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Snippets

During these shelter at home days, the spouse has made many baby quilts. In other words, she has been quilting. She and the NBP have put together difficult jigsaw puzzles. In other words, they have been putting together jigsaw puzzles. Don’t we a need new a verb here?

“The test of a vocation is the love of the drudgery it involves.” Logan Persall Smith.

I have seen discussions of who Joe Biden should pick as his vice-presidential running mate. The lists, however, never include my choice: Beyoncé. She would bring a lot to the ticket. She could appeal to many ethnic and racial groups besides blacks since her Creole mother has a diverse ancestry including French, Spanish, Chinese, and Jewish. Beyoncé was born in Houston and perhaps could help make Texas into a swing state. She might even appeal to Republicans of a certain age since she gave birth to twins in the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center. She has been financially successful without having been given millions from her Daddy. She has been placed on the lists for the most influential people in the world and Time’s person of the year. She has supported Democratic candidates, the Black Lives Matter movement, LGBTQ rights, and has identified as a feminist. No, she has not been elected to any office but that did not matter in the last election. She is, however, an amazing artist and a successful businessperson, founding a company and a co-owner of at least one other. And, as far as I know, neither her companies nor she have ever declared bankruptcy. Beyoncé: Think about it. However, I do not know if she will reveal her tax returns.

“There is, of course, no reason for the existence of the male sex except that sometimes one needs help with moving the piano.” Rebecca West.

I was taught that holding the Bible upside down, as someone recently did, is what witches did to summon the Devil.

“If you set off on a witch-hunt, you will find a witch.” Chinelo Okparanta, Under the Udala Trees.

Once again the cry for law and order. As throughout history, many who demand law and order do believe in order.

“Among those who dislike oppression are many who like to oppress. Napoleon

The local news source’s headline read: “A Homophobe Has The Strongest Chance At Winning Bronx’s 15th Congressional District Seat. But Others May Come Out On Top.” I thought that the second sentence should read: “Others May Come From Behind.”

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Questions for the Fourth of July, or Any Day

The summer community’s Fourth of July traditions have included an ahistorical “Paul Revere” ride through the streets at daybreak; fireworks one night, a communal picnic another; and a small parade that leads to the swimming pool where people plop and populate the hills for a ceremony that has included the singing of songs; children reciting the names of the signers of the Declaration of Independence; the release of thirteen doves (pigeons?); an address from a community resident. All attendees pin on a badge with the year that person first came to the community. During the ceremony attendees are asked to indicate whether they have an ancestor who signed the Declaration of Independence, and a surprising number of people stand.

In anticipation of the Fourth, a community group prepared a questionnaire expecting that the tabulated results would be presented at the July celebration. It asked not only the ancestor-signing and when-did-you-come-here questions but also whether residents had met their significant others in the community; whether respondents had gone to the summer camp held annually here; and other questions of a similar sort. Since the community was founded by Philadelphia Quakers, residents were asked whether they or their ancestors were Friends. And a question asked whether community members had ancestors on the Mayflower. Although the questionnaire was written in January, it only went out last week. Many residents have responded without comment, but a few people objected that in this time of Covid-19, peaceful protests, and riots, the survey was tone deaf by focusing on a white American heritage.

I was surprised, and a bit pleased, that some questioned the questionnaire. The community prides itself as an oasis of tranquility and civility, which is frequently remarked upon. Less often do we reflect on the fact that we come from a privileged, narrow slice of society. Primarily this a community of second homes, and second homes signify affluence. Wealth is seldom overtly flaunted here, but there are no working class people. We have heads of companies, but no one who works on the factory floor. Dues are high and property prices are higher than in the surrounding area. You need more money than most people have in this country to live here.

And the community is overwhelmingly white. In my three decades here, there have always been a smattering of Asians, but the black and brown residents have never comprised more than the fingers on one hand.

