Dr. Jack

Fathers and Baseball

These are the greatest of possible words, “pitchers and catchers report.”

Everyone has their own way of determining the end of the long winter. For some, the first sighting of the red-breasted robin serves as a harbinger of spring. Some rely on a Pennsylvania-based hedgehog and the likelihood of the overgrown rodent seeing his own shadow. Others, antagonistic to the idea of a farcical hibernal ritual to determine seasonal transition, use scientific data such as rising temperatures as a guide. For me, the onset of spring begins with the words, “pitchers and catchers report to spring training camp.”

The line of iambic pentameter at the top of this page is actually mine, but I’m paraphrasing the 1910 poem by Franklin Pierce Adams, written about the early Chicago Cubs’ double-play combination, “Tinker, to Evers, to Chance.” I’m celebrating the fact that on Wednesday, February 17, spring training for the major leagues officially began. Every February, even as a little kid, I would look forward to reading those words in the newspapers. For me, the phrase “pitchers and catchers report” indicated winter was drawing to a close, baseball had begun, and spring was on its way. It’s difficult to think about spring during this week of record cold, snow, and ice, but, for me, those words always conjure up images of baseball—and my dad.

My dad also loved baseball, and he encouraged my ill-fated affection for the Chicago Cubs from an early age. Later, in my more rebellious years, it was like the Daniel Stern character in the film City Slickers said, “Back when my dad and I couldn’t communicate about anything at all, we could still talk about baseball.” In my mind, baseball and memories about my father will always be inextricably intertwined.

As far back as I can remember, I was a Cub fan. The first season I clearly recall was 1962, the year in which a 21-year-old Cub player, Kennie Hubbs, won the Rookie of the Year award. I related to Hubbs, because I, too, was a “good-field-no-hit,” middle-infielder. In fact, I hit a robust .163 for my Little League team that season. On those rare occasions when I managed to get on base, however, I was fast enough to steal my way around to third. My manager, knowing that my only realistic chance of reaching base was if I walked, would send me to the plate with the encouraging words, “Henderson, if you take that bat off your shoulder, I’ll break your arm.” The era of promoting self-esteem in children had not yet arrived in Chicago.

Nor had it affected Southern Illinois, if Kathleen’s father was any indication. When we began dating in the 1980s, we were watching her daughter Kristin’s team play a game in Carbondale. These were tiny little kids playing at a level that was not much above T-ball. If a miracle occurred, and a girl managed to hit the ball, the fielders had no idea what to do with it when they picked it up. Also sitting with us was her dad, Raymond McCormick, a former Marine who had fought at Iwo Jima. He had played baseball for years and managed championship American Legion teams. He knew the game well, and, where fundamentals were concerned, he apparently cut no slack for his grand-daughter or other ten-year-old girls. In this particular game, with a runner on first, a girl hit the ball to Kristin at shortstop. She scooped up the ball, and, wonder of wonders, threw to first in time to get the runner hustling down the line. The stands erupted in cheers, those parents never before having seen a play executed correctly. In the midst of this wild celebration, however, Raymond shook his head in disapproval and pointed toward the infield. “The play was at second,” he told me gravely, as if those girls were certain to turn the double-play had they simply thrown to the correct base. I just nodded in response.

My father was from that same generation as Raymond. They weren’t big on praising children, being more concerned that their kids would “get a big head” than boosting self-esteem. That is not to say that my dad wouldn’t stand up for us when we had been wronged. One 4^th of July Little League game stands out in my mind. It was a hot day, and the game had dragged on for hours. It was a typical kids game in many respects. Our pitcher had a no-hitter going, although he had walked about 14 batters. Meanwhile, my team had racked up twenty or so runs, largely through a combination of errors and walks. Late in that 20-to-nothing game, my manager scanned the bench to see who he could send in to hit at that crucial moment. He pointed at me and told me to grab a bat. As I eagerly headed to the plate, he yelled, “Henderson! If you . . .”

I rolled my eyes and said, “I know: if I take the bat off my shoulder you’ll break my arm.” I stepped into the box and banged the bat against my tennis shoes as I had seen Ernie Banks do many times. My family was in the stands that day, so, despite the admonition from my manager, I was determined to swing if the pitch was anywhere near the plate. The first pitch bounced in the dirt, two feet in front of the plate. I held off. “Strike!” the umpire barked. I was confused, but I dug in again. The second pitch almost hit me in the hip, but I deftly avoided the ball with a maneuver that would have made a Spanish matador proud. “Strike two!” I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I understood the cardinal rule of baseball that says you should never argue with the ump about balls and strikes. Behind in the count, and feeling a bit like Casey from the famous poem, I grew more determined than ever. The third pitch came in, well over my head, and I coolly let it sail by. “Strike three!” the umpire called, with a little more enthusiasm than I thought the situation merited. I trudged back to the bench with tears streaming down my face. I wasn’t upset about striking out—that had happened a lot; it was because of the injustice of being called out on three pitches that were clearly out of the strike zone.

I was embarrassed about my performance as I headed back to the car to meet my family. That’s when I saw my dad. He had the umpire pinned against the cinderblock wall behind the dugout. My dad was a big guy with a long history of barroom brawls, so the umpire, with fear in his eyes, was listening attentively to what he had to say. Despite his aura of menace, my dad spoke calmly and distinctly. He said, essentially, “Sir, I understand that it was exceedingly warm behind the plate, it was a one-sided game, and you would like very much to get home to your family. But these lads are trying to learn which pitches are strikes and which are balls, and your calling every pitch a strike, regardless of its proximity to the strike zone, could prove deleterious to a young man’s fledgling batting eye.” My memory might be somewhat faulty, so his words were probably put more crudely, and perhaps punctuated by profanity and other colorful terms, but he got his point across. The umpire, apologized profusely before sprinting to his car when my dad released him.

There was one other instance in which my father intervened on our behalf in a baseball-related situation. My house in Chicago was on a barely paved street directly across from a cemetery. In the wide gap between the cemetery fence and the street was a double set of railroad tracks and a narrow strip of grass perhaps fifty feet wide that led to a small embankment on which the tracks sat. That strip of grass stretched for the entire block and served as the neighborhood playground for football, baseball, and hockey, as well as for games of “Cowboys and Indians” or “Army.” One spring, we noticed that our next-door neighbors, the Boggio family, was occupied for an entire morning, doing something to the grass across the street from their house. When they finished their task, we discovered to our horror that they had planted a flower garden smack in the middle of our multi-purpose field. They had set up neat lines of brightly colored flowers accented by a dozen or so bushes that would eventually grow into a solid hedge surrounding the garden on three sides. The problem, of course, was that it was directly behind second base of our baseball diamond. We didn’t know what to do, so we waited anxiously for my dad to get home from work. In those days, we had five kids (two more would come later), and dad had to work two jobs to feed us all. Several times a week, he returned from his factory job about 4:30, showered, shaved, and changed clothes before heading out for another eight hours of tending bar. The only opportunity we had to talk to him was the five minutes while he was shaving. My brother Dan and I saw our opening and briefed him on the critical situation:

“Dad! Mr. Boggio built a garden in our baseball field!”

“I saw it.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But, we’ll have to walk a mile to the park just to play baseball.”

He stopped shaving, turned to us, and said, in a voice that indicated the conversation was over, “Don’t worry about it.” We walked away dejected, feeling as if he had let us down.

