Wobblies

"The majority of mankind is ground down by industrial oppression in order that the small remnant may live in ease.” Helen Keller, IWW member, 1911

Wobblies was a nickname for members of the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), a radical union founded in Chicago in 1905 whose leaders included Eugene Victor Debs and Big Bill Haywood.  Believing in “One Big Union” and organizing industry-wide rather than by trades or crafts, the IWW had considerable success in western states, signing up farmworkers, lumberjacks, miners, and unskilled workers ignored, for the most part, by the cautious American Federation of Labor. The Wobblies used songs (“Solidarity Forever”) and colorful slogans (“Get the Bosses Off Your Backs”) to spread their mass appeal.  It had an estimated 150,000 members in 1917 before its members were persecuted and its leaders jailed, deported or murdered during World War I and the Red Scare. Its spirit lived on, inspiring many New Leftists during the 1970s including David Ranney, who belonged to the socialist groups New American Movement and the Sojourner Truth Organization.

In 1976 David Ranney hired in at FAROC, a small job shop in East Chicago, Indiana, that rebuilt centrifuge machines, used in rendering plants processing carcasses of pigs, cows, and horses into solids and liquids converted to other uses. Ranney found the listing in the Daily Calumet and drove to the plant from South Chicago via the Chicago Skyway.  In “Living and Dying on the Factory Floor” Ranney recorded his first impressions:

    From the Skyway I can see miles of bungalow homes, smaller and larger factories, and two steel mills, all going full tilt. As I get near East Chicago the acrid smell of steel production gets even stronger than it is in South Chicago.  Smoke fills the air and visibility is limited.  Massive integrated steel mills, including Inland Steel and U.S. Steel Gary Works, run around the clock. One of the operations in these mills is burning coal to make a product called coke that burns hot enough to combine limestone and iron into steel.  There are also huge mills that use the raw steel to produce sheets, beams, tubes, and rails. Other factories nearby use steel to make blast furnaces and giant ladles that are needed for the steelmaking process. At one point, five steel mills in the area employed over one hundred thousand workers.

At FAROC, which employed between 15 and 20 workers, there were many hazards, caused in part by the fact that there never seemed to be adequate time to clean up after a job was finished. Ranney wrote: “There are pallets of parts and motors lying in the aisleways.  Tools are sitting around everywhere, and the place is filthy.”  Ranney is injured twice in five months, once in the hand while using a drill bit and then when he tripped over a small ball bearing on the slippery floor, opening a large gash in his head when he fell into a piece of metal on a pallet and necessitating a trip to the ER.  The following Monday the boss fired him. Ranney objected saying, “That’s illegal, you know – to fire a guy because he is hurt on the job?”  The boss responded, “I’m firing you because you are not worth a shit.  Sue me!”

Seeking work, Ranney learned that Inland Steel was hiring. Arriving at the plant, he joined a line estimated to be a mile long only to be told that the positions had been filled. Over the next six years he worked at another half-dozen small plants, sometimes terminated when companies learned of his leftist background, other times penalized for trying to bring together white, Latino, and black workers.  He discovered that in most cases the unions supposedly representing the labor force seemed in cahoots with management and a common theme at all the plants was, in his words, “exploitation of backbreaking and dangerous labor and the often unhealthy and unsafe working conditions.” In a concluding chapter Ranney reflected on lessons learned and beliefs reinforced by his years working as an industrial worker. Labor in a capitalist society, he believed, is reduced to a commodity, and progress for workers is the result of militant labor struggle.  The precipitous decline in American manufacturing job was the result of a corporate strategy to relocate overseas and to replace its work force with robots and computers who don’t demand decent wages or complain about health and safety concerns.

While at the University of Maryland, I played on a softball team composed of History grad students; we called ourselves the Wobblies in honor of our kindred labor activists.

During my three-year career as pitcher (it wasn’t slow pitch but no windmill deliveries were permitted) we were one of the best teams, the others being Physical Plant and Upward Bound, the latter composed of incoming African-American students.  One year I took teammates to Boys Village of Maryland, where I worked teaching kids ages 13-15 who were either delinquents or foster children who had run away from where they’d been sent.  Most weren’t bad kids, and they were impressed that my teammates had come to play ball with them and quite good at hitting up my friends for money and in one case his glove.

