What, me worry?

“Getting old is when a narrow waist and a broad mind change places.” Alfred E. Newman

The saying “What, me worry?” often accompanied MAD magazine mascot Alfred E. Newman, who has appeared on almost every MAD cover since the 1950s, when I was a loyal reader of the scabrous cartoon satires within its pages.  Every kid could find humor in the Alfred E. Newman quote,“A teacher is someone who talks in our sleep.”  Over the years any number of celebrities, from Prince Charles to, more recently, Chinese leader Xi Jinping and presidential candidate Pete Buttigieg, have been said to resemble the “bumpkin portrait” (MADfounder Harvey Kurtzman’s words) of a “part leering wiseacre, part happy-go-lucky kid.” Given Trump’s most recent verbal depredations, where he recklessly branded Representative Ilhan Omar a communist and “Hater of America” who should go back to where she came from (Somalia), as bigoted supporters shouted, “Send her home,”only MAD seems capable of capturing the utter MADness.  Alfred E. Newman once characterized elections as when politicians find out what people will fall for. For the sake of the republic, I sincerely hope, in the words of the Who, Americans“won’t get fooled again.”

Robert Blaszkiewicz retweeted Congresswoman Ilhan Omar’s response to Trump’s incendiary calumnies with this Maya Angelou poem:

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise. 

“Chance the Snapper: the Alligator that Mesmerized Chicago,” headlined the New York Times.  On July 9 a five-foot gator was discovered swimming in Chicago’s Humboldt Park lagoon.  For a week, as efforts failed to trap the reptile whose nickname derived from Windy City celebrity Chance the Rapper, ever-larger groups of sightseers gathered at the lagoon’s edge.  Unable to spot the critter among the lily pads, the city of Chicago in desperation hired Floridian Frank “Alligator Bob” Robb. After he snagged Chance the Snapper on its tail with a fishing pole, Robb held a press conference, describing how around 1:30 a.m. he heard it “vocalizing” and spotted its eyes shining in the darkness.  Moving to an optimum position on shore, Alligator Bob caught “the Snapper” on the first try. Briefly was toast of the town, he subsequently threw out the first pitch at a Cubs game. There was talk of keeping the creature in a Chicago zoo, but it’s headed to an animal sanctuary in Florida. Chance the Snapper bobbleheads are presently on sale.

 East Chicago mayor Bob Patrick in 2003 after the court invalidating his primary victory over George Pabay, Times photo by Christopher Smith

Book club member Rich Maroc turned me on to the 2001 documentary “The King of Steeltown” about longtime East Chicago boss Robert “Hollywood Bob” Pastrick.  It being in the Calumet Regional Archives, I checked it out and was pleased to hear commentary from longtime area newsman Rich James.  The film focused on the 1999 mayoral primary when Pastrick faced a formidable challenge from Lake County Democratic chairman Robert Stiglich, who under suspicious circumstances had hundreds of supporters apply for absentee ballots. In a review titled “Hardball Politics in the Heartland,” Chris Sautter wrote: 

  The King of Steeltown" is an offbeat, sometimes humorous inside look at Chicago-style machine politics in a rust-belt city (East Chicago, Indiana) struggling with the decline of the steel industry. The film focuses on the 1999 re-election campaign of Robert A. Pastrick, mayor for three decades and a dominant political force since he launched his career in the early 1950's. Described as the last of America's political bosses, Pastrick is portrayed as an old-style pol who skillfully retains control of this gritty multi-racial industrial community with a well-oiled political machine, an election year multi-million dollar public works program, and a clinical display of old fashion retail politics.

Liz Wuerrfel and Beatrice Petties

Liz Wierrfel interviewed longtime Gary resident Beatrice Petties for the VU Flight Paths project. In “Remember Where You Came From” Beatrice stated:

 I say to my grandkids all the time, you can never forget who you are, but you have to remember where you come from.  I always tell everyone I was a depression baby because I was born in 1929.  In Detroit my mother joined the WPA was trained as a welder. They sent her to school. She had certificates and everything. She thought when she came here, she would go to the mill and get a job. They would not hire her. The only job she could get was a job as a cook or a cleaning. She said, no thank you. And that’s when she took the two jobs, cleaning houses and waitressing.  One time, I sat there and watched as she took orders from five tables. When she came back, not one person got the wrong drink, or the wrong dish. She went up this high for me when I saw her do that. I was sitting there wondering, “How do you remember them?”She said, “You do it, you just learn how to do it, that’s all.”I often wondered how far she would have gone if she had had the opportunities that are open for us now. 

   My brother was born in Gary. As we got older, I had to babysit him naturally. There was a young man that would always come by, which I did not like, period. I said, “Billy, tell him I’m not at home.” And I went in the bedroom and stood with the door open. And he opens the door, and what does he say, “She said to tell you she’s not at home.”Oh, I was ready to kill him. So I had to go out shamefaced and all and say, “I’m sorry, but I’m not going anywhere, I’m babysitting, period.”

