Wilber, Orville, Howard, and talcum

 (Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images) available here

Maybe it’s a function of the aging process, but more and more I’ve found myself interested in history. I just finished David McCullough’s exquisitely researched history of the Wright Brothers (see Wright Brothers) and am reveling in some new bits of knowledge. The two brothers (and their sister!) were amazing and are iconic examples of what our country was and should be today.

One “aha” from the book: While Wilber was doing demonstrations in France, Orville was carrying the water back here in the States. Trying to secure a contract for their flying machine from the U.S. Government, Orville was handling the demonstrations in Fort Myers, VA. Lieutenant Charles Selfridge was a passenger that day – and sadly became the first victim of an airplane crash as the Wright Flyer fell from the sky after there was a propeller failure. Michigan residents: yes, Selfridge Air Force Base is named for the fallen lieutenant.

Tonight, I was privileged to learn a bit of "I didn't know that" trivia from some oral history. I visited Howard tonight. His son and son’s friend were also there and we reunited after a handful of months since our last visit. Howard was in good spirits, but was having a tough day. He cancelled a lunch because he didn’t feel that he was steady enough to go in public. Nonetheless, he was full of piss and vinegar and shared some stories.

He recalled his relationship with Fielding Yost (a storied icon of University of Michigan sports see Yost), talked about his time camping (he reported eating iguanas!)  and living off the land in Wyoming, and about an amazing story involving his paternal grandfather Perry.

In Michigan’s thumb (some lovingly call Michigan “The Big Mitten”) is a little berg called Mayville. There, Howard’s grandfather was plowing his field behind two horses. Perry was about 21 or 22. A lightning strike suddenly killed the two horses and dropped Perry. After a time, his wife noticed the lack of motion in the field and found Howard’s grandfather unresponsive in the field. She literally dragged him back to the house by his ankles and put him to bed - assuming he’d die soon. Perry revived, mostly. The lightning stole his hearing, knocked out his teeth, and turned his hair stark white. Howard recalled how he’d summon his grandfather to dinner by stomping his foot and pantomiming eating.

The other nugget of oral history came in a conversation with mom. We talk daily – something I enjoy. Apparently when I was around four years of age, our family visited another with children similar in age. I guess the family was fairly well off (he was a physician) and the home was decorated to the best of then (1965?) standards with colorful carpets throughout. That their daughter and I decided to add to the interior design with talc throughout the upstairs wasn’t appreciated.

History.


Your (somewhat) humble correspondent apologies for the long lag between posts . . . it's been a full year.

July, Howard, Art and Frogs

July was busy.

With Independence Day, the Ann Arbor Art Fair, a trip to Wyoming, and various cookouts and golf outings, August arrived like a too early party guest. At least I was able to clear out some overgrown flora and experiment with a basil/jalapeno pickle recipe during that over-packed month.

Recounting my July tonight during a long overdue visit with Howard prompted a delightful set of narratives from my 89 year old friend. He’s noticeably frailer and he made me nervous watching him walk (or should I say teeter?). But a genuine welcome was offered along with his standard invitation to a pour of bourbon and a comfortable chair.

Telling him about the pickles ignited his memories of his family’s garden and annual canning rituals.
They lived on Seventh Street in town (now in an area known as the “Old West Side” replete with quarter acre lots and 1200 square foot homes as unique as Ann Arbor herself). Howard reported that they had a large garden and as many as 75-100 chickens at any one time. “We’d probably can as many as 300 jars of tomatoes, cooked chicken, various vegetables, and fruit each year,” he remembered. “I remembered eating stewed tomatoes, tomato sauce, tomato juice, boiled tomatoes . . . I ended up hating the goddamn things.” For the record, he reported that he now loves them.

He then proceeded share canning tips that included a delightful onomatopoeia to describe the sound of canning lids sealing.

“You know where the Art Fair really started?” barked Howard after I mentioned dealing with the crowds this year. “Fred Ulrich started the Art Fair on South University before anyone else even thought about it.” Howard recounted that in the late Fifties, the Ann Arbor merchants would annually hold Bargain Days on Main Street and State Street but would exclude the South University merchants. According to Howard, Fred (the founder of Ulrich’s Bookstore – from whom Howard eventually purchased the business) decided to counter this snub by starting a juried art fair. “The goddamn people running it now pretend they were the first – we were!” At the first South University fair there were two tents. “J.T. Abernathy was one of the original exhibitors – I still see him every week at Metzger’s for lunch.”

