Maggie's Farm

Whitmore, 1969 - Back from Vietnam, seeking salvation in Bob Dylan

Fiction from The Atlantic's fiction edition:

We drove under a tin-white sun. In Des Moines my brother and I had each dropped a tab of acid, and now the Midwest rushed at us—great rows of corn and swaths of open field, a startling horizon of alfalfa haze. We stared out at a diorama of little wooden bridges and clapboard houses, processions of blinking radio towers, neither of us speaking. My brother, Whitmore, drove like a man skipping bail, forcing my father’s Oldsmobile into a high-pitched whinny. He streamed his hand out the window, his knuckles whistling in the wind. Slightly mesmerized, I watched his hand as it fishtailed into an elegant sine curve. We were listening to Bob Dylan’s Bringing It All Back Home on the eight-track. This was the summer of 1969. Men were getting ready to land on the moon. The girls I knew wore slacks and smelled of sandalwood and cherry vodka. You could fit the whole world inside an album cover.

My brother had his other hand on the wheel, his index finger raised like a flagpole in exclamation at the music. He seemed to be saying, Here, this is what I’ve been trying to tell you. When “It’s All Right, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)” played, I saw a single tear appear in my brother’s right eye. I looked out my window at the neon-green farms and the heat shimmering off the blacktop roads, pretending not to notice. Whitmore was twenty-three—four years older than I was. He had returned to us a few months earlier after a two-year stint in Vietnam. In the Los Angeles airport, as he disembarked from his transpacific flight in uniform, a young woman with braids spat at him. This event had dogged him all summer.

He didn’t talk much about his two years in Southeast Asia, but every now and then—when a young girl with an organdy bow in her hair sang at our church, or when my mother forced him to receive one of her hugs—he wept. One night, as we ate dinner, my parents and I stopped in mid-chew to see Whitmore, his face blotched red, quietly bawling into his pork chops and mashed potatoes. My mother touched the back of his hand, and Whitmore looked up as if someone had slapped him in the face. Trying to make light of the situation, my father said, “I didn’t think much of the pork chops either.” My mother visibly winced, but Whitmore started to laugh. He said, “This will stop, Dad. You’ll see.”

Read the whole thing in The Atlantic before the privilege is taken away.

We are always a day late and a dollar short.

Happy Birthday yesterday, Ringo! God bless ya for what you helped add to our lives. Tangled Web

Where did the time go? Good question.

Reposted from July 27, 2005

The young Cornell engineer Willis Haviland Carrier patented his "Apparatus for Treating Air" in 1906, for industrial purposes, and it was quickly taken up by the paper industry. By 1926, Hudson's Department Store in Detroit had A/C, which was a huge draw. His technique came to him in an instant of inspiration at a train station. By 1928, residential machines first became available, and after the war they became common in new housing developments. But their appearance in movie theaters in the 40s was maybe the most dramatic event - even more important than the magical moment of color in the Wizard of Oz. The A/C alone was worth the price of the 25-cent ticket. The first air-conditioned car was the 1940 Packard.

While we must be grateful to Mr. Carrier on days like today, the downside is that his machines eliminated the traditional months-long July and August vacations to places like New Hampshire, Cape Cod, Maine, and the Berkshires, where at least nights are cool and breezy. And it eliminated the wonderful screened "sleeping porch" which late 1800s houses often located on the second floor, in the back, of course. My Great Aunt Buffie had one, and her bed got moved out there for the summer. Camping out, in town. And I suppose it made the old front porch redundant too, where you rocked and sipped beer or lemonade in your undershirt to the tune of the crickets and katydids, smoked a Lucky or two, watched the young folks promenading past, flirting and courting, and could hear, in the distance, the muted, murmering conversations of the neighbors on their porches. A/C pulled people indoors, and isolated them, I suppose, from both neighbor and nature. Not to mention its effect on high-rise buildings - A/C is right up there with Mr. Elisha Graves Otis and his elevator.

Many traditionalist Yankees continue to eschew air conditioning at home, but they don't sleep very well in the summer. And they drip sweat on their paperwork. They view A/C as a weenie pantywaist luxury, unnatural and indulgent. Which it is, for sure. But what a fine and inexpensive luxury. Surely it's not a sin? Call me ambivalent about it - but I could not work without it.

A major effect in the US was that it permitted the huge business growth, and population growth, of the South and the Southwest. I guess you could blame Carrier for the Red State phenomenon, in a way. You can read about the the A/C compressor and refrigerant works here, and more about Mr. Carrier here.

We recently wrote about Pogo. A reader emailed us this one - thanks.

