Dr. Jack

Floridays

Most of the people who retire to Florida are wrinkled and they lean on a crutch;

And mobile homes are smothering the Keys; I hate those bastards so much.

I wish a summer squall would blow them all, way up to Fantasy Land;

They’re ugly and square, they don’t belong here, they looked a lot better as beer cans.

–Jimmy Buffett, Migration

I have always had mixed feelings about Florida. Growing up in Chicago, the state always had a magical appeal as a place where it was always warm, and it never snowed. Then I lived in Florida for eight years starting in 1989, and Kathleen joined me when we married in 1991. I was studying and teaching at the University of Florida at the time, and we thoroughly enjoyed our time there. Gainesville is different than most of the rest of the state, however, as it is not on water, and it is not a tourist destination for most people. On this recent trip, as we drove south through the state, traffic became steadily more congested, and most of the coastal areas we could see were heavily developed with expensive homes and high-rise hotels and condos. Usually, the building of new residential or commercial areas in Florida comes at the expense of the natural environment and endangers a fragile ecosystem. In many ways, this has been the story of Florida since 1912, when Henry Flagler’s railroad first stretched down the east coast of the state to Key West and opened south Florida to development by wealthy northerners who wanted winter homes in a warm climate.

We are staying in the home of a friend in a subdivision called Burnt Store Isles. The area and the twenty-mile-long road that gives it its name come from a story that is shrouded in mystery and legend. Apparently, there was a trading-post store near here in the 1840s that was damaged by a hurricane and a fire. Whether the fire was from a natural (e.g. lightning) or intentional source (e.g. angry Seminole natives) is part of the mystery, but I love those place names that result from historical events in the distant past. This home is gorgeous, with most of the living space in an open, high-ceilinged room that contains the kitchen, living room, and two dining areas. The large room faces a great screened patio with another dining area, a small, heated pool and hot-tub, and a comfortable deck. To top it off, the home sits on a canal that winds its way to Alligator Creek and, eventually, to the Gulf of Mexico. This morning, I sipped coffee on the dock while watching 12-16-inch fish go airborne pursuing insects and seeing a family of alligators circling nearby in search of breakfast.

While walking in the mornings, I have been confronted by my conflicted feelings about Florida. Most days, I walked along a bike path that parallels Highway 41, also known as the Tamiami Trail (A contraction of “Tampa-to Miami”). Regarded as an engineering marvel when it was built in the 1920s, the road traversed a 275-mile route that included “America’s Last Frontier,” the Everglades. Walking next to mangrove swamps just after dawn reminded me that, no matter where you are in the state, you are never far from nature in a raw form. Let’s just say that “pest control” people around here earn their keep. Whether it is native species such as alligators, crocodiles (there are still a few remaining in brackish areas), and bobcats, or invasive critters like wild boars, you are usually within a stone’s throw of some animal that would love to prey on your pet or destroy your backyard garden. Most disruptive of all are the Burmese Pythons that grow to over 20 feet and can kill full-grown gators. Native to SE Asia, the first of these pythons were spotted in the Everglades in 1980. Their population is growing rapidly, however, and today it is estimated that over 300,000 of them live in Florida. And don’t even get me started on the insects. Needless to say, I kept a wary eye to my right as I walked each day.

Then I returned to the subdivision in which we are staying, and some startling contradictions slapped me in the face. The homes in Burnt Store Isles are beautiful and well-maintained. As the sun rises each morning, a small army of gardeners and landscapers flood into the area in the never-ending struggle to tame nature and keep it at bay. As the day unfolds, the cacophony of new construction can be heard over the soothing sounds of the natural environment. I have discovered that this sub-division was a wilderness of mangrove swamps just 25 years ago. Developers dredged out a regular pattern of canals so that every home here sits on the water and the owners can be close to nature. This all reminded me of the irony that, fifty years ago, Walt Disney clear-cut an actual jungle near Orlando in order to build an artificial one for the Jungle Cruise ride in Fantasyland. These thoughts are intended to be observations, not judgments. I don’t have any answers—after all, what the hell do I know? Lots of questions occur to me, though, and the obvious one is, How much development is too much?

Yesterday, we purchased a local newspaper and two front-page stories jumped out at me. In both cases, once-thriving communities of rental properties, small houses, and mobile homes had been bought out by developers. Now the inhabitants, many of them Vietnam vets, retired folks, or elderly people on limited, fixed incomes, have been ordered to leave so that more new, high-end homes could be built. Like the native animals and Seminoles before them, these people were being forced to move so that someone else could make more money.

I know I sound like the classic outsider criticizing the people who actually live here all the time. After all, I am staying in a wonderful house in a wonderful subdivision, and we are grateful for every minute of it. I also need to stress the fact that, despite my jaundiced view on some aspects of this state, there is still something intriguing and appealing about Florida, and I can’t help but think it’s an incredible place. The warm air and sunshine certainly feels good after a River Falls winter. The tropical breeze carries flowery scents that I haven’t enjoyed for a long time. The numerous bars around here have exotic drinks and live music, and they generate a festive atmosphere at all times. (More on this in the next installment) And no matter where you are in the state, you can drive to the ocean or the Gulf of Mexico in an hour or less. Hell, I’d like to live here all the time, despite Florida’s flaws.

So, I’d like to finish with another quote from that same Jimmy Buffett song. He was speaking of the Caribbean in general, but the idea certainly applies to my feelings about Florida.

If I ever live to be an old man, I’m gonna sail down to Martinique.

I’m gonna buy me a sweat-stained, Bogart suit and an African parakeet.

And then I’ll set him on my shoulder, and open up my trusty old mind.

I’m gonna teach him how to cuss, teach him how to fuss,

And pull the cork out of a bottle of wine.

