Dr. Jack

Of Mice and Men

The best laid plans o’ mice an’ men go oft awry.

–Robert Burns, 1786

We’re in the depths of winter here in Wisconsin, and respite from the cold weather is proving hard to come by. The temperatures have been below zero on most days, with the wind-chill numbers dipping even lower. I’ve grown my winter beard, but my morning walks have been bracing, to say the least. Plus, every time we start to feel as if Covid is behind us, that deadly and shape-shifting virus rears its ugly head once again. The result has been that many of our plans for the winter have had to change.

Last Friday, I was supposed to attend a party hosted by my employers from Kilkarney Golf Club. They had come up with the creative idea of providing dinner and a different sort of entertainment at a bar in Stillwater, Minnesota, a short distance from here. The featured activity at this bar, called The Lumberjack, is axe throwing. Apparently, that is a real thing these days, although I’ve never done it myself. I was so excited about taking part in this unusual competition that I tried to figure out how to practice this esoteric art form. I had sold my axe when we moved from Nashville, so I was forced to practice with my chainsaw. I figured, they’re both used to cut down trees aren’t they? The neighbors became alarmed when they saw a whirring, sharp-toothed implement flying across my backyard, so I had to “cease and desist,” in the words of the court order. My stepson, Ben, a doctor, expressed dismay over the fact that I planned to attend, but I argued, “What could possibly be dangerous about being in a crowded bar with drunken 22-year-old people throwing axes?” Then I realized that he was talking about Covid, which has been rampant up here, so I had to bow out.

We’ve also received several pieces of bad news from friends. In December, our son-in-law, Kevin was told he needed quadruple bypass surgery because of heart problems. He had the operation in early January, and he and Kristin were unable to visit us during the holidays as we had originally planned. The good news is that he came out of it in good shape and is now mending well. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I learned that a friend of mine from Chicago had died. I had known Mort for forty years or so, and he was married to a good friend I’ve known for even longer. Mort was an interesting guy, and I always knew I was in for a fun evening when I saw him. He also was rather unconventional by modern standards. For many years, he refused to get a driver’s license. Where he lived, on the South Side of Chicago, public transportation was available and for years he could get along without driving. I think he finally caved and learned to drive, but he was probably into his forties when that occurred. He also rarely had a traditional sort of job. For a long time, he ran a sports book as his primary source of income, taking bets, setting odds and all of that. Later in life, he also bought a little neighborhood bar in the suburb of Burbank, where I lived during my high-school years. The sports-book endeavor was especially surprising since his brother-in-law was the chief of police of Burbank (and my college roommate). I was never sure how they worked all of that out. Mort was also a stubborn guy who refused to go to doctors. He had a painful knee ailment, but refused to ever have it looked at. That refusal might have been his ultimate downfall, though. He probably died from Covid, but still would not go to a doctor or hospital, so it was never officially diagnosed. Mort was a great guy and he will be missed.

The last piece of bad news reached us in a strange way. Our friend Mary was a teacher with Kathleen in the ‘70s. She served as a mentor for her and they remained Christmas-card friends for many years. About 18 years ago, we visited with Mary and her husband, Bill. Bill was a Cub fan and history teacher, like me, so we hit it off right away. Bill died in 2019, but we stayed in contact with Mary, and she sent me some of Bill’s Cubs memorabilia. In 2020, just before Covid hit, she invited us to use her winter home in Punta Gorda, Florida. Kathleen and I stayed there for a week and had a wonderful time. Last summer, we had a great dinner with her in her suburban Chicago home, catching up with an old friend. At that time, she offered us her Florida home for a full month and refused to take any money for our stay. We planned to go there for the month of February. That was Mary’s most striking characteristic—her kindness. She used to be a nun, and she was always generous with her time, money, and possessions. After Bill died, she thought about selling the Florida place, but decided to keep it, primarily so that she could lend it to her friends for a month at a time. This is a wonderful home, a short walk from a golf course and stores, with a screened back yard, complete with heated pool. She kept up the utilities, cable, maintenance, etc. just so her friends and relatives could enjoy the home when they wanted. As of last week, we still had not heard from Mary, nor had she replied to Kathleen’s Christmas letter. By way of the internet, Kathleen discovered that she had died in December. We knew she had cancer, but the surprising news still hit us both pretty hard.

Okay, this is the part where I display my shallow, self-centered personality. After hearing about Mary’s death, I had a brief George Costanza moment. In this scenario, I could picture me, in my George persona, showing up at Mary’s viewing and saying to the family, “You know, Mary said we could stay at her place for February. Do you think you could delay putting it on the market until March?”

Alas, even I am not capable of such a callous act, and we had to scramble to rearrange our February plans. Instead of our month in sunny Florida, we will remain in Wisconsin for most of the month. Our frozen winter will be broken only by a visit with Kathleen’s step-mother in Southern Illinois, followed by a trip to see Kristin and Kevin in Huntsville, Alabama. We still hope to go on a spring trip to Europe for a Viking cruise with Kristin and Kevin, but we’ll have to see if Covid will cooperate with those plans. As usual, Bobby Burns knew what he was talking about.

Yes, Virginia . . .

We believe what we’re told we’re supposed to believe,

We believe what we want, or we believe what we see.

–from my song, King of the Classroom

Christmas is right around the corner, and many parents are wrestling with the dilemma of what to tell their inquisitive children who are beginning to doubt the existence of Santa Claus. In 1897, an 8-year old girl named Virginia O’Hanlon wrote a letter to the New York Sun seeking a definitive answer to her question, “Is there a Santa Claus?” A reporter named Francis P. Church responded with a famous, uncredited editorial by saying, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.” It was a great seasonal sentiment, typical of the Victorian Age, and his response became the most reprinted editorial in history.

Our grandson Lucas, also 8 years old, is a sweet boy who will undoubtedly cling to his childhood beliefs for as long as possible. Last week, as he eagerly helped us hang ornaments on our tree, we explained that we bought each of the decorated items during our various travels, and each ornament carries special memories of a place we had visited together. He nodded and said sagely, “Yes; Christmas is the time for memories.” In contrast to Luke’s enthusiasm, his older sister Abigail, is reluctant to partake in anything that smacks of sentimentality. She developed a pronounced eye-roll about the time she started pre-school and probably gave up her belief in Santa, the tooth-fairy, and the Easter bunny around the same time. Abigail is 11, and already a strong skeptic on pretty much everything. I feel sorry for her Catholic-school teachers when they get to religion classes.