Abernathy remains a celebrated potter – see J.T. Abernathy

More than a few times, Howard’s ordinarily animated narratives slowed and he struggled to put order to his memories. “I’m an old man,” he sighed.

I told him he was, "an old son-of-a-bitch." He roared.

I let him know about my trip to Wyoming and the float down the Snake River. “In 1944, some of my Army buddies and I took our leave along the Snake River,” started my friend. “All we brought was some oil, flour, salt, pepper, fishing poles and tents.” Howard described a two week adventure along the river where they lived off the land. The animation in his face remembering that time was inspiring.

Maybe my biggest delight from our conversation was confirmation of something reported to me in the early 1990s by a then septuagenarian. As reported in a 2011 post in this blog, "Jesse and Rose", there was a particular enterprise involving bull frogs that was supposedly common among youth. After telling Howard about an earlier trip to Wyoming and recounting the story from that blog post, a wry look came across his face and he admitted doing the same thing.

And the whipping he got from his father.


South University Art Fair image by Milton Kemnitz from Link to image

"You double-dealing, ring-tailed old son of a bitch!"

You know those moments when you realize that you are involved in something truly special?

Over the last five days I’ve stolen every moment I could to read Harper Lee’s Go Set a Watchman: A Novel with the end dished up at lunch today. I’ll try not to spoil anyone’s read; where to start?

The prose is so elevated over most of the modern fiction I’ve read over the last ten years – how much more could we learn about Maycomb (and Miss Lee’s South) than what is offered in these passages?

Home was Maycomb County, a gerrymander some seventy miles long and spreading thirty miles at its widest point, a wilderness dotted with tiny settlements the largest of which was Maycomb, the county seat. Until comparatively recently in its history, Maycomb County was so cut off from the rest of the nation that some of its citizens, unaware of the South’s political predilections over the past ninety years, still voted Republican. No trains went there—Maycomb Junction, a courtesy title, was located in Abbott County, twenty miles away. Bus service was erratic and seemed to go nowhere, but the Federal Government had forced a highway or two through the swamps, thus giving the citizens an opportunity for free egress. But few people took advantage of the roads, and why should they? If you did not want much, there was plenty. (Location 86)

And:

Dog days in Maycomb meant at least one revival, and one was in progress that week. It was customary for the town’s three churches—Methodist, Baptist, and Presbyterian—to unite and listen to one visiting minister, but occasionally when the churches could not agree on a preacher or his salary, each congregation held its own revival with an open invitation to all; sometimes, therefore, the populace was assured of three weeks’ spiritual reawakening. Revival time was a time of war: war on sin, Coca-Cola, picture shows, hunting on Sunday; war on the increasing tendency of young women to paint themselves and smoke in public; war on drinking whiskey—in this connection at least fifty children per summer went to the altar and swore they would not drink, smoke, or curse until they were twenty-one; war on something so nebulous Jean Louise never could figure out what it was, except there was nothing to swear concerning it; and war among the town’s ladies over who could set the best table for the evangelist. Maycomb’s regular pastors ate free for a week also, and it was hinted in disrespectful quarters that the local clergy deliberately led their churches into holding separate services, thereby gaining two more weeks’ honoraria. This, however, was a lie. (Location 671)

Readers of To Kill a Mockingbird may find some familiar characters’ epilogues unsettling – saddening actually. There is also an inconsistency between the two books - don't let it distract you. But seeing many of Miss Lee's characters aged some twenty years is a happy reunion to this reader. And there are constants. Atticus, suffering from rheumatoid arthritis, responds characteristically with, “The only remedy for this is not to let it beat you.” (Location 122)

And, while we are on the subject of Atticus Finch, don’t believe the media – he’s not racist.

Moreover, his daughter, throughout the book, is alternately “Scout” and “Jean Louise” – and she is a remarkable foil to the evolving culture of Miss Lee’s South. The character is both frustrating and inspiring – and fully lovable.

Jean Louise’s Uncle Jack Finch serves both as a Greek chorus and as a broker of realpolitik. In a conversation with Jean Louise, he argues that tenant farmers and field hands no longer exist – they’ve gone to the factories – he suggests that their current lot is worse than their previous:

Dr. Finch pulled his nose. “Those people are the apples of the Federal Government’s eye. It lends them money to build their houses, it gives them a free education for serving in its armies, it provides for their old age and assures them of several weeks’support if they lose their jobs—”

“Uncle Jack, you are a cynical old man.”

“Cynical, hell. I’m a healthy old man with a constitutional mistrust of paternalism and government in large doses. Your father’s the same—”

“If you tell me that power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely I will throw this coffee at you.”

