Hostilities

“The nicest veterans, the kindest and funniest ones, the ones who hated war the most, were the ones who’d really fought.” Kurt Vonnegut, “Slaughterhouse Five”

 Peter Sellers as Dr. Strangelove

Even though I already knew the doomsday ending of “Cat’s Cradle” (1963) by Kurt Vonnegut, it still moved me deeply.  As one who personally witnessed the horrors of war, the author brought out the absurdity of the Cold War arms race in ways that hadn’t moved me so deeply since the black comedy “Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb” (1964).  During a Memorial Day ceremony Vonnegut has Ambassador Horlick Minton deliver this devastating critique of glorifying warfare:

 Perhaps when we remember wars, we should take off all our clothes and paint ourselves blue and go down on all fours all day long and grunt like pigs.  That would surely be more appropriate than noble oratory and shows of flags and well-oiled guns.

Battle of Missionary Ridge, chromolithograph by Kurtz and Allison

Minton then recited these lines from “Spoon River Anthology” by Edgar Lee Masters, written in 1915 on the eve of American entry into the Great War: 

 I was the first fruits of the battle of Missionary Ridge

When I felt the bullet enter my heart

I wished I had stayed at home . . .

Instead of running away and joining the army.

The 1863 Battle of Missionary Ridge near Chattanooga was a Union victory at a cost to General U.S. Grant’s army of 6,000 casualties.

I’m listening to a greatest hits CD by Jackson Browne, whom I saw twice at the Star Plaza, that includes “Lives in the Balance,” about “men in the shadows” selling us everything from our President to our wars. “Lives in the Balance” was released when Reagan was flirting with intervening to overthrow the socialist regime in Nicaragua.  When I spoke at a history conference in Rio about women steelworkers, I played a video of Browne performing it at a 1990 concert in Santiago, Chile.  The final lines go:

And there are lives in the balance
There are people under fire
There are children at the cannons
And there is blood on the wire

Our bridge group dined at Captain’s House and then played at the Hagelbergs, who had purchased a delicious carrot cake from the Miller eatery.  I had a mediocre score but helped Toni edge out Brian Barnes to finish first.  Going into the final round, she trailed him by about 500 points.  After two hands he and Connie were up a game, but then we made two game bids to overtake them; first Toni made 4 Spades and on the final hand I bid three No-Trump and then took every trick thanks to two successful finesses and a 2-2 split with the four Diamonds in opponents’ hands. Like me, Brian and Connie had loved “Green Book.”  Noting that pianist Don Shirley should have known better than to flash a wad in a bar, Brian said that when working in Chicago for Sears, he always carried a wad.  Then if mugged, he could easily hand it over and hopefully then be left unhurt with his wallet.

I watched IU, led by Jawun Morgan (above), defeat Rutgers on Senior Day to clinch a bye in the upcoming Big Ten tournament.  Then, after running out for a cold cut Subway on an Italian roll, I enjoyed a 76ers win over Indianapolis thanks to 33 points by MVP candidate Joel Embiid.  Phil called to report on attending a week-end Comedy Fest with Delia, Alissa, Tori, and Anthony.  They had fun although unable to get tickets to 87 year-old Ed Asner’s one-man show, “A Man and His Prostate.”  In April Asner is coming to Memorial Opera House in Valpo.  I told Phil about being at Marquette Pavilion for Asner’s one-man show about FDR when he collapsed on stage and had to be removed on a stretcher.  A couple months later, he returned to Miller and fulfilled his vow to put on the show.

Former IUN professor Mike Certa returned from a cruise that included a stay in Hong Kong and just started “A Jazz Age Murder in Lake County” by Jane Simon Ammeson and noticed my name in the acknowledgment section as well as Ron Cohen’s and Steve McShane’s.  He emailed:

  So far, the first chapter is full of local references that I recognize in East Chicago, Indiana Harbor, and Gary.  The fatally injured woman in the book was taken to Mercy Hospital on Polk Street that I passed every school day for four years while attending Holy Angels Elementary School (fourth to eighth grades).  There are also references to St. Catherine’s Hospital in East Chicago where I was born.

