“When I look back at my life, what jumps out is
how many variables had to fall in place in order to give me a chance.” J.D.
Vance, “Hillbilly Elegy”
On the phone with high school classmate
Gaard Murphy Logan, I told her that next month’s book club selection is 32-year-old
J.D. Vance’s “Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis” and
expressed the hope that it would not be totally depressing. I think you’re in for a disappointment, she
replied. While some critics have cited
the book to help explain Trump’s appeal to rural folk estranged from establishment
politicians, its primary virtue, according to reviews I’ve read, seems to be
its extreme candor about being from a subculture in disintegration – poor,
white Americans. Yale Law School
graduate Vance wrote: “Whatever talent I
have, I almost squandered until a handful of people (some in the marine corps) rescued
me. For those of us lucky enough to live
the American dream, the demons of the life we left behind continues to chase
us.” Vance’s maternal grandparents
(he called them Mamaw and Papaw) left Jackson, Kentucky, after she became
pregnant at age 13 and moved to Middletown, Ohio, a steel town nicknamed Middletucky because it contained so many
postwar Southern transplants, who retained their rough-and-ready values and
lifestyle. Because Vance’s mother was a
dysfunctional drug addict throughout most of his childhood, Mamaw and Papaw became
his de facto guardians, violent and foul-mouthed but loving and loyal.
J.D. Vance
In a section titled “The Great
Regression” David Goldfield’s “The Gifted Generation” described “Hillbilly
Elegy” as “a bittersweet memoir of
growing up in a gritty Rust belt town in southern Ohio [that] chronicles the
resentment toward neighbors who engage in welfare fraud, petty crime, and drugs
– afflictions that descended on a community bereft of jobs and
institutions.” Goldfield concludes
that the primary cause of the work ethic decline among those disparaged as
“white trash” was not moral failure but unhealthy corporate concentration, the
weakening of organized labor, and governmental neglect. Reflecting on the loss of confidence among
young people since the 1960s, Goldfield wrote:
If
mobility, both economic and geographic, characterized the [postwar] gifted
generation, then the current cohort may be the Go-Nowhere Generation. The likelihood of twentysomethings moving to
another state has dropped 40 percent since the 1980s, regardless of educational
level. Young people want to remain
connected to their hometowns rather than experience other parts of the country
or the world. This reflects wariness
about striking out on one’s own. The
gifted generation was bold, motivated by opportunity rather than constrained by
fear. The major difference between the
time the gifted generation came of age and the present is that the federal
government’s role as the great umpire, the leveler, has diminished.
J.D. Vance’s early memories include
visiting a dying uncle in the hospital and noticing hair on his
great-grandmother’s chin while on her lap.
And this: “I was four when I
climbed on top of the dining room table of our small apartment, announced that
I was the Incredible Hulk, and dove headfirst into the wall to prove that I was
stronger than any building. (I wasn’t.)”
Gaard Logan and I talked about earliest
childhood memories. Mine are rather
traumatic, including being left at a kids party with strangers when my family
visited relatives in Pittsburgh, walking into a friend’s parents’ bedroom whose
mother had nothing on over her girdle, and being treated by a doctor whose
therapy included prayers and rubbing my forehead soothingly. He may have been some type of spiritual
healer. I’m not sure why my mother thought it necessary to take me to him; did
I have some sort of nervous tick? She
also tortured me each morning with a tablespoon of cod liver oil. Gaard spoke of taking walks with an older
sister when two or three years old to a farmhouse in rural Maine where a woman
treated them to cookies and ice cold, unpasteurized milk. Her father was a salesman of perfumes,
razors, and other sundries who left for Boston on Monday morning in the
family’s only car and returned late Friday.
Gaard still has traces of a Maine accent, especially when speaking about
childhood experiences. I told her about Dick Hagelberg’s dad moving the family
to a farm in upstate New York after working for years for a railroad and how
Dick hated it. Gaard’s recollections, on
the other hand, were much more pleasant.