The next day, a Saturday, we woke up to an amazing sight. Overnight, something had happened to Mr. Boggio’s garden. It looked as if King Kong had ravaged the area, leaving flowers and hedges uprooted and scattered in all directions; some greenery was even stuck high in the barbed wire atop the cemetery fence. There was nothing left of the garden but an area of black dirt where plants had once grown. Before we could ask our parents what had happened, we heard a knock on the front door. My dad answered it, and we could hear Mr. Boggio’s voice, but we couldn’t make out the words. My dad, in a voice oozing with Eddie Haskell-like sincerity, replied, “Gee, I don’t know anything about your garden.” Mr. Boggio spoke again, and my dad said, in a much louder voice, “I told you I don’t know anything!” and slammed the door. He calmly walked past us, sat down and returned to his coffee and morning newspaper. As Dan and I added two and two together, we could hear my dad chuckling behind the newspaper he held up in front of his face.

He never told us what happened, but we assumed that he returned from the bar about two in the morning, after having imbibed several cocktails in the course of the evening, saw the flowers shining in the streetlights, and took care of the problem with great energy and no small amount of flair. We aren’t certain of this, but, knowing my dad the way we do, it seems the most likely scenario. Regardless of the true story, we had our field back, and the garden never re-appeared.

When my dad was too young to really remember, the Cubs won the National League pennant every three years, in 1929, 1932, 1935, and 1938, losing in the World Series each time. Then, when he was 17 and stationed on Guam with the Navy in 1945, they won again, so he missed the World Series (which they lost). He told us that he wrote his brother, “Oh well; I’ll catch them the next time they’re in the Series.” Of course, that “next time” never occurred in his lifetime. He died seven years before the glorious World Series of 2016 when the Cubs finally won it all for the first time since 1908. I thought about him a lot that season.

In fact, that year, I probably started thinking about him in February, when I heard the words, “pitchers and catchers report.”

Song for a Winter’s Night

When you live in Wisconsin, as we do, February is the longest month of the year, despite having only 28 days. It snows at least once a week, the white piles mount higher and higher along the streets and parking lots, and temperatures hover near zero or lower. When you mix in the Covid isolation and our self-imposed austerity (dieting, no drinking or excess spending), it’s a concoction that could be terribly depressing. The urge to get out of the house and do something to fend off cabin fever can become overwhelming, so every day, I set out for a long walk. These solitary excursions remind me that there is beauty in the winter landscape, and that life goes on beneath the gelid surface.

Yesterday, I woke up at 4:30 and checked the online weather page for River Falls. I don’t like to do this, but it’s apparently some sort of requirement in Wisconsin. The same way that other people my age check the obits every morning to see if they’re listed there, each day, people in Wisconsin check the temperature and the snow forecast. They read about the projected snowfall or plummeting temperatures and smile and nod with a strange sort of pride, saying “Ah, yeah; it’s gonna be brutal.”

I usually wait until it gets light and warms up a bit before heading out for a long walk of an hour or more. On Monday, when I woke up, it was 12-below with a wind chill factor of about 20-below. Later, I drove downtown to get some variety in my walk, and when I passed the bank on Main Street, the clock read 8:30 and 8-below zero. By the time I had walked completely around the college campus and returned to my car, though, the sun was warming things up, and the temperature was up to 6-below. The sunshine is bright, giving the illusion of warmth, and it feels great to be outside.

Everyone tells me that it’s been a mild year in terms of snowfall, but there’s well over a foot of the white stuff in the yards, and the plows have pushed it into massive piles that are taller than I am. I hated snow when I lived in Chicago, largely because it turned black and depressing within a day or two. Because of the light traffic and more-frequent snowfalls, though, that doesn’t usually happen here. In fact, this week, a quarter-inch to an inch of snow fell each night, like a fresh coat of paint on a dingy wall. It wasn’t enough to require shoveling, but just enough to make it pretty again. The snow on the streets is packed down and slick, but everywhere else, it’s beautiful and white. In fact, last month, we had a full week of an incredible phenomenon that I had never seen before. It’s called “Rime Ice,” and it’s a special situation where weather conditions create lots of fog, but at night the fog freezes into a crystalline state on everything. The result (see picture above), is a fantastic display of nature at its most beautiful, with ice shining like diamonds on the streets, on top of the snow, and on the branches of trees and bushes.

The weather is cold, but I’m better prepared for my second winter in Wisconsin. My most frequent online purchases have been from Eddie Bauer and L. L. Bean, so I now have good boots and a light-weight coat that claims it will keep me warm in temperatures down to 35-below. I don’t plan on testing that lower extreme, but it’s comforting to know that I could. The boots make it difficult to run, but I walk fast, and they don’t hinder me in that regard. I’ve grown a winter beard, which is also required by law in Wisconsin, so the only part of me that is cold is my pink cheeks above the white beard. I picture myself as a thinner version of Santa Claus as I roll through town. On the coldest days, my tears freeze on my eyelashes, and the condensation from my breath forms little balls of ice on my beard.

On my walk today, I saw one scene that reminded me of a Currier and Ives print from the 1800s. Near the downtown area, a mail-delivery girl, in sunglasses because of the bright sun, was high-stepping her way through the deep snow, trying to reach the mailbox on one particular house. In River Falls, the older sections of town still have boxes attached next to the front doors, and the mail-persons deliver it right to the door. I felt bad that the owners had not shoveled the walk leading to their mailbox, but despite the snow and her heavy load, she had a big smile and greeted me cheerfully. Another great moment occurred a few days ago when we attempted to pick up the kids for a home-school session at our house. A heavy snow and underlying ice made it difficult for Kathleen to get up Ben’s fairly steep driveway. She was stuck halfway in the driveway and halfway in the street. I was frantically trying to shovel the drive and get some salt down because a snow plow was bearing down on us from a block away. Instead of being angry at us for blocking his way, the driver stopped, got out with a big smile, and asked if he could help us. If that same situation had occurred in Chicago, we would have been buried in a shower of snow while the driver flipped us off and sped past. I love River Falls.

One day, I chose the more difficult route along the foot paths that follow the Kinnickinnic River. The river and its South Branch are frozen over, with solid white portions of the surface broken up by shiny sections that look like glass. If you look closely, you can see beneath the surface where the water continues to bubble and move downstream, toward the St. Croix River, seven miles away. Similarly, I saw no animals, but tracks were visible everywhere in the fresh snow, mostly deer, rabbits, and squirrels, with the occasional large paw prints of some critter I hope to avoid. A large tree, which I had noticed weeks ago, now lies parallel to the ground, a victim of the local beavers. The trunk is over a foot in diameter, and I noticed it earlier because you could see that the felling work had begun, with busy teeth cutting a deep vee uniformly around the trunk. Those relentless efforts were eventually rewarded, and the tree came down. Smaller trees in the area have also been chewed down. I edged to the bank of the river, but could see no lodge or dam under construction. Perhaps dam-building is a springtime endeavor. The nearby Powell Dam, about which I had written earlier, is still open, and Lake Louise remains drained. The city recently said that the dam may never be repaired, as the $100,000 cost to fix a dam that they are planning to take down in a few years anyway seems senseless. I was amused by the irony of one dam being scheduled for demolition, while, a quarter-mile downstream, the beavers are preparing to build another.

I paused to contemplate the fact that, beneath the surface, there are probably many animals in hibernation for the winter. This is a fascinating annual condition for many creatures, wherein their cardiovascular systems slow down dramatically, enabling them to conserve energy during times of extreme cold and a lack of food sources. Tree frogs, the greatest hibernators of them all, actually stop breathing and pumping blood completely during the winter. As I walk along the river, I contemplate the possibility that box turtles, bats, birds, and hedgehogs, cousins of the famous Punxsutawney Phil from Pennsylvania, could be hibernating within a few feet of me. A bit more unnerving is the thought that there could be a nest of hundreds, or even thousands, of garter snakes, hibernating and curled together for warmth, in a nest beneath my feet.

I guess the theme here is that while, to all outward appearances, everything is quiet and dormant, there’s a lot going on if you take the time to look closely. Also, despite the snow, ice, and frigid temperatures, this is a beautiful place to call home.