On the Road

In the early 1950s, Jack Kerouac left his home in New York City and took a little trip. He traveled across the country while driving with or meeting some of the most prominent writers of that era, including William S. Burroughs, Alan Ginsberg, and Neal Cassady. When he finished his vacation and began to write, referring to stacks of notebooks he had filled during the epic journey, he found traditional typing too slow to keep up with the racing thoughts in his brain. So, he taped stacks of tracing paper together into one, continuous, 120-feet-long piece of paper, fed one end into his typewriter, and filled it with stream-of-consciousness thoughts without punctuation, paragraph breaks, or margins. It took his editor four years to turn the mess into a publishable book. The end result, however, became the classic novel of the “Beat Generation.” That 1957 book, On the Road, chronicled his frenzied travel adventures fueled by jazz music, manic energy, and mind-expanding drugs; it became a key document for the counter culture during the decade that followed.

Kathleen and I recently embarked on a more sedate version of Kerouac’s odyssey, minus, of course, the jazz, the energy, or the drugs (unless you count Kathleen’s blood-pressure medicine). We traveled down to Florida for a week’s stay in Punta Gorda, stopping along the way in Champaign, Marion, Illinois, Huntsville, Alabama, and Perry, Florida to visit with friends and relatives. We had some great visits as we meandered south and enjoyed watching the temperatures rise, the grass turn green, and the daffodils appear in the woods along the road. Kathleen handled the driving, so I was able to start and finish two books, both set in the area of southwest Florida where we would be staying. One was written by Randy Wayne White, whose Marine Biologist-slash-private detective named Doc Ford operates out of a sleepy fishing village on Sanibel Island. The other, a novel called Electric Barracuda by Tim Dorsey, follows the continuing misadventures of Serge Storms, a native Floridian who loves arcane historical landmarks and hates those who damage them or the fragile tropical environment of his home state. He leaves a string of bodies in his wake, with all of the victims murdered in some painful and creative manner. I hope we are able to visit some of the places he mentions in this and other hilarious books featuring Serge.

Another thing we tried to do on the trip down here was to get off of the interstates as we drove. Twenty-five years after Kerouac’s novel, William Least Heat-Moon wrote another book about travels across the country. In his 1982 non-fiction, best-seller, Blue Highways, the author lost his job and his wife and set off on a soul-searching journey. His theory was that the interstate highways gave travelers the impression that all of the US was a never-ending parade of sameness, with similar chain restaurants and gas stations at every exit. Thus, he chose to drive along the back roads, marked in blue on the old Rand McNally maps, feeling that only there would he see the true America. He met with interesting characters and reached some intriguing philosophical conclusions along those roads less-traveled by. I read and was inspired by that book when it first came out, but I never had the free time to apply its main premise to my own travels. Now I do! Kathleen and I set out on our trip determined to get off of the interstates whenever possible. We have the 2020 version of the Rand-McNally Road Atlas, although it was not easy to find. Apparently, we are the last people in America to use actual maps, rather than the GPS app on their phones.

We avoided congested Nashville completely, leaving I-24 at Clarksville and winding our way down to Huntsville. We stayed off I-65 when we continued south from there and drifted through some scenic areas of hills and lakes in western Alabama. When we crossed into southern Georgia, however, the scenery ended—along with pretty much everything else. For 150 miles, from Columbus, Georgia to the Florida state line, there was a complete lack of humans or anything of interest. A couple of tiny towns were bypassed by the road we were on, leaving nothing to see but scrub pine, rusted and crumbling shacks, and scary-looking mobile home parks. There were no gas stations, restaurants, fast-food places, or any other businesses. One billboard we saw read simply “Trump” on one half, while the other half advertised a store where automatic assault weapons were available. At one point, we turned off of our road in search of food. While we slowly rolled through a depressed-looking, sleepy town called Cuthbert, no actual people were out and about. I suddenly remembered that every horror movie involving forced imprisonment and torture started with the words, “Hey! Let’s check out this little town and see if we can find something to eat.” We circled back to our main road and eventually stumbled onto a Huddle House restaurant. I’m glad we did, because we didn’t see another business of any sort until we reached Florida. In that state, we continued to drive on side roads whenever possible until we reached Punta Gorda.

So, was our Blue Highways experiment a success or a failure? On the one hand, we decided that it was a relaxing drive, with much less traffic or stress than on the interstates. Most of the roads we found were divided, four-lane roads that allowed speeds of 65 MPH except when passing through an occasional town. Therefore, we discovered that we didn’t lose any time by taking the more-direct, diversionary routes.

On the other hand—southwestern Georgia. When you can drive for several hours without seeing an actual town or a gas station, your mind immediately goes into worse-case-scenario mode. If we ran out of gas or had mechanical problems, it might take hours until a AAA tow-truck could arrive from the nearest city. That is, if you can even get cell phone reception in such out-of-the-way places. I’m sure I’ll be having recurring nightmares about having to walk up to one of those decaying homes and knocking on the door to ask for help while a toothless kid plays his banjo on the porch swing.

In the next installment, I’ll talk about our wonderful house in Punta Gorda and Florida in general.

Spring Has Sprung (Maybe?)

Spring is here, spring is here
Life is skittles and life is beer
I think the loveliest time of the year
Is the spring, I do, don’t you? Course you do…

–Tom Lehrer, in Poisoning Pigeons in the Park

River Falls experienced a small dose of spring fever last weekend. When we woke up on Thursday morning, the local temperature was 15 below zero; on Saturday, it rose to nearly 40 degrees; by Sunday afternoon, it topped out at 46—that’s a change of over sixty degrees in a couple of days. Pretty cool.

