The Game’s the Thing

Sunday’s Super Bowl was a game of American football, won by Seattle over New  England by a score of 29 to 13.  Aside from citizens of those fine areas, most people watched the game more for the commercials and half-time extravaganza than the gridiron action. It also reminded me of how much the Bears defense needs to improve before it can make it to a future Super Bowl.

            It may interest the younger fans among you that the traditional half-time in a football game is taken up with a band concert. When I played in high school, we trooped to the locker room for a pep talk while our wonderful band entertained the crowd with stirring music and choreographed marching. As far as I know, this is still the case. Ditto at college games. And I can testify to the fact that half-time at professional games often still includes a band concert from a local high school or college.

            Though most still have these concerts, the television viewer would never know because half-time is now filled with a panel of experts telling you what you’ve just seen with your own eyes and suggesting what the combatants might do in the final half. But the Super Bowl is, well, a bit different. What you get now is a really big show (as Ed Sullivan might have said). Recent . games have featured the likes of Kendrick Lamar, Usher, Rihanna, Lady Gaga, and Beyonce

            This year we had Bad Bunny. I had always thought that the baddest bunny was Bugs of cartoon fame, but I’m afraid he’s been supplanted. This Bunny’s real name is Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio, a singer from Puerto Rico. Since leaving the hutch, he has hopped to the heights of international stardom. Even though he raps and sings mostly in Spanish, his audience of English speakers doesn’t seem to care. It could be they’re used to not being able to understand lyrics in any language.

            I wondered how he got his stage moniker, so I looked it up. It seems he was photographed as a young lad wearing both a bunny costume and a grumpy expression. Thus “bad bunny,” and the beginning of a legendary career. The Spanish translation is “conejito malo.” One wonders what would have happened if he’d been wearing a donkey costume?

            His show was lavish, as one expects from the Super Bowl. Although I’m not entirely certain, it seemed to take place in a sugar cane field. Aside from a song by guest Lady Gaga, all the songs and raps were in Spanish. Since I don’t understand Spanish, along with perhaps 85 percent of the audience, I have no idea what was said or meant. There was much excellent dancing by scantily clad young people, which one has come to expect.

            Mr. Bunny was dressed in white and like most rap artists grabbed his crotch from time to time. I wish someone would tell me what this means, other than the obvious. As I watched the show, I couldn’t help wondering if White House aide Steven Miller was also tuned in. I thought it was more likely that he was watching the Puppy Bowl or Kid Rock. Just like most events these days, the Super Bowl has become political, or at least the show has. How silly.

            I personally think these shows would be more impressive if they focused on a single, talented performer. There are many who could hold a stage on  their own. Just give them a good backup band and a single spotlight, then let them move the audience with their talent alone. Or perhaps, because the event is so profoundly American, it could focus on great American music – jazz, Blues, and the wonderful songs of what has come to be known as “the great American songbook.”  Vain hope, I’m afraid.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I had dinner the other night with a good friend at a fine French-themed bistro. As a starter, we shared an order of escargot. As my highly sophisticated readers will know, “escargot” is the French word for edible land snails, usually prepared with a garlic butter and parsley sauce. After you eat the snail, dipping your baguette into the sauce adds to the culinary experience.

            “Baguette” is the word for the ubiquitous long, skinny loaf of bread the French can’t live without. The typical bistro will also serve something called “steak frites,” which turns out to be small steak with French fries. Most of the menu includes common stuff elevated with French names. I wonder how many people would order “snails in garlic butter sauce,” or “small steak with fries?” What if the menu offered “skinny loaf of bread” instead of “baguette?” How popular would that be?

            Anyway, the menu was replete with French names for stuff that could just as easily be described in English. I’m not sure I would like that. Somehow, pate de foie gras sounds better than chopped goose livers; and you can’t deny that moules mariniere has a cachet that mussels steamed in wine with butter, shallots and (again) parsley lacks. As it happens, mussels are on a lengthy list of things I would never have thought of as edible in my youth.

            I’ve written about the “meat and potatoes” foundation of my mother’s cooking. The only exotic dish on her regular menu was kidney stew, the recipe for which I have provided in the past. I was also a fan of chicken gizzards. In those days, chickens were purchased at a poultry store, and you got the whole thing, innards and all. As I recall, the liver was reserved for my father. Only the heart had no takers.