I just read the forecast for tomorrow, and a weather advisory warns that the wind-chill factor will dip down to 50-below zero. Perhaps my new coat will be fully tested after all.

I leave you with a short video. The school at which I taught, Harpeth Hall, has a special program called Winterim in January. For three weeks, the juniors and seniors travel to Europe or other exotic locales, or they serve internships of one sort or another. Meanwhile, the freshmen and sophomores take unique, brief courses that are only taught at that time. I always enjoyed Winterim, because I could teach anything I wanted for those three weeks. Among other courses I created was one I team taught with an irrepressible colleague, Joe Croker. We called it “Songwriting for Guitar,” and we took ten novice musicians and tried to teach them how to play guitar and compose their own songs in just three weeks. In 1999, my second year of teaching that class, we had a remarkable group of freshmen. At the end of the class, we recorded some of the songs they wrote and some cover versions of other songs. I recently found that CD and, this week, I made a film to accompany a version of Gordon Lightfoot’s Song for a Winter’s Night. The four girls were all 14-year-old freshmen, most of whom had never sung in front of others or played guitar before that class. I was amazed at the sophisticated harmonies they worked out for this wonderful song. Enjoy.

Song for a Winter’s Night

A Delicate Balance

I received a question from a friend recently as a comment to a previous blog. It was a good question, and it deserved a longer answer than a simple reply in the comments section. The question was:

“I respect your insight, just wondering what you think of all these executive orders, especially the XL pipeline that cost thousands of union jobs? Another one that really bothers me is boys in girls sports! I know you were a coach, what are your thoughts on this?”

Political questions are always more complicated than we would like. These are not simple yes-or-no, thumbs-up-or-thumbs-down issues. Among my favorite poems is one written by Stephen Crane about 120 years ago:

When the prophet, a complacent fat man, Arrived at the mountain top, He cried, “Woe to my knowledge! I intended to see good white lands and bad black lands—But the scene is grey.”

That’s what we have to understand; there are no black-and-white answers to these issues. We may not like it, but the solutions are often grey. This stark reality might make us uncomfortable, but we have to accept the fact that this complex, modern world requires solutions that satisfy no one completely, but are the product of compromises that seek the middle ground.

Okay. Simply put, Executive Orders (EO) are directives by the President that help manage the federal government. This basic description has received a wide range of interpretations by different leaders over the years, leading to a diverse variety of these directives, some of them controversial. There have been over 13,000 of these since the days of George Washington, and every president except William Henry Harrison (who died a short time after his inauguration) has signed at least one. The most famous EO is Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation in 1863, which freed the slaves held by rebellious states. Some of these directives have been challenged in court and overturned by the Supreme Court. In fact, Lincoln was so doubtful about the constitutionality of his Proclamation, that he immediately started the ball rolling on an amendment to the Constitution that would permanently outlaw slavery. This, of course, became the 13^th Amendment in 1865. FDR signed the highest number of these things, but that makes sense, as he was elected four times and dealt with crises such as the Great Depression and World War II that required immediate action, without congressional delays. Many EOs, especially when the presidency changed hands, have been used to reverse the EOs of previous presidents from the opposition party. Thus, the flurry of Executive Orders we have seen in recent days, is slightly unusual, but not dramatically so. As of today, President Biden has signed 42 of these orders, about half of which deal with the Coronavirus and the economic fallout that resulted. This health disaster is worse than any situation inherited by an incoming president since FDR, and thus qualifies as a legitimate crisis. Another handful of the new orders reversed policies established by Trump, who, in turn, used EOs to reverse policies established by Obama. In the immortal words of Sonny Bono, “and the beat goes on.”

The Keystone XL Pipeline is a complex issue that has been the subject of political wrangling, protests, lawsuits, and heated debate since at least 2008. Without going into excruciating detail, the 1200-mile pipeline would carry crude oil from Canada, where it is pumped from the ground, to Nebraska, where it would join another pipeline that would take the crude oil to the refineries near the Gulf of Mexico. A Canadian company, Trans-Canada Energy, would be the main beneficiary from this project, but British, Dutch, and American oil corporations would also share in the profits. Right wing tweeters, such as that intellectual giant Ted Nugent, have claimed that as many as 28,000 to 83,000 jobs will be lost. The truth is, that 1,000 jobs will be lost now, and a potential 10,000 more temporary jobs building the pipeline will be lost down the road. These are good, well-paying jobs, but they are temporary, lasting only until the pipeline is completed.

On the other hand, the pipeline presents a genuine threat to the environment on a huge scale. This is not just a matter of a small leak killing a few birds or animals, as it is often portrayed. At issue is an underground reservoir called the Ogallala Aquafer, over which the pipeline would run. This is a massive water table that stretches under eight states from South Dakota to Texas. I happen to be reading a novel right now that is set in the Texas Panhandle (That Old Ace in the Hole, by Annie Proulx), so I have only recently become aware of this water source and its importance to people of the Great Plains. Over 2.3 million people depend on this supply for all of their water needs. More important, each year, $20 Billion worth of agriculture, livestock, and ranching products are dependent on the water that is pumped from the Ogallala. Experts believe that a pipeline leak that contaminated the aquafer is a question of “when” rather than “if.” Many leaks of such pipelines involve millions of gallons of crude oil. Even a small leak could make that entire body of water unusable for human or agricultural needs. If that arid region was deprived of water, the livelihoods of those 2.3 million people would be put at risk, and the economy of the entire nation would be negatively affected by the loss of that $20 Billion. Thus, the loss of from 1 to 11 thousand jobs must be weighed against the potential impact on the whole country. Further, the land through which the pipe would run must be confiscated from private owners through the law of eminent domain; the government would compensate the owners, but often for less than it is actually worth. If you have seen the Kevin Costner series Yellowstone, you understand how rugged individuals such as John Dutton view the loss of their land to eminent domain laws. That is why farmers and ranchers have often led the opposition to XL.

The question of the XL Pipeline gets at the crux of all issues that pit environmentalists versus corporations and economic concerns. Even the issue of climate change, in many ways can be reduced to this equation. On the left extreme, you have the tree huggers that want to save every tree and every earthworm. On the right extreme, you have those who view things in a very short-sighted way based on one question: “Can I make more money today?” and to hell with the future. In most of these issues, there is a huge middle ground that is often ignored. What we have to do is find ways to use the environment and its resources in responsible ways that don’t destroy the planet. Think of logging contracts that require lumber companies to plant several trees for each one they cut down. Most political issues have lots of room in the middle and we need to get back to reasonable, moderate politicians who will negotiate to find that centrist position. More than that, our leaders have to look at the long-term effects, as well as considering what will help us in the immediate future.

This question reminds me of a folk song by a Chicago guy, Tom Dundee. It says, “It’s all such a delicate balance; takes away just as much as it gives.” The fact is that most political questions are complicated and multi-sided. As I used to tell my students, any time you hear a politician tell you that an issue is “very simple,” and he or she reduces it to a cut-and-dried solution, as Hitler (and now Trump) did, they are either lying, or they’re not intelligent enough to understand the question. Often, they are just telling people what they want to hear, rather than the truth.

This whole issue of gender or gender identity, has been around for a long time, but has gained more attention in recent years due to the availability of more information and the increasing willingness of people to speak up about it. There are an incredible number of gender terms out there, many of which overlap, and even more definitions that seem to shift over time. Something like 1% of all people are born with chromosomes from both genders to greater or lesser degrees, they have excessive hormones from the opposite gender, or they identify as one sex when they have been assigned the other at birth. To a non-science guy like myself, it is far too complicated to understand. I am completely ill-equipped to deal with this question, but I can give a few insights from track and field.