Soon after I started teaching at IUN, several students (Ivan Jasper, Dave Serynek, Tom Orr) asked me to pitch for their softball team, Porter Acres, named for a former motel where many of them lived, enjoying a counter-culture lifestyle that my family became part of, at least on weekends and after games. We weren’t very good at first but enjoyed one glorious championship season where we even won a tournament against more highly ranked A and B division squads.  The team disbanded after Ivan Jasper and Tom Wade moved to the Bahamas, but I still get together a least once a year with several old teammates and reminisce.  Phil and Dave were bat boys for Porter Acres, and a decade later while they were IU students Dave and his friend Kevin Horn started a team (it had various names depending on who’d sponsor us and pay for our shirts) and needed a reliable pitcher. In slow pitch softball control is the chief requisite and I hardly ever issued walks. One game I hit a line drive down the first base line.  The rightfielder dove for the ball but missed and it kept rolling and rolling.  I was chugging into third base intending to stop, but Dave, coaching third, waved me in.  A good throw would have nailed me, but the surprised second baseman who took the cutoff, heaved the ball over the catcher’s head. Voila, my lone career home run.

Our team often finished first during the regular season but faltered in post-season tournaments when rival teams often brought in ringers. In 1996, however, we won it all. In the semi-final we were clinging to a one-run lead in the bottom of the seventh when a batter hit a little nubber in front of the plate.  I was known for making throws to first underhand because I had a sore shoulder and better control than if I threw overhand.  Knowing that I’d have no chance to beat the runner underhand, I whipped the ball overhand and nailed the guy by a half-step.  My teammates couldn’t believe what I’d done.  In the final game we had a five-run lead after our final at-bats, but our opponents got four runs and had men on first and second with two out and a feared home run hitter, Jim Wilkie, at the plate (a ringer whom I knew from coaching Little League). Pitching him inside, I gave up two colossal foul balls, then pitched one with at least a 12-inch arc. Had he hot swung, it would have been called an illegal pitch, but Wilkie, fearful of taking strike 3, hit the highest fly ball I’d ever seen to short leftfield.  Kevin Horn camped under it, squeezed his glove around it, and we were champs.  I still have the t-shirt from Portage Park Department, inscribed in letters now fading, 1996 Imagination Glen Men’s Champions.

During this time former student and Porter Acres teammate Terry Hunt, a Vietnam vet, asked me and son Dave to play for a Glen Park Eagles team. Terry and I shared pitching duties and normally one of us would play second base when the other pitched.  One evening in the last inning Terry asked me to play first base, which I’d never done before.  I objected, and he insisted, claiming it was as easy as sitting in a rocking chair. With darkness fast approaching and two outs he fielded a grounder and threw to me.  I muffed the throw, putting the winning run on.  The next batter hit a grounder to our shortstop, who had a rifle of an arm.  His throw to me seemed like a speeding bullet, but miraculously it landed in my glove; otherwise it could have done serious harm to me.  Game over.  I told Terry never to ask me to play that position again. My teammates loved to party, but I rarely visited their clubhouse (“Aerie”) because so members smoked and it had a low roof. I occasionally still wear my “uniform,” a shirt with my nickname “Doc” on the back and the number 55, my age at the time.  Two years later, I retired after getting hit by two balls, a line drive at my ankle and a grounder that took a bad hop and got me in the face. With the mound just 15 yards from home plate and realizing my reaction time may have slowed down, I reluctantly gave up the sport that had given me so many cherished memories.

Empress of the Blues

“No time to marry, no time to settle down; I’m a young woman, and I ain’t done runnin’ around.”  Bessie Smith

The HBO movie “Bessie” about Blues legend Bessie Smith, starring Queen Latifah, was well worth watching, no matter that critics found it somewhat flawed.  From beginning to end we meet a character who refused to take crap from anyone and slept with whom she pleased, man or woman.  As she proclaimed in a 1923 recording, “Tain’t Nobody’s Bizness If I Do.”  At a party hosted by Harlem nightclub frequenter Carl Van Vechten (Oliver Platt), poet Langston Hughes (Jeremie Harris) warns Bessie to clean up her act for the occasion.  Instead she sings provocatively and throws a drink in Van Vechten’s face when he makes a reference to his book “Nigger Heaven.”  The supporting cast was brilliant, especially Mo’Nique, who captured Ma Rainey so thoroughly one longed for her to be in every scene.  At one point she tells Bessie the secret of singing the Blues: “It’s not about people knowing you.  It’s about you knowing people.”  My only quibble was the lack of mention at the movie’s conclusion of Smith bleeding to death in 1937 at age 43 from an auto accident.  Afterwards, record producer John Hammond circulated a false rumor that a white hospital had refused to treat her injuries.  Understandably, the producers and Queen Latifah chose not to portray Bessie as a victim but rather a proud master of her craft.

Because of Joanna Rakoff’s “My Salinger Year” I checked out “Franny and Zooey.”  The scene at Sickle’s Restaurant when Franny visits boyfriend Lane (I’d forgotten his name – wow) for a college football weekend blew me away.  Salinger brilliantly captured Eisenhower-era chauvinists – worried about appearances, caught up in one’s own ego and sexual desires, and clueless about the opposite sex.  Chain-smoking and drinking martinis, Franny opens up to Lane about her disillusionment with academic life and interest in spiritualism, telling him with perfect logic, “in the Nembutsu sects of Buddhism, people keep saying’ Namu Amida Butsu over and over again.”  Rather than feign interest, Lane retorted, “You’ve got a goddam bug, today – you know that?”  In exasperation Franny stared “at a little warm blotch of sunshine, about the size of a poker chip, on the tablecloth.”  What is so devastating is that Lane isn’t an especially bad guy – just bewildered at his girlfriend’s mood and so oblivious he wouldn’t have recognized the symbolism of the little warm blotch of sunshine if it shined directly in his eye.  

Paula Cooper, 45, died in Indianapolis, evidently a suicide victim.  Convicted of killing 78 year-old Ruth Pelke at age 15, she was on death row until pressure from opponents of capital punishment, including Pope John Paul II and Pelke’s grandson, resulted in action by Hoosier lawmakers (raising from 10 to 18 the age when criminals could be executed) and the Indiana Supreme Court (reducing her sentence after receiving petitions signed by 2 million people).  My first reaction to the news after the initial shock was to feel for Bill Pelke, a friend of mine who told reporters he was devastated and had hoped Paula would work with his group, Journey of Hope . . . From Violence to Healing, and become an example for those overcoming being abused as children.  Professor Warren W. Lewis, who taught Cooper while she pursued a degree in prison, said: “I knew her well, and I loved her.  She was practically a child, and she shouldn’t have been treated like an adult.”  While in time Cooper coped well with prison life, she was unsuccessful coping with the outside world.

above, Bill Pelke in 1987; below, Toni, Dave, Jimbo, Omar and Ivan

Saturday at Chesterton’s European Market I met three of my closest friends from the 1970s, Ivan Jasper, Omar Farag, and Dave Serynek – former students and Porter Acres softball teammates.  At the condo for lunch, we shared memories of wild and crazy times and characters from the past who enriched our lives.  All three looked great.  Serynek participates in bicycle rallies; Ivan is a golf pro in Florida; and Omar just returned from trips to Brazil (for Carnival) and Hawaii.  While Ivan was outside smoking and chatting with Toni, who was gardening, Serynek explained to Omar how to sign up for Social Security - harsh reality indeed.

Sunday I hung out at Porter Beach and visited Miller Market, where I purchased a delicious taco and said “hey” to IUN professor Eve Bottando, who was with a vendor selling homemade soap.   Suppose you are invited to a party but weren’t told it was the host’s birthday, Eve casually confided, then added: “How fortunate if you happened to have a bar of homemade soap with you.”  I complimented her on the seamless sales pitch of thought of NWI Times Business Marketing columnist Larry Galler, who identified two contrasting sales techniques: the dreaded “limpet”  (in zoology a snail with teeth to attach onto surfaces) who won’t leave customers alone and the politely persistent helper who respects potential buyers and creates a relationship that keeps the door open for further communication.  In the end I didn’t buy any soap but might later. 

Monday we dined at Bartlett’s and then played bridge with Hagelbergs. They had just returned from an overnight trip (eight hours each way but they’re pluggers) to southwestern Pennsylvania to tour Fallingwater, the unique summer home Frank Lloyd Wright built in 1935 for department store mogul Edgar Kaufman. Alissa was at Newark International Airport awaiting a flight to Dublin to join sister Miranda, who had been in Ireland with other Grand Valley State Social Work students on the historic day when by referendum over 62 percent of voters supported legalization of same sex marriage.  Son Phil and grandson James reported on their separate trips to Washington, D.C. 

above, Miranda Lane in Ireland; below, Phil Lane in D.C.

On Charles Osgood’s CBS Sunday Morning Laura Palmer, author of “Shrapnel in the Heart: Letters and Remembrances from the Vietnam Veterans Memorial,” discussed the often overlooked support able-bodied vets give their less fortunate brothers.  News coverage of Memorial Day ranged from parades in Crown Point and Portage to interviews with Battle of the Bulge survivors.  And this oddity: ancestors of a seaman aboard the USS Oklahoma killed at Pearl Harbor and buried with his comrades at Punchbowl crater in Honolulu who want his remains returned.

I’m not a true Hoosier because I missed “The Race,” the Indy 500, won by Juan Pablo Montoya.  Bowling buddies Melvin Nelson and Jim Migoski used to attend time trials every year, and Kirsten Bayer has continued the tradition with friends.  Tony Panepinto, on Phil and Dave’s Little League team 30 years ago, posed with good-looking women on each arm.