Meanwhile, a new conspiracy theory has taken hold in America. Since 2017, the “Birds Aren’t Real” movement has spread across the country. The essence of the theory is that all birds have been replaced by government-controlled drones for the purpose of spying on Americans. This spying, purportedly, all began as a CIA plot back in the 1970s, and the mechanical birds recharge themselves by resting on powerlines. In attempt to make people aware of this menace, information and the slogan “Birds Aren’t Real” have appeared on T-shirts, billboards in major cities, and on social media outlets such as Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube. The group has held well-attended protests when they burned a Cardinal flag beneath the St. Louis Arch and when they demanded that Twitter stop using a bird as their logo.

Before you start shouting, “I knew it!” and asking where you can learn more, I should tell you that it’s all an elaborate hoax. The movement is a parody of the various other theories into which people have bought over the past few years. The whole idea, begun by a disillusioned college drop-out named Peter McIndoe, is to poke fun at the numerous “Big Lies” currently circulating and see how many people will go for the bait. The “Big Lie” is a tactic used effectively by Adolf Hitler and Joe McCarthy, even before the spate of lies that proliferated over the past few years. Like those luminaries, the Birds Aren’t Real perpetrators made up a lie so preposterous that people laughed the first time they heard it. They told it so often, and with such conviction, however, that many people who lack the ability to think critically began to believe it. McIndoe came up with and elaborated on the idea after watching helplessly as people bought into incredible lies such as: Hillary Clinton controlled a child-sex ring, Barack Obama is not an actual American, vaccines of all sorts are dangerous, Biden stole the election from Trump (the latest polls show that 60% of Republicans actually believe this one), the January 6^th terrorists who tried to kill Mike Pence and end democracy were actually just tourists enjoying a stroll through the Capital, and Covid isn’t a serious problem, despite 800,000 deaths. If people will believe those things, he thought, they might even believe that birds aren’t real. It was, as a BAR organizer explained, “fighting lunacy with lunacy.”

Birds Aren’t Real today has many thousands of followers across the country. How many of those are true believers and how many are “in” on the joke is impossible to say, but McIndoe was always conscious of not going too far, lest the naïve minds who accepted those other lies actually buy into his. “Dealing in the world of misinformation for the past few years, we’ve been really conscious of the line we walk,” he said. “The idea is meant to be preposterous, but we make sure nothing we’re saying is too realistic.” Ultimately, he hoped that it would cause people to examine the conspiracy theories and beliefs to which they adhere.

This all reminds me of the old fable, The Emperor’s New Clothes. This folktale, which dates back to the 1300s, has a vain emperor falling for a scam presented by two con men. They sell him a magical suit of clothes that are supposed to be made of the most magnificent cloth in the world, but, they say, the cloth is invisible to those who are stupid. No one, including the emperor, wants to admit their lack of intelligence, so they all go along with the scam, pretending to see the wonderful cloth and even praising it. Finally, as the emperor marches in a grand parade to display his new clothes, a child yells out “He’s naked!” and they all realize what fools they’ve been. (The child was probably Abigail.) All, that is, except the arrogant emperor, who continues to walk proudly, head held high.

I guess McIndoe is hoping for the same sort of result. “Yes, we have been intentionally spreading misinformation for the past four years,” he said, “but it’s with a purpose. It’s about holding up a mirror to America in the internet age.” The ultimate message of Birds Aren’t Real is: If it sounds crazy, it probably is.

Eight-year-old Virginia, as all children eventually do, probably grew up, started to think critically about things, and gave up her belief in Santa Claus. Even the Bible (King James version, 1 Corinthians 13:11) says, “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” The “Yes, Virginia” editorial was perfect for its day and for a long time after that. Today, however, perhaps we need a new editorial, one with a little more truth, to combat the farcical nonsense in which many people believe. Today’s editorial should read something like, “Yes, Virginia, Trump lost the election by a wide margin, Barack Obama was born in the U.S., and vaccines will save your life and that of many others.”

‘Tis the Season

With Thanksgiving behind us, and Christmas bearing down like a category 5 hurricane, the holiday season is in full swing. Here in River Falls, a festival called River Dazzle officially ushered in the Christmas season.

Even before Thanksgiving, our little Happy Hour group of retirees had an fun gathering on November 17. On that day, I performed my first actual show in 35 years. Our friends, Dave and Nancy, offered their commodious garage—complete with fake chandelier—for the day’s entertainment. Daughter-in-law Amber joined us, and she had the school bus drop the grandkids off at our house rather than theirs, so they were able to be there as well. I love the fact that, in a small town, you can make that sort of change with a simple note or a phone call. One couple, David and Jan, brought some excellent homemade wine. The day before, David called to ask if he could bring a few bottles. I said of course and suggested that I would only sound better if the audience was lubricated with spirits. He replied, “I don’t have that much wine.” I had a blast singing some of my old songs as well as some I have never performed before. With two full years to practice, I slid back into the performing role fairly easily. Someone told me afterward that, when I finished, there was an attempted standing ovation. However, at our age, getting quickly out of those folding camping chairs is not an easy task, and the attempt fizzled. The only real difference I noticed was that my voice began to strain after about 75 minutes, whereas I held out for four hours in my last show in 1986. C’est donc avec la viellese (“So it is with old age.”)

After a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn’t be beat at Ben and Amber’s house, we planned to lie low the next day. About noon on Friday, however, I recalled that River Dazzle would be held downtown that day. River Dazzle is another annual event in River falls. (Have I mentioned that this town knows how to throw a party?) The town celebrates the official start of the Christmas season with trolley rides, hot chocolate, games, and face-painting for the kids, a parade featuring Mr. and Mrs. Claus, and it all culminates with the lighting of the Christmas lights in the trees along the median of Main Street. Like everything else, many of the usual activities associated with River Dazzle had been cancelled or reduced last year due to Covid, so two years of pent-up energy was waiting to be unleashed on the town this year.

The central event of the day is the “Chili Crawl.” This is a contest pitting 15-20 downtown businesses against each other in making the best batch of that cold-weather staple, chili. Groups of friends and families roam the 2-3 blocks of Main Street, ducking into the various businesses which are involved in the competition. The crawlers carry yellow scorecards and rate the various concoctions according to their own personal taste and criteria. At the end of the day, prizes are announced for both the cooks and the tasters.

What turns this simple contest into a wild event, however, is the fact that most of the contestants happen to be bars, pubs, bistros, saloons, and taverns along Main Street. Thus, many of the groups doing the judging taste their little samples of chili, mark their scorecards, and order something from the bar. Then they move to the next pub and repeat the process. That’s where the “crawl” part of the day comes in. There are perhaps a dozen drinking establishments along Main Street, and most of them participate in the Chili Crawl. You can purchase a special blue cup at the beginning of the day, and obtain refills at any participating bar for $2. For this day only, people are allowed to take their blue cups out of the bars and into the streets. The contest begins at 1:00 and runs until 5:00. By about 2:00, the downtown streets resound with merriment. Groups of happy revelers slip in and out of bars, blue cups and yellow scorecards in hand, with their plastic tasting spoons tucked behind their ears or into a head-band of some sort.