            My father was born on an island off the west coast of Ireland, Innis Buffin (Isle of the White Cows in English). Now primarily a tourist destination, when my father was born in 1906 the only gainful employment was fishing and raising sheep. As a result, he liked fish. I didn’t because my mother overcooked it, just like she overcooked everything else. He also ate oysters, mainly in something called oyster stew. As I recall, to make it you heated milk and butter and dropped the oysters in when the milk was hot enough. We were not forced to eat what looked to us like boogers floating in wasted milk.

            I owe my much-expanded palate to France. The United States Army sent me there in 1961 to a charming city of the Atlantic coast called La Rochelle. Because much of the medieval port survives, and it’s full of charm, it is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The restaurants naturally featured seafood. I was taken in hand by two fellow soldiers who had been there for a year or so, happily avoiding Army food by dining on the local seafood specialties. Not wishing to seem unsophisticated, I bravely ate oysters, clams, and mussels for the first time.  Oh,  and those snails. And I still eat them, although they cost much more now than those days when France was still far less expensive than the US of A.

            Of course, I know quite a few sophisticated folks who still will not eat oysters, unable to get past the way they look. Escargot likewise. That’s OK. We live in a world of abundance and people don’t have to eat everything on the menu. But I do think you might try some kidneys.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

P.S. I have decided not to write about Donald Trump for the time being. Most of the people who read these pieces don’t like him any more than I do, so it’s like preaching to the choir. Those who do support him – a steady 40 percent of the voters it seems – have their reasons which now appear unshakable, no matter what he does or says; or more to the point, what I say. Anyway, if I ever write about Donald Trump again, I hope I’ll end with these words: I told you so.

By Patrick F. Cannon

I watched Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious the other night. Not one of his masterpieces but diverting enough. It stars Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman, in a plot that involves leftover Nazis up to no good in post-World War II Brazil. The supporting cast is headed by the British American actor Claude Rains (1889-1967), who plays one of the Nazis who becomes besotted with Ingrid, unbeknownst to him working undercover for a CIA-like organization.

            It occurred to me while watching it that Rains had appeared in many of my favorite films, starting with 1938’s The Adventures of Robin Hood, high on my list of all-time adventure classics. He plays the villainous King John, aided and abetted by the evil Sherif of Nottingham, played by fellow Brit Basil Rathbone, later famous as Sherlock Holmes. Interestingly, both had served together in World War I as officers in the London Scottish Regiment, whose ranks also included actors Herbert Marshall, Ronald Coleman, and Cedric Hardwicke. In 1916, Rains was injured in a gas attack, losing 90 percent of the  sight in his right eye.

            Born in London in relative poverty to a minor actor father, he naturally gravitated to the theatre. Vocal training got rid of his cockney accent, and he became a mainstay of the London stage, even becoming an instructor at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. John Guilguid and Charles Laughton were two of his more notable students. He was in his mid-40s by the time he made his first movie in Hollywood, The Invisible Man, in which he only appeared intermittingly!

            In 1939, he was cast in Frank Capra’s classic Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, as a senator who engineers Jimmie Stewart’s (as Mr. Smith) election as the junior senator from his state, believing that the naïve Smith will be easily manipulated. If you’ve seen the film, you know things don’t quite work out as intended, and Rains’s character commits suicide rather than face disgrace. He was nominated for an Academy Award for his performance but didn’t win.

            He was also nominated for what became his most iconic role, as the witty, cynical, dapper, and corrupt police Captain Louis Renault in Casablanca, which may be the most watched movie of all time. It starred Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, but Rains stood out in a cast that also included Peter Lorre, Paul Henreid, and Sidney Greenstreet.  Who can forget the final scene where he and Bogart walk arm in arm into the mist on their way to join the Free French?

            In a return to the Broadway stage in 1951, Rains won the best actor Tony for his performance as Rubashov, a victim of Stalin’s show trials of the late 1930s. Based on Arthur Koestler’s novel, it was adapted for the stage by Sidney Kingsley. In 1954, he again appeared on Broadway in T.S. Elliot’s verse play, The Confidential Clerk. Although not his last film, the last I saw him in was David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia,  in which he played Mr. Dryden, an amalgam of several British Middle Eastern diplomats and administrators. Not a leading role, but one he carried out with his usual competence.

