Category Archives: Biographical

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/

 

 

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.

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

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.  

 

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

_________________________________________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

An older Bill Moog, evidently after a haircut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob Moog, 1954, with his Model 351             Theremin

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

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

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

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

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

__________________________________________________________________________

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

Peace

Joe Girard © 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author’s notes:

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

 

Quick Text Family Tree

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

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

 

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

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

Bob Moog autobio notes: Synthmuseum.com – Moog

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

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] 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

 

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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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.

 

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.

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.

_____________________________________________________________

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.
____________________________________________________________________________

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.

________________________________________________________________________________

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.

______________________________________________

I’ve written about amazing pitching performances in MLB history a few times, for example Can’t Touch This and Last At Bat.  104 years ago today, on June 23, 1917, an amazing pitching performance occurred that is sorta-kinda one of the most amazing No-Hitters and Perfect Games that don’t get recorded as such.

The man was Ernie Shore, a teammate of Babe Ruth’s on the Boston Red Sox.  He is linked to the Babe in other ways besides this particular game against the (first) Washington Senators. Both were earlier sold by the Baltimore Oriole organization to the Boston Red Sox in the same transaction.

[Later, before the 1920 season, the “BoSox” would sell Ruth, known at the time as “The Bambino” to their rival Yankees – even though he had helped lead them to three World Series wins. He was just too expensive and demanding. This became known as “The Curse of the Bambino”, since the BoSox, who had won 5 of the first 15 World Series, did not win another until 86 years later.  Meanwhile, the Yankees won 26 championships, or so, in the same time period.  They had won zero before acquiring Ruth.]

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ernie Shore was a farm boy from the foothills of North Carolina, near North Bend. He was the 2nd of five boys born to Henry and Martha Shore; Ernie arriving in 1891. (My essay about farm boys in MLB here]. Ernie compiled a very respectable record during his four years alongside Ruth on those Red Sox teams, going 58-33.  He also went 3-1 in four World Series starts, helping the BoSoxraves win back-to-back WS victories in 1915 and ’16.

[The Sox won another World Series in 1918, this time without Shore, as he had enlisted in the military to fight in World War 1. When Shore returned, he too, like Ruth, was dealt to the Yankees].

Fenway, pre-Green Monster

The day was June 23, 1917.  Exactly 104 years ago as I write this. World War 1 raged in Europe.  Bodies fell and blood flowed across Flanders.  Fenway Park, the now famous home of the Boston Red Sox, was barely 5 years old.  Its iconic “Green Monster” left field wall was in place, but that nickname came later.  Then, it was just “The Wall”, put up to keep fans and freeloaders off the field.  There were rows of fans in front of the wall.

The woeful Washington Senators were in town for a 5-game series against the Sox, which would include two double-headers.  Such long multi-game series and double-headers (especially on Saturdays) were more common back then, since travel was very  inconvenient.  One of those double-headers might have been a makeup from a weather-caused postponement earlier.

On this fine Saturday, Babe Ruth was the starting pitcher for the Red Sox in the first game of a double-header.  The game’s first batter walked; he was the Senators’ Ray Morgan, a swift-footed second baseman.  Ruth thought both balls 3 and 4 should have been strikes, and he let the umpire know how he felt in no uncertain terms.  In fact, by many reports, the dispute came to blows. Ruth was ejected from the game. So was the Red Sox’s catcher, Pinch Thomas.

Without warmup or warning, Ernie Shore, who was likely scheduled to pitch the backend of the double-header, was called in to pitch.  Sam Agnew, a part-time catcher, substituted for Pinch Thomas.

The situation seemed rather frenetic, and thus opportunistic, to Morgan.  What with the dustup between Ruth and home plate umpire Brick Owens,  the sudden pitching change, and the sudden catcher change, this seemed like a good time to try and steal second base as soon as possible.

He did try.  The new catcher, Agnew, fired the ball across the diamond to second baseman Jack Barry, who then tagged out Morgan.  It was not a good opportunity.

Morgan was the last baserunner the Senators had the entire game.  Ernie Shore retired every batter; 26 up, 26 down.  The Red Sox went on to win, 4-0.   By the way, substitute catcher Agnew went 3 for 3, and knocked in two of the Red Sox’s runs.

This game used to be listed among MLB’s individual no-hitters and perfect games.  But the rules for such things were “shored up” (sorry, pun intended).  It’s now just an interesting game and one of those baseball oddities.  Maybe it wins you a few bar bets.  It is listed now as a “combined no-hitter.”  Babe Ruth steals the headline again.

After World War 1 Shore resumed his career, now with the Yankees.  However, during the winter of 1918-19 he caught a bad bug from his Navy roommate. Perhaps it was the Spanish Flu.  He was bedridden for weeks. It greatly weakened him.  He had a subpar 1919 season by his standards.  He rested and trained for 1920, but the arm strength just wasn’t there. He was sent to the minors in 1921.  He languished there a few seasons, then retired.  He then tried coaching for a while, but Shore didn’t have the body or the heart for baseball anymore.

He moved back to his native North Carolina.  He got married, raised a family, got involved in local youth sports and politics.  He was even sheriff of Forsythe County for 36 years.

Ernie, Thanks for the memories. We might forget you, but the history books will not.

Joe Girard © 2021

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

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)

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, 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.

___________________________________________________________________


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

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

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.

________________________________________________________

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.

_______________________________________________________________________________

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!

_____________________________________________________________________________

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.

___________________________________________________________________________

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.

____________________________________________________________

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.
______________________________________________________________________

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. 
______________________________________-____________________________

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, 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.
 

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

 

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.
    ___________________________________________________________________

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, 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. 

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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

Thanks for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for when there is newly published material by clicking here

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.
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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

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.

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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

 

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

 

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.

 

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
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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.

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, 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.

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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, 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.

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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.

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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.

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<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.

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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
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Joe Girard’s other older essays at essays

 

Final thoughts: Some choice songs:

 

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

 

Table of Contents

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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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.


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!

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.

 

 

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.

_________________________________________________________________________

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.

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

 

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

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, 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).

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

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

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.

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.

 

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.