Saw them last night. I think everyone still misses Duane, and Dicky Betts. However, they are wonderful, and they do some jazz too - they had a sax player. At the end of Melissa, every boat in the harbor was tooting. But Sonny Boy Williamson's One Way Out was my favorite. They played until 1 a.m. Live at the Fillmore? I was there.

 

Jones Beach, on the south shore of Long Island (Atlantic), receives more visitors annually than Yellowstone and Yosemite combined.

Humans do like beaches. It's a big one, and a fine birding spot during the fall and winter. It's New York City's beach - the people's back yard, and one of the world's great beaches.

And no condos and no shops - the narrow barrier island is a 2400-acre NY State Park. It has some remarkable heron and egret rookeries. In winter, it's good for Snowy Owls, Rough-legged hawks, Gannets, Bonaparte's and other interesting or rare gulls, the occasional alcid (murres, razorbills, and auks), and plenty of Harbor Seals in the surf, which, at first, you think is someone's Lab taking a swim - until they dive. Plenty of Myrtle Warblers over-wintering on the bayberries.

But in the summer, it is Coppertone time - time to strut your good stuff - and no-one is stalking through the scrub and poison ivy looking for birds of the feathered variety.

Photo from the above link.

Reposted from June, 2005:

Music without Magic

That's the title of Hoffman's piece in the Wilson Quarterly. It mainly addresses the psychological effects of art music and the failure of much 20th Century art music to gain an audience. A quote:

But just how does our gracious Art exercise these powers? How does it comfort us, charm us, kindle our hearts? We might start our search for answers by positing two fundamentals: a fundamental pain and a fundamental quest. A fundamental pain of our human condition is loneliness. No surprise here: We’re born alone, we’re alone in our consciousness, we die alone, and, when loved ones die, we’re left alone. And pain itself, including physical pain, isolates us and makes us feel still more alone, completing a vicious circle. Our fundamental quest—by no means unrelated to our aloneness and our loneliness—is the quest for meaning, the quest to make sense of our time on earth, to make sense of time itself.

Where does music come in? Music is both a balm for loneliness and a powerful, renewable source of meaning—meaning in time and meaning for time. The first thing music does is banish silence. Silence is at once a metaphor for loneliness and the thing itself: It’s a loneliness of the senses. Music overcomes silence, replaces it. It provides us with a companion by occupying our senses—and, through our senses, our minds, our thoughts. It has, quite literally, a presence. We know that sound and touch are the only sensual stimuli that literally move us, that make parts of us move: Sound waves make the tiny hairs in our inner ears vibrate, and, if sound waves are strong enough, they can make our whole bodies vibrate. We might even say, therefore, that sound is a form of touch, and that in its own way music is able to reach out and put an arm around us. 

Read entire here, and if you have the time, read the erudite comments posted below the article.

That's Gaelic for "water of life." This site has the history of Scotch whiskey, known around the world as plain Whiskey, except in the US and Canada, where we also have cheap Canadadadian whisky for a cheap drunk, and rich, smoky, earthy, sweet Bourbon from deep in the Southern hollers. We like Maker's Mark, for bourbon. For holiday eggnog - any bourbon, and never rum. But Scotch whiskeys are the ultimate expression of the distiller's God-given art.

Reposted from Feb 20, 2005

This in from Vermont's Northeast Kingdom:

Ayup, well, I shot that fat sucker on Friday night under the barn light while the dogs were sleepin - a nice head-shot but not too difficult from the porch - and took yer advice and marinated that meat in olive oil, thyme and garlic and a bit of vinegar overnight - well, actually til this afternoon, then I gave it a hit of soy sauce and salt and pepper and threw it on that old -----   ----grill out back with a pile of hickory sticks - shagbark it was. Wasn't half-bad. Fancier and Frenchier than I'm used to, but not too bad. Jes don't give me that shallot -----, or tell me to cook my raccoon rare, or over meskeet. Food is done when it is cooked, and if I find some meskeet in my woods, I'll try it. But I ain't goin that far Frenchie. That was a fat son of a b. - got my supper for the next three days too, ayup.

For more of his stuff, click here. He has not written for Maggie's, really, since he got hitched. Maybe he will write some more after the honeymoon phase is over.