The warm weather and sunshine melted snow that had fallen since November. More than that, the sunny warmth seemed to affect the attitudes of everyone in town. I went for a run that took me downtown, but it was so nice, I extended it and walked all through the UWRF campus before returning home. Everywhere I went, I saw people walking, jogging, riding bicycles, hauling out their barbeques, and otherwise enjoying the fresh air. On my long street (Golf View Drive, 1.3 miles long), I saw two young parents on lawn chairs on their driveway, watching their kids play. A few doors down, I saw a little girl, about 5, splashing through the melting snow in a Minnie Mouse outfit that included patent leather shoes, a red and white, polka-dot skirt, and a black, sleeveless shirt. At the time, mind you, it wasn’t as if we were on a beach in Florida—the temperatures were still in the thirties. Compared to the weather we had been having all winter, though, it was positively balmy. Everywhere I looked, I saw faces that reminded me of those people just released from the quarantined cruise ship in Japan: they were relieved to be freed from a lengthy captivity.

To hell with the groundhog, for me the first harbinger of spring has always been hearing the words, “pitchers and catchers report” to spring training. This year was no exception, and spring training is underway in Arizona and Florida. Living in Chicago for many years, there might have been snow on the ground and sub-zero temperatures, but as long as baseball was being played somewhere, I knew that spring could not be too far away. I remember being a little kid and throwing a rubber ball against my front porch as soon as the snow started melting. I still smile when I think of my dad inside, swearing every time the ball took an errant bounce and clanged harshly against our aluminum front door.

In more recent years, the unofficial start of spring for me came on the Thursday in March when the NCAA basketball tournament began. March Madness has always been special for us. When Ben was still a little kid, we told him he had his choice of which day he wanted to take off from school: opening day of baseball season or the start of the NCAA Tourney. He invariably chose basketball because, that way, he had sports on TV from morning until midnight.

In Nashville, our NCAA-basketball watching broadened to include friends and family in a local bar. In the days when only one game at a time was broadcast on TV, we could see all four games at the Cross Corner Pub. Kathleen ran a pool at her place of employment, and her friend, Joy, recruited people to enter the pool and join us on Friday afternoon for food, beer, and basketball at the pub. It usually fell during my spring break from school, so I could attend without guilt. Daughter Kristin and her husband Kevin drove up from Huntsville to join us (although they were usually late), and many people from Kathleen’s workplace or mine joined us for lunch or dinner in the course of the day.

The best day of the year for me always fell on that Wednesday before the NCAA games began. At that magical moment in time, the weather had already warmed up in Nashville, and my newly seeded lawn was gloriously thick and green, surrounded by multi-colored tulips and golden daffodils. The Cubs had not yet started their season, so, officially, they were still tied for first place. Finally, my NCAA basketball bracket was pristine, without a single angry, red “X” drawn through one of my picks. All was right with the world. Of course, within a short period of time, my bracket sheet would have more red on it than was seen after the Battle of Gettysburg, the Cubs would disappoint me yet again (except in 2016), and the hot, summer weather would burn my lawn to a brownish yellow. Still, for one day each year, my life crackled with potential.

This year, we have had to alter our long-established traditions following our move to River Falls. Next week we leave for an extended road trip to Illinois, Alabama, and Florida, culminating in a visit to Huntsville to watch the first two days of the tournament with Kristin and Kevin. I’m sure we will enjoy the warm weather, but watching games with them promises to be the highlight of the trip.

We will return north in late March, by which time, winter should be almost behind us. It will officially be spring by that time, and the weather should be warming up, even in Wisconsin. That being said, granddaughter Abigail has repeatedly reminded us that her school had to declare a snow day last year on her birthday, April 11^th. I think she now expects it to snow every year on her birthday. I know that snow and cold into April is a realistic possibility up here, and that we are not out of the woods yet in terms of inclement weather. But I’m convinced that every day will be sunny and warm from now on. That optimism stems from a line that always reminds me of spring and baseball. It’s one that Ernest Lawrence Thayer borrowed from Alexander Pope for his famous poem, Casey at the Bat: “The hope which springs eternal within the human breast.”

Of course, that poem also reminds me of the Cubs, because, in the end, Casey strikes out and disappoints once again.

Conan the Librarian

“It’s a small world—but I wouldn’t want to paint it.”

–Steven Wright

I have always loved hanging out in libraries. When I was young, they offered a refuge from the chaos at home. Growing up in a Chicago home with 914 square feet of room, 5 children (We moved to a larger house when numbers six and seven were born), and two adults, the library was the place I went to get away. Reading at home was a risky proposition. My mom always expected the older kids to take care of the younger ones, so if I was reading, I was neglecting my duties. Many times, she would smack me and yell, “The house could burn down around your ears, and you’d still have your nose stuck in a book!” My dad also frowned on reading, regarding it as a feckless pursuit and any time spent not doing manual labor as “loafing.” If he caught me reading, he handed me a shovel and pointed to the back yard; there was always something that seemed to need digging out there. At the library, however, no one bothered me, and I could read to my heart’s content.

In high school, I was painfully shy. (No one believes me when I tell them that I was voted “Most Reserved” in my graduating class of 600 students.) Therefore, I often hid out in the school library, where I could avoid awkward social interactions. In college, I discovered girls and beer, but some of my favorite times were still spent sitting on the floor in the stacks working on a research paper. I also put in many hours behind the reference desk in the university library as part of my work-study program. I became a much more serious student in grad school, and I practically lived in the libraries at Southern Illinois and then the University of Florida. During most holiday breaks, when other students went home, I used the time do extra work in the library. When students headed for the beach during Spring Break, I stayed in town and worked on the pale complexion I called my “Library Tan.” My friends once joked that, over Thanksgiving Break, there was no one in the library “except Jack and the Asian students who couldn’t go home.” At UF, I had my own tiny room, called a study carrel, in the library. It was a little metal cage with a lock that was reserved just for me. To many, it looked like a jail cell in a prison, but, to me, it represented a sort of freedom. I kept books, school supplies, and extra clothes in there. I even decorated the place. When a fellow Ph.D. student, a budding communist, put up pictures of Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, and Leon Trotsky, I adorned my carrel with photos of Groucho Marx, John Lennon, and a baseball player from the 1930s called Hal Trosky. (I was too clever for words.)