“The only thing I’m afraid of about this country is that its government will someday become so monstrous that the smallest person in it will be trampled underfoot, and then it wouldn’t be worth living in. The only thing in America that is still unique in this tired world is that a man can go as far as his brains will take him or he can go to hell if he wants to, but it won’t be that way much longer.” (Location 2240)

If you are going to read the book or have started, you might want to skip through the next quotation.

The turmoil builds beautifully and this reader’s heart hung heavily through many pages. Finally, Miss Lee lets us know things will be okay with this exchange between Jean Louise and Atticus:

“Atticus?”

“Ma’am?”

“I think I love you very much.”

She saw her old enemy’s shoulders relax, and she watched him push his hat to the back of his head.

“Let’s go home, Scout. It’s been a long day. Open the door for me.”

She stepped aside to let him pass. She followed. (Location 3141)

Thank you Miss Lee – this was a joyful read.



All quotes taken from the Kindle Edition, Go Set a Watchman: A Novel by Harper Lee, published by HarperCollins Publishers 

Image from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Go_Set_a_Watchman
 

Memorial Day

I’m happily wiping a tear or two while listening to the National Memorial Day Concert on PBS. Similarly, I’ve choked up reading the various postings from friends about lost family members, about tributes such as “Rolling Thunder” (http://www.dodlive.mil/index.php/2015/05/8-things-you-may-not-know-about-rolling-thunder/) and thinking about the service of so many friends and relatives to our great country.

In many circles, it seems that patriotism is being discarded and discounted – treated as jingoism at best, racism at worst (well, living near Ann Arbor does expose me to some significant biases). 

What is patriotism?

I defer to Mark Twain’s assessment:  “Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it.”  We live in the greatest country in the history of the world. Is it a perfect country? Nope. Does every citizen who makes him or herself aware of the direction our political leaders chart have a complaint? I expect so.

Because of forward thinking of our founders and the sacrifices of our veterans, we can voice our complaints. The First Amendment was established to allow us to complain about our government, express our opinions, publish newspapers, and investigate politicians.

Unfortunately, there is a growing movement to stifle speech. Speakers are shouted down on college campuses because they are neither politically correct nor expedient. The homes of campus writers who don’t toe the line are vandalized (see: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/12/16/omar-mahmood-vandalism_n_6336158.html).

Don’t take my word for it, see Kirsten Power’s book: The Silencing.  Ms. Powers was Deputy Assistant U.S. Trade Representative for Public Affairs in the Clinton administration from 1993-1998 and subsequently worked in various administrative roles including press secretary, communications consultant and party consultant.  Today, she’s a columnist, pundit, and self-described “life-long liberal.”

Or, read Mark Steyn’s essays detailing the assault on freedom of speech (e.g., http://www.steynonline.com/section/71/defend-free-speech) if you are more comfortable reading a conservative tract.

(Speaking of conservatives, I’ve always chuckled when hearing/reading the late William F. Buckley’s line: “Liberals claim to want to give a hearing to other views, but then are shocked and offended to discover that there are other views.”)

I don’t want to pick a partisan fight. I want to celebrate – without apology – the men and women who have defended our country up to and including giving their lives. A line from the concert broadcast made a whole lot of sense: “No one comes back from war unwounded.”

God bless and guide the United States of America, its citizens, and its leaders. And Lord, please invest a little more time guiding the leaders.


Flag photograph reported to be in the public domain

A good cry . . .

Recent heart-tuggers tastefully paraded around the internet include a young woman with inoperable brain cancer playing collegiate level basketball – and the opposition accommodating her by agreeing to move the game up and ceding home court advantage. Oh, and don’t forget the young men who suspended their own basketball game because one of their cheerleaders, a young woman with Down’s syndrome, was being bullied. And the dignified honor guard afforded by Delta tarmac workers for returning remains of lost U.S. soldiers (and a military service dog lost as well).

Oh yeah, I’m a crier. Sure, I shoot guns, hunt big game, waterfowl and upland birds. I drive a pickup truck and I’m that friend who remains calm during trying times and can hold it together at funerals.

Just don’t look at my eyes during certain television ads (especially at Christmas) or during performances of the University of Michigan Men’s Glee Club (I’m currently their faculty adviser and get to mentor these remarkable young men). For some reason, the happy occasions and joyful portrayals evoke more tears than the devastating and sad . . . who knows why?