Kathleen and I arrived on the scene about 12:30, slightly ahead of the craziness. We had lunch and a beer in one of our favorite haunts, The Mainstreeter Bar and Grill. The scent of chili brewing in a large slow-cooker in the back of the room filled the air. About the time we finished, the tasters began to stream in. These initial groups were rather sedate and serious about their task, intending to taste and grade chili in every one of the participating businesses. We had already decided that we would eschew the tasting contest this year. Two years ago, in our only other River Dazzle experience, good intentions soon deteriorated into lethargy as we decided to skip the chili and simply find a comfortable barstool from which to enjoy the madness. This year, we didn’t even pick up a scorecard: we would be spectators and people-watchers, rather than actual participants.

Our next stop was Johnnie’s, a comfortable bar that we had discovered during the summer. It’s a bit of an “old school” type of place as they don’t take credit cards and no food is served. They do, however, encourage people to bring food in from outside or have it delivered. They also have a spacious back room that is lent to groups free of charge, making it a favorite spot for local groups to meet. As it was still early, we easily found a place at the bar, ordered drinks, and talked with a woman who had come from out of town just for River Dazzle. Soon after we arrived, the place began to fill up with crawlers in search of chili and others just looking for a party. They both found what they sought. While sipping our drinks, we decided that we should explore a bar that we had never before visited. You know me: always looking to broaden my horizons. As we left Johnnie’s we saw a group of high-school carolers dressed in Victorian clothes that looked straight out of a Dicken’s story. They are a great choir with excellent harmonies. During Covid, they came to our cul-de-sac and sang Christmas carols from the street, so it was nice to see them in full operation again.

Our next stop was Emma’s. From the street, Emma’s looks like a thousand dives I had seen in Chicago: about 30 feet wide and 100 feet deep, squeezed between two other businesses. In my mind, I pictured an apathetic old woman, cigarette dangling from her mouth, standing behind the bar, and coughing just often enough to let you know she was still alive. Instead, the place had a warm feel as soon as we entered. Actually, the first thing we noticed was an odd smell. We realized that, in order to distinguish themselves from all of the other chilis in the contest, they had added limburger or one of the other varieties of “stinky” cheeses to the mix. We soon adjusted to the odor, grabbed some beers and selected a table from which we could watch the parade of tasters as they came through the door. It was especially fun to watch the kids. As each one entered, they immediately covered up their noses or made a face that indicated they did not find the cheese odor pleasing. Many simply did an about face and left without tasting the chili. Even without the children, though, a steady stream of people came in, tasted the chili, and had a drink before leaving. People entered singing and laughing and left the same way, dressed in their holiday finery. We saw garish sweaters designed to test the boundaries of bad taste; there were gaudy green-and-red hats, some designed to look like Christmas trees; there were red tights and green lamé pants; many had battery packs that kept strings of brightly colored bulbs twinkling on and off; one had a shirt of bright red poinsettias festooned with green Christmas lights; some wore ornaments as earrings; one wore a fat strand of metallic garland as if it were a feather boa. And many of the women were also dressed up.

Eventually, feeling the effect of too many beers, we headed out. We ran into several friends and neighbors on the street, which added to the festive feel of the day. So, even though we didn’t stick around to see the parade or the lights, were able to nestle all snug in our bed that night, assured that Christmas was just around the corner.

Eat, Drink, and Be Scary

This Sunday, October 31, the annual holiday of Halloween will be celebrated in the US, Europe, and other places around the world. Across the country, you will see the symbols of Halloween, including witches, black cats, bats, Jack ‘O Lanterns, skeletons, and ghosts. Being a nerdy historian, I’ve always been interested in the origins of such things, and I used to incorporate some of this info into my classes.

The celebration of Halloween began many centuries ago. About the time of Jesus’ birth, the Celtic people of the British Isles celebrated a festival called Samhain (pronounced Sow-in) on October 31 on the Roman calendar. The next day, November 1, marked the New Year of the Celts (according to some sources). This holiday came after the summer, when the harvest was completed, and the dark, cold winter began. Because many people without adequate food or warm homes died during the winter, Samhain was also associated with death. It was believed that on the day before the new year began, the lines between the living and dead were blurred and ghosts of the deceased were able to return and roam the Earth. Thus the symbols of Samhain were ghosts, skeletons, and pumpkins, which representing the successful harvest. The pumpkins were often carved into grotesque faces, as might be seen on partially decomposed corpses of the recently dead.

Britain and Northern France, where Samhain took place, eventually came under the control of the Roman Empire. When the Empire fell, in the late 400s, the Catholic Church stood as the only unifying factor across Europe. Between the 600s and 1000, the Church devoted much effort to converting the Celts and other pagan people to Catholicism and getting them to leave their traditional beliefs behind. At some point, in an attempt to win over those people, Church officials hit upon the ingenious plan of combining Catholic holy days with the festivals celebrated by the non-Christian peasants. In late December, on a day near the Winter Solstice, when the tilt of the Earth made for short days and long, cold nights, superstitious, pagan people were worried that the sun would not return to help their crops grow. They made sacrifices to the gods to persuade them to bring back the sun and its life-giving warmth. No one knew exactly when Jesus of Nazareth was born, so the Catholic Church moved the celebration of his birth to the end of the year in order to coincide with this festival. They also moved Easter, the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus after his crucifixion, to the spring, at which time many pagans celebrated the planting of crops and the birth of livestock. Even today, many Christians will go to church services to celebrate the return of Jesus to life, then go home and hunt for colored eggs hidden by a Harvey-like bunny rabbit. Thus, we see a bizarre juxtaposition of symbols for Easter: sacred Christian ceremonies, followed by pagan rituals. Both the egg, representing new birth, and rabbits, animals known for their prolific reproductive abilities, were pagan fertility symbols.

So, how did Halloween fit into this pattern? I already mentioned Samhain and the various autumnal festivals celebrated by peasants. On that night, bonfires were lit and sacrifices were made to appease the gods and help the family and livestock survive the long winter. Moreover, it was believed that the souls or spirits of dead relatives walked the earth seeking hospitality that night, so a place was set at the dinner table for them. In imitation of this activity, people dressed in costumes (a practice called “guising, from which comes the modern word “disguise”) and went door-to-door reciting verses in exchange for food on behalf of the dead. That’s where we get the tradition of Trick-or-Treating. The Catholic Church, trying to convert pagans, moved two holy days to the beginning of November. In the 800s, November 1 became All Saints Day, the day to remember and celebrate those who had been canonized by the Church, and November 2 became All Souls Day, a day to pray for the souls of dead relatives. All Saint’s Day was also known as All Hallows Day in Britain, so the night before was called “All Hallows Evening.” This phrase was eventually contracted to “Hallows Ev’n,” and then “Halloween.” Once again, the sacred holy day fused with the pagan festival.