Thus, as soon as the bulk of my painting and other work in our new home was completed, I headed to our River Falls library. On a day which was a relatively balmy 12 degrees, I walked the two miles to get a library card. This library is a warm, welcoming place that seems much larger than a town of this size would warrant. Also, I was quickly reminded of what a small town this is: the first person I saw was my grand-daughter, Abigail, checking out books at the counter. I guess her fourth-grade class walks next door from her Catholic School every week for “library time,” and I just happened to be there at that time. As I turned in my application for a card, the check-out person, who had seen me talking to Abigail, asked, “So, are you Ben or Amber’s parent?” When Kathleen went to the library a week or two later, the same woman recognized the name and said, “I met your husband earlier.”

As the world has moved into the digital age in recent years, libraries have had to re-invent themselves somewhat. The River Falls Public Library offers computer services, DVDs, video games, books on CD or Kindle, the ability to borrow books from dozens of other libraries, and an array of programs for all ages. There are classes, lectures, discussion groups, poetry readings, and story-times. For children, they also have programs for crafts, lego-building, a “Big Fun Lab,” and even mini golf in the winter (which, let’s face it, is most of the year). My step-son, Ben, believes that his family has paid for most of these programs with their numerous late fees over the past few years.

In a town such as River Falls, the library also serves as a sort of nerve center for many civic activities. Community meetings, displays of local art and history, and other events are all held in the library. So, when it came time for us to vote for the first time in Wisconsin, we knew where we had to go. This was just a small primary for a state judge—three candidates, and this election would eliminate one—but we wanted to vote against a candidate we found abhorrent. (I rarely vote “for” a candidate; instead, I usually find myself voting “against” someone.) There were four people working in the voting room when we walked in, and only one other person voting. Thus, the voting process was quick and easy.

That brings me to the Steven Wright quote at the top of this entry. When we were leaving, we ran into two friends from our Wednesday-night-happy-hour group, Larry and Jane. While chatting with them outside the library, our daughter-in-law, Amber, stopped to say hello on her way in to vote. Right there, it was more people than I ever ran into on a chance encounter in 22 years in Nashville.

And now, in order to ruin your day completely, I want to call to mind the “It’s a Small World” ride at Disney. I guarantee that that insipid song, “It’s a Small World, After All” will be implanted in your brain for the rest of the day.

You’re welcome.

Cupid’s Arrow

Ah, Valentine’s Day. The day that many women anticipate eagerly as the most romantic day of the year. . . and many men approach with great trepidation or dismiss out of hand as a corporate scam. The day actually began as a pagan festival in ancient Rome, and activities included animal sacrifices and the whipping of women with animal skins until they bled, a ritual designed to represent their fertility. That’s a far cry from candle-lit dinners and a box of chocolates. In the middle ages, the Catholic Church co-opted the holiday and called it “St. Valentine’s Day” for the first time, although no one knows with any degree of certainty who the actual St. Valentine was (There are several theories). In the 1300s, the day became associated with love somehow. Many believe that it was because February 14 was generally seen as the start of the mating season of certain types of birds. Like most holidays, the tradition took off in the 1800s with the advent of advertising. By 1900, the idea was ingrained in America that all suitors should express their love in some manner that included jewelry, candy, flowers, or other symbols purchased from a large business concern. The most popular method of expressing such sentiments, of course, is the greeting card. Today, 145 million valentine cards are sent each year, with 85% of them being purchased by women. Still, I remember my grade-school days and handing out those little cards that were about 25 for a buck. I would spend hours with that pack of cheap cards, selecting just the right one for each kid in my class. I especially agonized over which one would send the proper subliminal vibes of my love to some special girl who had caught my eye.

Today . . . not so much. Kathleen and I have been married for 28 years now, so Valentine’s Day is not that big of a deal. During our “courting” period, of course, it was more important to us. Even in the early years of our marriage, we would try to do something special. Our ultra-practical natures, though, meant that we usually celebrated on a day other than the 14^th in order to avoid the crowds at local restaurants. Often, we just rolled Valentine’s Day up with other holidays (birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas) and took a summer trip, saying it was our gift to one another. I do recall one particular VD when I forgot all about it. I was immersed in the school year and the start of track practice, and the holiday completely slipped my mind, despite the fact that I was surrounded at school by teen-aged girls who were all atwitter about the day. I came home and saw a gift (probably a bottle of liquor) and a card in a bright envelope sitting on the kitchen table. My immediate reaction was, “Oh shit.” The next day, after practice, I found myself at the store with a long line of men, all holding candy or flowers. The guy in front of me turned around and said, “So you’re in trouble, too, huh?” I just nodded sadly, my demeanor dripping with repentance.

This year, in the midst of austerity month, I opted for a small gesture. On Tuesday the 11^th, our final piece of furniture—a table and chairs for the sunroom—arrived. I thought that the room needed a little accent piece, so, with Valentine’s Day approaching, I decided to pick up some flowers and kill two birds with one stone. (Yes, I know; I’m a romantic bastard.) I drove downtown and parked near city hall. Then I went for some exercise along the river. With temperatures around 20 degrees and nearly a foot of new snow on the trails, running was impossible. But I trudged through the snow for four miles, winding back to a grocery store. There, I purchased a lovely bouquet of flowers that would look wonderful on our new table.

You know the old adage that you’re never too old to learn something new? By the time I walked the two blocks back to my car, I had learned a new lesson about flowers, sub-freezing temperatures, and good intentions. When I reached home, I handed Kathleen a bunch of dead and wilted flowers. She looked ruefully at the fading blossoms and said, “Well, it was a good thought.” She also shrugged and told me that she had looked at some greeting cards. “Good grief!” she said, (She’s the only person in the world, aside from Charlie Brown, who says “good grief.”) “They want eight bucks for those damn things, so you’re not getting one this year.”