  This seems to be my month for running across places from my youth.  At a recent political gathering in Crown Point I met an elderly gentleman named Frank, who lived in a house on Magoon Avenue in East Chicago (near the Four Corners) just across the street from Dr. Benchik’s office.  Dr. Benchik delivered me and my six siblings.  My mother insisted on him being our family doctor for years even though it meant trundling over to East Chicago from Gary.  His waiting room had the hardest wooden benches and the scratchiest horse-hair covered chairs I’ve ever endured.  However, we all liked him.  We went to him until he finally retired.  Frank knew the doctor and shared our high opinion of him.

After I told him about spending a month in Hong Kong a quarter-century ago, Certa replied:

  We were only in Hong Kong a couple of days at the end of our trip.  We stayed at the Intercontinental Hotel in Kowloon.  They have a really good dim sum restaurant in the hotel.  The day we had lunch there, we were the only non-Asians in the place, which we took to be a good sign.  The walnut encrusted mud fish balls were very good. Oddly enough, the people at the hotel didn’t seem to speak much English, and the concierges they didn’t seem to know much about attractions in the area.  We had much better luck on the street and in the subway stations.  There always seemed to be someone who noticed us and asked if they could be of assistance.  I’m thinking particularly of the day we took the subway, and a local bus to find the Walled City Park in Kowloon.  It was an English fort, then it became a slum containing about 15,000 people.  The city razed the slum and created a lovely park that houses some of the more historic buildings. We wandered around the park for 90 minutes or so.

While lecturing in Hong Kong at Chinese University, I visited that park by subway.  Numerous groups of well-behaved youngsters were walking in step behind an adults holding different colored flags.  I told Mikethat I may be attending a history conference in Singapore and asked how he like it, eliciting this response:

  Because I was still trying to shake the effects of bronchitis, I stayed in the hotel while Mary went with our tour group on the Singapore city tour.  They all came back raving about the phenomenal botanical gardens that line the river.  They talked about the amazing orchids they saw.  Evidently being 1 degree (85 miles) above the equator is a good climate for orchids. 

  As I was feeling better that evening, I booked what was called the “Night Safari” at the Singapore Zoo.  We were bused to the Zoo where we started with a very nice buffet. By the time we finished dinner it was dark.  You can do the tour two ways:  ride the tram or walk the trails at your own pace.  We took the tram.  Animals that tend to be nocturnal are in enclosures fairly close to the road bathed in a low intensity blue light.  They show up amazingly well.  The enclosures are quite big, and sometimes the animals had wandered off to the far corners.  I’d say we saw about 85% of the animals on the tour.  Near the end of the tram ride, we discovered a third option:  you can get off the tram and walk along the trail on your own.  We did this in an area where there were smaller animals.  We got to see the very rare pangolin (an Asian armadillo-like animal).  I thought it was an interesting experience.

 Kirk Muskrat and Winston Choi triptech

Maestro Kirk Maestro brought guest pianist Winston Choi with him to the Munster Center for his “Art in Focus” talk on “The Keys to France,” the title of the upcoming Northwest Indiana Symphony Orchestra performance.  Personable and entertaining as always, Muspratt wore a Number 88 Jonathan Kane Chicago Blackhawks sweater, as he was attending an ice hockey game at the United Center that evening as a symphony fundraiser. He spoke about French composers Camille Saint-Seans (1835-1921), whose specialty was organ music, and Maurice Ravel (1875-1937), best known for Bolero, a ballet that opens with a seductive 16-minute flamenco piece.  While dimming the lights for a clip showing the inside of Ravel’s home, Kirk briefly put a hand on my shoulder, either recognizing me from his 2018 presentation, thankful for asking him about Ravel’s private life (a bachelor, he lived alone except for a housekeeper), or perhaps  familiar with my blog.

Camille Saint-Seans and Maurice Ravel

Someone asked Muspratt about the Chicago musicians’ strike in progress, and expressed sympathy after mentioning that starting salaries were around $150,000.  The main disagreement involved cuts to the pension program. Another woman referenced the universally panned movie Bolero (1984) starring Bo Derek as a wealthy virgin looking to be de-flowered who becomes a matador after her lover gets gored.  Pointing out the steamy nude sex scenes, movie critic Roger Ebert wrote: “There are two Good Parts, not counting her naked ride on horseback, which was the only scene that had me wondering how she did it.” I checked out those Good Parts on YouTube and was amazed “Bolero” did not get an X rating.  Derek definitely deserved the 10 in the 1979 film of that name.