   Whatever I learned to do in school, like if it was sewing or cooking, I had to come home and teach him. His rule was if he was in carpenter shop or any other shop that I couldn’t do, he had to teach me. And my aunt was a good cook, she made the best lemon pie in the world. And I could never make that lemon pie. He comes home one day when he was in the service. I said, “I sure wish I could have one of Aunt Mamie’s pies.”And he said, “Which one you talking about, Bea?” And I said, “I’m talking about that lemon pie, you know, the one with that thick meringue on it.”And she did not use an egg beater to make that meringue, she used a fork. He goes in the kitchen – he didn’t tell me what he was doing – and made that pie. I’ve been trying to make that lemon pie for I don’t know how long said, “how come you got to make it?”And he laughed and hugged me. He said, “Because I paid attention and you didn’t.” Yeah, my brother and I were good friends.

Liz Wuerrfel introduced me to Belt magazine, which will be publishing a poem she wrote about Gary.  I found Kay Saunders’s memoir about growing up in the rust belt city of Akron, Ohio, in the June 24, 2019 issue:

   I was seven when my family moved to Rubber City. That’s what everyone called Akron—once home to General Tire, BFGoodrich, Firestone, and Goodyear. Although most of the rubber plants were gone by the time we moved to Akron, the specter of industry remained. F.A. Seiberling, founder of Goodyear Tire and Rubber, once lived in the sprawling Stan Hywet Hall. Now the estate is a museum, open for school field trips, weddings, and those who simply wish to see how the rubber barons lived. In our suburban house, on clear days, I sometimes saw the Goodyear blimp, blue and gold and hulking. It hovered in the sky, a distant reminder of prosperity and productivity.

    When I went out with my friends on Friday nights, my mother would wait up for me. My father went up to read around 9:30 with a mystery novel tucked under his arm. By 9:45, when my mother went upstairs to wash her face and take out her contacts, my father would be snoring, his book still open and splayed across his chest.  My mother always wore fleece pajamas and two pairs of wool socks. Even though it had been years since we’d moved from New Orleans, she still wasn’t used to the harsh winters. She shivered in restaurants, malls, and church: everywhere we went. She craved sunlight, the South’s merciless heat.

    On Friday nights, after my father was in bed, my mother ate cheese and crackers, maybe a runny brie, a cranberry stilton, or a cheddar with chives. She usually drank red wine, but in the winter months, she savored a finger or two of scotch. She poured from the expensive bottle my uncle always brought for us when he made his annual visit from Wales.  She watched the ten o’clock news on the trashy channel my father usually forbade us from watching before dinner. He thought the reporters were incompetent, but that’s exactly why she and I liked the station. The Cleveland news was seldom good, and if we laughed at the reporters’ incompetence, it made hearing it easier. A missing child. An entire family killed in a house fire. Another young Black person killed by police officers’ bullets.

Barbara Walczak’s bridge Newsletterpaid tribute to Dave Bigler for achieving the rank of Gold Life master, having accumulated 2500 master points. Congratulating him were numerous partners and admirers, including Mary Kocevar, who took lessons from him at Hobart Senior Center, Trudi McKamey, who met him at a Bridge-O-Rama game, and Wayne Carpenter, who attended Hobart High and IU Northwest with him and like him worked at U.S. Steel for 30 years.  Calling his bridge contributions “Golden,” Walczak wrote: 

 Dave has offered a multitude of lessons throughout the years - all without remuneration. He oftentimes comes to the games with bags of food, also without remuneration – but with gratitude from us.  He signed up as a “pro” to help increase Alzheimer’s donations.  Nine players signed up to play with him, and he accepted them all.  In fact, he doubled their games (2 for the price of 1), and he collected $240 for Alzheimer’s.  He is willing (or more so, he is enthusiastic) to partner with new players – no matter how elemental their skill level is – and those newbies leave having had a successful experience.

The Newsletter noted the passing of Conrad Staudacher, whose big disappointment was not accumulating the 500 points needed to become a Life Master.

 below, Dr. Raymond Carmody

Retired Valpo ophthalmologist Rick Friedman was my bridge partner at Banta Center. Despite never playing together before, we finished right around 50 percent. He’d known eye doctor Tim Carmody, one of my first students, who committed suicide in 1998 at age 46.  Knowing I wrote a medical school letter of recommendation on his behalf, his sister and father, who had an eyecare center in Glen Park, treated me like royalty. Timmy was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known. Several softball teammates went to school with him, and we got to be friends.  After Phil visited his office for an eye exam, he wanted to be an eye doctor because he was so impressed.  I last saw Timmy at a Moody Blues concert, and he seemed fine but evidently couldn’t get over his wife breaking up with him.  I shed a tear as Rick mentioned that Tim’s father, Dr. Raymond Carmody, came of out of retirement afterwards at age 90 to resume work at the family business. A patient of Rick’s, Raymond Carmody died just last year at age 109.

Dr. Eric Friedman

Last year while in Steve McShane’s Indiana History class, IUN student Madelynn “Maddy” Kurgan interviewed Rick Friedman.  Here is part of what Rick told her:

    I learned to play bridge in medical school. It was not a required course. Four of us actually took a night course at a nearby high school and learned enough to play. Then for the next 40 years I didn’t play due to time constraints of a busy practice and the fact that my wife didn’t play cards. Only after retirement did I have enough free time. I considered myself an athlete, frequently playing golf, tennis, racquetball, and even joining softball leagues in Valpo.  My bad back has limited sporting endeavors and turned me back to bridge.