You can imagine my disappointment.

In Roman mythology, Cupid, the son of Venus, the goddess of love, shoots people with magic arrows to make them fall passionately in love. Today, Cupid is the image most often associated with Valentine’s Day. I’m not saying I wasn’t stung by those arrows at one point, but today, Valentine’s Day is more of an excuse to buy still more candy for our grandchildren.

Excess and Austerity (Not a Jane Austin Novel)

Last week, Kathleen and I took a trip to warmer climes as part of a gambling junket to Laughlin, Nevada. We used to play at a Harrah’s property in Metropolis, Illinois on occasion, so we were on their mailing list. They offered a free charter flight from Minneapolis to Harrah’s in Laughlin (about 100 miles south of Las Vegas on the Arizona and California borders), free shuttle service to and from the airport, a free hotel room for four days and nights, free drinks, and almost all of our food ended up being comped as well. I had been on a winning streak in which I had come out ahead on my last five gambling trips, but this venture broke that streak. We lost money but still had a great time.

As you might expect for a mid-week trip, almost everyone on the flight was retired and older than us. When boarding, they first asked those needing assistance to come forward. What followed looked like something from an old Saturday Night Live skit called “World at War: The Walker Brigade.” In that 1979 parody of WWII documentaries, General Eisenhower organized a secret unit of men using walkers to spearhead the D-Day invasion. His reasoning was simple: the Geneva Conventions forbade the shooting of handicapped persons. About a third of the people on our flight seemed to be members of the “Walker Brigade,” using rolling walkers, wheel-chairs, or crutches of some sort as they headed into battle. When we found our seats and were preparing for our early evening takeoff, I closed my eyes and leaned back, hoping to catch a quick nap during the laborious boarding process. With my eyes closed, the sounds around me were magnified, and I could hear a never-ending chorus of people exhibiting smoker’s cough. Then, as if everyone was given a 6:00 pm cue, I heard dozens of plastic pill bottles rattling; I guess those taking twice-a-day medications had to take their second dose at six. It was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes and saying sarcastically, “Okay, Greatest Generation.” But just when I was thinking that I had somehow stumbled into some bizarre universe in which I was decades younger than everyone else, I remembered. Oh yeah, I’m 66 years old; I belong here. I was reminded of a classic Walt Kelly cartoon strip called “Pogo” in which a character says, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” It was an epiphany.

After four days of too little sleep, too much drinking, and losing money, we decided it was time to implement what we call, “Austerity Month.” Each year, we select a month in which we don’t drink, we eat better, and we exercise more in an attempt to lose weight and get into better shape. A few years ago, “Austerity Month” was the start of a period of several months in which I lost 35 pounds and Kathleen lost a similar amount. Another part of this designated month is that we try not to spend any unnecessary money. After the “anything-goes” holiday period, we see it as a chance to stop the financial bleeding and save a little money. This will be difficult this year, as we are still in the process of purchasing furniture and doing move-in repairs, but we’ll give it a shot.

Although “Austerity Month” can occur at any time, we invariable choose February for obvious reasons: it’s the shortest month of the year. Even in 2020, a leap year, February is shorter than any other month, so we should be able to survive the travails of a month of deprivation. It is never easy, but it is a nice challenge that we give ourselves each year, and it helps us get healthier on several levels.

Without it, we might end up as part of the “Walker Brigade” for next year’s winter trip south.

Hooray for Hollywood

In these days of the mega-plex, 3D film houses, and soaring prices for the latest releases, a trip to the movies in River Falls constitutes a journey back in time. In recent years, Kathleen and I have rarely gone out to a movie because of the hassle of driving through traffic and the expensive cost. As you might guess, neither of those factors are an issue in River Falls. Last night, when we decided to go to see the Oscar-nominated film 1917, we were delighted to find that it was currently showing in our local movie house, the River Falls Theater. That theater is located right on Main Street, two miles from our house, directly across from the Nutty Squirrel.

The day before this, however, we watched a film at home that we found on On Demand with our Comcast package. The 2009 movie is called New in Town, and you will never find it on any lists of Oscar-Nominated films. It is formulaic and predictable, but I am a sucker for romantic comedies, so I enjoyed it. The plot is simple: a sophisticated Miami woman, played by Renee Zellweger, is sent to a small Minnesota town in order update a factory and downsize the workforce. It is a familiar, fish-out-of-water story, and, of course, there is a romantic interest in the form of the local union rep, played by Harry Connick, Jr. Much of the humor stems from the Miami girl trying to adjust to the foreign, upper-Midwest culture as well as the brutal weather. When she first arrives in the Minneapolis airport in the dead of winter, she is toting six matching suitcases on a cart while wearing five-inch heels, a short skirt, and a stylish, light jacket. Heading outdoors to retrieve her rent-a-car, she shrugs and mutters, “How bad can it be?” before stepping through the automatic doors. As they close behind her, she is stunned by the cold air and screams a muffled “Mother . . .!” There are a few other funny moments that resonated with us as we traverse a similar period of transition to small-town life.

We only saw one movie at the theater in 2019. That is about our usual average—one film per year. While our home in Nashville was being photographed by the realtors, and we had to be out of the house, we attended a matinee of Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood. Quentin Tarantino’s take on Hollywood in 1969 and the Manson murders was great fun in an absurd sort of way. I read a negative review of the film that accused Tarantino of racism toward Asians. The review said that “Bruce Lee wasn’t really like that.” I replied aloud to the inanimate internet review, “Perhaps not. But then again, the Manson followers were not destroyed with a flame-thrower either.”

With Academy Awards season upon us, we wanted to see two films in the same year that were nominated for best-picture Oscars (something I haven’t done for decades). We decided to venture into the cold to see Sam Mendes’s World War I film, 1917. The River Falls Theater is a throwback to earlier times. With a traditional marquee that hangs out over the street, the theater has been an iconic landmark on Main Street since it was first built in 1927. When it fell on hard times in the 1970s, it was purchased by the McCulloch family, and they have kept it going since then. As near as I can tell, the business has stayed alive by showing first-run films at bargain prices, and the town seems to have supported their efforts. A state grant in recent years enabled the family to update some things and expand to a second screen in an empty building next door. And when I say “bargain prices,” I’m not just blowing smoke. The cost is three dollars for senior citizens and kids, five dollars for everyone else. All the time. Moreover, on Tuesdays, it is three dollars for everyone. As Kathleen likes to say, “It’s a heckova deal.” Also, while many restored old theaters show classics, art films, or movies that have been out for a while, River Falls Theater manages to show current releases. Today, they are showing Doolittle along with 1917. (Perhaps they chose those two films because both names can fit on the tiny marquee.) Before the film started, in lieu of the usual 20 minutes of commercials for the latest corporate products or entertainment in your local multi-plex theater, our five-minute intro consisted entirely of short ads for mom-and-pop businesses from River Falls. Many of these businesses were by now familiar to us, and I believe we saw our daughter-in-law Amber in one of them. One of the ads, from the local waste disposal department, was a humorous, tongue-in-cheek, public service announcement about what NOT to flush down your toilet (“Wipes clog pipes” was the catch phrase). While our seats did not recline, and the sound system did not cause our internal organs to vibrate, the theater had everything we wanted for a movie-viewing experience.

The film itself lived up to its accolades. The story follows two British soldiers as they try to maneuver through the trenches and French countryside in order to deliver an urgent message to the front. There has been much discussion about the technical skill of the director, Mendes, in creating the impression that the entire film was one continuous camera shot without editing (as Hitchcock did in 1948 with Rope). The emotional impact was more important for me, though, as the viewer is drawn into the story and shares the fear, the constant tension, and the sense that the entire world has become some indecipherable maze in which there is no place to hide. We never learn much about the main characters, and I think that was on purpose. This tactic allows the messengers to appear as tiny pawns in a huge, bloody game being played out by the superpowers of the age. Ultimately, the film is a powerful statement about the futility and senselessness of war.

1917 is well worth seeing, so if you are in River Falls, look for the 1920s marquee on Main Street and stop in. The theater is a gem, and, after all, today it’s only three bucks.

Winter Wonderland

A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water.

-Carl Reiner

Low temperatures and snow are the realities of winter in River Falls. Today (Saturday, Jan. 18^th) we have about 7 inches of new snow on the ground with more coming. Temperatures will be falling all day, and they will end up in the single digits with wind chills about 10-below zero. Last night, we drove the half-mile to Ben’s house for dinner in white-out conditions, with winds whipping the snow around in swirling circles that reduced visibility to a short distance. It was beautiful. People have widely disparate views of cold weather, but most people dislike it. Recent polls show that only 10% of Americans indicate that winter is their favorite season.

I always liked snow—as long as I didn’t have to drive in it. One of the worst snow storms I ever encountered was in April in the early ‘80s while driving from Chicago to Stevens Point, Wisconsin to visit a girlfriend. I couldn’t see the front of my car, and I was scared to death for that entire drive. On the other hand, I always enjoyed shoveling snow for some reason. I think it is the peaceful nature of the activity. A fresh snowfall hides all of the dirt and muffles the noise of the world. It’s as if everything is cleansed or purified in some way. During my musician days in Chicago, I would often get home at 2:00 in the morning after a gig or from tending bar. That was my favorite time to shovel snow. At that time, I felt as if I was the only person in the world. Also, one of the fondest memories of my childhood was the record-setting blizzard that hit Chicago in January 1967. Twenty-three inches of snow fell in a few hours and effectively shut the city down. We received a rare snow day, and I remember walking through thigh-high snow down the middle of 111^th street with my siblings without a car in sight. Then, that night, an amazing thing happened. Snow plows were over-extended from trying to dig the city out from under 2 feet of snow, and our little side street was low on the list of priorities. Instead of waiting several days until the plows reached us, however, all of the neighbors on our block got together, and we dug a path down the entire block to the main street. These were neighbors who nursed petty grievances, bickered with each other, or otherwise had trouble getting along. But that day, they set their differences aside and worked together in common cause. Everyone—men, women, and children—got involved with that Herculean task and shoveled a path to 111^th Street. I still smile at the memory.

Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories.

-Anne Bradstreet

When we lived in Nashville, even a small snowfall of a few inches would create panic in the streets. All schools would have been closed the night before in anticipation of the impending calamity, and people would flock to grocery stores and empty the shelves, stocking up as if preparing for a zombie apocalypse. In Tennessee’s defense, though, there are several factors that make this a reasonable response. First, Nashville doesn’t get much snow; more often, they get freezing rain or ice which is much more difficult to navigate than snow. Second, they don’t have much snow removal equipment. They pay incredibly low taxes (about 1/3 of what we pay in Wisconsin), and it would not be economically feasible to buy a bunch of equipment that might not be used for years. Finally, Nashville is built on hilly terrain. Almost every stop-sign or traffic light is at the top or bottom of a hill. Add icy roads to that equation, and the city comes to a standstill. In River Falls and surrounding towns, the snow removal is excellent. Snow falls, they push it out of the way, and life goes on. Yesterday, I was out shoveling, and the operator of a city snow plow stopped to chat with me. He was cheerful and upbeat, despite the long hours that accompany dealing with a storm that would drop snow on us for about 20 hours. And that seems to be the thing that I have noticed most often about how people up here handle winter: they just shrug and deal with it.