I do believe that the Fourth of July should be a day to celebrate our independence, but it should be more. We should recognize that the Founders, like all humans, were flawed, and we should go beyond just a consideration of Jefferson, Adams, and Franklin. The day should also commemorate America, American history, and all Americans. It is a time for patriotism, but we should stress that the true patriot wants not only to protect the country but to make it better. And we should recognize that throughout our history, from colonial times until today, this country has struggled with race and class issues that have not been resolved. We are not a perfect union, and all patriotic Americans should think about how to make it better.

          Such ruminations got me thinking about questions I might like to ask of my fellow residents of this privileged, white summer community, questions that I, too, should ask of myself. For example:

Have you ever eaten dinner in the home of someone who was non-white? How often have you entertained a non-white in your home? How often have you entertained more than one non-white person or couple at the same time? What percentage of your neighbors at your primary residence would you estimate are non-white? Have you ever looked for a place to live in a neighborhood where the majority were non-whites?

How many of your neighbors are not in the top echelons of wealth? How much income do you think that it takes to lead a middle class life?

Have any of your bosses been non-white? What percentage of your co-workers at roughly your level are non-white?

Did any of your ancestors hold the opinion that Italians or Jews were not white? Were any of your ancestors concerned about the “Yellow Peril”? Did any of your ancestors oppose independence? Did your ancestors own slaves? Did any of your ancestors support abolition? Did any of your ancestors, or you, support or oppose any the civil rights movements throughout our history? Did your ancestors in this country face discrimination or racial, ethnic, or gender slurs? Have you faced discrimination or racial, ethnic, or gender slurs?

Are people less American if their ancestors were not here in 1776? Have you had a DNA test to find out more about your ancestry? Why? What reactions did you have to the results?

Have you ever taken part in a protest rally? How often and what for? How often have you been arrested? How often have you had in an encounter with the police where you felt afraid? How often have the police injured you? Have you ever been stopped and frisked? Have you ever been tear-gassed or pepper-sprayed? Have you ever been followed around in a store by security personnel?

What was your reaction when the Black Lives Matter movement emerged? Did you object when Colin Kaepernick and other athletes “took a knee” during the playing of the National Anthem?

Do you have ideas about how to bring more non-whites into this community? How do you think your neighbors would react if there were more non-whites here?

Do or did your children go to public schools, religious schools, or private schools? How many of their classmates are non-white? How many are in the lower half of income. What kind of schools did you go to?

Do you have any relatives in law enforcement? How would you feel if a child of yours said they wanted to be a police officer?

And a question that I feel I should regularly confront: In what ways would you say you are most hypocritical about race, class, and law enforcement issues?

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A Sausage Made It Famous (concluded)

Just as there were many Sheboygan butcher shops in my youth making bratwurst, there were many neighborhood bakers making semmel, the rolls for the brats. Each butcher had his own blend of spices and secrets for making the pork sausages, and everybody maintained that their source produced the tastiest brats. My friends and I thought the bratwurst we ate were the best, but since I almost always ate bratwurst at home, as my friends did, we did not really have a base of knowledge for our bragging. We all just assumed that our moms bought the best.

Aside from festivals—oh, I will get to that—I remember eating bratwurst not bought at our local butcher twice. Johnny M. asked me to go to a Milwaukee Braves game with his parents. They may have thought that would be a treat for me, but since I was so shy around adults, it was torture. Mrs. M. had packed food featuring cold bratwurst. I thought that gross, perhaps even worse than mayonnaise on them. I had eaten leftover brats many times, but ours were always heated in the pot with beer.

          The family did get an irresistible bratwurst yearning sometimes when it was not Sunday and we were not geared up for our own grilling. The answer was to go to a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant on a commercial street, the Come On Inn. It had three or four counter stools and a perpetual charcoal fire. They may have had something besides bratwurst, but that is all I remember. We would get brats to take home, the only takeout we ever got. I don’t believe the Come On Inn got their brats from our butcher, but they tasted good.

          I do know, however, that all brats were not the same. At least one butcher made a beef brat so the Jewish population could participate in the Sheboygan tradition. It comes as a surprise to my New York friends that this little town in the Midwest had synagogues, but about ten percent of my school classes had Jewish children. (Jackie Mason, yes, that Jackie Mason was born in Sheboygan, but I believe he left at a young age.) In my circles, we were all friends no matter what the religion. I went to some bar mitzvahs, but that does not mean that we understood much about Judaism except that every so often the Jewish kids were not in school because of some holiday not known to the rest of us. I ran for president of the high school, and Barry Goodstein was my campaign manager. (His personal slogan was, “The only Goodstein is a full one.”) I won. (I wanted to win but only for the glory not the job and was a terrible president.) My mother, who really wanted me to be senior class president because that person gave a speech at the high school graduation and she could then gloat at the ceremony about her son, wanted to celebrate my election. We invited Barry. We, of course, served bratwurst, but we had no idea that he could not eat our brats. Instead, after ours were cooked, Barry scraped and scoured our grill and cooked sausages he had brought. We felt awkward.

          While the butchers might have produced slightly different sausages from each other, I never heard any discussion of which bakery made the best semmel. They were regarded the same no matter which of the many bakeries they came from. The mother bought the bratwurst; the father bought the rolls on the Sunday mornings. The father brought the siblings and me to Sunday School at our church at nine o’clock and picked us up afterwards. He went to the bakery. He did not then go home, but to his local bar. You might have to be a Sheboyganite to understand the joys of a tavern at nine on a Sunday morning. (Perhaps another time I will tell you about the time when I was home from college or law school and the father and I got more than a little tipsy playing pool at Dick’s Club while having draft beers and shots of brandy on a Sunday morning. It was a bonding moment as we tried to hide our state from the mother as we ate bratwurst when we went home.)

          I grew up with bratwurst. So did everyone in Sheboygan. Sheboygan was famous for bratwurst. Throughout the state in those days when there were no national purveyors of the sausage, restaurants would advertise that they were serving authentic Sheboygan bratwurst. The local movers and shakers (not my family) thought the town should capitalize on its fame, and the Jaycees, when I was eight, started Bratwurst Day. The festivities were centered downtown at Fountain Park. Not surprisingly, that block-square park had a fountain. It also had a band shell and bubblers—of course, you know what those are; if not, ask a Wisconsinite of a certain age—and a spigot for “mineral water,” regarded by some as healthy. People would fill up jugs to take home. The water tasted to me as if it had been stored in a rusted cast iron pot for several winters and then unwashed socks were dunked in it.

          I don’t know what Bratwurst Day is like now. It has been more than fifty years for me, but I gather it caused a bit of a brouhaha when professionals entered the brat-eating contest to grab the $1,000 prize. Perhaps still now, but back then, the Miss Sheboygan contest was held on that day. She may have been crowned Miss Sheboygan, but it was hard not to call her Miss Bratwurst. Make what jokes that you will.

          In my youth, bratwurst was a local thing, but now, of course, bratwurst can be found just about anywhere, often under the Johnsonville brand. Johnsonville is a village in Sheboygan County about fifteen miles from the great metropolis. The Johnsonville company, located there, does not play up the Sheboygan connection. No one I knew growing up ate Johnsonville brats. They weren’t authentic Sheboygan bratwurst.

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A Sausage Made It Famous (continued)

A sausage other than summer sausage truly defines Sheboygan. As the signs say when you drive into the city: “Bratwurst Capital of the World.” At a time when few in the country knew what bratwurst was, everybody in Sheboygan ate it. Our family certainly did. It was our Sunday dinner, eaten midday, at least every other weekend. Cooking it was the father’s job. It was always grilled over charcoal, never cooked in the stove or a frying pan. The father built a grill in the backyard beyond the detached garage. He poured a foundation, laid bricks in a rectangle to waist height with a door in front to scoop out ashes, placed iron bars for a grill, and then, for reasons unbeknownst to me, added over the  back of the grill a chimney that went to six feet. All this was for bratwurst. Chicken, pork chops, and T-bones were cooked in the kitchen, and those steaks and chops were always, always well done. The grill was a monument to bratwurst, which in Sheboygan was well understood.

The grill, however, had a problem. That chimney did not draw well. Instead of accepting the smoke, it often expelled it forward into the face of the father. He was a great problem-solver with physical objects, and he made modification after modification, but the chimney won out.

