They’re the Greatest! (Or Are they?)

By Patrick F. Cannon

A movie just out, Yesterday, directed by Danny Boyle, has an interesting plot. Some kind of catastrophe has caused everyone in the world to forget that the Beatles and their songs ever existed – except, that is, for one so far unsuccessful, but soon to be famous, songwriter. According to the review I read, the movie’s assumption is that the Beatles were the greatest songwriters who ever lived.

Thus, once again, the dubious claim that someone or something is “the greatest” is made. In my memory, only two individuals have made such a claim for themselves – Mohammed Ali and Donald Trump. Ali had the better claim, if you forget Joe Louis in his prime, or Rocky Marciano, who, after all, retired undefeated. And then of course there’s Jack Johnson. As to Trump, the list of his betters includes just about everyone in the world except his buddies Putin and Kim.

I’m a great admirer of McCartney and Lennon, but are they really greater than Irving Berlin, Richard Rogers, George Gershwin, Cole Porter – or Steven Foster, Franz Schubert and Gustav Mahler for that matter? Why does anyone think the Beatles have to be in competition with all the other songwriters who ever lived? Only Paul McCartney is still with us, but I’m sure he’d be reluctant to claim his talents are superior to George Gershwin’s.

To continue with music, there are people who will argue over the relative merits of Beethoven as opposed to Mozart; or Mozart as opposed to Bach; or Bach as opposed to Stravinsky; and on and on. Why not just be glad they all decided to be composers instead of politicians?

Baseball fans go crazy with this “greatest” stuff. For example, Ty Cobb had the highest lifetime batting average (.366), but had a slugging percentage of .5120 as opposed to Babe Ruth’s .6897. What would Ted William’s slugging percentage of .6338 have been if he had not missed five prime seasons serving his country?  Would his lifetime batting average of .344 been as high as Cobb’s? But were any of these worthies actually the best all-around ball player of all time? Fruitless, isn’t it?

I once thought that Rembrandt was the greatest painter of all time. Then I discovered Velasquez, then began looking more closely at Titian. Don’t many consider Leonardo da Vinci the top guy, even though he had trouble finishing his paintings? And don’t forget Michelangelo, a great all-rounder, who could do you a fine sculpture and later paint your ceiling.

Of course, all these guys have been dead for 400 years or so. How about some more-contemporary artists like Turner, Van Gogh, Monet or the great Picasso? Or what’s wrong with the living? How about Jeff Koons (just kidding!)?

People are also fond of listing the greatest US Presidents. Lincoln and Washington vie for the top spot, with Lincoln winning on points. Others near the top include Franklin and Teddy Roosevelt, Jefferson, Jackson (yikes!), Lyndon Johnson, Harry Truman and Woodrow Wilson. Conservative think Reagan should make the list. The thing is that all of them came along just when they were needed.

Many historians also like to rank the worst presidents. Failures like John Tyler, Millard Fillmore and James Buchanan no longer have to vie for the dubious honor of being last on the list.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Biden Puts His Foot in It (Again)

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’ve known Joe Biden since 1972. He was a brash young man then and was never – and I mean never – at a loss for words. When I say “known” I don’t mean I’ve actually met him, but I’ve seen and heard him so often that he seems like the younger brother I never had. You know, the young kid who can’t shut up.

Of course, he’s not so young anymore. If he somehow manages to get elected President in 2020, he’ll be 78 when he takes office. His equally talkative opponent for the Democratic nomination, Bernie Sanders, would be 79. For the record, Ronald Reagan was 78 when he left office after two terms. To be kind, he was not quite up to the task for the last two years or so.

Anyway, back to Joe. He served six terms in the Senate and two as Vice President. While in the Senate, hardly a Sunday passed without him appearing on one or more of the Sunday morning news programs like Meet the Press and Face the Nation. On one, he might talk about the Iraq war; and on the other, the latest Supreme Court nominee. He was never at a loss for words or an opinion.

That’s his problem now. When you have pontificated as much as he has over nearly 50 years in public office, you inevitably stick your foot in it from time to time. In our enlightened era, the longer your career, the more grist for the politically-correct mill. Historical perspective counts for nothing; it’s only today’s orthodoxy that counts.

Joe made the mistake of mentioning that to get things done you had occasionally to work with people whose opinions were abhorrent to you personally. He mentioned former Democratic senators James O. Eastland of Mississippi and Herman Talmadge of Georgia, both arch segregationists, as fellow senators he worked with on other issues that were beneficial to the American people as a whole. Shame on him for putting the public good ahead of partisanship.

I may have lost count, but Biden has 22 challengers for the Democratic nomination for President. Every one of them was nearly apoplectic that he should even suggest that one could work with someone who didn’t measure up to the current orthodoxy. Of course, that orthodoxy depends on one-party control of the presidency and both houses of Congress. If they don’t achieve it – it will be difficult to dislodge the Republicans from control of the Senate – they will have to look good old Mitch McConnell in the eye. In case you haven’t noticed, he never blinks.

By the time you read this, the first of the Democratic Party debates will have taken place. One idea that seems to be gathering support from several candidates is forgiving student loan debt. The same candidates are also floating the idea of free college education for all (thus, presumably eliminating the student loan problem in the future).

As with everything else, the loan issue is complicated. For example, the Federal government was only too happy to approve loans to for-profit colleges and trade schools who were then only too happy to sign up unqualified students, who predictably flunked out owing a lot of money. And apparently it never occurred to many who did graduate from legitimate schools that they might have borrowed less money if they had actually worked to earn some of their tuition and other fees. Of course, I’m sure you won’t mind paying off their debts and their education costs going forward.

In this regard, I’m reminded of a story about former President Calvin Coolidge. When approached about the possibility of forgiving Great Britain’s debt from World War I, old “silent Cal” gave a typically brief reply: “They hired the money, didn’t they?”

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Man the Ramparts!

By Patrick F. Cannon

Smithers stood at the ramparts, studying the distant forest with his telescope. “Nothing moving yet, sir.”

“Let me have a look,” I said. I took the telescope – the very one the lookout on the Santa Maria had used when he yelled “Land Ho!” on that fateful day in 1492 – and looked across the plains toward the distant stand of trees. The leaves were rustling in the gentle breeze, but there was as yet no army in sight, although I knew they would approach from there.

“You would think,” said the faithful Smithers, “that they would have had their fill of blood and flesh, that their hunger would be satiated. After all, what harm can we few, we happy few, we band of brothers actually do?”

“Ah, Smithers, but they can’t stand the thought that they haven’t subjugated the whole realm; that there might yet be a small corner that they haven’t conquered and digested. They must have even this insignificant corner. Their hunger is all consuming, their lust for blood terrifying.”

Just then, I noticed a slight movement among the trees. Then, slowly but remorselessly, a mighty host emerged and began forming on the plains. At its head was a golden chariot. Smithers was awestruck, but managed to croak: “Who’s that in the golden chariot?”

“That’s General Pritzker. Apparently, he can’t sit a white steed properly, so the Democratic party had the foundry-workers union cast a sturdy buggy for him. Strangely, his seat looks like a golden toilet.”

“But where’s Field Marshall Madigan?”, the puzzled Smithers asked.

“He’s toward the rear, surrounded by his Praetorian Guard. He seems to directing one of his minions – I believe it’s Colonel Cullerton – to relay instructions by cell phone to Pritzker.”

“Why doesn’t he do it himself?”

“He didn’t get to be Field Marshall by talking on a wire-tapped phone. He’s seen what’s happened to some of his foot soldiers.”

We both watched as the mighty host came closer and closer. Even without the telescope, you could see the bloodthirsty mob slobbering with anticipation. At the same time, they issued forth unearthly yells, which sounded like “more taxes, more taxes, more taxes!”

Smithers, the bravest of the brave in most cases, whispered “there’s no way we can survive this attack. And they’ll take no prisoners! Perhaps it would be prudent to retreat now so we can live to fight another day.”

“Well, that seem sensible. Where do you suggest we go?”

“How about Indiana? A lot of our friends are there already.”

“Why not? Issue the orders!”

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Have You Had Enough?

By Patrick F. Cannon

With the cemetery where thousands of Americans are buried who died to liberate Europe from Nazi tyranny as a backdrop, President Trump in a Fox News interview chose to honor the 75^th Anniversary of D-Day by insulting the Speaker of the House of Representatives and the former head of the F.B.I., who is himself a decorated veteran of the Viet Nam War. It was only the latest disgusting performance by a man who is totally unfit to hold his office, and who is not only unqualified, but a thoroughly bad man.

As a political conservative myself, I am sick and tired of Republicans and others tolerating and even celebrating this amoral and immoral man. I read the other day that the Republican National Committee is busy raising money for his reelection campaign instead of working to find someone to run against him for the party’s nomination. Do they have a death wish? Perhaps they’re all getting shaved at the local barber shop so they don’t have to look themselves in the mirror every morning?

I’m sick and tired of the argument that after all he’s responsible for the booming economy and the loosening and eliminating of many of the regulations that Republicans find so restrictive. What they forget, it seems to me, is that any Republican president would no doubt have done the same, while not cozying up to such worthies as Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong-un, and insulting our allies in other parts of the world. Oh, and trashing such bedrock Republican principles as free trade and international cooperation.

Two of Trump’s accomplices deserve special mention. Senator Mitch McConnell was first elected to the Senate from Kentucky in 1984, and became majority leader in 2015, in time to prevent President Obama’s final nominee to the Supreme Court from getting a vote in the Senate. As minority leader when Obama took office in 2009, he publicly proclaimed that his aim was to make certain that he (Obama) wouldn’t be re-elected in 2012. He failed in this. He also failed to prevent passage of the Affordable Care Act, but successfully thwarted most of the rest of the President’s legislative program. Although he originally supported Rand Paul in the Republican primaries, he soon jumped on the Trump bandwagon when it became clear his nomination was inevitable.

He is the archetype of the modern politician who puts party ahead of country. Nancy Pelosi, who evidences this tendency herself, is wise to counsel caution on the impeachment issue. She understands that even if the House were to impeach the president with overwhelming evidence, McConnell would likely prevent his conviction in the Senate. Based on her knowledge of the situation, Pelosi is happy to wait until Trump leaves office, when he is almost certain to be indicted.

(I would like here to point out that McConnell was born in Alabama, not Kentucky. My friend Skip – who was born in Kentucky – would like everyone to understand that the Blue Grass state bears no responsibility for spawning him.)

Lindsey Graham, the senior senator from South Carolina, is a special case. Long known as John McCain’s best friend in the Senate, he has become an avid Trump supporter. As we know, McCain criticized the president on a whole range of issues, including his character. For this, the famously vindictive Trump heaped abuse on McCain even after his death. His animus was so extreme that his staff had the USS McCain hidden during the president’s recent trip to Japan because they knew he would explode if he saw it.

(Just for the record, the ship is named for the three McCain’s who served their country in time of war. Both John McCain’s father and grandfather were distinguished admirals. Trump, although not alone in this, got enough draft deferments to insure he didn’t serve in Viet Nam.)

For Lindsey Graham, friendship only goes so far. When you have to pander to the many Trump supporters among the “lost cause” white voters in South Carolina to get re-elected, well, loyalty is a luxury you can’t afford. Maybe the voters in Kentucky and South Carolina will do the right thing and rid themselves of these sanctimonious hypocrites. In the meantime, I have to call my barber to make sure Madigan and Cullerton have already been in for their shaves.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

The Scottish Game

By Patrick F. Cannon

A Scot invented the steam engine, thus transforming the world. Before Mr. Watt, however, just about the only things the people living in the northern reaches of Great Britain were known for were chilblains and runny noses. Oh, and the game that caused most Scots to have the dour expression they are known for throughout the world – golf.

No less an authority than Mark Twain was heard to say that “golf was a good walk spoiled.” Since there is no record of Mr. Twain ever playing the game, the quote is suspect. What is certain is that he never ventured to Scotland during his many trips to Europe and other parts of the known world. Had he done so and been handed a mashie niblick at the fabled Old Course at St. Andrews, we might never have had Huckleberry Finn. Such are the vagaries of history!

Like many golf courses in Scotland, St. Andrews is laid out along the sea. You would think it would be prime beachfront property, but the combination of high winds, rain and cold make it highly unlikely you would ever see a lass cavorting in a bikini. Since the Scots are known as gluttons for punishment (they eat haggis after all), they saw quite early that this windswept land of dunes, bracken and heather was a perfect place for a bracing walk. Being practical folk, and the ground being a bit on the lumpy side, they always carried a good stout walking stick.

On one typically gruesome day in 1437, McTavish and McCleod were navigating their favorite seaside path when they came upon several dried-up turds left by one of the wandering Highland Cattle that summered at the shore. Not wishing to leave the spiracle poops for later ramblers to step on, one of them – their clans have fought over this distinction for hundreds of years – turned his walking stick upside down and smote one of the spheres with his stick. It rose in a lovely arc before landing neatly on a far dune. Thus was golf invented!

My own introduction to the noble game came at a young age. My family moved to Chicago’s South Shore neighborhood in January of 1947. It was the coldest winter in the history of Chicago, and maybe even the country, but we soon noticed that our apartment building was directly across the street from Jackson Park. When it became warm enough to go outside – I believe it was May – we discovered that the trees along 67^th Street actually hid the 7^th and 8^th holes of a golf course.

Now I’m sure I had a vague notion that such a game existed, but I had never seen actual golfers in action. I could now watch the valiant sportsmen approach and putt on the 7^th green, and tee off over water on the 8^th, a short par 3. I soon caught on to the way the game was played, and to the often-colorful language that seemed part of its traditions. Now, my parents weren’t prudes and occasionally let slip a mild curse or two, but nothing like the torrent of curses that often followed a missed putt, or tee shot deposited in the water. Later, of course, I came to understand the reasons for this seeming vulgarity (although I attempt to internalize the worst of my own rants).

My descent into madness began when my brother Pete and I were given a starter set of J.C. Higgins golf clubs from Sears. The golfers among you will be interested to know the set consisted of a driver, 3 wood, 2,5,7 & 9 irons and a putter. With them, we would sneak on the course when it wasn’t crowded and play a hole or two. We also had a small business going. We would fish balls out of the lagoon on the 8^th hole and seek to sell them to golfers on the tee. Now, in those days a new premium ball would retail for about a buck (they’re three or four times as expensive now). You could sell a perfect one for a quarter, a significant sum in the late 1940s. What we didn’t know was that the course had sold the rights to fish balls out of the water to a contractor, who caught us one day and chased us off.

I reached my highest skill in the game in my late 20s and early 30s, when I played fairly regularly. I was even once a member of the legendary Albert Lea, Minnesota Country Club. Nowadays, I’m delighted to shoot in the 40s for nine holes, which Dick, Skip and I try to do once a week during the Spring and Summer, followed by lunch.

Perhaps my greatest memory of watching golf was the 1986 Masters, when Jack Nicklaus won at age 46. But my best story involved a friend of mine named Jim. Now, Jim was a fanatic golfer, but just as mediocre as most of us are. But he persisted, trying new swings, new clubs and even new shoes in his quest for perfection. Alas, to no avail. His score occasionally dipped into the high 80s, but that was that.

Late one day, Jim was playing alone late in the day, so he could hit more than one ball per hole. On a long par 4, he sliced his ball to the right, and watched it dribble into the woods. He saw where it went in, so was confident he would find it. When he entered the woods, he was startled to find an old, bearded man standing next to his golf ball. He looked much as a showrunner (there’s a new word for you) for Game of Thrones might have imagined a hermit to look.

“Who are you, old man?” says Jim.

“I’m the golf God, here to grant you a wish.”

“Could you make me a great golfer?”

“No problem, but there’s a catch. As you become a better golfer, you will notice a decreased sexual drive.”

Jim thought about this only for a moment before responding “Oh, well, guess you can’t have everything! Make me a great golfer!” Whereupon, the old man disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Jim picked up his ball and dropped it on the fairway. Choosing a 3 wood, he made a mighty swing. The ball soared through air and landed three feet from the hole. Jim made the putt for a par, and never looked back.

As the weeks and months passed, his game kept getting better and better. At the end of the season, he won the club championship; the next year, the state amateur. The following year he qualified for the US Amateur (he loved his job and decided not to turn pro). He was playing a practice round on his home course, when on the same par 4 where he had met the hermit, he again sliced his drive into the woods. He was amazed, as he hadn’t sliced a drive in two years. To his amazement, when he entered the woods, the same old man was standing next to his ball.

“Why are you here?,” asked Jim.

“I thought I would give you one more chance to reconsider your decision. Surely your sex life has dwindled a lot?”

“Well, yes, I’m down to only once a month.”

“Goodness, I can’t believe you’re satisfied with that.”

“Well,” responded Jim with a smile, “it’s not bad for a priest.”

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Oh Art, Where Art Thou?

By Patrick F. Cannon

I have been a member of the Art Institute of Chicago for many years. As one of the benefits, I receive a quarterly magazine. It covers current and upcoming exhibits and other matters of interest. The Summer 2019 issue runs to 56 pages and is printed on excellent-quality paper; even its ads are tonier than you’ll find in the average consumer magazine.

In my experience, there are always exhibits at the Art Institute that encourage a visit. Two that interest me currently are a survey of Manet’s late work and another on 100 years of London Underground posters (the subway system, not a group of subversives). Of course, the permanent collections are among the best in the world and are worth visiting and revisiting.

Opening on August 24 is one I might pass up. It includes works by Eleanor Antin, including CARVING: A Traditional Sculpture (1972); and CARVING: 45 Years Later (2017). Both include nude photographs taken by the artist of herself as she was dieting, the first series when she was 37 (148 images) and the latter when she was 83 (500 images!). Front, side and rear views are included.

Now, Antin’s naked body isn’t any more repulsive than most folks, although it wouldn’t excite lust. Nudity certainly doesn’t offend me; it’s just that I wonder what would possess anyone to take hundreds of nude photographs of herself and happily exhibit them in public. According to the magazine, the 1972 work (which is owned by the Art Institute) “comprises a grid of 148 photographs that sequentially capture the artist’s journey to lose 10 pounds over a 37-day period. Antin’s deadpan pseudo-scientific self-portraits mock the objectivity of Conceptual Art while alluding to the conceits of Classical sculpture, which claim (editor’s note: shame on you Michelangelo) that the ideal form lies within a block of stone, waiting to be freed by the artist.”

According to the artist herself, discussing the 2017 version: “It now took forever to lose a single pound. I believe that my older body (editor’s note: I can sympathize) was in a valiant and existential struggle to prevent its transformation into the skeleton beneath the protecting flesh…death.”

Antin is among those fortunate artists who don’t have to bother picking up a paint brush or chisel like poor benighted Michelangelo. Instead she takes photographs, makes videos and creates performances. One of her specialties is arranging models in tableaus that parody 19^th Century paintings of ancient Roman events. The one here, part of a series, used Russian painter Karl Briullov’s canvas showing the “Last Days of Pompeii” as its inspiration. Anyone who has tried to arrange a groups portrait can appreciate the work involved in getting the poses just right, although it must be said that the effort pales in comparison to the Russian’s labors in creating his huge canvas (if somewhat overdone to our modern eyes).

Of course, I could have illustrated this piece with a sample from one of her nude photos, but I thought I would leave that up to those interested enough to do a Google search. In the meantime, you could ask yourself this question: would I pose for a series of 148 (much less 500) nude photos of myself? No? Well, clearly you don’t have the temperament to be an artist in this age of existential struggle.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Thomas Crapper, Flushed With Pride!

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’m sure you’ve been out to dinner with family or friends when one of the group announces “excuse me, I have to go to the crapper.” Although it surely could have been more elegantly put, you would know that he or she was headed to the bathroom.

What you may not know is the derivation of the word “crapper.” While the word “crap” may have its origins in Old English, “crapper” actually derives from the inventor of improved toilets in Victorian England, Thomas Crapper (1836-1910).  According to some sources (that may even be reliable) the term came into wide use during World War II, when American soldiers stationed in England noticed the name “Crapper” on local toilet tanks and began using that name for the entire facility.

When the GIs came home after the war, they continued to use the word, thus infecting the rest of the population, or at least the cruder sorts. As you know, there are millions of words in our glorious language; so many, in fact, that it is fruitless to question the derivation of all words that one uses. In the case of “crapper” I came upon its meaning quite by accident.

My most recent book, The Space Within: Inside Great Chicago Buildings, done with my partner, photographer Jim Caulfield, includes the 1883 Nickerson Mansion, now the Driehaus Museum at 40 E. Erie in Chicago. The day we did the photography, I asked one of the staff members for the location of a rest room. She directed me to one that was near the original kitchen. Lo and behold (I’ve been itching to use that cliché for years) the bathroom contained the original toilet and tank, a Thomas Crapper of course.

Now, when it was built, the Nickerson Mansion was the largest and most elaborate in Chicago, built as it was for the president of the First National Bank. Apparently the architects, Burling and Whitehouse, didn’t trust American plumbing fixtures, so imported them from England. The survivor still works OK, so maybe they had the right idea.

Sanitary plumbing, including the flush toilet, was yet another of the great inventions of the 19^th Century. Although steam power was invented in the 18^th, it was only fully exploited in the 19^th, when it powered railroads, steam ships and industry. Electricity, the internal combustion engine and the telephone are only a few of the other inventions that transformed life forever. Who can deny the flush toilet its place in this Pantheon of innovations?

Those who wander the woods in search of birds and berries do what our ancestors did in the bad old days – they search for a discrete spot behind a tree to unload their waste. Some people – even in this country – still don’t have indoor plumbing, so must trek out to the outhouse. Once upon a time, even the rich were reduced to using what was in essence a porta-potty. Their servants then were required to empty the pot, sometimes out the window upon unlucky passers-by.

So, let us give due honor to the great Crapper, the Thomas Edison of human waste! His company survives to this day, and even sells its own brand of toilet paper. Now, toilet paper is an interesting subject too, but its story will have to wait for another day (did you even wonder what folks did before it came into use?).

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

The Lord Giveth…

By Patrick F. Cannon

Proving once again that initiative and imagination are the hallmarks of Illinois politicians, State Senator Martin Sandoval (D, Chicago) has proposed to close a loophole tax-break granted to the tree huggers who drive all-electric cars. It seems to have occurred to him that people who drive these saviors of the environment are actually paying no fuel taxes!

This shocking fact came to light as he and his fellow legislators were cooking up a scheme to double the gas tax to 44 cents a gallon and increase the vehicle registration fee from $98 to $148, with the intent to fund a massive public works program (a boon to the contractors and unions who so generously donate to our fine politicians). Of course, some years before, they had passed legislation providing financial incentives for owners of electric vehicles to buy them and install charging stations. What were they thinking? So, to redress this injustice, Sandoval proposed to charge no less than $1,000 a year to license electric cars.

It may be that Sandoval thinks that electricity is free, or at least untaxed. In fact, taxes are paid both by the power provider and the consumer, so every time the vehicle is charged, the state gets it share. And, by the way, in case you thought that electric vehicles had no negative effect on our air, have you ever considered what is used to generate most electricity? While we’re making great strides in wind and solar power, most of our power comes from plants fueled by those old polluters, coal, oil and natural gas; so, while no smoke comes out of exhaust pipes, it most certainly does from power-plant chimneys.

While the $1,000 figure is likely to be somewhat reduced in the final version of the bill, in the meantime the Democrat legislators are merrily continuing their assault on corporations and the rich. In another exciting development, the Illinois Senate will take up a bill already passed by the House that would require Illinois’ corporations to include women and minorities on their boards of directors. Now, I happen to think it’s a good idea for corporations to have diversity of opinion and experience on their boards. But I manifestly do not believe it’s any government’s business to tell a private company how it should govern itself. If their shareholders demand such a change, that’s their prerogative, because they own the business.

There is a growing belief among so-called “progressives” that only the government can solve society’s problems. Bernie Sanders and his ilk would not only have the Federal government take over health care, but all education as well. And his acolytes are busy taking every opportunity to shout down those who might disagree. In response, their opponents dig in their heels and even helped elect that amoral buffoon, Donald Trump president (and might do it again if they’re not careful).

Illinois, instead of making a sincere effort to solve its fiscal mess, thinks only of raising taxes and further annoying the corporations that employ its debt-ridden citizens. If you actually trust them to solve your problems, you need only look at the Department of Children and Family Services for inspiration.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Great to Be an American!

By Patrick F. Cannon

I was seven years old when World War II ended. It truly was a world war, and much of that 1945 world was full of rubble and hunger. I can remember more than once hearing the phrase: “we’re lucky to be Americans.”

Although approximately 400,000 men and women in our armed services had died during the war, the country was largely untouched physically. The rest of the world wasn’t so lucky. No one knows for certain, but roughly 75 million people died as a result of the war, and cities like Berlin and Tokyo (and many others) were reduced to rubble. Visiting them today, it’s hard to imagine what they looked like then. With the help of their victors – that’s us – and free market capitalism, they’re just as expensive to visit as New York or San Francisco!

It’s still great to be an American, but it occurred to me recently that not all of our fellow citizens might feel quite so fortunate. How would you like to get up in the morning and realize that some of your fellow citizens despise you, even though they have never met you? To them, the color of your skin or your religion are enough to earn their undying hatred.

I wonder at what age a young African-American, or Jewish, or Muslim, or Hispanic boy or girl comes to the realization that some of the people they meet on the street either look right through them as if they didn’t exist, or look at them with contempt or even fear? I’m sure many of their parents try to forewarn them, and no doubt that helps a little, but when the bigotry becomes obvious the first time, it must be a profound shock.

If you know your history, you’ll know that hatred and fear of “the other” is nothing new in America. Once they lynched black men; now they shoot or bomb black children. Anti-Semitism has never reached the scale here that it reached in Germany in the 1930s and 40s, but the recent murder of Jews in their synagogues grows out of the same impulse. And how does the young Hispanic feel when the president describes those crossing the southern border as “rapists and murders?”

The president and so many others don’t see people as individuals, but as members of a race, religion or class. They would all do well to read the Declaration of Independence (many no doubt would be doing so for the first time), and heed these words:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness…”

Now, it’s true that Thomas Jefferson and others responsible for the Declaration were slave owners, but they believed the sentiments were correct and attainable. After nearly 250 years, isn’t it time for that “all” to come true?

In a long life, I have lived, worked and served with men and women of all races and most religions. Unlike Will Rogers who said he “never met a man he didn’t like,” there were a few I wish I’d never met, but it wasn’t because of anything but their (to me) failings. Can Donald Trump and his followers say the same?

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

The Last of Dogs

By Patrick F. Cannon

This last in the series of articles about my adventures in the canine kingdom will be an ode to the glories of the Poodle. But first, I must make a correction. My daughter Beth – who has a fine and younger brain than mine – reminded me that Poodle Mimi indeed came before German Shepherd Sam. As the venerable New York Times might say: “We regret the error, although our undoubted eminence suggests that we must be forgiven.”

You may recall that poor Mimi was run over and killed by a neighbor. After the unruly Officer Sam donned his Chicago police badge, I learned my lesson and have had only Poodles since. The next was Emma, named after Emma Peel from the television series, The Avengers. Peel was played by the beautiful Diana Rigg, who partnered with the urbane John Steed, played by Patrick McNee, to foil England’s enemies in the 1960s BBC series. Rigg, who is still very much alive, is now Dame Diana and is as coolly elegant as ever.

We bought Emma from a North Shore breeder, who deigned to sell her to us on the understanding that we not show her, since she had a slight overbite. She was a few months old when we brought her back from Lake Forest (or was it Lake Bluff?) in the back of our station wagon. She cowered in the corner of the cargo area, which the children called the “slippery slip.”  When my first wife Mary and I later divorced, Emma stayed with me and lived until she was 18.

Let me pause now to extol the virtues of the noble Poodle. According to many sources, Poodles are the second smartest breed, behind only Border Collies. Now, those wonderful dogs are out in all weathers herding recalcitrant sheep, i.e., actually working. In contrast, the Poodle, bred originally as a water retriever, has – through its good looks and charm – moved from the icy waters of the hunting grounds to the hearth of its owner’s cozy homes. Just which breed is actually smarter, I ask?

Poodles have wool coats rather than fur, so do not shed, nor do they have dander to assault the nasal passages of family and friends. Like sheep, their wool continues to grow, so occasional shearing is required. Unless you can manage to do this yourself without making the poor dog look stupid, it can cost sixty bucks (or more if you live in a tony neighborhood) every four to six weeks to have a professional groomer do it.

In the goofy dog show world (if you haven’t seen the movie Best in Show, you should look it up), Poodles are required to have a hair cut that makes them look absurd. The strange people who run dog shows, aided and abetted by the American Kennel Club, have decreed that Poodles must have a ludicrous cut that they claim was how they were cut in days of yore to protect vulnerable parts of their bodies from cold water.  Can you actually imagine a duck or goose hunter going to all that trouble before heading to the lake or pond?

Now, it may be that King Louis XVI required the royal groomer to do so, but you know what happened to him. If you look carefully, you will see Poodles among the crowd storming the Bastille. And, by the way, in the days when vaudeville and circuses usually had dog acts, those dogs were almost always – you guessed it – Poodles.

Anyway, Emma was a miniature Poodle with few faults. After I married Jeanette, we lived in a condo for a time, so had to take her out for walks. All was fine, except in the rain, when Emma often refused to do her business until one or the other of us was soaked. When we moved to a house, we could just let her out in the back yard, so problem solved. She loved a good tug or war with an old sock and for no apparent reason would occasionally start racing around the house at breakneck speed. Sadly, when she got old she developed cataracts and eventually went blind. That and other ailments led us to eventually have her euthanized.

I can’t speak for Jeanette, but our next Poodle, a standard named Rumpole, was my favorite. He was named after Horace Rumpole, the rumpled hero of a British series called Rumpole of the Bailey. Played by the bulldoggish Leo McKern, he was a barrister married to the forbidding Hilda, whom he called “she who must be obeyed.” Rumpole, who we got as a puppy, was his elegant opposite. Emma had been black, but he was a color called Apricot. He weighed about 55 pounds when full grown, whereas Emma topped out at about 13.

I will mention only two of the many things he did that endeared him to me. I was sitting at the dining room table one day and he came over and simply laid his head in my lap and looked up at me with his big brown eyes. Later, he began to do his best to be a lap dog, but could only manage to get his front half in my lap. There he would stay for quite a while, even though it must have been awkward for him. He was never the healthiest of dogs, and had chronic problems with his back legs. He lived to be 15, good for a standard Poodle, and finally having to let him go was one of the hardest things Jeanette and I have ever had to do.

Although I confess I didn’t realize it then, our current miniature Poodle, Rosie, has gone a long way to taking his place. Their tenure overlapped a bit, because Rosie came to us when my first wife Mary died, leaving behind two dogs, Rosie and a male named Max. Max was older and a bit goofy and went to good friends of Mary’s who knew him well. We agreed to take Rosie. Rumpole was not too pleased with her arrival, but he died soon after.

Rosie, who has an amazingly soft silver coat, is now 14 and is still quite active. A great athlete, she can catch a Frisbee with the best of them, and will run and fetch toys just as long as you’re willing to throw them. My daughter Beth (both my children have dogs) immortalized her prowess with verse, from which I will quote a few lines:

I play, I play, I run, I run

I run until the day is done

And when the big long day is done

And I have played with everyone

I will curl up in your lap

And take a dozy little nap

Still chasing toys inside my head

I will take me off to bed.

I realize that not everyone likes dogs or any animal for that matter, and that’s fine. For me, however, dogs above all animals have bonded with we imperfect beings, giving us the kind of unwavering love we probably don’t deserve on our merits. They are always happy to see us return, whether from an extended stay in Europe or a trip downstairs to get the mail. They never say “where in the hell have you been” but rather “thank God you’re back!”

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon