End of the Line

“Unions aren’t just about making more money.  It’s about having a seat at the table, having the ability to talk to your employer and be respected, having some dignity in work.” Dave Green, President of United Auto Workers Local 1112 

 UAW officers Dave Green and Michael Aurillo

An article in New York Times Sunday magazine asked, “What happens to a factory town when the factory shuts down?” Mahoning Valley, which encompasses the Youngstown area, suffered the loss of steel industry jobs a generation ago, now faces an even bleaker future.  Six months ago, General Motors head honcho Mary Barra announced that the corporation would “unallocate” its Lordstown, Ohio Chevrolet plant, thereby eliminating thousands of jobs – the term.  G.M. came up with the term “unallocated” in a blatant attempt to circumvent a union agreement forbidding plant closings during the life of the contract.  A state-of-the-art facility when built in 1966, with two dozen robot welders part of its assembly line, the plant has produced over 16 million Chevys – Impalas, Vegas, Sunbirds, Cavaliers, and since 2011, 2 million Chevy Cruzes.  In 1972, when workers had considerably more leverage, employees staged successful wildcat strikes over a three-week period to protest speed-ups that would have resulted in worker exhaustion and job eliminations.  Despite a multi-billion-dollar bailout a decade ago, generous UAW givebacks in 2017, and the facility generating a healthy profit, G.M. decided to focus domestic production on S.U.V.s and trucks rather than sedans.  Dan Kaufman wrote: “The last Cruze came off the line on March 6, two days ahead of schedule. It had come to symbolize much more than a car.  It was a token of the most coveted working-class possession: a secure, well-paying job with health insurance and a pension.”  G.M. recently sold the Lordstown plant to Workhorse Group, maker of electric vehicles and drones, whose present work force numbers less than one hundred. 

Rohinton Mistry’s historical novel “A Fine Balance” takes place in India during the time of “The Emergency” when Prime Minister Indira Gandhi ruled by decree, using the pretext of internal subversion to curb civil liberties and imprisoning political opponents. Asked to explain its meaning to tailors whom she has recently hired, widow Dina Dalal says, “Government problems – games played by people in power.  It doesn’t affect ordinary people like us.”

 Jesus Nazareth Fajardo; Times photo by John J. Watkins

Speaking at IUN’s commencement, held at Gary Genesis Center, was Jesus Nazareth Fajardo.  A decade ago at age 12, Fajardo moved with his family to the Chicago area knowing “not one drop of English.”Now with plans to attend medical school, he told classmates, friends, and loved ones: “Although we may come from different places and speak in different languages, it is our differences that make us special, that make us strong.”  NWI Timesreporter Carley Lanich wrote: “In his native language Nazareth Fajardo paused during his commencement address to thank his family.  He emphasized the importance of those who supported him throughout his studies.”  Chancellor Bill Lowe cited the accomplishments of three nontraditional students (half the graduating class being at least 26 years old), including Paulina Ugalde, who emigrated from Mexico less than three years ago.  IU President Michael McRobbie praised recently deceased Gary football star George Taliaferro, who when a student at Bloomington was unable to eat in the cafeteria or live in a dorm but became a respected professor and administrator in Bloomington, as an example of one who overcame formidable obstacles and became an inspiration to those who followed on his shoulders.

After playing a role in Gary mayor Karen Freeman-Wilson’s defeat at the hands of Lake County politician Jerome Prince, NWI Times editorial writer Marc Chase piled on in a column heralding what he termed a “spring awakening.”  Chase brought up Freeman-Wilson’s election as President of the National League of Cities and claimed that she “at times seemed more concerned with a national profile . . . than with her city’s struggle.”  Hogwash!

Two legendary performers are dead, Norma “Queen of Swing” Miller, 99, and Doris Day, 97, who transitioned from Big Band “siren” to wholesome star in such films as “Calamity Jane” (1953) and “Pillow Talk” (1959).  Growing up in Harlem, Miller was a member of the Lindy Hoppers and starred in stage shows starring Redd Foxx and Sammy Davis, Jr., among others.  In her later years Doris Day became an outspoken animal rights activist.