That lack of drawing power also made it hard sometimes to light the charcoal. He did not use lighter fluid. The father regarded that as dangerous, but perhaps more important, lighter fluid, he thought, could impart a residual taste to the bratwurst. Instead, he started the fire with wood kindling, and when the contraption was not drawing well, he could have some problems. It took awhile to get the briquettes (who knew from lump charcoal back then?) to the desired white ashy state.

When I said we had bratwurst at least every other week growing up in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, I did not mean just in good weather. We had brats cooked on the father’s grill even in the dead of winter. The father bundled up against the cold, pulled on over-the-shoe galoshes (we didn’t say boots) closed with buckles and carried out the sausages, a pot with an inch of beer in the bottom that was placed at the back of the grill into which the cooked bratwurst were dropped to keep them warm until the rest were completely done—no underdone pork in this household—and water for flareups. Flareups were common when a sausage casing was pierced and fat—oh, yes, those brats had fat—dripped onto the coals. Flames shooting up were quickly followed by various imprecations and oaths from the father. (I worked with casings at the butcher shop. A large bucket in the walk-in refrigerator held a tangled bucket of guts in a brine. I would tug and unravel one strand until I found its starting point. I then attached it to a faucet and ran water through the intestine, or whatever it was, until liquid squirted out. I then cut the casing before and after the hole. I carefully arranged the section that I had proofed and attached the new end to the faucet and began again. Plunging my hands into forty-degree, heavily salted water made them cold, puckered, and almost unusable for hours afterwards, but I suppose I can boast that in a little way I have been a bratwurst maker.)

The brats my father cooked were eaten inside a semmel, a hard, crusty roll with a soft interior (think Kaiser roll) with an indentation down the middle that made it easy to divide it. Double brat = whole semmel. Single brat = half. The rolls were warmed in an oven while the brats cooked. We put ketchup on the sandwich. A few Sheboyganites used mustard. Onions, cooked or raw, and pickles could be placed on top of the bratwurst. I don’t ever remember tomatoes or lettuce.

Notice no mention of mayonnaise. On the not-yet-spouse’s first visit to the ancestral home, bratwurst was presented. She in ignorance asked for mayonnaise. Dead silence for two reasons. The family could not imagine mayo with bratwurst; it was too heretical for us even to imagine. (Perhaps akin to someone in New York wanting mayonnaise on a pastrami sandwich.) And we did not own mayonnaise. On many sandwiches we spread butter. (Good radishes placed between slices of bread slathered with butter was, and continues to be, a favorite. Gabrielle Hamilton sometimes had radishes and butter on her Prune menu. I like to think that I beat her to that delight.) After a lengthy pause, the not-yet-spouse was offered Miracle Whip, which was in our tiny refrigerator but almost never used, and she looked as if she were going to gag. I don’t remember how she ate her bratwurst.

(concluded June 8)

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A Sausage Made It Famous (continued)

 In my returns to Sheboygan after I moved east, I would note changes—some building gone, a reconfiguration of the downtown, a new motel on the Lake—but even so, it seemed the same. It was always a town predominated by modest single family homes with a few double deckers (we lived in one where my paternal grandparents lived on the second floor), and a few low-rise apartment buildings with the tallest structure, an office building, at seven stories. Well maintained houses and lawns on respectably-sized, but not extravagant, lots and churches of many different denominations. Sheboygan has a motto: “The City of Cheese, Chairs, Children, and Churches.” The chairs part of the slogan referred to the many furniture factories. I got a second-hand, full-length mirror for my Brooklyn bedroom long after I left Wisconsin. When I hung it, I was surprised and pleased that on the back a stamp said that it was made in Sheboygan. Brooklyn, New York, where I have lived a half century, had a motto before it was incorporated into New York City: “The City of Churches.” I first learned that from the Buddy Hackett character (miscast?) in the movie of The Music Man. It must say something, but I don’t know what, that I have spent my life surrounded by, but not in, churches.

Sheboygan always seemed unchanged partly because it never seemed to grow or shrink. Its population was about 45,000 when I grew up and has only a few thousand more residents today. It was, and is, overwhelmingly white, although now it has a significant Asian population after Hmong people settled there, and about half of Sheboyganites, including me, could trace at least part of their ancestry to Germany. That meant beer and bars. The town always had many, many neighborhood taverns. That heritage also meant sausages.

When I grew up in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, many butcher shops dotted the town, and each butcher made sausages. My mother worked in a small grocery store. Attached to it was a separately owned butcher shop where we got our meat. I don’t remember its name, but it gave me my first jobs—sweeping and later delivering orders in the owner’s Studebaker with a three-speed stick shift on the column at which I was not very good.

That butcher shop also gave me my first food epiphany. Outside the butcher shop was a smokehouse, and when I was four or five the butcher took me into it. Most of the smoke was gone but it was still warm from the smoking. Hanging all around me was baloney after baloney, some in circles and some straight. The butcher took one down, pulled out a knife, and cut a chunk. He extended it to me and said, “Eat. You won’t find anything better.” I ate. It was drippingly juicy. It was warm. It was smokey. It was fragrant. And it was delicious. I could not find anything better. I may have found food sensuous before, but I certainly did after that.

The butcher may have made kinds of sausages, but the family primarily got two. The first was summer sausage, which always made a great snack and sometimes was diced into scrambled eggs. It puckered into a little cup when thrown into a hot frying pan. I always thought that in the restaurant I am never going to run I would serve a poached egg on top of a round of fried summer sausage.

I also learned about my family from that butcher shop. Sent to the store when I was eight to buy a summer sausage, I went to the counter and told the butcher that I wanted one. He said, “With or without?” I had no idea what he was asking and being incredibly shy and not wanting to show my ignorance, I hesitatingly said, “With.” He saw that I was flustered and asked, “Is it for your mother or grandmother?” When I said that it was for my mother, he replied, “Your grandmother likes it with garlic. Your mother, without.” Garlic. I may have heard the word but did not know what it was. We never had garlic. If Gilroy, California, had been dependent on the likes of us, it would have disappeared. But I learned that my grandmother did eat garlic. I did not know what to make of that revelation. What other secrets did she have?

Although I try to avoid it now for health reasons, I continue to love summer sausage. (Why is it that someone my age has concerns about what to eat? Even if I cut off ten percent of my expected longevity, it isn’t much.) Every so often, the NBP has given me some summer sausage for Christmas, and I get excited. I vow to ration it carefully, but before the sun has set three times, it is gone. On the last trip to Wisconsin, to celebrate the sister’s fiftieth wedding anniversary, we did not stay in Sheboygan but nearby at a resort on Elkhart Lake, where I had spent many days in my youth. I wanted the spouse and NBP to see what a Wisconsin lake was like, and they loved it. On our way back to the Milwaukee airport, we stopped in Port Washington, best known to me as the town halfway between Sheboygan and Milwaukee, for lunch. As we walked about the downtown looking for a likely restaurant, I peered through the windows of a butcher shop and saw stacks and rings of sausages. I was inside in an instant and bought a long summer sausage. I felt a bit conspicuous boarding the plane with that three-footer, but it was worth it.

(continued June 5)

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A Sausage Made It Famous

          Sheboygan is famous for one thing, at least in its eyes. No, it’s not me even though I was born and raised there.

          Sheboygan, Wisconsin, sits on the shores of Lake Michigan halfway between Milwaukee and Green Bay, about fifty miles from each. Growing up this location was a boon. We could get television stations from both places, but this was the days of over-the-air and required an antenna. The father installed a rotor that could shift the antenna’s direction south towards Milwaukee or north towards Green Bay. Most often, this did not matter much because each city had the three networks showing the same shows, and while Milwaukee had an independent station, the networks were where it was at.

Occasionally, the rotor would malfunction, and the father would get out a long ladder and climb onto the roof to make adjustments. This being snow country, the roof was steeply pitched. I should have been concerned that this job held some danger, but I had a child’s faith in his father. The repairs, however, were a three-person job. With him on the roof, one of us watched the TV and shouted when the rotor had the antenna in exactly the right position to get Milwaukee. Another of us would be outside the window and relayed the message to the roof man. Then the inside person would move the rotor through some sort of device towards Green Bay, and the same shouting ensued.