Young virtuoso Winston Choi, who teaches at Roosevelt University and, like Kirk, is a Canadian native, played bits of several Saint-Seans numbers and ended with a rousing crescendo by Russian composer Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953). In the front row near the Baldwin piano, I noticed that instead of sheet music, Choi made use of a computer and a floor device that changed pages upon his command.  According to Muspratt, Prokofiev had the misfortune of living in the age of Joseph Stalin.  In 1948 the Politburo denounced him for the crime of “formalism” and banned most of his compositions.  His wife was found guilty of espionage and sentenced to 20 hears of hard labor in a Soviet gulag. Prokofiev died on the same day as Stalin.  Afterwards, I asked Choi the spelling of Saint-Seans, which he had pronounced like Sasson.  Rather than view it as a dumb question, he was very solicitous, even showing it written down.

Kirsten and Ed Petras; Night Ranger

Kirsten Bayer emailed: “It’s gonna be a great day when you park at work the moment Sister Christian comes on the radio. Hold please work while I enjoy.”  I responded: “I love Night Ranger and wore out my “Midnight Madness” album in the 80s. Had a similar car moment when "The Beat Goes On/Switchin' to Glide" by the Kings came on.”  “Sister Christian” lyrics include these lines 

Sister Christian . . .

You know those boys 
Don't want to play no more with you 
It's true

You're motoring 
What's your price for flight

When Phil and Dave were in high school, we showed up at a Jack Bloom end-of-the-semester party with “Midnight Madness,” which opens with “You Can Still Rock in America,” and had the back room hopping and people up dancing.  A YouTube video of “Sister Christian” that has received almost 18 million hits opens with girls receiving diplomas and concludes with scenes of them commingling with the long-haired San Francisco band.

Wheatland

“I go where I please

Down the road

A man I know

Might not be me.”

    “Fault Lines,” Tom Petty

 Wheatland, home of President James Buchanan

On the day before our trip east we had brunch with 14 Bayers and Mike Applehans (Ken’s son) at Round the Clock in Chesterton.  Mike was an IUN Math adjunct for several years and got rave reviews.  The department chair encouraged him to apply for a full-time lectureship; after another got the job, he learned that a decision had already been made and they just needed his candidacy in order to comply with regulations.  IUN really blew it, not for the first time.  Now he teaches at IVY Tech for a pittance and has to scramble just to survive financially.  A truly caring chip off the old block, Mike is upset tutoring service is no longer available to his students. He sent some to IUN, but now my university checks IDs.

 Kirsten Bayer selfie with Jimbo

Monday we drove as far as western Pennsylvania, stopping at a Holiday Inn that offered free chicken noodle soup plus pretzels, ice cream bars, popcorn, and 25-cent drinks during Happy Hour, just what we needed.  I swam laps (or rather widths) the first of six days in a row.  Tuesday we exited Route 80 at Lewisburg, and I toured the Bucknell campus (“The Friendly 300” acres) for the first time since I graduated 50 years ago.  Driving around, nothing looked familiar, but once I spotted the library and took off on foot old buildings fell into place, including my freshman dorm, Delta Upsilon, and Coleman Hall, where I had most of my classes.

Wednesday Kyle DeLeon, dad Bob, and 14 month old daughter Serena visited us at the Fort Washington Holiday Inn, whose staff was very friendly.  We had arrived in the early afternoon just as the audiotape of Richard Russo’s “That Old Cape Magic” concluded satisfactorily.  Barely able to walk in March, Serena was now scooting around and charmed us with her smile and antics.  Having had steak sandwiches earlier at Giuseppe’s, I limited myself to a burger at the hotel sports bar.  In Indiana we wouldn’t have been able to take anyone under 21 in such a place.  I ordered Yuengling on draft; the fruits of Pennsylvania’s oldest brewery are unavailable in Indiana.

Jimbo in front of boyhood home; photo by Toni Lane

Thursday Terry and Gayle Jenkins took us to Los Serapes on Horsham Road in Ambler.  The fajitas were delicious and cost just 8 bucks.  Afterwards Terry drove through our old neighborhood.  Fort Washington School recently got torn down, but my old house looked better than last visit although I noticed that the Japanese cherry tree is no more.  Old friend Chris Koch on Elliger Avenue wasn’t home, but a workman promised to give him a note about the gathering of Upper Dublin grads at Giuseppe’s.

At Giuseppe’s bar I learned that rather than ask for Yuengling, one just orders “a lager.”  Fourteen old classmates and three spouses gathered for food, drink, and good cheer, including recently remarried Jimmy Coombs and Pat Zollo, in Florida last March.  Zollo mentioned that junior high teacher Mr. Bekmezian spotted him chairing a town board meeting and, flashing his trademark scowl, quipped that he’d have sooner expected to find him in jail.  When Zollo called him Mr. Beck, he was told, “It’s Bekmezian.”  At school social functions he always came with exotic Miss Polsky, at least 20 years younger and six inches taller than he.  I embellished a couple Mr. Bek anecdotes from when I was center (and Coombs quarterback) on Bek’s hundred-pound football team. 

Bettie Ehrhardt reported that Bruce Allen had died the day before, stunning news since he was in apparent good health.  We cried and laughed, observed a minute of silence, and told stories about one of the truly good guys, friends with everyone who knew him.  Unlike last time, when the three hours flew by, I found time to talk at length with Eleanor Smith Bruno, Donald Stroup, and Wayne Wylie.  This time he didn’t tease me about hugging everyone.  I even kissed Connie Heard and Donald Stroup’s wife, thinking she was Joan Eitelgeorge.

We were delighted with the rooms at Cherry Lane Motor Inn (located in Ronks, PA), costing less than $80 a night.  From previous phone calls, I thought the owned was Amish, but he turned out to be from India.  We had a flat screen TV, air conditioning, and other amenities, plus there was a nice pool outside whose deep end was nine feet, probably because it once had a diving board before lawsuits made them obsolete.  Of the 50 or so relatives gathering for a Lane reunion, cousin Phil and wife Angie, traveling from California in an RV, were the only ones save for cousin Sue that I knew even slightly.  Phil and Dave’s families arrived around nine from Hershey Amusement Park, by which time I was good buddies with twin cousins Rich and Vic, both good Democrats, one a steelworker, the other retired from the coast guard.  Except for our contingent, everyone else was related to my Uncle Tom.  Vic, the family genealogist, told me that my paternal grandfather, who lost his car dealership during the Great Depression, was $100,000 in debt because he was a co-signer for owners who went bankrupt but that he managed to pay off his creditors.  I had assumed Uncle Jim left home then but, born in 1906, he went to California earlier for other reasons.

James Buchanan Lane IV and V pose with namesake

Saturday we gathered at Wheatland, the preserved estate of fifteenth president James Buchanan, my great-great-great uncle.  Posing for an old-fashioned group portrait, we had to remain motionless for 15 seconds.  Joining us was John Hopkins, whose father Dick died a few years ago and whose uncle Jack strangely disappeared a number of years before that. After pizza groups toured Wheatland (my third time there and now air-conditioned).  Our guide Ryan, a former elementary school teacher, deftly answered the young folks’ many questions.  They were fascinated by the fact that there were no bathrooms, just chamber pots and two five-seat privies outdoors.  I learned about the history of Wheatland, constructed by William Jenkins in 1828 on 233 acres of property called “The Wheatlands.”  Jenkins sold the house to William M. Meredith and Buchanan purchased it in 1848 when James K. Polk’s Secretary of State.  Two nephews, including James Buchanan “Buck” Henry, served as Buchanan’s White House chief of staff.  Indispensable housekeeper Esther “Miss Hetty” Parker had quarters near the master bedroom.  Buchanan died there in 1868, and Harriet sold Wheatland in 1884. 

Phil was curious about whether Buchanan was gay; rather than deny it two park service guides were noncommittal.  One suggested he might have been asexual; he almost married late in life until relatives talked him out of it, fearful of losing their inheritance.  The last item on the agenda was a 20-minute talk and show-and tell about Buchanan’s niece, First Lady Harriet Lane.

Cousin Sue arranged a sumptuous buffet at a restaurant in Bird in Hand, PA, not far from the town of Intercourse.  On the way we passed Amish folks in horse-drawn buggies, a common sight.  Rick and Colleen’s six kids were quite smitten by Victoria, who had played with them in the pool that afternoon, and they were vying to sit on her lap.  The oldest had orange hair, and the others emulated him.  After dinner great-niece Alyssa Yoshitake, who spent a month at IU School of Music summer camp, played the viola expertly, followed by Becca wowing the crowd with a song.  At the motel nephew Chuck Lane(with glass, next to parents), who performs in Vegas, did clever magic tricks. 

Next morning Rick Lane's sons knocked on the door of Phil’s family, looking for Victoria, and got her to play soccer with them.  I was so proud of my 14 year-old granddaughter tears came to my eyes.  The kids were very disappointed that Tori wasn’t going on with them to Pittsburgh.

Anthony and Victoria Lane

Sunday Dave left for home early due to meetings the next day.  Phil’s family went zip lining, and we drove with Angie and the kids to Beamer and Kim Pickert’s in Emmitsburg, MD.  Also greeting us were three year-old charmer Nick and my brother-in-law Steve (Papa Doc to Nick).  Later daughter-in-law Beth arrived from Virginia.  Beamer and Kim strive for excellence in everything they do, parenting, cooking, gardening – and they were perfect hosts.  Nick picked cherry tomatoes for us and, taking James by the hand, set off on his own outdoor tour.  Living in the country, Beamer keeps deer away from the garden with a sprinkler system and traps groundhogs, administering the coup de grace with a rifle, a lamentable but necessary practice.   Beamer smoked ribs on the grill, and Kim prepared stuffed potatoes and tomatoes with homemade cheese (later we sampled a four month aged cheddar).  Beamer broke out Fire and Ice beer from Game of Thrones and gave me the empty bottle.  The Pickerts had two cats (one shy, one friendly) and two dogs (ditto).  Steve’s pet Tatter Tots followed him everywhere. Breakfast the next morning featured Kimmy’s bread pudding and blueberry muffins. Our trip ended much too soon.

above, photo by Angela Lane; below, Kim, Nick, and Beamer Pickert

With Angie sharing driving duties we made the 12-hour trip home in one day despite frequent bathroom, gas, and food stops.  In the Appalacians of Pennsylvania we passed James Buchanan Birthplace State Park in Cove Gap and a Buchanan state forest.   James took note.  We listened to an Agatha Christie tape and CDs of Wicked and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”  Becca sang along to “Wicked” and James on  “Joseph.”  While we unpacked the trunk, Toni had water boiling for noodle soup.  I popped a Coors (should have brought home a case of Yuengling, but Pennsylvania only allows sales at hard-to-find beer distributors).  After Angie’s crew left, I put on a Hold Steady CD Robert Blaszkiewicz burned for me and thought about the remarkably successful the nine-day jaunt. 

During the trip I got through two-thirds of Graham Greene’s “The Heart of the Matter” (1948), set in a West African British colony similar to Sierra Leone.  The main character, police chief Scobie is a fatalist and his adversary is much like Pyle in “The Quiet American.”  Greene wrote: “Point me out the happy man and I will point you out either extreme egotism, evil – or else an absolute ignorance.”  Looking skyward on a clear night Scobie wondered, “If one knew the facts, would one have to feel pity even for the planets?  If one reached what they called the heart of the matter?”

Tom Petty’s CD “Hypnotic Eye” went on sale today, and I heard “Fault Lines” on WXRT.  As Petty sings, “I’ve got a few of my own.”  Don’t we all.  Of the 500 emails greeting me at IUN most were junk.  Notable exceptions: an Evite to Fred Chary’s seventy-fifth birthday celebration and a note from Jay Keck entitled “Out of Patriotism.”  He wrote that he was stuck in the 1960s, “just me and my PTSD,” but that he has “my books and my poetry to protect me like a rock, thank you Simon and Garfunkel and [the Chipmunks] Alvin, Theodore and the other Simon.”  In “Vietnam High” Keck asks: “Would we do it again for Uncle Sam?” The final lines:

“Some say yes many won’t go

You undecided shall never know

See ya

PFC Jay Keck.”

On Facebook were photos Brenda Love took of Sam (above) in the Whiting Pierogi Fest parade and that Delia posted of their zip lining adventure.