Raptor Kawhi Leonard and Robert Smith of the Cure

Over the weekend the Cubs took two of three from Milwaukee, thanks in part to Wilson Contreras’s fifteenth inning walk-off home run. In the NBA playoffs the 76ers lost the seventh game finalewith Toronto:  Kawhi Leonard ( sank a last-second shot that bounced four times on the rim before falling through the net – as one writer put it, “Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Swish!”  It reminded me of the sound (“Doink, doink”) of the missed field goal that cost the Bears a playoff victory.  The 2019 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction program aired on HBO.  Highlights were performances by Stevie Nicks and The Cure.  Robert Smith looked like an ancient goth but shined during a five-song set that included favorites “Shake Dog Shake,” “Just Like Heaven,” and “Boys Don’t Cry.”

   

works by Mary Cassatt and Marison Escobar

Bridge buddy Marcia Carson was Monday’s Art in Focus speaker at Munster Center for the Arts.  It being the first decent day in a week, husband Jim was on the golf course.  After director Micah Bornstein brought up the current gallery exhibit featuring birds, Marica mentioned that a downy woodpecker has been waking Jim and her up by tapping on an aluminum gutter outside their bedroom – evidently a mating ritual.   A Hammond teacher for 39 years, Marcia showed examples of “Mothers and Children in Art” (the title of her talk) from ancient Egypt and the Renaissance (i.e., Michelangelo’s “Pieta”) to modern Impressionists (Mary Cassatt’s “The Child’s Bath”) and photographers (Dorothea Lange’s “Migrant Mother”).  The most fascinating piece was “Mi Mama y yo” by French sculptor of Venezuelan ancestry Marisol Escobar (1930-2016), whose mother committed suicide when she was 11.  A child is shielding her mother with an umbrella full of holes.  I hadn’t heard of Escobar but was familiar with her haunting statue of Father Damien, minister to a leper colony, located at the entrance to the State House in Honolulu, Hawaii.

photo by Nicki Seibold

High school classmate Dave Seibold replied to my sending him the latest Shavings,which contained a photo of him in Africa with a Massai chief.  He noted that the guy had three wives, each with her own hut that she built herself.  He recalled playing basketball on our garage court in Fort Washington after he was old enough to drive, his home being on the other end of Upper Dublin Township. We and Eddie Piszek were on a Babe Ruth baseball team coached by Ron Hawthorne’s father (Eddie liked to call him Mr. Haw-the-Haw).  Ronnie was our shortstop.  In a game with Dave playing first base and me at second, he fielded a swinging bunt and tossed a perfect throw to me covering first.  In the dusk I never saw it.  The umpires immediately called the game on account of darkness, with our team ahead and thus victorious.  Not long afterwards, an eye doctor determined that I needed glasses.  When my pair arrived, I admired blades of grass that heretofore were just a green blur.

At Gino’s in Merrillville for book club, I ran into old softball buddies Dave Serynek and Rocky Fraire at the bar while talking to Louis Gerodemos, owner of the Paragon Restaurant in Hobart and father of Jimmy, Gino’s manager.  Presenter Ken Anderson was speaking on a subject book to his heart, Richard Striner’s “Father Abraham,” written as a rebuttal to revisionist historians who claimed our sixteenth president was a white supremacist and a reluctant emancipator.  Ken pointed out that Lincoln’s moral opposition to slavery was unwavering but, a practical politician his views regarding Presidential power evolved, especially during wartime.  The end of the line for Lincoln came on Good Friday, 1865, just as the bloody Civil war was ending.  I pointed out the importance of Lincoln’s relationship with black abolitionist Frederick Douglass, who eulogized Lincoln as “emphatically the black man’s president, the first to show any respect for their rights as men.”  I read this 1876 assessment by Douglass: “Viewed from genuine abolition ground, Mr. Lincoln seemed tardy, cold, dull and indifferent; but measuring him by the sentiment of the country, a sentiment he was bound as a statesman to consult, he was swift, zealous, radical, and determined.” 