Tonight, I traded emails and photos with my longtime friend and fellow Labrador Retriever fan Kathy (although she remains a misguided adherent to the mutant “yellow” versions of the breed). She and I would trade Lab-sitting duties to accommodate travel and our dogs became fast friends. Her mis-colored buddy was named Teal; Shakespeare was my ebony companion. Both Teal and Shakey have left us (or as we hopefully believe, await us at the Rainbow Bridge) and from time to time the thought of those two bandits evoke a tear or two.

I miss having a dog. Of course the natural question of why not getting another is a fair query. I don’t have a puppy friendly schedule nor a local friend like Kathy to help fill in the gaps (she's now in New York). I’m not telling dog lovers a thing when I laud how having a pooch makes life better . . . they are happy dependents who celebrate every moment with their human.

There was the time that I had both dogs for an overnight – at the end of a very long week, I let them out for their last “piddle” of the day – usually accompanied by a lap around the house to assure all was right in the world (both could be trusted to stay on property). I made the mistake of sitting down and immediately fell asleep. After waking up at 3 am, I found the two of them sitting quietly by the door – covered in dew.

Of course, Retrievers retrieve. Kathy and I laughed a ton when we kept asking the two of them to “go get it” and the dogs picked up everything they could find on the floor and delivered it to me – I think my lap was full of 10 shoes, two remotes, a couple pairs of socks, one book, and a golf ball.

It was both hard and correct when I said, “goodbye” to Shakey. He had lost a fair amount of mobility; his teeth lost their pearl; bowels were no longer dependable; he could barely eat. Most of all, I remember his eyes – for 14 years bright and happy . . . then clouded and sad.

The first photo featured with this post is of Teal, Shakey, and Keota (the puppy) . . . Kathy and I started tonight's exchange after she posted a picture of Keota and the younger Rowan (the other mis-colored Lab). Kathy referred to Keota as the “old dog” . . . yet I remember nuzzling a scamp puppy named Keota.

Time goes on. May I have a tissue?

Migration Surpise

Prior to my current role at the University of Michigan, I worked with Ducks Unlimited – a non-profit conservation organization begun before focusing on the environment was cool. From its website:

Ducks Unlimited is the world's leader in wetlands and waterfowl conservation.

DU got its start in 1937 during the Dust Bowl when North America’s drought-plagued waterfowl populations had plunged to unprecedented lows. Determined not to sit idly by as the continent’s waterfowl dwindled beyond recovery, a small group of sportsmen joined together to form an organization that became known as Ducks Unlimited. (http://www.ducks.org/about-du?poe=hometxt)

During my tenure with DU, I learned about conserving wetlands (inspiration for what’s happened here at the farm), waterfowl biology, how habitat fragmentation contributes to predator success, migration patterns and other duck-notes. I remain proud of my association with the organization and continue to attend various fundraisers staged by the group.

Today, the notion of migration patterns arose as I had a serendipitous event while deviating from my own migration pattern. Okay, it’s more like a nice surprise after changing my routine.

For years, on the way home from work, I’d stop at a certain watering hole where I met my friend Howard (who turns 89 next month) and numerous bandits, scallywags, pirates, and other folks I proudly call friends. Due to some management changes and what I considered ill-advised business decisions, I went from “regular” to occasional customer. So be it.

Today was one of those occasions when I was a customer. My pal Renae was tending bar, Jarret held court at the bar’s eastern end, Rob was to the north, and Tom, a long-time Ann Arbor restaurateur and friend, anchored the south side (obviously, a U-shaped configuration). I settled in with my pen and crossword, kibitzed with Renae about her children, Tom about U-M sports, and Jarret about how the day was treating us. The chat diminished and I focused on Will Shortz’s latest effort to frustrate us crossword nerds.

Howard, holding court flanked by Jarret, Karen, and his son.

Twenty minutes or so later, I successfully set the puzzle aside and started scanning the rest of the paper. Shortly thereafter, a voice beckoned, “Send that puzzle over so I can check your work.” There was only one person who routinely razzed me in that way: Howard.

Sure enough, my friend was being helped onto the bar stool by his son and his wink told me he was in good spirits and happy to be out and about. Renae chased around the bar to embrace him; Jarret was smiling ear-to-ear; I waited behind Renae for my own hug.

He complimented me on the soup I had dropped at his house and scolded assurances that I should stop by anytime. It was great to see him out, as hale as I’ve seen in a while, and enjoying the energy of a room full of well-wishers.

My phone rang and a small but important errand arose. I left as Howard and his son were starting dinner; Jarret and the rest of the bandits were in high spirits, and my smile helped guide me home.


Duck image reported to be in the public domain and available here: Duck Picture