Hull Speed = 1.34 X (LWL)^1/2

^{Non-sailors often do not know that the maximum speed of a boat is limited by its LWL (length at waterline).}

^{Very interesting, practical math. Wind load, capsize formula, true and apparent wind - all the cool sailing calculations, here.}

Reposted from May, 2005:

Roger Kimball, author of Tenured Radicals, with an essay: Re-Taking the University

Samples:

"Academic life, like the rest of social life, unfolds within a frame of rules and permissions. At one end, there are things that one must (or must not) do; at the other end, there is rule of whim. The middle range, in which behavior is neither explicitly governed by rules but is not entirely free, is that realm governed by what the British jurist John Fletcher Moulton, writing in the early 1920s, called “Obedience to the Unenforceable.” It is a realm in which not law, not caprice, but virtues such as duty, fairness, judgment, and taste hold sway. In a word, it is the “domain of Manners,” which “covers all cases of right doing where there is no one to make you do it but yourself.” A good index of the health of any social institution is its allegiance to the strictures that define this middle realm. “In the changes that are taking place in the world around us,” Moulton wrote, “one of those which is fraught with grave peril is the discredit into which this idea of the middle land is falling.” One example was the abuse of free speech in political debate: “We have unrestricted freedom of debate,” say the radicals: “We will use it so as to destroy debate.”  "

and:

"Many parents are alarmed, rightly so, at the spectacle of their children going off to college one year and coming back the next having jettisoned every moral, religious, social, and political scruple that they had been brought up to believe. Why should parents fund the moral de-civilization of their children at the hands of tenured antinomians? Why should alumni generously support an alma mater whose political and educational principles nourish a world view that is not simply different from but diametrically opposed to the one they endorse? Why should trustees preside over an institution whose faculty systematically repudiates the pedagogical mission they, as trustees, have committed themselves to uphold? These are questions that should be asked early and asked often."

Read entire.

This came in over the transom:

STORY NUMBER ONE

Many years ago, Al Capone virtually owned Chicago.Capone wasn't famous for anything heroic. He was notorious for enmeshing the windy city in everything from bootlegged booze and prostitution to murder.

Capone had a lawyer nicknamed "Easy Eddie." He was his lawyer for a good reason. Eddie was very good! In fact, Eddie's skill at legal maneuvering kept Big Al out of jail for a long time.

To show his appreciation, Capone paid him very well. Not only was the
money big, but also, Eddie got special dividends. For instance, he and his
family occupied a fenced-in mansion with live-in help and all of the
conveniences of the day. The estate was so large that it filled an entire
Chicago City block. Eddie lived the high life of the Chicago mob and gave little consideration to the atrocity that went on around him. Eddie did have one soft spot, however. He had a son that he loved dearly.

Eddie saw to it that his young son had clothes, cars, and a good education. Nothing was withheld. Price was no object. And, despite his involvement with organized crime, Eddie even tried to teach him right from wrong. Eddie wanted his son to be a better man than he was. Yet, with all his wealth and influence, there were two things he could not give his son; he could not pass on a good name or a good example.

One day, Easy Eddie reached a difficult decision. Easy Eddie wanted to
rectify wrongs he had done. He decided he would go to the authorities and tell the truth about Al "Scarface" Capone, clean up his tarnished name, and offer his son some semblance of integrity. To do this, he would have to testify against The Mob, and he knew that the cost would be great. So, he testified.
 
Within the year, Easy Eddie's life ended in a blaze of gunfire on a lonely
Chicago Street. But in his eyes, he had given his son the greatest gift he
had to offer, at the greatest price he could ever pay. Police removed from
his pockets a rosary, a crucifix, a religious medallion, and a poem clipped
from a magazine.

The poem read:

The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop
At late or early hour.
Now is the only time you own.
Live, love, toil with a will.
Place no faith in time.
For the clock may soon be still.

__________________________________________
STORY NUMBER TWO

World War II produced many heroes. One such man was Lieutenant Commander Butch O'Hare. He was a fighter pilot assigned to the aircraft carrier Lexington in the South Pacific. One day his entire squadron was sent on a mission.

After he was airborne, he looked at his fuel gauge and realized that
someone had forgotten to top off his fuel tank.He would not have enough fuel to complete his mission and get back to his ship. His flight leader told him to return to the carrier. Reluctantly, he dropped out of formation and headed back to the fleet.

As he was returning to the UsS.S. Lexington he saw something that turned his blood cold: a squadron of Japanese aircraft were speeding their way toward  the American fleet. The American fighters were gone on a sortie, and the fleet was all but defenseless. He could not reach his squadron and bring them back in time to save thefleet. Nor could he warn the fleet of the  approaching danger.

There was only one thing to do. He must somehow divert them from the fleet. Laying aside all thoughts of personal safety, he dove into the formation of Japanese planes.

Wing-mounted 50 caliber's blazed as he charged in, attacking one surprised enemy plane and then another. Butch wove in and out of the now broken formation and fired at as many planes as possible until all his ammunition was finally spent. Undaunted, he continued the assault. He dove at the planes, trying to clip a wing or tail in hopes of damaging as many enemy planes as possible and rendering them unfit to fly. Finally, the exasperated Japanese squadron took off in another direction.

Deeply relieved, Butch O'Hare and his tattered fighter limped back to the
carrier.

Upon arrival, he reported in and related the event surrounding his return. The film from the gun-camera mounted on his plane told the tale. It showed  the extent of Butch's daring attempt to protect his fleet. He had, in fact, destroyed five enemy aircraft.

This took place on February 20, 1942, and for that action Butch became the Navy's first Ace of W.W. II, and the first Naval Aviator to win the
Congressional Medal of Honor. A year later Butch was killed in aerial combat at the age of 29.

His home town would not allow the memory of this WW II hero to fade,and today, O'Hare Airport in Chicago is named in tribute to the courage of this great man.

So, the next time you find yourself at O'Hare International, give some thought to visiting Butch's memorial displaying his statue and his Medal of Honor, and an F4F-3 Wildcat similar to Butch's.

It is located between Terminals 1 and 2.
********************************************
SO WHAT DO THESE TWO STORIES HAVE TO DO WITH EACH OTHER?

Butch O'Hare was "Easy Eddie's" son.

Add his voice, as you read:

If I said to you, "I have a great idea for a business. I'll open a whole new type of coffee shop. Instead of charging 60 cents for coffee  I'll charge $2.50, $3.50, $4.50, and $5.50.

Not only that, I'll have no tables, no chairs, no water, no free refills, no waiters, no busboys, serve it in cardboard cups, & have the customer clean up for 20 minutes after they're finished."

Would you say to me, "That's the greatest idea for a business I ever heard! We can open a chain of these all over the world!"

No, you would put me right into a sanitarium.

And it's burnt coffee! It's burnt coffee at Starbuck's, be honest about it. If you get burnt coffee in a coffee shop, you call a cop. You say,"It's the bottom of the pot. I don't drink from the bottom of the pot.

But when it's burnt at Starbuck's, they say, "Oh, it's a special roast. It's a special bean from Argentina....

"The bean is in your head!!! I know burnt!!!

You want coffee in a coffee shop, that's 60 cents. But at Starbuck's, if it's Cafe Latte: $3.50. Café Creamier: $4.50. Café Suisse: $9.50. For each French word, another $4.00.

Why does a little cream in coffee make it worth $3.50?

Go into any coffee shop; they'll give you all the cream you want until you're blue in the face.

40 million people are walking around in coffee shops with pitchers of cream: "Here's all the cream you want!" And it's still 60 cents. You know why? Because it's called "coffee."

You want cinnamon in your coffee? Ask for cinnamon in a coffee shop; they'll give you all the cinnamon you want.

Do they ask you for more money because it's cinnamon? It's the same price for cinnamon in your coffee as for coffee without cinnamon - 60 cents, that's it.

But not in Starbucks. Over there, it's Cinnamonnier - $9.50. You want a refill in a regular coffee shop, they'll give you all the refills you want until you drop dead. You can come in when you're 27 & keep drinking coffee until you're 98. And they'll start begging you: "Here, You want more coffee?"

Do you know that you can't get a free refill at Starbucks?

A refill is a $1.50, 2 refills, $4.50, 3 refills, $19.50.

So, for 4 cups of coffee - $35.00.

And there're no chairs in those Starbucks. Instead, they have these high stools. You ever see these stools? You haven't been on a chair that high since you were 2. Seventy-three year olds are climbing &climbing to get to the top of the chair. And when they get to the top, they can't even drink the coffee because there's 12 people around one ittle table, & everybody's saying, "Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me....." Then they can't get off the chair.

Do you remember what a cafeteria was? In poor neighborhoods all over this country, they went to a cafeteria because there were no waiters & no service. And so poor people could save money on a tip.

Cafeterias didn't have regular tables or chairs either. They gave coffee to you in a cardboard cup. So because of that you paid less for the coffee. You got less, so you paid less.

It's all the same at Starbucks - no chairs, no service, a cardboard cup for your Coffee - except in Starbucks, the less you get, the more it costs. By the time they give you nothing, it's worth 4 times as much!

SELF-ESTEEM, n. An erroneous appraisement.

CARTESIAN, adj. Relating to Descartes, a famous philosopher, author of the celebrated dictum, Cogito ergo sum — whereby he was pleased to suppose he demonstrated the reality of human existence. The dictum might be improved, however, thus: Cogito cogito ergo cogito sum — “I think that I think, therefore I think that I am;” as close an approach to certainty as any philosopher has yet made.

Those are two from Bierce's The Devil's Dictionary, from Middlebrow, who has a good piece, with good links, on Bierce.