Harold Johnson in 2015; Times photo by John J. Watkins

The Post-Tribune profiled 97-year-old veteran Harold Johnson as he prepared to embark on a legacy tour of World War II sites in connection with the seventy-fifth anniversary of D-Day. An army paratrooper who enlisted at age 20, Johnson participated in a half dozen battles and received two Purple Hearts.  Just 20 years my senior, I can hardly imagine what Johnson went through – or, for that matter, what my contemporaries endured in Vietnam at an even younger age.  A couple years ago in Rochester, NY, I witnessed veterans de-planing from a legacy flight that had taken them to the nation’s capital for a tour of war memorials.  It was a moving sight; some rose from wheelchairs and others merely saluted when greeted upon arriving inside the airport terminal.

The Signal

“Why do you have to go

The night is still young yet.”

         “Why Do You Have to Go,” The Dells

In the final scene of “The Signal: A Doo Wop Rhapsody” Henry Farag describes returning to the concrete hallway of Marquette Park Bathhouse in Miller, one of his teenage haunts, recently refurbished as the Gary Aquatorium.  He suddenly breaks out singing “Why Do You Have to Go,” a Dells hit on Vee-Jay Records that became a staple in live performances by several Fifties doo wop groups, including the El Dorados. It was Vivian Carter’s WWCA radio show “Livin’ with Vivian” that introduced 11 year-old Farag to the music he loves and performs to this day.  Henry ends his autobiography with these words:

  The reverberation was still there in full force and – something I didn’t remember – the echo actually rings off the walls like a bell.  It rings.  It’s magic.

 Stormy Weather, Henry Farag second from right

Because I had over an hour for my presentation, I could play more music than when I talked to a similar group at Valparaiso University.  I attributed Vee-Jay’s decline both to self-inflicted financial mismanagement and racist practices by the Internal Revenue Service, which commonly targeted successful black performers and entrepreneurs.  Also the hits came less frequently due to the mid-Sixties British invasion, the ever changing musical tastes of young people, and competition from labels like Motown for a shrinking share of the market.  Someone asked where artists such as Pookie Hudson and Jerry Butler got their training.  I mentioned church choirs and school choruses and that many groups on their own started harmonizing “under the street lamp” (as the saying goes), first imitating songs heard on the radio and then developing, in the case of the best, their own unique sound.  It became a cool thing to do and a way to attract girls.

After the program came a tour of the South Shore Arts gallery exhibit “Motown vs. Chi-Town: The Indiana Connection.”  Curated by Stefanie Mielke of the Chicago Blues Museum, it devotes much space to Vee-Jay artists such as the Spaniels, Jimmy Reed, the Dells, El Dorados, and Gene Chandler.  On the way I noticed a number of seniors lined up at the theater box office to buy tickets for “The Signal: A Doo Wop Musical.”  South Shore Arts education director Jillian Van Volkenburgh asked me to return next year. I might talk about popular culture in 1957, covering music, movies, sports, fads, and celebrities in the news 60 years ago.

Gregg Parker

A day later I returned with Toni to the Munster Center for John Cain’s 23rd annual “Holiday Reading,” preceded by a gallery reception at which wine was flowing.  Introducing himself at the “Motown vs. Chi-Town exhibit was Chicago Blues Museum founder and CEO Gregg Parker, a musician in his own right, who has played with a host of entertainers going back to Jimi Hendrix and Stevie Wonder. At the IU Northwest table for lunch in a ballroom where some 20 years ago we attended Tony Panepinto’s wedding reception I sat next to Michelle Dickerson, who recently took over for retiring Director of Finance Marianne Milich.  Michelle grew up three blocks from campus, graduating from Gary Lew Wallace and then Purdue.  Her mother still lives in the same Glen Park residence.  Michelle joked that she’ll probably gain ten pounds from her home cooking.  George Van Til stopped by our table to say hello; a “Holiday Reading” regular, he told Cain he was sorry he couldn’t attend last year’s event.

Michelle Dickerson; photo by Erika Rose

John Cain

Before reciting the ribald “Why I Love Christmas” from “Crackpot: The Obsessions of John Waters” (2003), Cain got laughs from the crowd of 300 reading an email decrying “Hairspray” director Waters as a purveyor of smut. Then, noting that his favorite writer is Truman Capote (whom he resembles), John mentioned coming across an online auction of Capote memorabilia, including a small box allegedly containing some (not all) of the author’s ashes and a collection of the author’s pill containers.  Both went for thousands of dollars.  Cain was tempted to bid on a hat that eventually sold for nearly a thousand dollars but didn’t think it would fit because the size was listed as a small.

Asking Karren Lee to stand, Cain announced that it was she who suggested he read the Waters selection that originally appeared in his book “Crackpot” and to blame her if disappointed or outraged.  On screen he played “Santa Is a Black Man,” supposedly Waters’ favorite Christmas carol, even better than The Chipmunks’ Christmas Album, the Barking Dogs’ “Jingle Bells” and "Frosty the Snowman" by the Ronettes.   He is how “Why I Love Christmas” ends:

            I always have an "office party" every year and invite my old friends, business associates and any snappy criminals who have been recently paroled. I reinforce all my chairs, since for some reason many of my guests are very fat, and after a few splintered antiques, I've learned my lesson. I used to throw the party on Christmas Eve, but so many guests complained of hideous hangovers I had to move up the date. No more moaning and dry heaving under their parents' tree the next day as their brothers and sisters give them dirty looks for prematurely ejaculating the Christmas spirit.

I usually invite about a hundred people and the guests know I expect each to get everyone else a present. Ten thousand gifts! When they're ripped open at midnight, you can see Christmas dementia at its height. One thing that pushes me off the deep end is party crashers. I've solved the problem by hiring a door man who pistol-whips anyone without an invitation, but in the old days, crashers actually got inside. How rude! At Christmas, of all times, when visions of sugarplums are dancing orgiastically through my head. One even brought her mother—how touching. "GET OUT!" I snarled after snatching out of her hand the bottle of liquor that she falsely assumed would gain her (and her goddamn mother) entry.

Happiness and good cheer should be throbbing in your veins. Swilling eggnog, scarfing turkey and wildly ripping open presents with your family, one must pause to savor the feeling of inner peace. Once it's over, you can fall apart.

Now is the time for suicide if you are so inclined. All sorts of neuroses are permitted. Depression and feelings that it somehow wasn't good enough would be expected. There's nothing to do! Go to a bad movie? You can't leave the house between now and January 1 because it's unsafe; the national highways are filled with drunks unwinding and frantically trying to get away from their families. Returning gifts is not only rude but psychologically dangerous—if you're not careful you might glimpse the scum of the earth, cheap bastards who shop at after-Christmas sales to save a few bucks. What can you look forward to? January 1, the Feat of the Circumcision, perhaps the most unappetizing High Holiday in the Catholic Church? Cleaning up that dirty, dead, expensive Christmas tree that is now an instant out-of-season fire hazard? There is only one escape from post-Christmas depression—the thought that in four short weeks it's time to start all over again. What're ya gonna get me?

At Gino’s during a History book club discussion about an article ranking America’s presidents Ken Anderson noted that the top trio – George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Franklin D. Roosevelt – were in office during times of great peril and speculated that FDR might not be so iconic had it not been for World War II.  Rich Miroc praised strong chief executives Andrew Jackson and Harry S Truman.  Brian Barnes believed Woodrow Wilson, a segregationist, did not deserve to be in the top ten.  Me, too.  Ditto Ronald Reagan, who, like U.S. Grant and Warren G. Harding, was asleep at the wheel in terms of tolerating corruption by cabinet members.  As one who believed that government is the problem, not the solution, Reagan appointed Interior Secretary James Watt and HUD Secretary Samuel Pierce, neither of whom believed in their agencies’ mission.

At the very bottom of the list was James Buchanan (my great-great-great uncle).  Not far behind were Buchanan’s predecessors Millard Fillmore and Franklin Pierce.  Most historians criticize their efforts to preserve the union by appeasing the South.  While the strategy failed, war was probably inevitable at a cost more than a half-million lives.  Buchanan also gets blamed for not taking a strong stand when states began seceding following Lincoln’s election.  He was by then, however, a lame duck with an unprepared army commanded largely by Southerners.  Precipitous action would have caused Maryland to secede, leaving Washington, D.C., surrounded by slave states and indefensible.  By evenings end there was general consensus that Andrew Johnson, Lincoln’s successor, was our worst president.

Chesterton Y duplicate bridge director Alan Yngve asked if I’d be an emergency substitute since Charlie Halberstadt’s regular partner is on her way back from Australia.  He’d call me at the last minute if needed to fill up a table since I lived nearby.  I was flattered but declined; by 6:45 I’m in for the night unless aware in advance that I’d be going out and thus able to get in a nap. Alan’s lesson, utilizing a hand from the previous week, involved what to bid with a strong hand containing five spades after an opponent opens one heart.  Claiming that a spade overcall would be too weak, he suggested a take-out double.  The partner had five clubs led by the Ace-King and four little spades, and Alan suggested a spade response.  The contract ended in spades.  I suggested that a 2-club bid would have been a better choice so the one with the stronger hand could be the declarer.  When Alan stuck to the spade response, I said, “Well, maybe you’re right.”  Everyone laughed.  Realizing it looked like I was second-guessing the expert, I quickly backtracked, saying, “I’m sure you’re right.”

David Parnell’s students discussed Jean de Joinville’s “Life of Saint Louis.”  The French King Louis IX (1214-1270) embarked on the Seventh Crusade after recovering from a life-threatening disease.  After capturing the city of Damietta, his army was routed at Al Mansurah.  Louis was taken prisoner shortly thereafter and released in exchange for a huge ransom.  Two decades later, Louis landed troops in Tunis but succumbed to dysentery, bringing an end to crusading in North Africa and the Holy Land.  David asked the class to guess where a statue of St. Louis was located.  The answer: St. Louis, Missouri.   

In an essay entitled “A Team of Amateurs” Ray Smock wrote that the angst over the impending Trump Administration is palpable.  He added:

            It is not just Democrats who are the Nervous Nellies but many Republicans as well. The transition is unsettling because Donald Trump is a complete political novice with no government experience whatsoever. During the campaign the Democrats talked about this and about his lack of temperament. These are real concerns for sure. But it is Trump’s complete and utter lack of what to do that is most troubling. So far the people around him are just as clueless. He is getting off on the wrong foot from day one because he doesn’t know what he is doing.

Working on a New York Times puzzle, Toni asked if I knew who had been nicknamed “The Kansas Flash.”  Easy: former Chicago Bears Hall of Fame running back Gale Sayers.  Next she needed the location of Teddy Roosevelt’s Long Island home. The last letter being “y.”  Voila: Oyster Bay.

IUN’s History Club has scheduled a “Weird History” event in December.  I’ll bring up that Abraham Lincoln is in the Wrestling Hall of Fame.  He won 300 matches and lost only once, in 1832 to Hank Thompson, a fellow Illinois Volunteer during the Black Hawk uprising, in a battle for the regimental championship. According to Carl Sandburg, the six-foot, four-inch grappler once dispatched an opponent and then taunted onlookers with this boast: “I’m the big buck of this lick.  If any of you want to try it, come and whet your horns.”