I spoke with Gaard’s hubby Chuck about
Tiger Wood’s second place finish over the weekend in the Valspar Championship,
which drew the highest TV ratings in years despite it not being a major
tournament. Tiger sank a birdie on the
seventeenth hole Sunday to pull within one stroke and, needing another birdie,
came close to sinking a long putt that would have put him in a playoff against
winner Paul Casey. Good stuff.
I found a promising book about Hoosier
humorist David Letterman subtitled “The Last Giant of Late Night” (1027). A fan since childhood, author Jason Zinoman
wrote:
A
talk-show host who didn’t always seem to enjoy talking to people, a reserved
man who spoke to millions every night, one of the most trusted entertainers
whose ironic style kept emphasizing his own insincerity, Letterman represented
a version of New York cool that seemed more accessible than punk singers in
ripped shirts or dapper Broadway sophisticates.
Last week I didn’t feel up to bowling
and got Bob Fox to sub for me. His name was chosen for a chance to win the
500-dollar mega-pot, requiring two strikes in a row. He buried the first but missed the headpin on
his second ball. Amazingly, another pin
rebounded off the back and knocked it down. He said that after $400 went for bills, he
and wife Wanda ate at a nice restaurant, leaving just $30 in his pocket. This week, bowling for our opponents, Bob
rolled a 650 series. Lo and behold, Bob’s
name was called again, and he won another hundred dollars. Gene Clifford showed me photos of he and former
IU coach Bob Knight attending a fundraiser at Bloomington South High
School. After being firing, Knight has
refused to return to IU and often bad-mouths his former employer. I mentioned Knight’s having held IU
scrimmages at Gary’s Genesis Center; Clifford replied that he had attended
several.
The
Saturday Evening Club met at the Pines Village Retirement Community in
Valparaiso. The wife of speaker Jim Wise
works there, and at least one club member lives there. Beforehand, members asked Wise whether the
site was a recruiting ploy. The food (prime rib, mashed potatoes and
gravy, salad) was excellent and the spirits plentiful. Wise’s talk, titled “Sympathy with the Angels”
(a take-off on the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy with the Devil”), dealt mostly
about the history of physics and whether science and religion were
compatible. He started with quotes by
Jim Morrison of the Doors, philosopher and pacifist Bertrand Russell, and, most
germane, novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald’s assertion that “the test of a first-rate intelligence is the
ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the
ability to function.” Once an
atheist, Wise is now a Roman Catholic who visits hospices with his comfort dog
Kalberer.
Jim Wise and Kalberer
While much
of Jim Wise’s talk was over my head, everyone was expected to comment aloud
about it for about ten minutes. I
concentrated on the Fitzgerald quote, stating that while I consider myself to
be an agnostic, sometimes after a close call with danger, such as barely
avoiding an auto accident, I whisper thanks to whatever guardian angel (St.
James?) might be watching over me.
Someone thought that sounded like Blaise Pascal’s Wager, the idea that
if God does not exist, nothing is lost by believing. Others labeled it superstition. I brought up Jacob Riis’ maxim that optimism
is the only practical working philosophy and how that gave him a sense of
purpose in working to improve the environment.
Afterwards, Jim Mitchell, a former lawyer and now an ordained minister, said
he appreciated my sentiments.
John Shearer: "My Loop shirt still fits."
Steve Dahl
WLUP (The Loop) has
become a Christian station, part of the Educational Media Foundation K-Love
brand. Jerry Davich wrote:
In my younger years, “The
Loop” wasn’t just a radio station. It was a black t-shirt movement. A brash
call to action. A rebellious snarl in a world of wrinkled smiles. The
station, WLUP FM 97.9, was the unruly, disobedient teenager of Chicago radio
stations back in the day. The on-air personalities who called it home through
the decades – Steve Dahl, Jonathan Brandmeier, Mancow Muller, to name a few –
did a great job of amplifying this image of anti-establishment at any
cost. Disco Demolition Night at Comisky Park on July 12, 1979, was a call
to arms for my generation of impressionable rock-n-rollers. The ballpark held
50,000 fans, but thousands more stormed the field to take part in it. I always
regretted I wasn’t one of them.
Then Davich
added, egregiously, in my opinion: “I rarely listened to the station in recent years. Whenever I
stumbled onto The Loop in my car, it felt like bumping into an old high school
classmate who never grew up.” Like me, Davich’s channel of choice is WXRT,
several of whose on-air personalities, including Johnny Mars and Frank E. Lee,
earned their stripes at The Loop. While I treasure the variety of music on XRT, I see no reason to disparage folks who enjoy rockin’
out on the car radio. For that I still
have WLS. I loved Steve Dahl and would
still listen to him. Mancow, on the
other hand, was obnoxious. Brenden Bayer
posted: “Just got in the car to hear
WLUP’s new format. This is bullshit.” You know it, baby.
In another Post-Tribune column Jerry Davich wrote about the demise of his 75-year-old
high school alma mater, named after Gary’s world famous progressive school
superintendent, William A. Wirt:
I went for my final tour of Wirt High
School in Miller today before it closes for good after this school year. I had nostalgic feelings while getting lost
in the halls, finding my old locker, hiding from teachers, and staring out at
the old track where I still own the school record for the longest time to run a
mile. Ah, good times. It was as if the
school is on its death bed and I dropped by to say one last goodbye before its
faint pulse stops beating. Ah, sad times.
Alan Yngve being interviewed at the Calumet Regional Archives; photo by Samantha Gauer;
Archives display in IUN's library/conference center lobby; photo by Christina Gomez
At Chesterton Y, Dee Van Bebber and I
finished with a 53.17 percent (slightly above average) despite not playing our best
bridge. On the final hand, I held 18
high card points, including Ace, King, Queen, Jack of Spades, and opened one No
Trump. Sally Will doubled, Dee passed,
and Rich bid two Clubs. I went 2 Spades,
mainly to alert Dee what to lead on defense.
Sally raised to 3 Clubs, Dee bid 3 Spades and all passed. When she lay down her hand, she had no high
card points but 5 little Spades and 2 doubletons. I made the bid for high board by throwing off
a loser on a good Diamond. I gave copies
of my new Steel Shavings to Alan
Yngve, Dottie Hart, and Helen Booth.
Noticing Richard Hatcher’s photo on the cover, Helen said that on
several occasions she spoke to students in his Valparaiso Law School class, and
in 1992 he supported her over George Van Til to be a delegate at the Democratic
National Convention in New York where Bill Clinton was nominated to run for
President.
In the 2005 issue of the Prairie Writers Guild literary magazine From the Edge of the Prairie is “Life’s
Flight” by William Dallner, written shortly before he died in 2007:
Awakening-
The testing of wing,
The first bold leap
Soaring to heights.
Achievements above all,
recognition of many,
Resentment of few.
The weakening pace,
Descending shortness of breath,
Falling,
Revival, fresh air.
The landing with dignity, the
telling and re-telling from memory,
To the end.
On this, the hundredth anniversary of
World War I, I came upon this elegy by Hoosier Dale T. Sheets, who died 7 years
ago at age 91, describing a visit to Verdun:
The clover of Verdun is a
blanket of green
over the iron turrets and the
concrete bunkers,
except for an open mouth of a
cave where men
sought shelter from the whining
shells, and found
poison gas instead. The field’s so near to Paris
that taxis shuttled soldiers to
and from the front,
where a million soldiers died.
. . .
I fall face downward in the
sweet clover
And press my body through time
and space
Into the cold and bloody
trenches of Verdun.
Out there somewhere, forlornly
sounds
My cabbie on his horn, impatient
to be gone.
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