Two days ago, I was driving downtown for breakfast and a quick trip to the Ace Hardware store. While driving, the disc jockey on the radio was giving the weather report. He said, “It’s five below zero today, and the wind-chill factor makes it feel like 27 below. Tomorrow, the low will be minus-one degree, so that’s not too bad. Then it will heat up to 23 degrees. That will feel pretty good.” Then, while at the hardware store to pick up paint supplies, I talked with the clerk at the register. As it always does around here, the subject of the cold came up. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s cold, but it’s sunny. That’s something.” I mentioned that we were supposed to get a sizable amount of snow on the weekend, and he said, “Who knows; yesterday they said we would get two inches, and all we got was some flurries. Now they’re saying that tomorrow we could get anywhere from 4 to 15 inches. What good is that info? They’re just covering their asses.”

One thing about cold weather: it brings out the statistician in everyone.

-Paul Theroux

Later that day, when discussing the weather, Tony, the plumber working on our bathroom re-model, told me “You just have to try new activities.” He added that his son loves ice fishing. I’d like to try that someday. Two other things I’d like to try, but have not tackled yet are cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. Ben and Amber have a set of snowshoes, so perhaps I’ll give it a crack later today. Kids around here simply don’t seem to pay any attention to the weather. They just put on another layer of clothes and go out and play. There is an old Norwegian aphorism that I have read in the paper at least three times since we moved up here. It says, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes.”

Well, it appears as if the snow has finally stopped. I guess I’ll layer-up and go shovel for the fourth and final time since yesterday. One final quote:

The cold never bothered me anyway.

-Elsa in Frozen

A Musical Journey

The return from our cruise in December was lengthy and onerous. We arose at 4:00 am, Swiss time, took a cab to the airport, flew to Munich, had a five-hour layover there, flew to Chicago, then to Minneapolis after another layover. That was about 26 hours of travelling without sleep. I find it nearly impossible to sleep on the narrow and crowded seats of overseas planes, so I was uncomfortable throughout. Lucky for me, they now have those little television sets on each seat-back and a wide variety of viewing choices. On the flight from Germany to Chicago, I watched three full-length films and numerous sit-coms or other shows. The odd thing was that all three films involved music that has inspired or moved me at various stages during my life.

The first film was one that many of you have probably seen, a cute little movie called Yesterday. If you don’t know the improbable plot, it involves a present-day British musician who awakens from a bad accident to discover that a 12-second power blackout worldwide left him as the only person on Earth aware of such things as Coca cola, cigarettes, Harry Potter, and, most important for him, the songs of the Beatles. As he struggles to remember the lyrics of their vast musical catalog and begins playing their songs in public, he is hailed as a musical genius, and he skyrockets to fame. I was a Beatles fan from the beginning. I watched them perform on The Ed Sullivan Show in February 1964, and I memorized each of their albums as they came out. Each night at 10:00, a Chicago radio station played the “Top 3 Most-Requested Songs.” I tuned in to hear what were invariably three straight Beatles songs every night. At a school talent show, my sister, Deb, brother, Dan, and I planned to sing I Wanna Hold Your Hand. After hearing our voices, though, we were told to lip-sing the song, which we did with terrible wigs and fake instruments. I remember vividly where I was when I heard that John Lennon had been murdered. Thus, the film touched a chord in me and brought back the joy I felt when I first discovered their songs. And unlike most rock bands that followed, the Beatles seemed to thoroughly enjoy what they were doing. They smiled, laughed, joked with the press and the audiences, and, in general just had a great time. Just look at album covers from the Rolling Stones or the terrible hair-bands of the ‘70s and ‘80s; they look angry and more focused on posturing than doing anything true. Himish Patel, the lead actor in the film, plays the role with a mixture of energy and reverence. I especially enjoyed the fact that he didn’t try to imitate John, Paul, Ringo, or George, and he didn’t try to produce a note-for-note recreation of their songs. Instead, he used his own, authentic voice to channel the music, usually in a stripped-down, acoustic version that helped the viewer truly hear the lyrics. I watched Yesterday again this week with Kathleen, and the effect was the same: it made me smile.

The second one I saw was a lesser-known film that came out last year called Fisherman’s Friends. This is a based-on-fact film about a group of fishermen from small village in Cornwall, Wales who sing sea shanties as they work before organizing a singing group to entertain their neighbors. A producer is tricked into thinking his London record company wants to sign them, so he moves to the village to try to convince them that this is a good idea. The man becomes a laughingstock in London and is viewed as a money-hungry outsider in the village, but he gradually comes to believe in both the group and the simple lifestyle of the villagers. Eventually, they record a top-ten album that makes them famous around the world. The film is fairly formulaic, along the lines of Waking Ned Divine, The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill but Came Down a Mountain, and Dark Horse: The Amazing True Story of Dream Alliance, and not everyone will enjoy it as much as I did. As in Yesterday, however, the authenticity of the music shines through, and the viewer can share in the sheer joy that the performers experience while singing. Once again, the traditional nature of the music in the film brought me back to an earlier time in my life. While searching for new material in my career as a folk singer, I discovered traditional music, and I often pilfered the melodies from those public-domain songs to write my own topical songs about the current events of modern-day Chicago. If you see nothing else from this film, try to find the scene where these fishermen go on a London pub crawl while their manager tries to stir up interest in the group. At one point, they teach a hip, young London crowd a traditional seaman’s song called “What Do You Do with a Drunken Sailor?” The group of hard-drinking Welshmen sings the shanty with such relish, that the entire bar gradually joins the reprobates in a rousing version of the traditional song. It’s a delicious scene.

