waiting for me and my keister to rest on her wonderful seat in my moment of great need – in all my desperation and anticipation of relief – my brain and control system allow a slight, premature involuntary opening of the final gate.  Thankfully, Old Faithful has never let me down. Has always provided a safe port for that dramatic, last moment, splashdown.

A few weeks ago I had that Morning Thunder feeling.  Restroom #1: closed for cleaning.  Restroom #2: Occupied.  I always have a choice: I can cycle back to restroom #1, hoping it’s ready soon, then back to #2 (ha, ha, #2) if need be. Or I could go into a Ladies’ room.  I’ve never chosen that latter.

If I shuffle back to #1 and it’s still being cleaned, then shuffle back to #2 (ha, ha again) and it’s still occupied, I’ve wasted a full minute, and the freight is even farther down the chute, piling up against the shutter valve.

That day I needed Old Faithful. I could not risk the extra minute. The locks were flooded and the gates of final protection were losing their commitment to their sworn duty.

I commenced to do the penguin waddle to the exit door, so that I could then amble across the small parking lot to the adjacent building.  There would be good Old Faithful.

I left the building. As the door closed behind me I had a sort of vague uncomfortable feeling.  Something wasn’t quite right.  And it wasn’t just the onset of gophering or the shifting of my balast.  It was like the feeling you get when you leave the house and halfway to where you’re driving you get the feeling you’ve left something simmering on the stove, or the windows open, or the bathtub water running.

Focus Joe, focus.  You can do it. Penguin waddle. Only 20 yards across the parking lot to the next building and then a few more yards to Old Faithful.

Then that feeling agian.  And I realized! I realized that my security badge was not where it was supposed to be: on the lanyard around my neck.  No lanyard equals no badge.  Without the badge I could not get past the security badge reader into the building where Old Faithful awaited my dramatic buzzer beating appearance. In fact, I could not even return to my own building. I was stranded.  Stranded in the parking lot.  And I was absurdly desperate.

 

Panic.

I experienced genuine panic accompanied with acute awareness of my case of steadily progressing Gophering. Prarie dogging.  Please, God, someone show up and hold the door for me. Are there bushes near here?

Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.  Concentrate.  Squeeze. You can do it buddy.

Thirty seconds.  I’m pretty sure I’ll need to drive home for … um … a wardrobe adjustment.

That’s when I put my hand into my sports coat and found … ah ha! … my security badge with the RFID strip.

Why did I put it there?  No time for that thought.

Waddle.  Waddle.  Waddle.  Open the door.

Penguin squeezes his buns and waddles to Old Faithful. Oh, Old Faithful.  OH please!, Please Old Faithful, don’t let me down.  Please!

The freight train is now at the station.  There’s Old Faithful and her door is … ajar.  She is available for me.  Again.

Oh thank you! Shipment safely delivered.

That was one very special delivery.

Every single day is special, in its own way.

Wishing you peace and tidy, timely deliveries.

 

Joe Girard © 2015

Vowel Movement

Vowel Movement

Autobiographical, Current Events, Politics

Miss Buzz; Double Click

Dateline: April 12, 2015

It was quite breezy along the front range in Colorado today. A strong high pressure pushed air currents over the Rockies and pulled down some cooler Canadian air.

One of Zephyr’s effects was to tug at the many petals that had emerged these past 10 days or so, as spring had sprung to life.  I was noticing mostly the brilliant whites and pink blossoms of fruit trees, not to mention lilacs and many others. The petals, like mute winged fairies, floated gently, settling near their twiggy sources.

I recall last year about this time — when working on pruning some shrubs and doing some early weeding — that I heard a tremendous buzzing. Like an enormous joy-buzzer was going off in the neighborhood.  I could not discern its source, so I continued busily at my tasks.

After a few minutes of attentive listening while puttering away, the source become evident: our non-fruit-bearing apple tree only 15 feet away was in brilliant full bloom!  Upon it and about it were thousands and thousands of bees doing their business.

Busy Bee at work

Busy Bee at work

It was beautiful.  I moved myself right up to the trunk of the tree, leaning against it,  and enjoyed the sense of life happening all around me.

We’ve heard so much about bees being in great distress.  It was good to see them healthy, buzzing, making honey for their hives and maybe some Pooh Bear somewhere.  Life on earth would be so much poorer without the diligent contributions of the hardworking honey bee.

This year it’s been different.  As I’ve walked about the neighborhood and worked in our yard this past week I have heard no buzzing.

At first I didn’t think much of it. Then I guessed perhaps it was a sort of tone-deafness on account of the incessant ringing I’ve had (at just under 4,700Hz) in my head since the car crash, last May 1.

But no.  I’ve walked right up and into the branches of many full-bloom fruit trees. There are hardly any bees. On each tree I can find at most two, or three. No Buzz. This saddened me.

I’m usually rather skeptical to the insistence of greenies and tree-huggers that we have to do this, and do that, and sacrifice our way of life, in order to save this or that aspect of Mother Earth.

But the plight of the bees is, I believe, real.  Bee populations have been caving. Hive collapses (CCD: Colony Collapse Disorder) are epidemic. They’ve been overcome by parasites, most notable Nosema ceranae. Fungicides have made the problem worse; not necessarily by directly killing the insects, but by weakening their resistance to parasites. And insecticides have indeed had a direct effect; if not killing adult bees, then by killing the larvae who consume nectar from the pollen.

Agriculture in this country would take a horrible beating if we lost our bees, not to mention much natural beauty.

________________

I’m kind of ashamed to admit that as a young boy I would catch bees in jars, like empty Flintstone Jelly or Skippy peanut butter jars. Actually, I’m also kind of ashamed to admit that I ate Skippy.  But what did I know? I recall once proudly showing my mum a jar full of perhaps two dozen honeybees, and a few clover blossoms, in an old  jar. She was not impressed.

Wisconsin lawns were full of sweet, sweet clover.  And the bees loved it. It was almost unfair. Almost. When a wee bee lit on the little pollen laden ball-looking blossoms, I’d lean over, crack the lid of the jar, and slide it over the bee and blossom together … and into the jar they would go.  There may have been some informal contest between some lads in the neighborhood to see who could capture the most bees.  In the end, we’d set them free. We often got a sting or two in the process.

Later, with more than a twinge of guilt, I learned that honey bees die shortly after delivering their sting. So simply are they designed that they make the ultimate sacrifice just to defend their blossom, their payload, or their hive … which is pretty much all the same thing to them.

Catching Fire Flies was more difficult.  No sweet bait to lure them.  But it was more practical, no?  If you could catch a whole jarful you’d have a natural lantern for the rest of the evening.  Try as we might, it never seemed to work out that way.  My sister was better at catching fire flies: more patience. But at least we didn’t get stung. And no fire flies died.

I actually do miss the buzz.  The spring buzz.  Busy bees are buzzy.  And that’s good. But if the ringing in my head ever goes away, I won’t miss that [(it’s not really in my ears, but I “hear” it)].

__________________

Meanwhile, my knee replacement recovery is going well.  Of course, it’s not as quick or as continuously improving as I’d like.  It still swells and gets a bit cranky. The muscles are learning how to work with their new partner.

I had written just before the replacement surgery that my left knee — the one I called “Click” — was going away. [essay here]

Well, I have a surprise lately: new knees “click.”  Especially when climbing stairs, or when tired.  Turns out the muscles have to tighten up a bit after surgery and patients can experiencing clicking — even clunking — for a year, or more. Oh well.

Now I call my left knee “Double Click.”  Or sometimes “Click Two”; (or Click Too).  It’s like a whole new relationship.

_____________________

Today’s breezes portend things to come later this week. Some chilly, wet and breezy weather should bring much needed moisture and … gasp! … perhaps a few inches of snow.  A not uncommon occurrence in Colorado — April snow.  But it usually means bad news for all those white, purple and pink pretty petals.

Good news/bad news about Double Click: I no longer get arthritic pain when storms approach and descend upon us. That’s good, but I had gotten used to the extra warning.

Cheers and wishing you a healthy spring and a fruitful summer!

Joe Girard © 2015

Postscript update, April 13, 2015: The bees are back.  I heard and found them en masse during neighborhood walk today! Yay! Not quite as many as last year, but the apple tree in our front yard was abuzz this afternoon. (see photo below).

 

[1] http://qz.com/107970/scientists-discover-whats-killing-the-bees-and-its-worse-than-you-thought/

[2] http://www.beyondpesticides.org/pollinators/chemicals.php

[3] http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2008/may/23/wildlife.endangeredspecies

 

Bee on Blossom, Girard front yard, 4/13/2015

Bee on Blossom, Girard front yard, 4/13/2015

Autobiographical, Sports

Curly

Memories, by Joe Girard: June 4, 1976

Besides being hairless, Curly’s head was big and round, just like the rest of him.  Really big. Except for his ears and mandatory facial features, it looked rather like an oversized cue ball.

What the National Basketball Association lacks is March Madness.  Contrast the anti-climactic NBA tournament with the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA) tournament and it feels like a dud. The NCAA has a championship tournament that has tens of millions of people betting on filled-out brackets – with quintillions (ok, let’s say zillions) – of possible outcomes. And it’s over in a couple of exciting weeks. Most of them are pulling for at least one of small, even tiny, schools like Butler, Gonzaga, Villanova or Marquette.

No, instead the NBA’s championship tournament dawdles into June – trying to milk as much money as it can from TV and markets where teams have not been eliminated.  Instead of March Madness they have June Jive. By then, the thrill is already gone for everyone but the die hard fans.  It’s baseball season.  It’s golf season.  It’s camping and hiking and climbing and rafting and canoeing season.  The kids are out of school.  It’s travel season.

June, 1976.  I had recently finished my sophomore year of college at Arkansas State University.  My buddy Jim Price and I had already sworn off the NBA in general.  However, we were fans of underdogs like the Phoenix Suns – who were an almost brand new franchise – that had made an unlikely and unexpected run to the NBA finals that year.  We shared a dislike of perennial dominant teams – like the Boston Celtics, who were the Suns’ competition in the championship best of seven series. The Celtics had won the NBA championship something like twelve of the previous sixteen years. Oh, puke.

Now it’s the fifth game of the finals, and the under-powered Suns have somehow managed a 2-2 split.  Jim and I are hoping they can make something happen in Boston – in “the G-ah-den” – in front of what seemed like a zillion crazy, frantic, yelling Celtic fans. We watched on TV at my family’s house.

It was a miserable first half for the Suns.  I think they were down 20 points somewhere around halftime.  Discouraged, Jim and I turned off the tube and headed out to get something to eat, then go down across the county line to get some beer.  (Jonesboro, Arkansas, where we lived, was a “dry” county – Craighead county).

The closest liquor depot to us was in Truman, with several establishments just south of County Line Road.  Probably an hour after we turned off the tube, we ambled into Curly’s, a simple, low-cost, Quonset hut looking sort of place.

As expected, there was big round Curly, behind the counter.  Besides being hairless, Curly’s head was big and round, just like the rest of him.  Really big. Except for his ears and mandatory facial features, it looked rather like an oversized cue ball.

Curly’s back was toward a small crowd of customers, maybe four or five. They are all watching the TV.  Jim and I grabbed a case of cheap, cold beer and sidled up to the counter.

Curly still is turned away from the counter, and he’s still looking at the TV.

On the TV the Phoenix Suns and the Boston Celtic are playing basketball – on the G-ah-den’s distinctive parquet floor.

We elbowed in (since no one seems to be buying anything) and I said to Curly rather meekly (I’m only 19 … I’m not supposed to be in there): “Are they showing the game’s highlights?  There couldn’t be many highlights.  Phoenix got smoked.”

Curly turned slightly.  The twist of his head and the tone of his voice implied anger and frustration: “Overtime.  Double Overtime.”

Boston is clinging to a small lead with about one minute left in the second overtime.

Wow.  Jim and I have missed a tremendous Phoenix comeback.  Led by Paul Westphal, whom they had ironically acquired by trade from Boston in mid-season, they are still in the game, although trailing, 109-106.

But Boston cannot get it done.  At every turn that goes for Phoenix and against Boston, big, round ol’ Curly either grunts, yells a profanity, or swings at the air. This is Curly’s joint, and the small crowd seems to be populated by Boston fans.

Clearly I am in the wrong place.

Somehow Phoenix manages two unlikely buckets, and, with about 5 seconds remaining, they take a one point lead. 110 to 109.

Curly is furious.  Boston takes a time out. The “G-ah-den” crowd is quiet. Jim and I are smugly grinning away, wordlessly sighing our approval.  Curly takes notice.

The crucial moments:

The Boston Celtic’s aging superstar, John Havlicek, now 36 years old, takes a pass and finds a seam to his left; he tries a leaning runner from the left side of the lane while awkwardly lunging off the wrong foot – and it goes in!  The buzzer sounds and everyone except the Suns goes CRAZY in the G-ah-den. Boston wins, 111-110.

Except … something is wrong.  The referees are getting all the fans off the floor to re-start the game. They’ve decided that there is one (that’s “1”) second left in the game, and Phoenix had called a time out. “Mr. Clueless” Brent Musberger is mystified (no surprise).

That’s when Curly said it.  This is exactly what he said, in a smug, defiant, slow, jowly, Arkansas drawl: “Well, no matter what, I’d bet 100-to-1 that Boston wins this game.”

Hmmm. I thought. I shuffled a bit. Then I consciously poked Jim in the ribs with my right elbow while conspicuously pulling out my wallet and extracting a single George Washington adorned piece of cabbage. With Jim’s and the crowd’s attention on me, I slowly, yet flamboyantly, laid one dollar on the counter right next to Curly, with a loud “AHEM.”

Curly noticed almost immediately.  He didn’t carry a wallet.  He pulled out a huge neatly rolled-up wad of bills that he kept in the front pocket of his overalls. Then he slowly counted out five Andy Jacksons and laid them on top of my one-spot Washington.

$101 is on the counter for all to see.

At that point it’s announced that Phoenix called a Time Out; that’s how the clock stopped. But they had no Time Outs remaining.  That’s a Technical Foul.  The Celtics’ JoJo White sinks the free throw, and Boston is now ahead 112-110.  If possible, Curly’s cueball face and demeanor look even more smug.

But Phoenix still has one second left.

_____________________

Near the “top of the key”, the Suns’ Garfield Heard caught the inbounds pass as he turned, and jumped, and tossed an unlikely high arcing shot toward the basket in one continuous motion.  The ball kissed off the back of the rim and slithered  through the net as the buzzer sounded.

Tied at 112!

This would be Triple Overtime.  And through the rest of the game, at least five more minutes of overtime, there was a neat stack of cash on the counter as we all stood there at Curly’s Liquor Barn, eyes fixed on the little 12-inch black-and-white television.

Heard’s buzzer-beater shot has been called “the shot heard ‘round the world.” (“heard”, get it?). That’s saying too much and shows disrespect to the opening of the American Revolution at Concord’s Old North Bridge. However, it’s not exaggerating when that game is called “the greatest game ever played in NBA history.”

Even though two of Boston’s stars had already fouled out – Paul Silas and “cry-baby” Dave Cowens –  Phoenix lacked the firepower to finish the upset.  They made it close, but Boston won in Triple Overtime, 128-126.

We paid for the beer.  It was good.

I lost one dollar, had a lot of fun, and will forever have a fun story to tell.

Joe Girard © 2015

 

Notes:

[1] US Highway 63 between Jonesboro and Truman now by-passes the center of Truman.  It looks like most of those little liquor establishments like “The Cotton Club” and Curly’s are out of business. Curly’s building still stands … abandoned.  See photo below (courtesy of Google streetview).

Cur;ly's, 2015. Thanks to Google StreetView

Cur;ly’s, 2015. Thanks to Google StreetView

[2]  In 1992-93 the Phoenix Suns had their best season ever, led by new coach Paul Westphal – his first season as a head coach. After an impressive 62-20 regular season record, they made it to the finals again, only to lose (4 games to 2), to the Michael Jordan-led Chicago Bulls (the Bulls’ first “Three-peat”).  Since entering the league in 1968, the Suns have only made it to the NBA finals these two times, and have never won a championship.

[3] After writing the essay, I found this YouTube video of the last 19 seconds of the second overtime.  My memory is pretty good, although I’d forgotten about a fan attacking head referee Richie Powers. I was also wrong about how the clock stopped; it stops when the ball goes through the hoop.  The timeout (in exchange for a technical foul) was a clever tactic sometimes used to get the ball to mid-court for the in bounds pass.

Autobiographical, Guest Essay

Red Hot Chili Wrecker

From Random Memories, by Ken Hutchison © 2015

Christmas Chili Cook Off, 1988

Tonya and I were first married.  Our little house in Boulder had a small but efficient kitchen.  I sometimes miss it because everything was practically in arm’s reach.

I’d never signed up to do the cook-off here at work. I guess because I was in my second year, and had absolutely no idea that annually the machinists, engineers, techs, and all of the other people who are smarter than me toss various ingredients into saucepans the evening before the event, simmer the crap out of them, and the following morning place them in crock pots throughout the manufacturing building.

They’re placed strategically, so there is absolutely no escaping the smell, no matter how pleasing or hideous it may be.  But, when all of the smells were together in one area it was tough to tell the good from the bad.  Thus I had no idea of the wretched culinary abortion that I took into my mouth, known as “pheasant chili.”  I literally gagged.  Politely of course, since I was in a social setting.  That’s when I decided I could do better.

So, a year later, Chef Kenny is hard at work in the kitchen.  Slicing onions to Steely Dan tunes, chopping tomatoes to the Doobie Brothers.  Jalapenos were next, but I decided I needed a potty break.

I went in, did the ol’ #1, washed my hands, and came out to continue.  Then it happened.

The flaming pain began slowly in my pants.  “It” was beginning to smolder.  The wonders of capsicum. You see, we’re all taught to wash after going, but never before.

“MOTHER OF GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE?!” was the first thought that came to mind.  “MOTHER OF GOD WHAT DO I DO?” is what came next.  Actually, the “mother” part of those phrases was correct, the other words aren’t accurate.  I’m protecting you, dear reader, from my actual thoughts.

I shoved the cutting board aside, making dang sure that the knife was over arm’s-length away from me in case of seizure, which I felt was about to happen.  All I could think of doing was putting out what seemed to be an inferno inside my BVDs.

Water.  Water puts out fire, right?

So, I drop my pants, stand on my toes, grab the sprayer nozzle and begin to douse the invisible roaring flames, soaking down the counter, my remaining clothes and everything else around the area. This was sheer panic as it was getting worse, not better.  I wanted to get in the sink but there’s no way I’d have fit.

That’s when Tonya put down her purse and keys on the table behind me.

I didn’t hear her come through the door because of the water.  We’d been married for just over a year.  She thought I was doing some weird, kinky water sport.

I told her what happened.

When she stopped laughing — and that took a while — she called “Ask a Nurse” and put it on speaker.  I told the nurse that I’d burned my hands; Tonya’s laughing and yelling in the background that it wasn’t true, I’d burned something else.

I was told honey is the magic cure, but I’d probably want to wear gloves since it would stick to everything.  Tonya’s laughing even harder at this point, tears streaming down her cheeks as I’m shoveling through the cabinets in search of the little bottle shaped like a bear that held the golden antidote.

All I can say is it worked fast.  I ended up ditching the chili.

Jalapenos gave me PTSD: Profound Tortuous Self-immolation Directly on my manhood.

_________________________

Thanks Ken. I ever-so-gently edited this -JG

You can email Ken at  ==> Email Ken H

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History

ORD

O’Hare Airport, the main airport for the city of Chicago, is once again the world’s busiest airport. Most people who have traveled through, to, or from O’Hare have noticed that airport code on their ticket or luggage tag: ORD. It is one of the very few airport codes in the world where the IATA Code (International Air Transport Association) has nothing to do with either the name of the city or the airport.

O'Hare: every gate...jammed

O’Hare: every gate…jammed

______________________________________

September, 1956

Chicago is the city where I was born. Sometimes, when I’m feeling ornery or when I feel like I have nothing to do with the human race,  I’ll say I was “hatched” there, in America’s so-called “Second City.”  But “hatch” is a great disservice to my mother, who labored tremendously that Sunday before Labor Day, in the maternity ward of the now defunct Saint Anne’s Hospital. So I’ve made a note to myself to use it less frequently.

______________________________________

March, 2015.

101 years ago, as the dusk fell on the Edwardian/Pre-war Era, on the 13th of March, Edward “Butch” was born in Saint Louis, Missouri to a mixed marriage.  His mother was a German southsider.  His father, also Edward (hence the nickname “Butch” for the lad) was an Irish northsider.

As a youth, Butch was raised mostly in the Soulard neighborhood, home to arguably America’s longest continually operated farmers’ market — since 1779.  Decades before it was even part of the United States. It was also home to one of America’s largest breweries.

Butch’s father was an attorney who acquired the nickname “Fast Eddy.”  Butch’s parents divorced in 1927 — perhaps the nickname Fast had something to do with it — and Fast Eddy moved to Chicago to go to work for Al Capone and his mafia gang. Fast Eddy helped run Capone’s racing operations. And, as a sharp attorney, he helped keep Capone, his cronies and thugs out of prison.

Meanwhile, Butch and the family moved farther south in town, to the Holly Hills neighborhood, near the west end of beautiful 180-acre Carondelet Park.

In those days, Capone ran Chicago.  So Fast Eddy became rather wealthy, and he made it a point to share that wealth with his family back in Saint Louis. Their home even had an in-ground swimming pool. Butch became rather popular — with the pool and nearby park his home was quite the hang out place — and he grew lazy.

Legend has it that Butch’s dad, Fast Eddy, wanted to leave something more for his son than money.  He wanted to leave him a good clean family name.  And a chance to make a name on his own. And he didn’t want him to be lazy.

So, in 1932 Fast Eddy decided to turn himself in and turn state’s evidence against Capone; critical evidence that would ultimately help convict Capone. Eddy knew that he was risking his life in doing this, so, the stories go, he bartered something in return: an appointment for his son to a US Military Academy.

Fast Eddy had already helped straighten young Butch up by enrolling him at Western Military Academy, just up and across the river at Alton, Illinois.  In 1933, Butch graduated from Western and received his father’s negotiated reward: an appointment to the US Naval Academy, from where he graduated in 1937.

Fast Eddy — Capone’s erstwhile attorney Edward O’Hare —  was ultimately killed a few years later; shot and murdered in cold blood as he drove down a prominent Chicago street one night. Of course, the murder remains unsolved to this day.

His son, Edward “Butch” O’Hare ended up flying F-4 Wildcats off aircraft carriers.

The Grumann F4F-3

The Grumman F4F-3 Wildcat

Just two and half months after The Day of Infamy at Pearl Harbor, on Feb 20, 1942, — with the United States and its Navy still reeling from the devastation of that horrible December Sunday morning — Butch and all of the F4’s on the USS Lexington took off on a sortie. Not long after assembling and moving out, it became evident that Butch’s F4 fuel tanks had not been properly filled. He had to turn back.

As he returned to the Lexington he spotted a squadron of nine Japanese bombers. They were heading toward the Lexington and its fleet. Butch was the only flyer who was in any position to intercept them.

With the F4’s four powerful .50-caibre Browning guns, Butch shot down five very surprised Japanese bombers before running out of ammo.  (That version of the F4 only had 37-seconds of fire power.) With some fuel remaining, he tried to taunt and tip the remaining bombers with his wingtips.  Evidently he damaged a sixth bomber before the remaining bombers called off the attack.

Film footage from his flight verified his account. With those five kills Butch O’Hare became the first Navy Ace of World War II. For his quick thinking, bravery and for saving the otherwise unguarded Lexington, O’Hare earned the Medal of Honor, America’s highest military honor.

A year and half later, on November 26, 1943, Butch O’Hare was operating in the first-ever night time attack from an aircraft carrier. He was shot down; his body was never recovered.

St. Louis offered to name a street, bridge, or municipal building in his honor, but Butch’s mother objected, insisting that all those who perished were heroes. And there, it seems, Saint Louis’ effort to honor its native son ended.

The 54: over Chicago

The C-54: over Chicago

In 1942, the US War Production Board bought 1,800 acres of undeveloped Cook County prairie near the farming community called Orchard Place, a few miles northwest of Chicago. This nearly 3-square mile tract of flat land became the site of a huge Douglas Aircraft Company manufacturing facility to build C-54 transports.  Of course an airfield was required.  It was called Orchard Depot. Some history refers to it as Orchard Place/Douglas.

The location was also the site of the US Army Air Force’s 803 Special Depot that stored rare and experimental planes, including captured enemy aircraft. These were all later transferred to the National Air Museum, and eventually formed the core of the original Smithsonian Air & Space Museum’s collection.

At the end of the war, the land was turned over to the city of Chicago, with plans for it to eventually become Chicago’s main airport — even though Chicago’s Midway was, at that time, still one of the world’s busiest airports.

In 1949, due largely to a campaign led by the Chicago Tribune — and perhaps to poke a teasing blow at Saint Louis — the City of Chicago changed the name of the still small Orchard Depot Airport to “O’Hare Field, Chicago International Airport.” Since the 1960s it has been at or near the list of world’s busiest airports.

So there you have it.  The IATA code for Chicago’s O’Hare Airport that we see on our tickets and luggage tags is “ORD”, a carryover from its days as Orchard Depot Airport.

And O’Hare Airport — which has grown to over 7,000 acres — is named for a Medal of Honor recipient, a war hero, and son of a mafia criminal.

I hope you have a heroic year.

Joe Girard (c) 2015

 

Autobiographical, Guest Essay

The Dog Catcher

From Random Memories, by Ken Hutchison © 2015

Summertime, around 1997

I’ve stolen dogs. I’m not afraid to say it. Abused and/or neglected dogs that is. A Husky kept on a four foot chain in a dirt yard just disappeared. A little mixed breed in a dirt pen with two other big dogs that would turn on her when we’d walk by got a new home. But this one was a coordinated effort, and a complex one at that.

We didn’t know the dog’s name. The situation came to us by way of a co-worker. She’d see the dog chained 24/7. The family’s kids would play catch in front of it just to torture it, laughing at the poor thing as she’d try to participate and end up choking herself when the chain ran out as she ran for the ball. Retrieving was in her genetic pool, and she’d rather die than not try. The kids were Satan’s spawn. They didn’t realize that someone had noticed, and that their little pathetic shit-ass game was not going to happen anymore.

So, under the cover of darkness in the middle of the night the operation began. Our friend got the dogs attention with some lunch meat, got a leash on her, took a pair of bolt cutters, and severed her steel chain of torture from her body. The note reading, “Don’t get another one” was left to the tree under the chain.

By sunup she got the dog to us, where she was fed and watered. She ate so aggressively that we wondered how long it had been since she’d seen food. She was matted, filthy, and had her own waste woven into her own hair. Our dog Gracie engaged with her immediately, which wasn’t like her at all. She tried to encourage her to run around the yard, but all she could muster is a gimp, one of her legs seemingly injured. After a few minutes, we went up to the tub, bathing and cutting out what we couldn’t get clean.

That’s when we found it.

The clothes hanger.

Wrapped around her rear haunch. It had been there so long that it had rusted and slightly embedded itself into her skin. She growled and whimpered a bit while we took the wire cutters to it, showing the pain that it was causing.

Once we had it cut out we took her outside again. The girl went crazy, running all over the front yard with our little canine welcome wagon. She had a new lease on life.

After about an hour the woman from Springer Spaniel Rescue showed up. We handed her the hanger. She sighed and shook her head. Then she looked at the little girl below and said, “I’m gonna name you Freedom”.

I know she’s long gone by now, but I’ll never forget that spastic run around the yard.

It was a “Thank you”.

You’re welcome.

Thanks Ken. -JG

You can email Ken at  ==> Email Ken H

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History

What the H?

“H” is for Highway.  “H” is for “History”. And “H” is for … “Pittsburgh”?

I’ve never driven across Pennsylvania. If I ever get the chance, I’d allot ample time to depart the Pennsylvania Turnpike somewhere in the Appalachians. Then I’d pick up US Highway 30, head west toward Pittsburgh, and enjoy a slow unhurried drive.

I’d take in the scenery of the rolling valleys and ridges they call mountains. I’d take in the forests, the scattered small towns and the fertile farmland. And, of course, it would be a drive through history.

Along Highway US 30

Along Highway US 30

Heading west on the Penn Turnpike, just after Fort Littleton — and after descending Sideling Hill Ridge — there’s a break in the next ridge. That’s Ray’s Hill Ridge. It’s there that the Turnpike (I-76) is joined by I-70.  That’s your cue to exit. It’s a tricky double-looper getting onto US 30 near Breezewood – so follow the signs carefully.

Get on US 30 in time to see the Raystown Branch[1] of the Juniata River. From here, this branch turns north to feed the Susquehanna, which empties into the Chesapeake.  But we’re headed to Pittsburgh, where the mighty Ohio River is formed at the great river confluence.  That’s a whole different watershed (Mississippi vs. Atlantic), so we’ve got more hills to climb. [7]

Safely off the interstates and turnpikes, we’re headed on the highway through history, and trying to nail down that elusive H.

Just 40 miles through the trees and gentle Appalachian hills and we’re at the Flight 93 National Memorial.  Established and maintained by the US National Park Service at the crash site of United Airlines Flight 93, it is a tribute to the passengers who helped save the US Capitol, in Washington, DC, from attack on 9/11/2001. It functions not only as a memorial, but also as a classroom that honors those killed by terrorism on that day, the bravery shown on that day, and America’s enduring spirit.

Going back a bit further in time: this stretch of road coincides with part of the original Lincoln Highway, America’s first coast-to-coast motorway.  Conceived in the Edwardian/Pre-war Era, in 1912, with construction beginning a year later, the Lincoln Highway was one of the first really grand endeavors to link America’s appetite for free-spirited adventure with the automobile.

Lincoln Highway Historic Sign Marker

Lincoln Highway Historic Sign Marker

 

Coming sooner in our trip along US 30, but farther back in time, and we’re passing through Bedford.  Bedford is named for Fort Bedford.  A bit further along the highway, and soon after the Flight 93 Memorial, we’ll cross a ridge and drop into the Ohio/Mississippi basin. Soon, we’ll come to the small borough of Ligonier, which is named for Fort Ligonier. [4]

To tell the story of these forts — Fort Bedford and Fort Ligonier — we’ll go back a bit further, to 1707. But first, let’s stop at 1762, at Jean Bonnet Tavern, an establishment providing lodging, food and beverages to travelers across Pennsylvania since 1762.[2]  Located on US 30 just past Bedford on the way to Shellsburg, they’ll nourish you with fine local and historic cuisine – and impress you with an impressive selection of refreshments, including beers and ciders (if internet reviews are to be believed).

To figure out why the Tavern is there, we’ll have to continue back to 1707, before returning.

1707: That’s just at the same time as the formal union of Scotland and England into a single country: Great Britain.  John Forbes was born that year, across the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh, Scotland, in the lovely peninsula called “the Kingdom of Fife” and “the Birthplace of Golf.”  He was raised there, at the family estate, as the son of an army officer.

John became a military man himself. After a distinguished career he was appointed a Brigadier General by Prime Minister William Pitt (the Elder). This was during the French and Indian War [3] (1756-63), which was the largest fight for control of North America between England and France.  In 1758 Forbes was appointed the task of taking the French stronghold, far across Pennsylvania — across the Appalachians — at the head of the Ohio River: Fort Duquesne.

Forbes was a very practical and straightforward man.  The path from British-controlled Philadelphia – across the mountains – was difficult indeed.

Forbes chose this very route we would travel for his road. He chose it for its gentler elevation changes and few river crossings.  It would be called “Forbes Road.” Fearing loss of communication and supply lines, Forbes had strongholds built along Forbes Road, among them Fort Bedford and Fort Ligonier. So well-chosen for location – water supply and good transportation links through the mountains — that they became the boroughs [4] of Bedford and Ligonier along our Highway 30 path.

Forbes grew unhealthy as he led his road-building army across Pennsylvania through the summer of 1758. By the time they reached Fort Duquesne he was very ill indeed. His bravery and resolve through the illness helped inspire his men.

The British initial attempt to take the fort was beaten back by the French and their Amerindian allies.  However, it soon became apparent that Forbes had far superior numbers and a solid supply line: he could lay siege to the fort indefinitely.

Consequently the French lost their Indian allies and, subsequently, chose to abandon Fort Duquesne without further fight. But not before they had burned it completely.

Forbes claimed the strategic location for the British crown. He had the fort rebuilt and named for the man who had commissioned him: Fort Pitt.

He named the settlement likewise after Pitt, and sent him a letter informing him so. In the letter he spelled it in his native Scottish style: Pittsbourgh.  No doubt intending it to be pronounced like a Scotsman would pronounce Edinburgh: Edd-inn-burr-ah.

Forbes, now gravely ill, returned almost immediately to Philadelphia.  Unfortunately, he died only a few months later, aged only 51. [5]   Forbes Avenue in Pittsburgh was named after him, as was the baseball stadium Forbes Field, which stood from 1909-1971.

When the city was officially chartered by the state of Pennsylvania in 1816, citing Forbes’ letter to Pitt, the charter read Pittsburgh, with an “H”.

Well that explains how the “H” got in Pittsburgh, but that’s not the rest of the story. An earlier version of the Domestic Names Committee of the US Board on Geographic Names (see footnote 1) detested the “H” in “-burg” named cities.

In 1890 the H was excised, and – officially anyhow, at the federal level – the name was Pittsburg, without the H.  Oh those Germans must’ve been happy.

Oddly, beginning in 1817, when the official copies of the charter were made, the printers assumed there had been an error, and spelled it without the “H.” The Board on Names’ 1890 decision cited these copies containing the error as justification for dropping the “H.”

Famous 1910 Honus Wagner card; uniform without the H

Famous 1910 Honus Wagner card; uniform without the H

Strong-willed as most Pittsburghers and many Pennsylvanians are, they would not change the spelling. They put up quite a fuss. All city and some state documents and correspondence continued to proudly use the “H.”  So did Pittsburgh University and the local press. The Pirates, however, a major league baseball team, used the official spelling, sans H. (see photo [6]).

Well, the feud persisted, until , in 1911 (in the Edwardian/Pre-war Era) – after a reorganization of the US Board on Geographic Names – the government agency in charge of names finally relented.

Was it because of the obstinacy of Pittsburghers? Or was it because they’d been made aware of the spelling in the true copy of the original charter? Who can to say?  Regardless, the name was officially Pittsburgh, with the H, once again.

I guess it pays to be consistent (or is that persistent?) when arguing about silent letters.

 

Happy and Safe Travels

 

Joe Girard © 2015

 

[1] – Raystown Branch: The Domestic Names Committee of the US Board on Geographic Names does not like possessive apostrophes.  This river was called the Ray’s Town Branch until 1890.  Similarly, Ray’s Hill Ridge is now: Rays Hill Ridge. Hence: Pikes Peak, not Pike’s Peak, etc. Five such names have been permitted, including, most famously, Martha’s Vineyard.

 

[2] Jean Bonnet Tavern: http://www.jeanbonnettavern.com/

 

[3] French and Indian War, 1756-63: most non-American and non-British commonwealth historians call this The Seven Years’ War.

 

[4] Boroughs in Pennsylvania are akin to Towns in many other states.  Usually much smaller than cities, population is usually from a few hundred to several thousand.

 

[5] John Forbes

Forbes Trail: http://www.warforempire.org/visit/forbes_trail.aspx

Biographical notes: http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/usbiography/f/johnforbes.html

[6] A very rare baseball card indeed.  A whole story behind it. A mint condition Wagner card like this recently sold for $2.8 Million.

[7] Continental Divides of North America.  See the Eastern Divide in western Pennsylvania

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Old Maps

Lincoln Highway, 1924, Western Pennsylvania

Lincoln Highway, 1924, Western Pennsylvania

Early Map of terrain and Forbes Road, South Central PA

Early Map of terrain and Forbes Road, South Central PA

 

 

 

Autobiographical, Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History

About Us; About You

Writing History; Recreating and Creating History

My mother, God rest her saintly soul, took up writing the last decade or so of her life.  She made a serious study of it, even joining writing clubs and taking experienced mentors.  Over the next several years she crafted a series of essays about her life: from growing up on the plains of Alberta, to raising a flock of six wild kids; plus moving from Canada, to Chicago, to Milwaukee, to Arkansas and finally to Colorado.  Eventually she compiled a few dozen of those essays into an autobiography which she self-published just two years before she passed away.  I’m so very glad she did.

Many authors have written stories and essays by incorporating elements of their own life into their works, in semi- or even full-autobiographical form.  The characters of Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird” closely resemble herself, her family and acquaintances as a youth.  The fictional town of Maycomb, AL closely resembles her own girlhood hometown of Monroeville, AL.

Samuel Clemens’ novels – particularly those about Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer – include many adventures and characters from his boyhood hometown of Hannibal, Missouri – although he places them in fictional St Petersburg, complete with a cave.

The list of authors who have created this way is near endless.  Hunter S Thompson: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.  Charles Dickens: David Copperfield.  And we recognize: Aleksander Solzhenitsyn; Roald Dahl; Ernest Hemingway; Charlotte Brontë  Theirs are timeless and often moving works.

Question: Will you write about your youth, your life, your experiences? Our literary works don’t have to be moving or timeless; but we should all write.  Why? To express ourselves.  To leave a legacy to our posterity about our lives and our thoughts.  Somewhere in the decades and generations hence, a child or young adult descendant will wonder what their ancestors were like.  What YOU were like. Send them a message.

But don’t just make it up.  As Harper Lee said: an author “should write about what they know, and write truthfully.”

“Literature transmits incontrovertible condensed experience — from generation to generation. In this way literature becomes living memory ….” – Aleksander Solzhenitsyn

 

“Home is where your story begins” — Annie Danielson, Colorado CEO of the year, 2009

_______________________________________________

My dear friend Kevin Shepardson is now in a rehab hospital in Phoenix. Reports I get are that he is doing well; in fact – miraculously well.  Although now safe from terminal danger, he still has “a very long row to hoe.”  He has great loving support from his family and many friends.  Still, he can use all the prayers, good wishes and thoughts you can send his way.

I’d written recently that – until his New Year’s Eve day cardiac arrest episode – Kevin published a daily news letter, often with musical tributes to some event or holiday.  Each year in December he includes a daily musical tribute. Every day’s inbox has a new Christmas or Winter Holiday Seasonal themed musical delight, right up to Christmas Eve Day.

This past December 23 his musical selection was “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” – which has to be one of the saddest Christmas carols ever.

Just the title conveys a lack of joy: Little Christmas? It’s like you’re being spurned by a lover: Farewell shot: “Well, have yourself a merry little rest of your life.”

The slow sadness of the song is actually appropriate.  The lyrics — composed by Hugh Martin in 1943 — were for the otherwise cheery musical movie “Meet Me in St. Louis”, to be sung by the beautiful and gifted Judy Garland during the only really sad part of the movie.  The plot at this point has her family tormented by an imminent move to New York just as big things are happening in their lives. Young ladies are falling in love and the 1904 World’s Fair is about to occur in St Louis!

In Kevin’s Dec 23 newsletter, he described a bit of the song’s history.  It was originally even much sadder. Its lyrics went:

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
It may be your last.
Next year we may all be living in the past.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
Pop that Champagne cork.
Next year we all may be living in New York.

No good times like the olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who were dear to us
Will be near to us … no more.

But at least we all will be together
If the Lord allows
From now on we’ll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas … now.

(Most dreary lines in blue)

 

Wow. Makes me kind of weepy just reading and humming to myself now.

  • This Christmas “may be your last.” That’s just morbid.
  • “No good times”??? How sad.
  • “Faithful friends who WERE dear to us will be near to us NO MORE.”

Oh my.  No wonder Garland refused to sing the song that way.  She just couldn’t do that in the saddest scene in the movie to poor little 6-year old co-star Margaret O’Brien, who nearly stole the show as Ester’s (Garland’s) younger sister, Tootie.

Fortunately, the movie’s lyricist Hugh Martin eventually relented and re-wrote the song closer to the carol we know so well:

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light.
Next year all our troubles will be out of sight.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
Make the yuletide gay.
Next year all our troubles will be miles away.

Once again as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Will be near to us … once more.

Someday soon we all will be together,
If the fates allow.
Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow.
So have yourself a merry little Christmas … now.

Much better, but still rather somber when sung at ballad tempo, less than 80 beats per minute.  And it still has that line “have yourself a merry little Christmas” … and ends with “We’ll have to muddle through somehow.”

Muddle through?? Geepers. It was enough to help Margaret O’Brien gin up a few tears … to set her off to a fit of downright bawling – and destroying snowmen. And yet: It’s the original recording and still a very good one.

Well, there have been many covers of “Merry Little Christmas”, most notably by Frank Sinatra.  Sinatra asked Dean Martin to help him lighten up the song for his album “A Jolly Christmas.” It just wasn’t “Jolly” enough.

Martin changed the line with “muddle through” to “Hang a shining star upon the highest bough.” Dean and Frank made several other changes, which are shown in the notes below. You can hear it from the album here:  {Click the button or skip to 14:05 on the playback}

That’s a long way of getting to say this: Sally Benson’s story has had a heck of a ride over the last 111 years.  And … any way you look at it, we’re very, very glad this past Christmas didn’t fit the original two lines of “Merry Little Christmas” for Kevin.  It certainly was not your last, buddy!!  Stay strong my friend.  Peace and much healing to you.

_______________________________________

During World War II Americans craved entertainment that distracted them from the woes and worries of everyday.  Through much of the war, most news was not pleasant, even when the allies were winning.  For almost four years, US military service personnel perished at a rate of over 300 per day.  Casualties were over 800 per day.

The home front craved entertainment that had light, joyful stories that weren’t terribly deep. Something to take their minds off the awful news, both local and from around the world. Everyone was affected by death and severe injury in their family and among dear friends. The war was fought on the home front as well as in Africa, Europe, the Pacific.  So, who can blame them?

And the entertainment industry stepped up to meet those desires. Many entertainment creations of that era met these criteria. But two in particular share several remarkable coincidences.  These are the musical play “Oklahoma!” and the musical movie “Meet Me in St Louis.”

Coincidences?

  1. First, they are period productions, placed during jauntier times, in the first decade of the 20th century; during the Edwardian/pre-war era.

    • >“Oklahoma!” is placed in 1907, in Indian Territory just as Oklahoma is about to become the 46th star on the flag.
    • “Meet Me in St Louis” is placed in 1903-4, in, … well …, St Louis, just as the World’s Fair is about to come to St Louis.
  2. Second, each production originally contained the Rogers and Hammerstein song “Boys and Girls Like You and Me”. Producers dropped the number, twice, at the last minute due to running time.
  3. Finally, each was based on another story. In both cases, that other story was substantially autobiographical.
    • “Oklahoma!” is based on the play “Green Grow the Lilacs”, written by Lynn Riggs. Riggs was born in 1899 near Claremore, Indian Territory. He was 1/16th Amerindian*.  He grew up and went to school in, and near, Claremore — which is also the closest significant town to the setting of “Oklahoma!”
    • “Meet Me in St Louis” has a bit more history that I’m familiar with. It’s based on the book of the same title. That book, in turn, is slightly expanded from a series of semi-autobiographical essays that Sally (Redway) Benson wrote for The New Yorker magazine, from 1941 to 1942.
      • The essays were called “5135 Kensington”, which was her family’s address in a middle class neighborhood, located just over a mile from the main entrance to Forest Park, St Louis, where the 1904 World’s Fair occurred.

 

*: I have concluded that, sadly, there is not a perfectly appropriate term for this race of people.  “Native American” fails, since there are generations upon generations of other races dwelling here in the Americas who have no other place to call their native land.  “Indian” fails since that clearly belongs to the Indian subcontinent.  They are worthy of their own clear and distinct name, so I have accepted what some others have proposed: Amerindian.

_________________________

Leaving “Oklahoma!” for another time, let’s skip over to what became of Benson’s autobiographical essays: Meet Me in St Louis.Promo1

MGM was casting about for possible cheer-you-up movie plots wherein they could cast their greatest rising star – Judy Garland – when they came across Benson’s essays.  They decided it could be made into a screenplay for a musical movie, in order to showcase Garland’s beauty, grace and voice.

Only 21 at the time, Garland initially refused the role. She didn’t want to play a teenage “girl next door.” She was an adult now.

Indeed she was an adult.  During production, she and director Vincente Minnelli fell in love – resulting in the second of five Garland’s marriages.

“Meet Me in St Louis” is full of music, song and gay dancing  (duh, it’s a musical!). As full of music as it is, the movie’s songwriters — Hugh Martin (lyrics) and Ralph Blaine (music) — only composed three original tunes for the movie. These were: “The Boy Next Door”, “The Trolley Song”, and the aforementioned, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

These were written specifically to be sung by Judy Garland – (although she doesn’t come in on “Trolley” until over a minute — almost halfway through — after she sees her potential beau make it to the trolley.)

Both “The Trolley Song” and “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” are among the American Film Institute’s top 100 movie songs of all time: “Trolley” coming in at #26 and “Merry Little Christmas” at #76.

No surprise, especially to Judy’s many fans, that she also holds AFI’s #1 spot with “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” from “The Wizard of Oz.”

“Meet me in St Louis” ranks as AFI’s 10th best musical movie of all time.  Easy guess that “Singing in the Rain” is #1.

Although screenwriters took some liberty with Benson’s original texts, much of it remained faithful to her writings of her childhood memories.

  • The address of the Smith home is exactly the same as that of her childhood: 5135 Kensington Avenue
  • The names of all the family members (mother, father, four girls, one boy) and the maid are all exactly the same as Benson’s family — even the nicknames. The family’s surname, Smith, is actually Benson’s mother’s maiden name.
  • Opportunities to show what else was going on in St Louis at the time were skipped – for example Scott Joplin lived and performed just a couple miles away. Ragtime was very fresh and popular. Benson didn’t write about these because, as a young child of six years old, she didn’t remember it. She wrote about what she knew.

Today we remember “Meet Me in St Louis” for much more than “Sally Benson first wrote her essays based on her childhood memories.” She certainly had no idea where it would go – that it would be garnished with famous actresses and memorable songs.

It’s probably most remembered for the Christmas carol that Martin and Blaine wrote.  The song immediately became popular with servicemen abroad – and their loved ones at home.  Why? It heralded a happier time in the near future – next year – when we all “will be together”, “all our troubles will be miles away” and “out of sight.”  And indeed, the war ended the year after the movie’s release.

When you write your memories, no one can know what will become of them.  They probably won’t be adorned with beautiful actresses, showy songs and marquis lights.

But I can assure you this: somewhere, sometime, someplace, someone will be interested in them.  Perhaps your descendants, or a friend’s grandchild, or a grand-niece or nephew.  When they read your rambling musings, your journals, your essays – well – those works will indeed become timeless and moving works of art.

If it’s daunting, start slow and easy.  Keep copies of the notes, letters and cards you send and receive.  Start a journal, or a blog.

Write about your experiences and thoughts. Therein will lie your  memories, your “you”. Write about as many of your yearnings, loves, disappointments and successes as you dare. Yes, there — wherever you put them — available and preserved, for future generations.

As true as that is for you and me, I know this.  Last Christmas was, miraculously, not Kevin’s last.  Nor was it yours.  As soon as Kevin recovers enough to write – he will.  It seems it may be soon. And now he has so much more to write about.  I can’t wait to read it all.  And some day, his grandkids and great-grandkids will be glad that he did.

Live well. Be inspired. Write. Create.

Peace.

Joe Girard © 2015

Note: Sally Benson is also well known for writing “Junior Miss”, which was also made into both a play and a movie. The movie starred Peggy Ann Garner.  It was also based on a series of semi-autobiographical stories that she first published in – yes – The New Yorker.

Most of her New Yorker essays were published under the nom de plume of “Esther Evarts.”

 

Bibliography:

Taylor, Mike: CEOs of the Year, Mark & Annie Danielson; Cobizmag: https://www.cobizmag.com/articles/ceos-of-the-year-mark-and-annie-danielson1

 

AFI top movie songs
http://www.afi.com/100years/songs.aspx

AFI top musical movies
http://www.afi.com/100years/musicals.aspx

NPR: The Story behind Have Yourself a Merry little Christmas
http://www.npr.org/2010/11/19/131412133/the-story-behind-have-yourself-a-merry-little-christmas

Some good back story on movie Meet Me in St. Louis. And a lot of detail on the plot.
http://www.filmsite.org/meetm.html
http://movies.amctv.com/movie/1944/Meet+Me+in+St.+Louis

Notes: comparing the versions of the song: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
Garland v. Sinatra (changes for Sinatra version – 1957 – in Blue)

 merry-little-christmas

Autobiographical, Guest Essay

Musings on the Wonder of Seasons Down Under

Musings on the Wonder
Of Seasons Down Under

Warm, gentle breezes tickle palm trees outside my living room window across the Swan River.  Is it really December?  Looking up from my work, laid out across my home coffee table, my situation grows ever more hopeless.  Hopeless, that is, to refrain from lapping up the serene eye-candy; hopeless to refrain from pondering the weather of Christmas seasons past.

 It’s nearly 30 degrees (that’s 86 degrees to my friends and family stateside). The quivering palms awaken me to this new December experience. They beckon me to escape within my own “down-under” dreamland.  December in Perth, Western Australia is not at all like wintry climes of all my earlier Christmas seasons.  Here, spring is giving way to summer; hardly my usual Christmas experience.

Palm trees across the Swan River

Palm trees across the Swan River

Shall I abandon the task before me? Or — now distracted — shall I politely refuse the palms’ offer and, instead, meditate with gratitude on my family, my friends and cheery memories of Decembers-past?  With 21st century magic, “home” is only a click away. Contemplation on the gifts of family, friends and memories of earlier Christmas seasons nudges my thoughts to drift away … drift away to special people and times when holiday pleasantries were carefully exchanged by hand-written letters and cards.

 

______________________

People in my life, many dear to me, have had first-hand experience of “the wonder of down-under”, and had already explained some of the mystery to me before I arrived here, some four months ago. My mother’s sister and my father’s brother had been to the “Land of Oz” on work related travel.  My paternal grandparents made a vacation during my childhood.  My 3rd grade teacher did a one year life-swap to Australia as well.

The much younger me was so excited to have pins, stamps, boomerangs and even Vegemite from someplace that — even in my dreams — was a wild and far-off place. These were before internet was commonplace and mobile phones with video chats were still a far-off dream.  I will never forget that I was a part of those trips too, for example, by the Expo Oz (World Expo ‘88) stuffed platypus and postcards I received.  But those times were different, as now I can share my own experiences daily, and often instantaneously.

What a wonderful thing to be able to just be a part of so many others’ lives … and share experiences from so far away! It is no small wonder that we can forget what it was like before. I have been lucky enough that on all of my travels of the last decade, I have had instant communication and do not know what it is like to truly be far away. As in: “out of touch; Incommunicado.”  However, this may not be all good, because now I am very far away on a regular basis, and the sheer wonderment of thought that my family is literally a half a world away is somewhat of a triviality.

But as we know, there are pros and cons to everything, and if I take a step back and remember the excitement I had as an eight year old lad — with a tube of Vegemite in one hand and a map in the other — then the pros very much outweigh the cons of this ability to share on a moment’s notice.  We can be a part of someone else’s life while also having our own adventures, and then all the adventures in the world seem attainable.

My few months here have underscored my own experience of how the world has changed in just a few decades.  We can meet different people from all over the world in one place: physically and digitally (i.e. via internet-based video). We all know that ‘Western Civilization’ is changing the way things work. But would you have imagined that an American and Romanian together could walk into a grocery store in Australia and both can navigate it and say “this feels like home”?

The homogeneity of the way we live our lives is sometimes more mind blowing than the differences we experience. I still love to meet and talk with people from all over the globe, no matter where we are at that moment. It’s true that many of my closest friends call “home” someplace far from mine.  Even though the world may seem big, with friends like these it can feel small. And yet: the world is still a very large place and home can be very far away.

Sometimes I may feel like I don’t have a home in the physical sense, but being part of a closely knit group of people can make almost anyplace feel like home. Colorado is where I grew up, and a major part of my family is there. But the houses I grew up in are the homes of others now; when I visit Colorado it is just that: a visit. This is why I am so happy to have the chance to share my life with people through electronic communication and fast modes of transportation. I feel lucky to have that connection with people in many places all over the world, at the same time.

 

________________________________

To me, Christmas is not about the holiday and the shopping, but about spending time with those who mean the most to me.  We have a chance to catch up, share stories, and be connected when we may have not felt so during the rest of the year. We spend time together over the Christmas week of “down time” to relax and recharge – to prepare ourselves.  It is a time to reflect on the things that have happened, and to look forward to new adventures. The time between the holiday and the celebration of a new year is just under 2% of the entire year, but often seems to be some of the most memorable.

This holiday season, I am farther away from my family than ever before, but still close enough (thanks to high speed digital magic) to share our life experiences, our hopes, and our love for each other.

So much has happened this year as well, for me and the ones I care about, that it’s difficult to get my head around it all. Many of these experiences I will hold dear for the rest of my life. I hope all of you have had a very busy and memorable year – in a positive way – and will keep those memories with you as well.

We are lucky when we have people in our lives that are important to us, and vice versa.  It’s what makes the human race a very special race.  Because of that, I know that my home is wherever I decide to put it, and that no matter where my family (blood or not) is, they will be a part of my home.

Much love and a happy blessed 2015 to you all,

 

Aaron Girard © 2015

You can email Aaron ==> Email Aaron

Aaron’s earlier (not so cheery) Guest Essay

Biographical, History, Strong Women

Lee’s Gift

Forward to this 2015 release.

This essay was originally published on my earlier website (which is still up, but not maintained) to commemorate a 50-yr and a 83-yr anniversary, in January, 2012. Given the recent announcement that a sequel may come out this coming summer … [New York Times — Author to publish second novel] well, I thought it appropriate to re-publish the essay on this site. You, dear reader, will note that it will be in need of some factual updating. That is, if reports of a sequel turn out to be true.

____________________________________________

A shy bookish gal from a small town in Alabama, Nelle Lee, is trying to “make it” in the big city of New York in the 1950s.  Her dream was to make it as a writer.  Now, seven years later, she struggles with an odd collection of unpublished short biographical sketches while working various menial jobs, including employment as a reservationist for Eastern Airlines.

Introverted and reserved, she has managed to make a few friends, including a Broadway composer, Michael Brown, and his wife, Joy.  Magic was about to happen.  But they didn’t know it.

 

______________________________________

 

Nelle was born to attorney Amasa Lee and Frances (nee: Finch) Lee, their fourth and last child, in Monroeville, Alabama, in 1926.  Always an outsider and a tomboy, she took to the books and fell in love with literature at a young age.  She was convinced that she could become a writer, although she tried her hand at law school and a year at Oxford in England before deciding for sure what she would try to do.  Everywhere she went, she was ever the loner and individualist, focusing on her studies and showing no interest in being anything like a southern belle.

One can only imagine how difficult it was for such a girl in New York.  Despite steady encouragement from her friends, the Browns — and from another emerging writer who had achieved some renown and happened to be from her home town and same school, “Bulldog” Persons — young Miss Lee had not yet completed any work of significance.  She shared her character sketches with her friends, and they were impressed.  But her regular day jobs got in the way of making significant progress on a complete story.

The Brown’s major gift to Miss Lee came at Christmas, 1956.  Michael Brown, who had written the tune Lizzie Borden for a play a few years before, had earned a sizable fee for getting some scores accepted.  His wife suggested that they use part of the money to allow Miss Lee to take a year off from work and focus on her writing.  And so he did.  And so she did.

Lee got a literary agent and got to work, completing a manuscript oddly titled “Atticus”, a somewhat autobiographical story centered around characters and events of a small southern town, not unlike her own hometown of Monroeville.  One of the major characters in the story, a boy named Dill, was based on her old hometown friend “Bulldog” Persons.

Through multiple rejections Lee grew more and more frustrated and unsure of herself.  She soldiered on, with the support of her friends the Browns and Bulldog, and the encouragement of her agent.  She continued to work on the script and waited through multiple publisher reviews … and rejections.

Finally, the book was published in 1960, by Lippencott & Company.  For a shy girl from a small town in the south, the reaction of the country was overwhelming.  She was stunned into numbness.  As one of the most moving and appreciated books in American history, it immediately resonated with readers across the country and around the world.  Millions and millions were sold.  In short order she won the Pulitzer Prize for literature, and the book was made into a movie which won three Academy Awards … and still ranks as the 25th best American movie of all time.

The novel itself has since been named the Best American Novel of the 20thcentury by Library Journal.

Miss Nelle Lee is known to us as Harper Lee, as she has gone by her middle name since mid-adulthood.  Her only novel was renamed by the publisher: “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

In a fortuitous historical coincidence, the book and the movie burst onto the national and world scene at the same time as the civil rights movement, led by Martin Luther King, Jr and others; it coincided with the brave voting registration drives and the Freedom Riders.

“Bulldog” Persons’ real first name was unusual: Truman.  For his last name he took the nom de plume Capote.  When the book was published, but before anyone knew how popular it would become, Lee traveled to Kansas with him to do research for a story that would turn into one his most famous works: In Cold Blood.  For all practical purposes, it was the closest she came to writing again.  Only a couple of essays.

Lee’s last public interview was March, 1964.  Only one story, yet she left us with so much.  The story still moves us today.

The role of Atticus, played by Gregory Peck, gave him the singular role for which he will be remembered forever.  The American Film Institute named the role of Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird  the top film hero of the last 100 years.  Lee and Peck remained close the rest of his life, until he died in 2003.  Several of his grand children have Lee in their names.

The movie’s character young Scout Finch (the autobiographical Lee, with the same last name as Lee’s mother) was played by 10-year old Mary Badham.  At the time, she was the youngest ever to be nominated for Best Supporting Actor or Actress.  Like Lee, she remained largely out of public view since then.  During the movie she formed a lifelong friendship with the warm father-figure of Gregory Peck.  They stayed in regular communication until his death; she always called him “Atticus.”

The movie gave us the first screen appearance of Robert Duval.  Near the end of the movie, an odd looking young man appears, and Scout says: “Hey Boo.”  Duval’s smile is touching.  He played mentally challenged and kindly Arthur “Boo” Radley.

How do you write a sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird?  Unimaginable that such an oeuvre could be a first effort!  How do you write another story, another novel?  Harper Lee tried a few times, but the bar was too high.  All those efforts are filed under “U” for unfinished.  Harper Lee was a shooting star, a comet who lit up our sky, and gave us a tremendous story for the ages.  And then she was gone.  She has lived a relatively reclusive life since then, privately splitting her time between New York with her sister, and her old hometown, Monroeville, Alabama.

Thank you to the Browns, whose gift of friendship, encouragement and financial support made Harper Lee’s manuscript completion and publication possible.  And Thank you Harper Lee.  Thank you for overcoming your shyness and insecurity long enough to hang in there to give us the gift of To Kill a Mockingbird, which allowed us to see ourselves so much better.

 

“I remember when my daddy gave me that gun. He told me that I should never point it at anything in the house; and that he’d rather I’d shoot at tin cans in the backyard. But he said that sooner or later he supposed the temptation to go after birds would be too much, and that I could shoot all the blue jays I wanted — if I could hit ’em; but to remember it was a sin to kill a mockingbird.”
— Atticus Finch (in Haper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird”)

 

Joe Girard © 2012

 

[1] Lizzie Borden, by Michael Brown: http://www.guntheranderson.com/v/data/lizziebo.htm

[2] This essay was to jointly commemorate the 50th anniversary of the release of the movie and the 83rd anniversary of Dr King’s birth.

January 2012.

February 2015 note: I hope this is not a hoax.  How surprising that this “new” book was actually written first!  No wonder it took Ms. Lee so long to come out with “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

Autobiographical, Medicine

Random stuff: Apology, this site and general status

1) I do not wish to bother anyone.  If you are not reading my posts (and if you are not forwarding them), please let me know.  I’ll delete you from distribution.

2) My apologies to anyone who tried to read my latest post (Meet Louie’s Woman) or access my site between last Thursday evening 1/29/2015 and late Saturday night, 1/31/2015.

The post was not up to standard.  Typos, poor formatting, difficult to read, and images missing or misplaced. I’ll blame it on being “out of practice” since I spent so much time on my back over the last 6 weeks since the knee replacement surgery.  I guess I need an editor.  I’ll pay ten times what I get for this. <grin>

I did, perhaps, focus on too many details, including (if I say so myself) at least two very clever work choices in the section Louie, part deux.

I still have no idea how bullets and subparagraphs will show up.  Need to study some more, I guess.

Also, my site has been running horribly slow.  Sometimes it takes a minute, or more, to load.  Sometimes it just times out.  Sorry.

I’ll be making a call to GoDaddy soon.  This slowness issue also seems to be a recurring problem with other users of WordPress, which I generally use to manage each post.

And, most disturbingly, some security software I run indicates that I get hundreds of hack attempts daily.  Little old moi.  My site also gets blasted with bursts of hits with no apparent pattern.  Most seem to come from “dangerous” countries — where I believe IP addresses have been “borrowed” — Ukraine, Russia, China.  Heavy traffic can slow a site and I’m not sure what to do about that.

I cannot understand why this site would be a target for anyone. One supposes it’s just that there are so many malicious people in the world with little else to do but cause problems for others.

Anyhow, thanks for your patience.

3) For those wondering. My knee recovery is proceeding well and — if my doctor and therapists are to be believed — ahead of schedule.  I’m a star.  But it’s not fast enough for me. If you know me, that’s not a surprise. I return to one of my favorite prayers.

Dear God, please grant me patience.
… AND
Give it to me right now! Dammit!

It is a lifelong struggle.

I can now walk up to a mile and half while feeling only a bit tired and wobbly toward the end.  It still feels like some sort of experiment from Dr Frankenstein’s laboratory.

[With apologies to Mary Shelley, wife of Percy Shelley, who wrote most of that tale (“Frankenstein; or, the new Prometheus“) during the summer of 1816 — the year without a summer — almost 200 years ago.]

Sometimes when I walk, I feel like Peter Boyle playing the monster in the 1974 Mel Brooks classic movie “Young Frankenstein” with the super heavy boots… before he learned to dance.

Quick: What comes after “Frau Blücher”? And why, or why not, does it follow?

Anyhow, I can cruise at about 1.5 miles per hour.  Which is also a good speed for Nimitz; the faithful old Admiral is getting close to 13.  I no longer use a cane, but I like to keep it handy.  Just in case.

As a positive by-product: I’ve lost about 8 or 9 pounds and at least an inch off my waist.  If I don’t wear a belt, I’m a “sagger.”  No booze and lots of P/T daily seems to be the trick.  Also, lots of water and lean meat.

Thanks for your good wishes and prayers.

4) Traumatic Brain Injury recovery.
I still get 10-20 headaches a day.  Most are light and only a few minutes long.  This is an improvement.  I can focus and “be Joe” almost all of each day.

Recently I’ve noticed that there is some positive response to ibuprofen and naproxen.  This is a very good sign.

Thanks again for your good wishes and prayers.

I appreciate it.

The resting has been great, but it’s been a long time, and I’m itching to get back to work and being part of society again.

Well, I’m a-gettin’ a headache, so time to sign off.

TTFN

Peace

Joe Girard (c) 2015

Edwardian/Pre-War, History, Music

Meet Louie’s Woman

There are two successful and conspicuous songs from American music history that share a remarkable and unique coincidence — as well as several minor coincidences.

Each is so well-known that it would be difficult to find many adults raised in America who cannot at least hum along to one of them.  Many could hum along to both, recite a few words, and drop immediately into a comfortable toe tapping when each chorus is struck up. Yet, hardly anyone knows the words to the songs; hardly anyone knows the story behind these songs, or knows the stories they tell.

On the other hand, the songs’ differences are stark.

The later song is rowdy and timeless; for six decades running it’s been a top choice at parties and gatherings, especially if there is a dance floor.  And it seems destined to ride that fame indefinitely.

Fireflies at twilight

Fireflies at twilight

The earlier song is stuck in history, firmly planted in the first decade of the 20th century — the Edwardian Era.  And yet it retains its popularity as a quaint reminder of perhaps simpler times: when powered flight and electric lights were new; when great enjoyment could be found in playing flat music records on a gramophone, or sitting on the porch in the company of a comfortable friend, sipping sweet iced tea, watching fireflies in warm summer twilight.

But that one remarkable unique coincidence: a man’s name, Louie, is repeated in both of the songs’ title and chorus.

_____________________________

There aren’t many finer men than my dear friend Kevin Shepardson. One month after surviving cardiac arrest, he is still in hospital. Finally out of ICU and moved to a hospital closer to his family, he’s still in need of great medical care, and all the love, prayers, good thoughts and wishes we can send his way.

Right up to this past New Year’s Eve day, when the “event” happened, Kevin published a daily newsletter via email, which he called “The Good News Today.”  It came in two parts.  The first was spiritual, connected to the scriptures of the daily office, with a short reflection by a staff member of Creighton University.

The second part was what he called his “ramble”, with whatever was on his mind, from weather to current events.  The rambles frequently contained music tributes to some special event.  Perhaps a birthday  or anniversary of one of his many friends, or an approaching holiday.  They were always appropriate and fitting.  Kevin is a bit of a music expert (OK, music trivia geek), and you could tell he put care into selecting the proper songs, complete with Youtube links so we could hear them professionally performed.

If Kevin were to select a music tribute song for a celebration party (like his 60th, which is next week), or for a nostalgic commemoration of early 20th century America, he might have selected one of these two songs.

Or, maybe not.

___________________________

Part I

Singer/songwriter Richard Berry was a talented musician, and could perform early R&B as well as doo-wop.  In 1955, aged only 20, he penned the lyrics to a song that may live forever.

It’s about a lovesick guy at a bar, talking to a bartender named “Louie.”[1]  Berry claims he was inspired by a similar song — One for my Baby (and one more for the Road) — best sung by Frank Sinatra, where a lovelorn guy is pouring his heart out to a bartender named “Joe.”  In “Louie Louie” the guy at the bar is talking about his girl back in Jamaica … a three day and night sailing trip away. And it’s time for him to go see her.

The song was finally recorded with his group, The Pharaohs, in 1957 as the B-side to “You are my Sunshine” on the Flip Records label. Their R&B version of “Louie Louie” was totally understandable and was pretty easy to follow.  As a minor hit; it was soon re-released as an A-side.  Richard Berry & The Pharaohs’ original version of Louie Louie is almost painful to listen to. That is, if you’ve been weaned on the later rock version. Their version of the song soon languished, maintaining some popularity on the west coast, from San Francisco to Seattle.

Album Cover - Richard Perry and the Pharaohs

Album Cover – Richard Perry and the Pharaohs

Over the next few years, quite a few groups in the Pacific Northwest picked up the song, and played versions of it in concerts and small gigs. Some recorded it.  In fact, to date, “Louie Louie” has been covered and recorded over 1,500 times. [2]

Well, moving to 1963, “The Kingsmen” were a new group in Portland, Oregon. They had been playing the song for months at parties and gigs, getting wilder and wilder with the song.  No longer Rhythm and/or Blues, it was full raucous Rock ‘n’ Roll.

Ken Chase had a local radio show, and ran a teen night club where the Kingsmen played. After hearing them play the song live, he agreed to set up a recording session for the song.  They did the song in one take, since they were tired from having just performed a Louie-thon. Or because they were cheap (the recording only cost $50).  Or both.

Nonetheless, over the years, it’s the Kingsmen’s almost totally incomprehensible version of “Louie Louie” that has become the standard. Since the Kingsmen, it’s known more for the guitar instrumental bridge than its lyrics or story.  It has been recognized by organizations and publications worldwide for its influence on the history of Rock and Roll.

 

  • In 2007, in Rolling Stone ranked it #5 in its list of 40 songs that changed the world.
  • In 2004 Mojo Magazine rated it #1 in “Ultimate Jukebox: The 100 Singles You Must Own”.
  • Mojo and Rolling Stone have rated it the #51 and #54 top songs of all time, respectively.

 

Stories and commentary on “Louie Louie” and the Kingsmen could fill volumes. For example:

 

  • The lead singer for the famous Kingsmen 1963 recording, Jack Ely, quit the group four months afterward over a disagreement. At the time only some 600 copies had been sold. Ely missed out on large royalties.
  • Washington State considered making it the state song.
  • The states of Washington and Oregon, and the cities of Seattle and Portland have declared “Louie Louie” days. [3]
  • There is an “International Louie Louis Day” [4]
  • The FBI investigated the song to determine if it was obscene [5](the lyrics are that incomprehensible), as it was so popular at raucous parties (as recreated in National Lampoon’s movie “Animal House” [6]).

    • Which is pretty laughable today, considering how “artists” like Barrack Obama’s good friend Jay-Z fill their “songs” with the F-word and the N-word – not to mention gratuitous violence, usually against women – and are rewarded with critical acclaim and Grammy awards. Not that most true music aficionados or anyone with common sense would give two BMs about that.

 

Interlude

Another somewhat famous song nearly shares this unique “Double-double” Louie coincidence.  Each is named “Brother Louie”, wherein “Louie” is repeated in the song lyrics, but not in the title.  One version was recorded by Hot Chocolate (in the UK), and was covered by the group Stories (US based).  The Stories’ recording came in at #13 in the US for 1973; Hot Chocolate’s recording was #86 that year in the UK.

There is a second “Brother Louie” which is completely different, by Modern Talking (1986). It did not crack the top 100 for that year. I’m not familiar with this song, but it seems mildly annoying.

After Jack Ely had left the Kingsmen he soon realized he was going to miss out on those royalties.  So he wrote and recorded several songs with his new group, The Courtmen, alluding to his “Louie Louie” connection, including “Louie Louie ‘66”. But it is really the same song, although this time easier to understand.

Subsequent lawsuits between the Kingsmen and Ely resulted in him getting paid $6,000 and label credit as the lead singer on future record pressings.

You can read much more about the history, mystery and saga of “Louie Louie” here, here and here. And about a zillion other sites.

________________________________

Louie, part deux

July 1848 was a seminal moment.  The Seneca Falls Convention kicked off what could be called the Women’s Movements that still have modern-day repercussions.  Historians have suggested that it was not so much a feminist movement or a woman’s rights movement – it was a wide reaching social movement. [7]

By the turn of the 20th century, it was women who had led the charge for founding the Red Cross (Clara Barton) and for humane treatment of severely ill mental health patients (Dorthea Dix).  Women were becoming doctors and surgeons (not the same thing then).  They supplied the energy and drive to reform labor: advancing stricter child labor laws, organizing unions to drive for better and safer working conditions (especially for garment workers), and for five day work weeks, instead of the usual seven days. And pushed for forty hour work weeks, instead of the usual 60 or 70, with paid overtime compensation.

Alcohol abuse – in fact downright drunkenness – was a huge problem in 19th century America.  The temperance movement – based on the desire for a healthier family life – owes all of its early energy to Women.

Yes, women were feeling their oats and ready to do more.  They were shockingly daring to smoke in public and demanded the right to vote (By 1900, several western states, — Wyoming, Utah, Idaho and Colorado — had already granted full women’s suffrage [12]).

In marriage, women grew less and less inclined to be totally subservient to their husbands.  Yes, they loved their men and were devoted spouses and mothers, but – especially in the middle and upper classes – they were eager to get more out of married life than children and laundry.

Women, their influence and their interests, cut a wide swath across the social milieu as America approached the grandest, the largest, and the most extravagant World’s Fair in history: the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, to be hosted at Forest Park, in Saint Louis, Missouri, in 1904.

In 1890, Saint Louis was the nation’s second largest producer of beer. By 1904 they had dropped to number five, but that’s still a lot of beer. The big brewer Anheuser-Busch sold large quantities on the East Coast thanks to enhanced distribution via refrigerated cars they had helped pioneer on the nation’s ever expanding railroad capacity.[13]

Early in 1904, New York lyricist Andrew Sterling was trying to come up with a song to promote the upcoming World’s Fair in Saint Louis.  Two stories of his inspiration for the earlier “Louie” song survive, although it is likely that each is apocryphal.

The first story claims that in New York, those Saint Louis beers (Budweiser and Busch) were often called “Louis”, pronounced “Lou-ee” —the same as the French Saint, King Louis IX, after whom the city is named. It seems that at a bar one night, Sterling hailed the bartender, whose name happened to be Louis (Louie).  Wanting another beer, he called out, “Another Louis, Louis.” [8]

A second, similar, version of the song’s inspiration has Sterling and co-composer Kerry Mills (who wrote the music) sitting together across a bar from a bartender named Louie and ordering a mixed-drink called a Louie. [9]

In any case, it was the repeating of the name “Louis” — pronounced “Louie” — that caught on and inspired Sterling to pen the lyrics to the song “Meet me in Saint Louis, Louis.” He must have been feeling a bit jolly, since he wrote each half-verse and the chorus in the form of a limerick (A-A-B/B-A).

In the opening verse of the song, we find that Louis’ wife (Flossie) has left him, apparently without warning.  She leaves a note with the line: Life is just “too slow for me here.”  She’s perfectly willing to re-connect with him, but on her terms, as her note continues in the chorus:

Meet me in Saint Louis, Louis. Meet me at the Fair.
Don’t tell me the lights are shining anyplace but there.
We will dance the Hoochee Koochee. I will be your Tootsie Wootsie.
If you will meet me in Saint Louis, Louis; meet me at the Fair.

Billy Murray was a very popular singer of that era.  In fact, his voice graces four of the top ten hits of 1904.  His recording of “Meet Me in Saint Louis, Louis” was made in May of that year and was immensely popular.  It was the #2 song of 1904 (behind Sweet Adeline, which actually had three different recordings make the billboard).

The Murray version is kept light and cheery – it skips a key verse that makes it quite clear that Flossie (Louis’ wife), is making an extreme act of defiance.  She wants more out of this marriage.

The dresses that hung in the hall,
Were gone; she had taken them all.
She took all his rings, and the rest of his things.
The picture he missed from the wall.

“What? Moving?” The janitor said.
“Your rent is paid three months ahead.”
“What good is the Flat?” said poor Louis, “Read that!”
And the janitor smiled as he read.

Chorus: “Meet me in St Louis, Louis …”[10]

 

Flossie had not only left, she … took all of HIS things.

Further fixing the song firmly in a long ago era, Flossie’s note pledges “We will dance the Hoochee Koochee; I will be your Tootsie Wootsie.”

We might recognize Tootsie Wootsie from context, as it also appears in “In the Good Old Summer Time”, the #6 song of 1902 as recorded by William Richmond, charting at #1 for seven weeks.

You hold her hand and she holds yours
And that’s a very good sign
That she’s your Tootsie Wootsie
In the Good Old Summertime

“Tootsie Wootsie” is a sweetie pie: a boyfriend or girlfriend you can cuddle up to. And more.

The Hoochee Coochee was a dance that was considered very daring – even lewd – at the time. It was sexually provocative with lots of mid-section gyrations. It had become somewhat popular through exhibits at two earlier well-attended World’s Fairs in America; the 1876 Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia and the 1893 Columbian Exhibition in Chicago.

The Hoochee Coochee was an “entertaining” dance to observe —usually men observing women with a bare midriff.  Flossie says “we will dance” it — as in, together.  Hmmmm.

If you think about it, Louis’ runaway wife, Flossie, really had a lot on her mind, and lot to offer.  As Michael Lasser says in “America’s Songs II” — “It offers a tempting invitation: She promises him a good time at the Fair and afterwards. … the promise borders on sexual abandon.” [10]

So Flossie was not simply rebelling and running out on poor Louis.  Her offer was all, or nothing.  As in: All of her, or none of her.  She was promising him some exciting “action” — connubial pleasure, if you will — if he would simply comply with her demand to leave home and…

“Meet me in Saint Louis, Louis.  Meet me at the Fair!”

No wonder it was so popular!

Yes indeed!  Marriage can be plenty interesting in a fun way if men would just take the time to listen to their wives once in a while!

Here’s hoping and praying that Kevin, and his Tootsie Wootsie Sue, can very soon run away and enjoy the delights of “hoochee koochee” as well.

Kevin and Sue Shepardson

Kevin and Sue Shepardson

Until then, I wish you all peaceful snuggling; or rowdy dancing.  Or both.  Your choice.

Cheers,

Joe Girard © 2015

 

________________________

Final notes and thoughts, followed by footnotes and bibliography.

 

  • Neither Sterling nor Mills attended the Fair in Saint Louis.
  • The Song was revived in the 1944 movie starring Judy Garland “Meet Me in Saint Louis” (this time pronounce the American way: like “Lewis”), wherein the chorus is sung by quite a few excited folks in the opening scenes. [Plot flaw: this is mid-summer of 1903, and according the sources I cited, the song’s words and sheet music were not written yet, nor had it become popular]
  • My Friend Max Storm, founder of the 1904 World’s Fair Society, has his doorbell set up to play the chorus to “Meet me in St Louis, Louis” when it rings. His Tootsie-Wootsie, Shara, lovingly puts up with this, and much more.
  • The song is often shown without the second “Louis” and  without the comma between.  This is incorrect.
  • The Berry song “Louie Louie” is often shown with a comma between the two Louies.  This is also incorrect.

 

 

Footnotes/bibliography.

[1] “Louie Louie,” the saga of a lovesick sailor pouring his heart out to a patient bartender, named Louie. — and other “Louie Louie historical highlights: http://seattletimes.com/html/entertainment/2003643550_louietimeline01.html

[2] According to some references, Louie, Louie has been recorded over 1500 times. LouieLouie.net and Peter Blecha, 4/1/2007 Seattle Times: http://seattletimes.com/html/entertainment/2003643548_louie01.html ]

[3] Washington, Oregon, Portland and Seattle “Louie Louie Day”.  April 12, 1985 (Washington), April 14, 1985 (Seattle), April 2, 1986 (Oregon): http://www.louieday.org/default.htm

Finally, in the city where the Kingsmen recorded it, Portland celebrated “Louie Louie Day” October 5, 2013: http://koin.com/2013/10/05/its-louie-louie-day-in-portland/

[4] April 11 (the birthday of Richard Berry) is celebrated as International “Louie Louie Day“ [http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Louie_Louie_Day]. It is also listed by Chase’s Calendar of Events, and the National Special Events Registry

[5] FBI investigates “Louie Louie” for obscenity.  http://vault.fbi.gov/louie-louie-the-song

[6] Plot error.  Animal House supposedly occurred in 1962, one year before the Kingsmen’s recording was released.

[7] Women’s movement as Social Movement. http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/647122/womens-movement

http://womhist.alexanderstreet.com/socm/intro.htm

“Women and women’s organizations also worked on behalf of many social and reform issues. By the beginning of the new century, women’s clubs in towns and cities across the nation were working to promote suffrage, better schools, the regulation of child labor, women in unions, and liquor.” http://www.loc.gov/teachers/classroommaterials/presentationsandactivities/presentations/timeline/progress/suffrage/

“Women were key players in the push for prohibition (meaning outlawing the sale and consumption of alcohol), improved housing standards, regulations of the food and drug industry and government inspections of factories. ”

http://education-portal.com/academy/lesson/womens-suffrage-early-feminism-movement-19th-amendment-leaders.html
The above link has been changed to: http://study.com/academy/lesson/womens-suffrage-early-feminism-movement-19th-amendment-leaders.html

[8] The First Moderns: Profiles in the Origins of Twentieth-Century Thought,  William R. Everdell [chapt 14/pg 206]; https://books.google.com/books?id=yVRb9sJ2KjEC&pg=PA206&lpg=PA206&dq=sterling+get+me+another+louis,+louis&source=bl&ots=znJQdCCPif&sig=zfezVLEHcMmQC78dXauLWFRVxJo&hl=en&sa=X&ei=HX7IVPGaIoKnNv7wgqgM&ved=0CD0Q6AEwCQ#v=onepage&q=sterling%20get%20me%20another%20louis%2C%20louis&f=false

[9] America’s Songs II: Songs from the 1890’s to the Post-War Years, Michael Lasser [1901-1905/pg 27]; https://books.google.com/books?id=RlmLAgAAQBAJ&pg=PA243&lpg=PA243&dq=America%27s+Songs+II:+Songs+from+the+1890%27s+to+the+Post-War+Years,+Michael+Lasser&source=bl&ots=H_e1kCaphg&sig=hnTC8TDuh_gj_vV2NjlgW9l9e_A&hl=en&sa=X&ei=U4DIVLK7GYedNrfwgbgN&ved=0CDkQ6AEwBA#v=onepage&q=America’s%20Songs%20II%3A%20Songs%20from%20the%201890’s%20to%20the%20Post-War%20Years%2C%20Michael%20Lasser&f=false

Note: In further research, I could find no such drink called a “Louie” or a “Louis.” But that could just be that Google hasn’t found it yet.

[10] Meet me in St Louis, Louis: lyrics. “500 Best Loved Songs”, edited by Ronald Herder, page 219-220.

Verified lyrics; http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/j/judy_garland/meet_me_in_st_louis.html

[11] The Hoochee Coochee (or Hoochie Coochie) in America: http://www.readex.com/blog/hoochie-coochie-lure-forbidden-belly-dance-victorian-america

[12] Women’s suffrage timeline by state in the US: http://constitutioncenter.org/timeline/html/cw08_12159.html
Odd that Washington as a territory granted full suffrage in 1883, but not as a state until 1910. In fact, the territorial laws were twice overturned.  http://www.washingtonhistory.org/files/library/TheFightforWashingtonWomensSuffrageABriefHistory.pdf

[13] Primm, James Neal (1998). Lion of the Valley: St. Louis, Missouri, 1764–1980, pg 328-330

——————————-

Autobiographical, Medicine

Day 27

Total Knee Replacement: Day 27

 I had tentatively committed to an update on Dec 31. That’s when I’d expected to transition from in-home physical torture, er, ah, physical therapy, to out-patient physical therapy. Well, that was overly optimistic and I had some setbacks.

A shout out to my dear friend of 52 years, Kevin Shepardson. I’ve written of Kevin a few times before: he is as kind, thoughtful and loyal 52 years later as he was as a lad when I was most in need of an understanding friend.

On New Years Eve day Kevin suffered a severe heart attack; in fact, sudden cardiac arrest. He survived, thanks to the fast thinking and acting of his employees and co-workers. He still lies in hospital, in intensive care, unconscious, with an uncertain future. I am still in shock, as is his family and many other friends. This has provided some distraction during my many sleepless nighttime hours, when the pain and discomfort persistently keeps sleep just out of reach.

This has also provided inspiration for a valid and unselfish New Years Resolution: get re-certified in CPR and First Aid.

Setback 1. A day or so before Christmas my skin started to itch. During the afternoon of Christmas Day, I broke out in an intense rash that covered nearly my entire body. Then it turned to hives. My hands and ears swelled. My legs, arms, shoulders, feet — almost everything — was covered in hot, itchy, bumpy, bright red hives.

We immediately identified this as an allergic reaction, probably to my pain medication (Norco[1]); this despite being 10 days post surgery.

The next day my surgeon prescribed me a new pain med [2]  and a strong antihistamine [3]  similar to, but stronger than, benadryl. That took about six very itchy days to clear up.

Setback 2. Perhaps I’ve been a bit too diligent and aggressive in my home self-directed therapy sessions. I’ve not been shy about causing almost as much screaming and tears as the paid therapists do. (This terrifies our 12-1/2 year old dog, Nimitz).  The weekend after Chirstmas, while working on increasing my flexion, I pushed it too far. So that was followed by a week of big-time swelling and pain.

Progress. After the setbacks, my out-patient PT started on January 7.  Over the past two weeks I’ve made considerable progress; I am pretty much past the “helpless, self-pitying, woe-is-me” phase.  I can now usually walk and negotiate stairs without so much as a cane. My extension and flexion are improving. My quad is slowly waking up and strengthening, although the inside of the quad is still “sleepy.” I think this is the main cause of some knock-knee that I now have.

Some research shows that at 27-days post TKR (Total Knee Replacement), the average patient has lost 62% of his quad strength. I can assure you that I’ve lost more than that. I had worked hard to get in shape for several years pre-surgery; call it pre-hab.

Still, I remain committed to my self-directed daily therapy sessions (I call it “homework” and “work outs”), and my therapists assure me that I am healing well.

Sleep remains difficult, although it’s improving every so slowly and steadily.

More or less, it’s been as promised. Two weeks of hell. Two weeks of inconsistent but steady improvement. Then gradually phase into real life and in six to twelve months I’ll be glad we went ahead with the surgery.

Meanwhile, my headaches continue to slowly, steadily abate.  For those who read my mind map essay [4], they seem to be mostly in the Shirley, Daffy Duck and Porky Pig regions.

My expected “return-to-work” date is now penciled in as February 16.

Until next time, I wish you peace, health and and good friendships in 2015.

Cheers

Joe Girard (c) 2015

 

[1] Norco — http://www.drugs.com/norco.html

[2] Dilaudid — http://www.drugs.com/dilaudid.html

[3] Atarax — http://www.drugs.com/atarax.html

[4] Insane Sanity — Looney Merriment: https://girardmeister.com/2014/11/16/insane-sanity-looney-merriment/

 

Autobiographical, Medicine

Click: By Any Other Name

Click <By Any Other Name>

 

I sensed from a young age that there might be a family genetic propensity to “weak knees.” From his mid-30s my father’s knees would just “go out” on him.  A knee would buckle, he’d fall, and his knee would swell and lock-up for days or weeks. I recall once his sister, my Auntie Ruth, was visiting, and he was showing off his vegetable garden. Boom, down he went.  She had to help him into the house.

That’s not to say he was not athletic.  He was. He’d developed quite a few athletic skills, and one very special skill, much to my benefit.  It wasn’t until years later, when I was well into fatherhood, that I appreciated and realized how skilled he was.  Namely: consistently hitting a baseball with self-toss to high pop-ups a distance of 40 to 60 feet (to fit within our small lot) is very difficult.  Thanks to his skill and perseverance with me, I became a very serviceable outfielder for decades.

He always took an active role, either coaching or assistant coaching, in all his kids’ sports teams.  Especially baseball and softball.  I recall one episode clearly.  I was about 11 or 12 years old. Dad was hitting short fly balls (we’d graduated to distances of perhaps 120 feet) to kids on my baseball team and me.  There were three of us taking turns, and we were kind of being goofy, saying stuff like “One, two, three … Monkeys in the cocoanut tree.”  That goofiness ended suddenly.  A return throw to my dad was a bit wide … he lunged to reach it … and was down on the ground, unable to get up.  His knee had buckled and locked up.

He was not yet 40.  We three carried him to the car.  That was the end of practice. Somehow, he drove me home. He nursed that knee along for decades.  Finally, at age 75, he had it completely replaced.

 ______________________________

Nicknames.  I think the best ones have little to nothing to do with one’s formal name (like “Joe” for “Joseph”) but reflect something of a person’s appearance or nature.  The only nickname I know of for my dad was “Duck”, a name he went by as a young adult; it was a dual reference to his name (via “Donald Duck”) and his dapper appearance when young; apparently he sported a DA (“duck’s ass”) for a while.

Nicknames usually fade away, either during a person’s life, or shortly after.

My dad’s mom was nicknamed “Dolly.”  She went by that name her whole life, except for when we called her “gramma.” Only a few cousins and I remember that.  She passed away in 1973, and, when we cousins are gone, I suspect all references to her will revert back to the formal name found on legal documents and in census reports: Cora.

I have a friend who had a college buddy decades ago whose name he can only recall as “Ferret Face.”

James Butler "Wild Bill" Hickok

James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok

Evidently he had the appearance of having  been delivered from his mother’s birth canal by having the wide-end of a funnel applied to his face and high powered vacuum hose attached to the other end.  He went by that name through college, and – in my friend’s recollections – still goes by that name today.

Some nicknames are eternal, since they’ve been attached to very memorable or historical figures.

 “Wild Bill” Hickok (James Butler Hickok) was so named for his huge nose – a bill, if you will. He died young, only 39, shot in the back while playing poker in, of all places, Deadwood, Dakota Territory.

“Billy the Kid” (William Bonney) was so named because he was young and looked younger.  Bonney, in trying to look more mature, had grown a straggly wispy beard that dangled from his chin, giving the appearance of a billy goat. Another story is that a bartender with a death wish insulted him when he asked for a drink by saying the boyish-appearing Bonney looked like a scared little billy goat. Young goats are called “kids.” The Kid died at 21 or 22 (many details of the Kid legend are ‘wispy’ too). The only extant photograph of him lends credence to the latter story.

This shows that a truly great nickname outlives the real name.  A wonderful example is a nickname that has survived and supplanted the real name for millenia: that of the Greek philosopher Plato.  His real name was Aristocles. Plato means “wide” and was probably a nickname given to him by his wresting coach (oh, those ancient Greeks and their wresting) as he evidently had a rather stout figure, even as a youth.

The Billy Goat

The Billy Goat

Nickname fates still to be determined are the nicknames of those recently departed. For example, the “Tappet Brothers.”  If you’ve listened to Public Radio on weekends, you’ve probably heard “Car Talk”, hosted by brothers Tom & Ray Magliozzi. Of course, they never went by those names.  To listeners, their on-air names were the names they signed off with:

  • “We’re Click and Clack, the Tappet brothers.”
  • Ray: “Whatever you do, don’t drive like my brother.”
  • Tom: “And don’t drive like MY brother.” (or some variation).

Their show was a learning experience about more than just cars.  It was about how to engage people, have fun and not take life so serious.  You’d never know they were both MIT-educated.  Their show was literally “a hoot.” Fun and educational.

So which was “Click” and which was “Clack”? I don’t think they ever divulged that fact.

Billy the Kid (William Bonney)

Billy the Kid (William Bonney)

To me, the oldest – that’s Tom – comes first.  He’s Click.

Tom, the elder Magliozzi, passed away last month, age 77, from complications of Alzheimers.

Sounds like a horrible way to go … at least for his family, and that includes poor Ray (Clack). Tom lived a full life, made more so by his zest for life and his ability to give a laugh, some wisdom and weekend enrichment to others.

 

Tom and Ray shared genes as evidenced by their similar outlooks and senses of humor. One of my brothers and I share the “weak knee” gene from our father.  We’ve both struggled since young adulthood with fragile knees.  He had both replaced (at age only 48) last Christmas.

As for me, many years ago I nicknamed my knees “Click and Clack”, probably thinking of those guys on “Car Talk.”  Click, on the left has had five surgeries, including a full ACL replacement and micro-fracture (yuck); Clack has had only one.  Since the 1990s my orthopaedists have been telling me that “Click’s days are numbered.  If you live a full life, then Click won’t.”

It’s appropriate then that today I say goodbye to Click.  He will join the fate of Click the Tappet brother.

Tom & Ray Magliozzi (Click & clack, the Tappet brothers)

Tom & Ray Magliozzi (Click & clack, the Tappet brothers)

By tonight I will have a new metallic left knee.

Here’s to you Click. Thanks for all the memories!

Wishing you all Peace and happy holidays!

Joe Girard © 2014

Click: RIP

Autobiographical, Poetry

My Head, OK

(With Apologies to Messers Rogers and Hammerstein)

 

I’m so glad that I don’t have a headache

All day I’ve hardly had a headache.

I’m feeling so lucky that I feel so fine —

Looks like Joe’s finally enjoying his mind.

—-

O what a beautiful evening!

O what a beautiful day!

I’ve got a beautiful feeling, the whole weekend will continue this way!

O what a beautiful day!

—

O, the grinding and pounding returneth.

The grinding and pounding returneth.

I’ll just have to greet them with a wink and a sigh.

A capetenter’s awl is stuck behind my eye.

—

O ’twas a beautiful evening!

O ’twas a beautiful evening.

Closing my eyes to imagine fine sights! We can have a beautiful night.

Oh what a beautiful night.

O what a Beautiful Morning — Stage Recording

Autobiographical, Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History

Milwaukee – Melting Pot within the Melting Pot

 

December, 1962.  Christmas week.

 

I was 6 years old, halfway through the first grade, with three younger siblings.

 

My parents must have been crazy.  Or maybe moving the family with four little children made them crazy.

 

I could not remember ever being so cold, even though I was running a torrid fever and with a dreadful sore throat.

 

That was my first experience of Milwaukee.

 

————

 

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things…”
—Lewis Carrol, Through the Looking Glass

 

Preface:

Since experiencing a violent car crash seven months ago, I’ve spent quite a bit of time resting, recovering and reflecting.  Like the Walrus and the Carpenter, I’ve thought on many things. I’ve reflected on my life. I’m reminded again that it is temporary.

I’ve contemplated on not a few parts of my life, what I’ve experienced, what I’ve learned, and what it all means.  I remain a committed skeptic and agnostic, yet I’m more open to new possibilities.  I’m more aware of mankind’s struggles, even down to the individual level.

And some thoughts turned to my youth – those formative years.  I pondered how I could weave my youth – or more precisely, my hometown as a child – into my current running theme of early 20th century history, especially the period 1900-14, which I call the Edwardian/Pre-war era.

This is a sort of Thanksgiving essay.  I’m so very thankful for the support I’ve received from my wife, family and friends – and at work.  And so very thankful that recovery continues to reach new levels.

  • During a very, very relaxing week in Calgary to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving with our son and new daughter-in-law (Mazel Tov!) I was able to begin to stitch together some patches of memories, some research and facts into a working outline.

  • During this US Thanksgiving week, I’ve finally felt well enough to work that patchy outline into an essay about my boyhood memories and my boyhood hometown and state: Milwaukee & Wisconsin. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It is a bit longer than my usual works.

______________________________________________

Overview:

The United States, despite its disgraceful xenophobic phases and elements, has quite rightly been referred to as The Great Melting Pot.  Her welcome to arrivals from around the world – who come with different values, cultures, beliefs and languages – is renowned.  They continue to be  welcomed to a land that makes individual rights superior to the will of the majority; and individual rights superior to the will the state. [1] Her welcome is inscribed upon the colossal statue of the Roman goddess Libertas – that 19th century gift from the French – that looks out over New York harbor to hopeful, dreamy immigrants: “Give me your poor, your tired, your huddled masses yearning to be free!”[2]

 

In this, the 7th essay discussing the significance of events during the Edwardian/pre-war ear (approximately 1900-1914), we’ll investigate this Melting Pot phenomenon in the state of Wisconsin, and especially its largest city, Milwaukee.

 

______________________________________________

1. Milwaukee, 1960s – the Catholics

 

 

I think it was December 26, 1962.  We arrived in Brown Deer, Wisconsin, a small suburb that abuts Milwaukee’s northern limits: six of us packed in a station wagon, bundled and huddled together against the bitter cold – twelve degrees below zero.  Gosh, I was sick with a rotten cold, and miserable … and lonely; we’d left all my friends behind.  Some boys in the new neighborhood were eager to make my acquaintance.  They’d have to wait; about two weeks later another arctic front dropped the temperatures into the minus 20s, and I just could not shake that awful cold.  But, patience paid off: the group of young lads accepted me as if I’d been there all along, and 52 years later I still have friends among them. [1]

 

The Girard family soon added two more children. We resided in Milwaukee until the day Nixon became the first (and hopefully only) US president to resign the office, in August, 1974.  Just over 11-½ years.  Milwaukee is the city of my childhood and childhood memories.

 

Upon settling in Milwaukee, we quickly became part of a local Catholic community, Our Lady of Good Hope – affectionately called OLGH. I was enrolled mid-school-year in the 1st grade at its parochial school, staffed mostly by nuns from the Sisters of (I think) the order of Saint Francis.

 

Not many school years rolled by before I became aware of the wide array of surnames.

  • There was O’Shea and Collins and McCarthy and FitzGerald and Riordon.
  • There was Kaminski and Lezniak and Jabloski and Lesznewski.
  • There was Schmidt, … and Ritter and Rector and Kohlschmidt and Mueller and Messmer and Bessmer. And Schroeder and Vogel, too.
  • A Vincenzi, D’Amato, Fiorenza, and Pucci and Puccinelli and Sardinia.
  • Even a Martinez family, decades before the great influx of Hispanics

All of these families came from very different places! Not all Catholics are the same! They all have different backgrounds and stories. For some reason this was a revelation to me.

_____________________________________

 

2. Milwaukee Immigration

 

European immigrants were drawn to Wisconsin and Milwaukee even during its simple beginnings in the 1830s and ’40s.  Conveniently located in America’s vast fertile heartland, with the best natural harbor on Lake Michigan’s western shores providing transportation [1] through the Great Lakes – and via the Erie Canal to the eastern states and the world – and then via the railroad explosion, Milwaukee provided what immigrants always wanted: freedom with a wide open chance to succeed, to ascend, without any pretense required, and without anyone really caring where you came from or what you thought.  As long as you were willing to work.

 

Immigrants continued to roll in throughout the 19th century.  By the dawn of the new century, Milwaukee was the country’s 14th largest city – its population nearly 300,000, over 80 percent of whom were either immigrants or first generation Americans.  If you were to overhear random denizens having a conversation in their first language, there was a 50-50 chance it would not be English; almost as likely was German [2]. After that, Polish, Norwegian and Italian. The ethnic cultures, habits and cuisine that still makes Milwaukee and Wisconsin famous – sausage, beer, cheese, a card game named Sheepshead (Schafskopf) – were well established by this time.

 

In 1901, when baseball expanded to have a second Major League – the American League – Milwaukee was deemed significant enough to be awarded one of the founding franchises: the original Milwaukee Brewers.  The stands at the Lloyd Street stadium, between 16th and 18th streets, were seldom very full; despite a well-developed network of citywide streetcars, they were unable to attract many of the hard working immigrants who hadn’t quite taken to baseball yet, and had better things to do: like pursue opportunity.  Milwaukee was decades away from being able to support a major league team.  They finished dead last in the American League and drew fewer than 2,000 patrons per game.  The Brewers left the next year for St Louis to be renamed the Browns. [3]

_____________________________________

 

3. Milwaukee 1960s and ‘70s – the Jews

 

In the 7th grade I started a part time summer job: caddying at a local golf club.  In the 8th grade I was recruited by an Irish-Catholic friend to move my caddy career to another nearby golf club, Brynwood Country Club.  Brynwood was an almost exclusively Jewish club, and I subsequently worked on and off there for the next four and a half years.

 

I had not met many Jews, but I considered myself pretty aware of Judaism through extensive religious, as well as history, education at OLGH.  Still, I had regarded Jews as all, more or less, the same.

 

At Brynwood I again became aware of the wide variety of surnames.

  • There was Berlin, and Stein; Wagner and Bernstein; the Grossmans and the Reismans; Adler and Ackerman; several Siegels, Epsteins and variations on Meier. Rosen and Rosenberg and Rosenthal.
    • I’d studied enough to know these were all German names.
  • Then: all the Levin, Levine and Levy families.
  • But what about Schlimovitz, and Markovitz and Hurwitz and Abramowitz?
  • And then the Razansky, Lewinsky and Posen and Posner families.

All of these families came from very different places! Not all Jews are the same! They all have different backgrounds and stories. For some reason this was a revelation to me.

_____________________________________

 

4. Milwaukee Immigration – the Jews

 

Jews also came to Milwaukee from Europe, almost since the city’s very beginnings in the 1840s, and throughout the 19th century.  Most came from Germany.  They were intelligent, and used the precise, sharp, hard guttural consonants of a well-educated and well-spoken German.

 

Although never more than 2 or 3 percent of the city’s populace, and usually much less, they had considerable influence as entrepreneurs and professionals – starting businesses, practicing law and engineering. They considered themselves German, and integrated well within the disciplined, hardworking, generous German-speaking non-Jewish Milwaukeeans.

 

Things began to change dramatically in the 1890s and early 1900s.  Pogroms in Central and Eastern Europe motivated many Ashkenazi Jews to leave their homelands and towns and come to America – and to Milwaukee.  Think “Fiddler on the Roof.”  Not as economically well-off or educated, and speaking a slang-ish “soft” dialect loosely based on German, but about as much like German as Ebonics or Creole Pidgin is to English, they were not accepted by the educated, sophisticated and integrated Jews of the time.

 

Adding to the new arrivals’ assimilation problem, most established Midwest Jews practiced Reform Judaism, modifying their customs and practices to fit with the rapidly evolving American times.  The Ashkenazi arrivals were mostly Orthodox; their religion literally directed and permeated every detail of their lives.

 

As the century changed from 19th to 20th, so too did attitudes toward the newly arrived Jews change, and by the mid-decade of the 1900s, new arrivals were accepted and supported by the local established Jews. They too became educated and entrepreneurial; became high achievers who contributed significantly to the greater community of Milwaukee, and the world.

 

Let’s take a brief look at three such local Jewish families to close out this glimpse through the Time Machine: the Mabovitch, the Kohl and the Binsock/Feingold families.

_________________________________________

5. Goldie Mabovitch

 

Moshe Mabovitch knew he and his family had to move far from their home, near Kiev, Ukraine.  They needed to emigrate desperately.  The Jewish community had been victims of oppressive laws and pogroms.  But they needed money.

 

Moshe left in 1903, and – after a stint in New York – moved to Milwaukee in 1905, finding a steady job in the railroad yards.  By 1906 he’d saved enough to buy interest in a small grocery store on Milwaukee’s north side, and saved enough to move his family there, too.  They set about building a new life for themselves and their three daughters: Sheyna, Goldie and Tzipke. Five other siblings had not survived childhood.

 

Education was paramount, even for girls; it meant better opportunity.  Goldie especially excelled, achieving top-of-class status at the Fourth Street Grade School [1] – despite speaking English as a fourth (or fifth) language, and learning that language only after arriving, at age eight.

 

Goldie went on to Milwaukee’s North Division High School, doing well enough – despite taking time off to visit her married sister Sheyna in Denver – to gain entrance to the Milwaukee State Normal School (teachers’ college) on Milwaukee’s north side (This is now the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee, UWM)

 

A few years later, Goldie married Morris Meyerson (Mazel Tov!), whom she met while visiting her sister, who was recuperating from tuberculosis in Denver.  In an ironic twist, she had left Milwaukee at age 14 because her mother was pressuring her to get married.  After meeting Meyerson, she returned to North Division to graduate, and then married Meyerson in her parents’ living room. They had two children … but none of this is what Goldie is known for.

 

Goldie’s experience with oppression led to her indomitable desire for a Jewish homeland. Well, one thing led to another, and – to make a very long story short – in 1949 “Goldie” Mabovitch Meyerson was elected to the parliament (Knesset) of the new nation of Israel.  In 1956, as the government’s Foreign Minister under David ben-Gurion, she agreed to a request to take on a Hebrew last name. She took Meir, which means “illuminate.”

 

Golda Meir of course went on to become Prime Minister from 1969-74, only the third democratically chosen female head-of-state in the modern era.[2] Meir led her county through the crises of the Munich Olympics and Yom Kippur War.

_____________________________________

6. The Kohls

 

I met Maxwell “Max” Kohl, and his three sons (Herbert “Herb”, Sidney “Sid” and Allen) during my five summers working at Brynwood Country Club. All were very pleasant, if somewhat reserved.

 

As a youth, Max lived in a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire that had mostly been historically Polish.  Although a mere teenage lad and a non-combatant, Max was captured by Russian soldiers during World War I and spent most of the war as a prisoner in Siberia.  After returning home – which had become repatriated to the resurrected nation of Poland – he immigrated to the US in 1921 when he was twenty. [1]

 

Settling in Milwaukee, Max met and married Mary Hiken, a Russian-Jewish immigrant.  They worked hard and saved enough money to set up a small neighborhood grocery store.  Then another, and another.

 

By the end of World War II the country was primed for economic explosion on many fronts.  “New” and “big” meant better: from cars, to neighborhoods and houses, to travel.  Max Kohl was ready with an idea he had experimented with in his small stores: the self-serve Supermarket, each with a stand-alone deli, bakery, and even butcher and, eventually, floral departments. The first Kohl’s supermarket opened in Milwaukee in 1946.  By the 1970s some sixty iconic stores, with their arched facade, spread out over Wisconsin – as well as a few in northern Illinois and Indiana.

 

[One last autobiographical note: I worked in a Kohl’s grocery supermarket in fall-spring 1973-‘74.]

Classic Kohl's Supermarket Facade

Classic Kohl’s Supermarket Facade

 

In 1962, the Kohl family also began opening a string of general merchandise stores.  By the time I met them, around 1970 or ’71, sons Sid, Allen and Herb were managing the business, Max was in semi-retirement, and the controlling interest in the business was being sold off for many millions of dollars.

 

Herb and Allen stayed on to manage the business until 1979, when the family became fully financially divested from the Kohl’s label.  In 1985, when the Milwaukee Bucks (Milwaukee’s National Basketball Association franchise) threatened to leave the city, Herb Kohl wrote a check to buy the team.  It turned out to be quite a bargain, at only $18 million.  (He sold the franchise in 2014 for $550 million). Allen stayed with the new Kohl’s company as an executive, helping manage the company’s booming department store expansion from coast to coast to become America’s largest retail store chain, currently with over 1,100 stores in 49 states.

 

Of more consequence, however: Herb Kohl served as one of Wisconsin’s two senators, representing the state in Washington for four terms. He was elected in 1988, 1994, 2000 and 2006, declining to run in 2012. He’s tied for 2nd with Alexander Wiley at 24 years of senate service; only William Proxmire has served longer in the Senate for Wisconsin.  With nice bookends, Kohl campaigned in 1988 on the theme “Nobody’s senator, but yours”; and announced his retirement saying: “The office doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the people of Wisconsin, and there is something to be said for not staying in office too long.” [2]

_________________________________

7.  The Binstock/Feingold Family

 

Around 1900, the Binsock family immigrated to the US from Poland [1] settling in Memphis, TN. The Feingolds arrived from Russia, settling first in New York, later in 1917 in Janesville, Wisconsin.  Their first generation children, Sylvia and Leon, met – like Golda Meir and Morris Meyerson – in Denver, Colorado.  Unlike the Meyersons, they were married there, too, in Denver; my current home metro-area.  Mazel Tov!

 

Leon and Sylvia relocated to Leon’s boyhood town, in Janesville, about 70 miles southwest of Milwaukee, near Wisconsin’s southern border with Illinois, in the 1940s.  Janesville, as a rich agricultural center, was important enough to Milwaukee that a wood-plank road was built between them in the mid-19th century.[2]

 

Leon practiced law; Sylvia worked in the township land office.  Four children arrived, including two sons: David and Russell.  David, the oldest, influenced Russell to be interested in politics…which he had some success at.

 

In 1992, Russell “Russ” Feingold was elected to represent Wisconsin in the US Senate.  He vowed to never take a cent of Political Action Committee money; and he didn’t.  He was re-elected twice, in ’98 and ’04, serving a total of 18 years, before being defeated in 2010 by Ron Johnson. He was a very principled and humble senator, and both he and Wisconsin can take pride in his service. (There are some highlights of his career in the footnotes). [3]

 

___________________________________

 

8. Wrapping Up

 

Even with the great numbers of Jews in places like New York, New Jersey and Florida [1]<, there must be something special about Wisconsin, that melting pot within a melting pot. For it was Wisconsin that became – at the same time as California – the first state to have both senate seats held by Jews.[2]  And it was Milwaukee, Wisconsin that provided the fertile setting for a little immigrant Jewish girl to blossom and eventually become a head of state – the first female head of state of a western nation.

 

_________________________________

 

 

Perhaps, then, it comes as no surprise that Emma Lazarus – the great American poet who penned the lines “Give me your tired, your poor” with which the Statue of Liberty welcomes immigrants – was Jewish, from Sephardic descent.

 

Gazing back through the decades, I’ve grown to be proud of my childhood hometown.  It is a special place within a special country: where anyone, including immigrants and their descendants can ascend to dizzying heights within one or two generations.  Let’s keep it that way.

 

Shalom Havarim!

 

Joe Girard ©  2014

 

Footnotes:

Overview:

[1] First ten amendments, and amendments thirteen, fourteen and fifteen, to the Constitution of the United States.

 

[2] From the Sonnet “The New Colossus”, by Emma Lazarus:

 

“Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

 

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

 

 

  1. Milwaukee, 1960s – the Catholics

[1] Boyhood friendships: Friendship 50.  https://sites.google.com/site/girardmeister2/friendship-50

 

  1. Milwaukee Immigration

[1] Milwaukee’s natural harbor (and other stuff) … http://www.themakingofmilwaukee.com/history/

[2] 38% 1st tongue German speakers in 1900.  Wisconsin German Land and Life; Heike Bungert, Cora Lee Kluge, and Robert C. Ostergren; by Max Kade Institute for German-American Studies, 2006

Several thousand more were from Switzerland, mostly from German speaking Cantons. http://csumc.wisc.edu/mki/Ethnic/ethn-his.html

About 20% of Milwaukeeans were Polish Immigrants or 1st generation Poles in 1900.  www.themakingofmilwaukee.com/people/stories.cfm,
However it is difficult to give accurate numbers, since Poland did not exist as a state from 1795 until 1918. Because of German and Austro-Hungarian dominance, many spoke German well enough to pass as Germans to English speakers.

 

[3] The Saint Louis Browns moved to Baltimore in 1954, becoming the Orioles and still retaining its American League affiliation.

Curious side note: in 1901 the original American League had a Baltimore franchise named the Orioles.  They moved to New York in 1903, becoming the New York Highlanders, and, eventually, the New York Yankees.

 

In 1901, the Milwaukee Brewers finished 48-89; a win ratio of only 0.350 – horrible. In the dead ball era, they gave up an average of over 6 runs per game, perhaps doomed by a fielding percentage of only 0.934.

http://www.baseball-reference.com/teams/MLA/1901.shtml

 

  1. Milwaukee 1960s and 70s – the Jews
  2. The Jews

 

  1. Goldie Mabovitch

[1] This school is now named “Golda Meir Elementary School”

[2] Indira Gandhi of India and Sirimavo Bandaranaike of Ceylon preceded Meir as democratically chosen female heads of state

 

  1. The Kohls

[1] Some sources say Maxwell Kohl arrived in the US in 1924, some say 1921.  For instance, his bio in the Milwaukee Journal, when he passed away in 1983.

[2] Odd Herb Kohl note: at college (University of Wisconsin) roomed with boyhood friend, Bud Selig, now the commissioner of Major League Baseball. Selig is also Jewish.

 

 

  1. Binstock-Feingold Family

[1] Actually from the Polish speaking region of Galicia — a small kingdom near the junction of Poland, Ukraine, Slovakia and Hungary — with bits of Romanian culture thrown in.  Under Austro-Hungarian rule at the time, it was willfully and administratively economically depressed so as to avoid industrial development, and instead be a breadbasket for the rest of the empire. Most Jews in Galicia were not just Orthodox, they were Hasidic.

Galicia ceased to exist as a political entity of any sort at the end of World War 1.

 

[2] The entire route of the Janesville-Milwaukee wood-plank road still exists today.  Most of the length is still named “Janesville Road”, shortened from the original name “Janesville Plank Road.”  The diagonal section within Milwaukee County was renamed Forest Home Avenue in 1871. Plank roads went out of style in the 1860s, as railroad became more efficient, reliable and widespread.

[3] Although a loyal Democrat — a friend to hard working families — Feingold held some principled positions that many current Republicans can appreciate (besides not taking PAC money.)

  • He was the only senator to vote against the PATRIOT Act, seeing within it the possibility of an unrestrained police state — perhaps portending the massive invasive spying of the NSA exposed about 10 years later by Edward Snowden.
  • He voted against No Child Left Behind on the principle that local control of schools was much preferable to big central government control.
  • He teamed with Republican John McCain to get the McCain-Feingold Act passed; a gallant and ultimately failed attempt to get much of the dirty money out of politics.
  • Feingold always had the lowest net worth of any senator, returned all his pay raises to the treasury, and left as he came in: humble, of simple means, unapologetic and owing no one anything.

 

 

  1. Wrapping Up

[1] Jewish population by state: http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/US-Israel/usjewpop.html

— Wisconsin is near the bottom at 0.5%; California near the top at 3.2%

— Top two are: New York, 9%; New Jersey 5.7%

Nationally it is about 2%

 

— By pure numbers

  1. New York, 1.8Million
  2. California, 1.2Million

 

 

[2] Wisconsin is tied with California as the first state to have two Jewish senators.  In January 1993 Barbara Levy Boxer was sworn in as California’s 2nd Jewish senator, joining Diane Goldman Feinstein — who was seated the previous November to complete Pete Wilson’s term — on the same day that Russ Feingold was sworn in.

Later, Connecticut had two Jewish Senators from Jan 2011 to Jan 2013 (Lieberman and Blumenthal; Lieberman retired in Jan 2013; Blumenthal is still in the Senate).

Current Events

Provocative, Ignorant Erin – A Reply

 

Oh Erin. Really? A Measured Reply

Erin Burnett of CNN is pretty.  But she’s also petty and ignorant. That’s no crime.  And she has a lack of intellectual curiosity that would even make George W Bush blush.  Again, no crime.

But tonight (11/21/2014) she used these “qualities” in a way that brings even more shame to the news “information industry.”

First, she breathlessly covered the unfolding events regarding the Grand Jury review of the Ferguson Officer Darren Wilson’s shooting of – and possible murder of – 18-year old Michael Brown. Nearly panting, she seemed all out (combined with “neutral” guest, Van Jones) bent on justifying whatever protests may come.

  • There are only three blacks on the Grand Jury; and nine whites.  This was stated over and over.
  • And why is the Grand Jury meeting in Clayton, which is ten (10!!!) miles away with different demographics and income levels?
  • At the end of the one of several segments on the shooting and Grand Jury she closed with “Why Clayton?”, as if this would be answered later.

She did not answer it later. Her show returned to, for all practical purposes, promoting protests (but not violent protests) and justifying them.  Not only is the Grand Jury mostly white, meeting 10 miles away from Ferguson, but also they are meeting in secret.  Oh the horror.

Second, in her next major story she and several other guests went on and on (breathlessly) about what an evil man Bill Cosby is, how his career is over, and more women were coming out with credible claims of being victims of his sexual abuse.

 _______________________________

The Ferguson, Wilson and Brown tragic story first.  Ferguson is a small community, embedded within a much larger community.  Like nearly all municipalities, Ferguson does not have the resources to conduct the full operations required in capital crimes.  For this reason, in Missouri (as I believe in nearly every other state) major crimes are prosecuted by District Attorneys.  Each county has its own prosecutor, and District Attorney Staff.

A short detour to history in apropos here.  The city of Saint Louis is not in the county of Saint Louis.  They removed themselves from the county in 1876; this is often referred to the “original sin”, and has led to many problems, and made this issue of multiple small municipalities in a single metro area worse.  Saint Louis County has nearly 100 municipalities. [1]

Saint Louis used to be the county seat.  That ended 138 years ago. So that’s where the County Courthouse was (it later became a Federal Courthouse), near the riverfront where the famous arch is now located.  That’s where the Dred Scott case was heard. That courthouse is now a national historical site.

The County Seat of Saint Louis County is in Clayton.  Thus it is home of the County Courthouse, as well as – ironically – the majority of Washington University in Saint Louis.

Now, since the District Attorney’s offices are in Clayton, and the County Administrative offices are in Clayton, and the Court House is in Clayton … well, that’s where the Grand Jury is seated.  The Grand Jury hears and sees evidence in the County Courthouse.  Is it 10 miles from Ferguson? Yes, I suppose it is.  Most counties are pretty geographically large and diverse.

Members of a Grand Jury are chosen the same way members of a regular trial jury in a jurisdiction are chosen: at random from among registered citizens.  Overall, Saint Louis County is 70.3% White; it is 23.7% Black. [2] So the 9-3 racial split on the Grand Jury is quite a good representation of the County of Saint Louis.  If a Black officer had killed a Hispanic or Asian teenager?… well, what would we expect the Grand Jury to look like? About the same. Yes, those percentages are pretty much reversed for Ferguson, just 10 miles away.

Finally, the presentation of evidence and testimony to a Grand Jury are required by law to be done in secret.  If we need to ask why, it’s because we’d like to protect jury members from blow-back.

Couple thoughts about Saint Louis County District Attorney Robert McCulloch.

He could have decided to go ahead with prosecution based on his own (and his staff’s) choice.  He did not.  I think it’s an understandable decision: this is certainly a highly conflicted case and proceeding to full prosecution almost certainly would be (or will be) a very long, painful and expensive process; apparently they did not think they could likely get a conviction.

He could have withheld the case, and the opportunity to indict, from the Grand Jury.  He did not. From the very duration of the sitting (since August), we can be sure that the Grand Jury is hearing every bit of culpatory evidence possible.  And just to be sure, McCulloch appears to be preparing the release of all testimony and evidence after the Grand Jury renders its decision. That’s very unusual, but in this case it is justified.

I have to say, the system is imperfect.  It’s what we have.  If Darren Wilson is guilty, I hope they get him.

But Erin Burnett, your ignorance, lack of intellectual curiosity, laziness in finding any answers to your own protest enraging questions, and your urge to inflame emotions, is most detestable. At least you’re pretty. Apparently a bit of research or waiting for answers is too time consuming for you … when there’s racial conflict and racially charged protests to incite.

________________________________

I won’t go on nearly as long about the revered man with so many credible charges of sexual abuse against him.  He should be shamed.  Apparently he is not.  Juanita Broaderick.  Paula Jones. Gennifer Flowers. Monica Lewinsky. Kathleen Willey. Dolly Kyle Browning. Eileen Wellstone. Carolyn Moffet. Elizabeth Ward (Gracen).  Still we are forced to listen to him ….

Oh sorry, I’m supposed to be talking about Bill Cosby, not … oh … what’s his name?  … Clinton. Right.

Yeah, same thing.  Except Clinton has admitted to the Jones, Lewinsky and Flowers encounters.

Suppose we could add that one perp is white – and getting off scott-free – while the other perp is black – and catching all kinds of crap. But that would be race baiting.

Keep it safe out there.

Joe Girard © 2014

 

[1] Ferguson and Saint Louis’ Original Sin: http://www.businessweek.com/articles/2014-08-15/how-st-dot-louis-countys-map-explains-fergusons-racial-discord

[2] Saint Louis County (Missouri) demographics: http://quickfacts.census.gov/qfd/states/29/29189.html

Note: this essay has been gently edited (the author, 11/22/2014 – JFK assassination day).

 

 

 

 

 

Autobiographical, History

Insane Sanity: Looney Merriment

 

 

An accomplished and successful man in his 50s is driving alone on a work-related commute.

 

 

He’s on the edge of an urban area and a highly traveled road.

 

He’s careful to follow at safe distances, manage speed to account for possible unforeseen events, and is aware of details around him.

 

 

He cannot expect what comes next.

 

 

There are really very few automobile “accidents.”  I have come to loathe the very term. It implies a sort of inevitability. An absence of blame.  “It was icy and so I was in an accident.”  “I didn’t see the light change … and was in an accident.”

 

Ninety-nine percent of “accidents” are caused by plain old carelessness: lack of attention, distractions, too much speed, following too closely.  Absent a meteor strike, or a patch of black-ice on a sunny warm day, there are very, very few “accidents.” When carelessness is involved, it is NOT an accident. [1]

 

There are stretches of road where no one should ever get injured – or killed.  Not only does driving a car require great attention, but especially more so when speed, visibility and traffic volume are concerned.

—–

 

 

He lived, yet his recovery was not certain.

 

 

Brain injuries can be like that.

 

 

In a twisted yet logical irony, Bugs Bunny came to the rescue.

 

—–

Melvin Jerome Blank was born to Russian-Jewish immigrants in 1908, in San Francisco.  Yet, he’d consider Portland, Oregon, his boyhood home town; his parents moved him and his older brother there when he was very young.  Melvin frequently skipped his high school classes: sometimes to attend Vaudeville shows, sometimes to go swimming with friends, and sometimes just to hear the echo of his voice and laughter off the walls of Lincoln High School.

Bugs Bunny, with carrot ... of course.

Bugs Bunny, with carrot … of course.

Not surprisingly, his teachers told him he’d never amount to anything, as his name implies: He was a Blank.  So, when he turned 18 he legally changed his name to Blanc.  He’d be known as Mel Blanc the rest of his prolific life.

___________________________________________-

I certainly remember the Looney Tunes cartoons of my youth, principally in the 1960s.  My recollection is that:

  • They were pretty interchangeable with a virtually identical show called Merry Melodies.
  • They shared a rather strange cast of mostly animal-based characters.
  • “Episodes” lasted roughly an hour – an hour of insanity – made up of several “shorts” of about five minutes each.
  • They were wild – wildly creative and you never really knew what kind of insanity, even violence, would happen next. Somehow, little of it was ever fatal, and even if it was, you’d see Daffy Duck sitting on a cloud in the next scene, with a halo over his head.

Even at a young age I marveled at Mel Blanc.  How could one person do all those voices? Bugs Bunny.  Daffy Duck.  Elmer Fudd.  Foghorn Leghorn.  Porky Pig. Even the incredibly obnoxious Woody Woodpecker, who was not part of the Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies line up. The young Blanc had perfected the Pecker laugh by listening to echoes of his own cackles in the empty hallways of Lincoln High.  Mel Blanc certainly earned his esteemed title: The Man of a Thousand Voices. [2]

——-

For about month a after my May 1st “Car Crash” experience I struggled with the most severe long, hard headaches.  It was as if my brain were shared with a dark, angry, unstable person. I gained some relief from identifying this “invader.”  [Purple Man].

Then things changed.  With headaches (I call them HAs) of less severity and more localized nature I needed new characters to “talk to” as headaches came and went, metamorphosed, changing location, intensity and duration. HAs now have type and location.  Types are “the vise”, “the power drill”, “the jackhammer”, “the grinder.”  But now they also had more specific locations.  And the locations changed.  How to identify the different areas of HAs?

That’s when I recalled the zany, zany characters whose voices and sounds were portrayed by Mel Blanc.  Yes, from Looney Tunes and Merry Melodies.  I had a whole cast of characters, with faces, names, personalities and (thanks to Mel Blanc) voices that I could draw from.  I set about assigning these characters, and others, to the various parts of my brain.

The left of my frontal lobe is Bugs Bunny.  He is smart, smart alecky, and almost always outwits other characters.  I’m right handed, so that’s where most of my high level thinking occurs.  Bugs also can dive into his rabbit hole. So he is also assigned to the section of my brain behind my left eye – he just dives in there. Bugs is clever; I have to be careful with him.

Simple Brain Map

Simple Brain Map

Wile E Coyote is the right frontal lobe. He’s smart too, and creative: he can conceive of and assemble rocket-powered roller skates.  Still, his creativity is limited by the short-sightedness of left-handed emotion.  He frequently falls great distances, cratering into the desert floor.  Therefore, he also gets assigned the section of the brain behind my right eye. The key to Wile E is to wait him out; he’ll burn himself out, sooner or later.

In the mid-brain we have parietal lobes.  Among other things, these lobes allow us to process and integrate lots of information simultaneously. They control many voluntary motions and permit us to multi-task.  When these hurt, I can have problems thinking about more than one thing at a time; sometimes it’s difficult simply interacting with people, or even keeping my eyes open. Lately, these regions have been the most — shall we say — “active.”

  • The left side is Foghorn Leghorn. He thinks he’s smart and observant, but really isn’t.  He blocks himself by his own (limited) knowledge. “I say, I say, boy.” I can outsmart Foghorn.  Just let him talk himself out, then talk circles around him.
  • The right side is Daffy Duck. He’s also kind of smart, but not intelligent. Besides Wile E Coyote, he’s the most likely to hurt himself.  “That’sh Dish-Picable!”  Tell him that enough and he’ll also self-destruct.  Patience, patience.

Further back we have the occipital lobes.  Although these are mostly for processing visual inputs (and generating hallucinations), I’ve saved them for Elmer Fudd  and Porky Pig, left and right, respectively. Elmer Fudd dwells on the left.  “I’ll get you, you wascally rabbit.”  And Porky Pig on the right.  I’ve had a special spot in my mind, heart and soul for Porky Pig since I was very young.  I stammered horribly through my youth – like Porky – going even into young adulthood.  When headaches leave I can send them off with Porky’s (or Blanc’s) signature line “Th-th-th-that’s all, folks!”

 

__________________________

In January, 1961, Blanc was driving to his office, winding through the foothills of north Los Angeles, near Beverly Hills, along Sunset Boulevard.  Sunset twists through the tree adorned hills and washes. Yet with few traffic controls on Sunset – all cross streets must defer to Sunset traffic – the unfortunate tendency is to drive too fast. Perhaps stimulated by the beautiful hilly and tree-scaped scenery, many drivers simply zip along – California Dreamin’.  Blanc knew the road well, and drove carefully as he approached the notorious “Deadman’s Curve.” Located near Whittier Drive, near the north end of exclusive Los Angeles Country Club – and fortunately, near UCLA and its renowned hospital – it had been the site of dozens of horrific accidents since the 1940s.

Headed the other way was an 18-year old university student, Arthur Ralston. Perhaps he was in a bit of a hurry.  Perhaps distracted.

They met at Deadman’s Curve.

________________________________
 

There are a few things in my own brain left to discuss here.  First, the temples.  Since Mel Blanc was Jewish, for him temples were also synagogues.  The left temple I call “Syn-Syn”; it is a place of quiet meditation.  Of course the other, the right, is called “Shirley.”  Eventually she will sing and dance and fall asleep. It’s a good ship, that lollipop.

The last part of the brain to address is the Cerebellum, below the occipital lobes and stretching down to the upper neck.  The left comes first, so we call her Ante.  When antebellum is acting up, I imagine that the “quiet before the war” is returning.  The right is called simply “Cere”, as in Sarah.  I know several beautiful and intelligent women named Sarah.  Calling up their images are soothing and relaxing to me.

More than a few episodes of Looney Tunes had a surprise and unexplained visit by a marsupial: the Tasmanian Devil, AKA “Taz.”  Taz shows up for no reason whatsoever; he whirs about and babbles in a non-understandable gravelly voice.  He bounces from tree to rock with unfocused energy, causing damage wherever he bounces.  Like a pinball, he whirs through my head … and then, he’s gone. Like the cartoons, sometimes he is outsmarted by Bugs, sometimes Daffy.  He’s violent, but manageable.

The “cranial conductor” is the Genie, a la Robin Williams in Aladdin. Together, with my inner Buddha, we can order “Silence!” — and it is so.  To call the Genie, I use my own variation on something very Boulder-ish called Buddha-breathing.  It works as follows.  Placing fingers upon the regions of my skull that correspond to the Looney character causing a headache … I breathe slowly and deeply. I imagine that the inhale draws up the “smoke” from the characters’ fire.  I call them out: “Foghorn, boy, I say boy. Give me your anger, your smoke.”  Then, imagining a hole where the finger(s) touch my skull, I imagine that my slow exhale blows the smoke out the hole.  Eventually, some quiet is restored.

Weird, I know.  We do what we must. Bugs Bunny and his cohorts, the Genie and others have given me some modicum of a sense of control over the storms in my head. And some sanity.

________________________________________________________

For weeks Blanc lay in the UCLA hospital.  A severe brain injury resulted in a coma.  He had multiple major fractures, including his pelvis. When he had come out of his coma, he was still unresponsive to his environment.  Not to his wife or family.  After a few weeks, one of his doctors had an idea.

He simply went up to Blanc’s bed and asked “Hey Bugs Bunny, how are you feeling today?”

Without missing a beat Blanc fell right into character.  “Me-ehhhhh, What’s up Doc?”

Witty repartee followed.  The Doctor then asked “And how is Tweety Bird?”

Blanc: “I taught I taw a puddy cat.”

Blanc was back.  He eventually recovered and continued doing voices, and giving children of all ages great delight, for a few more decades.

Weird, I know.  But indeed, Bugs Bunny helped save Mel Blanc. [3]  And Mel Blanc’s collection of characters helped saved my sanity.

____________________________________________

Wishing you peace and sanity through the upcoming holiday season!

Joe Girard © 2014

 

RIP and Thank you Mel Blanc

RIP and Thank you Mel Blanc

 

[1] “Why there’s no such thing as a car accident.” http://driving.ca/auto-news/news/why-theres-no-such-thing-as-a-car-accident

 

[2] Voices of Mel Blanc: http://looneytunes.wikia.com/wiki/Category:Characters_voiced_by_Mel_Blanc

 

[3] The Strange Day Bugs Bunny saved Mel Blanc. http://www.openculture.com/2013/05/the_strange_day_when_bugs_bunny_saved_the_life_of_mel_blanc.html

final notes:

1) Mel Blanc is one of only four people to have two stars on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame: one for himself, and one for Bugs Bunny.  Walt Disney has one for himself, one for Mickey Mouse.  Jim Henson, one for himself, one for Kermit the Frog.  And Mike Myers has one for himself, and one for Shrek.

2) “Did you ever find Bugs Bunny attractive when he put on a dress and played like a girl bunny?” (Garth, in the 1992 movie “Wayne’s World.”)  Answer: When I was a kid no, but I certainly noticed it. Now, Yes: I love all the images of Bugs Bunny I can conjure up.

3) I found out after drafting this that it’s a story on Radio Lab (well not me, but the Mel Blanc part): http://www.radiolab.org/story/301428-man-1000-voices/

4) Some Blanc info from here: http://www.ochcom.org/blanc/

5) My last essay made reference to Stealer’s Wheel: “Stuck in the middle with You.”
Now you know with whom I stuck in the middle.  It is a plural you.  It is Bugs, et al. It’s kind of busy in there.

Tweedy and Sylvester added out of necessity

Stuck in the middle with you all

 

 

 

 

Autobiographical, Edwardian/Pre-War

Ivan’s No Bell Surprise

Man’s best friend?

“Well, I don’t know why I came here tonight.
I got the feeling that something ain’t right” [1]

Ivan Pavlov won the Nobel Prize for the category “Physiology or Medicine” in 1904. [2] He had been performing advanced research on the digestive system of dogs since about 1890.

Over a century later, Pavlov is better known for his studies in psychology and conditioning. He observed that dogs, expecting rewards, would salivate when he or an assistant entered their rooms. He theorized, and proved in 1901, that dogs could be conditioned to responsively salivate to a variety of stimuli that previously had no meaning whatsoever to the dogs. Such as a bell.[3]

Now we are all conditioned to specific responsive thoughts whenever someone says: “Pavlov’s Dog.”

Pavlov's Drawing of experiment [ref 3]

Pavlov’s Drawing of experiment [ref 3]

On a darker note, Pavlov extended the experiments to train dogs, and test behaviors, to “negative stimuli” … such as electric shocks. [4]

In what has been called one of the most unethical psychological experiments ever [5] psychologists Mark Seligman and Steve Maier performed behavioral tests on dogs in 1965 that may have been inspired by Pavlov and his darker experiments.

Paraphrasing and summarizing: Dogs were trained to push a button in order to receive pleasure or a reward. The dogs were then divided into two groups and put in a room where a mild electric shock was administered. Dogs in group A found the button, pushed it and the shock stopped. Dogs in group B, similarly trained, also pushed the button; but for them the shocks did not stop. Eventually dogs in group B just gave up, laid themselves down and whimpered.

Non-helpless dogs learned to jump over the barrier to avoid shock

But not done yet. The same dogs were put into a room split in half, with a very low barrier between the halves. One-half of the room could be electrified, to administer a similar mild shock. When dogs in group A were shocked, they discovered that they could simply step over the barrier and were relieved of the annoying pains. Sadly, when the dogs in group B were shocked, they just continued to lie down and whimper … not even bothering to step over the low barrier to relief.

The poor dogs in group B. They had acquired “Learned Helplessness.” Their experience with no positive response to trying to control their condition had taught them “what’s the use?” The  Dogs in group A had learned empowerment in control of their pain/pleasure environment. The experiments are cited by psychologists and sociologists still today. One supposes that they apply to sociology, presuming of course, that humans are somewhat like their mammalian class cousins: the dog.

But we can imagine an experiment that goes a step further. We are not unethical, so we’ll just imagine this experiment … for now.

Let’s say that dogs in group A are put back in the room with the button and mild electrical shocks. At first, they get relief from the shock by pushing the button. But then, the rules change. The button works only 75% of the time. Then only 50%. They push the button over and over until it works.

Then the button only works 25% of the time … with a twist. The rest of the time pushing the button makes the shocks get worse and more frequent.

Will the dogs try to guess the new rules? Even when the rules change? At what point do they become like group B? >> Just lie there and take it.

I am sort of like those dogs in group A in the final “imaginary” experiment at this point in my brain healing: There now seems to be very little correlation between: (a) what I do; and (b) how often or severe my headaches are, or my sleep patterns. Sigh. I am told this could last quite a while.  Sigh, again.

That’s the bad news.

The good news is many-fold: a) I have not acquired learned helplessness; b) my support from my wife has been fantastic; c) so has my support at work; c) even as the rules change, the frequency, the duration and the severity of headaches seems to be steadily, although unevenly, decreasing; There are still bad days and sleepless nights, but I feel like myself almost all of the time; d) I have developed a number of tricks to get through (although not always completely relieve) headaches and restless nights.

Trying to make some sense of it all,
But I can see that it makes no sense at all,
Is it cool to go to sleep on the floor?
‘Cause I don’t think that I can take anymore.
Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right:
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you. [1]

I wish you all peace. And I wish you all the strength and perseverance for whatever your struggles may be, or whatever may come. Remember to practice patience and compassion whenever possible, for you cannot know the invisible struggles that haunt so many fellow human beings.

Joe Girard © 2014

[1] Steelers Wheel – Stuck in the Middle with You
[2] http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/medicine/laureates/1904/

[3] www.psychlotron.org.uk/…/AS_AQB_approaches_behaviourismCC.ppt
[4] http://www.historytoday.com/richard-cavendish/death-ivan-pavlov
[5] http://listverse.com/2008/09/07/top-10-unethical-psychological-experiments/

Autobiographical, Medicine

Awakening

 

In my dreams, anything is possible. Yes, I can do almost anything.  I fly.  My golf clubs are a violin bow and a long spaghetti noodle.  Super models find me irresistible.

 

And then … I begin to awaken.  So this is my glimpse of what it must feel like to live with a horrible reality.

 

First, the shrill ringing in my ears begins, heralding a new day and its unfriendly truths.  Soon my shoulders and left arm begin to ache, echoing the message, which is this:  Your day will be soon be filled with many sorts of pain and annoyances.  There will be headaches.  Your brain will easily grow tired.  Wrong words will come out of your mouth.  Without warning, you will go spacey and distant from those around you. Reading, noise and light and socializing might cause your mind to protect itself in an imaginary cocoon. Your shoulders and neck will grow tight.

 

Sigh.  I allow myself a few moments of self-pity. Reality can be so hard.  Yet, I know that millions awaken to crueler truths.  Perhaps hunger, or cancer, or paralysis, or ALS, or the death of someone dearly loved. That itself is sort of an awakening.

 

Attitude is everything, pick a good one. [1]

 

Resolved, this day, to do what I can to heal.

To practice patience, humility, grace and compassion.

To eschew bitterness, contempt, anger, regret.

To balance mindfulness and productivity.

To balance rest and activity.

To grow and learn from whatever this day brings.

 

Arise, you human: Dream and seize the day! Anything is possible!

 

Joe Girard © 2014

 

[1] Attributed to Wayne Dyer

Autobiographical, Medicine

Purple Man

Let’s go on a trip. At first we think it is going to be a vacation to some serene and wonderful land. The scenery is grand; most people seem wonderful. The sun shines frequently.

But let’s make it into an adventure!

You find yourself alone at the scene of a crime. As an innocent bystander, you soon find out that this ostensibly wonderful foreign land is mysterious and kafkaesque.

At the scene you are arrested. By some unintelligible legal process you are soon confined in a rather small cell. After a few days of befuddlement and confusion, during which time you are granted scant new information, you acquire a cellmate.

Let’s talk about your cellmate. He is as angry as you are confused. He looks odd; he is purple, or blue, or something very dark, yet not black. He changes shape so as to quickly take up any space in the cell you want to move in to. He goes into angry rants, spraying spittle and loud syllables in a language that is unlike any you have ever heard before.

This goes on for days and days. Everything you want to do, or think, or ask — everything — can make your cellmate go off in a new round of head-splitting outrage. Since you never know what will anger him, or how angry he will get, or how long it will last, you stop doing almost everything. A few minutes of your movement, or even thinking, can set him off. One thing is clear: lights and noise set him off. And so you do your best to limit these stimuli.

The days turn into weeks.

Finally, through a friend of an acquaintance you’ve made in this sad, strange land, someone special is allowed to visit with you for a few hours. Although he has no control over the legal system or proceedings, he does know how it works, and he knows that its wheels turn very slowly. As you chat, the odd purple man growls while pacing loudly across the cell — occasionally stopping to breathe in your face or yell in your ear.

Here is what you learn.

1) Your dilemma will end, or at least abate, … some day. If you live long enough.

2) You and the purple man are locked up together for a long time. His behavior will improve, eventually. We don’t know when.

3) You must come to some sort of peace with your dilemma.

4) Some unknowable duration of time after your “peace” — which permits a modicum self-pity, emotional outbursts of frustration, anger, anguish — the wheels of justice will begin to nudge the cell gate ajar. Slowly, slowly, your freedom from this foul confinement with the angry purple man will become manifest.

And so you wait. And wait. Some days you just sit in the corner, eyes closed, humming mind-numbing tunes softly to yourself. Must not agitate the purple man.

You probably did not enjoy that little fantasy trip. I don’t apologize.

It is not an imagined fantasy. It is real. That is the last 16 days of my life. Evidently it will last quite a while longer; just how long is simply unknowable.

Under medical counsel I’ve been permitted to spend short periods of time each day experimenting with doing what I want to do — gently, gently — to see how far I can go before angering the purple man in my head. I now consult him — in our own language — before doing things and on subjects that could anger him. He says 20 minutes is enough. So that is all for now.

Peace to you and yours, and peace to the inside of your cerebrum.

Joe Girard © 2014

Autobiographical, Guest Essay

Joe Out

Hello fellow readers of Joe’s Girardmeister blog.

My name is Aaron, his eldest son. I’ve been asked for a while to do some sort of guest essay, but unfortunately I have to start today under some undesirable circumstances. Hopefully it will continue with some other thoughts and musings, but for now my role is set to messenger.

On May 1st, 2014, Joe was involved in a car crash while stopped at a stoplight in Boulder. He was hit from behind in his brand new Nissan Altima, which he had not even had the pleasure of filling the tank on, considering he’d had it for 167 miles and less than 5 days. Fortunately, the car did exactly what it was supposed to do and crumpled according to the designed specs; the driver’s seat even broke to take some of the impact force.  It was quite overwhelming to see the photos of the site and cars, considering the fact he was hit at an estimated 45 MPH, but we were all happy to see that he seemed healthy and relatively undamaged. He went to the hospital and had a few X-rays done to check some bruised areas for breaks, but the diagnosis was an all clear. We all counted our blessings and were happy to write the car off as long as we had a healthy dad and husband.  As you readers may know, he is no stranger to car crashes. Even during the accident he was coherent and knew he was getting hit, so we all felt comfortable that he knew what he was feeling and was healthy.

Shortly after heading home from the hospital, however, a bump on the left side of his forehead started to rise. About four days later, the uncomfortable headaches and sensitivity to light arose. It quickly became apparent that he’d had a head injury and something needed to be done, probably fast.  I immediately decided to go to my apartment, pack my car, and take the 14 hour drive from Houston to Colorado to help out at home, because the stress levels were rising and that was the last thing that he needed to deal with.  I just had to make sure I drove safe through the storm in north Texas and get home safely, which I did. During my drive, a CT scan was done in Boulder, leading to a probable diagnosis of a traumatic brain injury. This was news that we realized would be the beginning of a big challenge, and I was glad that I had the ability to be there and assist with anything I can do for my father.

In any case, it will be a while until we see a new essay from Joe.  He’s been told to relax, not exercise, stay calm, and sleep as much as necessary to allow his brain to heal itself. The next weeks will be a challenge, because he is generally very active both physically and mentally, and both of those things are not desirable during this recovery period. I’ll be around and taking notes on everything, and hopefully allowing him to dictate thoughts and stories, so you avid readers hopefully won’t go thirsty for lack of essays and musings. For any of you who have been enjoying these musings, as I have, we will gladly be accepting guest essays and will post them here.

For now, we wish you much love and happiness. Please drive safe, count your blessings, and enjoy the company of your family and friends. Anything can happen at any time.

Peace,

Aaron

Edwardian/Pre-War, History, Sports

Of Flubs, Boners and Chance

These are saddest of all possible words:
“Tinker to Evers to Chance.”
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds.
“Tinker to Evers to Chance.”
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double –
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
“Tinker to Evers to Chance.”
== Franklin Pierce Adams, 1910

 

This past week those lovable losers, the Chicago Cubs, celebrated the 100th Anniversary of the opening of their historic home stadium, Wrigley Field. In classic Cubs’ style, they collapsed in the 9th-inning, losing a large lead to the Arizona Diamondbacks – the only Major League team at the time with a worse record than the Cubs in this young season. The Cubs have the ignominious record as North America’s professional sports franchise with the longest duration without a championship: 105 years, and running. This year the tally will surely increment to 106.