This question has been a track issue since at least the 1930s, when the International Olympic Committee instituted the “sex test” to determine an athlete’s gender. A Polish athlete, Stella Walsh, won the gold medal in the women’s 100 meters in 1932. When she died in Cleveland years later, an autopsy revealed the she had no uterus and an undeveloped penis. She was labeled “hermaphrodidic,” as a person who was born with sex organs and characteristics of both genders. Today, she might be called “intersex.” Intersex people are individuals born with any of several variations in sex characteristics including chromosomes, gonads, hormones, or genitals that do not fit the typical definitions for male or female bodies. More recently, South African runner Caster Semenya made waves by winning several major competitions while appearing to be more male than female. One source explained, “Semenya is an intersex woman, assigned female at birth, with XY chromosomes and naturally elevated testosterone levels.” Does that make her a male or a female? She had a natural, albeit unusual, condition, and unlike the Russians and East Germans during the Cold War Years, she did nothing to alter the cards that God or nature dealt her. Sports competitions have been legislating gender for nearly a century, but as our understanding of gender and sexual identity evolves, it has become more difficult for sports to exist within a neat, gender division.

Nature seems to have a sense of humor in this regard that messes with our normal expectations for human life. I guess the big thing to remember here is that these people did not choose to be different or unusual. Some wrestle with this issue for their entire lives. I think of Bruce Jenner, now Caitlyn. I was in a track meet against him when we were both in college, and he was an impressive athlete even before his Olympic fame. He was married three times and had six children. Then came his bombshell announcement in 2015 that he identified as a woman and planned to undergo a sex-change operation. Apparently, the question of gender identity tormented her for her entire life. I taught several girls/boys over the years in an all-female school who struggled with this problem, and they were usually miserable, not sure of who they were or where they belonged. I have painful memories of one particular student in tears in my empty classroom, crying because she felt completely out of place with the other students. I later discovered that she identified as a male, but she didn’t fit in with either gender group. These people are not seeking advantages, although some will probably game the system for that purpose. Most, however, simply want to be treated equally, without discrimination, and that is what Biden’s EO addresses.

Am I comfortable with all of this ambiguity? Of course not, but I’m trying to understand it. At times, I find myself relating to Archie Bunker, who, at the start of each episode of All in the Family, sang about the good ol’ days, saying “And you knew where you were then; girls were girls and men were men.” But nature isn’t perfect and there are all sorts of permutations of the conventional idea of binary genders.

As I’ve said before, I don’t have any answers, only more questions. For me, these issues are just more reminders that the modern world is incredibly complicated and there are no simple solutions to the multi-faceted problems we face. We may not like it, but we have to become more comfortable with the ambiguity and the lack of easy, clear-cut solutions. When I was a kid, I saw things in terms of black-and-white. The world was simple and easy to understand. As I grew older, though, read more, moved around the country, and experienced a lot of different things, I began to realize that the world was much more complex than I imagined.

I had climbed the mountain, but, like Stephen Crane’s “complacent fat man,” I had discovered that “the scene is grey.”

Austerity Month

February 1^st marks the launch of an annual tradition that Kathleen and I started some six or seven years ago. We call it “Austerity Month,” and this year promises to be a special one.

This tradition began one year when, like many people, we struggled to recover from another holiday season. By mid-January each year, we felt as if we had spent several weeks eating too much, drinking too much, and spending too much money. In order to regain control of our waistlines, our livers, and our pocketbooks, we decided that we would cut back on everything for an entire month. It is no coincidence that Austerity Month each year is declared for February, which is, of course, the shortest month on the calendar. We wanted to cut back, but we weren’t going to be crazy about it.

The rules were simple. 1) No drinking. That one was pretty straightforward. It felt strange not having a couple of beers while watching the Super Bowl or Gator basketball games or having wine with dinner, especially at restaurants, but we soldiered through. This rule was occasionally broken, as when our friend, Joy, had a destination wedding in Aruba in early February. Then, last year, during our first winter in the frozen North, we allowed ourselves a glass of wine with our wonderful happy-hour group on Wednesday afternoons. This year, there will be no restaurants, happy hours, or destination weddings, so we should be okay there.

2) Lose a few pounds with healthy eating. This, too, is fairly easy to follow. We select meals based on the point system of Weight Watchers, cut out snacks, and avoid sugar and starches. It’s not too bad, and, when combined with a lack of high-calorie alcoholic drinks, we can usually drop a few pounds during the 28 or 29 days of the month.

3) Cut way back on spending. After throwing money around like sailors on liberty for two months, we refrain from all extra purchases during the month. As long as we plan ahead a little, we’re usually pretty good about this as well.

After all of this abstemious living, we are ready for March to arrive, and we welcome the new month with dinner out and a nice bottle of wine. March was the month when I had spring break from teaching, March Madness in basketball, and the start of the baseball season. We usually threw in a trip to Vegas for good measure. We were able to tackle those challenges feeling virtuous and rested after our ascetic month.

This year, the arrival of March will be especially welcome. You see, yesterday, we received our first shot of the Covid vaccine. We got ours at a local clinic in Baldwin, Wisconsin, and the entire process was remarkably easy and well-organized. We are scheduled for the second shot on February 26^th. We have to wait another week for that one to kick in, but by that first week of March, we will be good to go.

A short time ago—okay, it was 48 years ago—in January 1973, I was in my freshman year at Knox College in Illinois. As with most colleges, the school brought in well-known speakers, and this particular night, they had Dick Gregory speak. At that time, he was a well-known stand-up comedian (a major influence on Richard Pryor), author, and civil rights and anti-war activist. I had read his semi-autobiographical book and related to him because he had been a middle-distance runner at Southern Illinois University in the 1950s. After studying the life of Gandhi, he began to use hunger strikes as a political tool. That night in 1973, he explained that he was on a hunger strike until the Vietnam War ended. From the podium, he said, “So if tonight we get word that the peace talks have resulted in an end to the war, I wouldn’t recommend standing between me and the nearest hamburger.”

Similarly, on March 3^rd or so, when Austerity Month has ended, and we are officially cleared to re-enter public life, I wouldn’t recommend standing between us and the Nutty Squirrel.

(Footnote: I saw Gregory on January 22, 1973. The Vietnam War didn’t end that night, but a few days later, Jan. 28, a cease-fire was signed that effectively ended the US role in the senseless conflict. What did happen that night, while Gregory was on stage, was he received a note that told him LBJ had just died. It was fascinating to see him explain the note and stand there silently for several minutes, struggling with his emotions. He said that he regarded Johnson with great ambivalence. After all, as President, he had done more for Blacks than any politician since Lincoln. On the other hand, he started the War in Vietnam by lying to the American people about an attack on US ships in the Tonkin Gulf, near North Vietnam. We now know that attack never took place. Gregory said, “I have never loved a man so much or hated one so much as I did LBJ.” It was a poignant moment for me, sitting in the audience, and I’ve never forgotten that night.)

Great Again?

September 11, 2001. That was the last time I felt gut-punched like I did yesterday. That was the last time that someone attacked our government, our democracy, our country. As we did on 9-11, Kathleen and I spent all day glued to the television, flipping channels, and trying to make sense of the disgusting images unfolding on the screen.

As I write these words, I am already breaking my New Year’s resolution to avoid talking about politics in my blog. Obviously, the events of yesterday moved me to take this step and made it impossible to remain silent. As a historian, I had images flashing through my mind of other times when our Capitol was under attack. In 1812, invading British forces took the city and burned the White House; in 1856, a Southern congressman used a cane to beat a US Senator bloody and unconscious at his desk in the Senate chamber because he was an abolitionist who spoke out against slavery; a few years later, that same issue resulted in a civil war in which Washington DC had to be turned into a fortress because the city was under assault from an invading army; in 2001, the Pentagon and White House were targeted by another enemy who sought to destroy our government. Those efforts all failed to accomplish their goal and our country survived. Even yesterday, all that was accomplished by the sickening, lawless mob was a slight delay of the inevitable. Late at night, despite these attacks and weeks of threats and failed law suits by Trump, both houses of Congress officially affirmed Joe Biden’s decisive victory.

For months leading up to the election, Donald Trump warned the voters that the election of Joe Biden would result in anarchy. He was right. He just didn’t explain that he would be the cause of that anarchy. I now have new images of attacks on Washington to join those of my historical memory. Thousands of seditious thugs tried to stop the operation of democracy while their hats, shirts, and flags bore the slogan “Make America Great Again.” They seemed to have no sense of irony at the fact that the four-year-long reign of terror by King Donald has ripped apart and destroyed a formerly great nation. Nor did they see the disconnect between the waving of American flags while attacking the very things that the flag stands for. All of this happened at the behest of their messiah. At a rally earlier, he repeated his lies about a “rigged election,” and exhorted the mob of mindless cult members to march down to the Capitol Building to disrupt the proceedings. (You can now add “inciting a riot” to his long list of criminal acts while president).

It reminded me of a film biography of Chinese Communist leader Mao Zedong that I used to show my students in World History. In 1966, in an event known as the Cultural Revolution, Mao became angry that China seemed to be slipping toward capitalism and away from “pure communism.” He started holding massive rallies with young people and college students, stirring them up with propaganda, and he organized them into groups he called “Red Guards.” They wore red bandanas similar to the MAGA hats and carried copies of a small book called “Quotations of Chairman Mao” (AKA, The Little Red Book). For three years, these people worshipped Mao as a god and became fanatical, marching through the streets attacking journalists, intellectuals, and anyone else who disagreed with their narrow view of the world. (See picture above) Hundreds of innocent people were killed, and by 1969 the nation was so disrupted by their mob actions, that the government had to step in, quietly force Mao into retirement, and try to restore order. Many of the fanatical followers, however, refused to cease their activities, so they were “sent down” to the countryside and forced to do hard labor that sapped their revolutionary energies. I vividly recall a film clip of one such girl who was so unrepentant and radicalized that they harnessed her to a plow in place of a draft animal. The film showed her with a huge smile on her face, happily straining to pull the plow through the fields for the good of China. Perhaps, after January 20^th, we can do something similar to the Trump lemmings who attacked our nation yesterday.

Seriously, though, yesterday’s events were all a result of the forces of hatred and intolerance unleashed by a narcissistic president who believes himself to be above the law and who cannot admit to himself that he is a loser.

Something else has been unleashed by Donald Trump, however. During the chaos of the afternoon, the final votes were tabulated in Georgia, and Jon Ossoff was declared the other winner of the runoff election to determine the state’s two senators. In a result that would have been inconceivable just a few years ago, Ossoff, a Jew, and Raphael Warnock, the first Democratic African-American ever elected to the US Senate from a Southern state, will now become part of a Democratic majority in the US Senate, US Congress, and the White House. They, like President-Elect Joe Biden were pushed over the top by people voting for the first time, many of them Black, people who were moved to exercise their right to vote by the dangerous excesses and dictatorial power wielded by Trump. The events of the past four years moved them to take this step, and, like me, it became impossible to remain silent. And make no mistake, the electorate, like the country, is changing. Voters of the near future will be younger, more engaged, and more accepting of differences in race, color, sexual preference, and religion than the people who elected this horrible man.

Hopefully, this dramatic change in government leadership is just the beginning of something that will, indeed, make our country great again.

Oh, Fudge!

As I write this, we are still several days before Christmas, but as the song says, “We need a little Christmas now.”

In an attempt to start the holiday a bit early, Kathleen and I, with help from the grandkids, have made the inside of the house a sparkling display of Christmas lights. Then, in anticipation of a visit from Kristin and Kevin (daughter and son-in-law), we decided to make fudge over the weekend. We had never attempted this culinary treat before, but, I thought, as in the oft-quoted last words, “How hard can it be?” So confident were we of our success, that we opted for a double-batch of the chocolate delights. Kathleen carefully prepared and measured out all of the ingredients ahead of time, so my job consisted primarily of mixing it all together in a large pot and stirring constantly as it slowly built to a boil. Stage one went well, and a fascinating chemical process unfolded as the heat liquified sugar, butter, and other solid ingredients into a smooth, gooey concoction. So far so good.

Then, we added a massive amount of semi-sweet chocolate chips and miniature marshmallows. The going got tougher for your intrepid stirrer, and the liquid slowly morphed into a solid mass as those final ingredients were added. The plastic cooking spatula soon proved inadequate to the task, with the handle bending uselessly. I asked for a big, plastic spoon, but it, too, failed to make much of an impression on the huge, brown globule in the pot. Likewise for the metal spoon. Then a bigger plastic one. By this point I was dripping sweat and panting with exertion, so Kathleen pronounced it adequately mixed. She returned to her recipe and read, “Pour the contents into a shallow cake pan.” We burst out laughing, as “pouring” was clearly not an option with our volleyball-sized mess.

It was at this juncture that we realized something had gone terribly wrong, but we soldiered on. I placed the coffee-colored ball into the pan, and, with some considerable effort, mashed the malleable substance until it sort of resembled a one-inch-thick pan of fudge, albeit a bit lumpy. I was tired, but triumphant, as I slid the pan into the refrigerator in time for the kickoff of the SEC championship game. At halftime, we were ready for a tasty treat, so Kathleen pulled out the pan and tried cutting it into small squares. At least that was the plan. The knife she chose had little impact, so she called me over, and I gave it a shot. I tried for several minutes. Sounding like Chief Brody in Jaws when faced with his own great white shark, I said, “We’re gonna need a bigger knife.” After trying again with a larger implement, I chose a knife with a serrated edge. Then I tried a bigger blade that had teeth like a carpenter’s hand saw. By this time, we had tears in our eyes from laughing, but only an eighth-of-an-inch groove in the top of that cut-resistant substance. I found a knife with a sharp point on the end and tried to pound perforations into the fudge, hoping to break off pieces like plastic. No dice. I was heading downstairs to get the chain saw when Kathleen waved the white flag. So, the result was an inedible block of cement, and we didn’t get any fudge that night. We later determined that, when the recipe called for 5 ounces of evaporated milk, a number “one” in front of the “five” had been partially obliterated, and we missed it. It should have been 15 ounces. So, when we doubled the recipe, instead of thirty ounces, we used ten. That explains it.

Meanwhile, outside of our kitchen, the world remains a bleak place. Several times over the past couple of weeks, we have had more deaths from Covid in one day than died at Pearl Harbor (about 2400) or on September 11^th (about 3000). As people are driven indoors by the colder weather, the Covid crisis continues to spiral out of control. The first doses of the vaccine have been administered, but it will still be months before we can start to feel safe again.

And the President . . . does nothing. He doesn’t even mention the virus in his increasingly rare public appearances. The only thing we have heard from him involve his self-absorbed and dangerous attempts to steal the election. He packed the federal courts over the past four years, counting on his hand-picked judges to vote his way should he lose the 2020 election. In terms of his law suits, his record thus far, however, is 0 and 50. Even the hapless New York Jets won once this year. Most of these efforts have been laughably inept, once being turned away by the Supreme Court with a one-sentence rejection. The problem is that courts want evidence, and Trump can’t understand that concept, since he has gotten his followers to believe everything he says without evidence for four years. Now that it’s clear he has been decisively defeated, most his efforts have been focused on trying to figure out how to pardon his friends and family for crimes they committed on his behalf.

While all of this has been going on, the most serious breach of our defense system during the computer age occurred, with Trump’s pal Putin hacking our top-secret security systems and obtaining access to everything from phone numbers to nuclear codes. And the President . . . remains silent. Thousands of jobs are disappearing by the day—and he does nothing. Congress is—finally—doing a little to help the people being destroyed financially by the crisis, but the President provides little or no assistance.

While the world crumbles around him, Trump has, for all intents and purposes, abdicated the office and retired to the golf course. In terms of leadership, during this crisis that has more aspects than a Swiss Army Knife has blades, we will have to wait until Jan 20 to see if anything can be done.

When I was a kid, I saw the 1957 comedy Auntie Mame, which was a tour de force for lead actress, Rosalind Russell. I liked it so much, that I read the Patrick Dennis book on which it was based. Then in 1974, I looked forward to the musical version of the book, simply called Mame. It was terrible, and Lucille Ball captured none of the flair of the original film. However, there was one shining moment in the musical version. That was a joyous Christmas song that sprang up right when the characters were at a low point in their lives. If you are not familiar with the story, Mame Dennis is a rich, eccentric woman raising her nephew in New York. When the Great Depression of the 1930s hits, she loses everything but her apartment. She and her loyal servants have sold off most of her furniture and everything of value to stay afloat, but Mame can’t hold a job and things look increasingly dire. So one day, Mame announces that Christmas is coming early this year because they need it so desperately. None of the actors, including Lucy, are singers, but the song captures the idea that we should never allow ourselves to be defeated by circumstances. We need some of that indomitable spirit for the final act of 2020.

So, like Auntie Mame, I’m declaring Christmas a few days early this year, because “we need a little Christmas now.”

Click on the link to see the song.

Have You Ever Noticed . . . Movie Edition

Andy Rooney, the bushy-browed curmudgeon on 60 Minutes, closed the show for over thirty years with his witty observations and wry comments about nothing in particular. While this was a popular segment of the show, it should be noted that he never said, “Have you ever noticed . . .” In 1981, however, Saturday Night Live’s Joe Piscopo began impersonating him using that phrase and the newsman has been associated with those words ever since. Today, I’m going to steal the phrase to discuss something I recently noticed while watching far too many movies from the 1980s and ‘90s on cable.

Have you ever noticed how, fairly often, two or more movies with an almost identical plot or subject appear in about the same year? I’ve been aware of this for a while, but I didn’t know until recently that there’s actually a term for this phenomenon. It’s called “Twin Films” and it has been happening since 1934 when The Rise of Catherine the Great and The Scarlet Empress were both released at the same time, and both featured the long-dead Empress of Russia. In 1940, Young Mr. Lincoln and Abe Lincoln in Illinois appeared with the same subject matter. You’re probably remembering similar pairings of films now that I’ve mentioned it. Just three years ago, for instance, Dunkirk, Churchill, and Darkest Hour all dealt with Winston Churchill and the miracle escape by British forces from Dunkirk, Belgium in 1940. In fact, historical figures and events often figure in these remarkable coincidences. In the past quarter century or so, we’ve had Tombstone and Wyatt Earp (1993), Braveheart and Rob Roy (1995), Kundun and Seven Years in Tibet (1997), Prefontaine and Without Limits (1998), and Infamous and Capote (2005).

Other such similarities can be seen in The Prestige and Illusionist (2006), which both dealt with Victorian Era magicians, and Ed TV and The Truman Show (1999), both featuring a main character whose entire life is the subject of a reality TV show. Then, in 2011, both Friends With Benefits and No Strings Attached featured friends who agree to have a sexual relationship, but not get emotionally attached. Certainly, Hollywood is often accused of lacking originality and stealing ideas from any place they can find them, but is this simply a case of plagiarism? I’m not sure, but perhaps there is, on occasion, a script floating around Hollywood long enough that two studios decide to make the film, but only one wants to compensate the original creator for his or her work. I don’t understand how this happens, but I do know that the trend probably reached its peak in the late 1980s and early 1990s.

In 1987 and 1988, there were an astounding five films produced with virtually the same plot in a genre we’ll call “age-shifting.” In Like Father Like Son (1987), 18 Again! (1988), Big (1988), Vice Versa (1988), and 14 Going on 30 (1988), characters of different ages magically switch places, or a young kid suddenly becomes an adult. Freaky Friday (1976 & 2003) and 13 Going on 30 (2004) show the enduring popularity of this theme. Big, in which 12-year-old Tom Hanks changes into an adult overnight, was by far the best of this batch of films, and it leads me to another collection of Twin-type films.

I call these the “any idiot can do this job” films, and they were prevalent in the late ‘80s. I don’t know what the trend tells us about the time period. Perhaps it has something to do with having a mediocre Hollywood actor pretending to be president for most of the decade, but I think the trend began in 1987 with The Secret of My Success. In this film, just-out-of-college Michael J. Fox gets an entry-level job in the mail room of a big corporation, but he pretends to be an executive in order to move up more quickly. His innate financial wizardry helps him organize a hostile takeover of the company, proving that, although completely inexperienced, he deserves to run the corporation. That is the theme that runs through these movies: someone without qualifications finagles their way into an upper-level job, and ends up doing it better than their predecessor. The next year, Melanie Griffith, in Working Girl, follows this plotline as a secretary who lies her way into a position of power, but quickly puts together a blockbuster corporate merger. Also in 1988, Tom Hanks gave his career a huge boost with the aforementioned Big. Not only does the pre-teen magically become an adult, but he rises to the top of the toy industry because of his instinctive wisdom and child-like observations.

This theme continued into the early ‘90s, with SNL’s Dana Carvey starring as a con man in the underappreciated Opportunity Knocks (1990). While robbing a house, Carvey hears a phone message intended for the owner. Seeing the potential for a scam, he assumes the identity of the best friend of the wealthy son of a corporation CEO (played by Robert Loggia, who also played Hanks’s boss in Big). He uses this fake persona to impress the CEO with keen business insights based on a confidence man’s understanding of human nature. He ultimately confesses, but gets a top job with the company anyway. In 1991’s dark comedy, Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead, Christina Applegate is a teen who must get a job to take care of her younger siblings while her mother is out of the country for an extended period and the babysitter suddenly dies. She fabricates an impressive resume, pretends to be an accomplished adult, and quickly rises to the top of the fashion world as a designer and executive, proving that any high-school kid is capable of running a Fortune 500 company. Finally, in 1995’s Dave, Kevin Kline is a small-town man who resembles the President of the US. When the President is debilitated by a stroke, he is called in to impersonate the leader of the free world, and soon demonstrates that he is better suited for the Oval Office than the man who was elected to the position.

Most of these preposterous plots, then, are generally about people in lower-level jobs, who pretend to be executives, come up with brilliant ideas regarding their particular business, get huge promotions, and (with the exception of Big) get the girl or guy who was previously “out of their league.” In any case, all are designed to show that, under the right circumstances, “any idiot can do this job.” I don’t know if that’s true, but if you see something often enough, you start to believe it.

Finally, have you ever noticed how, when he has nothing particular to say, Jack still manages to waste ten minutes of your valuable time with a pointless blog?

I have.

It’s Great to be Together

I wanted to write some sort of holiday message of peace, reconciliation, and coming together, but nothing came to me immediately. Then it hit me: I already wrote something that’s perfect for Thanksgiving in this bizarre year of 2020. I composed this song during my folk-music days about 35 years ago, but it has everything that we have seen this year. There’s fighting, temper tantrums, division, and even social distancing in the form of being forced to eat at the “kids table” in the basement as a fully grown adult.

As a kid, my extended family used to gather for every major holiday and most minor ones. In addition to the usual religious and civil holidays, there were birthdays, 1^st communions, confirmations, graduations (from both high school and middle school), weddings, anniversaries, etc. I took a quarter-century of those family holidays and mashed them into this song. Not everyone has such raucous celebrations, but my family did. Who can forget the infamous Christmas Eve fistfight of 1981, when my dad and my sister’s husband went hooks over whether little-league baseball was superior to “learning it on the streets.” The whole family was involved before that one was over. Then, with swollen eyes and split lips, we hugged and sang Christmas carols. Ah, the memories. I remember my friend Bruce once saying, “They should make a TV show about your family.” After watching the Showtime series Shameless, Kathleen thinks they did.

Those innumerable family gatherings began to wear on me after a while. In fact, when I was 23, I moved to Texas, in part to avoid the constant familial demands. Then to Colorado. Then to L.A. Then to . . . well, you get the idea. Still, while typing the lyrics to this song, it occurred to me that I’d give anything to have just one more Thanksgiving with everyone gathered together.

Like everything else this year, Thanksgiving arrives under unusual circumstances. My family lost my Uncle Don and my cousin Dawn this year, and it might be a good time to take a moment and think about friends and family that you have lost. Celebrate in small groups, wear masks when not eating, and for God’s sake, don’t talk about politics.

Here are the lyrics to the song. Believe or not, the Chicago public radio show, Midnight Special, used to play this on Thanksgivings. The people mentioned by name are my siblings.

Great to be Together Again, by Jack Henderson, 1985

It’s great to be together at this time of year,

But who dropped the olive in my glass of beer?

If we ever stop fighting, we’ll be loaded with cheer,

‘Cause it’s great to be together again.

—

Robb’s friend is knocking, but he can’t come in,

‘Cause today we’re eating butter ‘stead of margarine,

And Danny has his elbow in Gary’s chin,

‘Cause it’s great to be together again.

—

Randy took a drumstick, but he only ate the skin,

So dad started shooting dirty looks at him.

We’ll eat until we’re sick and that makes Grandma grin,

‘Cause it’s great to be together again.

—

Mark spilt the wine, but it’s no great loss,

So pass the sweet potatoes and the cranberry sauce;

The Bears didn’t win, and so we’re all pissed off,

But it’s great to be together again.

—

We’ve got uncles in the kitchen, and cousins everywhere,

So Debbie, go and get the broken folding chair.

And dad’s still swearing ‘bout the “goddamned Bears,”

But it’s great to be together again.

—

Mom is a magician, and every year’s the same,

She’s got eight different courses on the Radar Range,

And it’s ready to eat at half-time of the game,

‘Cause it’s great to be together again.

—

Mom forgot asparagus when she was at the store,

So dad got mad and wouldn’t eat no more;

He threw his mashed potatoes on the kitchen floor,

Boy, it’s great to be together again.

—

Well, I’m down here with the kids although I’m twenty-five,

Eating in the basement with the spiders and flies;

I guess I’m stuck down here until somebody dies,

But it’s great to be together again.

—

Well it’s great to be together at this time of year,

But who dropped the olive in my glass of beer;

If we ever stop fighting we’ll be loaded with cheer,

‘Cause it’s great to be together again.

What Happens Next?

It took a while, but the votes have all been counted, and the election is finally over. It was certainly no landslide or “Blue Wave” as some were predicting, but the final decision was clear and decisive. If it didn’t seem that way, that’s because we live in an era in which close elections are the norm. A few points of historical perspective:

1) Because of the heavy turnout (over 65%), both candidates received more votes than any other person in history. Biden won by over 6 million votes, 51% to 47%. Biden also had a solid majority in the electoral college, 306-232, the exact same numbers as Trump had in 2016, when he claimed that he had an overwhelming mandate.

2) While the 4% margin might seem thin, only three elections since 1960 have seen the winner claim more than 53% of the vote: LBJ in 1964, Nixon in 1972, Reagan in 1984. All of the other 12 elections have been decided by a less than 6% margin.

3) It is difficult for an incumbent president to lose a re-election campaign, as only four have managed to accomplish the feat in the past century, Herbert Hoover in 1928, Jimmy Carter in 1976, Bush Sr. in 1992, and now Trump. In all of those cases, the incumbent president was seen as failing to take decisive action or deal effectively with a crisis. For Hoover it was the Great Depression, Carter had the Iran Hostage situation, Bush had a serious recession, and Trump had Covid and an economic implosion.

4) A little historical trivia: Trump is only the 3^rd man since the Civil War (William Jennings Bryan, 1896 & 1900, and Thomas Dewey, 1944 & ’48, are the other two) to lose two the popular vote in two consecutive elections.

Okay, so what happens now. Historians are loathe to predict the future, as am I, especially when dealing with this most unpredictable of presidents. Again, however, we can look to the past for a hint of what to expect.

—Prediction number 1: The economy will improve. That’s a pretty safe guess, since we’re in a mess at the moment. While Trump has been proclaiming “the greatest economy in history,” job losses have been astronomical, lives hang in the balance, and Congress has failed to enact a second relief bill. Before we see any improvement, however, we will see some dark days ahead. Trump’s failure to even acknowledge the Covid Virus, let alone do anything about it, has created this incredible spike in the number of cases and deaths. That will force state governments to reinstate shut-down measures, a process that has already begun. Thus economic recovery will be delayed.

–Prediction number 2: It’s also safe to say that Biden will provide more leadership in the battle versus Covid than Trump has, and he will base his actions on science, not political expediency. In recent days, we have had good news about the development of two new Covid vaccines. To be fair, Trump’s push for the development of a vaccine at “warp speed” probably hastened it’s progress. Of course, it’s now clear that he did this for political gain, not because he cared about the lives of Americans. And let’s not give him too much credit; that would be like congratulating a drunk driver who is weaving down the road and accidently wanders into the correct lane on occasion. Even many people who voted for Trump feel more confidence in Biden in terms of organizing distribution and inoculation efforts. Still, this has been a befuddling virus thus far, and we are learning more about it every day. So stay tuned on this front.

—Prediction number 3: The stock market will do well over the next four years. The market has rebounded significantly since election day, both because of Biden’s election and the Covid vaccine news. It’s not that investors like Democrats more than Republicans; it had more to do with the election removing the cloud of uncertainty that has hovered over Wall Street for so long. The fact is, however, that, over the past forty years, the stock market has performed considerably better under Democratic presidents than under GOP leaders. Here are the numbers by president for the S & P 500 performance since 1980:

Clinton, + 210% improvement

Obama, + 182%

Reagan, + 117%

Bush, Sr., + 51%

Trump, + 45%

Bush, Jr., – 40%

Of course, the stock market is not the entire economy; it is more of an indicator of investor confidence. It does, however, reflect economic growth. And many people, myself included, are dependent on a strong stock market for their retirement incomes. In terms of gross domestic product, which is a more accurate indicator of economic strength, Clinton has a slight edge over Reagan, with the others trailing significantly. All three Democrats (if we include Biden) inherited an economy in serious distress. Both Clinton and Obama, however, handed their successors a robust economy that was getting even stronger. (Few seem to remember that the US was operating on an actual surplus for the last few years of Clinton’s administration—the government was taking in more money than it was spending.) Here’s hoping that Biden can do the same thing.

Moreover, for generations, the Democrats were decried as the “tax and spend” party, while the GOP was seen as the party of financial restraint. From the 1930s to 1980, Democrats dominated the national government, implemented relatively high taxes on the wealthy (when compared to today), regularly paid off government loans, and kept the national debt low. The post-War economy hummed along beautifully under those circumstances until the 1970s. The party positions have been reversed in recent years. Republicans have become the “borrow and spend” party since 1980, spending money at a much higher rate while also cutting taxes for the wealthy and corporations. That means that we have had to borrow much more money in order to function. Then, of course, the US has to repay those enormous loans along with the considerable interest that has accrued along the way. The end result is that our national debt (the amount of money the government owes banks) has grown exponentially, quadrupling in the 12 years of Reagan-Bush leadership alone. That growing debt keeps being pushed forward to the next generation, and, until we get responsible fiscal leaders who will combine spending restraint with a more equitable tax system, the national debt looms over the country like a mushroom cloud.

In the end, as a recent Forbes Magazine article stated, the stock market doesn’t really care who the president is. It does, however, love gridlock.

—Prediction number 4: Gridlock will continue. There are still two senatorial races facing run-off elections in Georgia on January 5^th. Despite that, I believe the Republicans will retain control of the Senate. That’s bad news for Progressives in the Democratic party who are hoping for wholesale changes in the political system. It’s good news for investors who do not want to see dramatic changes that could disrupt the economy. As long as the two parties share control in the executive and legislative branches, we will not see any significant new laws, and government will avoid swinging to one extreme or the other. Further, while the Democrats united to defeat Trump, the various branches of the coalition disagree significantly on important issues. Progressives wanting to “defund” the police and other such reforms will be disappointed, because, despite the ridiculous claims by Trump and the GOP that Biden is a dangerous, screaming radical, he is and always has been, squarely in the center on most political issues. He has made a career out of compromising and working with Republicans. There is no reason to believe that his presidency will be any different, despite the pressure he will receive from the left wing of his party. That said, the GOP has become so radicalized by Trump, Fox, Limbaugh, etc., that the party will remain completely unwilling to compromise, despite how much that intransigence hurts the nation. Result: more gridlock.

—Prediction number 5: In the eyes of the world, the US will be stronger and more respected under Biden’s leadership. This is another no-brainer. Trump took a nation that was admired worldwide under Obama, a US that provided leadership on many important issues, and he turned us into a laughingstock. The only country that will be disappointed by Biden’s victory will be Russia, which treated Trump like Putin’s personal lapdog. Within the US, the diplomatic corps, intelligence agencies, FBI, CIA, and military leaders will all breathe a sigh of relief on January 20^th. Trump demanded that all of those people use their non-partisan offices to help re-elect the president, rather than do what was best for the security of this nation. He also insulted our fighting men and women and all veterans by saying they were “losers” for fighting to defend their nation. All of that will stop.

Last night, Kathleen and I finished watching the brilliant WWII series, Band of Brothers. We started watching it, for the 2^nd or 3^rd time, on Veterans Day. If you are not familiar with the series, you owe it to yourself to see it. The ten-part factual history drama follows one unit of American soldiers, from training camp to the end of the war in Europe. Interspliced with the film are interviews with the actual soldiers. The commitment and sacrifice of those men, along with their willingness to put their nation ahead of themselves is astounding. The series is inspiring, emotional, and thought provoking.

During the last two episodes, Hitler is being smashed by the Russians from the east and the Americans and British from the west. There is no longer any hope for a Nazi victory. Rather than give up and admit defeat, however, Hitler orders his elite SS troops to retreat into the Alps and continue fighting a guerilla war—to the death if necessary. Sound familiar?

Our own autocratic, would-be dictator has refused to accept reality. He, too, has ordered his stalwart supporters to fight to the death on his behalf. Thus, we are subjected to frivolous lawsuits that have led even the obsequious Tucker Carlson on Fox to urge Trump to “give it up.” It all came to a ludicrous pinnacle a few days ago when Trump’s $20,000-a-day lawyer, Rudy Giuliani, gave a bizarre press-conference that serves as a metaphor for the entire post-election charade. While making wild accusations (my favorite was the one about a Venezuelan president, dead since 2013, being part of the conspiracy to defeat Trump), without any evidence, of course, Rudy began to literally melt down before our eyes. Not only did his torrent of lies cause him to sweat profusely, but the rivulets of perspiration became mixed with dark-colored hair dye that ran down his face in a grotesque display of the ineptitude of Trump’s doomed attempts to steal the election. Ironically, the president’s efforts to undermine the democratic process before the election led voting officials to employ extra safe-guards against fraud or any other possible corruption. The result was the cleanest and most unimpeachable election in history, which left Trump no avenue through which to overturn the results by fraudulent means.

—Prediction number 6: Despite all misgivings you might be feeling about the Covid crisis and the election, we will get through this. The cavalry (and the vaccine) is on the way, and January 20^thwill arrive. Finally, remember the example of those brave men depicted in Band of Brothers. They serve as healthy reminders of what this country is capable of accomplishing when its people are united in purpose and direction.

A River Runs Through It

On Thursday, I was overwhelmed by uncertainty. The Covid epidemic is seething in Wisconsin. This morning, I awoke again to the sound of a helicopter landing at the nearby hospital, taking a patient to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. The uncertainty stems, of course, from the fact that we have no idea when this will all end and when—or if—we can return to our normal lives. On top of that, the presidential election is still undecided three days after the fact. The counting continues in many states to ensure that every vote is tabulated, but more uncertainty is the only result we have at the moment.

So, beset by these uneasy feelings, I decided to go for a walk. It was a gloriously warm, November day, with bright sunshine and temperatures in the high sixties, and I thought I’d wander to the Kinnickinnic River downtown. After all, what could be more constant and assuring than nature. That little river has run through this area since the last ice age. It is something solid and consistent. Just what I need to settle my troubled mind. For those unfamiliar with the area, the river enters the town from the northeast, runs north-to-south through downtown, then turns west where it flows to the St. Croix River about seven miles away. In town, however, two dams interrupt that meandering path. Right at the edge of downtown, the Junction Dam blocks the river and forms Lake George. The runoff from that dam continues south where it is joined by the water from the South Branch of the Kinnickinnic until it is again blocked by the Powell Dam. Behind that dam is another man-made body of water called Lake Louise. Powell Dam was built in 1904 to facilitate a flour mill, and it was later adapted to generate electricity. Thus, for 116 years, the Kinnickinnic River and its two lakes have run through town, looking from the air like a giant boa constrictor that has swallowed two large animals.

I parked downtown and crossed the bridge to the bike path that follows the river. As I walked next to Lake George, hundreds of geese were honking as they rested in the shallow water on their annual pilgrimage to the south. Above me, other geese flew in perfect vee formations in an impressive aerial display. I paused to watch the water rush over the Junction Dam before crossing the swinging bridge into Glen Park. As I left the park, I entered the woods and followed the dirt footpath back down to the river. Deep in thought, I looked down through the trees to my right expecting to see the fifteen-acres of Lake Louise.

It was gone.

Having grown used to seeing a sizable body of water in that spot, it was remarkable to see instead an expanse of mudflats cut by a meandering stream as it ran toward Powell Dam. During the thousands of years in which the river ran down that channel, it had knifed its way through the bedrock and formed a miniature Grand Canyon right here in River Falls. Perhaps a “Petite Canyon” is more accurate, as it appeared, from my distant vantage point, to be only about ten or fifteen feet deep. To get a better view, I cautiously moved closer to the steep cliffs above the water, trying not to tumble over the edge into the muddy plains so recently exposed. Looking down, it was a bit like returning to a childhood home only to find that it had been torn down and replaced by a different house. It jars the system.

I researched this situation and discovered that the dam had been opened on October 1 in order to see if the June 29 flood had caused any damage to the concrete dam. Earlier, in April, 2019, the City Council had voted to take down the dams over time, with Powell Dam scheduled to be dismantled in 2026, and Junction Dam coming down ten or fifteen years later. So this is a preview of what things might look like in six years.

Until then, the current condition of Lake Louise presents a view of the river not seen since 1965, when heavy winter snowfalls led to spring floods that damaged Powell Dam. That was the only other time that the lake had been drained.

I’m not sure how long the river will remain in its present state. Those who long lobbied the city to dismantle the dams used the rallying cry of “Free the Kinni.” This is a rare opportunity to watch the river run free, as it once did in the past and will again in the future.