            All the films I mentioned are readily available on one or more streaming services. If you’re one of the few people who haven’t seen Casablanca, that would be a good place to enjoy a fine actor.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon   

By Patrick F. Cannon

Many of my readers live in the Chicago suburb of Oak Park. There are few communities with a modest population of about 53,000 that host so many international visitors. It is not only the birthplace of  Nobel Prize writer Ernest Hemingway, but the home and workplace of America’s most famous architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, for the first 20 years of his storied career. A litany of other famous Oak Parkers would take up too much space, but it does include Tarzan’s creator, Edgar Rice Burroughs!

            It is also famous for resisting the “white flight” that changed many Chicago neighborhoods from all white to mostly black in the 1960s, including Oak Park’s neighbor to the east, Austin. I won’t go into all the details of how sensible integration came to Oak Park, except to mention that the real estate agents agreed not to put “For Sale” signs on their client’s properties, as one tactic to prevent panic selling. They still don’t. Currently, the racial breakdown is (approximately) 63 percent white; 20 percent black; five percent Asian, and 10 percent Hispanic.

            I love the place. Even though I now live a block west of Oak Park in Forest Park, I still spend a lot of time there. I belong to one of its clubs, donate to its museums, and volunteer weekly at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Home and Studio. My favorite restaurants are in Oak Park, and I still use its fine library.

            I lived in Oak Park from 1965-67 and returned with my family in 1974. I only left in 2016 when my wife and I couldn’t find a condominium that suited our needs. That’s about 45 years. But as much as I love Oak Park, I am aware that it shares with Illinois what I would describe as too much government.

            Illinois, with a population of 12.7 million, has 6,930 units of government. New York, with a population of 20 million, has 3,450. With some of the highest real estate taxes in the Chicago area, Oak Parkers pay for the following taxing bodies: Village, Township, Oak Park Elementary School District 97, Oak Park and River Forest High School District 200, Oak Park Library, Park District, and  eight other taxing bodies related to Cook County.

            In a rational world, the 1,430 townships in Illinois would be abolished, and the 852 school districts reduced by consolidation. The schools in Oak Park and River Forest are now served by three districts, where one could easily do the job. And the Village of Oak Park should take a serious look at the staff it actually needs to serve its community.

            Although of course much smaller in population, the Village of Forest Park has the following departments: Administration, Clerk, Community Center, Fire, Police, Health, and Public Works. Like Oak Park, it also has separate Library and Park Districts. But Oak Park has these additional departments: Development Services; Finance; Human Resources; Parking; Neighborhood Services; Adjudication; Communications and Engagement; Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion; Sustainability and Resilience; and Office of Economic Vitality. It also has more than 20 citizen boards and committees.

            Oak Park likes to style itself as a “progressive” community. It once even went as far as to declare itself a “Nuclear Free Zone.” For most of its history, it was a bastion of conservative values. In 1940, for example, it gave 80 percent of its vote to Wendall Wilkie over Franklin Roosevelt. In 2024, it gave Donald Trump just 10 percent. That’s fine with me; I didn’t vote for him either. But like so many communities, Oak Park needs to concentrate on the services and infrastructure its citizens actually require.

            Despite its simpler government, I find no lack of essential services in Forest Park. In addition to lower real estate taxes, I can get a village auto sticker for $35 instead of Oak Park’s $74. Yearly garbage costs for an average home are about $250; in Oak Park they’re $400. I could go on and on but let me finish with a true outrage. Until last year, Oak Park swept up the leaves homeowners raked into the gutter in the Fall and hauled them away. Now, owners are required to bag the leaves and place them in the parkway for pickup. The bags themselves cost about a buck, but each must have a sticker at $3.25 a pop. Both Forest Park and River Forest still sweep up the leaves.

            Here’s the thing. There were five mature trees in the parkway in front of my last Oak Park home. The trees were all planted by the Village; the homeowner has no say in what happens to them. In essence, they belong to the Village. Yet, Oak Park homeowners are now required to pay for the privilege of raking up the Village’s leaves. On the other  hand, they don’t have to worry about locally produced nuclear fallout.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I have a humidifier in my bedroom for cold nights when the furnace works overtime. It adds enough moisture to the air to prevent those nightmares where you’re crawling across the Sahara Desert like that poor guy in the old movie, Four Feathers, and wake up screaming “water, water!”