          This rotor business was essential for one very, very important reason—the Green Bay Packers. I can hardly overstate the obsession with the Lombardi-era team of my youth, although a similar obsession for each era of Packers has continued. Back then, Green Bay played half its home games in Green Bay and half in Milwaukee. The NFL then had a blackout policy that prevented hometown television stations from broadcasting games for a team’s home games. However, Green Bay was outside the blackout zone when the Packers played in Milwaukee, and the CBS station could carry Ray Scott announcing the game, and the Milwaukee station carried it when the game was in Green Bay. With that blessed rotor we could get all the games in the comfort of our home. (The Packers have played many famous games. Among them is the Ice Bowl when the Packers met the Dallas Cowboys for the NFL championship on the last day of 1967. On that morning, the father got a call from an acquaintance and was asked whether he wanted to go. Showing wisdom I did not always give him credit for, he declined and said that we would watch the game from the comfort of home. It was not that we were not experienced with cold. The average high for three winter months in Sheboygan was in the mid-twenties with the average low fifteen degrees colder. Whenever there was a cold snap, we would wake up to below-zero days, and I can regale you, as I have the NBP (nonbinary progeny) and the spouse many times, about how I walked to school in that cold, although I lied if I ever said that I had to do it without shoes. We knew cold, but we also had an understanding of cold, and December 31, 1967, was extraordinary. The temperature at kickoff was minus fifteen, but, of course, there was a wind, which plunged the wind chills into the minus forty ranges. I can go on about that game, but you can read about in the pioneering book by Jerry Kramer, who made the key block, and Dick Schaap, Instant Reply, but I don’t think that book contains this nugget. In those long-ago days, spectators could carry beer into the stadium. I was told that those who did found their six-packs frozen before the first quarter ended. For Wisconsites, that brought on real suffering. But I digress. Let me move onto my next digression.)

          For me, however, the defining aspect of Sheboygan was not that it was a half-way point between two other places but that it was on Lake Michigan. Those who consider a place like Wisconsin flyover country do not understand the beauty, power, and importance of the Great Lakes (or the Mississippi River.) I spent many hours on the shore and piers of Lake Michigan. (My bedroom has a series of pictures of the Sheboygan lighthouse.) My childhood would have been much different without Lake Michigan (and the myriad inland lakes, Elkhart Lake, Crystal Lake, Little Crystal Lake, Random Lake, and many others within a half-hour of the hometown.) Whenever I returned after leaving Sheboygan, I would first head to Lake Michigan and drive up the lakeshore starting at the Armory where the Sheboygan Redskins played in the first year of the National Basketball Association (you can look it up) past the beach and up the hill to Vollrath Bowl before heading home. (There is a lot of good literature about the oceans, seas, rivers, lakes, marshes, and swamps. I don’t know any about the Great Lakes. Give me suggestions if you know some.)

(continued June 3.)

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Snippets

How does a security guard at a nudist colony pin on the badge?

Have you ever cogitated on the coincidence that both your parents were married on the same day?

When Barack Obama ran for reelection, many tried to make him responsible for things, taken out of context, that the minister of his church had said. I confidently predict the Trump will not have to deal with anything the minister of his church has preached.

“Socialism” is thrown around as an epithet a lot these days. I wish that those who did so would define the term, or does it just mean something the person does not like?

“If the rich could hire other people to die for them, the poor could make a wonderful living.” Yiddish proverb.

“Cultural appropriation” is also thrown around a lot as an epithet. I wish those who did so would define the term. On a recent trip, I saw Moroccans wearing hats with the New York Yankees logo (although I don’t remember seeing anyone sporting any other American team insignia) and NYPD caps. I saw McDonalds, Burger Kings, KFC, spaghetti, and tacos. Was this cultural appropriation?

“Whatever you may be sure of, be sure of this: that you are dreadfully like other people.” James Russell Lowell, My Study Windows.