Finally, the third movie I saw was called Blinded by the Light. The based-on-fact film explores the experiences of a Pakistani immigrant in late-1980’s England. The teen suffers from repression at home from his conservative parents, the fact that his “otherness” makes him unattractive to girls at his school, and racial discrimination everywhere. When another South-Asian immigrant turns him on to the music of Bruce Springsteen, however, his entire world opens up. The boy feels as if—finally—there is one person who understands how he feels. Instead of trying to fit into a world that rejects him at every turn, he is inspired to embrace a personal rebellion built around the lyrics of the Boss. I discovered Springsteen in college in 1975, and I joined the Columbia Record Club (for the 3rd time) in order to get his entire catalog of 3 albums for a reduced price. With that initial order (buy 10 or 12 records for a penny, with the agreement to purchase a certain number of others over the next two years), I also received Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks album. I alternated playing Born to Run and BOTT over and over again—much to the consternation of my roommates. I couldn’t believe that anyone could write such beautiful poetry accompanied by rock or folk-rock music. At parties in which far too many beers had been consumed, my cross-country teammates and I would sing along at the top of our lungs, “Tramps like us, baby we were born to run!” The protagonist in the film is similarly affected when he first hears Bruce’s songs. Further, as in Yesterday, the actor’s singing has a purity and integrity that is so often missing from the over-produced, synthesized music that dominates today’s top-selling charts.

In 2006, Springsteen recorded an album called The Seeger Sessions, and featured traditional songs that had often been often performed by folk artist and political activist, Pete Seeger. He put together an extraordinary and eclectic band of talented musicians from a variety of genres, and the resulting music is exquisite. This CD brought together all three things that I found in these films. The energy and simple joy of playing with expert musicians jumps off of every cut on the album, just as with the songs in Yesterday. The continuing appeal of traditional songs when done well is readily evident, as in Fisherman’s Friends. Finally, the raw power of Bruce’s voice and the passion he brings to music remains as strong in the 21st Century as they were in 1975 when I first heard Born to Run. Here is a clip. Play it LOUD and try not to sing along. Especially, pay attention to the faces on the band and the audience. They were having fun. That’s what music is supposed to be about and seldom is. These three films reminded me of that fact.

Clash of the Titans

I have been a fan of the syndicated TV quiz show Jeopardy since the 1960s. So has Kathleen. We each grew up watching Art Fleming host the most cerebral of televised game shows until it went off the air in 1975. In fact, in college, when my roommates and I ran out of beer at our trailer, I would pull out a home version of the game to determine who would make the run to the liquor store to buy more. One roommate, Bruce, grew frustrated at his inability to win these contests. It got so bad that, as soon as I pulled out the game, he would just mutter some incoherent curses at me or call me a communist and start putting on his coat.

After a decade without the game, it was revived in 1984 with Alex Trebek as host. During the next 36 years, the show became iconic. It has been used as the scenario for numerous sit-coms, from Golden Girls to Cheers, and Saturday Night Live has parodied the show 15 times. In these parodies, Will Farrell portrays a besieged Trebek trying keep celebrities such as Burt Reynolds and Sean Connery in line. Connery, in particular is played as a dim-witted contestant who struggles with categories such as “States Ending in Hampshire,” “Current Black Presidents,” and “The Letter After B.” He also misreads categories in hilarious ways as when “The Pen is Mightier” becomes, “The Penis Mightier,” or “Japan-US Relations” becomes “Jap Anus Relations.” I have also found it to be ironic that Stephen Foster, writer of many of America’s greatest songs (I Dream of Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair, My Old Kentucky Home, Camptown Races, etc.), died penniless, but Merv Griffin, who created the show, made millions off of the stupid, 30-second piece of music that plays over the deliberations for the Final Jeopardy question. According to Griffin’s son, the family has earned over $80 million in royalties from that song alone.

For our family, as many of you know, the height of our relationship with the show came in 2013 when our daughter, Kristin, tried out for Jeopardy and was selected as a contestant (See picture above). Kathleen flew out to L.A. with her, and we were astonished when she won five straight games, thus qualifying for the “Tournament of Champions” for the year’s top 15 players. That time, I was able to fly out and see some of the games. She was amazing, finishing in 3^rd place and earning an additional $50,000, giving her a total of over $120,000.

During our nearly 30 years of marriage, Kathleen and I have scheduled our day around the syndicated show. We often go our separate ways during the day, but at 4:30, we come together to watch it, with a subtle competition taking place over who can answer the most questions. As Kristin once said during an interview, “Growing up in our house, trivia was a blood sport.”

Given our history with the show, we have been saddened by the news that Alex Trebek is struggling with an advanced form of cancer, and we wonder about the future of the show. Those thoughts have been set aside this week, however, as Jeopardy has hit prime time with a highly anticipated battle between the three top players in the show’s history. The contest, scheduled to run from three to seven days at 7:00 CST on ABC, is being billed as a monumental struggle to determine the Greatest of All Time.

Before 2003, a player was only allowed to win 5 times. After that, they had to stop playing and wait for the TOC at the end of the year. In 2001, however, Brad Rutter, was a dominant player who had to retire undefeated after five wins. He has been back numerous times for celebrity tournaments, usually coming out a winner and accumulating over $4.8 million in prizes. In 2004, Ken Jennings ran off an incredible streak of 74 straight wins. He, too, has appeared many times since then, collecting about $3.5 million in the process. Then, last year, a Vegas gambler named James Holzhauer, took the game by storm, winning 32 straight times. He also captured the imagination of the nation with his aggressive, go-for-broke style that resulted in the 16 highest one-day totals in the show’s history.

The Jeopardy GOAT contest pits Rutter, Jennings, and Holzhauer in a head-to-head contest over a week’s time. Each day, they play two games, with the winner determined by a combination total from the two games. The over all winner will be the first player to win three times. Thus, if a player wins the first three games, the contest is over. If, however, they trade wins back and forth, it could take seven days to determine the GOAT.

Yesterday, January 7^th, the contest began. It was a slugfest from the start, with very few wrong answers given and the lead going back and forth. In the end, Jennings beat Holzhauer, $63,300 to $63,200 with Rutter a distant 3^rd. It promises to be a fun contest to watch, and I encourage you to tune in or record the show.

I won’t tell you who I will be cheering for, but here is one other piece of trivia: James Holzhauer is from the Chicago area (Naperville), he attended the University of Illinois, and he is a lifelong Cubs fan. Just saying.