            When I fill the reservoir, there’s a warning against adding any “essential oils.” Not having a clue what they were, I felt confident that I was in no danger of adding any. As far as I knew, the only essential oils were the kind you needed to keep your internal combustion engine from seizing up in the middle of the Illinois Tollway. And of course, there are many other machines that need oil to keep them spinning happily.

            Recently, however, a television channel I occasionally watch has been running commercials from a company that sells little bottles of what they claim are essential oils. Scenes of young women dreamingly communing with nature and sniffing the air are featured. I can’t recall  seeing any men in them. Available oils include scents of lemon grass, lilac, lavender, citrus, and peppermint, and are said to be the concentrated extracts of those plants.

            Apparently, they are used in something called “aromatherapy,” a branch of mystical medicine that is said to affect the brain’s emotion centers, theoretically reducing stress, improving sleep, and even managing pain. Like alchemy and astrology, it has proven difficult to produce scientific evidence to support these claims. But, as we know, the brain also has a substantial gullibility center, which leads to fortunes for those who know how to exploit it.

            I did a little checking and discovered that Americans spend about $10 billion a year on these odorous oils. Scented candles are also popular to the tune of about $3.5 billion a year.  Americans who love a good sniff also spend $3 billion on room fresheners; and cough up about $500 million a year to make their laundry smell like the great out of doors (not the urban version, but the one where Bambi and the hummingbirds roam).

            I confess I used Febreze fabric spray when I had dogs who took long naps on the couch. I no longer have a dog, so the only odor preventing product I now use is underarm deodorant. I confess that all the scented candles I’ve received over the  years have been regifted or consigned to Goodwill. I’m sure they found good homes.

            With all the money I’ve saved, I’ve been able to afford a better brand of bourbon and decent bottles of wine. I’ve also saved a fortune by never taking vitamins. Of course, if my doctor said I should, I would follow his advice. But he never has. Apparently, consuming a balanced diet that includes fruit and vegetables has provided all the vitamins I (and most people) need. Yet, Americans spend more than $60 billion a year on vitamins and other supplements.

            One of the more popular recently has been memory supplements. There are several brands, all of which claim to feed stuff to your brain that will improve your memory. If you look at the small print at the bottom of their ads, you’ll notice the disclaimer that their claims have not been evaluated for accuracy by the Food and Drug Administration (FDA). Of course they haven’t. And it’s not because they forgot to  submit them for testing. Those that take them must cough up about $50 a month. Of course, the cost goes down if you forget to take them.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

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By Patrick F. Cannon

I read an interview the other day of a reasonably famous couple – not Lucy/Desi, George/Amal, Mickey/Minnie, or Donald/Melania, but certainly familiar names in theatrical circles. He is an actor/playwright; she an actress of ability. During the interview, she said she wouldn’t bring a child into a world with the likes of Donald Trump in charge.

            She isn’t alone. One has heard many women (and men) say similar things over the years, not about Trump specifically but the state of the world generally. Our low birth rate seems to partly reflect this attitude. The rate in this country was 1.6 children per woman in 2024, the lowest in our history. Even in the depths of the Depression in the 1930s, it never went below 2.22. Can I point out that the 1.6 rate would result in reducing our population, unless we bring in sufficient immigrants to bolster the numbers?

            Our bad old world is only one of the reasons of course. Liberation from the expectation of early marriage and motherhood is surely another. Humans are unique, as far as I know, in being able to rationally decide whether to have children or not. Many young women put their career first, sometimes with the intention of having children later. Since the ages of greatest fertility are the early to mid-twenties, many are happy enough to have just one if they wait until their mid-30s or later. Of course, the reasons for the low birth rate are more complicated, so let’s just explore the reluctance to bring children into our messy world.