          In my running days, I was on a traffic island in the middle of a busy Brooklyn street. I was looking for a break in traffic to get to the southside sidewalk when my right foot awkwardly hit broken pavement, and I turned my ankle. I almost fell and had a brief vision of rolling into the moving cars. I could barely stand up. Although I always ran with money in case I needed a cab to get home, I generally avoid taxis. Instead, I painfully hobbled the mile and a half to the house. In those days, I tried to run every day, but in an uncharacteristic act of sensibility, I stopped running for quite a while. But after days, a week, or maybe two weeks the ankle did not seem better. I was worried that it was more than a sprain and that perhaps I had broken or chipped a bone. I finally went to a doctor. I then had an HMO and saw a doctor I had not met before, a suspiciously young guy to be an M.D. He took x-rays and reported that it was only a soft tissue injury. I protested that it was taking “forever” to heal. He replied, “At your age you have to expect these things.” I thought, “I’m paying you for this advice!”  I was then in my mid-thirties.

“As we grow older we grow both more foolish and wiser at the same time.” La Rouchefoucauld.

I am not proud that in scanning the obituaries I feel some satisfaction when I find that a vegan has died of cancer.

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Real Americans and Trump

Real Americans I know have had a shot and a beer sitting at the bar of a neighborhood tavern after work. Has Donald J. Trump ever done that?

Real Americans I know have sung along with both Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. and Greenwood’s God Bless the U.S.A. Has Donald Trump ever done that?

Real Americans I know have seen Citizen Kane, Easy Rider, and all the Toy Story movies. Has Trump done that?

Real Americans I know eat hot dogs at street fairs, medium rare steaks, sushi, perogies, asparagus, barbecue, haddock, and cotton candy. Does Trump do that?

Real Americans I know have read maybe an Andrew Jackson biography, The Great Gatsby, Harry Potter books, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Michael Connelly detective novels. Has Trump read anything besides tweets and perhaps the crawl on Fox News?

Real Americans I know have at least tried to dance a foxtrot, the Texas two-step, a square dance, a waltz, the swim, the electric glide (or is it slide?), and perhaps, once, the macarena. Has Trump done that?

Real Americans I know own guns and fishing rods, hunt deer and turkeys, fish for smallmouth bass and speckled trout, and support universal background checks to purchase a gun. And Trump?

Real Americans I know have bought milk and eggs at the local store. Has Trump done that?

Real Americans I know have a lively sense of humor. Does Trump know how to laugh?

Real Americans I know both go to church and pray regularly. Does Trump?

Real Americans I know have proudly served in our country’s armed forces. Trump?

Real Americans I now have dressed up for Halloween and worn a goofy mask. Can one imagine Trump doing that?

Real Americans I know have read the Constitution. Trump?

Real Americans I know have worked two jobs to make rent or mortgage payments. Has Trump done that?

Real Americans I know don’t take credit for the accomplishments of others. And Trump?

Real American men I know are laconic and self-effacing. And Trump?

Real Americans I know want both secure borders and secure elections. And Trump?

Real Americans I know have waited in lines for tickets, airplanes, buses, and passport control. When did Trump ever do that?

Real Americans I know have donated money to Meals on Wheels, Doctors without Borders, a neighborhood food bank, the Red Cross, or other charities that they do not control? Does Trump do that?

Real Americans I know volunteer at their church, synagogue, or mosque, at a soup kitchen, in the local library, at little league, at the library, in a tutoring or literacy project, or somewhere? Has Trump ever done that?

Real Americans I know do not claim a “natural ability” to practice medicine and science. Trump?

Real Americans I know want to know more and are curious about many things. And Trump?

Real Americans I now have suffered from racial and ethnic bigotry. And Trump?

But, unfortunately, real Americans I know also are ignorant of history, lack empathy, are inarticulate, lie, bullshit, are self-centered, have their egos easily bruised, are vindictive, are afraid of “others,” and speak without thinking.  Donald J. Trump does do that.

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Honor and Remember

Even before the year of Covid-19, Memorial Day had lost its official meaning for most of us. The federal holiday, once called Decoration Day and celebrated on May 30 but now on the last Monday of May, was instituted for the remembrance and the honoring of those who died while in America’s military. (Veterans’ Day on November 11 commemorates all those who served in the military.) In recent years, a few official speeches along those lines have been given somewhere (I missed Trump’s speech—surely it was at least as eloquent as his others). Some of our older generations maintain a tradition of visiting the graves of loved ones, but this somber holiday now seems primarily celebrated as the unofficial beginning of summer and, for smaller fry, the end or near-end of the school year. For few of us, is it a time for solemn reflection about the sacrifices of others but instead about the joys of the beach, barbecues, and the freedom from homework.

But what is Memorial Day this year at a time when, for many of us, every day seems the same? Will it still be joyful for the schoolkids whose classes were suspended? I suppose they may be happy that online assignments will soon end (and perhaps their parents even more so). But surely there will not be the same excitement and relief found when running out of the school door on the last day of school with friends, whooping in the playground and chattering about the planned summer activities. With cheerleading camps and Little Leagues closed around the country, any such chatter this year may be sparse and forlorn.

Many barbecues normally held on Memorial Day have been cancelled, and for those who maintain social distancing, they will be much different even if they are held. Memorial Day normally heralds beach time, but that, too, will be a different experience for many of us. This is not a normal Memorial Day.

But even if traditional Memorial Day activities are curtailed, we should spend at least some of our time doing what we should always do on this holiday—remember and honor those who died while in the military. And we should go further and think about the 100,000 Americans who have already died from Covid-19 and about the tens of thousands who will die in the coming summer months. Let’s remember and honor all the essential workers providing healthcare, making deliveries, working in food stores and meat-packing plants, and the like. Many of them have gotten sick and some have died serving us. A person does not have to die on a battlefield to be a hero. And let’s remember all those who are suffering as a result of the pandemic, including those who have lost their jobs and those who do not have enough to eat in this richest country in the world.

We should have more time on our hands than on past Memorial Days. Let’s use some of that time by honoring and remembering.

Posted on by rjonakait

First Sentences

“Somewhere in the dark years between Adolf Hitler’s invasion of Poland and the turn of the Second World War’s tide, Wystan Hugh Auden returned to his childhood faith.” Ross Douthat, Bad Religion: How We Became a Nation of Heretics.

“It was not that he didn’t remember he once had another sort of life.” Gao Xingjian, One Man’s Bible (translated by Mabel Lee.)

“My strongest memory is not a memory.” Tara Westover, Educated.

 “The explosion took place two minutes after Elishva, the old woman known as UMM Daniel, or Daniel’s mother, boarded the bus.” Ahmed Saadawi, Frankenstein in Baghdad.

 “Despite being the official retreat of American presidents, Camp David is a curiously bare and rustic facility.” Michael J. Mazarr, Leap of Faith: Hubris, Negligence, and America’s Greatest Foreign Policy Tragedy.

“The nights are so pleasant in Caulfield.” Cornell Woolrich, I Married a Dead Man.

“Tuesday, September 16, 2008, was the ‘day after Lehman.’” Adam Tooze, Crashed: How a Decade of Financial Crises Changed the World.

“Her journey from Alton to Springfield should have taken no longer than two days, but as the stage driver himself said, ‘That’s no more ‘n a hope.’” Louis Bayard, Courting Mr. Lincoln.

 “In 1926, there were countless ways to die in an airplane.” Keith O’Brien, Fly Girls: How Five Daring Women Defied All Odds and Made Aviation History.

 “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” Daphne Du Maurier, Rebecca.

“I think of the old football press boxes first, the ones where you’d look up from scribbling in your notebook and find a guy in the crowd staring at you through the window, probably wondering if it was your story that made him choke on his cornflakes the other morning.” John Schulian, Football: Great Writing About the National Sport.

“Word came today: four lines squeezed on a three-by-five.” Richard Powers, The Gold Bug Variations.

“When I left my boxed township of Illinois farmland to attend my dad’s alma mater in the lurid jutting Berkshires of western Massachusetts, I all of a sudden developed a jones for mathematics.” David Foster Wallace, “Derivative Sport in Tornado Alley,” in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments.