This Land is Our Land?

By Patrick F. Cannon

It has become commonplace for museums and other institutions to publish a “Land Acknowledgement” statement. Tours at many institutions begin with a version of the statement. Although we’re not in any hurry to give the land back, it’s true that the Chicago area, for example, was once occupied by native American tribes like the Potawatomi, Ojibwe, and Odawa. The Treaty of 1833 effectively moved all of them west of the Mississippi.

            If all these acknowledgements  make people feel better, so be it. But I sometimes get the feeling that some of my fellow countrymen think that the United States is unique in displacing former populations. In fact, almost no people are where they started. The “native” Americans that we displaced all started somewhere in Asia. The Celts that populate much of Ireland, Scotland, Wales – and significant parts of /France and Spain – moved west from eastern Europe.

            And let’s not forget the Huns, Goths, and Visigoths of our history books. Today’s Italians have their blood, as well as Roman. Greek, and no doubt other strains  as well. Both sides of my family came from Ireland. There is evidence that Mesolithic hunter-gatherers were there at about 8,000 B.C. The Celts arrived at about 600 B.C. Then came the Vikings, Normans, Scots, and finally the English. None of them came (or gave up) peacefully.

            The successful conqueror was the one who managed to organize the new land. William the Conqueror wasted little time after defeating the Saxons at Hastings in 1066 in sending his minions around England to do what was essentially a census of his new subjects and the land they occupied. The resulting “Doomsday Book” still exists, held by the British National Archives at Kew. As was the case in much of Europe, the king assumed that he owned all the land, to be doled out to his favored followers, who in turn divided it among tenants who worked the land but didn’t own it. Some of these vast estates still exist in the UK, although land ownership is much more broadly held.

            These restrictions on who could own land were a major factor in the emigration of people from the Great Britain and other Northen European countries to North America. What they found was a sparsely populated paradise, with plenty of land to go around. You cleared some of it, and it was yours. Eventually, and inevitably, increasing numbers of immigrants began to move into lands traditionally occupied by native tribes.

            Thus began a pattern of resistance, wars, forced relocation, treaties, broken treaties, failed education initiatives – well, you get the idea. It was, as I said, inevitable, but also intentional. To give you some  idea of how early the concept of “manifest destiny” took hold, in 1787, the new government of the United States passed the Northwest Ordinance. Even though Native Americans then mostly occupied it, it was assumed that the areas that became the states of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, and part of Minnesota was already part of the United States and laid down for future Americans just how they could become states. If you own a piece of land in these states, how it is described (range, sections, divisions, subdivisions, etc.) is a result of the ordinance.

            We can’t change the past. We study history so we might learn from our mistakes and try to do better. We need only apologize when we ourselves fail. Which, alas, we continue to do.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

Valley Low

By Patrick F. Cannon

I was in the Pittsburgh area again this past weekend. Last year was the semi-annual Donnelly family reunion; this year was for an off-year mini reunion. I hosted a dinner for 30 relatives from the Pittsburgh area – including two of my remaining four first cousins. The venue was a golf club at the top of the hill that overlooks what locals call the “Mon Valley,” the valley of the Monongahela River. The immediate view was of Braddock, the town where I was born.

            It, along with most of the towns along the river, died with the decline and death of the steel industry, mostly the mills of U.S. Steel. On the drive to the restaurant, we passed through towns (known locally as boroughs) such as East Pittsburgh, Wilmerding, and Turtle Creek. The latter is named for a tributary of the Monongahela that enters it at Braddock. The towns all developed because of the massive Westinghouse air brake and electric generator factory that bordered the creek and employed 20,000 workers at its height. After a long decline, it finally closed in 1968.  

            The industrial collapse along that river, and the Allegheny which joins it at Pittsburgh to form the Ohio River, caused a massive population loss to the area. Pittsburgh itself lost nearly half its population. McKeesport, where I went to high school, went from 55,000 residents to fewer than 20,000 today. Braddock, where I was born, fared even worse, going from 20,000 at its peak to about 1,700 now.

            Yet, there are signs of life. Once plagued by industrial smoke and  river pollution, you can now breathe the air and even swim in the rivers (if you dare). Pleasure craft now seem abundant. If you’re so inclined, you can use one to travel unimpeded to the Gulf of Mexico. Pittsburg’s water highways are of course the reason the city exists. There is a beautiful park where the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers meet.  Because of its strategic location, the French built a fort there in 1754 and named it Fort Duquesne after the governor of New France. During what we call the French and Indian War, the English kicked them out and renamed it Fort Pitt after the British prime minister of the day. By the way, the unemployment rate is now 3.8 percent, lower than the national average.

            When I was a kid, locals drank beers named after both – “Duquesne, that’s the name. The finest beer in town!” and “Fort Pitts, that’s it!” Both went out of business but have now been revived by the same new brewer. There’s also Duquesne University, one of the top ranked Catholic schools.

            In addition to family events, we visited the Frick Museum, which featured an exhibit of French Impressionists and more modern works. The complex includes gardens, a conservatory, and the Frick Mansion. If you’re a regular reader, you may recall that we also recently visited the Frick Collection in Manhattan, located in another home of Henry Clay Frick, Andrew Carnengie’s partner in what became U.S. Steel. He’s famous (or infamous?) for breaking the famous Homestead Steel strike of 1892.

            Finally, I’d like to recognize my son-in-law Boyd, who did all the driving. After many trips to the Pittsburgh area, he is now an expert at navigating the hills and curves of the area. There is no getting anywhere “as the crow flies,” unless the crow has been drinking some of that local beer!

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’ve written previously that Frank Lloyd Wright lived and worked in Oak Park, Illinois for the 20 years between 1899 and 1910. Depending on your artistic interests, a more internationally famous Oak Parker, Nobel Prize winning writer Ernest Hemingway, was born in Oak Park, but left when he was 18, rarely to return. For the record, I lived there longer than both of t hem put together.

            Wright had a more physical impact – 24 of his buildings survive in Oak Park, by far the largest concentration in the world. Hemingway, of course, left behind a body of work that is widely read and studied around the world. But there are also physical reminders of him in Oak Park – the  house where he was born on July 21, 1899; and the house to which  the family moved when he was six. The birth home is now a museum, open to the public (hemingwaybirthplace.com).

            Hemingway was born in his grandparent’s 1890 Queene Anne house, but his parents built their own in 1906. Designed by Oak Park architect Henry G. Fiddelke in a Prairie influenced style, it was specially designed to suit the needs of Hemingway’s parents. His father Ed was a physician, so the house included a separate entrance to waiting and exam rooms.  Mother Grace was a singer and teacher, so Fiddelke provided a large music room, including a stage and even a balcony. The house has changed hands several times since, and those spaces have been adapted for family use. I have been in the house and seen Hemingway’s bedroom.           

            Both were towering figures, but their final days were quite different. Wright died full of honors, with his powers seemingly undiminished. Until his final illness, he was at his drawing board every day working on the commissions that came in on a regular basis. One oof his last great works, Manhattan’s Guggenheim Museum, was nearing completion.

            Hemingway died two years later on July 2, 1961, aged 61.  I was in the Army then, only recently arrived in France. I learned of his death in the Army’s newspaper, the Stars  & Stripes. No cause oof death was given. He had been  a hero of mine – a great writer but also a romantic figure: war hero, war correspondent, boxer, big game hunter, and bullfight aficionado. By a long way, America’s most famous writer. When I later learned he had died a suicide, I was shocked and confused.

            Just as with Wright, serious biographies have been able to explain much. In Hemingway’s case, he inherited a tendency to what is now called bi-polar disorder from his father’s family. His father died a suicide, as did his sister Ursala, his brother Leicester, and his granddaughter Margaux. Since no medications were then available, like many depressives, he self-medicated with alcohol. Just before his suicide in Ketchum, Idaho, he had been treated at the Mayo Clinic with electro-shock therapy, His doctors had also noted a cognitive decline.

            Having learned all this, it was easier for me to understand why he took his own life. Realizing that he could never write again – a craft he had devoted his life to perfecting – I’m sure he saw no other way out. Contrast this with Wright, who never lost his self-confidence.  Had he lived to be 100, he might well have surprised us with even more startling designs.

            Although Wright draws more tourists to Oak Park, Hemingway also lures his share of pilgrims. Strange, but neither the Village of Oak Park, nor any other government unit, has ever named anything after its two most famous sons. With one exception, all the local schools are named after worthies who never stepped foot in Oak Park.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

As I wrote last week, I’ll be working on a new book on Frank Lloyd Wright’s surviving buildings in the greater Chicago area. As part of my preparation, I’ve been re-reading some of the biographies; and Wright’s own Autobiography, first published in 1932. He was 65 then, without work, and in need of any cash the book might bring.

            To put it as kindly as possible, his book was a work of creative invention. From almost the first word of the chapter that describes his arrival in Chicago, he lies about almost every detail. He was unwilling to admit that he got his first job in architecture through his uncle Jenkin Lloyd Jones, so he creates a story that asks us to believe that he got that job with the architect Joseph Lyman Silsbee entirely on his own. That Silsbee had designed his uncle’s Chicago church and the Lloyd Jones family chapel in Wisconsin is glossed over.

            This is not the place to provide a catalog of Wright’s inventions. Once, when he was called out on one of them, it was pointed out to him that what he had just said couldn’t possibly be true. His response? “Well, there you are.” Then he changed the subject.

            Although I was aware of him before I began volunteering at his Home and Studio in Oak Park in 1975, my knowledge was based mostly on his very public persona. I was in high school and college in the 1950s, and Wright’s flamboyant personality seemed made to measure for the expanding television universe. He was interviewed by Mike Wallace, Hugh Downs, and others. With his sonorous voice, he could make the most outrageous statements and get away with them. In one appearance, he was filmed walking up 5^th Avenue in Manhattan, pointing out the sins of the International Style with his ever-present walking (or was it a swagger?) stick.

            When I first started giving tours of his Oak Park home and other local designs in 1975, many of my fellow volunteers held him in a kind of awed reverence. He died in 1959, and the first of the impartial biographies, Brendan Gill’s Many Masks, wasn’t published until 1987. Since then, other biographies and related works have appeared with regularity. They generally paint a picture of a flawed genius, who created an enduring body of work, while shamelessly exploiting his family, friends, clients, and apprentices.

With the active participation of his third wife Olgivanna, he created what can only be described as a cult at his school of architecture that came to be known as the “Fellowship.” In the photo above, he is surrounded by his devoted students, who not only paid for the privilege of working for him, but did all construction and farm work on the property. His influence over them extended to his pacifist and anti-war opinions. He was a member of American First, and, although he denied it, was influential in causing many of his apprentices to refuse to register for the draft that was instituted just prior to World War II. Three of them subsequently went to prison, and others to conscientious objector camps.

Although he was investigated for his role in this, and was subsequently watched by the F.B.I., he escaped punishment. I doubt if he lost any sleep over it, as he didn’t over the debts he failed to pay throughout a life lived beyond his means. Perhaps the most unforgiveable was the approximately $50,000 (over $1 million in today’s money) that he still owed his friend and benefactor Darwin Martin when Martin – who had been responsible for several lucrative commissions for Wright – died nearly broke in 1935, having lost  his fortune in the 1929 stock market crash.

In a review of one of the latest books about Wright, Paul Henrickson’s Plagued by Fire, a British reviewer described Wright as a “cad.” In this country we would perhaps not use that word, but it’s not such a bad description. But we’re inclined to overlook faults in artists of genius. When you look at Picasso’s Guernica, his misogyny isn’t the first  thing that comes to mind; or Wagner’s antisemitism when you hear to prelude  to “Lohengrin,” or indeed Wright’s character faults when you see Fallingwater for the first time, or enter the rotunda at the Guggenheim Museum, or – as I did many times – walk up into the sanctuary at Unity Temple.

In this era when we’re extremely ready to “cancel” someone for their failings, we should remind ourselves that the artist and his or her work are what matter most the end. “Well, there you are!”

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I may have mentioned one or more of my books in this space from time to time, but I thought I would indulge in a little shameless self-promotion today. I’ve listed just my most recent ones, which are all about Chicago architecture or architects. None of them would have been possible without the photographs of my partner James Caulfield, one of America’s greatest architectural photographers.

            Because he spent the first 20 years of his career in the Chicago area, Frank Lloyd Wright is a persistent presence in our books. Our most recent is Robie House: A Frank Lloyd Wright Masterpiece. It was published by the Frank Lloyd Wright Trust and is being distributed by the University of Minnesota Press. ($34.95, 130 pages) Located in Chicago’s Hyde Park neighborhood, Robie is one of the eight Wright buildings named World Heritage Sites by UNESCO. It is open for tours (www.flwright.org). Here are four more of our books:

            Louis Sullivan: An American Architect. Published by the Glessner House Museum; distributed by the University of Minnesota Press. ($49.95, 288 pages). Sullivan was one of the greatest of all American architects, and it can fairly be said that Frank Lloyd Wright, his employee from 1888-1893, learned to be an architect while working with Adler & Sullivan. Sullivan is widely regarded as the father of the American skyscraper.  

Frank Lloys Wright’s Unity Temple: A Good Time Place Reborn. Published by the Unity Temple Restoration Foundation; distributed by the University of Wisconsin Press. ($34.95, 120 pages). This is the other Wright World Heritage Site in the Chcaago area. Dedicated in 1908, it was the first modernist religious building in the world. It is also open for tours (www.flwright.org).

            At Home in Chicago: A History of Domestic Architecture. Published by City Files Press, Chicago. ($65.00, 364 pages). From the oldest surviving houses to some of the very newest, this is a visual survey of how people have housed themselves in Chicagoland.

            The Space Within: Inside Great Chicago Buildings. Published by Pomegranate Communications. ($65.00, 320 pages). For the first time in many cases, this book takes you inside many of the Chicago area’s landmark buildings.

            Except for the Robie book, which received a Bronze Medal, all were Gold Medal Winners at the Independent Publisher Book Awards. They also have in common that they were funded by the Richard H. Driehaus Foundation, which does so much to support the arts in the Chicago area. You may be familiar with the Driehaus Museum in Chicago, which contains a rich collection of furniture and decorative arts.

            Jim Caulfield and I have now started work on a new book, Chicago by Wright, which will document all the existing Frank Lloyd Wright-designed buildings in the Chicago area. There are nearly 100, making it the largest concentration of the architect’s buildings in the world. It  is being published by the Frank Lloyd Wright Conservancy and, once again, is made possible by a grant from the Richard H. Driehaus Foundation. It should be out in the spring of 2028.

            All our books are available from the usual online booksellers. But even if they don’t  stock them, your favorite local bricks and mortar bookstore should be able to get copies to you in a few days. If you have one, I urge you to support it. But of course, you can probably get a copy of  one or more of them from your local library. If they don’t have a copy, hey can usually get one through their local interlibrary loan system. If it’s listed in their catalog, they can get it for you.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

When I wrote about shoes last week, I left a gap for the two years, from 1961 to  1963, when I served in the U.S. Army. Although I have mixed feelings about my service, I can tell you that I didn’t have to worry about which shoes to wear. If you were wearing duty fatigues, it was boots; if a Class A uniform or summer khakis, it was low-top dress shoes. And no problem about color – both were black.

            You wore a tie only with the “Army green” Class A unform. It had replaced the (I guess) Army brown jacket and pinkish trousers worn into the late 1950s. The boots and shoes were then brown, and I can recall old sergeants – many who had served in World War II or Korea – pining for the old “brown shoe” Army. I see the modern “warrior” Army is changing back to brown, hoping the change will bring back those happy days when there was plenty of testosterone to go around, no women served in combat roles, and no women or blacks had stars on their shoulders or sleeves.

            Back to the footwear. You were issued a pair of  high-top combat boots and plain-toed dress shoes. An old soldier told us it would be wise to buy a second pair of boots to be worn or displayed only during inspections. That pair would always be highly polished, or “spit shined” as the custom demanded. For those of you new to the term, you applied polish to the boot, then spit on it and buffed away to make a mirror-like shine. Whether or not it had any effect on the enemy has not to my knowledge been studied.

            Speaking of shine, you were also issued a web belt with a brass buckle. The brass was covered with a lacquer coating. A damp cloth was all it took to keep it shiny. Such ease of maintenance was anathema to the Army. You were directed to remove the lacquer coating, so that a proper shine could only be achieved with a can of Brasso. In those days, it came in a metal can and stood next to your Kiwi shoe polish in your wall locker. It’s still widely used as a metal polish.

            You never ever wore your Army dress shoes with your civvies (as civilian duds were called). They were a dead giveaway to the local girls that you were not only a soldier from somewhere else, but a dork into the bargain. So, you soon learned to buy a pair of casual shoes to pair with your non-military outfits. Here’s an interesting story that proves the point.

            The post were I was stationed in the ancient French port city of La Rochelle included a small detachment of the Army’s Counter Intelligence Corps. At that time, France was in a more than normal period of upheaval. De Gaulle has returned to power, and France had a strong Communist Party, which largely danced to Russia’s tune. In my job, I handled a good deal of classified material, as did my two best buddies, Teddy, and Terry (I kid you not).

            We spent as much time as we could at the local cafes and restaurants, hoping to charm the local girls with our minimal French. One evening, we were drinking some beer at an outdoor café on the waterfront. At a nearby table sat a fellow with a jaunty beret on his head, and a dashing scarf around his neck. A Frenchman? Could have been, except for the spit-shined Army dress shoes. Was he keeping an eye on us to make sure we weren’t selling secrets to the Commies? Highly likely. But he should have been transferred to the “Unintelligence” corps for wearing those dead giveaway shoes!     

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Last week I wrote about the demise of the fedora. Of course, they’re not the only victim of a more modern and casual approach to men’s fashion. I remember being appalled when I first saw what looked like white tennis shoes on the feet of a man wearing a suit a tie. Now, of course, one is used to seeing all sorts of shoes paired with even formal dress.

            Looking back, I don’t have a clear memory of the kind of shoes  I wore until I started going to school. Sometime before classes started, you were taken to  the local shoe store to get “school” shoes. These would be made of sturdy leather, usually a size too large to allow for the inevitable growth during the year. By the time school was out, they were fit only for the garbage. I should mention that the trip to the shoe store had an added appeal. You put your feet in a kind of X-ray machine. You could see the bones in your feet! They eventually decided bombarding feet with deadly rays wasn’t a great idea.

            Summer vacation meant “tennies.” They weren’t like a classic tennis shoe, but more like today’s “high top” basketball shoes. Ours were usually black. I’m not sure, but I think Converse and Keds were the usual brands. By the  end of the summer, they were both worn out and had developed that classic never-to-be forgotten wet tennis shoe odor.

            It’s only when you reach high school age that you begin to care about shoe fashion. During my four years, I can recall owning a pair of blue suede shoes but later I decided that white buck and saddle shoes were more my style!  The “Ivy League” look had come in, even in the grimy Pittsburgh area (McKeesport in my case). I checked, and you can still buy all the above. I should warn you, however, that you must apply an occasional coat of shoe whitener when the white gets scuffed or grimy. Good old Kiwi of shoe polish fame still makes the stuff.

            Speaking of Kiwi, there’s many a man today who’s never used shoe polish. Nor availed himself of a professional shoe shine. Back when I worked in Chicago’s Loop, most barber shops had a shoeshine stand. When I was young, I worked for the New York Central Railroad at La Salle Street Station. Many men would get off a train and stop for a shine. Even though I was making little money then, I often had a shine. As I recall, it cost 25 cents (you tipped another 25).

            For most of my working life I wore what are now called “dress” shoes. They were either black or various shades of brown. While there were and are variations, the toes were either plain, capped, or wing tipped. Although some socks had subtle patterns, most were black, dark blue or deep brown. They were calf length, so that no skin would show when you crossed your legs. Now, to my horror (or maybe just bemusement) men have taken to wearing bright colored socks, or no socks at all!, with dress shoes.  

            When I retired 25 years ago, I owned four pairs of dress shoes – black cap toe; ox blood wing tips; brown slip in tassel wing tips; and standard loafers. All except the last were made by Allen Edmunds, a premium brand made in Wisconsin. Even in those long-ago days, most Allen Edmund shoes cost at least $300 a pair. The best dress shoes I ever owned were a pair of shell cordovan plain toe brogues. This leather comes from a small area of a horse’s rump and takes a shine like no other leather. Allen Edmunds offers a pair at $850, but you can pay much more.

            (By the way, if your Allen Edmunds shoes get tired, you can send them to the factory and for $150 they’ll replace heels, soles, etc., and send them back looking like new.)

            Anyway, I eventually had to give all those shoes away. Strangely enough, I outgrew them.  As you age, you shrink in height – I went from 6’2” to 6’1’ – but that inch is added to your feet, so I now wear a size 13 instead of size 12. If I keep shrinking, I may yet need clown shoes.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Over the winter, I happened to be in Chicago’s Loop, and found myself walking past the Federal center, which includes an office building, the courthouse, and a post office, all designed by the famous German-born architect, Mies van der Rohe. The complex includes a plaza, notable for a striking red stabile by artist Alexander Calder. But it was something else that caught my eye.

            Two older men were walking across the plaza, clearly headed for the courthouse. Both were wearing dark blue full-length overcoats, with ties clearly visible. On their heads? Felt fedoras. When I first started working at a real corporate job in 1963, almost every man working downtown was dressed similarly. Now, they’re in the minority. I assumed these distinguished gentlemen were either Federal judges or lawyers practicing before them. The courts, it seems, are one of the last bastions of proper dress (although “proper” may now be considered an elitist word).

            When I got that first corporate job, I was fresh out of the Army. I owned one suit, which clearly would need a friend or two. For some years, I bought my suits either at Baskins (owned by Hart, Shaffner & Marx) or Marshall Field’s. When I retired in 2001, I owned eight suits and two sports coats. Now, I have one blue-made-to-measure suit, suitable for weddings and funerals; and two sports coats, a navy-blue blazer, which I occasionally wear and a patterned one which I wish I hadn’t bought.

            I lived for many years in Oak Park. When I moved back in 1974, there were at least five men’s stores – Baskins, Lytton’s, Marshall Fields, Bogarts, and Spaulding’s. Now? None. You must go across the street to River Forest, which has a Men’s Warehouse. The fashion in hats comes and goes, but you’re more likely to see baseball-like caps on men’s heads than fedoras, including the bright red version worn by the leader of the free world.   

            In addition to buying those suits in 1963, I thought I’d better get a hat too. Baskins had a hat section on the first floor of its downtown store, so I bravely ventured in. I didn’t see myself in the typical grey or brown fedora, so I chose something a bit younger and sportier (I thought). I remember it had a bright red band  and a jaunty feather. I wore it a few times, but every time I looked in the mirror it looked goofier, so I stopped wearing it.

As it happened, John F. Kennedy was president then and was often seen sans hat, which caused consternation in the hat industry. Concerned that he might lose the hat vote, he was thereafter occasionally seen sporting a fedora. But it was too late. You would be hard pressed to remember seeing subsequent presidents – even stodgy Richard Nixon – wearing anything but a golf hat.

There was a hat protocol. Gentlemen took their hats off in elevators and never wore them in a restaurant or other public place. Older churches still have hat clips in pews so they could be safely stored. On the other hand, Roman Catholic and other denominations required women to have a head covering. No longer. I suspect that’s one of the reasons the folks who belong to the breakaway Society of St. Pius X broke away from the  Roman church after Vatican II.

Fedoras make a comeback from time to time. Do hipsters still wear those tiny versions as they haunt the streets of hippier neighborhood like Chicago’s Wicker Park (or have they been gentrified out?)? And we can always count on black men and women to rise to the occasion, particularly on Sundays. The rest of us will just have to get used to seeing both men and women wearing baseball caps even in the finest restaurants. The ongoing vulgarization of American taste demands it.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon  

(This piece was first published 10 years ago. In a year when the Vulgarian in Chief turned the White House lawn unto his version of the Roman Coliseum, complete with bloody gladiators, we need to search for relief wherever we can.)

By Patrick F. Cannon

My contention that Fred Astaire was one of greatest singers of popular song of his era – hell, of any era – is often met with incomprehension or bemusement. Surely, people think, you mean one of the great dancers? That’s, of course, if they have any real idea of who he was in the first place. Like so many artists of even the day before yesterday, he has faded into the mists of entertainment history.

            A case in point: I give tours at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Home & Studio in Oak Park, and mention that the actress Anne Baxter was Wright’s granddaughter. Most of the 15 or so people on the tour don’t have a clue who she was, since her heyday was in the 40s, 50s and 60s. The exceptions would be people older than 70 and cinema nuts. While Fred Astaire had a much higher status and fame than her, he is just as dead for most young people.

            Yet, he deserves their attention. In an age of increasing and unceasing vulgarity, he might offer an oasis of grace and elegance. Even his walk was worth watching. In one of his best musicals – and one of the best of all movie musicals – The Band Wagon, he has arrived in New York on the 20^th Century Limited. He is a Hollywood star whose career is in decline, and he has taken a role in a new Broadway musical. On the train, he meets Ava Gardener, playing herself. They chat a bit, but when they get off the train at Grand Central Station, reporters and photographers mob her, while poor Fred is ignored.

            Alone, he begins walking to the terminal, while singing “I’ll go my way, by myself…”  I urge you to go Google these opening lyrics, which should lead you to an outtake from the movie. Notice how Fred’s walk is gracefully attuned to the music, how this simple act becomes imbued with meaning and emotion. Notice also how beautifully the song is sung, how each word is presented clearly for your consideration.

                Two of the greatest composers of American song of the 20^th Century – really of all time – Irving Berlin and George Gershwin both were quoted as saying that they preferred Fred above all others to sing their songs. Why? Because they could count on him to sing the song as written, to annunciate the words clearly, and to be in tune and on pitch. I should also mention that the late great Tony Bennett many years ago mentioned Fred as one of his inspirations.

            I have a CD of some of his greatest songs. I keep it in my car and play it often. Like Bach’s Goldberg Variations, I never tire of listening to it. If you don’t know Fred as a great singer, I’m sure you would be able to find albums on Amazon or any of a number of music sites that would convince you. While we all should keep up with contemporary music (selectively!), we should also find time to honor the great art of the past.

             Finally, if you get a chance to watch any of his movies, you’ll discover that he could dance a little, too.

Copyright 2016, 2026, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

When I was a mere lad of four or five, my dear sister Kathleen often took my brother and me  to the movies. At that time, Braddock, PA – where I  was born – had three theatres. As I recall, the Capital got the big features after their downtown Pittsburgh run. We typically went to the Paramount, which showed mostly westerns, serials (which we called “chapters”), and occasionally a horror film or two. One day, the bill featured The Mummy and The Wolf Man.

            Boris Karloff, that versatile British actor who also starred as Frankenstein, was the Mummy and Lon Cheney Jr was the poor soul who morphed into a hairy creature every time there was full moon. I remember vividly, after more than 80 years mind you, being unable to sleep that night, thinking every sound  was either the mummy or Dracula (or both) creeping up on me. Thanks, Sis!

            When I was ten, I saw the best of all the horror movies, Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein. During this classic film, the boys run into not only Frankenstein, but our old pals ‘Dracula, of course played by Bela Lugosi; and the Wolf Man, still the hairy-faced Lon Cheney, Jr. Funny stuff, as I recall.

            The horror movie has never gone out of fashion, and often with the same suspects. Director Guillermo del Toro just last year released his own take on Frankenstein, based as all are the others on Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel. My favorite is Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein, starring Gene Wilder as Doc Frankenstein (pronounced Frank En Steen!), and Peter Boyle as a song and dance monster.

            Interest in creatures like these comes in waves. The novelist Anne Rice put vampires front and center in 1976 with the publication of Interview With a Vampire, which featured the blood sucking escapades of a French noble named Lestat de Lioncourt. In case you aren’t up on these things, vampires are creatures who never die, so long as they get a regular fill up of human blood, which they usually get from a comely blonde, who  then becomes a new vampire. And so on. The moral? Beware of people with longer than normal canine teeth. Proving his versatility, Lescat was played by Tom Cruise in the movie version.

            Mummies are a sub species of the walking dead. The idea here is that they rise from the dead to  wreak vengeance on the raiders who have desecrated and robbed their tombs. Brendan Fraser appeared in a series of movies based on the idea; and our stalwart actor Tom Cruise showed up in 2107 in a  remake of 1932s The Mummy. Not sure whether he played the mummy or his intended victim (or maybe both?)

            A Zombie is a reanimated corpse from the Voodoo tradition of Haiti (I think). But it is the “walking dead” of the good old USA that should cause the most concern. I’ve lost count of the number of movies and TV series that have set thousands of the gaunt and pasty risen dead loose on communities throughout the country. They are of particular concern to me as I live in the Village of Forest Park, which because of the number of cemeteries within its borders, is said to have far more dead than living residents. If some day they all rise from their graves, we’re in big trouble, particularly if their leaders look like Tom Cruise.

Copyright 2026, Patrick F. Cannon