            I was born in March 1938, the last of three children. The unemployment rate then was about 20 percent, and Adolph Hitler was well on his way to plunging the world into the most destructive war in history. As it happens, my father had some kind of job during most of the Depression, but my parents could have been forgiven for wondering if the world  in 1938 was a fit place and time to have children. They went ahead anyway, and by the time I graduated from high school in 1956, the unemployment rate was 4.2 percent. Median family income was about $4,800 ($1.231 in 1940); life expectancy had risen to approximately 62 years; and infant mortality was 28.37 per thousand births. We had won World War II and were the world’s dominant economic and military power. People prone to nostalgia look back on the 1950s as a kind of Golden Age.

            The current unemployment rate is 4.6 percent, still historically low. Adjusted to inflation, that 1956  median family income would now be about $55,000: it’s actually $83,000. Life expectancy is now 78.4 and infant mortality is 5.2 per thousand births. The percentage of college graduates has increased from eight in 1956 to nearly 40 percent now (in 1940 it was under five percent). And to broaden the perspective, despite wars, famine, and recurring natural disasters, in 200 years the number of people living in extreme poverty had been reduced from 80 percent of the world’s population to just under 10 percent today.

            Children born today will be 18 in 2044. Who can predict what the world will be like then? Today’s convenient bogeyman, Donald Trump, won’t be around. I was born during the Depression and just before World War II. The world has had its ups and downs since then, but I’m glad I was here to see it. It makes no sense to me that people with the highest education and economic status have the fewest children. There will always be reasons not to have children, but I can tell couples from personal experience that having them can be a great consolation as they age. As is said, you always have family. Unless you don’t.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon   

By Patrick F. Cannon

I was once a juror in a capital murder case. To be brief, it involved a black married couple who had attended a party in a Chicago public housing complex parking lot. The wife had become very drunk, and one of the attendees began making fun of her. Her husband went to their unit, got a metal baseball bat, and proceeded to beat her tormenter to death.

            The trial took a week out of my life – four days of motions and testimony and one of jury deliberations. The jury included representatives from Cook County’s three major ethnicities – white, black, and Hispanic, and of both sexes. I was elected foreman. The defendants had separate attorneys, who did their best, but the state had numerous eye witnesses whose testimony was consistent. In our deliberations, it was agreed that the wife had been too drunk to meaningfully participate in the murder, so we voted to acquit her.

            The husband was a different matter. He had gone to his home intentionally to get a weapon, which he had clearly used with the intent to kill. It should have been an easy matter to find him guilty, but there was one female black juror who refused to do so, on the grounds that she would never vote to convict a black man who had come to the defense of a black woman. She wouldn’t budge, so I finally sent a note to the judge that further deliberations were pointless. She was forced to declare mistrial.

            While most jury trials result in a verdict, mistrials do happen. I was sorry it happened in my case, but I got over it. But I find it harder to get over President Trump issuing pardons to everyone convicted of participating in the January 6, 2020, riots at the U.S. Capital. As a reminder, 1220 defendants were convicted, 221 at jury trials and the rest through plea bargains. Although some defendants were found not guilty on some charges, all were convicted of at least some. There were no mistrials. So, I ask myself this question: what do the 2,652 people who served as jurors in these cases think of President Trump’s pardons? Perhaps Fox News should ask them.

            Maybe they could also ask the jurors who convicted Nevada politician Michele Fiore for using police memorial funds for her plastic surgery; or those who sent reality TV stars Todd and Julie Chrisley to jail for tax evasion and bank fraud. They received pardons too, as did Juan Orlando Hernandez, the former president of Honduras who was just beginning to serve his sentence for drug trafficking.

He also commuted the sentence of major donor Imaad Zuberi , convicted of concealing his lobbying for Sri Lanka, illegal campaign contributions, obstruction of justice (and a few more too). And let’s not forget the full pardon he signed for Paul Walczak, who pled guilty to tax fraud, for failing to pay nearly $11 million in withholding, Social Security and Medicare taxes for his employees. The pardon came shortly after his mother, Elizabeth Fago, had attended a $1 million a person fundraiser at Mar-a-Lago.

            President Trump isn’t alone in abusing the pardon power. President Biden pardoned his son and granted preemptive pardons to a few more of his relatives just in case. And other presidents have abused the pardon power on behalf of friends and relatives. Both Presidents Obama and Biden commuted the sentences of thousands of prisoners serving mandatory time for drug-related crimes that they believed were unduly harsh. Not everyone agreed.