So we’ve covered ghosts, skeletons, and Jack ’O Lanterns, but what about some of those other venerable symbols of this fall holiday? Witches, with tall pointed hats, hunched over boiling caldrons of steaming liquid are forever associated with Halloween. This image of evil women with magical powers who consorted with the devil and put curses on people grew out of a practice that was much more innocuous. Along with other duties associated with the home, brewing beer in a large iron caldron was considered women’s work throughout the Middle Ages. In an age when most drinking water was tainted with various disease-inducing impurities, consuming beer was considered a healthy way to ingest needed nutrients. With a life-expectancy of less than 40 years, husbands often died young, leaving women to try to eke out a living by themselves. For many widows, the only marketable skill they had was making beer. So they made their way to the market place with caldron in tow, and sold beer in a booth, wedged between the wool producer and the cheese maker. In order to be seen among the crowds of men, they began wearing tall, pointed, black hats. Today, no self-respecting witch would be seen in public without such a chapeau. Often, brewers kept a black cat in their home to catch the mice and rats who ravaged their grain.

The Wizard-of-Oz image of witches as ugly hags who are up to no good started in the 1500s. In fact, if we’re being precise, it started on Halloween, October 31, 1517. On that day, Martin Luther nailed a sheet of paper listing his 95 complaints about corruption within the Catholic Church onto the church door in Wittenberg, Germany. That seemingly simple act ignited a firestorm known as the Protestant Reformation which started new branches of Christianity and pitted Protestants versus Catholics in violent conflict for over a century. Hundreds of thousands died in these religious wars, each side believing that their view of Christianity was the true faith—and they were willing to slaughter each other to prove their point. (So much for “Thou shalt not kill.”) Caught in the middle of this sanguinary struggle were those poor women trying to make a living as they always had, by making and selling beer. Each side tried to show their religious purity by enforcing gender norms, including the one that said only males should be active in the marketplace. The Inquisition and various propaganda campaigns painted widows and single women as dangerous threats to the community and labeled them witches. Tens of thousands of people—most of them single women—were executed by burning, hanging, or being pressed to death under tremendous weight in the witch trials of the next century-and-a-half. One of the last of these incidents occurred in 1692 in Salem, Massachusetts.

The final symbol that is ubiquitous at Halloween parties is that disgusting mammal, the bat. Remember those bonfires that people lit for sacrifices to the gods on Samhain? Those fires attracted nocturnal insects, which, in turn, attracted bats. Few people like bats, but they are actually valuable creatures on a number of levels. They devour insects, especially mosquitos, consuming more than 600 in an hour. As Bill Bryson, one of my favorite writers, puts it, “Without bats, there would be a lot more midges in Scotland, chiggers in North America, and fevers in the tropics. Forest trees would be chewed to pieces. Crops would need more pesticides.” In addition, bats pollinate many plants and disseminate seeds through eating and excreting them. A small colony (about 400) of Seba bats in South America, can produce 9 million new fruit trees every year. Without bats, some of our most desired plants would disappear. This includes bananas, avocados, peaches, and my favorite nuts, cashews. Yet, because of unwarranted fears about rabies and a lethal new fungus, many species of bats sit on the brink of extinction.

So, the next time you attend church services on a Holy day, drink a beer, carve a Jack ‘O Lantern, or see a cardboard cut-out in the shape of a black bat, remember where these traditions came from. Now, pass that bowl of candy over to me—but first take out those damned candy corns.

Catching Up

I have had a great summer, but it was much busier than anticipated. As a result, this is not a typical blog entry, but more of an update on what Kathleen and I have been up to for the past few months. Think of it in terms of those annoying essays we had to write every fall upon returning to school. Much like those teachers completely lacking in imagination, I call this “How I Spent My Summer Vacation.”

I have been busy at the golf course, working several days a week and playing at least one round each week. Unfortunately, the more frequent golfing has not translated into better scores. Still, it is an enjoyable pastime, and walking the course just after dawn is one of life’s great pleasures. I have also been occupied with something I did not anticipate. Through no fault or desire of my own, I find myself serving as the president of our homeowner’s association. Our long-time president and property manager moved away recently due to health issues. Larry did an excellent job for many years, so he left big shoes to fill. I was already a board member, and we decided to change from a self-managed organization to one that was professionally managed. Finding and hiring a good company took a lot of effort, and half-a-dozen of my neighbors contributed considerable time to this endeavor. I agreed to take on the job of president, but I did so with such a lack of enthusiasm that they have begun referring to me as “The Reluctant President.” We are almost done with the transition process, so I am hoping that the heavy lifting is behind us at this point.

Meanwhile, our adopted home town of River Falls continues to delight and surprise us. After a year of being shut-down by Covid, many of the annual festivals and activities have started up again, albeit in somewhat reduced forms. River Falls Days was a four-day celebration with races, games, entertainment, food, beer tents, and excellent music being performed at various venues scattered around town. Recently, there was an art fair along the river downtown, and the Bacon Bash was revived after a year’s absence. Two years ago, the day after we arrived in town, we enjoyed our first Bacon Bash, and I wrote one of my first blogs to commemorate this odd celebration of sizzling pork. These were scheduled events, but I was also pleasantly surprised on a recent visit to the library by one I did not expect. From September 1 through October 26, our little town library is hosting a wonderful exhibit on the photography and journalism of Jacob Riis. Riis was active in the 1890s and 1900s writing stories and documenting the plight of recent immigrants in the tenements of New York City with photographs. His books, especially one called How the Other Half Lives, photos, and newspaper stories were instrumental in leading to reforms of slum areas in many US cities. This powerful exhibit is on loan curtesy of the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Museum of the City of New York, and the Library of Congress, and I was astounded to find it here in River Falls, if only for a short time.

A few weeks ago, Kathleen’s brother and his family visited us for a few days. Another friend drove over from Appleton, Wisconsin to join us on the last day. As he was leaving he asked if I had ever heard of Charlie Berens, also known as the Wisconsin comedian. I had not, but tucked his name away in my brain for future reference. An hour later, while out for a walk, I wandered past the ballpark on my way to some paths through the woods. I saw that they were setting up for a show that evening and asked what was going on. The man looked at me as if I had several extra heads and said, “Charlie Berens is performing tonight—I thought everyone knew that. But don’t try getting tickets; he sold out on the first day.” Berens is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin school of journalism who had trouble getting his footing in broadcasting in California. The problem was his Wisconsin accent, and he was encouraged to take vocal lessons that would help him lose that defect. He made those efforts, but at night, he would frequent the comedy clubs where he developed an act in which his accent was the centerpiece. He eventually decided that telling stories about life in the upper Midwest using the local vernacular was his ticket to success. He started doing a video show called the “Manitowoc Minute” and now has numerous short videos on youtube. Some consist of stand-up routines, some are sketches, and one is his commencement address at the Wisconsin journalism school. If you’re not from around here, and want to learn what people sound like or what the cultural values are in Wisconsin, Minnesota, or Michigan, you can do worse than listen to Charlie Berens.