Wishing me a Happy Memorial Day, old friend Terry Jenkins passed along this joke:

  I was visiting my daughter last night when I asked if I could borrow a newspaper.

  “This is the 21st century,” she said.  “We don’t waste money on newspapers.  Here, use my iPad.”

  I can tell you this . . . that fly never knew what hit him!”

I managed to stay awake for two more unique overtime games in the epic series between the Blackhawks and Anaheim Ducks.  On Saturday Chicago led 3-1 before yielding three goals within the blink of an eye, before finally prevailing.  Monday they fell behind 3-0 before getting a single shot on net but two unbelievable Jonathan Toews goals in the final minute tied the game.  Then just 45 seconds into the extra period a miscue by Bryan Bickell cost them the game.

According to his student journal, Jeff Griggs is a huge Blackhawk fan and attended two games within a month. He wrote about spending a night in Chicago’s W Lakeshore Hotel with girlfriend Meagan (below):

  February 19: We left about 2:30 and took 80/94 to Lakeshore Drive, making the trip in less than 90 minutes.  At the hotel the staff greeted us like famous people rather than just a 21 year-old taking his girlfriend on a little vacation.  We took pictures of our room and the scenery from the window of Lake Michigan and Navy Pier.  It was like something out of a movie.  We put our stuff in proper places and before getting ready for dinner, we had to break in the room.  We went to the Cheesecake Factory, whose ceiling looked like it was made of a gold chocolate about to drip on us.  We stared at each other like it was our first date, and I fell even more in love with her.  We had an amazing meal that left no room for dessert but couldn’t leave without cheesecake so we ordered two pieces to go.  I had never gotten a check for two people so steep, but it was worth it.  Back at the hotel we relaxed and broke in the room some more.

  February 20: Our bed was the most comfortable thing ever.  I called for my car, and we were off to the Blackhawks Store. and then the Auto Show.  At our first stop was interactive software that allowed you to take a picture with your favorite Blackhawk.  I took like four, and Meagan bought a hoody.  At the Chicago Auto Show we couldn’t use her dad’s discount for parking so paid the full price and then grabbed some pricy food. In the exotic cars section I spotted my dream car, a Lamborghini Aventador.  Meagan got to sit in a Chevy Cruze.  We arrived home in time for my brother Alex’s birthday party.  We had gotten him a Marian Hossa shirt plus a hat I received at a recent Blackhawks game to the first ten thousand fans.

above, Albert Shane; below, Robert Parker

When overwhelmed by work, school, and life in general, Albert Shane tells himself to POR – push on regardless – a phrase learned from his mentor, Portage History teacher Robert Parker, as he explains in his journal:

March 1: My brother started Purdue Calumet intramural basketball with his fellow golf team buddies.  A notorious trash talker, he bragged that he’d rain threes and score 30 points. Needless to say, he struggled throughout and was held scoreless.  

March 5:  One of my closest friends is moving away.  We took one more trip to Taco Bell, as has become a tradition.  I am going to sorely miss my friend.

March 8: Game day once again for the “golf boys” at PUC.  After the first week, you would think my brother would be less cocky, but you would be wrong.  He would not stop jabbering about how well he was going to play, and that the last game was a fluke because he was nervous, and the opponents had better players. The team ended up losing by slaughter rule once again after falling 40 points behind. The opposition, mostly from East Chicago, looked like an NBA team compared to these guys.  Most were.  One guy ven played in high school; most all the others were on soccer teams. 

March 16: Spring Break has been a major disappointment.  The original plan was to go to Panama City Beach with four friends, but they all pulled out, so my Spring Break has consisted of studying and working.  A second cyst has formed on my wrist, causing serious pain to the point where I made a doctor’s appointment. 

March 26: I received new assignments in every single class.  This put a serious damper on my nightly plans.  I have to POR, however (an acronym of Portage teacher Robert Parker); it means push on regardless, as he used to say.  He is a big reason I am a History major.  He was very outspoken and never forgot a single name; he could pick you out of a crowd and call you by name.  Sadly, from what I heard, this is his final year. My dad and uncles had him, and my brother and I had him for an Advance Placement course.

April 2:  My baby cousin Bradley saw the Easter Bunny at Bass Pro Shop. The line was insane, almost circling the entire store.  It took nearly an hour and a half to get a couple pictures with a guy in a Bunny suit that I could have put on like the past two years.  The most work was keeping an eight month-old crying baby entertained. We pushed on regardless and ate at the Bass Pro Shop restaurant.