            I have been accused of suffering from Trump Derangement Syndrome, about which I wrote just last week. But I’m always happy to give him credit for fixing the mess at the southern border (which got him elected), and for forcing our NATO allies to admit they have a role in defending Europe. He brokered the (I’m afraid) temporary peace in Gaza, severely damaged Iran’s nuclear program, and is now working to bring peace to Ukraine. He has also managed to reduce the Federal workforce, while increasing spending overall. A notable achievement!

            While the jury is still out, he’s attempting to redress the historic imbalance in import duties charged by us and our so-called friends; and in reducing the often-onerous rules and regulations that have stymied growth and progress. So, let’s give the devil his due, and not be surprised when he pre-emptively pardons his appointees, relatives, and friends on the morning of January 20, 2029. After all, Joe did it.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Although only rarely fatal, the country is experiencing a pandemic of historic proportions, one that — depending on which reports you believe – now affects more than half the population. I refer of course to Trump Derangement Syndrome, or TDS. Apparently, the number of victims increases every time President Trump opens his mouth.

            Recently, the president blamed TDS for causing the December 14 murder of actor/director Rob Reiner and his wife Michele. Their son Nick has been charged with their murder. Apparently, according to the president, his father’s TDS must have been at least part of the motive for the killings. Perhaps Nick thought it would slow the pandemic’s spread.

            The president is no stranger to pandemics. He was unlucky to be in office when Covid 19 emerged as the deadliest pandemic since the Spanish Flu killed 50 million worldwide in 1918-19.  Among his many suggestions to halt the spread was to inject disinfectants like Clorox into the bloodstream, positing that if it could kill germs on surfaces, why not in the blood? Another idea was to apply immensely powerful ultraviolet light both outside and inside the body. He also touted the use of anti-malarial drugs, even taking some  himself. Nevertheless, he was hospitalized with Covid in October 2020. To his credit, however, he supported the development of the vaccines that finally brought Covid under control.   

            To be of  help in overcoming TDS, I thought I might offer some practical advice to its legion of sufferers. For example, you could leave the country. Since all of us come from somewhere else, many would be eligible to claim citizenship in their country of origin. For example, since my father was born in Ireland, I could become a citizen of the old sod. Do you like Guiness Stout? You’ll find it’s cheaper there. On the other hand, you’ll have to pay higher taxes, and it does rain a lot. And, who knows, you might run into Rosie O’Donnell at the local pub. That could be a deal breaker for many.

            You could try a news blackout. No New York Times or your local newspaper, MSNBC, CNN, Fox, NBC, CBS, ABC, or blogs (except those with home decorating tips). Take a pass on invitations to cocktail or dinner parties. Shun family get-togethers  Stop playing bridge. These tactics will not totally insulate you from hearing the name “Trump,” but should lessen the pain somewhat. A more radical approach would be to “go off the grid.” Imagine a cabin in the woods, cutting your own firewood, foraging for a diet of nature’s bounty, becoming one with woodland creatures (except maybe for Grizzly Bears).  

            Or you could wait for the pandemic to run its course, which it will do on January 20, 2029. This will encourage aged people like me to exercise regularly and eat a healthy diet, so we’ll still be around on that joyful day. Or will  there be another “derangement syndrome” lurking in the shadows? Perhaps “MDS”, for Mandami Derangement Syndrome?

            Anyway, Happy Holidays and always keep in mind the immortal words of that legendary philosopher, Monty Python:

            Some things in life are bad

            Other things make you swear and curse

            When you’re chewing of life’s gristle

            Don’t grumble, give a whistle

            And this will help things turn out for the best,

And

            Always look on the bright side of life

            Always look on the light side of life.

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon (Except for the last bit, of course.)

By Patrick F. Cannon

Well, another year has passed, so I thought I’d bring you all up to date on my family as the holidays approach. As usual, there wasn’t a dull moment. First the bad news: old Uncle Abner won’t be with us again this year – the Parole Board turned him down. He didn’t help his case this time when he got caught running a dice game behind the mangles in the laundry and compounded the felony by being caught with loaded dice.