1060 W. Addison, Chicago, IL (Wrigleyville)

1060 W. Addison, Chicago, IL (Wrigleyville)

It might come as a surprise to baseball fans that the Chicago Cubs had fantastic teams in the early 1900s. They made it to three consecutive World Series – 1906 to 1908 – winning twice. Those Cubs of yore lay claim to the most famous double play combination in history. Simply stating the names – Tinkers, Evers, Chance – conveys an image of a well-oiled defensive machine, brutally turning double plays to snuff out potential rallies. In the dead ball era most games were low scoring, and hence most games were very close. Effectively turning base runners into double play outs could have a devastating emotional impact on the opposition.

So often did the Cubs, and their double play trio, dash the pennant and World Series hopes of the New York Giants that Franklin Pierce Adams, a columnist for the New York Evening Mail, wrote the poem above. [1]

Let us go back now, to 1908, when the Cubbies won their last championship, and consider how little Johnny Evers found a new and clever way to squash the Giants’ pennant hopes: he used his head, the rules of baseball, and applied them at a critical moment that involved one of the biggest base running mistakes in baseball history.

From the Official Rules of Baseball

Definitions: A FORCE PLAY is a play in which a runner legally loses his right to occupy a base by reason of the batter becoming a runner.

How a run scores: A run is not scored if the runner advances to home base during a play in which the third out is made … by any runner being forced out.

As the 1908 season wound down, the Cubs were two-time defending National League pennant winners. They were involved in a tense and tight race with the Pittsburgh Pirates and the New York Giants.

In a late season game with the Pirates, the Cubs appeared to have lost on the last play of the game by a score of 1-0, when, with two outs and runners on first and third, a base hit fell in the outfield.

In that era, in the excitement of the moment for such “walk off” singles, the runners on first or second base would not advance to the next base … it being deemed not necessary since the winning run was scored when the runner touched home plate.

This day in Pittsburgh, September 4, Johnny Evers, the Cubs’ wily and wiry second baseman, was not deterred. He retrieved the ball, stood on second base and appealed to umpire Hank O’Day, who had not yet left the field. The winning run should not count, claimed Evers, since the runner on first did not touch second: this was the third out and the result of a force play.

Johnny Joseph Evers, Cubs scrappy 2nd baseman

Johnny Joseph Evers, Cubs scrappy 2nd baseman

Upon considering the situation, facts and the rule as Evers explained, O’Day agreed with Evers. But O’Day claimed he did not see whether or not the runner touched 2nd base and, since an umpire cannot call an out he did not see, allowed the run to count. The Pirates won the game.

The Cubs and Evers made quite a stink about this. There was some talk amongst league directors (this was the days before a commissioner), rules committee and umpires. Although it was generally agreed that rules are rules and should be enforced as such, this position was not flowed to all teams and players uniformly.

Two and a half weeks later, September 23, with just a few games left in the season, the Cubs were in New York to play the Giants. They were tied for first place in the National League at the time.

That day the Giants regular first baseman, Fred Tenny was ill. Giants’ Hall of Fame manager John McGraw inserted Fred Merkle into the lineup. At the time Merkle was the youngest player in the Major Leagues, at 19-years old. He had never started a Major League game before.

In the bottom of the 9th inning, the score was tied: one run apiece. The Cubs had scored when Tinker slashed a gapper to right field. Today this would be a stand-up double. In the old polo grounds the ball rolled and rolled. Tinker scampered all the way around for an inside-the-park home run.

Spacious outfield at the Polo Grounds Ball Park allowed line drives in gaps to roll a long way.

Spacious outfield at the Polo Grounds Ball Park allowed line drives in gaps to roll a long way.

The Giants had scored in the classic small-ball fashion of the era. A single. An error. A sacrifice. A single.

Both starting pitchers were still in the game, very common for that era. For the Giants future Hall of Famer Christy Mathewson was pitching a great game. For the Cubs, lefty Jack Pfister – he of the wicked curve ball – was on the mound.

Not nearly as well-known today as Mattewson, in 1906 Pfister recorded one of the lowest ERAs ever by a rookie, 1.51. His career ERA of 2.02 stands as the third best ever for anyone who’s pitched at least 1,000 innings.

Classic Matthewson photo, 1907

Classic Matthewson photo, 1907

During the season Pfister had damaged an epicondyle tendon in his left arm – undoubtedly due to the strain from throwing so many of his devastating curves. In the heat of pennant race, Pfister continued pitching … and throwing curve balls. During the game his damaged tendon became dislocated.

Still, he continued pitching, needing to be escorted off the field between innings … so severe was the pain.

In the bottom of the 9th, Pfister had to stop throwing curve balls. With one out and Art Devlin on first base after a single, Moose McCormick hit a double-play ball to Evers at second. However, Devlin got a great jump on the pitch — correctly guessing that Pfister was too tired to make a throw to first base and hold him close.  Devlin was able to take out Tinker at the pivot, thus avoiding the double play (which would have reversed the classic line as Evers-Tinker-Chance). McCormick was now on first, with two outs.

Next up was the young Fred Merkle, who had only 47 plate appearances all year until then. He slashed a single to right field, allowing McCormick to get all the way to third base.
With the winning run on third base, the Giants and their 30,000 fans in the stadium – with many more watching from Coogan’s Bluff beyond the outfield – could sense a dramatic and critical victory over the visiting rival Cubs.

Fans standing on Boone's hill, beyond outfield, at Polo Grounds, September, 23,1908

Fans standing on Boone’s hill, beyond outfield, at Polo Grounds, September, 23,1908

Giants’ shortstop 24-year old Al Bridwell stepped into the left-handed batter’s box and wasted no time … hitting a line drive to center field on the very first pitch, getting a fast ball as he expected.

McCormick danced home, scoring the winning run. The Giants and their fans raced onto the field, celebrating the dramatic victory. Oh the joy!

Again, Johnny Evers was not about to give up. As fate would have it, Hank O’Day was also the umpire that day. Evers got O’Day’s attention and made sure he knew that Merkle had not touched second base, and hence the play was not yet over.

At this point, the various stories diverge. Some have Tinker retrieving the ball. Some Evers. Some Chance. Some say the ball was lost and Evers got a ball from O’Day’s ball bag.

Regarding the upshot, all stories agree. Evers had the ball, standing on second base before Merkle (who was dancing with his teammates and fans on the field) had touched second base. O’Day declared Merkle out, the result of a force play. This was the third out, hence the run did not count.

Fred Merkle, 1908

Fred Merkle, 1908

With such pandemonium in the Polo Grounds, there was absolutely no chance to clear the field and resume the game before darkness set in.

Consequently, the game was declared a 1-1 tie. Both the Cubs and Giants protested. The Cubs wanted a forfeit, since the behavior of the Giants’ fans precluded any chance to continue play. The Giants’ various claims included tradition, that O’Day had not actually seen the play and that Evers did not hold the actual game ball at second base. All appeals were denied. The tie stood.

At the end of the season, the Giants and Cubs finished atop the National League, with identical 98-55 records. The odd team out were the Pirates, oh-so-close, at 98-56: only one-half game behind. (ties were not counted). [6] [7]

A single extra Giants-Cubs game would be played, extending the season for these two teams.

The Make-up Game

The make-up game was deemed a replay of the September 23 game, so it was played at the Polo Grounds on October 8 — the day after the season ended. The Giants again called upon Christy Matthewson. But he turned them down. His arm was “dead.” He had pitched 390 innings, started 44 games, and pitched 3 complete games in the last week – the Giants were forced to play 10 games in the last 8 days of the season on account of rain outs. [2] [3] [4]

The Cubs again called on Pfister. With his dead arm and damaged tendon, he did not get out of the first inning, failing to retire a batter. He was replaced by Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown – who had lost a finger and mangled several others on his throwing hand in farm accidents as a youth.

Mordecai Brown's right (pitching) hand

Mordecai Brown’s right (pitching) hand

Thanks to Pfister’s ailing arm, the Giants jumped out to a quick lead. But, in front of 40,000 screaming Giants fans, the Cubs rallied, “Three Finger” held the Giants in check, and the Cubs won the game 4-2, and went on to the World Series.

The Cubs went on to again crush Ty Cobb’s Detroit Tigers in the World Series, four games to one. This was the first re-match in Series history; the Cubs had defeated the Tigers 4-0 the previous year.

Of all the reasons the Cubs made it to the 1908 Series – and won it! – is the most famous base running blunder in baseball history: now known as “Merkle’s Boner.” The Cubs have not won a World Series since that year. Whether this is on account of the demonic “Curse of Merkle’s Boner”, the poem of Franklin Pierce Adams, playing so many day games in a hitter friendly stadium, or carrying the heavy burden of a history of failure, it doesn’t matter; they remain America’s Lovable Losers.

Aftermath and ironies:

  • All together, and as a trio, Tinker, Evers and Chance were voted into the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame on the same ballot in 1946.

  • Evers and Tinker hated each other. In 1905 they had ceased talking, except on the field when absolutely necessary. In 1926 Chance, dying of cancer, called them to his bed together. A modicum of peace was reached.

  • Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown was voted into the Hall of Fame in 1949.

  • Both O’Day and Evers would go on to manage the Cubs in later years.

  • Merkle went on to have a long career, an additional 14 years, including a stint with the Chicago Cubs.

  • Adams’ poem seems to have done the trick. McGraw’s Giants went on to win the pennant in 1911, 1912 and 1913 (although the Cubs did win the pennant in 1910, the year of the poem’s penning).

  • The record of Cubs futility is astounding. They did make it to the World Series 6 more times, losing each time.  In a 7th visit to the series in the (WW2 caused athlete-depleted) year of 1945, they got close: losing 4 games to 3 to, the Detroit Tigers. But they have not been World Series Champions since 1908. And they’ve not even been in the Series since 1945.[5]

 

Peace

Joe Girard © 2014

Footnotes:
[1] “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon”, New York Evening Mail; July 12, 1910; by Franklin Pierce Adams. Originally titled: “That Double Play Again.” It was re-published on July 15 under the title that it is still known by today. It is often referred to by its refrain: “Tinkers to Evers to Chance.”
[2] http://www.baseball-reference.com/players/m/mathech01.shtml
[3] 1908 NY Giants game records: http://www.baseball-almanac.com/teamstats/schedule.php?y=1908&t=NY1

[4] Matthewson’s 1908 Season is often called the best season ever by a pitcher. He led the Majors in ERA (1.43), wins (37) and even saves (5), as he had 12 relief appearances to go with his 44 starts. http://voices.yahoo.com/christy-mathewson-1908-greatest-season-ever-1975418.html

[5] http://www.baseball-reference.com/postseason/1945_WS.shtml

[6] New York Giants 1908 Season record: http://www.baseball-almanac.com/teamstats/schedule.php?y=1908&t=NY1

[7] Chicago Cubs 1908 Season record: http://www.baseball-almanac.com/teamstats/schedule.php?y=1908&t=CHN

[a] Gonfalon, definition; Oxford Dictionary: “A banner or pennant, especially one with streamers, hung from a crossbar.” http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/gonfalon

 

Bibliography
[100] http://www.1907cubs.com/tinkers-to-evers-to-chance.php

[101] Fun little essay on Merkle, his boner, his career and more details of the Sept 23, 1908 game.

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History

Take Care at the Fair; Meet me in Upstate NY

 

Upstate New York is the setting for this fourth essay on the Edwardian and pre-war period.  The winsome town of Auburn, at the end of Owasco Lake, is a particularly unlikely nexus of circumstance. Although it is the home of abolitionist Harriet Tubman, and the William Seward museum – he who negotiated the purchase of Alaska – (and those two share some common history) – that is not the reason it appears here. It does, however, serve as the site of a maximum security penitentiary. [0]

Expositions are the timekeepers of progress.

They record the world’s advancement.

They stimulate the energy, enterprise, and intellect of the people; and quicken human genius.

They go into the home. They broaden and brighten the daily life of the people.

They open mighty storehouses of information to the student.

Every exposition, great or small, has helped to some onward step.

. Comparison of ideas is always educational and, as such, instructs the brain and hand of man.  [1]
– Wm McKinley, Sept 5, 1901

 Pic1-atNight

In 1901 the world, and the President, went to Buffalo for the 1901 World’s Fair, also known as the Pan-American Exposition. Since London’s “Crystal Palace Exhibition” in 1851 [2], fairs had been extravagant venues of social construct for promotion and inspiration: snapshots in time of the human race’s views and sociology, of its scientific and technological advancements, of its geopolitical constructs.  The ideologies of technological progress and nation-state expansion were on display: evidence that people and nations had, through technology and expansion, achieved great things.

Implicit and inspirational was that even greater accomplishments were yet to come. Also implicit was that fairs afforded each nation forums and opportunities to “show off” their achievements, cultures and pride:  “(to) juxtapose its prowess in any and all fields against that of all other participating nations.” A justification for World’s Fairs was that “that they promoted peace by bringing the world together and through education of its citizens by their educational content.” [3]

The 1901 Buffalo Pan-American Exposition certainly had some technological advancements on display, especially electricity and X-rays.

Electricity and Lights: Situated in Delaware Park [4] toward Buffalo’s northwest side – about 2 miles from the Niagara River and a 20 minute trolley ride from the center of town – the Fair had the world’s first significant display of hydroelectric power.  With power coming from Niagara Falls, some 25 miles away “… at dusk 240,000 eight watt bulbs came on at once, not in a brilliant flash of light, but in a gradual increase in brightness until every building was adorned in a bath of light. Since the Electric Tower was the focal point of the Exposition, it was studded with 44,000 lights. A powerful searchlight was mounted at the highest point of the tower that allowed it to be seen from Niagara Falls and Canada.” [5] [6]

X-rays: To German physicist Wilhelm Röntgen is ascribed the distinction of “discovering” X-Rays, in 1895. Although their effects had been observed before, he was the first to study them in detail. In December, 1895, he presented his findings to the Würzburg Physical and Medical Society. [7] By mid-1896, X-Ray machines (Röntgen Rays in many places; still Röntgen Strahlen in Germany) were in limited medical use: seeing “into” the body to detect bone breaks, and even famously, metal objects in or on the body. [8]

People came to the Fair to see the new and exotic, including electric lights and X-ray machines making pictures of what lies within the body, covered by skin and flesh.

————————–

President McKinley came to the Fair at the very height of his popularity. He had been recently re-elected in another electoral drumming of Democrat William Jennings Bryan. [9]

The economy, after several years of slumping due to the Panic of 1893, was humming along; unemployment had dropped from near 18% to under 5%. [10]  GDP was growing: the US economy had just grown to be the world’s largest [11] and the third largest GDP per capita – surpassed only slightly by Australia and New Zealand. [12] The US had become the world leader in wheat, steel and cotton production. [13]

On average, standard of living was high and climbing rapidly; the US was indeed the “land of opportunity” and the world was excited at any friend’s or relative’s opportunity to go to America: the population swelled past 75 million; more than each Germany, France and Britain – behind only China, India (part of the British Empire) and Russia. [14]

Politically, McKinley’s presidency marked the ascendancy of the United States to the role of major player on the world scene.  Fresh from a victory over a centuries-old international power in the Spanish-American War, the United States now had new territorial reach: from Cuba and Puerto Rico in the Caribbean to the Philippines in the Far East.

The international prestige seemed to have no bounds; the Hay-Pancefote Treaty of 1900 empowered McKinley to announce that the US would be taking on the world’s most impressive and audacious engineering feat: building the Panama Canal. The US had secured from Britain exclusive rights to build and operate such a canal. [15]

McKinley had moved away from his hardcore business and capitalist roots. As now in the 21st century, a wide chasm between the privileged industrialists and the common laborer had opened up, apparent for all to see. McKinley moved toward progressivism, no longer supporting the unconstrained lassaiz faire expansion of big business and protective tariffs. He now understood that, long term, these hurt American competitiveness and drove prices up for average consumers, hampering the economy.

 

 

The Panic of 1893 officially ended in November 1893, as bank runs fell off to near zero, and stock markets bottomed out. However, economic stability and sustained growth, both in the US and abroad, were not realized until ’97.  Even at the time of the 1901 Buffalo Fair, ripples were felt; the economic lives of all Americans had not returned to “normalcy”, if ever there is such a thing.

Some lessons of the Panic: Runs on banks are devastating; without a central bank, the economy is actually dependent on the good will of the uber-wealthy (a large gold loan from JP Morgan saved the Treasury from a run on its gold); over building and limited competition (as happened in the railroads) can lead to a crash; the world economy is interconnected: economic instability in Argentina, political instability in Brazil and low crop yields in Europe all contributed to the crash.

We now turn our attention to the lives of two people, both US citizens, who were affected by the Panic. Still aggrieved, they found their way to upstate New York, at the time of the Buffalo World’s Fair, in 1901.  Otherwise completely unrelated, and unknown to each other, their names were Annie and Leon.

 

Annie Edson Taylor

Annie Edson was born and raised in Auburn, NY, in the famous and beautiful Finger Lakes region.  She became Annie Edson Taylor when, in 1854 at the age of 17, she married David Taylor.  One of 8 children, her father – a flour mill owner and operator – died when Annie was 12. He left her enough money to live in a modicum of comfort and to acquire a good education.

With a solid basic education, Annie became a school teacher. Eventually she bore Mr Taylor one child, a son, who died in infancy. She became a widow only a few years later, a sacrifice endured by many, thanks to the US Civil War.

After that, Annie showed her brave heart and big ambitions: she moved around chasing a teaching career and starting small businesses, including a dance school in Bay City, Michigan, and a music school in Sault Ste Marie, Michigan. She also tried teaching in San Antonio, as well as Mexico City.

During the ‘90s, partly on account of the Panic and subsequent Depression, Annie fell on hard times.  She despaired about her situation; she had always perceived of herself as an independent and self-sufficient woman.

In 1901 she hit upon an idea to make enough money to take care of herself for the rest of her life. Reading about the vast crowds showing up for the Fair, she moved to Buffalo and hired a promoter.  She had a custom-built wood barrel constructed, based on a pickle barrel design.  It was reinforced with iron bands and fitted with a mattress and ballast on the inside.  The ballast was to ensure that it would float with one side always “up.”

Just a few days before the Fair ended, on her 63rd birthday, October 24, 1901, Annie climbed into the barrel.  The barrel was then filled with compressed air and the hole was immediately tightly sealed with a cork.  Then, gently, the barrel was slid into the current of the Niagara River.

The current carried Annie-in-the-barrel over to the Canadian side, and over Horseshoe Falls.  Twenty minutes later the barrel appeared, bobbing, at the bottom of the falls, drifting slowly toward Lake Ontario.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Annie Edson Taylor: at 63 years old, the first person to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel, and survive. [16]

_______________________________________________

Leon was another person whose already unstable life was adversely affected by the Panic and the Depression that followed. Although the subject of a difficult life and times, this could hardly portend his end; his death was one of the very first to be preserved on film for posterity.

Born to immigrants of Polish heritage in Detroit in 1873 – his father, Paul Czolgosz (pronounced like Chawl-gosh); his mother, Mary Nowak (as Novak); both probably from Polish regions in or near Belarus – the family moved often.  First to Cleveland, then to other cities in the upper mid-west, each with strong Polish communities. [17]

Leon lost his mother to childbirth at an early age; his father remarried shortly thereafter.  This probably sparked his lifelong detachment from just about everything: his family, his faith, and – ultimately – the American way of life and dream to which the Polish community had come for opportunity and refuge.

Czolgosz became an avid reader, even after ending his formal education at about age 10. After beginning work in factories at age 15, his experiences drew him first to literature about labor and socialist movements; later he was drawn to writings of anarchists.

Perhaps embarrassed by his culture and name, he started going by pseudonyms, usually Freddie Nieman (which is German for “no one”). [18] He left the Catholic faith (most Poles are Catholic, a la Pope John Paul II – Karol Józef Wojtyla). He started hanging out with Socialist and Revolutionary organizations, but even there he did not fit in.

Unable to find steady work during and after the depression, Nieman/Czolgosz found his way to Buffalo in late August of 1901, perhaps thinking that the buzz of the Fair would provide some labor opportunity.

Before moving to Buffalo, Leon met with anarchist activist and political radical Emma Goldman on at least two occasions: once in Cleveland at a lecture in May 1901, and once when he went to Chicago to meet her, in July.

There is little chance that Nieman/Czolgosz knew of McKinley’s planned trip to Buffalo for the Fair, on September 5 & 6 at the time he moved there.  But there is little doubt that he knew after the president’s plans were made public soon after he arrived; Czolgosz was a faithful reader of newspapers and pamphlets. Here, he was presented by this coincidence: he and the president were in the same city.  This coincidence, he hoped, was his opportunity to tell and show the president exactly how he felt about the unfair labor-capitalist relations in the US.

On September 5, the day of the speech, Leon was unable to get close enough to get the president’s attention.  Fortunately, the president would be at the Fair again, on the 6th, eager to meet-and-greet, to shake hands – he was a popular president after all, and he was eager to oblige a populace that was just as eager to see him in public.

At the Temple of Music, with an ensemble providing a Bach sonata [21] as a mellow background, Czolgosz found himself at the front of the crowd, with the president working his way toward him.

The president moved quickly from person to person, smiling.  He extended his hand to Czoglosz, whose right hand was covered by a handkerchief, as if nursing some sort of injury. Instinctively, the president reached for Czoglosz’ left hand instead. Their hands met at 4:07PM.

Pop! Pop! Two shots.  Bullets pierced first the handkerchief, then the president’s body. The first hit and glanced off his collar bone. The second lodged somewhere in the 58-year old president’s generously sized abdomen.

Czolgosz was quickly wrestled to the ground, giving himself and his weapon up with little fight.  Security officers pummeled him with blows and kicks. He considered his mission on earth complete.

As McKinley was being moved to a stretcher, and to the Exposition hospital, he expressed concern for Czoglosz (they should not beat him; he couldn’t have known what he was doing) and for his wife (please tell her where I’m going and that I’ll be fine).

At the hospital, it was an hour or more before a doctor qualified to perform surgery on McKinley could be located.  Daylight started to dwindle.

A surgery that evening was unable to locate the bullet. It is horribly ironic to note that the fabulous X-Ray machines on display at the Fair could have helped immensely — the bullet would have showed up clearly.  So, too, could the wonderful electric lights that lit up the Fair’s Temples and towers every night have helped.  To light the surgery room, doctors held up mirrors to the windows in order to reflect the waning sunlight to the surgery table. To find the bullet, they guessed… and failed to find it.

McKinley began making a remarkable recovery, even with the bullet remaining in him.  President Andrew Jackson had lived decades with bullets in his chest and abdomen, taking at least one bullet – from a dual in 1806 – to the grave.

McKinley also took the bullet to the grave, although not lasting decades: on September 13 things turned bad. Internal wounds had grown too infectious and McKinley passed away, from gangrene, on September 14, 1901. A four hour autopsy also failed to find the bullet.

____________________

Aftermath

The plan, if there was one, was never for Teddy Roosevelt to become president.  Making him vice-president was a compromise: New York needed to get rid of a pesky, highly-energetic progressive governor; McKinley needed a running-mate, as Vice President Garret Hobart had died in 1899. The Vice Presidency was a safe place to “park” Roosevelt – and he was a nice addition to the ticket: he was enormously popular thanks to his recent Spanish War experiences, leading the Rough Riders and charging up San Juan Hill.

At 42, Roosevelt is still the youngest person ever to take the oath of the presidential office (Note: Kennedy was the youngest elected president, at 43).  Roosevelt’s presidency, and subsequent election in 1904, brought the nation into the Progressive Century.  He fought for great expansion of the National Park system and Public Lands holdings. His vigorous enforcement of the Sherman Anti-Trust Act broke up monopolies and price-fixing collusion rings, leading to a more competitive nation, lower prices and – at least the perception – of less influence by big-corporations over government.

He reinforced America’s image as a world power with his gun boat diplomacy, sailing the navy around the world, to put in at great harbors and “show the flag.”  America’s role in the world, he said, is “to speak softly, but carry a big stick.”

Theodore “Teddy” Roosevelt is still considered the most popular president of all time. He pulled away from a certain re-election in 1908: there were safaris to go on and jungles to explore.  His bust is one of the four carved into Mt Rushmore.

 

 

Annie Taylor went on few speaking tours, making speeches about her over-the-falls experience.  These did not make her much money. Eventually, her promoter ran off with most of her funds and her pickle barrel. Although not well off, she managed to eke out a living, making enough money from Niagara tourists to get by: posing with them for pictures, fortune telling and selling magnetic heath devices.

When Annie was safely on land after her falls plunge she said “No one should ever do that again.” [19] Despite that advice, and laws against it in both the US and Canada, fourteen people have successfully duplicated the feat.  Over 5,000 dead bodies have been recovered from the falls, many of them thrill seekers.

She lived her remaining 19 years near Niagara Falls.

Leon Czolgosz was, of course, rapidly tried and convicted for the murder of McKinley in the first degree. Very rapidly.  The conviction came down on September 24; just 10 days after McKinley’s death and 18 after the shooting. The next month, Czolgosz was executed by electric chair – the first to be re-enacted on film. [20] Coincidentally, the execution was at Auburn Prison, in New York – in Annie Edson Taylor’s childhood home town.

McKinley was buried in his native Ohio, at Canton; there is a monument to him there.  Roosevelt’s hand-picked presidential successor – William Taft – never really wanted the job, preferring a seat on the Supreme Court, which he eventually got in 1921.  Taft was ineffective as president, leaning back toward the party’s big business interests, causing Roosevelt to enter the 1912 election as a 3rd party candidate; this led to an easy victory by Woodrow Wilson (Democrats’ first since Grover Cleveland of the Bourbon Democrats 20 years before).

It’s impossible to know how the country and the world would have turned out had Leon Czolgosz – alias Freddy Nieman – not elbowed his way to the front of the crowd that day at the Temple of Music, in Buffalo, at the World’s Fair.  At a minimum, it’s FAIR to say that Teddy Roosevelt would never have become president. Looking a little further, perhaps the US would not have entered the Great War – WW1 – which began 100 years ago.

Wishing you a Fair and Peaceful month.

Joe Girard © 2014

[0] Tubman-Seward connection, Auburn, NY: http://www.nyhistory.com/harriettubman/home.htm

[1] –- President McKinley’.s last speech.  Delivered in Buffalo at a reception in his honor, at the World’s Fair on September 5, 1901. Full text here: http://www.bartleby.com/268/10/27.html

[2] The 1851 Fair, held in Hyde Park, London, was more formally known as “Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of all Nations”; http://www.ndl.go.jp/exposition/e/s1/1851.html

[3] “Indescribably Grand”, Introduction, Edited and assembled by Clevenger, Martha – Diaries and Letters from the 1904 World’s Fair. Title taken from diaries of Edward Schneiderhahn.

[4] Delaware Park, so named for its proximity along Delaware Avenue, is on the registry of National Historic Places.

[5] Buffalo History Works: http://www.buffalohistoryworks.com/panamex/buildings/buildings.htm

[6] The Electric Tower, like Eiffel’s tower to the 1879 Paris Fair, was the technological and vista centerpiece of the 1901 Fair. 375 feet tall and lit with 44,000 lights, climbing to its top provided a spectacular panoramic view of the fair and surrounding landscape.

Pic2-ToweratNight

Electric Tower, at Night — 1901 Fair — Buffalo

[7] Roentgen’s presentation, Über eine neue Art von Strahlen (On a new kind of Rays):  http://www.xtal.iqfr.csic.es/Cristalografia/archivos_10/Uber_eine_neue_art_von_strahlen_ocr.pdf … translated here: http://web.lemoyne.edu/giunta/roentgen.html

[8] Röntgen’s famous X-Ray picture of his wife’s hand, clearly showing that the metallic wedding band does not allow the rays to penetrate.

pic3-xray

[9] McKinley’s victories over Bryan, 1896 and 1900. http://www.270towin.com/1900_Election/; http://www.270towin.com/1896_Election/

[10] The “Social Democracy” site seems to have the best economic data at present for this era. http://socialdemocracy21stcentury.blogspot.com/2014/02/weir-on-historical-estimates-of-us.html

[11] The US economy is generally credited with becoming the world’s largest in either 1899 or 1900.  Here is one source: http://www.ritholtz.com/blog/2010/08/history-of-world-gdp/

[12] World economies, GDP per capita, http://www.nationmaster.com/country-info/stats/Economy/GDP-per-capita-in-1900

[13] US Production, 1900: http://pages.ucsd.edu/~jlbroz/Courses/POLI142B/lecture/1800-1900.pdf

[14] Population by Country 1900.  Oddly Russia is scarcely bigger now (2014) than then.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_population_in_1900

[15] Panama Canal: US History with Britain, and the Isthmus Canal.  http://www.u-s-history.com/pages/h929.html; the failed Hay-Herran Treaty with Columbia eventually led to a US backed – and organized – revolution to cleave Panama from Columbia.  Upon Panama’s independence, the US/Panama Hay-Bunau-Varilla treaty granted the US rights to build and operate the canal.  http://www.u-s-history.com/pages/h931.html); Hay was Secretary of State for McKinley and Roosevelt.

[16] Some sources on Annie Taylor

[a] http://www.biography.com/people/annie-edson-taylor-195766

[b] http://forgottennewsmakers.com/2010/02/09/annie-edson-taylor-1838-1921-first-person-to-go-over-niagara-falls-in-a-barrel/

[c] http://www.legacy.com/news/legends-and-legacies/annie-edson-taylor-heroine-of-niagara-falls/260/

[17] Some sources on Leon Czoglosz

a) http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/USAczolgosz.htm

b) http://library.buffalo.edu/pan-am/exposition/law/czolgosz/#who

 

[18] On pseudonyms: Sarah Vowell (2005), Assassination Vacation, Simon & Schuster. ISBN 978-0-7432-8253-6 (p214); available here: http://books.google.pl/books?id=XdJid7UW9PEC&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false

[19] Carolyn Thompson. “Seeking out Death – or Defying it for Niagara Falls, It’s a busy Season for Tourism, Suicide and Daredevils”, Sun Sentinel – Fort Lauderdale, July 2, 2000, pg3A

[20] Film: Execution of Leon Czolgosz.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UYSxfyIqrjs;
this is not the real execution.
It was a re-enactment based on supposed first-hand testimony done as an Edison publicity stunt.

http://historymatters.gmu.edu/mse/film/question1.html;

Library of Congress; http://memory.loc.gov/cgi-bin/query/h?ammem/papr:@field(NUMBER+@band(lcmp001+m1b38298))

 

 

[21] Bach Sonata during the assassination: http://articles.baltimoresun.com/2001-09-06/news/0109060175_1_william-mckinley-james-garfield-assassination

 

[ii] Biography of Leon Czolgosz.  By John Simkin. http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/USAczolgosz.htm

Murderpedia: http://murderpedia.org/male.C/c/czolgosz-leon-frank.htm

[iii] The gun used by Czolgosh was a .32 caliber Iver-Johnson “Safety Automatic” revolver, serial number 463344, purchased for $4 on September 2, 1901. This pistol is currently on display at the Pan-American Exposition exhibit of the Erie County Historical Society in Buffalo.
It is the only US Presidential assassination weapon which is not in federal custody.

pic4-gun-hankypic5-gun-clean

Autobiographical, Medicine

Not Dead Yet

 

If you have a weak stomach, or little time for details, or only a general interest in Joe’s health, then you can stop at the title.  All seems well. With no apology to Monty Python (who wouldn’t expect one): I’m not dead yet. You are dismissed.

All the details. This is not so much an essay as a day-by-day and blow-by-blow blog of my last 11 days. Included herein is some background material.

I think I’ve had at least one NDE (Near Death Experience) — that was an automobile accident in November, 1978. [1] I’ve had a few additional occasions when it seemed like an NDE – a few conscious moments wherein imminent physical mortality was accepted – but these were not NDEs; rather these were the tonic clonic seizures [2] before learning that I am epileptic.

This past week, I had an NDE, but didn’t know it until the episode’s climax had passed.

A short-term introductory story.

My lovely and wonderful wife spent a week in the Seattle-area this past January, to be with her mother to celebrate the 84th anniversary of her birth, and to be of assistance and companionship to her as she endured and recovered from an oral surgery wherein three teeth were extracted.

During that week I ceased shaving all together.  Upon returning home to Colorado, my wife decided she liked the whiskers.

A longer-term introductory story goes back five years, to January, 2009.  I had a trip to Europe planned, as two of our sons were living there. The Plan? I’d visit the oldest, Aaron and some family friends in Amsterdam[3]; then accompany Aaron for part of his move to Zürich.  We’d stop and visit our middle son, Mark, in Freiburg (Breisgau). Together we’d do some site-seeing, family roots exploring, and visit another family friend, in Landau (Pfalz).[4]

Several days before departure, during a routine semi-annual dental checkup, my dentist[5] informed me that some tooth discomfort I’d been having was from a cracked tooth and that I’d require a root canal. A few days later, with only one day to spare before departure, I’m in a different dental chair, all numbed up, with the doc [6] drilling away, when he stops and says: “How’d you like me to save you a few hundred dollars?”

With my mouth numbed, he somehow understood my response: How and why is that?

Turns out the “crack” splintered right at the gum line. It had an unknowable number of branches, and each branch with an unknowable depth.  Root canal would not spare the tooth from further infection attack.  So there was no need to complete the procedure, thus (temporarily) saving me a few hundred dollars. The tooth would soon crack and split further anyhow, with likely immense pain. This would happen at some time in the future.  Maybe one day, maybe five years.

Not wishing to risk enduring a miserable European vacation, I quickly got a list of recommended oral surgeons from both my dentist and endodontist and started making phone calls. “Can you see me today? “

Luckily, #2 on the list had an opening at the end of the day. [7] Staff gone for the day, I went in just before 5PM; just the doctor and Joe.

After explaining my cracked tooth dilemma, Dr. Johnson started to describe all my options for replacing the tooth, and the consequences of not replacing it soon.

“Doctor, you don’t really understand.  I’m leaving tomorrow. I don’t care about options and consequences.  All you need to know is: This tooth is coming out now.  Tonight.  We can worry about that other stuff later.”

And right there he removed the tooth. It wasn’t an easy task: the tooth shattered into about 10 pieces as he tugged on it.  Yes it was quite fractured.

After returning from Europe, I looked into the cost and procedure for replacing the tooth. Muy expensivo and some minor oral surgery.

After consulting my dentist, I decided to forego the implant indefinitely. The location of the tooth (#18, large molar, adjacent to wisdom tooth, lower rear, left) made it not terribly necessary.  Perhaps, at some point, the teeth above (#14 & #15) would get upset, begin to shift, and I’d have to consider doing something. [14]

This January, almost exactly five years later, my dentist [5] informs me that #14 & 15 have begun to show small signs of shifting. Time to do something.

The procedure to put in a receiver implant for a new #18 was early on a Thursday morning, 10 days ago (February 20). I elected to go “under”, via a general anesthetic … less stressful with all that drilling. I’d take the rest of the day off.  Then back to life as normal.

The next day, Friday, I worked. Felt pretty good. Saturday I went to visit my dad. Then I started feeling funny. Actually not funny; I was tired and irritable.

By Sunday afternoon I was quite uncomfortable.  Sunday night was miserable: deep, deep pain in my jaw, right at #18. I’m thinking of the dentist scene in “Marathon Man”; with Sir Lawrence Olivier working on Dustin Hoffman: “Is it safe?”[11] No sleeping that night; just light dozing and intense pain.

My wife woke the surgeon about 5:30AM Monday with a call to his “urgent” phone number.  He would see me 1st thing at 8AM.

He “knew” what was wrong. Rare, but it can happen: that there is an infection in the bone where the insert went “in.”

Under general anesthesia again, he removed the insert.  No infection there. So he didn’t “know.” The infection was finally located in “soft” tissue, near – but not at – the surgery site.  That was drained.  I went home with instructions to rinse with warm salt water (1/4 Tsp per 8 oz) and rest … expecting that would be the end of it. Continue taking the clindamycin anti-biotic that I’d been on since the day before the 1st surgery.

Alas, the pain did not wane, except with a Percocet® every 2-3 hours. Again almost no sleep.  And swelling.  During the night a large golf ball type protrusion from the bottom left-side of my chin: very large, very hard and round.

Complicating matters was that my throat had closed up so much I could barely swallow my saliva, let alone water or food.  My chest was growing achy, red, hot and swollen, particularly around the collar bones, and the clavicle joints to the sternum were painful to the touch.

Tuesday, first thing, I am again at the surgeon’s. I describe the throat and clavicle joint pain and he says “that’s the infection draining to the rest of your body.  We’ve got to get a drain into that infection.” So, once again under general anesthesia, and he “drills” a hole into the “golf ball” to drain the infection and relieve the pressure. In goes a “drain” under my chin that looks very much like a milkshake straw. [9]  This would drain for several days into gauze pads, to be refreshed every few hours. And, now a new anti-biotic, Ciproflaxin.

This is when we find out that my surgeon[7], who is really wonderful by the way, is leaving town Wednesday for two weeks on one of those trips-of-a-lifetime: New Zealand. An “associate” of his will be looking after me while he’s gone.

Wednesday morning I’m back for final check with my oral surgeon.  I’m pretty OK:  Much better, but still very uncomfortable and tired. A little rest and back to work that afternoon. The good news at this point — from a vanity perspective — is that the new chin whiskers are hiding the tip of the “milkshake straw” protruding from my lower jaw, and distracting some attention from the goo that leaks from it.

Wednesday evening and night.  Excruciating.  The left TMJ[8] , the Temporomandibular joint muscles were tortuously achy.  Either from clenching or spread of infection – it was hard to tell which one. I’m walking around the house most of the evening and night singing to relieve the pain — much to my wife’s and dog’s aural displeasure.

First thing Thursday we are at the next oral surgeon. [12] He really doesn’t want to hear about the jaw pain. Not at all. He’s concerned about the infection and makes it clear that he really didn’t want my case; this is a favor. He’d rather just send me to infectious diseases, where I can get IV anti-biotics for about 6 weeks.  My throat and chest are much better, though still swollen. An impressive amount of “junk” has been flowing through the “milkshake straw” for two days now.

His instructions: go for it with the Percocet® for any pain, compliment with 800mg ibuprofen 4 times a day and come back tomorrow.

Friday. Much better. The “Milkshake Straw” comes out.[9]  Keep a gauze bandage over it to collect the “junk” that will keep flowing out.

Saturday is much improved. Spend day with dad.  Tired. To bed early.

Sunday. Whew, what’s up with that?  Achy chin. Swelling returns. Hard swelling. So now we’re wondering what is going on?  No one told us this could happen.

More Percocet® and over to see an urgent care doctor at Community Medical Center. [10] Dr Coriel takes a look and basically says we have to wait a while. “It’s just doing it’s thing.”

Rest a lot.  Don’t work out.

[I’ll save the pictures of the gauze pads that have been collecting “junk” out of the bottom of my chin. Impressive quantities of goo.]

For now, the throat is not swollen; I can swallow. My chest is fine; no pain there. The swelling in the chin is tolerable, although “hard” and uncomfortable.  At this point, I can’t feel any pain in #18, where all the problem started. I even think Ellen DeGeneres did a great job hosting the Academy Awards! [13]

Tomorrow it’s back to oral surgeon #2 in the morning, then (hopefully) off to work.

Expecting full recovery, soon. If not, will update you.

Have to work on taxes now.

Ciao and pax.

Joe Girard ©2014

 

 

[1] Driving Alive, Girardmiester essay by Joe Girard; https://sites.google.com/site/girardmeister2/driving-alive

[2] – Tonic clonic seizures are general full-body and loss of consciousness seizure.  Learn more at www.epilepsyfoundation.org and www.epilepsyfoundation.org/aboutepilepsy/seizures/gencounvulsive/tonicseizures.cfm

[3] Audrey and Peter Kroesen, Amstelveen, Netherlands

[4] Aaron studied for a Masters Degree in Geophysics in Europe as part of the IDEA League, including semesters in Delft (Netherlands), Zürich and Aachen.
Mark took a study for Diplom in Physics at Albert-Ludwigs Universität, Freiburg
Our friend in Landau is Regina, mother of the exchange student we hosted that year, Jonas

[5] Dr. Adam Saeks, DDS, Niwot Dental, Niwot, Colorado

[6] Dr. Daniel Barton, DMD, Endodontist, Longmont, Colorado

[7] Dr. Daniel Johnson, DDS, Oral and Maxillofacial Surgeon, Longmont, Colorado

[8] About the TMJ and its disorders. http://www.aaoms.org/conditions-and-treatments/the-temporomandibular-joint-tmj/

[9] The “Milkshake Straw” that was in my chin for three days.

Drain: "The Milkshake Straw"

Drain: “The Milkshake Straw”

 

[10] CMC: https://www.bch.org/locations–directions/lafayette-center.aspx

[11] Clip from Marathon Man. “Is it safe?”

[12] Dr Alan Reisman, DDS. Oral and Maxillofacial surgery. http://alanreisman.com/

[13] Ellen DeGeneres hosts 86th Academy Awards: http://popwatch.ew.com/2014/03/02/oscars-2014-ellen-degeneres-best-jokes/

[14] Teeth numbering: I’ve use the IOS and Universal numerical systems for permanent tooth ID.  http://ameritasgroup.com/OCM/GetFile?doc=093524

 

 

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History

Nipping the Grammys

 

 

“… February made me shiver,

With every paper I’d deliver.

Bad news on the doorstep.

I couldn’t take one more step. ”[1]

________________________________________________________

 

In 1870, a very young Jewish man leaves his native German culture and emigrates to America. He leaves seeking opportunities and broader horizons. Yet it’s a decision that would presage the next century. He also leaves because his country is clearly headed into a major war soon [2]. He will accomplish many things over the coming few decades, including creating an industry and helping to make a dog immortal.

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

This February, 2014, marked 55 years since “The Day the Music Died” in Albert Juhl’s Iowa cornfield. Fifty-five years since Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and “The Big Bopper” (JP Richardson) — “the three men I admired most” — died in that tragic plane crash on a crisp snowy February night.

Music may not have died, as Don McLean so eloquently overstated it, but it has certainly changed since then.  A few weeks ago I watched much of the Grammy Awards, and it certainly provided convincing evidence that American music is on life support. That is, if you are looking for quality and not panache.

If you missed it, I’ll give you a few lowlights.

Opening: The stunningly beautiful Beyonce’ put on a mostly one-person sex show with lots of weird (mostly dark) lighting, fake smoke and flashy lights …it had some singing mixed in.  She wriggled her gorgeous mostly naked body over and around a chair in ways that would make a pole-dancer proud.  Toward the end of her act, her husband, Jay-Z came out dressed in a tux, while rapping.  At one point he spent a moment to caress her wonderfully round and bare buttocks.  Then he rapped a bit more.  I know some swear words were used, because the audio went out a few times (at least that’s what the reviews said later) for each. [3]

Speaking of Jay-Z, he won the best rap award for a song called “Holy Grail.”  The song is not holy.  Instead of anything resembling music, he uses the “N” word nine times and the “F” word four times.  So that’s what passes for award winning creativity and performance these days. [4]

As an aside, Beyonce and Jay-Z are married, so I don’t mind him fondling her buttocks. Why does it have to be on television?  If rumors are true, they are expecting a second child this year.  Last year they made over $100million (for what?). They are huge Obama supporters, socializers and donors.  More unneeded evidence that it’s true that the upper 1% have done very well under this administration.

Back to the Grammys. There actually were some good songs and people.  I used to think that included Katy Perry.  At some point during the night she came out dressed like, and acting like, some sort of witch.  With lots of Satans dancing around her.  Or maybe she was Satan and there were lots of witches dancing around.  It was so dark and smoky.  It wasn’t at all clear what she was singing, or even if she was singing.  Apparently someone was supposed to burn at the stake toward the end.

At that point I shut ‘er down.  The show was so bereft of any value, taste or enlightenment, that I felt sad and ashamed for our country … yet again.  Thus, I also missed the mass on-stage wedding ceremony, with mixed- and same-sex marriage celebrated together … as if that has any place whatsoever on television, let alone at a celebration of excellence in music.

What an opposite impression we are getting from the 50-year flashback of the original Beatle-mania in America, from February, 1964.  Those boys had no flashy costumes, no flashy lights, no smoke, no “act”, no “schtick.” They just stood there in suits and, yes, even ties, played guitar and drums and sang songs.  They harmonized, played off each other, making the human voice and simple instruments “the show”, not their attire, or anything else (although some of that did come later).

The Grammy Awards make a pretty good metaphor for America; they have become a parody of themselves: a big show of the music and entertainment industry’s self-adulation, self-congratulation, self-gratification. It is a shame they’ve ruined the very idea of “Grammy.” And still they make piles of cash.

________________________________________________________________

German emigration to America in the 19th century was not unusual.  Millions did so for many reasons.  And much to America’s benefit, they brought with them:

  • Appreciation and skill for crafting fine traditional German beers;
  • Discipline for and appreciation of hard work and commitment;
  • Industrial trade skills;
  • Discipline in scholarship, in maths and sciences;
  • Drive, ambition and creativity.

 

 

Irving Berliner was born in 1851, one of thirteen children of Sarah Berliner, a musician, and Samuel Berliner, a merchant and Talmudic scholar. In 1870, Otto von Bismarck was forging Germany into a country.  Berliner’s native Hannover had recently been joined to Prussia.  Part of Bismarck’s plan included a war (the Franco-Prussian War), which would eventually force other Germanic regions, like Bavaria, to join a unified Germany.

 

Fearing an impressment into the Army, and desiring freedom outside of an iron-fisted rule led by militaristic Prussians Bismarck and the Kaiser, Berliner left to America.

 

He began teaching himself in many areas of literature and technology; his formal education had ceased at the end of elementary school … effectively the 8th grade.

 

Fascinated by Bell’s telephone, Berliner turned his attention to studying and experimenting with sound.  A great weakness of the telephone, Berliner observed, was the faintness of the transmitted voice. Working alone in his room, with the thinnest knowledge of physics and electronics, Berliner invented — and patented himself without an attorney — a device to effectively “pick up” and relay human voice.  In 1877 he had invented the first effective microphone.  Eventually Bell’s company (precursor to AT&T) learned of the device and purchased the patent rights for a smart sum – effectively setting up Berliner with enough money to continue experimenting.

 

More importantly, Bell Telephone hired Berliner.  He worked on improving a number of telephony related technologies.  And he developed hands-on experience and training, becoming a first-rate electrical engineer and electrician.

 

1881 was a big year for Berliner.  After 7 years with Bell, he felt it was time to strike out on his own as an inventor. He quit his Bell job, married his sweetheart Cora Adler (1st Generation German immigrant) and moved to a small house in Washington, D.C. where he set up a small laboratory.

He sold several more inventions to Bell’s telephone company when he was struck by a new fascination: Thomas Edison’s talking machine.

Here was a mass-marketing opportunity: bringing music and enjoyment to the masses.  The main problem with Edison’s machines were that they recorded and played back on cylinders.  These had one main advantage, and two major disadvantages.  Advantage: The cylinder, spinning at a constant speed, had the recordings and playback at a constant speed.  As the cylinder turns, the speed of the linear inches of groove going under the needle stayed constant.  The disadvantages were that they were difficult and expensive to mass produce and difficult to store in large quantities.

In 1886 Berliner invented and patented a method of recording sounds onto a flat disc, and playing them back; a method which allowed hundreds, then thousands, of clear copies to be made of an original relatively inexpensively.

Of course the invention needed a name. He took the word “phonogram” – which is defined as a picture or symbol that conveys a sound or a word – and turned it around to create a new word: “gramophone.”

By 1895 he had the method improved enough to go into production of gramophone playing machines and records. For this, he founded The Berliner Gramophone Company.  Eventually the business evolved into three major parts, each run by Berliner or one of his cohorts. Berliner ran the head office.

Eldridge Johnson was a mechanical engineer with an inventive twist whom Berliner befriended. He helped Berliner solve the problem of getting the gramophone to spin the disks at a constant speed, while recording at different speeds.  He developed a clever mechanical spring to match the disk spin rate to the speed needed to play the sounds back.  Johnson was to run the manufacturing arm of the business.

Businessman Frank Seaman was a marketeer and a businessman: he was given exclusive marketing rights in the United States.

That’s where the problem started.  By 1899, Seaman began to feel that the machines were too expensive, thus cutting into his potential profits.  He came up with a method to build the machines more cheaply. This method was derided even as he developed it by Johnson; so Seaman stopped selling the Gramophones, and, once developed for marketing, started selling his own product, the Zon-o-phone Phonograph – using the exclusive marketing rights he had been given by Berliner.

The case went into the legal system, to languish for years in suits and counter-suits.  Unintimidated, Berliner went off to setup licensed Gramophone businesses in Canada, England, Germany, and eventually Australia.  Meanwhile he sold his Gramophone legal rights in the U.S. to his friend, Eldridge Johnson.

Johnson used the rights to set up the Victor Talking Machine Company in 1901. We might recognize here the roots of the “Victrola”; Victor’s trademarked name for a phonograph machine that looked more like a piece of furniture than a mechanical device.

By 1903 the legal actions had finally come to a close: all assets of Seaman’s Zon-o-phone, including patent rights deemed illegally stolen, were turned over to Johnson’s Victor Company. Oddly, Victor began marketing some of its lower end product with the Zon-o-phone label, which they also acquired in the court award.

___________

“Nipper” was a bull and fox terrier mix dog, born about 1884.  He was a stray, rescued and cared for by Mark Barraud, a painter and technophile, in Bristol, England. Mark Barraud passed away in 1887.  He willed his possessions – which included Nipper, an Edison style phonograph and a collection of recordings – to his brothers Phillip and Francis, also painters.  Francis took Nipper, the phonograph and recordings to his home in Liverpool. He cared for Nipper, growing very fond of him, until the terrier died, in 1895.

Nipper was an inquisitive dog, and Francis had many memories of him listening to the cylinder phonograph. He had especially vivid memories of Nipper listening to recordings his deceased brother had made of his own voice.  In 1898, in honor of his deceased brother and beloved dog, Francis painted a picture of Nipper in just such a pose: head cocked, and staring into the horn of cylinder-style phonograph.

Barraud was unable to get the picture published.  So, in a further stroke of inspired desperation, He took the picture to the Edison-Bell Phonograph Company, who actually made the type of phonograph in the picture, hoping to sell it to them. Response: “Dogs don’t listen to phonographs”.

Friends advised Barraud that the horn, as black, was too dull. They suggested that he re-paint the picture with a bright brass horn, like the one used by the Gramophone company. Barraud went to the Gramophone offices in London – the offices that Berliner had opened during the legal dispute with Zon-o-phone – to inquire about borrowing a horn as a painting prop.  Upon hearing the plan the local manager, an American named William Barry Owen, convinced Barraud to repaint the phonograph as well – replacing the Edison cylinder phonograph with the Berliner Disc Gramophone. Now that could be sold! He would buy it.

Soon, in 1900, the re-painted picture and copyrights were purchased, and then shared with the American partner company: the aforementioned Victor Talking Machine Company.  Complete cost 100 pounds: 50 for the picture and 50 for the copyright. [3] The painter’s name of the picture stuck: “His Masters Voice.”  HMV would go on to be one of the most prolific music publishing labels ever.

Nipper had become immortal. In 1929, Victor was bought by the Radio Corporation of America, and RCA gained the US copyright and trademark.  Across the world, from UK to Canada to Australia, Nipper’s picture adorned the His Master’s Voice Label.  Every American kid from 1930 to the CD era knows of RCA-Victor and their label with the cute dog at the gramophone.

________________

Berliner moved on to varied other studies and inventions, including a loom, acoustic tiles and an early helicopter based on a rotary engine. He founded the Motor Gyro Company, to build and market early helicopters and rotary motors, which was located, coincidentally, next door to the Victor Company, in New York.  Berliner also became a philanthropist and social agitator for improved public health and sanitation. He passed away in 1929.

_____________________

Music as a recording industry has come a long way, and most if it – if the Grammys are any indication – is steeply downhill.  But the industry cannot change its interesting, glorious and intriguing past.  Mostly because they probably have no knowledge of it.

The music recording industry, regardless of how low it slips, will certainly continue to show disrespect for their own history – despite how much they rave about the Beatles – but they cannot ruin it. Not with their blatantly sexual displays. Not with out-of-place social commentary. Not with profanity laced rapping.  And not with its dark smoky sets and flashy lights passing for music. Even the Grammy Awards – the ceremony that’s devolved into a parade of multi-millionaires who suppress any talent they might have, standing around congratulating and stroking each other – can’t destroy that history.

Dance to your own music!

Peace

Joe Girard © 2014

 

Notes

 

[1] From the song “American Pie”, written/recorded by Don McLean, 1971, released under label United Artists (not HMV).  Rated the #5 song of the 20th century, by RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America).

The UA label was originally developed as the music label for the sound tracks to UA movies.  After moving into general music, the label – through a series of mergers, acquisitions and bankruptcy – ended up owned by EMI.  Originally the Electrical and Musical Industries Company, it was formed when UK Columbia records merged with the UK Gramophone company in 1929.  Not coincidental that it’s the same year that RCA bought Victor in the US. At that point EMI owned most of the non-US rights to the picture painted by Barraud. UA Record no longer exists in any practicality, and EMI has been devolved to many components which have been spun off.

 

[2] As part of von Bismarck’s German unification plan, he helped maneuver for a major war, the Franco-Prussian War. As a result of this, Bavaria, Baden, Württemburg, and Hesse (perhaps others) were fused to the German union.
Baden and Württemburg merged post-war with Stuttgart as its capital (Hauptstadt).

Hesse is best identified by its largest city, Frankfurt am Main; its capital is Wiesbaden.

Bavaria’s (Bayern) capital is of course Munich (München).

 

[3] Video and Hollywood review of Grammy Opening Act: http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/beyonce-jay-z-open-grammys-674153

 

[4] Lyrics to “Holy Grail”: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/j/jay_z/holy_grail.html

 

[3] Francis Barraud was a struggling (starving) painter at the time.  So the 100 pounds seemed like a lot.  He was kept on retainer by the Gramophone Company, painting many more “originals” over the next two decades.

 

[4] The copyright and trademark for the US have expired, except for specific marketing efforts.  Therefore, I may legally reproduce them below.  The first picture actually co-exists with the 2nd picture; the old cylinder phonograph and the black horn were painted-over.

Barraud's first painting

Barraud’s first painting

 

Barraud's re-painted original: His Master's Voice

Barraud’s re-painted original: His Master’s Voice

 

Phononographs: the Gramophone and the Graphophone. History, and the difference. http://www.recording-history.org/HTML/phono_technology4.php

 

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History

I.T. Hero

This is the second in a series of essays on the Edwardian and Pre-War Era, centered mostly on events from 1900-1914.  Parts of this particular composition read like a Fairy Tale; others like a nightmare.  All of the key elements are historically true.

—

Preview

It is 1904. On a dark night, in the middle of a cornfield somewhere in America’s wide girth of a midsection, an adolescent lad lies anxiously awake.  Occasionally flickering lights are visible from his berth in a wood frame passenger car of the Missouri Pacific. As the car rattles along, he is wondering about his future — he cannot possibly know what it is like where he is going. And he can’t help thinking about his difficult, troubled and hardscrabble past; hopefully it is very far behind him.

The trip is mind-bogglingly long for most people of this era and his background — over 1,200 miles — with multiple transfers in large strange cities.  Yet, for him, it is much more than a boy’s epic journey, to be told and re-told later in life.  It is a for him a true rite of passage: a transcendence not only from boy to man, but also from one culture to another; from obscurity, to brilliance.

——————————————-

A brief eight years later, he would be recognized as the world’s greatest athlete.  One hundred years later, he would be recognized as the greatest athlete of the 20th century.

How all this came to be — how he achieved so much, yet came to receive so little acclaim or reward during his life, and how he died a relatively obscure pauper — is a story that needs to be told and re-told.

——————————————-

Youngest Years

In May, 1888, twin boys were born to Charlotte Vieux in a tiny wood-plank dirt-floor house in Indian Territory.  Charlotte was of mixed French and American Indian (mostly Potawatami) decent.  She and her husband, Hiram Thorpe, who was also one-half American Indian (Sauk-Fox) and half Irish, were devout Catholics.  They named the boys, their fifth and sixth children, Jacobus and Charles; although they would commonly go by “Jim” and “Charlie.”  Charlotte would bear Hiram 11 children in all, before dying from childbirth.

Jim Thorpe had a difficult youth.  Most of his siblings died before he left in 1904, including his best friend, his twin Charlie, at age 9.  His father, Hiram, had to be a tough man to run a 1,200 acre spread along the Canadian River, growing wheat and raising cattle. He was a hard man: he ran his household with an iron fist, pushed himself hard, pushed his sons hard, drank hard, fought hard and partied hard.  He was a well-known moonshine runner and barefisted fighter.

Thorpe was sent away to boarding schools from age 6.  He frequently ran away, to go home. He did not take to normal schooling; he was not a good student, particularly after Charlie died. After several more episodes of running away to go home — including once from nearly 300 miles away — losing his mom and continuing conflict with his father, it was time for Jim to go much farther.  To Pennsylvania.

At Carlisle: No Longer a Boy, Discovered!

So off young Jim Thorpe went, to Carlisle, Pennsylvania, to begin the fall semester, 1904.  He’d already spent a summer breaking horses, most of his life fighting with his father, and lost most of his family.  He’d only lived in tiny wood plank houses with dirt floors, except for when he was far away at boarding school — or running away.  He was one tough kid.

—

The Carlisle Indian Industrial School was the flagship of all the government’s Indian Schools.  The school’s enrollment was then, in 1904, at its peak of about 1,000 students, with students from grade school to college-aged. The school and its students took pride in producing top notch students, musicians, young adults with industrial and office skills, … and tremendous sports teams.

Thorpe was sent away several times, for periods adding to a couple of years, to work on local farms.  When he finally returned for good, full grown and tough, he essentially recruited himself onto the track team, where he was instantly acclaimed a star.

A coach there named Glenn “Pop” Warner had put together a world-class football team.  He recruited Thorpe to the team, and in 1911-12 they had one of the best college football teams in the nation.  They played a full schedule of high quality opponents, and every game of consequence was played on the road; the other more highly regarded “white” teams always had home field advantage.  For road games, Carlisle only suited 16 players; many players, including Thorpe, played every down in every game. Thorpe could run, catch, throw, tackle with anyone; he was the team’s punter and kicker (drop kicks then).  A case could be made that Carlisle won the “mythical” college football championship in each of those years. Thorpe was an All-American each year.

Carlisle won two games of particular national prominence in those days against much favored opponents.  The 1911 game against Harvard and the 1912 game against Army.  Harvard had not lost a game in two years and had home field advantage.  In fact, it was the only game Harvard lost in a three year period 1910-12.  Army’s Knights were considered more skilled and athletic than Carlisle, and, of course had the home field advantage.

In 1909-10, Thorpe spent two summers getting in shape by barnstorming across the Carolinas playing baseball with a semi-professional team. Most players with professional aspirations chose to protect their amateur status, and their identity, by playing under assumed pseudonyms.  Thorpe was too proud and honest to do that. Thorpe was a simple, honest and straightforward man: This was not professional sports; this was having fun and staying in shape.

 — Stardom

Thorpe was invited to Olympic tryouts, earning a spot on the US Olympic team.  Next month he was on another very long journey, this time to Stockholm for the 1912 Olympics.  In the span of a few days, he competed in both the Pentathlon and the Decathlon. Many astute sports followers thought he was crazy to compete nearly simultaneously in two such demanding events. Thorpe ended up on the award podium for each; and each time with a gold medal hanging from his neck.

To give the story even more Fairy Tale flair: Thorpe’s track shoes were stolen just as the competitions began. He quickly scrounged around and found two different sized shoes in a garbage bin.  He is shown here wearing extra athletic stockings on one foot to make up for the oversize of one shoe. Notice the shoes are different colors, too.

Glenn “Pop” Warner — had coached very successfully at other schools before Carlisle, including Cornell

— Controversy.

An Olympic protest was made in early 1913 — well beyond the 30-day protest period — against Thorpe.  His two summers as a semi-professional athlete, it seems, violated the strict “no professional” rules of the day. Although the Olympic rules did not preclude professionals, per se, the Amateur Athletic Union did. And the AAU helped the US Olympic committee and set its rules.

It seems today quite likely that the charge was based on racism. Thorpe wrote a letter to the AAU asking forgiveness:

“I hope I will be partly excused by the fact that I was simply an Indian schoolboy and did not know all about such things. In fact, I did not know that I was doing wrong, because I was doing what I knew several other college men had done, except that they did not use their own names.”

The Olympic records were cleansed of Thorpe’s performance; he was forced to return the gold medals.

Before moving onto Thorpe’s professional sports career, we should put a little more frosting on this Fairy Tale amateur career.  In 1911 and 1912 Thorpe also competed intercollegiately in baseball, lacrosse and — extraordinarily — Ballroom Dancing. To burnish Thorpe’s credentials as a true all-around athlete: he was the national college champion in Ballroom Dancing in 1912.

 — Professional sports and beyond

Beyond the Edwardian and pre-war years, Thorpe moved on to professional sports: professional baseball, football and (it has recently been discovered) basketball.  In his first baseball season, he was on the pennant winning NY Giants and went to the World Series.

Playing pro football since 1913, in 1915 he moved to the Canton Bulldogs in a precursor league to the NFL. They won the championship in 3 of the next 4 years.  In the 1919 championship game, Thorpe kicked a 95-yard punt.

As a year-round professional athlete, the toll on his body is unimaginable.  He finally retired from football in 1929, at the age of 41.

1929 and the depression era was an unfortunate time to try and find work. Without a pension or any hard skills, Thorpe found work inconsistently and wavered on the brink of financial disaster the rest of his life.

Thorpe’s image and prospects finally turned for the better in 1950, when  polls named him “Best Football Player of the Half-Century” and, later, “The Best Athlete of the Half Century.” This is pretty damn impressive.  Recognize that his “competition” for this award included Babe Ruth, Jack Dempsey, Jesse Owens, Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker, to name only a few.  In 1950 he was also voted into the National Football League’s Hall of Fame.

Thorpe’s health began failing.  He had developed alcoholism, his heart was failing and he had lip cancer. He made one last plea to get his medals back.  As the New York Time reported:

Impoverished Jim Thorpe, with nothing left but memories at 63, finally swallowed his pride today and asked the Amateur Athletic Union to return the Olympic Trophies it took from him 39 years ago. “I would like to have them back before I die” muttered the erect, massive  full-blooded (incorrect, both parents were half caucasian…editorial) Indian, referring to the laurels he was forced to relinquish because the A.A.U, charged he was a professional at the time he won them.”

<

Thorpe never did see his medals again. He died in 1953.

—

But Thorpe had his relentless supporters.  Finally, by 1982 the AAU, the USOC and the IOC had all acquiesced. Thorpe’s amateur status and qualifications for the 1912 Stockholm Olympics were retroactively reinstated.

The Gold Medals were returned to his family, accepted by his surviving children, in January, 1983 [3]. The record books were re-written, again; now Thorpe is listed as the co-winner of these events … despite scoring so high in the decathlon that his world record stood for two decades.

— Epilogue and Closing

In polls of sportswriters conducted in 2000, Jim Thorpe was named the Greatest Athlete of the 20th Century.

A 1914 congressional investigation into Carlisle found some abuse of the children and financial impropriety, including over payment of salary to sports coaches.  This was a government institution, after all. [6]  Pop Warner, in addition to being one of the most creative coaches in history, also gave us the “Football Factory” College. Pretty much what we loathe now about the likes of Alabama, Nebraska, LSU … Warner and other coaches were dismissed, and the school was soon closed and the grounds transferred back to the Army.

May there be a special place in our hearts for those who don’t fit in, who aren’t good students, and who struggle, especially if their struggles aren’t obvious …

Until next time, I wish you peace

Joe Girard © 2014

==> substantially condensed from a short biographical sketch I wrote here ==> Thorpe bio-piece

Resources and citations:

1] http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2004/olympics/2004/08/08/bc.olympics.athletics.thorpe/

2] Redskin from Carlisle Will Strive for Place on American Team

http://select.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=F60C12FC3B5E13738DDDA10A94DC405B828DF1D3

3] http://www.sportshistorytoday.com/jim-thorpe-medals-70-years/

[4] http://www.jimthorpefilm.com/guide/guide01.pdf

[5] Some football records:

http://www.phys.utk.edu/sorensen/cfr/cfr/Output/1911/CF_1911_Team_Carlisle.html

http://www.phys.utk.edu/sorensen/cfr/cfr/Output/1912/CF_1912_Team_Carlisle.html

[6] https://archive.org/details/hearingsbeforejo01unit

Edwardian/Pre-War, History

How Edwardian

January 1, 2014. Hanging yet another new calendar on the wall today, pondering the customary “look forward.”  This year I will (a) lose weight, (b) be more conscious of what I eat, (c) be nicer to animals (including humans), (d) read more, (e) write more, (f) most of the above (g) none of the above, (h) “h” for “the heck with it.”

As part of my renewed (year 3) effort to be a “kinder, gentler Joe” I’ll spend a bit more time contemplating our past in an on-going effort to understand where we are, how we got here, and where we are going.

Joe & Audrey: Period attire to attend festivities to commemorate closing ceremony of 1904 Worlds Fair

This blog entry is an introduction to a series I intend to write, roughly based on the Edwardian Era, about 1900-1914.  This span of years is based on my recurring predilection with “The Age Game.” [1]

Ushering in a new century, these years were pregnant with hope and expectations of much goodness for the human race, and for the United States.

When Queen Victoria died, in 1901, after a reign of nearly 64 years, it was certainly symbolic of transition: a world moving into a bold, brave new era. Gone was the 19th century; upon us was a new century of possibility! —  with technology evolving at breakneck speed, and life certainly to improve for all!

Electricity was new and wonderful, putting an end to dark nights and dark streets, only dimly lit by gas lamps or candles, which had their own dangers. Electric motors, thanks mostly to George Westinghouse and his use of Tesla’s genius, were being produced more cheaply than ever, with great promise for domestic, civil and commercial improvements.

The telephones and telephone exchanges allowed instant voice communication across towns, across miles; soon it would be across a continent, and even an ocean.

Listening to fine music — and dancing as well — had been largely the private reserve of the upper classes.  A piano or small orchestra was required for the best pieces.   Now, the Gramophone (or the “Victrola” ® by the Victor Talking Machine Company), made it possible to enjoy all the popular music of the day.

Moving pictures were evolving into a lively, regular and inexpensive form of entertainment.

In December, 1903, on a cool, breezy beach where large sand dunes made the building of ramps easier, two brothers — Orville and Wilbur — proved that powered flight was possible.  Soon enough, in 1911 mail would be delivered by aeroplane.  Could it be long before passenger flight was possible too?

Personal freedom was becoming manifest in personal transportation. Instead of waiting for a train, or trolley, more and more people could simply hop in a car and go … wherever they wanted.  Mechanical and road improvements would only enhance this freedom.

Radio waves made possible instant communication. Even though programming was sparse and there was little benefit for the common-Joe, the possibility was there – the anticipation – about to emerge and make the world even more magical.

Health was on the upswing. Municipalities had largely cleaned up their water supplies, and improved waste-water sanitation.  Doctors and medical schools had moved past the “dig-up-graves-and-examine-corpses-to-learn-about-the-body” stage.  Life expectancy for the average working male would jump by nearly 50% <!!> during this era, from barely over 40 to nearly 60 years!

Thanks to advances in technology, including the electric motor, Mr Willis Carrier built the first machine that looked and worked like a modern electric motor-based air conditioner, or refrigerator in 1902.  In use at this time mostly for industrial purposes (including storing and lagering beer – yay beer!), people sensed that soon it would bring comfort to everyday life, and eliminate the need for the iceman to stop by with a block of ice for “the ice box” every day. By 1903 some cities were even sporting year-round ice skating facilities.

This era presented exquisite promise for the United States in the budding century.  By 1900 she had become a genuine world power. Fresh from her worldwide military victory over a long-established country with world prominence (Spain), she took on the look of a blooming empire: the Philippines in the east, Puerto Rico and Cuba in the Caribbean. [Although Cuba and the Philippines were put on track to independence; with Guantanamo to be retained for a future site needed to entertain suspected terrorists.]

And numbers!  In 1900 the United States population surpassed 76 million! As many as France and the United Kingdom (England-Scotland-Wales-Northern Ireland) combined.  40% more than Germany.   And her economy grew to have the greatest Gross Domestic Product of any nation in the world … with no boundaries and nowhere to grow, but up, up, up.

By 1914, the World had repeatedly come to America, as in a parade to her parlor over and over again, as the upstart country elbowed its way onto the world stage to host the World’s Fair a resounding six different years. [4]  Two in particular, Chicago in 1893 and Saint Louis in 1904, were extravagantly huge productions, each trying to outdo the other while earning for the country, and themselves, world acclaim.

And finally, the world looked forward to a long century of peace.  Social scientists, historians, and economists all agreed: Everything that the world powers could possibly fight over had been resolved.  Many decades of peace with prosperity would certainly follow this period of promise.

Looking back, we know.  Only a few months later, this 20th century — budding with so much promise — changed into a dark, moody monster. In the summer of 1914, the Great War began.  The bloom fell off the rose, and the century became, instead, the bloodiest and most brutal century in the history of the human race.

As we begin another new year, looking forward with hope and expectation, let us also hearken back to consider an earlier era of similar hopeful anticipation. Back to the Edwardian and pre-war age of ebullient expectation —when it seemed that the future held nothing but rainbows, butterflies and lollipops.

Wishing you all and humanity a peaceful and cheerful 100 years.

Joe Girard © 2014

[1] Age Game.  Multiply your age by two and subtract from the current year. e.g if you are 25, subtract 50 from 2014 and get 1964.  Now think of or learn about all the things that happened within a few years of that.  It is a stark reminder of how short history really is.  You can easily imagine anything historical happening in One of your lifetimes, because it did!  So it is no great stretch to think back two of your lifetimes and come to the quick understanding that those things were not so very long ago, at all.

This essay is mostly for those age 50 (my crowd), especially up to 57 (my age).

2 x 50 = 100.  So, 2014 – 100 = 1914.  The end of this era.

2 x 57 = 114.  So, 2014 – 114 = 1900, the beginning of this era.

 [2] Dance halls with pianos, or any gathering with a reasonably good fiddler, banjo or guitar player were also popular … especially in the south and among lower classes … but this did not lend itself to ALL the great music of every genre.

[3] Era speak.

1900-1914.

Victorian era officially ended in 1901.

Edwardian Era was 1901-1910.

From 1910, the last of this hopeful span, to 1914, is called Pre-War.

 [4] Word’s Fair (Expositions) in the US — http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_world_expositions

1) Philadelphia – 1876, Centennial Exposition

2) Chicago – 1893, Columbian Exposition

3) Buffalo – 1901, Pan-American Exposition

4) Saint Louis – 1904, Louisiana Purchase Exposition

5) Norfolk, VA – 1907, Jamestown Exposition

6) Seattle – 1909, Alaska/Yukon-Pacific Exposition

*** in 1915 the US would host again, jointly between San Francisco and San Diego, celebrating the opening of the Panama Canal

Current Events, History

Democracy, No!

Democracy NO!

 

“The much revered founders of the United States are guilty.  Guilty of disliking democracy — even fearing it.  They did not want this new country to have democracy.  Ever. They erected statutory barriers to it.

Image

 

“The years leading up the Declaration of Independence gave them them the motive.  The years during and immediately after the war for Independence confirmed that motive. The drafting of the Constitution in 1787 gave them the means to carry out this crime.  Their intent is confirmed by the writing and  passage of the so-called ’Bill of Rights’ — the Constitution’s first ten amendments.”

 

So begins the prosecution’s opening statement against the founders of the United States – and its Constitution’s esteemed framers.

 

The defense statement: “The founders were many things.  They were first, anti-royalists … abhorring ancestral rule by monarchs. Similarly, they distrusted peerage: the archaic protocol by which great titles and seats to government were granted by heredity.  They were believers that government — the state — derives its ‘just powers’ from the consent of the governed.  That is to say: the government might have any number of powers at any time, but those that are just and righteous can only be conferred by consent through contract with the people who are governed.

 

In all these ways the founders and framers were radically protective of ‘we the people.’  The charge itself, then, is unjust. It is not appropriate.”

 

The prosecution presents its case.  To establish the motive, we see videos of angry, shouting mobs.  In one, on King Street in Boston, a large crowd of hundreds is spurred on by chants and slogans memorized in dingy pubs from the shallow words of pamphleteering provocateurs.  Hundreds scream crude obscenities at a solitary young British sentry.

After a while, eight other soldiers – all but one quite young also – appear to relieve the poor lad.  The crowd continues to shout profanities and inane insults. They yell “fire”; actually daring the soldiers to shoot at them. When they still get no response, they begin hurling feces covered rocks. Hooting shouters urge them on.  A jar of urine is flung upon the soldiers.  Shouting back and forth.

Finally, a soldier opens fire.  A struggle and yelling.  Then more gunshot. The mob would call it the Boston Massacre. Even founder and patriot John Adams could see the horror of giving the power of law making to a people so easily agitated and manipulated; he defended the soldiers in the King’s Court, earning acquittal for six, and light sentences for the other two… despite a jury of American locals.

In other video clips, we the jury, are shown scenes of similar mobs — yelling, shouting, literally drunk; drunk with spirit, drunk with mob mentality — breaking into the residences of government officials.  One after another, in city after city, they are pulled out of their homes, often dressed only in a nightgown.  They are stripped naked. To the huzzahs and hollers of the mob — those spurred on by slogans and chants and pamphleteers — we cannot bring ourselves to avert our eyes as the videos show hot oily tar inhumanely poured over bare flesh. They are then covered in feathers.

During the war, popular movements, supported by vox populi, led to harassment of Tories.  Those loyal to the established government were subject to all sorts of vengeful acts, not limited to the taking of life and property.

 

Even after independence, and after the War for Independence (but before the Constitution), the rule of law was subject to the rule of the populace .

“Serious rioting recurred in many of the major cities … Extralegal groups and conventions repeatedly sprang up to take public action into their own hands, to intimidate voters, to regulate prices, or to close courts.  … In the 1780s … mobs were taking over the functions of government.  This was not simply a chimerical fear, for the legislatures in the 1780s appeared to be extraordinarily susceptible to mass demonstrations and mob violence.  State governments were continually forced to submit to various kinds of popular pressures, often expressed outside the regular legal channels.” [1]

 

Before, during and even after the revolution.  All of these actions, the prosecution points out, were done with the look and feel of popular democracy; And so the framers had the motive to suppress the will of the people, the will of the demos.

 

Now the prosecution directs our attention to the deed itself: Restricting democracy.  The framers gave us – we the people – three branches of government, and yet only one-half of one branch is “chosen by the people”; so says Article 1, Section 2.

 

How crafty they were to throw “the people” a “democratic bone.”  This House would turn over rapidly, every two years, as “chosen by the people.”  It served the framers doubly well: 1) this house would give vent to the popular current trends; they could be more responsive to democratic populism and even recite popular chants in the halls of government; and 2) they would probably,  hopefully, go back to their plows,  mills, and shops after a term or two.

 

The Senate, the more powerful house of the Legislature, would be chosen not by the people, but by the Legislatures of the States themselves (Article 1, Section 3).  These terms were six years, thus allowing the members to take a less populist view, (the defense interjects: “And a more long term view.”  The judge pounds the gavel: “That’s out of order and enough of that, counsel!)  … ahem, the Senate would naturally take a less populist view, a less democratic view, of legislative issues.  Note: Not chosen by the people.  Not reflecting the view of the people. Not democracy.

 

And then, look what they did to the Executive Office.  The framers did not want this person to be fawned over by the public, worshiped as some regal or charismatic persona.  Consequently, they struggled mightily with what to call this person, and how to choose him.

 

By what simple non-populist title to address him in person and in legal documents?  They feared anything that might smack of privilege or royalty. They desired to convey a humble, yet appropriate title.  A struggle for sure; after all, no country yet known had done such a thing.  They settled on such a wonderfully simple solution that it was doomed to fail. The executive is the person who presides over government and presides over the highest meetings of government.  They called him, simply, President.

  Continue reading »

Current Events

My Story, by Claire

Claire is a freshman at Arapahoe High School, in Centennial, Colorado — site of last week’s horror. I’m providing a link to her essay.  This was sent to me by my bother, whose daughter is the “Jessica” referenced in the essay.  It’s very well written; it is gripping; it has wonderful insights … and great advice to all of us.

 My Story

When I woke up December 13, 2013, I was ready for a regular Friday. I had no idea that I would be presented with a situation that would test my emotions in ways I never knew possible…in ways I never would have dreamed of.

Claire’s Story

Current Events, Politics

Fee, Fie, Foe — Fumble

 

There is an obscure monument located, pretty much, in the middle of nowhere, Kansas.  Well, not actually nowhere: it is among some corn fields and a pig farm, about 2 miles northwest of Lebanon, KS (population 218).  But then again, maybe as close to nowhere as you can get — Lebanon is in Smith County, whose population has dwindled to fewer than 3,800 … at a lonely 18 folks per square mile, it’s even less populated than when it was formed back in 1872.Slide1

 

To give an idea as to its significance, or lack thereof: the monument’s coordinates have precisely been determined to be 39 degrees, 50 minutes North Latitude; 98 degrees, 35 minutes West Longitude.  That puts it exactly 12 miles south of the Nebraska state line, and almost exactly halfway between Missouri and Colorado.  Evidently a whopping 1,200 people visit there each year, including the few who use the tiny chapel at the site to get married.

 

A century ago, in 1912, Arizona became the 48th state, completing the contiguous United States (plus DC, to be precise, so I will call it 48+).  At the time the United States Coast and Geodetic Survey decided that this point is the Geological Center of the United States. [1]

 

It will serve as a nexus for showing that you can pretty much find whatever it is you are looking for.

 ____________________________________________

 

There is a number that mathematicians refer to by the Greek Letter, Φ.  It has a number of curious properties.  Before we drift into a bit of math (really, it won’t be overbearing), I wrote a poem about, or perhaps an ode, to Φ. [2]

 

FEE, FIE, FOE, — Fumble

 

Φ: a special number golden

Some say it rhymes with “me”.

But mathematicians told ’em:

“No it can’t be said as ‘fee’.

You should pronounce it ‘fie’.”

So now, it rhymes with “I.”

 —

Its character irrational.

Its digits never ending.

Its ratio most fashionable;

Nature applies its trending.

So “me, myself and I,”

Could be compared with Φ.

 

This number, Φ represents something special to some people, most of whom are odd.  For instance, the author Dan Brown, of “The da Vinci Code” notoriety.  It is the “so-called” golden ratio, supposedly perfect and wondrous to behold.

Its decimal value is infinitely long, but we can simply refer to it as 1.618, or 1.618 …

Turns out it shows up in some unusual places, but before we go to those places, let’s consider some of its qualities.

The inverse of Φ (i.e. the number 1 divided by Φ, or 1/Φ) is 0.618… — or the exact same digits after the decimal point:  i.e Φ-1=1/Φ.

Some folks, Dan Brown included, make quite a deal of the fact that the ratio of sequential numbers in the Fibonacci series quickly converge to quite close to Φ.  [Quick Fibonacci overview.  Take the first 2 natural numbers: 0 and 1.  Add them to get 1.  Add the last two numbers in the series, now 1 and 1, to get 2.  Repeat.  Add 1 plus 2 to get 3.  Add 2 plus 3 to get 5.  So: 0,1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21,34,55 … Note that the ratio of 55/34 = 1.619)

In fact, who needs Fibonacci? Brown, supposed son of a mathematician, is a simpleton. If we take any two non-zero numbers (even complex numbers) and add them to get another number; and then keep adding the last two numbers in the sequence to get yet another … well, the ratio of the last two numbers quickly approaches Φ.

Folks get all worked up about how this ratio is the perfect construction for all sorts of things: from faces and limbs, to animal bodies and tree structure, to even architecture — ancient and modern.  Dan Brown contorts himself to prove this in The da Vinci Code; but careful checking shows that he was very discriminating in sharing his set of facts.  In other words, he only found (and shared) what he was looking for.

Fibonacci numbers do show up in nature, mostly in plant leaf and cone structure.  As a consequence Φ can be inferred.  Still, mostly you have to really be wanting to find it: it’s like saying “Ah ha!  I keep finding this ratio (fill in the blank … could be two or three or 3.14).”

But regarding Φ, I have found it in some unusual places …

To convert miles to kilometers, you multiply by 1.6093.  Dang near phi.

The ratio of earth’s orbital period, 365.24 days, to her planetary twin Venus’ orbital period of 224.7 (earth) days, is 1.625.  Pretty close, too.

Slide2

Looking at a map of the United States and locate good ol’ center of the 48+, near Lebanon, Kansas, at almost exactly 40 degrees north latitude.  The distance coast-to-coast directly East-West through this point is 2550 miles.

Border-to-border, directly North-South through this point is 1570 miles. The ratio is 1.62.  Rather close to Φ, for no apparent reason, but I found what I was looking for, didn’t I? The United States is perfectly proportioned.

 

OK, just a couple more.  Here is a population density map of the United States, with population distributed by latitude.

Slide3

Notice that really high peak around 40 degrees north?  That’s where I live, in northern Colorado.  There is sort of a wide band from about 38 deg to 42deg: this is on account of the Bay Area, Salt Lake City, Denver, Kansas City, Saint Louis, Chicago, Indianapolis, Columbus, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, New York and surrounding areas lie here.

The days are getting short this time of year (well, actually they are all almost exactly 24 hours, but daylight is getting short).  In about two or three weeks, we’ll be at minimum duration of sunshine per day, on the average about 9.3 hrs in this band.  But, in 6 months we’ll be at almost exactly 15 hours.  The ratio?  About Φ, or 1.612. [3]

Almost exactly 38% of the population of the 48+ lies in this band.  Oddly, this is the complement to 1.000 of Φ’ (where Φ’=1/ Φ).  That means the ratio of the population of the rest of the country to this thin strip is 0.62/0.38, which is of course essentially equal to Φ.

Conclusion 1:  Φ is the perfect number and Φ is the golden ratio; therefore we at 40 degrees north latitude in the US live in the perfect place, with the perfect ratio of the nation’s population, and the perfect ratio of day lengths… in a country sized perfectly in accord with the Golden Ratio.

Conclusion 2: This essay demonstrates a huge part of the problem with political discourse today.  Namely: smart, creative people with time and resources on their hands can find or manufacture nearly any fact they want to support their positions – and then fill the web’s ether with them.  People who read or hear such “facts” typically don’t have the time or resources to do their own research.  So they typically exhibit one of two reactions.  One: if it confirms how they are inclined to think, they absorb it into their psyche, to share at appropriate moments later.  Two: if does not confirm their current positions, they dismiss it as apocryphal or anecdotal.

Let’s replace these options with two much better.  One: ignore it.  Or two: take some time to factually refute or substantiate it.

Wishing you peace

 

Joe Girard © 2013

The Girardmeister

[1] since the additions of Alaska and Hawaii in 1959, the center has of course moved to another insignificant spot, now in South Dakota.  These points technically must move back and forth several miles each year, owing to the vagaries of shoreline build-up and erosion, depending on vitality of storm seasons.

[2] The Greeks pronounce this letter Fee.  Europeans generally follow the Greeks.  In English speaking countries, among the mathematical literati, it is more customary to pronounce it Fie.  Dan Brown says Fee; so therefore obviously it should be said Fie.

[3] This sunlight ratio is closer to 1.60 in the Bay Area (around 38 deg north) and 1.65 Chicago (almost 42 deg north).

[4] Φ = ½ [1 + √5]

 

Uncategorized

Happy Thanksgiving

 

Happy Thanksgiving to Geeks, for Geeks, and Geek aficionados

There is a lot of buzz this time of year about being thankful.  Submittals cruise through the ether of the web; things to be thankful for each day of the month, and for each letter of the alphabet.

To be quite different, I’ve compiled a list quite outside what’s been done so far.  Sure, I’m profoundly grateful for many, many other things.  To repeat them would be redundant, but a much abbreviated list would be health (in fact, the gift of life!, thanks Mom), free will, the blessings of a kind wonderful wife, three brilliant and healthy sons.

My list is a list for geeks, at least one item for each letter of the alphabet, and one for each day in November.

 

A is for Avogadro’s number.  Its effects are wonderful: the number of particles in a mole is rigidly fixed, and consequently humid air is actually lighter than dry air; it is a huge number (6.02×1023, or 1026, depending on units), a testament to the very, very tiny size of molecules.  It is our connection to the atomically and molecularly-sized very small. (1) <1>

A is also for Archimedes, the first real scientist (recorded) (2)

B is for Bernoulli’s fluid dynamics equation.  Without it airplanes could not fly, baseballs would not curve or soar majestically 400 ft, and golf balls could not carry over 200 yd, nor would they slice or hook. (3)

C is for the speed of electromagnetic waves, c.  This mind-boggling speed (3 x 108 meters/second; or 186,000 mph) makes nearly instantaneous communication possible. (4)

This value changes, slightly depending on the medium.  This subtle change causes light to bend, making vision correcting lenses possible – as well as mirages, fiber optic communication, microscopes and most telescopes (even reflecting telescopes usually have a lens-based focusing feature).

D is for Charles Darwin, who opened our eyes and imagination to the wonders and mysteries of evolution, and our earthly origins. (5)

E is for the number e (6), and for the mathematician Euler (6a).  He, and his magical number e, whose forms of derivative and integrals have the same form, provide a key for understanding how things oscillate, propagate, decay, and grow over time and/or distance.

E is also for Entropy. If you think you can’t get everything under control, you’re right!  Entropy tells us that any closed system (like your life, or the universe) moves inexorably toward complete lack of structure; and the more energy is expended trying to enforce structure, the more unstructured the whole system inevitably must become.  I minimize entropy by keeping my life and desk moderately messy at all times.  Not sure I’m thankful for it; but it does help explain the universe’s and human’s general preference for messiness and chaos (7)

F is for Alexander Fleming, who discovered penicillin, a keyhole passage into vast horizons of treatments for infections. (8)

G is for gravity, g (a unit of gravity) and for G (the universal gravitational constant).  Without them, we’d need Velcro to stay on the planet’s surface, orbits would not be possible … so neither would sunrises, sunsets, or even beautiful clouds. (9)

H is for Heisenberg, and we’re not breaking bad here.  His contribution to quantum physics informs us that nothing is completely measureable or knowable … unless we are willing to have uncertainty about knowing everything else. (10)

H is also for Planck’s constant, h.  It helps describe the radiation of heat, the connection between energy and wavelength, to which we owe the warmth we receive from the sun. (11)

I is for i, which opened up whole areas of physics via the mathematics of complex numbers. (12)

J is for Joe, the oddest of geeks. It is also for j, the electrical engineers’ version of i (always have to be different). (13)

K is for Lord Kelvin (William Thomson), who made numerous contributions to science  that helped support the evolution or improvements of: various motors, electric power, laying of undersea cables, data transmission. (14)

L is for Anton van Leeuwenhoek, inventor of the microscope.  Our first views into the world of cells, microbes … showed that life is much more complicated than we could have imagined. (15) <2>

M is for mathematics, a system of equations, symbols, numbers — and rules for manipulating them — so as to promote understanding of  our world, and make better use of its wondrous phenomena. (16)

N is for N, the set of natural numbers.  Simple, yet infinite, it allows us to tally, count and wonder at its limitless detail, structure and patterns. (17)

O is for Oxygen, in the form O2, about 20% of our atmospheric air by mass and volume, which allows our bodies to function, our lungs to breathe. (18)

P is for pi (π) and phi (Φ), those funny quirky irrational numbers.  Pi shows up all over mathematics and physics.  Phi shows up in patterns of the natural world; many humans aspire to seek and design to its ratio, which is golden. (19 & 20)

Q is for quark, and Q is for quirky.  Quarks are, as far as we now know, are the basic component, elementary particles, and comprise, among other things, the building blocks of sub-atomic particles like protons and neutrons.  Without Quarks, and their quirky rules and patterns, there would be no universe … as we know it. (21 & 22) [Not gonna talk about bosons …]

S is for Schrödinger, whose varied insights led to the wave equation, new understanding in quantum physics, and lots of great cat jokes and t-shirts. (23)

R (see X, for “Röntgen Strahlen”)

T is for “tomorrow” … not geeky, but “The sun’ll come out tomorrow …” … “ I love ya, tomorrow.  You’re always a day away.” (24)

U is uncertainty.  Without it life would be boring.  There would be no surprises, pleasant or unpleasant.  And there would be no quantum mechanics. (25)

V is for velocity.  The time derivative of position and a key component of kinetic energy, orbital mechanics, the integral of acceleration and a really neat sounding word.  “He moved with great velocity” (26)

W is for work.  Interchangeable with energy, when there are no losses; energy can do work, and work can store energy.  Either can “get stuff done.” (27)

X is for X-rays (or Röntgen Strahlen), discovered by Wilhelm Röntgen, they allow us to see not only into our bodies, treat tumors, inspect weldments – they also allow us to learn about the universe, as many deep space phenomena produce these very short, high energy electromagnetic waves. (28)

Y is for the Y-chromosome.  Yes, there are men.  And that’s ok. Some are manly men, and some aren’t; and that’s ok too. (29)

Z is for zero.  The additive identity; that which signifies “none” in math; aught and nought.  And that’s all there is remaining: zero, zip, zilch, nada, nichts, niente.   Goose egg baby.  (30)

Notes:

<1> modern chemical engineering practice is to use the (great Scrabble® or Probe® word) kilomole.  Then the 1026 would be used.  Old Style always uses moles, which is actually quite small and often inconvenient.

<2> Technically his last name starts with “v”; but his name is so cool.  It means “Lions Corner” in Dutch.

 

 

Current Events

Calculus … ‘n’ stuff

Calculus : the branch of mathematics that deals with the finding and properties of derivatives and integrals of functions, by methods originally based on the summation of infinitesimal differences. The two main types are differential calculus and integral calculus. – Oxford Dictionary

Syria is presenting a difficult situation to the world and to the United States – still.  The US press has taken to referring to the difficult situation as having difficult calculus.  From this, they get their cue from the president, who has referred to “the calculus” of Syria.  Such as: clear evidence of chemical weapons use would change “the calculus.”

This language clearly tells us that, regardless of what they might know or don’t know, they want us to think they are intelligent … and serious.  Anyone who uses the word calculus must be smart and somber, capable of deep thought.  And since they want us to think they are intelligent (and … ahem … serious), … well then … the fact that they must resort to such a word should send us to a safe place.  They probably aren’t.

To politicians (i.e. lawyers) and the press (i.e. journalism majors) using such a word as calculus is a smoke screen – a curtain – meant to deceive.  As in: the wizard must consult with the infinite through the magic of “calculus.”

That’s right.  Here — sit right down here.

That’s it. Ha ha!  This — this is the same

genuine, magic, authentic crystal used by

the Priests of Isis and Osiris in the days

of the Pharaohs of Egypt — in which

Cleopatra first saw the approach of Julius

Caesar and Marc Anthony, and — and so on

— and so on. Now, you — you’d better

close your eyes, my child, for a moment —

in order to be better in tune with the

Infinite. 

We — we can’t do these things without…

…reaching out into the…

…infinite.  Yes.”  

— Professor Marvel, in The Wizard of Oz [1]

That’s it!  Marvel’s use of “crystal” – like the use of “calculus” by the political and press community – actually triggers a sense of cheap chicanery combined with complete inauthenticity and utter ignorance.  Our BS-alert meters light up.  At least – like Professor Marvel in MGM’s adaptation of L. Frank Baum’s fantasy story – our president and press are sincere and mean well.  Still.

______________________________
Let’s help them out a bit.  There are many fields of mathematics that could apply.  In fact, simply substitute Mathematics for calculus, and our BS-alert systems wouldn’t overheat as much.

How about Arithmetic?  Chemical weapons use by Assad, or presence of al-Qaeda among rebel leaders, would change the Arithmetic.  That’s a little too weak, isn’t it?  Bill Clinton and Joe Biden beat us up during the 2012 campaign season – especially at the Democratic Convention – explaining that the government’s role in the economy was as simple as Arithmetic.  Gosh, did I feel dumb.  Who knew it was so easy?

How about Geometry?  Or even Algebra?  Those are subjects that many people in non-math, non-science and non-engineering roles have taken, studied, and passed.  We could appreciate that it’s difficult, but it’s doable.  Evidently, those words convey too much simplicity.  [Algebra would have a special applicability though, as it crept into European languages from Arabic].

OK then.  How about some related fields that actually have uncertainty and variability built into them? How about Probability and Statistics, or Computational Quantum Physics? – which pretty much couldn’t exist without uncertainty and probability.

I also suggested Chaos Theory and Fractals, where even knowing all present facts as perfectly as possible cannot lead us to absolute certain knowledge of any future facts.

Or the best: Fuzzy Logic.  A true branch of math and logic, it is.  And unlike Computational Quantum Physics its very name suggests uncertainty!  The application of such math already accepts that a perfect picture of reality at this moment may not be – in fact cannot be – a perfect picture in the next moment.  And better yet, a perfect picture is not attainable!

Lamentably, this is the unfortunate situation the world faces.  It is a situation of certain uncertainty.  We can be absolutely sure that there is significant information – like how things will unfold 1, 2 or 10 years hence – which we absolutely certainly cannot know.

It could be so much easier, couldn’t it?

  • What if Bashar Assad (Syria’s dictator) was known to have 550 tons of uranium yellow cake?  It’s not weapon-grade fissile material, but could make a heckuvalot of dirty bombs.
  • What if Bashar Assad were also known to casually lob missiles into civilian populations – not just his own country, but to neighboring countries?
  • Wouldn’t it be easier if we knew certainly that he had not just used chemical weapons, but had repeatedly used those dozens of times – over a period of decades? With many thousands of victims each time.
  • What if he actually bragged about having tons and tons of the stuff … both Sarin and VX?  And what if, when challenged, he denied it, saying it was destroyed?  And then if, when further challenged to provide evidence, he produced 13,000 pages of gobbledygook … sending the world’s truth-seekers into a wild goose chase?
  • Wouldn’t it be easier if we knew he’d order mass rapes, ran brutal torture chambers, burned people slowly to death with their families watching, and had multiple mass graves scattered across his country?
  • Wouldn’t it be easier if he were to invade a neighboring country, in naked aggrandizement, to seize highly productive oil fields as his own?
  • And gosh, would it be easier if Assad also bragged about paying money (first $10K, then $25K, and finally $50,000 per event) to Palestinian families as a pay-off when their teenage children blew themselves up in crowds of Jews?
  • What if the UN actually passed numerous resolutions saying: this regime must stop what it is doing, or face military action?
  • What if the United States had dozens of countries ready to stand side-by-side in a grand alliance, including a willingness to provide “boots on the ground”?  What if there were corroborating intelligence from organizations like the UK’s MI6, Israel’s Mossad, Russia’s FSB and GRU … and many others?

If only it were so easy.  But no, it’s not so easy at all.  Those are the circumstances under which we went to war in Iraq in 2003.  We so easily forget that both presidents named Bush went and got congressional approval to fight a war against Saddam Hussein in Iraq under brutal facts (those are the 2003 war; the 1991 war liberated Kuwait).  They also built huge international coalitions in support of those wars.

Virtually every Democratic voter who was born before 1986 has voted for such people to become president multiple times (or by inference, vice-president, which means “a heartbeat away”): Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton, John Kerry, John Edward, Joe Lieberman. They all voted to go to war against Iraq (Democrats by a 28-21 margin in the Senate) under far more strict and severe criteria than we now consider to justify lobbing cruise missiles and few airstrikes into Syria.  [2]

In short, a YEA vote now is validation — ok, perhaps some thin vindication — of the 2003-Iraq war decision.

Sadly, there was no end game, even though it was pretty obvious we would “win” in a matter of weeks.  And we have no end game now, with Syria, either.

There are two possible heroes of that now forgettable and infamous 2002 vote.  The Republican tally was 48-1 for the resolution.  The lone Republican was Rhode Island’s Lincoln Chafee, a fellow who literally inherited his father’s (John Chaffee’s) Senate seat, both well-known as very “liberal” Republicans; and in 2006, shortly after re-election, Chaffee-the-younger switched party affiliation.

Surprisingly, I nominate Senator Edward “Ted” Kennedy from Massachusetts for hero.  During debate on Iraq, the Senator declared that (I’m paraphrasing here) … given all the bad stuff we know about Saddam Hussein, and even if you provided me with total undeniable proof that he had useable Weapons of Mass Destruction and the means to deliver them … I would still vote no.

That is a man of principal.  He didn’t need calculus, algebra, arithmetic, geometry or even fuzzy logic.  No “known unknowns” or “unknown unknowns.”  He saw it clear with no equivocation.

And speaking of arithmetic vs. calculus: modern economics does indeed require much more calculus than arithmetic to understand and explain.

If you want to make the other guys sound dumb, say “it’s just arithmetic.”  And if you want to make yourself sound intelligent, say “it’s calculus, … yeah, ‘n’ stuff like that.”

But if you want to be honest, you’d probably have to call these situations their own class of Fuzzy Logic instead of Calculus.  The latter has a definitive correct answer that can be arrived for each set of given initial conditions – follow the correct process of derivatives, integrals and infinite series, and you clearly get the same repeatable answer, every time. The former, Fuzzy Logic, not so much.

There may be little hope for total peace on earth; still I wish all of you peace in your lives.

Joe Girard © 2013

[1] Script to the Wizard of Oz.  http://www.wendyswizardofoz.com/printablescript.htm

[2] Senate Roll Call vote, Iraq War Resolution: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/onpolitics/transcripts/senaterollcall_iraq101002.htm

Acknowledgement: to my friend in Indianapolis, who clued me in to all the talk about “calculus.”

Notes: (1) I confess that a couple of paragraphs are paraphrased from that evil, evil woman, Ann Coulter.  I don’t normally read anything from her, but someone sent me this link and it seemed interesting.  Next thing I knew I was half way into it….

Community Organizer Goes to War: http://townhall.com/columnists/anncoulter/2013/09/04/community-organizer-goes-to-war-n1691596

(2) in the 1991 Senate vote, it was very tight 52-47 in favor of liberating Kuwait by military force.  10 Democrats voted for it; 45 opposed.  Biden voted against this one, which likely cost him some of his chance for the  ’00 nomination.  That’s probably why he voted YEA in 2002 and got his hair implants … he still wants to be president.

(3) House votes in 1991 and 2002 are not reported here, but both carried YEA for military force.

 

 

History

Meet me at the Fair

Looking back to a time of promise and the dawn of a new century, with new inventions and American — not to mention Midwest — pride; when we were an emerging world power; when the world looked to America and said “That’s how to do it.”  Let’s take a look at the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, AKA the 1904 Saint Louis World’s Fair.

That Fair was the most massive, magnificent, opulent, ostentatious and over-the-top world’s fair, ever. Period. This 47-slide picture show (link below) doesn’t even show Germany’s huge re-creation of the Tyrolean Alps, or much of “The Pike” where you could ride elephants, camels or ostriches … see street performers of magic and musicians of all sort, walk the streets of Cairo … or, see a working hospital complete with new inventions like incubators with actual “struggling-for-life” premature human babies.

Consider what you could see from the 265-foot tall Ferris Observation Wheel — the one that had 36 cars carrying 60 passengers each, for a total of 2,160 riders at once:

  • Fourteen Palaces, up to 21-acres each;
  • 1,576 separate buildings;
  • …lit up with electric lights like the Emerald City, visible for miles and miles, unheard of!;
  • Underwater lighting of huge cascading waterfalls;
  • … powered by a 14,000 hp motor that drove electric generators;
  • that also powered chillers (air conditioning — ah!!) so they could enjoy ice cream and ice skate through the summer;
  • total area of 1,240 acres with 75 miles of walkways (for comparison, Disneyland is 85 acres; Disney World’s Epcot Center; and Magic Kingdom combined are only about 400 acres);
  • 20-million visitors;
  • Over 1,000 new huge sculptures;
  • Daily parades with the likes of John Phillip Sousa;

Walking around you could see and enjoy:

  • Exhibitions and speaking engagements by personalities from Will Rogers to Helen Keller;
  • Food treats made popular or first coming to public view: the newly ‘invented’ hot dog, ice cream cone, cotton candy, hamburger, puffed rice, puffed wheat, and Dr Pepper;
  • A real working hospital, a real oil well and a real coal mine;
  • And, somehow they had the great idea to hold the 1904 Olympics at the same time and place, at Washington University, on the western edge of the Fairgrounds.

— just one of the biggest extravaganzas in human history.  An exclamation mark to president Teddy Roosevelt’s bold proclamation: “This will be an American century.”

Enjoy the tour!  http://www.crawforddirect.com/worldfairtour.htm#start

Cheers,

Joe

Biographical, History

Haunting Bird

There is a genre of music I will attempt to define that is somewhat hard to describe.  First, it is conflicted: haunting yet catchy.  But, second, it is not haunting the way that Tubular Bells (theme of The Exorcist is haunting), but rather that its melody (and words if there are any) suggests a powerful influence by an unorganized medley of life’s most painful experiences.

Some obvious candidates are the torch songs; the song tells an incomplete story of someone spurned by a lover, or of the loss of a budding or possible love.  Sinatra’s “One for my Baby” is good, but that’s too obvious.  So the third criterion is that is has to be subtle; it can’t be obvious.  Elvis Costello’s “Allison” is close: you know something is horribly wrong and there is an untold history; you just don’t know what it is.

The fourth criterion is that the tune must suggest a bigger story than just unrequited or lost love.  In movies we get a taste of this from the instrumental Lara’s Theme (theme to Dr Zhivago) in its odd mix of Balalaika with full stringed orchestral backing.  Despite people’s lives and loves getting completely crushed by the steamroller of history the melody is oddly jaunty, almost upbeat.  It is defiant; hopeful in spite of misery.  “I will survive.  Things will be better.”  Lara’s theme was set to words in Somewhere my Love, which captures that greatest of human emotions: hope.  Criterion Five: Defiant with unjustified hope.

Similar to Lara’s Theme is another movie theme.  Set at the awkward time mixing youth and world chaos – as we tried to make sense of a world gone hopelessly mad in global war – and cope with loss of life, and the loss of all manner of innocence, there was The Summer of ’42.  Haunting.  Complex.  Catchy.  Suggestive of pain, suffering and loss.  Yet, like Lara’s Theme, oddly upbeat.  Defiant.

[Unsurprisingly, each of these themes won Academy Awards.  Zhivago took 1965’s award; Summer of ’42 won 1971’s]

One song, somewhat movie related, that is haunted in this way for me is a sing-songy nursery rhyme, Risselty-Rosselty. That’s because this is the song the children of Bodega Bay School are singing on the playground as the blackbirds gather to swarm in Sir Alfred Hitchcock’s epic 1963 thriller, The Birds.  Every time I hear or think of that tune I can still see what those birds did to the beautiful Annie (Suzanne Pleshette).  And it is the word “Bird” leads us to this essay’s principal character.

_________________________

It is a beautiful day at a café in Paris: a sensational August day in 1944. Paris has just been liberated.  A singer of some budding renown is inspired.  That afternoon, in that café  – in the reborn glow of Liberté – she composes the feature song for which she would forever be known … and famous.  The haunting yet catchy tune with words to match.  It is not obvious, but it is suggestive of a complex and painful life, rife with struggles.  It is somewhat bubbly, and yet there is that awkward juxtaposition of subdued melancholy with budding hope and expectation.  Buoyant with the possibility of love.  She wrote the song for herself to sing; to sing as if she were looking at the world through rose colored glasses.  And yet she was to sing it as if she knew all along that she wore those glasses. Of what she sings is not real.  Her whole life in one song.

_________________________
 

Born to street performers in Paris in December 1915, Édith Giovanna Gassion was abandoned by her mother shortly after birth.  Called to fight in The Great War, her father turned her over to her grandmother, who raised tiny Edith in her brothel in Normandy.  She was always petite, even frail, and appeared sickly.  She ever remained a small creature, but grew to have a big, big voice.

Blind from age three to seven from a bout with keratitis, she remained with the prostitutes until her father fetched her as a young teen to work with him in his street performances as an acrobat.  She collected money after the act, and, at some point, he convinced her to sing as she collected the money in small boxes and hats.

Soon enough Gassion was being recognized for her own talents and at age 15 she struck out on her own, working menial odd jobs and singing on street corners.  She fell in love with a delivery boy, the first of untold many such love-life disasters.  At age 17 she had her only child, a girl named Marcelle. As a teenaged street performer and day laborer she was unable to care for the infant.  She abandoned the child and the child’s father, leaving him to raise the girl.  Unfortunately, Marcelle died of meningitis two years later: the sorrow of losing the same child twice only sweetened the magic of her performances.

So she moved to the better side of town, in the Pagalle area, where a high-end tourist and cabaret district intersected with the sex industry. Performance of all kinds!; here she felt comfortable.  And here she was spotted as a potential winning performer by a small time impresario named Louis Leplee, who ran a night club.

Leplee truly appreciated Gassion as a musical performer – not as a potential lover: he was a homosexual –  and developed her potential.  He became a genuine and kindly father figure – the “father she never had” – by day and her boss by night.  He counseled Piaf to moderate her proclivity to mingle with the darker elements of Parisian culture; and he had her singing in his nightclub until 3AM – with rave reviews at age only 19.  Shockingly, a year later, Leplee was shot in a murder that was never solved.

The petite Gassion was a suspect in the case, detained for questioning.  Released, her prospects were clouded by her association with Leplee; other club owners were reluctant to hire her.  She soon caught on with Raymond Asso – as a lover as well as business partner.  A performer and composer as well, he turned her toward music writers who could mix Gassion’s powerful voice in a tiny body with her dark, street-gutter past; who could mix music with her love of tragic, melodramatic themes, in a concoction with elements of blues and jazz.  He knew that this consonance, with a real-life story of “misery of the streets” would play on the hearts of those who still had money (this is now 1937, in the Depression).

But her name had to change.  Gassion would not do. She was tiny, yet she flitted around with tremendous nervous energy.  Just like a sparrow.  Piaf.  And so Edith Gassion became Edith Piaf.

Things went well for Piaf and Asso until 1939, when he was drafted into the next Great War.  Asso had given her a bit of polish, and Piaf’s career continued to bloom — she even began to star in theatre.  When France was overrun in 1940, Leplee was sent away to Germany to entertain the French POWs.

Meanwhile, for Piaf, presently alone, she continued performing in cabarets, but now mostly for the occupying Germans.  She was sometimes accused of fraternizing and collaboration, charges that were never substantiated.

When the war ended, Piaf was soon again on top of the French entertainment industry.  She set her sights on America.  And she fell in love with the one whom she called “the one true love of her life”, World Middleweight Boxing Champion, Marcel Cerdan.  In classic Piaf disaster, Cerdan was already married with three children.

With a revamped tour going well for Piaf in the US, her Cerdan had just lost a title bout wherein he sustained a career-ending shoulder injury.  Still famous today as the most successful French boxer ever, Cerdan flew off to join her in New York.  The plane would stop in the Azores en route.  And there it crashed, taking Cerdan and all 47 others.  Piaf learned of the disaster shortly before that evening’s show.  She performed anyhow, the tragedy of loss adding to the delivery of her classic haunted, yet catchy style, evoking great emotion.  “The greater life’s blows, the more powerful and magnificent her voice!”[1]

Piaf had several more star-crossed romances and marriages.  None went well.  She was also involved in three severe auto accidents, all causing critical injuries in those days before seat belts.  At least once she was ejected from the car by a high speed collision. These led to a dependency on morphine, an addiction that she fought the rest of her life by turning to an old affliction: alcohol.

Professionally re-living her life’s sorrows, she toggled between addictions, switched from lover to lover, and pushed herself to perform and record songs at a withering pace for such a frail, sickly woman.

In 1958 she caught on with a very young, intriguing and talented writer who would rejuvenate her career.  Georges Moustaki (born as “Moustacchi”) was a most unusual blend of direct Egyptian, Greek and Italian descent.  He spoke Italian, Arabic, Greek and – as a fourth language – French.  All these tragic cultures he blended into his compositions for Piaf.  Her tours were tremendously popular; her health continued failing.  Naturally, they become lovers.

Piaf’s and Moustaki’s lives and careers separated after a few years.  He would go on to be one of France’s most beloved composers and entertainers. [2] She continued performing and falling in love.

At age 46, still pushing herself to perform at a dizzying pace while struggling with dependency, she met and fell in love with a handsome Greek singer twenty years her junior.  Piaf and Theo Sarapo were married … her third.

But she was so ill. And she drank. A lot. Her liver became cancerous, and the harried, haunted life of the sparrow came to an end in October, 1963; aged only 47.

Even in French (which I don’t like very much) the song La Vie en Rose that Piaf penned in that Parisian café in 1944 has captured the essence of my newly created musical category, specifically: Catchy with overtones of being haunted by history; yet subtle, with a touch of melancholy, defiance and hope

Enjoy this classic recording of Piaf singing La Vie en Rose. [Anglicized lyrics below].

Peace,
Joe Girard © 2013

[1] From History Channel’s short biography of Edith Piaf

2] This essay partly inspired by the recent death of Piaf’s songwriter Georges Moustaki, May, 23, 2013: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/05/25/arts/music/georges-moustaki-french-singer-and-songwriter-dies-at-79.html

Notes A)

Anglicized lyrics to La Vie en Rose (as Translated by Edith Paif herself)

With eyes which make mine lower,
A smile which is lost on his lips,
That’s the unembellished portrait
Of the man to whom I belong.

When he takes me in his arms
He speaks to me in a soft voice,
I see life as if rose tinted.

He whispers words to declare his love to me
Simple every day words.
And that does something to me.

He has entered into my heart.

A piece of happiness
the cause of which I know full well.

“It is him for me, me for him” in life
He said that to me, he swore to me “forever”.

And as soon as I see him
So I feel in me
My heart which beats

May the nights on which we make love never end,
A great joy which takes its place.
The trouble, the grief are removed
Content, content to die of it

When he takes me in his arms
He speaks to me in a very soft voice,
I see life as if it were rose-tinted.

He whispers words to declare to me his love
Words of the everyday
And that does something to me.

He has entered into my heart
A piece of happiness
the cause of which I recognize.

“It is him for me, me for him” in life
He said that to me, swore to me “forever.”

And as soon as I see him
So do I feel in me
My heart which beats

JG note: I think when she says “rose-tinted” it is the French equivalent to “seeing through rose colored glasses.”

 

B) Notes:  Lyrics to Summer of ’42; which I don’t think has any lyrics in the movie

“Theme From Summer Of ’42”

The summer smiles, the summer knows
And unashamed she sheds her clothes
The summer smoothes the restless sky
And lovingly she warms the sand, on which you lie

The summer knows, the summer’s wise
She sees the doubts within your eyes
And so she takes her summertime

Tells the moon to wait and the sun to linger
Twists the world round her summer finger
Lets you see the wonder of it all

And if you’ve learned your lesson well
There’s little more for her to tell
One last caress, it’s time to dress, for fall

And if you’ve learned your lesson well
There’s little more for her to tell
One last caress, it’s time to dress, for fall

 

C) Lyrics to “Somewhere my Love” (Lara’s Theme) ;
which I also don’t think has any lyrics in the movie

Somewhere, my love,
There will be songs to sing
Although the snow
Covers the hope of spring.

Somewhere a hill
Blossoms in green and gold
And there are dreams
All that your heart can hold.

Someday we’ll meet again, my love.
Someday, whenever the spring breaks through.

You’ll come to me
Out of the long ago,
Warm as the wind,
Soft as the kiss of snow.

Till then, my sweet,
Think of me now and then.
God, speed my love
‘Til you are mine again.

Current Events, Politics

Too Clever

A scorpion and a frog meet on the bank of a stream.
The scorpion asks the frog to carry him across the stream.
The frog asks, “How do I know you won’t sting me?”
The scorpion says, “Because if I do, I will die too.”

The frog is satisfied, and they set out.
But in midstream, the scorpion stings the frog.
The frog feels the onset of paralysis and starts to sink;
He knows that they are both about to drown,
but has just enough time to gasp “Why?”

 

Replies the scorpion: “It is my nature...”

— From Aesop’s Fables

There are a pair of unbelievable English words that  mean the same thing.   It’s just incredible, but — acting interchangeably and as the same word — I posit that they are probably the most often incorrectly used words in American English.

These two most incorrectly used words are “unbelievable” and “incredible.”  These words mean, literally, “not to be believed.”  If someone says that their child is “an incredible child”, I feel like asking: “So, did they speak 12 foreign languages and win a Nobel Prize by age 6?  Did they successfully command the sun to rise in the west today?”

My 1975 Websters has no entry whatsoever, not even under the “un-” listings with a “believable” listed in a lengthy table of verbs and adjectives that follow.  My 1947 Funk & Wagnalls does list “unbelievable”, but only as the opposite of believable; which means that it is unacceptable as truth.  Finally, in my 2001 Random House Unabridged dictionary, “unbelievable” makes its own full appearance: too dubious or improbable to  be believed.  And a second definition, which now seems to be the hyperbolic and generally accepted definition appears as well: So remarkable as to strain credulity.  In other words: at the very limit, and perhaps a bit beyond, of what one could believe.

I live in Boulder county, in Colorado, where “The One’s” name is still spoken in solemn, reverent tones. One suspects it is likewise in many other communities … as it is with various of my friends and family, who yet devoutly remain — current revelations notwithstanding — fervent that “He” (who promised the most honest and transparent administration ever [1]) can do no wrong.

For them it is truly unbelievable that three — count ’em three — crises of ethics have hit “The One’s” administration lately.  For those of you buried under rocks and moon-eyed over “The One”:

  • Bengazi: Sworn testimony reveals that the administration knew from the very first moments that: 1) it was, in fact a coordinated terrorist attack on the US consulate; 2)the administration’s state department had been warned for months that there was insufficient security for the Libyan diplomatic team; and 3) The administration had the military and CIA “stand down” while the attacks were underway.The administration hid these facts, carefully crafting statements that would protect the president and his administration as the November elections approached.  Employees were threatened and demoted for challenging this apparently unethical approach.
  • IRS-gate.  The IRS, an armed branch  [2] of the administration’s treasury department, intentionally and specifically single out organizations with viewpoints that are probably contrary to the administration’s ideology.  These organizations were subject to intense and exceptional scrutiny and delays. This occurred for up to two years.
  • Justice department essentially spied on the AP (Associated Press) to get electronic communication information. In a hugely rare political gesture, this was defended by Republican Senate Minority Leader, Mitch McConnell.  And maybe that’s why this is the one that could hang over the One’s administration.  The MSM distrusts Republicans, especially McConnell.  The Left Wing radio shows love to accentuate the *CON* in his name as he is con-man, as are all Republi-CONs.

The media spinners are spinning credible stories about how Republicans are to blame for Bengazi (budget cuts) and for the disaster that followed (carefully releasing their own versions of communications).  It is, after all, all politics.  All that notwithstanding, the administration will skate relatively free on this one.  Yes, four people died and there was a very non-transparent cover up.  But in the end, it will be deemed a mistake, incompetence, trying to do too much.

And the spinners are craftily spinning away on the IRS issue too.  This too definitely happened, and IRS officials definitely either lied or were (almost) unbelievably corrupt <grin>.  Still this is too far down from “the One” to pin on him — although the top does set the tone.  As the same spinners used to enjoy saying when Reagan was in the White House: The fish stinks from the head down.

It is the spying on the AP thing that might be the cross the administration has to bear for three more years.  This country loves its 1st Amendment Rights, so much so that we allow people to burn the flag, fly Mexican flags above the Stars ‘n’ Stripes, and call corporations people.  We love freedom of the press.  In Reno v ACLU, the Supreme court ruled that the internet effectively gives us unlimited freedom of speech; and since anyone can publish on-line (like this post), by extension there is almost unlimited freedom of the press.

It will be interesting to see how the press, especially the AP and the Washington Post which has the legacy of Woodward and Bernstein to uphold, carries this out.  In what could spawn an awkward partnership, there is evidence that the Administration may have used the power of government to spy on Fox reporter James Rosen.

Of course the Obama administration — like the Scorpion — turned out to not be the squeaky clean nice guys we wanted to believe.  D’oh. He’s a politician.  And he’s a product of the Chicago political machine. It is, rather, very believable that he has an enemies list, uses the levers of power to his political benefit and to torment his enemies, tries to control the press, is furtive and choreographs cover ups of negative events. It’s very credible that he’d funnel billions of dollars in pro-green projects to political supporters who bundle millions of dollars in campaign support, and make high level presidential appointment to extremely wealthy insiders. Big deal.  What did you expect?

Unconsciously, when reading a written piece or listening to someone speak, I critically count up things like the use of “incredible” and “unbelievable.”  I leniently permit a single use of the word — you are permitted to strain my credulity, but only once.

Here is my once.  Don’t you find it incredible and unbelievable that Republican leader Mitch McConnell publicly defended the president’s eagerness to find out how the AP gets its information?  Given this political manna, I’m sure the Republicans will find a way to screw it up, and The Teflon One will wiggle away.  Now, that’s believable.

Peace

 

Joe Girard (c) 2013

[1]ahref=”http://www.whitehouse.gov/the_press_office/TransparencyandOpenGovernment”>http://www.whitehouse.gov/the_press_office/TransparencyandOpenGovernment

[2] http://www.examiner.com/article/irs-to-hire-and-arm-agents-to-enforce-compliance-with-obamacare

Current Events, History, Politics

The Places WMDs Take You

Boston Bomber charged with using weapon of mass destruction, or WMD?  Really?

Up until now I’d always thought of WMDs as the big three: 1) nuclear effect weapons (nuclear blast or a nuclear “dirty” bomb; 2) biological effect weapons (anthrax, ebola); and 3) chemical weapons (with nerve agents).

Sure enough, US code 18-§ 2332a (c)(2) defines a WMD  as the big three, plus “any destructive device as defined in section 921 of this title.”

Off to Title 18, section 921, where explosive device is defined as:

(A) any explosive, incendiary, or poison gas—

(i) bomb,
(ii) grenade,
(iii) rocket having a propellant charge of more than four ounces,
(iv) missile having an explosive or incendiary charge of more than one-quarter ounce,
(v) mine, or
(vi) device similar to any of the devices described in the preceding clauses;
(B) any type of weapon (other than a shotgun or a shotgun shell which the Attorney General finds is generally recognized as particularly suitable for sporting purposes) by whatever name known which will, or which may be readily converted to, expel a projectile by the action of an explosive or other propellant, and which has any barrel with a bore of more than one-half inch in diameter; and
(C) any combination of parts either designed or intended for use in converting any device into any destructive device described in subparagraph (A) or (B) and from which a destructive device may be readily assembled.
The term “destructive device” shall not include any device which is neither designed nor redesigned for use as a weapon; any device, although originally designed for use as a weapon, which is redesigned for use as a s…
blah, blah, blah
So, there you have it.  Bomb.  A bomb, or any device with a projectile with an incendiary charge of more than 1/4-ounce (one presumes this is standard gun powder), IS A WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION.
Can we now admit that Bush-43 — and the intelligence of Israel — and Britain — and France — and Russia were right? With a definition like that, of course there were WMDs in Iraq!
Naturally, I’m being a bit silly.  Everyone thought Bush and SecState Powell were talking chemical weapons, and possible nukes.  That’s what they — and Cheney — led us to believe.  By the way, a nuclear effects weapon need not be a thermonuclear device to qualify as a WMD.  Per 18-§223a, any device “designed to release radiation or radioactivity at a level dangerous to human life” is a WMD.   If memory serves, Iraq was harboring 550 tons of Uranium Yellowcake, which was safely and furtively sent to someone who could put it to good use: the Canadians.
Yes, while we were all fawning over “the One” during the summer of 2008, our country’s state and defense departments were going about the important business of getting this hazard to a safe place.  The existence of 550 tons of enriched uranium yellowcake does not prove that Iraq was about to re-start their nuclear program.  It’s a long way from yellowcake to weapons grade or even reactor grade.  Still, that’s enhanced enough to turn a several thousand Scud missiles into dirty bombs, and according to title 18 of the US code of regulations, a WMD.
Zooming to the present.  According to many sources, Syria has used chemical weapons based on the nerve agent Sarin.  This was supposed to represent some sort of “red line” which would bring the United States — and her allies, if she so committed — to some sort of elevated activity or intervention.   Perhaps even military intervention.
Really?  After 75,000 dead and now … now after a few dozen or hundred more are killed by the legal equivalent of a pressure cooker laced with nails and ball bearings … now we are saying Assad and his Lex Luther henchmen have crossed a “red line”??
I recall just a couple of years ago, when a thousand or perhaps two thousand deaths in Libya led us to declare that there was some “moral imperative” that we (the US and the West)  intervene.  We launched several hundred cruise missiles at Moammar Qadafi’s strategic military and state sites (don’t quibble with how I spelled his name; I think there are at least 1,000 western attempts to spell his name phonetically).
75,000 dead in Syria.  A huge humanitarian and refugee problem.  A dilemma for our friends in Jordan and Israel, to say nothing of the struggling new democracy in neighboring Iraq, and the struggles in neighboring Lebanon as well.
Compared to only 1,000 dead in Libya with neighbors like Tunisia, and Egypt (well into their own Arab spring) and Algiers.   Was Qadafi really that much worse than Assad?  In fact, after witnessing what “the Coalition of the Willing” had done to Saddam Hussein, Qadafi swore to totally give up on obtaining WMDs.  Ever.
I’m not saying that getting belligerently involved in Libya was wrong; nor am I saying that staying out of Syrian belligerence is wrong too.  I am suggesting that looking at moral “red lines” like use (or presence) of WMDs, and number of deaths, presents a limited scope that is a distraction from issues more important …
For one, Syria has close ties to both Russia and Iran.  Libya was fairly isolated, diplomatically speaking.
And Libya  produces about 1.65 Million Barrels of oil per day — about 2% of the world’s production.  Most of that oil goes to Europe, which can hardly afford another economic wobble  … which would indeed have happened had Libya stayed politically unstable much longer.  Syria’s petroleum production?  A tiny fraction as much. With Libya producing, the world can do without Syria’s pittance of oil, which it has done for several years now.
Rest well when you can.  You might need it.
Peace
Joe Girard (c) 2013
Biographical, Politics

Not PC Compatible

Howard Cosell and the ‘Little monkey” comments

Anyone who watched much sports during the 1960s and 70s will recall Howard Cosell.  He called boxing matches (famously saying “Down goes Frazier” in a title fight with George Foreman).  He announced Major League Baseball, NFL Football and announced at the Olympics (most famously at the 1972 Olympics) .  He is perhaps most famous for his long stint on Monday Night Football with “Dandy” Don Meredith and Frank Gifford.

Noted for being sharp, witty, caustic and loquacious, Cosell said of himself, “Arrogant, pompous, obnoxious, vain, cruel, verbose, a showoff. There’s no question that I’m all of those things.”  He also had a soft side, devoted to his wife for 46 years until her death, devoted to his children and to his grandchildren.  He lovingly often referred to them as “little monkeys.’

In 1972, Cosell used this term of endearment — Little Monkey — referring to Mike Adamle, a white football player who played running back for the Kansas City Chiefs.  Mike Adamle was only 5 foot-9 inches tall and under 200 lbs. Quite small for the NFL, and Cosell used it as a complement: “That little monkey — you know, the theorem was that he was too small for pro football”

The next year, on Monday Night Football’s halftime highlights, his voice-over for a 97-yard kick off return by Herb Mul-key of the Washington Redskins went: “Look at that little monkey run!”  Mul-key is black.

A few years later, in 1982, Cosell said of the white, diminutive (again 5 foot-9 inches, but only 150 lbs) Glenn Hubbard, who played second base for the Atlanta Braves: “”That little monkey can really pick it.”

But the world changed.  On a Monday Night Football telecast on September 5, 1983, after Alvin Garrett of the Washington Redskins made a clutch reception, he said: “That little monkey gets loose, doesn’t he?”

Alvin Garrett is black. Cosell was denounced as a racist by The Rev. Joseph Lowery, then-president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.  Lowery demanded a public apology. Others piled on, demanding an apology. Cosell, ever his own man, refused.

At the end of the 1983 NFL season Cosell retired from announcing NFL football.  His wife had passed away a few years earlier and he had new interests, like writing a book.  He continued announcing Major League Baseball games, but never used the Little Monkey term again.  It was not PC-compatible.

Cosell’s use of “Little Monkey”, it seems, can help us pinpoint when political correctness gained its position for thought control through language control.

In 1973 calling a black athlete “Little Monkey” raised nary an eyebrow.  In 1983, it could lead to the end of a career.

I’ll submit that this is approximately one generation after our colleges and universities turned largely socially liberal and  radically so (Thomas Jefferson used 18-years as a generation).  Largely in reaction to the civil rights movement, anti-war sentiment and a desire to develop a separate identity from “the greatest generation”, by the late-70s and early 80s these students had begun moving into the leadership of the country, and they brought their idealism with them.  And imposed it on us.

“Politically Correct” is largely a pejorative term nowadays.  Does that mean ‘Politically Incorrect” is a term of endearment?  “Oh, you politically incorrect little monkey.”  Hardly.

For me, I suppose that the idealism reflected in PC-ness is to be appreciated.  But I’ll remain intellectually non-PC.  For example, I can’t get myself to use these PC terms:

  • “Native American.”  Why not?  I was born here and so was my dad.  And so was his dad.  I’m a native.  If I can’t be native here, where do I go?  Side note: I don’t like the term “Indians” or “American Indians” either.  That’s a misnomer.  Indians are in India.  I do rather like what the Canadians call this race: First Nations.
  • “African-American.”  I work with a fellow who was born and raised in Tunisia.  Came here and eventually became a US citizen.  He has a definite Mediterranean-rim Arab look.  I have met other people who were born and raised in South Africa.  They are lily white and also became US citizens.  Now THESE people are African-Americans, if you want to use the term precisely.  What was wrong with Negro?  Black?  Colored?  No disrespect was meant by these terms.  And by the way, why do blacks often call themselves “nigger”?
  • “Gay and Gay Marriage.”  Gay means “happy, full of joy”.  People who have been married for decades, and happily so, are in a “Gay Marriage.”  What was wrong with the terms lesbian, homosexual, same-sex union?

The title of Howard Cosell’s book is “I Never Played the Game.”  The intent of the title was not to convey the point that this brilliant little Jewish boy who gave up a law career to do sport announcing never actually played the games and sports he covered.  No, it was because he never got caught up in the corporate game.  He stayed his own person until the end.  He remained faithful to himself; he was who he was.

So, I hope, it will be with you.

Peace.

Joe Girard (c) 2013

 

Acknowledgement:

thanks to co-worker Gil for reminding me of this period, Mr. Cosell, and for doing some initial research.

 

Current Events, Politics

Clang goes the Trolley

Let’s play a game.  Trolleyology.  It comes in three distinct flavors, getting more challenging and interesting as we move up the levels.  It is generally a British game and based on British definitions of trolley, although the game transports to the Americas quite well.

[Definition background.  What Americans call a “shopping cart” the British often call a trolley.  Also, what American might call a “street car” Brits call a trolley.]

[Game requirements: Be honest and try to answer all the questions.  There are no wrong answers.]

Level 1, Trolleyology.  Question: have you ever popped into a grocery store so you could quickly get one or two things, and emerged 30 or 40 minutes later with a trolley full of product you didn’t originally intend on buying?  Or even with two or three extra items?

When you enter a grocery store, you are playing Level 1 trolleyology. Most grocery stores are set up so that common items are in the back, or in remote corners. Need some milk? Back of the store. Loaf of bread or dozen eggs?, often at remote and opposite corners.

Now you are in Trolleyology Level 1.  Do you have preferred aisles or routes you take to get to these items, or between, say, bakery and dairy?  Think a moment.  Do you prefer the soft drink aisle?  The baking goods?  Stationary?  Home cleaning products, beer and wine?… Seasonal merchandise?

Now take a moment and think about what your answers might say about you.

See, trolleyology isn’t that difficult or stressful.  You’ve answered the questions and ruminated on what they might say about you.  You’ve progressed to Trolleyology, Level 2.

Level 2, Trolleyology.  Think again about your experiences in grocery stores, or department stores, where people are pushing around trolleys full of merchandise. Have you ever peered — perhaps casually, perhaps with feigned casualness — into someone’s cart and taken note of what they are about to buy? And then, started passing judgment on them, their lifestyle and their value system?

Last night for example, while failing Level 1, I was cruising through the front end of the store when I passed a 20-something fellow in baggy droopy jeans.  He stopped in front me — causing me to have to avoid him — to grab a package of candy bars.  Passing him, I noticed his cart had three 12-packs of Pepsi soda and a carton of Marlboro cigarettes.  I couldn’t help from making some quick judgments about “droopy drawers”, how his present and future will turn out.  I could not help it anymore than I could help myself from quickly peering into his cart, or admiring a beautiful sunset.

We all lie on the”nosy and judgmental” scale somewhere.  We want to know things about others, and we all feel some urge to judge, even though we know it’s not really “right.” Even if it’s just to feel better about ourselves.

Thank you for playing Tolleyology, Levels 1 & 2.  These shopping versions  provide  little windows to our brains and our souls. The gist here has been get us to realize that we are all (at least a little bit) nosy, judgmental and subject to manipulation.  It’s OK, we’re only human.

Trolleyology Level 3.  You are standing on a pedestrian bridge over a street car rail line.  You are standing next to a very large fat man.  He is a complete stranger to you.

Your attention is drawn to a run-away trolley coming toward you … about to pass underneath you and the strange very large fat man in a few moments.  You also know that a hundred yards (or 90 meters) down the line there is another man — completely unaware of the run-away trolley — who is performing some maintenance work on the rail line.

If the run-away trolley continues –a single car, small and unoccupied — it will surely kill the worker.  Yet it is small enough that the body of the strange very large fat man would stop the trolley.

Trolleyology Level 3 Question.  Do you push the very large fat man off the bridge and onto the rail — to stop the trolley and save the worker?  No matter what you do — or don’t do — your actions will be nonpunishable   There are no wrong answers.  Not answering is disqualifying.

Take a moment.  Push the fat man to his death.  Yes, or no?

If you answer “yes”, you can skp to the “skip to here” paragraph”  below.  If you answered “yes”, outside this essay, the game changes the question.  What if the worker would only be maimed — losing a limb — instead of being killed? Would you still push the strange very large fat man?  The idea is to find where your “yes” becomes a “no”.

If you originally answered “no, I would not push the fat man” you can perhaps support your answer with logic such as

  • Someone is going to die.  Who am I to decide which one?
  • This whole thing happened without me until now.  Why should I get involved now?
  • Who am I to play God?

Here again, the game changes questions again.  Would you still answer “no” if 3 workers would die?  Five? 100?  What if one of the workers were you spouse, child, or parent?  What if one thousand — or one million — would die from the run-away trolley car?

The (admittedly very uncomfortable) idea of the game is to determine the threshold at which the answer is barely — just barely — “yes, I would push a total stranger off the bridge to almost certain death in order to spare _____ *(fill in the blank).

If there is no threshold for you (i.e. NO, there is no circumstance under which you push him), then you are dismissed from further participation.  Many would dismiss you as heartless, others as stridently beholden and shackled by principals, or lack thereof. You would choose not to get engaged to save one hundred, one thousand or one million. No matter how many 8 year-olds were killed or limbs were to be lost.  In a sense, you win.  But the rest of us must struggle on.

[Skip to here if you answered YES originally]

So here you are.  There is some threshold, no matter how uncomfortable, at which you push the fat man off the bridge. “Gosh darn it, I don’t feel good about it, but yes I think at some point I’d have to push him off the bridge.” Good, thanks for being honest.

We now turn to the terrorist acts in Boston.  Two brothers, Chechan immigrants, set off bombs in a crowd at the Boston Marathon, killing three and horribly injuring 180, leading to many limb amputations.  Later, a security officer was fatally shot; and a police officer was gravely shot as well.

Now, suppose — just suppose that instead of a strange very large fat man — you have a person of interest who has information about such a horrible terrorist attack about to occur. You can choose to help avert this killing and maiming. If there is a threshold where, “yes, you would push the man off the bridge”, then we have to ask you the corollary: what is the threshold where “enhanced interrogation techniques” are appropriate? Could we deprive someone of sleep, or a meal, or a few moments of breathing?

Going a bit further, one of the Boston Bombing Terrorists has been caught alive.  He may well have knowledge of pending future attacks, possibly even more horrific.  He was seen on video placing his bomb-laden backpack in front of an 8-year old boy … who would soon die … and then walking away.  [We Americans are so naive.  If this were to happen in Israel, the crowd would immediately start shouting “Unattended Package!” and tackle his sorry skinny ass.] He may well be attached to cells of fanatical terrorists who have provided him inspiration and training.  Cells of terrorists who will act again.  Since you have read this far in the column, there is a point at which you would push the fat man off the bridge.  Is there not, then, a point at which you would go beyond Miranda Rights and try to save death, mayhem, maiming and suffering for untold many others?

Many people are already clammering for the death penalty for young Mr. Tsarnaev. Some water cooler conversation swirled around wishes for a slow, painful death.

The end of Trolleyology, Level 3.  If you would kill the fat man, you must also address the question when and how to use “enhanced interrogation techniques” to get information that could save hundreds, thousands, even millions from death, maiming and suffering.

Thanks for playing all three levels of Trolleyology.

Joe Girard (c) 2013

 

 

Biographical, Generational, History

Crazy Bond

What a fortunate thing for a boy to be close to his father.  Closeness is easier and more natural when there are subjects of interest that lead to bonding – something they share.

The first common subject for my dad and me (that I recall) was our mutual interest in baseball, and our love of the star-crossed Cubs.  This was sort of a quiet suffering that we endured together; each with only the other to console us, as the Cubs were miserably bad during these years (early to mid-60s) and we lived in Milwaukee.

Secretly, when away from dad, I harbored a modicum of admiration for the more competitive Milwaukee Braves – especially when among my sports-fan friends; their roster had several future Hall-of-Famers: Hank Aaron, Eddie Matthews, Warren Spahn, and (probably soon) Joe Torre.  Actually, I think he knew of my treasonous admiration, but never spoke of it.

Another common interest was television.  Back then, families actually watched TV together. The networks and producers really tried to broadcast shows with material that would interest the whole family.  On Sunday nights, it was Ed Sullivan.  Mid-week it was the Red Skelton Show.  But Saturday was special, and the big show in those days was Jackie Gleason, with his Jackie Gleason Show, broadcast “live from Miami Beach.”

After his traditional opening monologue, the show would get started with Jackie saying “And aw-a-a-ay we go.”  The show followed a fairly similar routine each week, with recurring appearances of Gleason-created characters such as Reginald van Gleason III, an oafish, rich, blowhard playboy (“mmmmm, that’s good booze”); and an always-down-on-his luck character  played in pantomime.  There were lots of pretty girls, and great guests, including some regular guests like the popular Art Carney (who also lives forever in re-runs, thanks to co-starring with Gleason in The Honeymooners).

What I remember most – and helped dad and me bond – was a character and regular routine called “Joe the Bartender.”  Bartenders have long been recognized as the world’s best unofficial counselors, psychologists, psychiatrists, and just plain good listeners. That was Joe.

As an aside, my dad would sometimes spontaneously break out into “One for my Baby” (a song made popular by Frank Sinatra) when we were alone: out running errands or he was working around the house, with me “helping.”  The song is a classic “guy-with-broken-heart-tells-his-version-of-the-story-to-a-bartender-at-closing-time” story.  The bartender in the song is named “Joe”, and I often thought as if my dad were speaking to me, but didn’t know what to say, so he broke into that song when we were together. “Set ‘em up Joe.  I’ve got a little story, I think you ought to know …”

Gleason’s “Joe the Bartender” sketch always opened with the camera (as a patron) coming through swinging doors into an empty bar, with Gleason as “Joe” behind the counter.  It seemed “Joe” was greeting us, the audience, as the bar unfolded before the camera: “How ya doin’ Mr. Dennehy?”  The camera (patron) would come up to the bar and engage in a “conversation” with “Joe”, although we-the-audience only heard Joe’s half of the conversation.  We were supposed to supply Mr Dennehy’s half by our own imagination.

This short weekly opening to the “Joe the Bartender” sketch was a tribute to someone important to Gleason.  John Herbert Gleason was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY.  His older brother died at age 14 when “Jackie'” was 3, and his father, an insurance salesman, began drowning his many disappointments in the bottle.  When Jackie was nine his father finally simply abandoned the family – leaving young Jackie and his overprotective mother.  So overprotective that she did not allow him to attend school until the 3rd grade.

Needing to find their own way, she took a series of low-skill/low paying jobs.   Unable to handle life alone, speaking with a heavy Irish accent, and unable to handle her son, she turned to drinking – and she turned to young Jackie to become a co-breadwinner for the family when he was only 12.  He took odd jobs, and eventually became a proficient pool shark and street fighter – making enough money to move out of relative’s homes and into their own apartment.  [If you watch the movie The Hustler, it’s pretty obvious Gleason is comfortable at a table with a cue stick].

They moved to a tenement run by Thomas Dennehy and his family (the Irish Catholics sticking together) at 385 Chauncey St, Brooklyn (one of the more famous addresses in TV history – that’s where The Honeymooners lived).  Dennehy became Gleason’s father-figure, providing a stable male influence in his life – including the crucial time when the drinking finally led to Gleason’s mother’s death, when he was only 17.

During the “Joe the Bartender” sketch, Joe’s one-sided “conversation” with the unheard and unseen “Mr. Dennehy” would eventually turn to something that required a third opinion. “Let’s ask Crazy”… and out would come a character named “Crazy Guggenheim.”

“Crazy” was Frank Fontaine.  His schtick was that he could cross one eye, make his eyes bug out, raise one eyebrow, scrunch up his mouth and talk like a barely lucid and barely intelligible drunk – all at the same time.  His hat and coat were crumpled and worn slightly awry.  “Crazy” would start to answer “Joe’s” question, then wander off topic into some illogical story, raising his voice annoyingly at the wrong times for the story.  Gleason/Joe would start making funny faces – as if to say “I’m sorry I ever let him start” – but wait patiently until Crazy got to the end of his absurd story.

Frank Fontaine

Frank Fontaine

This was another link I had to my dad.  Whenever a situation was just plain goofy or didn’t make sense (or sometimes I thought a situation required a little levity) I’d take my hat and turn up the brim, give it a slight twist and a tip, then say something in a corny voice like: “Hi, hey,  it’s me!  Crazy Guggenheim.”  I even started doing this at big family events (Thanksgiving and such) and found it quite rewarding (as a little kid) that the adults would recognize what I was trying to do – be Crazy like Guggenheim.

The thing about Frank Fontaine was that he was really very talented.  I can’t remember if it was at the end of the “Joe the Bartender” sketch, or later in the show – but he would bust out into song with the most beautiful voice you could imagine.

Frank Fontaine was an interesting fellow.  He married his sweetheart at age 17 and they started having kids … lots of ‘em … eleven in all.  People had so much more confidence in themselves and in the future back then.  He had a lot of success on stage and screen – and on the tube – taking a break from his career and from making babies for World War II.    He always did well, but his stints on the Gleason show made him famous.

He started recording his songs and even had a #1 Album, called, crazy enough, “Songs I sing on the Jackie Gleason Show.”  He also continued with characters like Crazy.  As with  other entertainers who play drunks so well — like Jack Norton and Foster Brooks — Fontaine was a teetotaler.  This made him very much unlike Gleason, who had a second 8,000 square foot house in Miami just for parties.

Frank Fontaine/Crazy Guggenheim

Frank Fontaine/Crazy Guggenheim

But like Gleason, he was a bit of a bon vivant and started putting on quite a few pounds.  He also got involved with charitable efforts, such as through the Eagles.

In September, 1977 Fontaine suffered a heart attack.  The experience motivated him to lose some 70 pounds over the next year.

In August the next year, at the 1978 Eagles Convention in Spokane he performed live, returning for four encores. Through this concert he raised $25,000; the check was presented to him on stage and it was to be donated to the American Heart Association for heart research.

And that’s when he was struck by a sudden massive heart attack, right there on stage – dead at only 58 years old.  Married for 41 years.

Brooklyn's pride in being home of Jackie Gleason and The Honeymooners. One of Jackie's most famous sayings.

Brooklyn’s pride in being home of Jackie Gleason and The Honeymooners. One of Jackie’s most famous sayings.

I’m grateful for the likes of Gleason and Fontaine … Skelton, the Cubs of the 60s … and all the things that helped me and my dad bond so long ago. I’m even more grateful for my parents; grateful for their love of me, displayed through endless kindness and unbelievable patience; grateful for their committed love to each other; and grateful for their examples of lives well lived. I am a lucky fellow.

Until next time … Bond.  Bond like crazy.

Joe Girard © 2013

Notes:

1) The Simpson’s character Barney is based on Crazy Guggenheim.

2) Soon enough the Braves proved to be unworthy of all of Wisconsin’s affection, leaving for Atlanta.  Many Milwaukee-area friends became Cubs fans — much to all our chagrin.  The Cubs’ biblically epic collapse of 1969 was assuaged a bit when Milwaukee again received a MLB franchise, the Brewers, in 1970.

Acknowledgements:

To my dad, of course, for spending so much time with me as a kid, even though he had 5 younger children; for taking me to see Cubs games and even Braves games.  Teaching me how to throw (not like a girl), swing a bat, play smart and lose like you win — with dignity and grace.

To my co-worker Gil, who has an amazing memory and helped me reconstruct what I knew of Fontaine and Gleason, and of the 60s.

Jack Fontaine/Crazy Guggenheim does a commercial for Malto Meal

Joe the Bartender and Crazy Guggenheim — from the Jackie Gleason Show.

Economics, Politics

Raisin Raison

“They [The makers of our Constitution] … conferred the right to be let alone—the most comprehensive of rights and the right most valued by civilized men.” – Justice Louis Bradeis, dissenting Olmstead v. United States [1]

To what are we entitled?  To what do we have a right?  If someone works earnestly and diligently at their job, came to the position honestly, fulfills all the requirements of that job and gets a great performance review … every year… well, should they get to keep that job?

What if you run a business that manufactures, produces or supplies a product or service?  What if, at some point during the year the government could come and demand a percentage of what you produce?  Up to 47% of your output?  And what if they could pay you whatever they wanted for that confiscation?  Even down to zero dollars and zero cents?

Last month the Supreme Court was in the news. The news frenzy and activist buzzing about the two Same-sex Marriage cases caused most to miss a case of some importance – the Raisin Case, or Horne v United States Department of Agriculture.

Raisins?  Really?  Yes.

California is the most prolific grape producing region in the world.  They produce over 99.5% of the US and over 40% of the world’s supply.  And, surprisingly, more of those grapes go to producing raisins than wine.  Each year, raisin “handlers” are required to “transfer” to the US Government whatever percentage the Raisin Administration Committee (RAC) dictates.

Who is the RAC?  It operates within the Agricultural Marketing Service.  Who are they?  Part of the United States Department of Agriculture.  What do they do with the raisins?  Whatever they want, including destroy them.  More often they are given away, quite often to school lunch programs.

How much do they pay the raisin producers for the product they take?  As little as they want.  Some years it is nothing, nil, nada, nichts, niente.  Zip. Zero. Rien for the raisins.

How is this even possible?  Way back during the Great Depression the US Government executed control grabs of large parts of the economy.  The Agricultural Marketing Agreement Act of 1937 strengthened the marketing agreement segment of the first Agricultural Agreement Act of 1933, allowing the government to basically do anything in terms of setting prices – including controlling production, storage, supply and demand of most agricultural products.  Including raisins.

By controlling the prices of produce – through central planning – the government believed they could keep farmers from going broke and city people from starving.  The 1930s were terrible and awful and I’m not about to blame the FDR New Dealers for trying to intercede. But that was 80 years ago.

The price of raisins – actually monitoring the price and nudging the price by controlling supply and demand – has remained a government function ever since.

California farmers Mavin and Laura Horne had to turn over 47% of their crop in 2002.  That year they changed their business model so that – they believed – they could keep the fruits of their labor.  In 2003 the set-aside was 30%.  The Hornes sold their product and didn’t turn anything over to the government. They put all 3 tons of raisins on the market.

They were promptly charged nearly half a million dollars by the government, for the projected market value of 30% of their raisins, and an additional $200,000 in fines.

Their case ended up in front of the San Francisco based 9th Circuit Court of Appeals, pretty widely regarded as the most liberal court in the country [2].  The Court ruled that the Horne’s had no standing in court (meaning they might be right or wrong, but it doesn’t matter since their case does not belong in court) since they never paid the fee or the fine ~:-\.  In other words, they had to pay the fees and fines (a lot of money) and THEN go to court.

The case, including their standing, finally made it to the Supreme Court last month.  A key part of the argument is the 5th Amendment’s “takings clause” —  and that is “… nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.”

The Supreme Court has a history of standing on its head to support expanded powers for government, from local to federal.  In the last significant “takings” case, the court supported a forced transfer from one private individual to another private individual when done by a municipality [Kelo v New London (CT)].  In 1942 the court upheld the USDA’s dictating that a farmer could not even grow wheat to feed to his livestock (Wickard v Filburn) and in 2012 the court upheld the PPACA (Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act) by loosely interpreting a payment clearly intended to be a penalty as, instead, a tax.

That is to say: Don’t expect a sweeping decision in favor of individual rights, and in favor of the Hornes and the raisin producers and handlers of California, many of them family businesses like the Hornes’.

But even the court’s liberals realize that there probably should be some practical limits to the scope of government’s powers.  Elena Kagan said that it was “either unconstitutional, or it’s the world’s most outdated law.”  Stephen Breyer: ““I can’t believe that Congress wanted the taxpayers to pay for a program that’s going to mean they have to pay higher prices as consumers.”

I expect a narrow ruling. The court will send the case back to the 9th Circuit with instructions that the Hornes do indeed have standing.  In other words: the Hornes might have been wronged.  But this is only one unique case and the government retains broad sweeping power to take property, control supply, prop up demand and run a centrally planned economy if they think it’s the right thing to do and in our best interest.

Back to Stephen Breyer’s very insightful comments.  We as taxpayers are paying for this confiscation program.  We pay for salaries, and office space and computers and IT personnel and lawyers.

We can agree that everyone at the Raisin Administration committee probably works hard and is a good person, but – sorry for the pun – just what is their raison d’ etre?  Surely a job that produces nothing – but takes, confiscates, re-distributes – and puts a drag on the economy while suppressing individual freedom needs to be eliminated.

And one wonders: how many more of these committees and administrations and agencies are hidden within our gargantuan government?

“Experience should teach us to be most on our guard to protect liberty when the Government’s purposes are beneficent. … The greatest dangers to liberty lurk in insidious encroachment by men of zeal, well-meaning, but without understanding.” –  Justice Louis D. Brandeis, dissenting, Olmstead v. United States

I wish you peace and freedom.  Including freedom from oppressive Government

Joe Girard © 2013

[1] Olmstead v. United States, Dissenting Opinion, 277 U.S. 438 (1928)

[2] http://www.calcontrk.org/news/1086-april-2012/1954-us-supreme-court-rejects-most-decisions-by-the-us-9th-circuit-court-of-appeals

[3] http://reason.com/archives/2013/03/23/supreme-court-may-put-an-end-to-governme

Current Events, History

60 years on: Remembering the forgettable, the forgotten

The pudgy, pernicious, impetuous, spoiled little brat president of North Korea is behaving impertinently. Yet again.  No great surprise.  It does serve to remind us, though, of the forgotten war — the Korean War.

dennis-rodman-in-costume

Dennis Rodman, World Diplomat

According to Dennis Rodman, it could all be fixed if President Obama would just sit down and talk with Kim, with no pre-conditions.  Interestingly enough, this is is the same strategy then-candidate Obama espoused in 2008: talking with the other of the world’s two most notorious rogue states, Iran.  How’d that work out?

Little brat has recently reminded us — by his bombast and saber rattling — that the Korean War never really ended, and he’s right.  Ike had a big chest himself, earned as Supreme Head of the Allied Forces (SHEAF) in Europe during War War II.  But in reality he was a very, very cautious man.  When he took office in 1953 he visited Korea (fulfilling a campaign promise), and what he saw showed the cautious leader that the costs of continued fighting would be much  too dear.  He pushed hard for an armistice, and Russia (recently relieved of Stalin’s pugnacity) was ready to pull back.  China went along and the cease fire was signed — 60 years ago.  But not a peace treaty.

Now the spoiled brat reminds us that the state of war still exists, and has declared the 1953 cease fire null and void.

President Kim

President Kim

Nonetheless, the President hasn’t done nothing in response to Spoiled Brat’s chest thumping.  Stealth B-2 bombers flew non-stop all the way from Missouri to the west coast of the tiny peninsula last week, for a bomb-drop demonstration on small a un-populated group of islands regularly used for live explosive target practice.  A non-stop bombing run from almost halfway around the world, and then returning, non-stop — seems pretty darn impressive but it’s actually just another practice run for the USAF.  Take that!, you pompous, pudge-faced little  twerp.

This was an appropriate response.  I’m not sure what else we can do at this point. North Korea has broken every pledge they’ve ever made.  To attack them would put South Korea’s 50 millions at great risk, not to mention the already-fragile world economy — Seoul is only 35 miles from the DMZ, and NK has many missiles already dialed in, some reportedly could be armed with tactical nukes.

This week President Obama helped us remember the Korean War in another way.  Let us not not forget the legions of heroes, those who gave unselfishly to help protect a land of different-looking people a long, long way from home.  This week Father Emil Kapaun’s nephew received the Medal of Honor on his uncle’s behalf.

Here, I’ll devote the remainder of this column to Krissah Thompson of the Washington Post, as she describes Father Kapaun’s heroism, his unselfish commitment to his fellow men, and his death.  (hyperlink to Ms Thompson’s article above.).

Regards,

Joe Girard (c) 2013

 

 

History, Sports

JD: Tiger Bee

John D Rockefeller is widely regarded as the wealthiest American ever.  In 2013 US dollars, he would be worth nearly 700 Billion dollars.  In other words he could have bought and sold pipsqueaks like Bill Gates and Warren Buffet … at the same time.

He made his fortune by being the founder, CEO and principal shareholder of Standard Oil, regarded as the largest “Trust” (i.e. monopoly) of all time.  By integrating as many operations as possible – from drilling, to refining, to distribution – he drove down costs and squeezed virtually every other competitor out of business.  He was a viscous businessman, and laid claim to being “the most ruthless American.”

He made his initial stake as a profiteer during the Civil War, selling liquor to Federal troops.  By the time he left management of Standard Oil in 1897, he had also gotten himself well established in the profitable businesses of railroads, steel and banking.  And oddly enough, he also became an avid golfer rather late in life.

He also had become one of the most generous philanthropists of all time.  A Baptist, he had always tithed to his church.  He gave away additional money into the hundreds of millions of dollars (10s of Billions in today’s dollars), founding Chicago University and helped the formation of dozens of schools in the education-starved South for Blacks, including Spelman College in Atlanta, for Black Women.    His total gifts were estimated at over $500 Million, not adjusting for inflation.

Generations of Rockefellers have rode his wealth-horse to political prominence.  His great-grandson, John D. Rockefeller IV (“Jay”) is stepping down as senior Senator from West Virgina (D) after serving as governor.   Grandson Winthrop Rockefeller was governor of Arkansas (R) during the ‘60s, showing unpopular but unwavering support for the Civil Rights movement.  Nelson (another grandson, Winthrop’s brother) was governor of New York (R) and eventually became vice-president under Gerald R Ford, Jr. – oddly, back-to-back vice-presidents who got to that office without a single electoral vote.

“Trust busters” were after Standard Oil since the Sherman Anti-Trust Act of 1890, and in 1911 they had their way.  The Supreme Court ruled that Standard Oil must be broken up into many parts.  We recognize many of them today:

Standard Oil of New York later became Mobile.

Standard Oil of California became Chevron.

Standard’s Atlantic subsidiary was merged with Richfield Oil giving Atlantic-Richfield Company: ARCO

Standard Oil of Indiana became American Oil Company (AMOCO), now part of BP.

Finally, Standard Oil of New Jersey, the biggest bloom, became simple SO, or ESSO, the phonetic spelling of “S.O.”, for Standard Oil.

Interesting history for ESSO, and it will provide a slow transition to this essay’s conclusion.  When ESSO granted franchises, they were way ahead of their time for allowing Blacks to buy their franchises, becoming independent businessmen.

In the 1930s to 1960s the United States was still full of Jim Crow laws, racial prejudice and bigotry, and Blacks never knew where they would be welcome – South, North or West.  Never really knew where they could get a clean, safe room, a good meal or good local information.  ESSO gas stations – especially the Black owned stations – became distributors of The Negro Travelers’ Green Book.  This was a handbook meticulously prepared by Victor Hugo Green for the benefit of Black travelers, giving valuable insight into how to safely travel the US coast-to-coast and be received as full human beings.

“There will be a day sometime in the near future when this guide will not have to be published. That is when we as a race will have equal rights and privileges in the United States.”
– Victor Hugo Green [one supposes he was named for the French author, but I found no verification]

In the mid-40s, as the country came out of World War II, ESSO sought a marketing symbol and slogan that would personify America’s new found world stature and her citizens’ readiness to seize opportunity.  They chose the symbol of a Tiger and marketed for decades with “Put a tiger in your tank.”EssoTiger

Some clever observers remarked that, instead of a Tiger, they should have chosen the Bee, which would have personified the business practices of the recently-deceased founder.   Get it?  Instead of the ESSO Tiger there would be the ESSO Bee.  JD Rockefeller had a soft generous side, but he was definitely a SOB.

Esso later became Exxon, and still later merged with Mobile, one of the other SO spinoffs.  When Tigers became threatened species, Exxon stepped up to help fund tiger preservation efforts.

Speaking of tigers.  This week the sporting world turns its attention to Georgia, where the US Masters Golf Tournament will be played in Augusta, near the South Carolina border, on one of the world’s most famous and florally beautiful golf courses.  And the most attention will be layered on the world’s (once again) number one rated player, Eldrick Woods, who coincidentally goes by the nickname “Tiger.”

Tiger Woods

Woods pounds his club into the ground

Tiger is an SOB.  He drops F-bombs all over the golf course, throws his clubs, mutters profanity, declines to give autographs, and — oh yeah —  maintained a stable full of beautiful concubines to cavort with, while  married to one of the world’s most unbelievably beautiful women, who was also the mother of his children.

 

tigerangry2

Wood Flings his club

 

Still, he had “sort of” apologized. He had pledged to clean up his act.  Promised to come back.  Well, he’s back, but he hasn’t cleaned up his act.  Still an SOB.

His recent Nike commercial, released as he broke again to #1 in the world, says enough.  What does Tiger say?  “Winning takes care of everything.”

Tiger throws his putter on the green

Tiger throws his putter on the green

Really?  Tiger is 37-years old and still a very sorry excuse for a man.  Winning does not take care of the F-bombs and club tossing, especially in front of children.  Winning does not take care of your failures as a man, as a human being.  It does not take care of all the cheating when you are the father of young children.  Winning does not take care of being a jerk.  It does not take care of throwing your driver into the crowd.

I used to hold out some hope for Tiger.  He founded the Tiger Woods Foundation.  Not anymore.  I’m now among the Tiger anti-fans.  I hope he shoots 30-over par this week, misses the cut, swears at reporters, throws a club in the air that hits him on the head harder than now ex-wife Elin ever tried to whack his sorry ass with that wedge back in November, 2010.

He hasn’t grown up by now, and he’s not going to.  He’s no role model, no Victor Green.

But he’ll probably win and make himself and Nike a zillion more dollars.

Either way, I guess I’ll watch.  Golf is a game of gentlemen, except for the likes of Eldrick “Tiger- SOB” Woods.

On a positive note: Here’s a toast to the gentlemen, the philanthropists and Victor Greens of the world.

Until next time fellow travelers, I wish you calmness and goodwill.

Joe Girard © 2013

Uncategorized

Useful Math Fun

A little fun with math (don’t be afraid), and it might even be useful.

Have you ever tried to find a simple error when you have two numbers that are supposed to be same, but they aren’t?  Maybe you have a bunch of numbers entered in an Excel spreadsheet; maybe you are even trying to balance your checkbook.

One of the most common data entry errors that can be hidden is the transpose: you’ve swapped a digit.  Maybe a number like 19,243 was incorrectly entered as 13, 249 [see how the 3 and the 9 were swapped?]  Your eyes are glazed over and you can’t find the error, looking over long columns of  numbers.

When this happens the error will always be divisible by 9.  For our example the error is 5,994 (19,243 – 13,240).  But   how do you quickly tell if that number is divisible by 9?  Simply add the digits.  For our example with 5994, compute 5+9+9+4 = 27.  If the sum of the digits is divisible by 9, then the original number was divisible by 9.  If you still can’t tell if the number is divisible by 9), then add the digits again.  For 27, use 2+7=9.  In fact you can just keep adding the digits of the resulting sum until you get to a single digit number; if it is 9, then the original was divisible by 9.

On occasion, I’ve found these tricks very handy over the decades.

A couple of caveats.  If the error is divisible by 9, you could actually have several transpose errors, since each error contributes a sum error divisible by 9, and any time we’re adding multiple numbers, each of them divisible by 9, the sum is of course divisible by 9.  I’ve had to fix several transpose errors in a row.  Sigh.

Another caveat is that you could have a transpose error and another error (like reading or writing a 4 instead of a 9), which would mask the transpose error.

————————

Next we’ll wander over to logarithms.  Don’t worry, I promise there is something useful here too.  [Skip to the last paragraph in this section to get the useful part and avoid the math].

First, a quick story.   A few years ago someone asked me the logarithm of “i” (i.e. i = the square root of -1).  My first inclination was to respond “That’s illogical; there cannot be any such thing.”  But I paused and thought a moment, recalling Euler’s relationship: eiΘ = cos Θ + i sin Θ.

Since ex, the exponential (exp) function is the inverse of the logarithm function (just like squaring is the inverse function of taking a square root), I deduced that there was a whole universe of logarithms that I had never thought of.  For example the logarithm of eiΘ = iΘ

So I typed “ln(i)” into my Google search bar (“ln” is the usual notation for the natural logarithm function) and up popped “1.570796 i” — a number.  An imaginary number, but a number.  In fact it appeared to be, π/2 times “i”.

Then every number — real, positive, negative, imaginary, even complex numbers — must have a logarithm. They don’t teach that in college calculus.

After a chat with my math genius coworker down the hall (Nicholas is wicked smart) and my son (the math and physics whiz)  via email I was educated, and then produced my own non-rigorous proof [logarithms-derivation] that shows not only that every number  — even negative numbers and imaginary numbers — has logarithms … each has infinitely many logarithms.  And each follows the rules we expect them to follow, namely: that multiplication can be achieved by adding logarithms, and then taking the inverse log (or the exp function).

Besides “Joe is weird!”, what useful thing did you learn in this section?  Yes!  Good for you.  The Google search bar has a calculator built in.  Open a search bar and type “1+1”, or “sin(30 deg)” or “sin(pi/6)” if you prefer radians; try “5!” … it’s all there.  [Some tips: use “^” for exponents, “sqrt(x)” for square roots.  And a calculator pops up on your screen whenever you “search” for something that looks like a calculation.]

————————————

One more.  How to compute square roots, cube roots, fourth roots, fifth roots, etc.  Here is a derivation[NRoots-derivation], again based on Euler’s relationship, that shows each number has two square roots, three cube roots, four fourth roots, etc … And how to find all of them.  “All of them”? Well yes, every number has 3 cube roots, 4 fourth roots, etc. What are the three cube roots of -1?  No problem.

If you can recall some of your trig function values, you can even compute quite a few of these multiple roots in your head.  How is that useful?  Well, probably it’s not.  But perhaps these little factoids can help you win a bar bet some day, and when you do, maybe you’ll think of this little math essay.

Cheers!  From the wonderful world of math

Joe Girard (c) 2013

Note: the rules don’t apply to zero, which has no logarithm and a single Nth root.

Politics

Spike

Just when did gauche become acceptable, so long is it’s done in a suave, cool way?

The standard reaction to one’s own success used to be matter of fact.  When football players scored a touchdown, they handed the ball to the referee and ran to the bench.  Somewhere along the line, it became acceptable to spike the football.  Then dances and shuffles and summersaults and back-airs, dunking over the goal post and jumping into the stands.  Hey guy, why celebrate doing what you get paid to do?

The same thing in politics.  I’m not sure when it happened, but I don’t think Ike, or JFK, or LBJ would get up in front of a huge crowd and cameras and put on a show as if to say: look how great I am!!  Yay, me.  George HW Bush avoided the limelight of the 1991 ticker-tape parade after the first Gulf War (Desert Storm) in the “Canyon of Heroes” in Manhattan, allowing the glory to fall on Norman Schwartzkopf and Colin Powell, as well as the war veterans.

But I think it was about that time that “spiking the football” became acceptable for politicians, at least for presidents and those with presidential aspirations.  At the 1988 Republican convention, Bush Sr doled out chum for the sharks when he crowed: “Read my lips: No – new – taxes!”

His son, George W Bush, as president infamously landed on the aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln in the Persian Gulf in 2003, announcing “Mission Accomplished.”

Bush Sr. did in fact end up raising taxes and Bush Jr.’s mission was nowhere near accomplished.  Football spikers deserve a come-uppance.

President Obama has “spiked the football” twice in Colorado, my home state.  First, the pre-spike.  Obama audaciously made his nomination acceptance speech, at the conclusion of the Democratic Party’s 2008 convention, in Denver’s Mile High Stadium while standing on a magnificent stage with Greek columns.  Immediately after his inauguration in 2009, he returned to Denver to sign his so-called “stimulus” legislation that his super-majority of Democrats had rammed through congress in just a few days.  Was there really a need to fly halfway across the country and spend millions of dollars for security and rev up AirForce-1?

It was football spiking.  He announced at the signing that the stimulus would keep unemployment below 8%, and down below 6% by 2012.   Within a year unemployment was up to 10%; currently in 2013 it is still well above 6%, at 7.7%. According the Bureau of Labor Statistics, including discouraged workers and the rate is still at 9%.

President Obama returned to Denver to spike again last week.  This time to praise Colorado lawmakers -– all Democrats, no Republicans; Colorado having turned from Red to Blue – for responding to his plea and passing gun control legislation.  Most controversial is the legal limitation of magazine clips to 15 rounds.

Colorado has recently gone through two horrible shootings: one a mass shooting in a movie theatre in the summer of 2012, and the other the recent assassination of the State Corrections chief, Tom Clements. Let’s take a look at those.

James Holmes murdered 12 and injured 58 at a theatre in the Century 16 movie complex in Aurora, CO.  At the time he was a disturbed recent-dropout from the University of Colorado’s (Denver) Neuroscience PhD program.  He had been in treatment by a university psychiatrist, Dr Lynne Fenton.  Recently released court documents show that Holmes “had threatened and intimidated her” and made “homicidal statements.”  He sent her sketches that were eerily similar to what happened over a month later at the theater.  As was her legal requirement, Dr Fenton reported this to the University campus police.  Nothing further was done.  That bears repeating: Nothing further was done.  At least by the University and its police security staff.  Holmes, on the other hand, did plenty, including selecting a site for his rampage that was the only theatre complex within many miles of his Aurora residence that advertised itself as a gun-free zone.

What if the 15-round clip-limit had been in effect?  There would have been no effect.  A person well-experienced with his weapons can swap out a clip for a fresh 15 in about a second, or less.

Tom Clements, the head of Colorado’s prison system, was cruelly assassinated in the doorway of his home in Monument, just north of Colorado Springs, when he answered the door the night of March 19.  The murderer, Evan Ebel, had recently been released from prison, where he served time for, among other things, armed robbery.  Shortly before the assassination, Eben murdered a pizza delivery man Nate Leon – a husband and father of three who was trying to make a few extra dollars – so that he could steal his Dominoes’ uniform for use as a disguise.

In prison, Ebel had become involved with 211, a white supremacist gang.  Inexplicably, and in an apparent screw up of hideous proportions, Ebel was freed in error – four years early – in a state clerical error.  Nor was he released to a half-way house, as is standard in Colorado for such parolees.  Just freed with an ankle bracelet, which he somehow removed – a fact that went un-noticed for at least four days.  This bears repeating: Eben was incorrectly let out four years early, and without any transition or traceability.

Or maybe not inexplicable – curiously, Ebel’s father and family are close friends with Colorado’s governor, John Hickenlooper.

Meanwhile, two persons of interest in the case – possible accomplices – are on the lam here in Colorado.  They likely drove the vehicle and helped plan the assassination as a Supremacist “statement.”  They are considered armed and dangerous.  But I’m not worried: I feel so much safer now that background checks are so much more thorough, gun buyers must pay for these checks themselves, and citizens’ clips are limited to 15-rounds (Note: one of these persons, James Lohr, has recently been apprehended in Colorado Springs).

Speaking of white supremacists and assassinations.  In Texas’ Kaufman County near southeast Dallas, long known to lie along a major drug distribution pathway (I-20), two county prosecutors (and the wife of one) have been assassinated this year by white supremacists.  In a new twist, this appears to be a case of Supremacists working with and for the Mexican Drug Cartel, bringing Mexican-style drug warfare to the US by targeting the law enforcement officials who are the most strident and effective in fighting drug trafficking.

In the case of the Colorado shootings, the state has blood on its hands.  The state did not follow basic procedure to protect the public from homicidal killers.  Regarding the theater shootings: expect lawsuits against the state.  In the case of the assassination of Clements, there should be a special prosecutor investigating the connections between him, the assassin, the assassin’s father and the governor – but there won’t be.  It’s a good-old-boy buddy-buddy system here in Colorado, with a single party in firm control of every branch of government.

What to do?  Instead of clamping down on process that could’ve stopped these murders, … oh! I know … let’s pass more gun control laws.  Sadly, there is no gun control law that can affect this type of brutality, such as it is closely tied to mental illness, gangs and drug cartels.  It’s only more laws that, in many cases, cannot be enforced.  Governor Hickenlooper even effectively admitted this last week.

And the White Supremicist-Mexican Drug Cartel nexus?  Well, if you want to find out who illegally sold weapons to these killers you can start with the United States Government, its ATF and Department of Justice: Operation Fast and Furious.  Our federal government has blood on its hands.  Again there is no investigation.  [Under Bush, Jr., the same jokers ran Operation Wide Receiver, which was nearly the same as Fast and Furious – with similar miserable and despicable results.  Inexplicably, it was revived and renamed in the Obama Administration].  Of course, I’m not saying Wide Receiver or Fast and Furious weapons were used in any of these crimes, but we do know that several hundred weapons were sent to these vermin, and some have been used in heinous murders.

The moral of the story.  There is none.  Maybe it’s that there are no morals anymore.  Maybe it is that we should always start out by assuming that political grand standers and ball spikers are really gauche, shallow charlatans, and – like a magician – are trying to get our attention away from what is really going on.

Until next time: keep the fight.

Joe Girard © 2013

Uncategorized

Keep Clam

I’m not big on touchy-feely stuff.  I’m an engineer by training and profession — and a wordsmith by avocation— so I usually prefer crisp, quantitative descriptions.  So you can guess that I’m not big on New Years Resolutions.  Hey! ——  It took a long time to get me to be this way, and the effort to change me — at this point — seems, well, pointless.

Still I know things can be different, and slight changes can make a big difference. The year 2012 began with the best of intentions.  2011 was filled with stressors, and one consequence of that was that I was not the best “me” I could be.  Joe did and said some things he regretted.  January 2013 would bring a new Joe.  A kinder, gentler Joe.  More aware of the needs, moods and desires of others.

Did I say I’m not big on New Years Resolutions?  Actually, I hate them.  February was awful (mostly at work, although we did have record snowfall), and March was worse.  The gate was left ajar and all the horses got out of the corral.  Really wild frigging horses.  With tempers and attitudes. Fail.

By mid-summer I had discovered the open gate, found most of the wild horses, lassoed them, guided them back to the corral, and closed the gate.  Still, I was the same edgy Joe.  That is to say, prone to saying and doing things he’d regret, if he ever got around to thinking about them.

It occurred to me (as an engineer, one supposes) that you cannot really improve on anything that you don’t measure.

How to measure being “kinder and gentler”?  Can you ask people?  No.  Can you get “in their moccasins” and get a sense of how they see you?   Is there a sort of biological calm-o-meter?  A kindness-o-meter?  For me: no.  As I said: I’m not into touchy-feely stuff.

How about measuring the opposite?  I reckoned curse words are a pretty good measure of how out-of-control and angry (the opposite of “clam and kind”) someone is.

2013.  Over three months into this thing and we’re seeing some success.  Simply by counting swear words.  (I made it to February without saying the f**k word).  I go days at a time with no profanity; there are certainly plenty of defensible opportunities to blurt them out.  I definitely “feel” calmer, and less prone to insensitive outbursts.

Still working on the kindness metric.  Just doesn’t feel right.  Guess I’m just a bada*s.

There was a famous folk-singer in the Seattle, WA area named Ivar Haglund who founded a chain of seafood stores.  As Ivar used to say:  “Keep Clam!”

Peace

Joe Girard (c) 2013

 

Current Events, History, Medicine

Imagine: MOOKP and POOP

Eyetooth: A canine tooth of the upper jaw –Webster’s Dictionary

Pooh: interjection, used to express contempt or disapproval. – Webster’s

Oddly, Webster’s does not define Canine Tooth.  Nor the character developed by A.A. Milne.

Canine Tooth: Any of four teeth having a thick conical crown and a long conical root, adjacent to the distal surface of the lateral incisors, … also, cuspid. – the Medical Online Dictionary.

=====

He had never seen his wife.  A few years before they met, he was blinded as a result of a horrible chemical accident at work.  The damage to his left eye was so severe that it was completely removed.  His right eye was too unhealthy for him to qualify as a candidate for corneal transplant.

Still,  one  ophthalmic surgeon held out hope.  His retina was reasonably healthy.  It had a blood supply and nerve activity. If they could just get some light to it.

=====

She was intensely crippled by colitis.  Constantly faint and feverish, passing out and falling into slumber – whether pain or fatigue induced, it did not matter – was her only relief for so many months that she could not remember.

Nothing seemed to help.  Cramping seized her abdomen for days, weeks … months; and rocked her from deep in her intestines.  Could medicine bring a young woman back from the edge of darkness, and return the healthy mother that her children needed, and deserved?

=====

Harsh circumstance often gives rise to imagination and creativity.  The first two decades of the 19th century were cold, but the year 1816 stands out as especially cold, wet, grey and depressing.  Such would be the circumstance that gave the world one of its most creative stories that still holds our imaginations today.

First: why was it cold?  Scientists have long noted a strong correlation between solar weather an earth’s climate patterns.  The best indicator of solar weather is sun spot activity.  Since the Medieval Warming Period (the period that gave rise to the colonization of Greenland, 950 to 1250AD), the northern hemisphere was generally cooler until about 1900.  During that period, there have been two periods of especially low sunspot activity: the Maunder Minimum from about 1645-1745 (coinciding with the Little Ice Age) and the not-quite-as-severe Dalton Minimum of about 1790-1830, which also coincided with lower-than-average temperatures.

1816 will forever stand out in history.  In the United States, Canada and Western Europe it has many names, including “The year without a summer.”   Bedding and clothing hung out to dry often didn’t dry; rather they froze stiff on clotheslines that summer.   Rivers and lakes froze over in July and August across New England and Pennsylvania.

The Dalton Minimum cruelly coincided with a short but intense period of extreme worldwide volcanic activity.  Five major worldwide volcanic eruptions, beginning in 1812 on Saint Vincent in the Caribbean, spewed tiny particles high into the atmosphere.  Rather than settle out, these road the earth’s upper air currents, until she was shrouded in a type of early sunscreen.  The last of the five, in April 1815, on the Indonesian Island of Sumbawa, was of biblical scale, the earth’s largest eruption in over 1,600 years.  The blast was heard nearly 2,000 miles away.

As crops failed and moods drifted to dreary, Percy Shelley (among the finest lyric poets in the English language) and his 18-yearold fiancée/girlfriend Mary Godwin found themselves in Geneva, Switzerland. They were for a while the guests of famous English poet and ex-patriot Lord Byron, and his personal physician John Polidori.

The weather that summer was so abysmally cold, wet and dreary that they decided to pass the time telling each other creepy stories of the supernatural, and topped it off with a writing contest: they would all write imaginative stories of the most bizarre and terrifying sort.

Mary Godwin soon married Percy, becoming Mary Shelley.  The story she wrote was re-worked into the now-famous and classic thriller, Frankenstein.

As imaginative and disturbing as the story remains today, it cannot match the imaginative healing powers of the human race, and the human body, to which we now turn our attention.

 

=====

Months before the final bandages were removed from his right eye, a strange and bizarre Frankenstein-like process was begun.  MOOKP.  They would soon know the outcome.

The first step was pretty simple, if not odd: removing some of the tissue that lines the inner mouth, and using it to replace some corneal tissue in the eye.  This would put receptive, healing and moisture producing tissue where it needed to be.  It would become the healthy blood nourishing platform for what would come four months later.

The next step involved removing a cuspid tooth from the jaw, complete with roots and part of the bone.  The tooth was then ground to the desired shape and size.  A hole was drilled into the tooth, which received a plastic cylindrical optical lens.  The next step was to embed the tooth somewhere in the body where the roots would continue to receive nourishment, and the tooth would grow a thin protective sheath.  For this patient, it was in his substantial cheek tissue.
For four months the oral tissue grew in the eye, and the tooth remained “alive”, embedded in the cheek.  Then it was time: Let there be light!

In the final surgery, the new corneal replacement tissue in his right eye (the tissue from his mouth) was peeled back.  Then the tooth (yes, quite literally an eye tooth) — with an optical canal filled with a plastic lens, and coated in a thin layer of sheathing — was removed from his cheek and embedded in the new corneal replacement tissue.  Positioned just so, in his eye.

When the bandages were removed, light passed through the canal of the tooth, onto his retina.  He saw his wife, and she was beautiful.

Over the months, as his retina is re-trained in seeing, his vision will grow keen.

This process is called Modified Osteo-odonto-keratoprosthesis (or MOOKP).  It works.  The eye is not likely to reject tissue from the same body, and the plastic lens – coated by a thin sheath that was grown in while in his cheek – is not detected by the eye.  [Sources and resources for this story below, in bibliography].

A Very Happy Man: Sees because he has a tooth in his eye

A Very Happy Man: Sees because he has a tooth in his eye

=====

The severe and crippling colitis was the result of a raging C. diff infection, short for Clostridium difficile. The human gut is full of many trillions of bacteria – more than 1,000 different types in the large intestine alone – and they are mostly beneficial to humans.  They inhibit the growth of pathogenic bacteria.  For digestion, they produce enzymes that degrade the largest biomolecules.  It is a weird little ecosystem in our guts: bacteria thrive on some of our food, but the waste they generate is in turn food for us.  Life for humans could not exist without these beneficial bacteria.

As humans, our western doctors tend to prescribe a lot of antibiotics.  Perhaps too many and too often. One possible negative consequence of taking antibiotics is that too many of these beneficial bacteria are killed – and get flushed out with the poo.  A mild case might result in tummy rumbles and a period of diarrhea, until the body can rebalance itself.  Gone too far, and the body’s last feet of the alimentary canal can be taken over by the opportunistic  C. diff bacterium, well known to lurk around hospitals where sick people with weakened intestinal bacterial can succumb to a new unwelcome colonization.

Our young mother was treated with antibiotics for an oral surgery several months ago.  An extreme case C. Diff resulted, taking over her intestines and causing a raging case of colitis that crippled her, and brought her family’s lives to a stop.

The process for jump-starting her healing began only a few days before the big procedure.  First a donor was selected. Usually it is someone close like a spouse or family member.  For our young mother it was her husband.  The process requires the donor to produce and submit a healthy stool sample for the necessary lab work.

Meanwhile, the patient has started a gastro-intestinal purge – a process that someone preparing for a colonoscopy might find familiar, if not uncomfortable.  Two days of fasting and treatments with colonics has done the trick.  It wasn’t fun, but months and months with debilitating colitis wasn’t fun either.

Cleared for the procedure, the patient is anesthetized.  The process is not that dissimilar, again, from the colonoscopy.  A tube — inserted through her anus, past her rectum and up through the colon in to the intestines — delivers a slurry.  It is a sort of blenderized purée made from her husband’s feces.

This slurry contains several trillion healthy and benevolent bacteria.  Within hours, in fact before she awakes, they have begun colonizing her entire bowels – large and small intestines.  The C. Diff is forced out by the more vigorous bacteria, “donated” by her healthy husband.  In just a few more days her family will get her back —their mother – his wife. She will get her life and vivacity back.  Delivered from despair by a poo transplant, or more officially: a fecal microbiota transplantation.

 

Every human mind is full of creative potential, fueled by imagination, life’s experiences and observations, — and each individual’s needs, goals, desires, hopes, dreams.  For 18-year old Mary Shelley it was a deep, cold, dark summer.  For doctors, it is their bravery to see beyond ordinary disgust and seize upon truly innovative methods to bring health to suffering humans.

What will it be for you?

Now, do you have another definition for “eye teeth”?  The next time someone comes up with an outrageous yet creative idea, will you say “pooh”?  Or “Good for you”?

Joe Girard © 2013

 

Story Sources:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=112933586

http://www.examiner.com/article/tooth-the-eye-repairs-vision-at-um

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1197256/Blind-man-sees-wife-time-having-TOOTH-implanted-eye.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osteo-odonto-keratoprosthesis

Feces transplant sources

Discover Magazine, “The Healing Power of Poop”, http://discovermagazine.com/2012/oct/16-big-idea-tap-the-healing-power-of-poop

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/17/health/disgusting-maybe-but-treatment-works-study-finds.html?_r=0

Michael Mann (of Hockey Stick fame) on the Little Ice Age, and other global weather and temperature periods pre-1900.  http://www.meteo.psu.edu/holocene/public_html/shared/articles/littleiceage.pdf

 

Current Events

The IT Security Crowd

Tax Time and the IRS has untold terabytes of information on all of us.  How secure do you feel about that?  The Government Accounting Office has audited the IRS’s security efforts and procedures, and found them to be sorely lacking, leaving Taxpayer personal information insecure.

Among the vulnerabilities identified in the GAO report are easily-guessed passwords, passwords that hadn’t been changed in almost two years, and storing unencrypted user names and passwords in a file with a revealing name. …The IRS also has been lax with data encryption and in controlling access to databases, servers, and systems,…

Rest easy though, the GAO report “makes no mention of actual security breaches during the period audited.”

Over at the US government Commerce Department’s NIST (National Institute for Standards and Technology — sort of a very high tech outfit) they had the wherewithal and awareness to maintain a database of all our vulnerabilities.  Turns out that database was hacked… penetrated by malware anyway  (which is pretty dang serious in a supposedly high secure environment).  Don’t worry.  Nothing bad happened … this time.  Just that someone’s software penetrated the servers that store our government’s thoughts on our own National Vulnerabilities.

Not done yet.  A guy named Wronald Brest, of MPD — a high-tech design and engineering firm in Owensboro, KY — was caught using pirated software he had obtained from Chinese and Russian programmers.  Turns out he paid them to reverse engineer his favorite software, then used that software to do design work on Black Hawk helicopters, Patriot Missile components, the President’s Marine One and many other programs, many of them classified.

It’s no secret that the Chinese are trying to hack into our most secure industrial and government databases — this guy is inviting them right in.  And who has a name like “Wronald” anyhow?

The wars of the future will almost certainly involve cyber tactics and strategies.  Are we ready to play the game?

Over at Carnegie-Mellon University in Pittsburgh, they’ve teamed up with the National Security Agency to set up Toaster Wars — a weird nickname for what amounts to Hacking War competitions among high schoolers and middle schoolers.  Look for IT Security to be the next really, really big thing — could even replace “the military industrial complex.”

Ready or not, here comes the future.

Joe Girard (c) 2013

Current Events, Politics

Sbux

Well, Starbucks can’t seem to make anyone consistently happy.  At least anyone with excitable political views.  They do keep making money however. (SBUX up about 55% in last 2 years).

For the longest time it was hip among the Left to eschew Starbucks; they were polluting all the high traffic areas with look-alike stores making look-alike coffee specialty drinks.  Call it the “too much like Wal-mart” problem, but it was cool to scorn Starbucks and their regular customers.

But wait, Starbucks actually looks out for their employees, providing much better benefits than typical behind-the-counter grunts.  An impressive list: Retirement plans, sick leave, vacation, management opportunity.  Fortune rated Starbucks one of the best companies to work for in America. So that’s way better than most employees get at, say, Wal-mart or Staples.  So, good for Starbucks, from the Left.

Then Starbucks’ CEO Howard Schultz came out strong in favor of “gay marriage.”  Wow, Yay for him and Starbucks (says the Left); and then he and Starbucks get the scorn of the Social Conservative Right.Female_homosexuality_symbol.svg

Now Starbucks has announced that they will permit firearms in their stores — even open carry — if the weapon is carried by a person  consistent with the jurisdiction’s laws and regulations.  So now it’s all “how evil is Starbucks?” on the Left and “Rah-rah for Starbucks” from the liberty wing of the Right and the NRA crowd.

If the two ladies behind the counter serving coffee are married to each other, does that make coffee taste any better, or worse?  If the CEO supports same-sex marriage, does that really affect anything either?

For me it’s simply about cost for value, taste and convenience.  Starbucks is kind of expensive, so I don’t go there often.  But it’s convenient, so I do pop in from time to time — and now I (sheepishly) admit that I have the Starbucks app on my smartphone.

And to be honest, if it turned out that someone in Starbucks was packing, that would actually make me feel quite a bit more safe. [I am not a gun nut, own no guns and am not an NRA member, although I do occasionally enjoy squeezing off a few

gunscoffee

rounds].  Gun owners are easily the most reserved, practical, careful and responsible people I know.  Consider the average coffee shop, especially a Starbucks.  It’s a place where reasonably affluent people lounge around chatting, surfing the web and generally not paying attention to the commotion around them; as such, they present a rather soft target for a whack-a-doo or a terrorist to shoot up.

Arizona has rather liberal gun-carry laws, even open carry.  I’ve been hiking near Phoenix and come across others who are open carrying.  Didn’t cause me the least bit of stress or concern.  Had a nice talk with one fellow about picking encelia for use as a spice in cooking and for medical use (good for skin and minor wounds); he was carrying several stalks he had “harvested”, and quite proud of it — taking several minutes to explain to me how to spot it and how to cook with it.

This is all fine with the classical liberal.  Pretty much live and let live.

bis bald!

Joe Girard

(C) 2013

 

Haiku, Uncategorized

March Snow Haikus

Snow retreats again
Reveals grass blades, mostly brown,
Not green.  No Spring, yet.

___________________

Gay, cool, bright March day.
No Watt-hours from panels.
Alas, snow covers them.

History

1938: Heat and Passion

This month — March, 2013 — marks the 75th anniversary of an event that signified the world tipping hard toward heated chaos.  The Third Reich, under Hitler’s Nazidom, had bullied and brow-beat Austrian leadership — and perverted Austrian public opinion — for several years.  The annexation of Austria, or the Anschluss (in German: Anschluss Österreichs), was completed that month.  Few believed that Hitler’s appetite would be sated for long, that the heat of passion had cooled, or that the winds of war could long be avoided.

The Anschluss left the Czech half of Czechoslovakia virtually surrounded by the hungry Third Reich (see figure).  And as the heat of the 1938 summer made temperatures rise, so too did Hitler’s new acquisition hasten his desire for Lebensraum – living space.  He cast his wolfish eyes on Czechoslovakia, on the premise that citizens there of German descent were being mistreated.  Shouldn’t they be part of a Greater Germany?Slide1

Through the heated summer Hitler made his claim that he would march the Wehrmacht on behalf of Sudentenland’s ethnic Germans.  Britain and France were bound by treaty to defend Czechoslovakia’s sovereignty.  Is this how the next Great War would start?

The British Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, flew to Munich in Mid-September to meet Hitler in Berchtesgaden.  Hitler delivered his ultimatum (Dictat) firmly.  Afterward, Chamberlain and Daladier, the French Prime Minister, met and agreed that the Sudentenland must be conceded to Germany – without having the decency to include Czechoslovakia’s President Benes on the negotiations or discussions.

Sudentland, in deep Purple

Sudetenland, in deep Purple

Days later, Chamberlain flew back to Munich for further negotiations.  Now that France and Britain had agreed to appease him, Hitler had additional demands.  With Czech soldiers on the border and in the streets ready to defend their nation — and ill-prepared British and French armies only beginning to mobilize — the world waited for news of the negotiations’ results.

Across the Atlantic in the United States there was edgy unease.  She had slipped back into deep economic recession, as FDR had eased off on his massive stimulus – his own five year spending extravaganza coming after Hoover’s stimulus efforts – only to learn that the economy had not been sufficiently kick-started and unemployment shot back up to 18%.  Anxiously, Americans wanted to know if there would be war in Europe. But, in place of news and the voice of Edward R Murrow, there was only static over the airwaves.  What was going on?

A terrific hurricane had been making its way across the Atlantic.  Without satellites or even weather aircraft, the only way to track storms was by reports from merchant or cruise ships, and by wind, surf and barometric measurements far away on land.  This storm was reported to have turned north hundreds of miles east of the North Carolina-to-Florida coast.  All hurricanes that do so – it was believed – then go to cooler waters, weaken, turn northeast, and fade away.

Not this one.

There is some controversy over what was the hottest decade in US and North Atlantic history.  Until recently the 1930s has routinely held that distinction.  Many climate scientists say that it was 2000-2010.  However, for North America and the North Atlantic, consider that the hottest temperatures ever recorded in 26 of the 50 states were in that decade [1] (Even though Alaska and Hawaii were not yet states, their weather records are included in the reference).  That’s quite remarkable.  And the hottest temperatures ever recorded in Canada and Iceland were also in this decade.

And 1938 was hot too.  As the storm moved north, it was blocked by an unusually large and strong high pressure in the north Atlantic between Bermuda and the Grand Banks.  Undetected, it slinked back to the northwest.  Fueled by the strong high and an unusually warm Gulf Stream, it grew stronger (hurricanes were not named then).

The barometric pressure dropped throughout New England.  Yet a major storm had not hit since 1821, and none had failed to turn northeast since the hurricane of 1815.  Why would it not do so now?  Eventually the barometric pressure dropped to one of the lowest ever recorded in the US until that time: 27.76 inches.  Up in the hills of Vermont people could smell sea air.  What was happening?

On Long Island a man had just received a barometer via mail order.  He set it up.  The pressure reading was so low that it barely registered at the bottom of the scale.  Figuring it must be defective he repackaged it and drove off to the post office to return it.  While he was gone his house disappeared.[4]

Path, The 1938 Hurricane, AKA the Long Island Express, the Great New England Hurricane

Path, The 1938 Hurricane, AKA the Long Island Express, the Great New England Hurricane

It’s hard to compare hurricanes of different eras, but The Great New England Hurricane of September, 1938, would probably knock the socks off super-storm Hurricane Sandy of 2012, like a mountain lion would tear into a kitty cat.  Mercifully the ’38 storm weakened from a Category 5 to a Category 3 storm just before making landfall on Long Island in the early afternoon of September 21, 1938.  Sandy was certainly larger in size, but was only a Category 1 just before landfall, slipping to sub-hurricane intensity as she hit land (is Sandy a boy or a girl?).

Long Island was rocked with winds of 150-mph and surf surges of 35 feet that washed completely over the island.  The storm’s arrival was unfortunately simultaneous with a very strong high tide, tugged hard by the coincidence of the moon’s perigee and a sun-moon syzygy, from by a nearly new moon at mid-day and at equinox.  [Unfortunately, Sandy also coincided with a new moon high tide, although in late October, there was no equinox syzygy, nor was there lunar perigee].

The east end of Long Island, and all of the states of Rhode Island and Connecticut, received the full brunt of the storm’s right hand, as the counter-clockwise rotation adds to the wind and surge on the right side of northern hemisphere storms.  It remains today the worst natural disaster ever in Connecticut.

When the storm cleared, many hundreds were dead, many thousands more were homeless, devastation was widespread – but the US now had their news from Europe.  There would be no war.  Not yet, anyhow.  The Czech, British and French armies would stand down.  Nazi jackboots soon marched into the Sudetenland.  Churchill, on the backbenches and not in government, dryly observed: “Britain and France had to choose between dishonor and war.  They chose dishonor.  They will have war.”

The ignominy continued.  In March 1939, Hitler grabbed the remainder of Czechoslovakia.  Again Britain and France declined to honor their sworn and treaty-bound obligation to defend Czechoslovakia’s sovereignty … on the grounds that, since the country was first split into a Czech Republic and a Slovak Republic before the seizure, the country of Czechoslovakia no longer existed.  Shameful.

Soon enough – and still unprepared – in September, 1939, they would get  war, nonetheless, with the dismemberment of Poland.

If the Hurricane of 1938 were to hit New England today, we would probably think of Sandy and Katrina as unpleasant days at the park.  Satellite warnings and evacuation notices could not save the millions and millions of homes and buildings and highways and bridges that have been constructed since then – to say nothing of trying to evacuate so many more tens of millions.  There is simply no preparing for devastation and power on that scale.

And if the heat of fascist or extremist passion that swept over the world in the 1930s were to return, I doubt if the world would be prepared for that either, regardless of how much warning we had.

Until then, I wish you peace

Joe Girard © 2013

 

 

[1] State-by-state Extreme weather records: http://www.ncdc.noaa.gov/extremes/scec/records

[2] North American and European warming from mid-1800s to 1940: http://www.aip.org/history/climate/20ctrend.htm

[3] 1938 Timeline: http://www.oocities.org/ww2_remembered/1938.html

[4] Story of the man with the barometer from The Glory and the Dream; A Narrative History of America: 1932-1972, Volume I.  Pg 224-225, William Manchester.

Uncategorized

Naming Names

This afternoon I watched the 2nd half of a terrific NCAA tournament game between two very talented and well-coached teams, the Marquette Warriors and the Butler Bulldogs.  There were quite a few lucky breaks and close calls coming down the stretch that could have gone either way — with each team getting their share of good and bad breaks — and in the end Marquette won by a whisker, 74-72.

The outcome was somewhat pleasing; I admit to a slight preference for Marquette, as it is one of those small schools that often fills the role of giant slayer, frequently doing quite well in the big tournament.  In fact, in 1977, they won the tournament and were national champions.  Oh, and since Marquette is located in downtown Milwaukee — and that’s where I grew up (actually in a ‘burb on the near north side) — I’ve always been partial to the Marquette Warriors.

Oops, did I say “Warriors” again?  That’s a slip.  They are called the Marquette  “Golden Eagles.”  However it was the Marquette “Warrors” who won the national championship 36 years ago. In an early wave of political correctness, and not wishing to offend anyone, Marquette University was one of those schools who changed their name from an American Indian name to something more neutral.  Another school that did this was Arkansas State University — where I earned my undergraduate degree — who changed their name from “Indians” to “Red Hawks.”

Soon after the Golden Eagles victory today there came news that Wichita State had beaten heavily favored Gonzaga (another tiny school that often does quite well in basketball).  Wichita State’s team name?  The Shockers.  The name does not come from their propensity to “shock” other teams like Gonzaga with unexpected performance and wins, but rather to their history of “shocking” or “harvesting” wheat.

That reminded me of an article I read in the paper this morning about the NHL hockey season, something I rarely do — hockey is one big yawn to me.  So much for my Canadian heritage.  Anyway, it seems as the Colorado Avalanche (another weird name) are abysmally bad this year.  For them the lockout mercifully limited their misery this season, and the misery of their fans, too.  They are so bad, they might even get 1st pick in the next amateur draft.  The player they would most likely pick is Colorado native Seth Jones, who currently plays on a junior hockey team called the Portland Winterhawks.  Winterhawks?

Cruise up I-5 a few hours to Seattle and you’ll find football’s Seahawks.  What are Winterhawks and Seahawks?  Those sound more like American Indian names than sports or animal names, don’t they?

Down in the Bay Area, Stanford’s teams are named for a color.  They are the Cardinal.  Not the Cardinals; the Cardinal.

From there slide over to the coast and the University of California at Santa Cruz has named their athletes the Banana

UCSC - Banana Slug

UCSC – Banana Slug

Slugs.  Really?  What a disgusting creature, sliming wherever they go and for some reason getting themselves stuck inside discarded beer containers.  And it doesn’t look the least bit intimidating: he’s carrying a book (by Plato!) and wearing glasses.  What is it going to do?  Defeat them with logic and dialog?

It does get weirder though.  The Community College of Scottsdale (AZ) are the Fighting Artichokes.  Just across Phoenix in Tempe, the Arizona State athletes are Sun Devils … now a Dust Devil is a rather cool weather phenomenon, but they mess it up by being Sun Devils — whatever that is — and having a mascot who looks like Satan.  Really?  Well, not to be outdone, across the country in North Carolina, Wake Forest University (another little school that often does well in basketball) are the Demon Deacons.  Ok, now you’ve got one team who is represented by Satan, and another by someone who is preaching and doing Satan’s work here on earth.  Oy weh!

ASU's Sparky the Sun Devil

ASU’s Sparky the Sun Devil

In the end, it doesn’t really matter, does it?  It’s just like people’s names, whether they be Tom, Dick and Harry, or LaToya, DeWayne, Shaquile, Lemonjello, Manti, Wyntyr, Muffi, Buffy, Chrystee, Jaxon, Stanley-Ann, or Barack.  The right thing to do is call people or schools what they want to be called, try to pronounce it they way they would, and everyone just go about their business.

Just sayin’

Joe Girard © 2013

 

Afterthought:  Butler used to be called “The Christians.”  I wonder if they ever played the Lions (Columbia, Penn state, Loyola Marymount, and others) or the Demon Deacons.

 

 

 

 

History, Politics

Springing to an Anniversary

Spring has sprung!  Regardless of the on-going winter weather across much of the US — and many of us bracing for yet another round of brisk temperatures and snow.  So much for Punxutawney Phil — the unwilling weather prognosticator who didn’t see his shadow last month, thus supposedly predicting an early spring.

Across the country newspapers and newsrooms are carrying stories about today being the 10th anniversary of the beginning of the Iraq War (OIF: Operation Iraqi Freedom).  Lots of columns on what went wrong, what were the lessons learned, what went right. I’ll suggest two here, one from the right (more or less) by Jeff Jacoby of the Boston Globe, and one from the left (I suppose) by Tom Friedman, citizen of the world.

What went wrong is epic.  And it cost over $1Trillion … so far, as we’ll be paying to take care of wounded vets for decades.  Even though we won the war in a matter of a few weeks, we managed to terrifically “lose the peace”, and lost control of the country.  We lost 4,500 US lives, the lives of many more of our Allies, including English and Canadian.  Tens of thousands injured and maimed.  We never found any WMDs — chemical or biological — that Sacdam Hussein had bragged about having, and never having produced credible evidence that they were destroyed.  [Some have theorized that they went to Syria just as the war began.  Sure enough, chemical weapons were used there this week].

What went right is difficult to value, and is mostly forgotten.  The president went to congress for approval before it began. He got that approval, including from high profile Democrats, many who pined for residence in the White House such as Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden, John Edwards, Joe Lieberman, John Kerry.  A truly evil person, Saddam Hussein, is gone, never again to cause torment, order mass murders with bodies in mass graves, use chemical weapons or launch missiles toward cities of innocents, whether they be in Tehran or Tel Aviv.

There are a few more things that went right.  Here’s one that is mostly forgotten:

As Barack Obama was rolling to victory in the fall of 2008, the Bush administration was quietly behind the scenes negotiating an agreement with Iraq to not only end the war, but to have all US troops out in 2011.  As the US and the world swooned over the freshly elected fresh face who promised peace, there was little notice paid to the announcement that the Status of Forces Agreement (SOFA) would have us soon out of Iraq. [SOFA in news, November, 2008]  Sure enough, President Obama pulled the last troops out in 2011 — albeit a bit earlier than SOFA’s terms, a result of Iraq’s insistence on prosecuting any allied forces accused of criminal activity in Iraqi courts.

At a dear cost of blood and treasure — not to mention loss of prestige around the world — the US and its allies removed an evil maniac of a dictator and helped set up something that is as close to democracy as could realistically be expected in a most unlikely place.

Was it worth it?  Probably not.

Perhaps more … another day.  Maybe in 10 more years we’ll have enough perspective to take another look.

Cheers and Happy Spring

Joe Girard  © 2013

Current Events

Current currency

What, exactly, is money? And what does it mean to “save”?  Does this help?

A penny saved is a penny earned.

An old proverb, often attributed to good ol’ Benjamin Franklin.  Another, older version is:

A penny spared is twice got.

An old 17th century aphorism, collected by George Hebert.

That’s back in the days when a penny actually meant something.  Now Canada, whose dollar trades roughly on par with the US dollar, has ceased minting pennies.  The US should soon do the same, but they won’t — penny wise and dollar foolish, I suppose; it costs about two cents just to mint a penny.

Once upon a time, long ago, logic prevailed.  People who worked hard and saved their money were rewarded with the glories of delayed gratification.  By saving their money they could build a house,  buy a car, build a business.  They could fund an education.

But that was long ago, before central banks, currency manipulation, and before the PIIGS.  For 100 years now savers have been punished by central banks who have the authority to conjure up money from thin air.  Savings now not only don’t grow, they are slowly nibbled away, like Hemmingway’s Old  Man and the Sea.  To work and amass a respectable sum of money is a de facto surrender of those funds — slowly, almost painfully — to faceless government bureaucrats a thousand miles away.

This year alone, the US Federal Reserve Bank will “create” over one trillion dollars — partly in purchase of government bonds, and partly in purchase of mortgage backed securities.  And Mitt Romney called the Chinese “currency manipulators.”  HA!.  The yuan is up 10% against the dollar in the past year.

Even the Swiss panicked, devaluing their franc (CHF) this past year, since a currency strong in relation to others leads to expensive (and hence weaker) exports.  Next the Japanese, under Abe, are creating yen at Indy 500 pace, and the yen is down 15% against the dollar in the past few weeks.

It is indeed a race to the bottom.  Many times in economics there are winners and losers.  In this game, it is the saver who loses.  And the debtor (mostly national governments) wins.

But now, over the past weekend in Cyprus, any veil of fairness and even-handedness has been violently ripped away.  As a condition of EU and ECB (European Union / European Central Bank) bailout, Cypriot bank deposits will be summarily and immediately “taxed” between 6.5% and 9.9%.  Simply extracted.  Banks are closed, to preclude runs on the banks.

No story is simple and clean and easy to tell.  Cyprus — that weird sort of two-state island, but not really a two-state island, that was somehow allowed into the euro-zone — is an off-shore banking center that would make the Grand Caymans proud.  They’ve attracted lots of dodgy “dirty” money, particularly from crony-capitalist Russian magnates — so certainly there are “black hats” among the losers.

Nonetheless, here is a bald-faced signal that the world’s general governance is unfriendly toward savers.  The euro dropped 1% today, March 18, as savers (i.e holders of euros) fled to US Dollars and gold.  Imagine saving for your child’s braces, or your grand-child’s college education, house down payment, engagement ring for your financee’.  And governments around the world are either printing money faster than you can save it, or confiscating it directly from your deposits.  What would you do?

What happens in a world where no one wants to hold on to money?  We buy things faster than we ought.  We invest in other instruments faster than we ought.  That’s what “they” want.

At this writing, Cyprus could still deny the EU and ECB their “down payment cum confiscation.”  Banks are closed until Thursday (another 3 days).  We shall see.   To deny Brussels their “cut” would certainly risk eviction from the euro-zone.

On another front: a remarkable new party has sprung up in Germany, populated by intellectuals and economists, that favors dissolution of the current multi-nation euro; and — if that can’t be done — perhaps Germany should return to the Deutsch Mark. Oh, fun. http://www.rferl.org/content/german-anti-euro-party/24930655.html

 

 

Current Events, Economics

Street Dancing

Driving around Arlington and Falls Church, VA today, only a spit from the District, especially with gusty winds.  One thing we spotted around town, as back home in Colorado, was panhandlers at traffic lights, looking pathetic and holding up signs “Homeless, Hungry, please help”, “Anything Helps.  God Bless” and the like.  What was interesting is that in many cases just across the street, or  50 meters down the street, was another person dressed up like the Statue of Liberty, or Uncle Sam, or a Giant Dollar Bill, or an Eagle, also with signs, encouraging passersby to drop in and get their income tax forms filled out by a tax service.

There seems to be some controversy as to how long the tax code is.  The US tax code — that is Title 26 of the US Code of Federal Regulations — is some 13,000 pages long (Reference here, and at www.gpo.gov).  But to really understand it, you’ll need to read all the commentary on adjudications and judgments, bringing the tally to nearly 80,000 pages.

Really?  No wonder people are intimidated and feel like they have to succumb to a solicitation of someone dressed up like a statue.  Ironic, isn’t it, that the “sign flipper” encouraging people to drop in to get their Form 1040, Schedule A, B, C and D, and perhaps all those 1099 forms sorted out is dressed up like the STATUE of LIBERTY — the very symbol of freedom in America?  And we are so beholden to a tax code so long and incomprehensible — and a federal organization so intimidating: The IRS — that we pay billions of dollars to such companies like H&R Block and Liberty Taxes to help ensure that we compute our taxes correctly and don’t end up in a small room with an IRS auditor.

I don’t know if Herman Cain’s 9-9-9 plan would have worked.  Maybe 17-17-9 (sounds like a fertilizer maybe, no?).  But a massive overhaul and simplification has got to be in everyone’s best interest — except of course the “special interests.”  And it would free up more money for investment and saving.  The Laffer Center estimates the cost of confusing and convoluted tax regulation at close to half a trillion dollars a year, over $30 billion of which goes to professional services like the company paying the guy to dress up like a statue and flip signs.  No wonder they can afford to pay someone $8 or $10 per hour to stand out in the cold wind and flip signs while looking silly.

I’m  looking at the homeless guys on street corners holding signs in a whole new light.  At least they don’t represent legal efforts to unproductively suck billions of dollars from the economy.

I’d still rather just give them a pair of socks and a granola bar.  A lot less than my accountant.

Joe Girard © 2013

 

 

Economics

Lucy the Ciggy

(Berkeley Springs, WV) I really enjoy having intelligent adult children.  I learn a lot from them; if I can get them to talk; and if I can shut up long enough to really listen.

_______________________________________________________________

One of the quaint and pleasant things I enjoy about traveling is listening to how people politely address a stranger.  In the Midwest, it is often a simple “hey.”  In some parts of Texas it is a “How-DEE”, almost like a question.  In southern England you might get plenty of love: “yes love”, “can I help you love?”  Pre-noon in German towns it is a sing-songy “morgen” — short for Guten Morgen, with the voice going up on the second syllable, again, almost like a question.

Here in the hills of the Northeast corner of West Virginia, you are likely to be called “honey” by just about any lady in any store or restaurant.  A polite and simple way to say “hey”, “how-DEE” or “love.”

In New York City, greetings between strangers might go something like “how about a Loosey?”  (Pronounced “Lucy”).  This would be a single cigarette, a “loose” cigarette, out of its pack … perhaps even a Marlborough, America’s most popular brand.

Of course, a dollar would be expected in exchange.  The going price for a Lucy.  A tip for a good provider might bring him $2.

New York has the highest price for a pack of cigarettes in the nation.  Due to its taxation. Add on to that an additional tax imposed by the City, and New Yorkers pay about $13 per pack of cigarettes.  Across the river in New Jersey, the cost is about $6 or $7.

Homeless residents of the area transport cigarettes across the river and sell them at a 200% mark up, selling them one at a time, a buck a piece (fetching $20/pack by selling $1 at a time, for an average $6.50 investment).  This is an economic niche created by high taxation, truly an unintended consequence.  The ad hoc distribution system serves multiple needs, joining providers and consumers in a beauty that surely brings a smile to Adam Smith’s ghost.

First, it provides low-risk income to homeless.  They distribute it from serve-yourself pockets on the sides of their backpacks.  Transactions are cash only.  They can spend, save or re-invest anyway they choose.  They provide a service and product, and get paid in return.  The downside is minimal, as court dockets are jammed with petty criminal cases.  At worst, it’s a night in jail, complete with warm bed, shower, and a couple of meals.

Second, it provides casual smokers — those who seek a moment of secret pleasure on the way from home to work, or vice versa, or between meetings — a chance to suck down a quick smoke.  A complete pack would be too large an investment, too difficult to hide.  Too cumbersome to carry around.

Third, it provides an outlet for loose cash that would otherwise go to simple beggars and street car window washers.

In this way, the governments of the city and state of New York have essentially subsidized the state of New Jersey at their own expense (by sending cigarette sales across the river), spawned a homeless-based supply industry, and provided extra cigarettes to casual and light smokers who might otherwise be smoking less — or not at all.  And by raising taxes so high, they have tremendously raised taxes on the working poor, those who can least afford it; raised taxes on those who can’t afford a buck a smoke and can’t afford the time or money to go across the river.  But can’t stop smoking, nonetheless.

As the NYC Lucy smuggling industry grows, no doubt there will be growing pains.  There will be conflicts. Territory wars and battles will break out.  More homeless will descend on NYC.  The courts will be ever more burdened by enforcement of feel-good freedom-restricting legislation.  All for our own good.  Right.

This is not unlike so many other government efforts to make things better, only to achieve the opposite … or at least gain pitiful minor progress toward the expressed goal, with pathetic underachievements when measured against the funds and social capital expended.  This list includes rent control, affordable housing, minimum wage, racial quotas and the Department of Education.

I love the law of unintended consequences.  And I love having brilliant children.

Joe Girard © 2013

Note: with gratitude for my sons Aaron and Kurt, who had the patience to explain most of this to me.  And to Thomas Sowell, for clearly explaining, over-and-over, how the good intentions in Government action often blind us to the negative consequences of those actions.

Additional Sources:

[1] Cigarettes and Taxes in NY state and city. — NY Times

[2] Cit Taxes in NY State and City — NY State Gov’t

[3] 60% of Cigarettes sold in NY are smuggled — CNN

Current Events, Poetry

Oh Antietam

The wind, she  blows cold across the hills of Maryland and West Virginia,

Scurrying clouds along their way, from northwest to southeast.

The sun seems like a furtive guest in the sky,

But it’s the clouds who are playing the game.

Antietam is different in March than in August, the last time I was here.

How long ago was it?

The trees are bare this time of year; the corn stalks are laid low; the bean vines are gone.

And yet …

The old Dunker Church still stands, marking the spot of Lee’s defense.

The land still falls away …

to the east, the creek …

to the west, and south, the Potomac …

and rises, after slight dips to the north, to Hagerstown.

The spirits still speak, betraying the secrets of the blood spilled here.

At Burnside Bridge we cross the creek, and take a moment.

We pause, reflect, take pictures.

The creek runs high from last night’s rain.

Just as it ran rich with blood, that September afternoon in 1862.

Twice might be enough; I many never visit you again Antietam.

Still, I carry your message, your pain, your story with me,

Ever onward.

We are here for a purpose.  God I hope so.

Joe Girard © 2013

[1] Essay, America’s Bloodiest Day, Girard

 

Generational, History

Then … and now

Spending some good family time way out east.  In the DC area, out to Leesburg, VA, then Baltimore and now in the West Virginia mountains.  This makes it difficult to blog daily, but it does give a new perspective for fresh contemplation.   It occurred to us that life sure must have been rough for those early settlers … so far from anything, no communication, health care, or even civilization.  They left their families, friends, and heritage behind them.

But they came to America anyhow.  Why?  For two reasons, I suppose: religious freedom and economic freedom.  And those two are under a larger umbrella of simply freedom from oppression.  Most of them knew that life would be difficult, even severe, but they did it for their children and grandchildren — lives yet to be, but they felt responsible for nonetheless.

How ironic that our generation — the so-called Baby Boomers — have turned all that on its head.  We have not only largely abandoned religion, but we’ve left our children and grandchildren with unbelievable  crushing debt.  In 1980 our national debt was only about $1Trillion; now it is about to surpass $17Trillion.  We’re riding off into the sunset, and the young ‘uns are left holding the bill.

But it’s worse.  There are so many of us, born between 1946 and 1964, and we are retiring at such a rate, that we are about to further bury younger generations with obligations for our social security and medicare.

I’m not sure how to fit fertility into this non-judgmentally.  Take this at face value only.  Whereas previous generations routinely spawned offspring at 4, 6, 8 or even 12 children per family, our generation determined that the best numbers were 2, 1 and 0.  Three was deemed an extraordinary “sacrifice” (but not a blessing).   Four?  Oh horrors.

The generation that followed observed and learned.  The national fertility rate is now below 2.0 per female for the first time ever.

And perhaps it is no wonder.  Perhaps: A) they see our extravagance and want to live at least as well; B) they don’t want their children to have to pay OUR debts.

On that cheerless note, I’ll sign off for now.

Regards

Joe

 

Uncategorized

Words

  “When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.” – Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carol

In yesterday’s blog, I created a new word, ‘Twitterati”, meaning, “those who obsessively use Twitter to tweet and re-tweet whatever resonates with their cultural and political perspective.”  Since I created the word, one supposes, then it means just what I choose it to mean.

On the other hand, I propose, we should not be so casual on how we use words, and what we intend for them to mean — if for no other reason than to do otherwise causes us to appear intellectually lazy (or vapid) to the literati.

Three topics.  First, assume you have some money.  Then you could give some to someone; in which case you could have less money.  Or: You could have some pain, and if it was too great, wouldn’t it be wonderful if you had less pain.  You could have less pain if you meditated or took some pain killers.

In each case, we could have less of something, but for this to be true, we must have some of it to begin with.  Then, why do accept people saying “I could care less”, when they really mean “I could not care less”?!?  We’ve already made it easy by accepting the contraction “couldn’t” in place of “could not.”  Is it so demanding to require the additional enunciation of “n’t” at the end of “could”??

“Oh, I dropped a nickel in the parking lot, and it rolled into a storm sewer.  But I could care less.”

Really.  If you could care less, that means you care to begin with.  If you don’t care about losing a lone nickel, then “you couldn’t care less.”

Secondly, let’s recognize that apples and oranges aren’t the same thing.  One is one thing, and the other is another.  Trucks and monkeys aren’t the same thing either.  If you have two trucks and two monkeys, these are not the same thing.  Or is it?

Then why do we say “six of one thing, half a dozen of the other”?  We say and accept this as meaning two choices are of the same value or consequence.

“We could have eggs and bacon for breakfast, or we could have oatmeal.  Which do you prefer?”

“Oh, it’s six of one thing and half a dozen of the other.”  In other words, “you choose; I don’t care.”

Literally you are saying these are not the same thing, even though they might appear to be if you only look superficially.  They are really quite different.

It’s subtle, but words mean what they mean.  And if we use them casually, then they can actually mean quite the opposite of what we intend.

The final item.  Consider that you are given one snack for each hour in the day.  But you can only have one per hour, and if you don’t take and consume the snack, it is gone forever.  If you prefer not to arise at dawn, however, and by remaining in slumber, you miss your first snack of the day.  But, by a quirk in the rules, at prescribed parts of the year, you are permitted to take this first (missed) snack of the day at the end of the day, after the sun has gone down.  In other words, you can “save” this snack until the end of the day, when you can enjoy it more.  You are “saving your snack until later”; it is snack saving.

Today is the first day of Daylight Saving Time in 2013 in most of the US and Canada, not Daylight Savings Time.  We are “saving time”, we are not “savings time.”

Now, after investing that one hour, you get one more hour of sunlight to enjoy in the evening for the rest of the spring and summer.  Enjoy it.

Peace

Joe Girard (c) 2013

Politics, Uncategorized

Parading for Political Points

Back in 2008, Democrats in congress, led by Dennis Kucinich (D-OH) submitted HRes 1258, which contained 35 articles of impeachment of then-president Bush.  Most of the articles dealt with war crimes, some with election tampering.  By a margin of 251-166, the motion was approved for assignment to the Judiciary Committee.  Astoundingly, 24 Republicans voted for the resolution.

The Left Wing news machine, blog-o-sphere and Bush haters were wild with delight, and played it up big.  Now Bush will get his justice.  He’s going to get impeached.  Not so fast.  The election cycle was spinning up, the Left began swooning over Barack, … the Committee never addressed the matter and it died there.  Nonetheless, it was an opportunity for the media to point to the nation’s “obvious” disgust with GWB: look what’s being done about it in the hallowed halls of congress.

This past week Republicans had two episodes of their own such grandstanding, or Parading for Political Points.  Rand Paul’s ballyhoo (an actual filibuster) to draw attention to the administration’s reluctance to give a simple and straightforward answer to the question of whether a US citizen can be tracked down and killed by simple order of “high government officials” without benefit of 5th and 6th amendment constitutional protection.

Now this.  Republicans, the Right wing blog-o-sphere and news media are drawing attention to current-president Obama’s frequent extravagant vacations and golf outings (to wit, recent vacation to play golf with Tiger Woods).   This at a time when the president’s administration cannot find the funds to continue giving school children tours of the White House.

Now Representative Louie Gomert (R-TX) has introduced an amendment to the so-called Continuing Resolution bill that would de-fund such extravagant outings and vacations (the 115 rounds of golf, private lessons from Tiger Woods, multiple trips to Hawaii and Martha’s Vineyard, plus outings to Spain, Vail ….).  [Sequester Cuts: Congressman Wants To Defund Obama’s Golf Outings]

It won’t pass, and legislatively these actions won’t amount to anything — like the Bush articles of impeachment.  But they do give Rightwing-o-philes and Twitterati something to buzz about on FaceBook,  Fox, Daily Caller … it remains to be seen if the MSM (Mainstream media) will do much more than mention these so that they can ridicule them.

[I mention only in passing that after Bush had committed the US, and the world, to a second war in mid-2003, he ceased playing golf and taking fancy vacations; it just wasn’t prudent in a period when there was so much sacrifice occurring.  Vacations were to Camp David or his hacienda in Crawford, TX — where he was subjected to negative media attention, thanks to Cindy Sheehan’s protests.]

Regards,

Joe Girard (c) 2013

 

Politics

Rand’s Rant

An overwelming majority of the elected legislators in DC are trained professionally as lawyers.  That alone should terrify us.  Among them are a very few radical outliers, and there are even three physicians in the Senate.  Yes, medical doctors!  They are all Republicans (Coburn-OK, Barraso-WY, Paul-KY).  Young Dr. Paul, the junior senator to Mitch McConnell in Kentucky, made quite a splash yesterday, and I’m not quite sure yet what to make of it.

For me personally, I’ve distilled Rand Paul’s little filibuster fun-ride down to this, a paraphrase of Tim Stanley.

— It has turned logic around.  The Democratic president is now the “agent of authoritarianism” and a few Republicans, led by young libertarian leaning (or now sometimes called Liberty Republicans) firebrands are the defenders of individual freedoms and rights.

If Republicans were to swing hard to individual liberty, and reduced state militarism, they could execute a surprising flanking maneuver … and save the party (mostly from themselves).

[Speaking of Republican doctors, is anyone following the phenomenal Dr. Ben Carson? Dude really is a brain surgeon!]

A good article here, in the American Conservative.

Uncategorized

Snow Day = Pay Day

Snowquester?  Jeepers Creepers.  Washington DC got “hammered” by winter storm Saturn today.  So the Federal Government gave all DC-area employees the day off, with pay.  But there’s no snow on the roads, as the snow fell with temperatures between 35 and 40F.  They got the day off anyhow. 

To steal and mangle a line from M*A*S*H, the movie:  This isn’t a Federal Government; It’s an insane asylum!

What’s more ludicrous?  Well, the Weather Channel’s naming of winter storms is silly, but at least it’s not wasting our money — during a funding sequester.  Jeepers Creepers.

http://money.cnn.com/2013/03/06/news/economy/snow-day-federal-workers/

Snowquester is a dud – CNN

 

Current Events, Economics

Sowell on Sequestration

Thomas Sowell has a way of explaining things to bring them into clearer focus. Even though most of us weren’t lucky enough to be among his students in our own college careers, he still writes columns and books, giving us the opportunity to be his students now.

Budget Politics
by Thomas Sowell

“Back in my teaching days, many years ago, one of the things I liked to ask the class to consider was this: Imagine a government agency with only two tasks: (1) building statues of Benedict Arnold and (2) providing life-saving medications to children. If this agency’s budget were cut, what would it do?”

Read the rest at TownHall

Media

Shame on DC

     In September of 2004, in the run-up to the elections, Dan Rather and CBS news ran with an unproven — and ultimately shown to be fabricated — story that George W. Bush’s friends had falsified his National Guard records, and that Bush had not really fulfilled his Guard obligations, thus allowing him to avoid the draft on false premises. Rather ran the story on 60-Minutes. When the story was proved false, CBS and Dan Rather were correctly excoriated; Rather was shamed into retirement and CBS had to make a humiliating public retraction. It may well have been a key to Bush’s re-election.

     The story just seemed so true. There had to be truth to it. Everyone knew that Bush was a slacker back then. And his election in 2000 was just so wrong. So CBS, and decades-long anchor man Dan Rather, defenestrated prudence and due diligence, leading to a short-lived embarrassment. 

     Which brings us to the junior US Senator from New Jersey, Bob Menendez. Menendez, who has been in NJ politics pretty much since getting elected to the local school board at age 19, just had to be guilty of something. After all, he’s a politician (a Democrat, horrors), he’s been in politics for decades, he’s from New Jersey, and he’s an integral part of the Machine that runs Hudson county.

     Menendez was recently exposed as having received numerous “free” trips on a private jet from big-time campaign contributor Dr Salomon Melgen of Florida.  Turns out they regularly vacationed in the Dominican Republic together.  News hacks couldn’t help themselves, and expanded this to a story that included regular visits to DR prostitutes. And not just prostitutes, but under-aged teenage prostitutes.

     Menendez, whose parents were Cuban refugees, confessed to the free trips almost immediately, and paid Melgen (whose office contents were seized by the FBI) $58,000 to more than pay for the executive quality of the trips. But he fought the allegations of paying for sex — minors or not.

     The Daily Caller (AKA “DC”), a conservative on-line 24 hour news service, picked up the story and ran with it. Menendez was then called out as tangled in dark allegations by others, including Fox News, Politico and the New York Times.

     Turns out, it was a set up. DC did not do their due diligence. They just reported the story as it was reported to them. As it turns out, the young ladies who testified to their liaison with Menendez had no idea what they were doing. They were paid all right — they were paid to give false reports. They had no idea of who Menendez was; and his claims not to know who they were are correct.

     In Fox’s defense, they didn’t ever appear to embrace the story, and were careful to state that these were merely allegations. Same with Politico and the NY Times.  Still, that type of reporting needlessly ruins careers and they should be admonished.

     For the Daily Caller it’s “DC” for “don’t consider” and “U” for unsubscribe.

     As far as I can tell, the worst thing Menendez has done is decide not to run against real live crook, Goldman-Sachs executive and idiot Jon Corzine in the 2000 NJ Senate primary.

     Shame, shame, shame on DC. I hope they don’t live this down for at least 10 years, unlike Rather and CBS, who are somehow in this Alice-in-Wonderland world back to social respectability. Read it here in the Washington Post.

Economics

Sequester This!

Ok, I admit I was wrong.  The strategy might have been correct, but the tactic was not.

I was thinking that this never-ending financial morass could be approached by finding a way to get everyone to have “skin in the game.”   Where we stand now is that everyone thinks that everyone else is the problem.  For example, here’s President Obama at a press conference today (3/1/2013) to (finally) address the “sequestration.”

“I’m presenting a fair deal. The fact that they don’t take it means that I should somehow, ah, uh, you know, do a Jedi Mind Meld with these folks and convince them to do what’s right.” [4]

Let’s overlook the fact the president somehow mixed Star Wars with Star Trek and observe that it’s really not surprising at all that he is still convinced he’s right and “these folks [Republicans]” are wrong.  It’s emblematic of our nation at large that our leader has not changed his “I’m right; you’re wrong” and “I won; you lost” tune since he took office in 2009 and told the opposition to “eat your peas.”  He’s no better or worse than all of us.

Way back in 2001, when Republicans were gleefully spiking the football after successfully passing the so-called “Bush Tax cuts” – via reconciliation mind you (actually the Economic Growth and Tax Relief Reconciliation Act of 2001) — the taxes paid by many Americans fell to effectively zero.  Many others in the middle class fell so low that, as they say, they had no skin in the game.

Social liberals were screaming about the billionaires’ tax cuts, without mentioning these factoids.  Tax rates fell so much that the percentage of income tax paid by “the rich” (top 1% of earners) went from 29% to 33.7% of all individual income tax collected.  And the top 50% of earners paid virtually 100% of all income tax.[1]

And tax hawks were soon crowing about the fact that government revenues were not significantly affected.  Removing the effects of the 2000-01 recession and the shock waves of the 9/11 attacks, and revenues were back on track with where they had been.  By 2006 and 2007, government tax receipts were at record levels.[2]   

So what happened?  We spent.  And spent. And spent.  The double war adventure cost over $1 trillion. Where did the rest go?  We expanded government.  Raised salaries.  Bush himself had a failed stimulus in May 2008 when he and Treasury persuaded congress to give huge checks to most families and wage earners.  That Republican delusional dump cost us over $150 Billion in one fell swoop.  Who even remembers that, or what they did with the money?[3]   I’m not saying all of that was bad.  What was bad was this: we set up the expectation that someone else would pay for it.  All of it.

 

Now we over-spend and under-tax.  Government spending is up 115% since 2000.  Even with all the “Bush cuts”, revenue is up 43% [2].

 

I think I am still right about “skin in the game.”  The thing is, we need to face this all together, like we handled World War II.  Right up to Pearl Harbor, our population was rife with vehement isolationists and America Firsters.  Yeah, Hitler and Hirohito and el Duce were evil, but it was none of our business.  Then December 7.  We rallied.  We sacrificed.  We rationed everything, from sugar, to metal to gasoline.  For four years.

Now there is no shared sacrifice and a pervasive attitude that it’s someone else, or some other class that needs to pay more in taxes.  It’s the other side (“these people”) who are unreasonable.

It’s not that I was wrong in thinking everyone needs to pay more taxes, this in an effort to get everyone to pay more attention to our government’s dismal budgetary failure as much as raise revenue. It’s that I was silly to think this was remotely possible in the current acrimonious partisan circus we call American politics.

That’s why I’ve come to think that this Sequestration is actually a fantastic idea.  And the weird corollary is that Obama should actually be taking credit for it.

Problem statement: We’ll spend $4 Trillion, but will collect about $3 Trillion in revenue (very round numbers) this year.  Only about 40% of spending is discretionary.  Solution statement: Cut 3% of discretionary spending now.  Then next year, when again there is no meaningful deal, cut another 3%.  Next year, cut another 3%.  At some point there will be real human pain, and justified howls – not the wolf crying we heard from the White House this past week, a feeble and pathetic substitute for actual leadership.

When we all start to feel pain and shame — long TSA lines, defunded highway refurbishment, delayed tax refunds and social security checks, battleships at the bottom of the ocean — American ingenuity, energy and pride will once again kick in.  We’ll pull together and get something done.  We can do it.  We just need one big old embarrassing kick in the pants.

Until then we’ll continue the blame game.  It’s a game we can’t afford to be playing much longer, regardless of who wins.

Keep the faith.

Joe Girard © 2013

Other Essays at Essays

Obama-squestraition-double-speak

[1] Who pays the most income tax? http://usgovinfo.about.com/od/incometaxandtheirs/a/whopaysmost.htm

[2] Summary of Receipts, Outlays and Surpluses or Deficits, 1789-2017; Table 1.1; http://www.whitehouse.gov/omb/budget/Historicals

[3] Republicans’ and Bush’s wasteful delusional stimulus of 2008: http://www.americanprogressaction.org/issues/economy/news/2011/08/31/10212/republicans-loved-stimulus-when-bush-was-in-the-white-house/

[4] President Obama Press Conference, 3/1/13: Jedhi Mindmeld.  http://www.argusleader.com/viewart/20130301/UPDATES/130301017/Videos-Obama-says-he-can-t-Jedi-mind-meld-budget-deal-

Politics

Sequester Gamesmanship

Two bills — each an attempt to head off the so-called “Sequester” — could make it to the Senate floor today … in vain.  Neither has a chance to pass.  The Democrats’ version is somewhat promising; the Republicans’ borders on unconstitutional.

What’s promising?  The Democrats’ version offers sharp cuts in farm subsidies.

What’s borderline unconstitutional?  The Republicans’ version preserves the entire $85Billion in cuts, but assigns the duty of deciding what to cut to the President.  That’s shirking the constitutional duty assigned to them in Article I.

Read the article here.

Uncategorized

Hollywood “educates” America; offers affront to the rest

Hollywood “educates” us again. And manages to “diss” the rest of the world, yet again. How about we educate them for a change? Quote of the day: “Perhaps the real concern is that too many people are getting their only history lessons from Hollywood.”

>>”Hollywood is a lousy history teacher, and Tinsel Town would have it no other way. That’s why “based on a true story” actually translates to “scripted vaguely from a complex historical event that has been shamelessly oversimplified to give a dashing American hero full credit for saving the day, while ensuring the director can film a gratuitous car chase on an airport tarmac.”

Read the rest of the article from Canada’s Globe and Mail here.

Current Events, Politics

Conservatives, meet Classical Liberals

If American Conservatives could find common ground with Classical Liberals, we could see a whole new world.  Maybe this is a start?

By Jessica Chasmar

The Washington Times

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Conservative political commentator S.E. Cupp announced Tuesday that she is declining her invitation to speak at the Conservative Political Action Conference until it allows groups that advocate for gay marriage.

Read the rest > Cupp pulls out of CPAC

Current Events

Stupor Bowl

 

Well, you know that I was quite a sports fan while growing up in the ‘60s.  It seemed like such a healthy distraction.  Living most of the decade in Wisconsin, I was conflicted by familial ties to the Chicago teams, where my paternal ancestral roots lay, and the Wisconsin-based teams of my friends.

A few Packer highlights from Super Bowl I will always be in my mind: Max McGee’s in particular.  First was his one-handed behind-the-back catch of a Bart Starr pass for a touchdown, and later a juggling catch for another dramatic touchdown.  Also, Jim Taylor, and later Elijah Pitts (twice), scoring touchdowns on the classic “Packer Power Sweep.”  [Indeed my recall is pretty good; you can watch some of those plays at the link below].

 

The next year, I remember watching the famous “Ice Bowl” game played on the “frozen tundra” of Lambeau Field – the NFL championship game of 1967 – played in Green Bay, Wisconsin on New Years Eve between the Packers and the Dallas Cowboys at a temperature of -13F degrees.  Or was it -16?  Freaking cold, and windy too.  The winner was to go to play in the 2nd Super Bowl (then known as The Championship of American Professional Football, or something like that) against the AFL champion, the Oakland Raiders.

Since the Bears couldn’t be in those first two Championship Games, I was happy that the Packers were in, and that they won – although I wish the Chiefs and Raiders had been more worthy opponents.

Less memorable was Super Bowl II.  And to be honest, the halftime shows weren’t very memorable either.  Pretty much the tame standard fare, with marching bands moving into various fancy formations.  They played contemporary tunes with banners waving and batons twirling.  Mostly the announcers talking about how the game was progressing with entertainment in the background.  Carol Channing came out in a fur coat and sang a few songs at least once.

One piece of early Super Bowl history entertainment that was pretty “out there” was when Al Hirt and Doc Severinsen (famous trumpeters of the day) had a sort of dueling trumpeters competition.  Al Hirt was a fairly regular halftime entertainer in those days, if I recall correctly.  Dude could blow.

What’s going on today is really “out there.”  I cannot imagine what I would have  been thinking (and wondering and fantasizing) as a 10 to 14-year old lad if I’d had to watch what passes for halftime entertainment in recent Super Bowls.

In case you missed this year’s, I start by saying just three  letters: (1)”S”; (2) “E”, (3) “X”.  Beyonce’ was the focus of the halftime show.  She’s one beautiful woman – amazingly only one year after giving birth – and her attire and gyrations made every effort to show off her voluptuous yet lithe sexy body; and no effort whatsoever to cover even a single centimeter of her sensationally (sensually) tone legs, leaving her exposed pretty much right up to where her legs come together.

Some other female singers (Destiny’s Child) came up on stage with her and gave no relief: just more scantily clad women dressed “to kill” and scintillate. Or titillate.  More legs and scarcely clad torsos.

Really NFL?  Really?  Why do you do this?  Once or twice a year America is on display to the world … and you do this?  And in our country, young men, adolescent and pre-pubescent males, are watching this game – perhaps fantasizing about playing football in the limelight. And now you’ve got ‘em fantasizing about…        <?>; not football.

You could’ve put an end to this BS in 2004 when Jackson/Timberlake had that little “wardrobe malfunction” during a song with the lyrics: “gonna have you naked by the end of this song.” [Rock your Body].  How’d that work out?

It’s a twisted world — with rampant failed relationships, domestic abuse, date rape, no-dad families, socially maladjusted young men — and you are now officially part of the problem.  And shame on Beyonce’ and Destiny’s Child too, for further objectifying women.  I pity the parents who are raising boys who simply enjoy football and have to watch such bilge.  I guess I’m being a bit sexist — there must be some girls who enjoy watching football too, and they have no need for this, do they?

With Beyonce’, I suppose low moral values comes as no surprise, since her husband is Jay-Z.  That’s the guy who “sings” rap full of the “F” word, the “N” word, brags about his net worth, raps about totin’ guns, raping and killing women AND children, pillaging villages … WTF<?>.  And this is the man/wife-team that President Obama goes to hang out with when Benghazi is burning. The team he wants to hang with at his inauguration.  Evidently Michelle and Beyonce’ are all kissy-kissy too.  Oh well.

I’m warming up to that Christian mantra:

I am in this world, but not of this world. (adapted from John 8:23).

     I truly wish you peace, and a safe separation between what you value and what the world thinks you should value.  And I wish that sports could be a safe distraction, once again.


Joe Girard © 2013

 

 

[1] A few videos of early “Super Bowls”: here at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zq8zGCOi0hQ.]
Other essays (and screeds, diatribes, rants) at my old googlesite: essays
or my main Girardmiester site: Essays

 

Economics, Uncategorized
Image

February 23, 2013


Regarding this recent BBC article Abenomics

    First, isn’t it time to admit that Paul Krugman is a total freaking “spend all you want, we’ll print more” ideologue, and an insolent propagator of idiocy who — with some regularity — shames the Nobel committee for selecting him in 2008?

     “Don’t like what’s trending?  Try more spending.”

     “Out of cash, and that sounds rash? Borrow like there’s no tomorrow.” 

     Historically speaking, at least in the US, flat prices to slight deflation were the general rule in this country until we had the Fed.  Why?  Easy: as we became more productive and more efficient, many prices naturally fell. 

     So, what’s good about that scene?  It encourages saving and postponing reward.  If you save a dollar today and it buys $1.01 worth of stuff next year, then why buy something if you don’t really need it?  

     This model avoids bubbles — like the tech bubble that burst in 2000-1 and the housing/stock bubble that burst in 2007-9.  It promotes investing only in things that have a good chance of paying off.  It encourages careful investment and due diligence.

     How many people invested in things they didn’t understand during the roaring 1990s and then again after 9/11 when the market went way up again?

      I’m not saying inflation is bad.  I’m saying planned inflation is bad.  It has the opposite effect.  It encourages buying NOW, since something you might want will almost assuredly be more expensive next month.  It encourages investing NOW, since the market is a bull and running away from you.  In short, it encourages less due diligence and more spontaneous buying and investing, since your savings are constantly losing money.  It discourages saving.

     I’m not saying government profligate spending is bad.  I’m saying that spending for the sake of spending — with faith that “the multiplier effect” will save us— is bad.  The US Federal government’s investing in dams in the 1930s is still paying off today!  And building the interstates system resulted in cheap truck-based transportation of goods from almost anywhere to anywhere in the country for almost 60 years now.

  The myopic belief that government spending leads to economic prosperity is partly rooted in the misguided belief that FDR’s New Deal spending and the even more massive spending during World War II led to the economic rise to powerhouse status of the halcyon 40s, 50s and 60s.

     FDR had his own recession in 1938.  The thing about massive government spending to stimulate the economy is: you don’t really know when to stop.  In the meanwhile, the spending has generated countless powerful special interests who are, literally, addicted to that money.  When FDR backed off a bit, the Depression sat upon us once again.

     World War Two gave us a wonderful economy?  Let’s see.  Couldn’t buy a new car, new tires for that car, or a new house.  Couldn’t buy nylon stockings.  Nor anything made with rubber or steel.

     Gasoline was rationed to four (that’s 4) gallons per week.  Drivers were strongly encouraged to limit speeds to 35mph.  (the Victory Speed!)

     Food? Strict rationing on meat, sugar, and cheese.  Even butter.  Shoes. Coffee.  The list is almost endless.  

     This was economic prosperity?  Sure everyone had a job and was making money.  What did they spend it on?  A lot of it went right back to the government to purchase War Bonds.  There were seven major Bond drives during the war.  And they saved.  They saved for the time when that pent up demand could be freed.

     So what led to great half-century of US economic dominance that followed?  Was it Eisenhower?  Was it the unions?  Was it the 90% marginal tax rate on high earners?  No, no and no.  When all those saved up dollars finally went to buy the cars, the houses, the nylons, the shoes, the bicycles, the dresses and slacks and coats and caps … where did they go?  

     Those dollars went to the only place they could go. To companies — and their employees and share holders — based right in the United States.  Why?  Because every other country that we know of who produces these products today were either non-producing Third World countries then (China, India, Viet Nam, Indonesia), or they had been bombed such that their industry and infrastructure were non-existent.  

     It’s time to call out Inflationists like Krugman — he who has called for an imaginary alien invasion to get the governments of the world to spend, spend, spend; he who called for the Fed’s Greenspan to inflate a housing bubble to get us out of the (mild) economic malaise we were in in 2000-2001.

Here’s to the future.  We certainly can’t go back to the past.  Prost!

Joe Girard © 2013

joe@girardmeister.com

My main essay link is still at: Essays