The highlight of our summer was a much-delayed cruise from Seattle to Alaska. In a general sense, we have decided that, while the trips we take are always wonderful, getting there and getting home is becoming more onerous as we age. The trips to and from Seattle took ten-to-twelve hours, with most of that time spent in crowded and uncomfortable airports. The cruise itself, however, was wonderful: great scenery, fun times spent with good friends, and excellent service. Traveling still makes us a bit nervous because so many idiots refuse to get their shots. Everyone on the ship, however, was required to have been vaccinated, with a recent negative test to boot. As a result, we felt safer on board the ship than anywhere else in the US. We took the Inside Passage along the Canadian border south of the main part of Alaska, but the towns of Ketchikan, Juneau, and Skagway were small and charming, with direct ties to the Gold Rush of 1897-1899. I re-read Call of the Wild during the cruise to remind me of those days. The weather was surprisingly good, with sunshine and warm temperatures (high sixties) for most of our time on land. The highlight for me was actually at the end of the cruise. With time to kill before our flight, we visited the Seattle Space Needle and, right next door, the Dale Chihuly Gardens. For those who are not familiar with the colorful and imaginative glass works of Chihuly (see picture above), this in itself is worth a trip to Seattle. We have seen his pieces in other places, particularly on a huge ceiling in the Bellagio Casino in Vegas, but to see so many wonderful pieces in one place was really impressive.

As October arrives, many people start thinking of the holiday season. In all-too-quick succession comes Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Day. To celebrate this part of the year, I leave you with Charlie Berens’ take on a Midwest Christmas Party. Enjoy.

Let the Games Begin

The Olympics have begun, and, as happens every Olympiad, I begin to sound like the old man yelling, “You kids get off of my lawn—and I’m keeping your ball!” This time, the ranting began as I perused the list of so-called sports to be included in this incarnation of the quadrennial event.

When I was a kid, I watched every minute of the Olympics. There were a few hours of coverage every day and I cheered for and admired athletes of all countries. In my mind’s eye, I can still see Native-American Billy Mills sprinting from behind to win gold in 1964, Frenchman Jean-Claude Killy clinging to the edge of his skis in his all-out effort to win his third gold medal in 1968, Finnish distance runner Lasse Viren falling down in 1972, but getting up and winning with a new world record, and Russian Olga Korbut captivating the world with her charming smile and spectacular accomplishments in gymnastics.

This year, I’ll watch some of the Olympics, but it has definitely lost much of its allure for me. I’ll watch the track events, because that was my sport as an athlete and coach, and I’ll watch swimming, primarily to see a former student of mine, Alex Walsh, compete in the women’s 200 IM. Some people argue that the Olympics have become too political. That is certainly true, but politicization of the games is hardly a new phenomenon. The Nazis, the communists of the USSR and China, and the US have all used the games as propaganda to promote the superiority of their particular economic/political systems. Others argue that the Olympics have become too commercialized, too focused on making money for corporate sponsors. All true. For me, however, the most off-putting aspect of recent Olympic Games has been the proliferation of events seemingly designed for those who are not good enough to compete in traditional sports. Can’t ski very well? No problem; we’ll add snowboarding. Couldn’t make your high-school team in a traditional sport? Fine; we’ll invent beach volleyball and 3-on-3 basketball. To my mind, these sports have been added to the Olympic roster simply because the beer industry, which advertises heavily during those events, lobbied hard to have them added.

Not that I have a problem with beer. In fact, I prefer competing in sports that are generally played by people with a beer in one hand. I just don’t necessarily believe they belong in the Olympics. Curling certainly falls into this category, although it has been a part of the Olympics since 1924. For those who don’t recognize this sport by its name, it’s the one where one player slides a “rock” down the ice as his teammates try to maintain their balance while sweeping the ice frantically. If curling can be an Olympic sport, why not darts, or horseshoes, or pool, or pub trivia? Those games require about as much athletic talent, and the consumption of beer might actually enhance a player’s performance. For other athletes, particularly those who like to ingest stronger substances than beer, the Games offer skateboarding, snowboarding, and surfing. Those I’ve known who participate in those sports tend to perform best with a cloud of smoke wafting around their heads. For spectators who are already buzzed, the Olympics give you other options. You can watch synchronized swimming or diving and spend an hour blinking and wondering if you are seeing double. Finally, while watching rhythmic gymnastics, I have to wonder: in which of Dante’s circles of Hell is ribbon twirling considered a sport?

“So,” you might ask, “If you were king of the Olympics, what would the reconfigured Games look like?” Well, first of all, there would be no events in which the results are determined solely by judges. Almost all of the great controversies from Olympic history involved decisions made by a subjective judging panel. Growing up in the Cold War years, I often heard something like, And the judges’ scores for Penelope’s dynamic performance: 9.6, 9.4, 9.8, . . . What! I can’t believe it! The Russian judge gives her a 4.3! Oh, the humanity!

In my perfect, imaginary world, we do away with all sports that involve judges. Those are usually artistic endeavors anyway, so why can’t we just appreciate them for their visual beauty and stop trying to turn them into competitive events? Gymnastics? Gone. Diving? Gone. Figure skating, ice dancing, surfing, freestyle skiing, equestrian events, snow or skate boarding, synchronized anything, competitive smiling (okay, I made that one up), all gone.

The other ones to be eliminated would be events using anything other than simple human muscle. There is so much money to be made today in sporting equipment that more scientists are working on those items than are trying to solve global warming. Look at running shoes for example. In the early Twentieth Century, some long-distance runners competed in heavy, military-style boots because they were sturdier than the athletic shoes then available. As recently as the 1970s, legendary Oregon track coach Bill Bowerman made rubber soles for running shoes on his wife’s waffle iron. Today, however, technology has leapt forward, and a controversy has flared over the use of the Nike Vaporfly, a high-tech shoe worn by record-setting distance runners. The shoes employ a polymer called “Pebax” which, according to an NPR piece, combines “with carbon fiber plates that work together to absorb and then return a percentage of the energy that the runner puts into them.” Most experts agree that these new shoes give the runners who wear them an advantage. The rub is that only athletes sponsored by Nike have access to this game-changing technology. Therefore, in my Olympics, all runners must compete barefoot. Events that depend completely on other space-age devices are omitted. That includes archery. I guess I still have this image in my mind of Robin Hood, carving a bow from a humble Yew tree, yet still being able to fire arrows long distances with great accuracy. In today’s event, archery bows look like something designed by Lockheed Martin for the War on Terror. They need to go. Because of the technology involved, sledding, cycling, tennis, canoeing, rowing, sailing, shooting, and the pole vault are all eliminated from my Olympics.

So what are we left with? Perhaps my Games would look much like the original Greek Olympics: a handful of hairy, sweaty guys, racing or wrestling each other in the nude.

On second thought, maybe we’d better keep things the way they are.

Born on the 4th of July

“A real, live nephew of my uncle Sam, born on the 4^th of July”

–George M. Cohan, “Yankee Doodle Dandy”

The U.S. was born on the 4^th of July (1776). As reported in my last blog, there is some question about the accuracy of that statement, but most people accept it and celebrate our nation’s birth that day.

Giuseppe Garibaldi was born on the 4^th of July (1807). Garibaldi was an Italian patriot who could accurately be called the “George Washington of Italy.” He led a rag-tag army of “Red Shirts” to key victories in the war to unify Italy. After achieving unification in 1861 and helping to create the modern nation of Italy, he was a popular leader who could have ruled the new country as a dictator. He believed strongly in a republican form of government, however, and instead retired to the island of Caprera, refusing to accept any reward for his services. The true story is a bit more complicated than this, but one British historian referred to him as “the only wholly admirable figure in modern history.”

President Calvin Coolidge was born on the 4^th of July (1872). As vice-president, he succeeded to the presidency following the death of Warren G. Harding in 1923. He was not very ambitious or successful as president, best known for his reticence in speaking and for sleeping twelve hours a day while in office. That record for napping was reportedly surpassed by Ronald Reagan in the 1980s.

Ron Kovic was born on the 4^th of July (1946). In the 1960s, Kovic joined the marines right out of high school, filled with patriotism created by watching Hollywood films that made war look like a glorious endeavor. In Vietnam, however, he discovered that war was anything but glorious. Horribly wounded and crippled for life, he began to question America’s role in Southeast Asia and protested the war as a founding member of the group, Vietnam Veterans Against the War. He wrote a best-selling book about his experiences, and Tom Cruise was nominated for an Oscar for playing Kovic in the film Born on the Fourth of July. Oliver Stone won his second Academy Award for directing that 1989 film, and the “Captain Dan” character in Forest Gump was modeled in part on Kovic.

At the top of this article, I quoted George M. Cohan, the great American showman from the early 20^th Century. Among the 300 songs that he authored, his best-known are patriotic anthems such as “Over There,” “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” and the aforementioned “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” The 1942 biographical film about him is also called Yankee Doodle Dandy, and features an irresistible, Oscar-winning performance by Jimmy Cagney. It’s one of those movies that I can recite by heart, but I still watch every time it comes up on television. Cohan was actually born on the third of July, but I guess he figured, “Why let the truth ruin a good song?”

In my last blog entry, I wrote about the relationship between Jefferson and Adams, and the remarkable circumstances concerning their deaths. They both died on July 4, 1826, the fiftieth anniversary of the U.S. By an amazing coincidence, on that same day, one of the greatest American song-writers was born.

Stephen C. Foster had a tragic life that lasted only 37 years. Repeatedly cheated by his managers and publishers, he died penniless in New York in 1864. In that short time, however, he created 200 of the most popular and long-lasting songs in American history. “Oh Susanna,” “My Old Kentucky Home,” “Swanee River” (actually called “Old Folks at Home”), and “Camptown Races” (with the profound words, “Doo Dah, Doo Dah” in the chorus) were among his many songs. A century later, in 1942, US songwriters went on strike to fight for higher royalties. Radio stations were unable to play any songs currently covered by copywrite laws, so they turned back to the 19^th Century for material that had fallen into public domain. Stephen Foster was re-discovered by a new audience, and his song, “I Dream of Jeanie with the Light-Brown Hair,” rose to number one on the “Hit Parade” charts. Because many of his songs were performed in blackface by white singers in the Minstrel Show tradition, his songs have fallen out of favor today. Still, you can hear his music, in one form or another, played in commercials, cartoons, and films every year.

In the early ’80s, I was watching the Kentucky Derby, and I was emotionally moved by the sight of 130,000 people singing “My Old Kentucky Home” before the race. I knew that Foster had written that song, and, in the days before Google, I headed to the library to learn more about him. My research led me to write a song about him. I recently stumbled on a version of the song I had recorded about twenty years ago, and I created a little film for it. The sound is a bit low, so you might have to turn the volume up. Play it on Independence Day and remember Stephen Foster, as well as the other people born on the 4^th of July.

Click on the link:

Founding–and Feuding–Fathers

On July 4^th, 1777, spontaneous celebrations broke out in the US commemorating the first anniversary of the start of our nation. Exactly one year before that, in 1776, the Second Continental Congress had made public the document we now call the Declaration of Independence, officially breaking away from the British Empire. Primarily written by Thomas Jefferson, the Declaration was actually approved by the Congress two days earlier, leading John Adams to write to his wife, Abigail: “The 2^nd day of July 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival.”

Okay, so John was off by a couple of days. Most historians accept the idea that July 4^th marks the birthday of the U.S. and celebrate accordingly. Adams, from Massachusetts, and Virginian Jefferson had a long and interesting history together. They met as delegates to the First Continental Congress in 1775, and served together on a five-man committee selected to compose a statement of the reasons for breaking with Great Britain. Adams, Ben Franklin, and the other two men suggested that the shy, young Jefferson (he was only 33 at the time) should do the bulk of the work, while they made suggestions and helped with revisions. Jefferson wanted Adams to take on the task of being the principal writer of the document, but Adams balked. When pressed, he gave his reasons, “I am obnoxious, suspected, and unpopular. You are very much otherwise.” Can you imagine a modern-day politician being so self-aware as to speak those words? Adams clinched the argument by saying, “You can write ten times better than I can.” The appeal to his ego worked, and Jefferson assented. When a draft was finished, Adams wrote, “I was delighted with its high tone and the flights of oratory with which it abounded, especially that concerning Negro slavery, which . . . I knew his Southern brethren would never suffer to pass in Congress.” The Southern delegates did indeed insist that references to slave labor be omitted from the final product, and that section was cut out. Despite that shortcoming, the remaining document stands as the finest statement on freedom and equality ever written.

Once the pronouncement was approved, the delegates had to sign it. That had to have been a poignant moment in their lives. In affixing their signatures to such a statement, they were committing a treasonous act according to British law, and were subject to trial and execution. One story, probably apocryphal, has it that Ben Franklin announced to the gathering, “We must all hang together, or surely, we will all hang separately.” At that point, President of the Congress, John Hancock, stepped forward and said, allegedly, “I’ll make my name large and clear so that King George can read it without his spectacles.” Regardless of the veracity of these stories and the risk involved, fifty-six men signed it by early August.

Adams and Jefferson continued to contribute to the birth of the nation during the Revolutionary War and the 1780s, largely in diplomatic roles. When the U.S. Constitution was being written in Philadelphia in 1787, Jefferson was serving as the Ambassador to France, with Adams performing the same duties in London. The two friends corresponded throughout those years, but began to disagree on important issues in the 1790s. Adams was the first Vice President and Jefferson the first Secretary of State under George Washington. Factions, then political parties, soon developed over competing visions of which direction the new nation should take. While Washington stayed above the fray and abhorred the factionalism he saw emerging, Jefferson led a group called the Democratic-Republicans (sometimes simply Republicans) who favored states’ rights and a small republic of independent farmers. Adams supported Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton’s Federalist Party and their vision of a strong, centralized government built around a combination of banking, industry, and agriculture. Jefferson and Adams ran against each other in two heated presidential campaigns filled with the sort of vituperation and slanderous assaults that have become familiar to us in the past four years. While the two men avoided direct attacks on each other, neither tried to discourage those who engaged in such invective on their behalf. Adams won the first contest, in 1796, but Jefferson won the re-match in 1800. Upon Jefferson’s victory, Adams wrote a note of congratulation, but received no response. The two men did not communicate again for twelve years.

Jefferson served as president for eight years, from 1801 to 1809, but he never once asked his old friend for help or advice. In 1803, his ideal of a geographically small republic was sorely tested when the opportunity to purchase a massive piece of real estate called Louisiana presented itself. Jefferson compromised his principles and doubled the size of the United States with a stroke of the pen. He did not, however, bend in his feelings toward Adams. Nor did Adams reach out to him.

By 1812, both men were out of office, and the first two-party system in our political history was beginning to disintegrate. Having recently lost several friends and relatives, Adams had mellowed and sent a short, amicable note to his old rival. Jefferson responded in a similar tone, and they began to exchange letters, tentatively at first, but more frequently later on. The correspondence continued for the remaining years of their lives. They avoided any discussion of the issues that had divided them, but engaged in otherwise meaningful exchanges that ranged from current events, to philosophy, to minutia concerning their respective farms. At ninety years old, John Adams died peacefully at his Massachusetts farm. His last words were “Thomas Jefferson survives.” Once again, he was slightly in error. Jefferson had actually passed away several hours earlier on his plantation in Virginia. Incredibly, these two revolutionaries, comrades in arms, founding fathers, friends, and fierce rivals, both died within hours of each other.

The date was July 4, 1826—the fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence.

So, here we are, 245 years after the start of the nation, divided and angry, much like Jefferson and Adams had been for many years. If those two men could reconcile differences and come together again, however, I continue to hold out hope that we, as a nation can do the same.

Alma and the Silent Woman

We’ve all been in situations in which we have thought to ourselves, “Boy, my _______ (fill in the blank: neighbor, co-worker, relative, etc.) is a weird guy.” Maybe this story will give you some perspective as to what constitutes “weird.”

Just over a century ago, in 1920, police in Dresden, Germany were called to the scene of a crime in which the bloody body of a decapitated woman was reportedly spotted in an alley behind the home of an eccentric artist. As it turned out, it was not a woman, but a life-sized “doll” created to look like a woman named Alma Gropius.

For those not familiar with the songs of ‘sixties song-writer and political humorist Tom Lehrer, Alma was one of the most interesting women in European history. In 1964, Lehrer was inspired to write a song about her after stumbling across “the juiciest, spiciest, raciest obituary it has ever been my pleasure to read.” An accomplished musician, Alma associated with some of the most famous artists and writers of the early 20^th Century—and had affairs with many of them. Among her many celebrity conquests were three that she actually married: composer Gustav Mahler, architect Walter Gropius, and writer Franz Werfel. Lehrer’s song is filled with the wit and clever rhymes that made him one of my all-time favorites. Here is the song and the lyrics:

Alma Mahler-Gropius-Werfel has been described as a muse to great men, and she undoubtedly inspired many of them with her intelligence, her beauty, or her passion. Perhaps it was a combination of these factors. At her funeral, a eulogist described her as “an energizer of heroes;” a woman “whose companionship stimulates her chosen man to the ultimate heights of his creative abilities;” she was “a pure light, the flame of an Olympic fire.” Hyperbole aside, she seemed to have had a certain impact on intellectual men. None was more affected by her than an Expressionist painter named Oskar Kokoschka.

Kokoschka, an Austrian artist and poet, met Alma at a party in 1912 and the two almost immediately began a torrid love affair that continued off and on for several years. Inspired by his passion for Alma, in 1913 Oskar completed one of his most acclaimed paintings, Die Windsbraut (variously translated as The Tempest or the Bride in the Wind) When she finally broke off their relationship in 1915, he sold Die Windsbraut in order to buy a horse and join the German cavalry in World War I. He was sent to fight the Russians in the Ukraine, and things did not go well for Oskar. Shot in the skull, bayonetted in the chest, and suffering from concussions caused by bombs exploding nearby, he somehow survived the war, but doctors described him as mentally unstable.

That brings us to the doll. Tortured by his unrequited love for Alma, missing his muse, and, just perhaps, a little off-kilter from his military experience, he commissioned a Munich artist and puppet-maker to create a life-sized model of Alma. Using photographs, Alma’s actual measurements, and other details provided by Oskar, the female artisan produced a doll with a striking resemblance to Alma. It was stuffed with sawdust and, thankfully, covered with white feathers rather than human skin. Oskar was reportedly disappointed with the result, however, as it somehow lacked the vitality of the real thing. Still, he sketched and painted “the Silent Woman,” as he called it, numerous times, in various poses. Stories circulated claiming that he dressed it in lingerie and fine clothes, took it riding in his carriage, and even sat with it in his box at the opera. He later denied these stories, but it all brings to mind the delightful movie Lars and the Real Girl.

By this time, Alma’s first husband, Mahler, had died, she had married and divorced Gropius, and was planning to marry Werfel. Finally realizing that a reunion with Alma was not in the cards, Oskar threw a party to publicly declare that his passion for Alma was dead. The Silent Women, dressed in her Parisian finery, was the guest of honor while Oskar and his friends drank themselves into a stupor. Near dawn, encouraged by his enthusiastic and inebriated guests, he took the doll into the garden and decapitated it. He poured red wine over the body and tossed it into the alley. The red wine on the white feathers looked enough like blood that the neighbors grew alarmed and alerted the authorities. That must have resulted in a fascinating conversation.

Kokoschka continued to love Alma for the rest of his life, and he lived until 1980. When Hitler came to power, the artist was declared a degenerate by the Nazis and forced to leave Germany. Let that sink in for a moment. The Nazis declared him a degenerate. Now there’s something to put on the old resumé.

So, the next time you start to say that your ________ (neighbor, co-worker, relative) is acting a bit strange, take a deep breath. And think about Oskar.

A Gem of a Diamond

A few years ago, my wife and I were exploring potential retirement locations. Admittedly, River Falls had the upper hand in this competition, because our grandchildren were here. Another factor that eventually tipped our decision toward River Falls, though, was the presence of a wonderful little baseball field in Hoffman Park. Officially called First National Bank of River Falls Field, the park has a small, but major-league quality, covered grandstand behind home-plate holding 305 seats, with room for many more down the foul lines. Admission and parking were free, food was reasonably priced, and the beers from the “Leinie Lodge” were only three bucks. We love baseball, and this park seemed like Nirvana to us.

The ballpark is in a beautiful setting, surrounded by the sort of rolling green hills and ridges that mark this part of the state, but the story about how it came to be is even better. A local teacher, Josh Eidem, and some friends who played on the local amateur team, the Fighting Fish, decided that the team needed a home park they could call their own. They went to the city council and made a remarkable proposal: if the city would provide the land, they would raise the money and build the ballpark. It was all more complicated than this, but the city made some land in Hoffman Park available, and Eidem and his friends raised the money. They broke ground in 2013, on an unseasonably cold day. As Eidem tells it, there was no dirt flying that day; “it was so cold and snowy that we didn’t even stick a shovel in the ground. We just took a picture and got back in the cars.” The point of all this is that it was a community effort from the start. They solicited donations and sponsorships, held fund raisers at local businesses, and did most of the labor themselves, with the help of numerous willing townspeople. The outfield fence was covered with advertising signs for local businesses that had helped finance the endeavor. Everything was conducted on a voluntary basis. They erected the light stanchions earlier than scheduled, because that enabled them to work well into the night. The stadium seats came from Camden Yards ballpark in Baltimore, but there is more leg room than you’ll find in any MLB ballpark. Last year, courtesy of a grant from Major League Baseball, a state-of-the-art, artificial-turf field was installed, making this a first-class stadium all around. In addition to the Fighting Fish, the River Falls HS team, the American Legion team, and an over-35 amateur team, the Groupers, also call FNBRF Field home.

The Fighting Fish themselves came into existence in a similar, ad hoc manner. In 2007, some players from River Falls banded together and formed a team. They discussed several potential team names before outfielder Clint Kempt shrugged and suggested they go with the “Fighting Fish,” because, “We probably won’t come up with anything better.” They slowly built their following with such promotions as hamster races, “Ugly Pants” golf tournaments, and monthly meat raffles at Johnnie’s Bar, before erecting their current home stadium in 2014. Aspiring players can sign up on the team website (Fishbaseball.org), and, should there be enough demand, tryouts will be held. Requirements are essentially that you must have graduated from high school and love to play baseball. The residency rule is surprisingly specific: you must live within thirty miles of home plate. Most players hail from River Falls or nearby towns in Wisconsin and Minnesota, and many have college experience playing at the Division II or III levels. This is true amateur baseball, as none of the players receive remuneration for their efforts; there are no formal practices, and most of the team members have full-time jobs. Some remarkable talent is occasionally discovered among the Fish, however. Arizona once sent scouts to look at a player named Marty Herum. He went 4 for 5 with two triples that day and was immediately signed by the Diamondbacks. More impressively, current Milwaukee Brewer’s star set-up man, J.P. Feyereisen, played with the Fish for parts of three summers before being signed by Cleveland. The Fish compete in the St. Croix Valley Baseball League as part of the Wisconsin Baseball Association, consisting of about sixty similar teams from around the state. Last year, River Falls carried home the championship trophy for the second time in their brief existence. General Manager Grant Miller hoped to keep the championship team together, so he pulled out the checkbook and re-signed each player for the highest possible salary. (In this, an amateur league, the highest possible was zero)

Last year, Covid fears prevented us from attending games, so, last Saturday, we were finally able to see the Fighting Fish in action against the Bay City Bombers. Kathleen and I do not yet own any Fighting Fish gear, but we felt right at home wearing the Orange and Blue of our beloved Florida Gators. That was because the colors and the “F” logo of the Fish are remarkably similar to those of the Gators. In addition to the usual volunteer staff in the Leinie Lodge (Leinenkugel is a local beer brewed in Chippewa Falls), the Kilkarney Hills Golf Club sent Chef Jen to sell gourmet sandwiches from a tent. While I sat directly behind home plate before the game, eating an amazing Italian prime rib sandwich and sipping a $3 Leinie’s beer, I scanned the thirty or so local businesses and sponsors represented on the outfield fence, counting twelve that I had personally patronized. Thus, every game continues to be a community effort. The fact that this is a shoestring operation was driven home when they passed the hat to pay the umpires and cover other expenses. Also, every time a ball left the playing field, the public address announcer would gently remind the spectators to return the ball so that the game could continue. By my estimate, there were four-to-five hundred people in attendance, all in a festive mood and enjoying the game.

The game itself demonstrated a surprising level of skill. Starting Fish pitcher, Matt Doornink, bears a striking resemblance to Babe Ruth in the twilight of his career, but he can still bring it. Doornink tossed five shutout innings and struck out six. Third-baseman Andy Metcalf is the only team member currently attending the University of Wisconsin at River Falls, because that school ended its baseball program in 2002. More’s the pity, because the kid can rake. For the second consecutive game, Metcalf hit a homer and drove in four runs. The highlight for me, an aging baseball wannabe, came when leftfielder Josh Eidem drove in a run. Yes, that’s the same Josh Eidem who has played every season with the Fish and contributed so much to the construction of the ballpark. It was inspiring to watch a forty-year-old who can still catch up to a rising fastball.

The entire evening left me with a warm feeling toward the small town that I have adopted as my home. At a time when the state, the nation, and the world are torn by differences and division, I now have a place to go where everyone smiles, cheers, and pulls in the same direction. Also, when spoiled Major Leaguers pull down $20 million and more each year, it’s comforting to watch these guys play baseball for the sheer love of the game. Even the “Fish Magazine,” available for free at every game, is a humorous, tongue-in-cheek parody of an MLB program. This team plays to win, but they don’t take themselves too seriously. Above all, having fun seems to be the main objective.

By the sixth inning, the Fighting Fish had a comfortable 5-0 lead, and it had become too cold for our ill-advised outfits, so my wife and I headed for home. During the winter, we can actually see the field from our condo, high on a ridge overlooking the park. That night, however, the spring leaves had begun to obscure our view. As I looked out of my open window, I could still make out the stadium lights through the trees, and I could hear the strains of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” wafting into my home. I squinted through the foliage in an attempt to follow the action, and I swear I could see Shoeless Joe Jackson and Moonlight Graham working their way through some cornstalks in the outfield, hoping to join the game.