            I guess he’ll have to serve the full sentence, unless he gets smart and lets the screws share in the take. But heck, he’ll only be 70 when he gets out. If he watches his health, he ought to be able to enjoy some of the cash he has stashed away. He still refuses to tell me where it’s hid, despite me telling him inflation is eating away at it, regardless of what that fella Trump says. and I’d be happy to invest it for him. Oh, well, he’s as cantankerous as ever. The color did drain from his face when I told him Amazon was building a new distribution center on that flat land near Dismal Seepage Creek.

            Daisy Mae is pregnant again. Not sure who the father is this time either. As you know, all her kids look just a little different. I call them the rainbow coalition. She’s a worker though. Took an online course in beauty culture, using money borrowed from the government. She says no one ever pays off them loans, so it’s like a free education. Aren’t these young folks smart? Anyway, she’s got everyone in the holler sporting green, red, purple, or pink hair (even yours truly).  

            As you know, young Georgie is in the army. He made it all the way to corporal before he got busted back to private for drinking on duty. At least they didn’t give him a dishonorable discharge like his brother Amos. I guess they treat drunkenness and attempted murder different. Anyway, he’s determined to stick it out for 30 years and retire so’s he can be the richest man in Dog Patch.

            You probably heard that Aunt Nellie got married again. You kinda lose track, but I think this might be number seven. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that her former husbands all died suddenly.  At least they all left her some money. Maybe she’ll have better luck this time. Last year’s new husband looked healthy enough, but I guess he was on the clumsy side; he managed to fall off the balcony in that luxury Miami condo he bought her as a wedding present. Her new hubby is the building maintenance man, so that should be handy for her. Lately, he’s looking a bit peeked; maybe it’s that Covid thing again.

            I’m proud that the family remains on the cutting edge of social change. Cousin Charlie announced that he was changing his name to Charlene. Guess we’ll all have to bone up on our pronouns. I suggested to Charlene that the beard might be considered odd for a lady, but he’s (she’s?) quite fond of it, reminding me that the carnival that comes through town still features a bearded lady. So, it looks like a career change might be in the offing too.

            I’m sure you’ve seen all those stories about son Ralphie. As you know, he’s the only member of the family to graduate from college – and Harvard no less. He’d already graduated by the time they found out he’d phonied up his transcripts and ACT scores to get in, and by then were too embarrassed to go public. Ralphie says the trick is to get in. After that you don’t have to do much, since they think you’re already smart enough.

            Anyway, Ralphie’s now got the record for the greatest Ponzi scheme in history. Unlike old Madoff, he got away to Russia with the dough before it was discovered, so all that education sure paid off.  That picture of him and Putin riding those white horses bare-chested made all the papers. Funny though, when we tried to get a passport to visit him, we got turned down. I complained to our congressman, and he told me he was surprised too, since he thought they would be happy to see us leave the country. Not sure what he meant by that. Anyway, we might not need to go to Russia. Ralphie tells me  he’s being considered for a pardon by President Trump and may also be in line for Secretary of War if that fella Hegseth gets fired.

            I hope you won’t believe that story about wife Rosie being found naked with the preacher. She told me it was just a new way of praying; something about going back to the innocence of Adam and Eve before they ate the apple. She said it made her feel so good she might try it again.

            As for me, my run for Congress didn’t work out so good. I thought for sure having President Trump’s endorsement would do the trick, but those crooked Democrats foiled me by going to the polls and voting. I was wrongly criticized for not having any political experience, which I thought was a plus. I also thought it was unfair to bring up those accusations of sexual misconduct, especially since the statute of limitations had already expired.

            Anyway, if the president of the United States can play grab (censored), why not your humble servant? I guess I’ll just have to go back to selling used cars salvaged from the recent hurricanes. I always hate to see stuff go to waste. Of course, if my new book, Hillbilly Theology, takes off like my publisher thinks it might, I understand a senate seat might come open!

            My brother Caleb says he won’t be attending any of the family’s Christmas gatherings again this year. Says he can’t afford to, since he claims I borrowed $5,000 from him some years back and never paid him back. He’s the eldest you know, and it’s sad to see his memory starting to fail him.

            Well, that’s all for this year. You have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. As for me, I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for the Yokum family.

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

When you reach my age – I’m 87 now – you sadly get used to your contemporaries dying, both friends and relatives. After all, life expectancy in 2022 was 74.8 years for men and 80.2 for women. So, when my cousin James Mark Goldstrohm died on December 2 at age 89, he beat the odds. Still, for me, it was hard to accept.

            “Jimmy” to many of his relatives, “Goldie” to many of his friends, but always “Jim” to me, for most of our lives, we were not just cousins, but friends. We attended the same school, St. Peter’s in McKeesport, PA, for a few years, and even had the same jobs: setting pins at the McKeesport Elks Club; and working in the restaurant at nearby Kennywood Park, Pittsburgh’s legendary amusement park. After my brother Pete died, Jim was the person I knew the longest.

            I went  to my first concert ever with him, Jazz at the Philharmonic at Heinz Hall in Pittsburgh. Appearing were legends like Dizzy Gillespie, Ella Fitzgerald, Roy Eldridge, and Gene Krupa. A highlight was Ella’s 10-minute-long version of “How High the Moon.” After the concert, we had a couple of drinks at a nearby bar. We were underage – I was probably 17 – but wearing jackets and ties, so weren’t carded. I drank screwdrivers!

            The last time I saw him was at this summer’s Donnelly family reunion, held for many years in Western Pennsylvania’s beautiful Laurel Highlands. No one there bore the Donnelly name, but they were all descendants of my grandparents, Frank and Catherine Donnelly, and their seven surviving children (one boy and six girls). He was the second oldest of 20 first cousins and was eventually the patriarch. With his death, I am now the oldest of six  survivors.

            When we were kids, at family events he would gather the cousins and perform (the best word I could think of) movies he had seen. Movies were a lifelong passion, and he would describe the plot and action, and even quote dialog. He was an only child, and he lived next door to our grandparents with his parents Vernal and Clare in North Braddock. We went to the movies weekly in those days, and he often went with Grandfather Frank, who also loved them.

            When we were teenagers, I remember talking about a particular movie, one of whose cast members we couldn’t remember. It drove us both crazy, but the name escaped us. So, when I woke up in the middle of the night and remembered it, I picked up the phone and called him. It must have been 3:00 am, but when he groggily answered and I said “Franchot Tone,” he was happy I called.

            He was a handsome man, but on the thin side, and not at all athletic. But he had courage. One day when we were about 12 or 13, he lured my brother Pete and me to the nearby Westinghouse Bridge, which carried US Route 30 over Turtle Creek, Braddock Avenue and East Pittsburgh. On one side was the Westinghouse factory; on the other the Edgar Thompson Works of US Steel in Braddock, the mill where his grandfather was general foreman, his father an electrician and where Jim himself  would work for 35 years.

            At one time the longest concrete-arch bridge in America with a total length of 1,598 feet, its center span of 460 feet is 240 feet above the valley floor. Underneath is a cat walk, put there I imagine for maintenance and inspection. I’m sure there was a hatch of some kind to provide access, but we reached it by gingerly walking across a 2×10 board suspended over a gap. Looking at a photo now, I see that had anyone fallen off the board, there would have been a steep drop into the valley below. We walked all the way to the other side on the cat walk, and the views were impressive, but lurking in my mind was the reality of going back over that board! Jim, of course, had done it before!

            We walked to the bridge from the later Goldstrohm family home in North Versailles Township, a new house they had moved to from North Braddock. After his parents died, Jim lived and raised his own family there until he and his wife Rhoda moved into an apartment created for them in the home of his daughter, Emily Belchick, and her husband Tom. He was also loved and supported by his other children, Paul Goldstrohm and Claire Pingree, and his seven grandchildren.

            He spent his last years doing what he enjoyed most – watching his beloved movies, reading the great fiction of all eras, and listening to the jazz and classical music contained in his extensive record collection. While he was able, he was a prodigious walker, even often walking many miles to and from work. As I mentioned, he worked at US Steel for 35 years. He made many friends during those years and told wonderful stories about the characters he worked with. Of all the people I’ve known, he was the purest in spirit. He had no animus, but much love and loyalty to his beloved relatives and friends.

            For some reason, I’m reminded of the story in John’s gospel of Jesus asking the crowd about to stone the adulteress: “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.” Had Jim been among the crowd, he likely would have been that one without sin, but he never would have cast that stone. He was buried on December 8 at St. Joseph’s Cemetery, joining my parents and other members of the Donnelly clan. I know he will rest in peace.

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon