It’s All Bologna! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Not too many years ago, I strayed from the straight and narrow path and began eating a healthier lunch. One of the casualties of this tragic mistake was my beloved bologna and cheese sandwich.

It was simply made, but eminently eatable. You would take two pieces of good quality white bread (no Wonder Bread, please) and put a generous dollop of Heinz Ketchup (no substitutions) on one of them. This must be done ahead of time.  In a cast-iron skillet, you would then toss a piece of Oscar Meyer regular bologna. While giving off some of its tasty fat, it would eventually curl up. Upon this inevitable occurrence, you would flip the bologna over and place a slice of Kraft American Cheese, folded to fit comfortably, on the sizzling meat. When the cheese was melted (if I was truly hungry, I confess that there might have been two pieces thus adorned), the bologna was moved via a spatula from skillet to pre-ketchupped bread and topped with the other slice.

As you might imagine – if you have any imagination at all – the result was culinary heaven. Then, alas, one began to hear the siren song of the benefits of the fat free diet. Instead of the ultimate sandwich, I began to eat flax-seed sticks and yogurt (and the odd cookie if truth be told). But, as so often happens, the experts eventually recanted and admitted (sheepishly, one hopes) that a certain amount of fat in the diet was actually beneficial! Eventually, even the much-maligned egg was rehabilitated.

Thus unshackled from the chains of goofy science, I resolved to return to my former love. Off to the Jewel I rushed and bought packages of Oscar Meyer Bologna and Kraft American Cheese Singles. (I have since discovered that Kraft now actually owns Oscar Meyer, whose butcher shop in Chicago started it all. And the whole kit and caboodle is now Kraft Heinz, for good or ill.) Upon arrival home, I immediately ketchupped a slice of bread and threw two pieces of bologna in the frying pan. To my utter amazement, almost no fat emanated from the meat; they just kind of sat there getting unappetizingly charred. Little or no curl!

What can have happened?  I decided that poor Oscar had given in to the fat police and reduced the amount of fat in their signature sausage. While they must be admonished for this craven capitulation, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that many others adorn their packages with the dreaded “Lower, Reduced, or No Fat.” As everyone with any culinary sense knows, these should read “Lower Flavor, Reduced Flavor, or No Flavor at All.”

My friends and relatives know I’m addicted to the potato chip, one of the great American contributions to gastronomy. Now, I find it difficult to find a bag that doesn’t proudly proclaim that it has “40 Percent Less Fat” or some such. And although they don’t say so, I note with dismay that almost all brands now seem to lack enough salt! What is one to do when the conspiracy seems general? As for me, I drew the line when one famous national brand (It’s you Cape Cod) started proudly printing on  their bags the stupid “No GMOs,” thus pandering to the sandal-clad lunatics who believe  that rigorous scientific studies are a mere inconvenience.

Finally, if you know of a brand of bologna that has the fat content of old – that will begin giving it off as it hits the pan, will curl up as it should and not burn before the Kraft Processed American Cheese melts – please do let me know! You will do me, and gourmets everywhere, a great service!

Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Let’s Hear it for the Guys Who Don’t 

By Patrick F. Cannon

It seems like every day brings news about another male public figure being accused of some form of sexual harassment (this Monday it was Peyton Manning; on Tuesday, Kevin Spacey, albeit in a different category). The most attention has been given to the case of Harvey Weinstein, who seems to have heroically carried on the “casting couch” tradition of such legendary Hollywood producers as Jack Warner, Harry Cohn and David O. Selznick, to name only a few.

The saddest to me is the case of Bill Cosby, who so many people admired for his image as a “clean” comedian and his family-oriented television series. While he has yet to be convicted of any crime, I’m now convinced that at least some of the stories about his sexual predations are true. While I’m not sure there is any research to back this up, the entertainment industry (including the branch that passes for news) seems to be a particular hot bed of squalid activity.

The reason seems obvious – men have traditionally held positions of power over who will or will not work. Except in the few cases where an actress is so obviously superior that she can pick and choose when and where she will work, the number of actresses seeking work far exceeds the number of roles available. To use that power – which also exists in other industries – to gain sexual favors from vulnerable employees is an evil that should have been stamped out years ago. One only regrets that women have only recently felt able to call these monsters to account.

But as so often happens in a society more and more divided politically and socially, we tend to tar everyone with the same brush. Thus, to the radical feminists, all men are predators; indeed, to some of them, all sexual intercourse is rape (Mother Nature be damned!). In such an atmosphere, even the most innocent remark is judged against a standard no man can meet.

Yet, the great majority of men have never sexually harassed the women they work with or supervise. I know I never did, and am not aware of any man I worked with who did so in the 45 years I spent going to work (I confess I can sometimes be oblivious). For most of those years, I was a manager who supervised professionals, including managers. Most were women. While I won’t claim all of them thought I was perfect, none had reason to complain they were treated differently because of their sex.

Please understand that I am not naïve. I absolutely understand that women have been historically paid less than their male counterparts, and have had a long struggle to be considered equally for promotion. And I know that their struggles are not over by any means. But nothing is gained from lumping all men with the likes of Harvey Weinstein. Instead, let’s give some credit to the great majority of men – fathers, husbands, brothers – who held their tongues and kept their hands to themselves.

Finally, let me caution that not every accusation will be true, but will be immediately reported as such whether it has been investigated fully or not. If the accused is famous enough, the story will lead the network news and find its way to the front pages of major newspapers. The damage done to the subject’s reputation and career will be immediate, and lasting, whether or not the accusation is later proved false. Such is the tenor of our times.

Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

(Inspiration did come this week, but needs a bit more time to come to fruition, so this week I offer you a “Greatest Hit” from the past.) 

Is it a Caddy, Daddy? 

By Patrick F. Cannon

There was great jubilation at the University of Chicago recently when a work of art that many had feared might have been lost forever was returned to its rightful place on the University’s Hyde Park campus.

Titled “Concrete Traffic,” it was by the well known German modernist Wolf Vostell (1932-1998). Vostell was a leader in the early days of video art and in organizing the “happenings” that were such a feature of the art world in the 1960s and 1970s. In this case, he took a 1957 Cadillac Coupe Deville and encased it in concrete. Commissioned by the fledgling Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago (now celebrating its 50^th anniversary), it was finished in 1970 and parked in a nearby parking lot. It was there for some time and apparently accumulated numerous parking tickets. Who paid the tickets seems lost to history. As for me, I wondered how they were attached, since there were no windshield wipers. Perhaps the cops taped them on the concrete, artfully one hopes.

Anyway, the sculpture was eventually donated to the University of Chicago, where it graced the campus until moved into storage to make way for the construction of the Logan Center for the Arts. In storage it may have remained – slowly crumbling away – were it not for art historian Christine Mehring. She heard about it, and arranged a visit. What she found appalled her. Here was this great work of 20^th Century art moldering away out of public view.  Hunks of concrete were actually missing, as if it were merely a public sidewalk or something!

It was a challenge, and one that Professor Mehring has heroically met. At a cost of some $500,000, “Concrete Traffic” has been restored and proudly placed in a stall of honor at the University’s main parking garage. You may wonder how it could have possibly cost that much to do a bit of concrete patching. Instead of going to Craig’s List for a local concrete guy, they sought out the experts who had restored the concrete at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum in Manhattan. While the niceties might be lost to the layman, there is a great difference between a concrete conservator and a concrete repairer. The former usually has a beard and charges more. I should mention that the only visible parts of the Caddy are its white wall tires. As you might expect, expert opinion was also sought on the proper tire pressure.

The result, according to Mehring, is a work from an “important transitional period from the happenings in the 1960s to the monumental sculptures and environments of the 1970s.”  Since Herr Vostel is no longer with us, his intended meaning is lost to us. Most people think it was an ironic comment on the wasteful consumer culture of America, typified by the land yachts that floated over the (concrete) superhighways that connected our car-mad cities, towns, villages and hamlets.

Europeans in the 1960s, burdened as they were by astronomical gas taxes, tended to drive around in cars like the VW Beetle and the iconic French classic, the Renault 2CV, which, I recall, had a suspension that consisted of husky rubber bands and tore down French roads at a breathtaking 50 miles per hour.

As it happens, I was in France in 1961-62, courtesy of the United States Army. In 1962, the Tour de France was going to pass through La Rochelle, where I was stationed. One day, my buddies and I were watching some of the preparations from a table at a harbor-front outdoor café. Imagine our surprise when a pink Cadillac convertible pulled up and parked in front of the café. Out came two couples, middle-aged and prosperous looking. The spotted us for Americans immediately and happily (for us) plied us with drink and food. They were Texans and, for a lark, were following the Tour around France.

While all this was going on, the Caddy was drawing a crowd. The looks on the French faces was not ironic disgust, but wonder and envy. The only place in France where one could then see a Cadillac was Paris, where they tended to be black and chauffer driven.

Alas, there aren’t too many Caddy convertibles of that vintage to be seen here anymore. Those that survive are cherished; many are housed in museums. But, thanks to Professor Mehring and her colleagues, you can at least sense the existence of a 1957 Coupe Deville beneath the concrete at the University’s parking garage at 55^th and Ellis. If you want to park near it, it will cost you four bucks an hour. But walk-ins are always free. At the cost of a little shoe leather, you can relive the ironic “happenings” of a bygone era. And wonder, as I have, how they’re going to change the tires when they inevitably collapse under the 34,000 pound weight of German irony.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

Finally, My Day Has Come

By Patrick F. Cannon

I greeted the news that the Boy Scouts of America had decided to admit girls to their rolls with unalloyed joy. Now at last I would have hope that one of my long cherished dreams might come true – and all without having to undergo sexual reassignment treatment or that final frontier, surgery.

Perhaps a little background might be helpful. Many years ago, my sainted grandmother Donnelly (when did grannies stop being “sainted”?) told me that she was descended from Betsy Ross, she of the nimble fingers who had sewn the first Stars & Stripes. Granny was my mother’s mother, and her maiden name was Brown. Now, I happen to know where my father’s family came from – an island off the West coast of Ireland called Inishbofin (which is supposed to mean “Island of the White Cow” but that could just be a bit of Irish humor).

I have actually been to the island and the cemetery is full of Concannons (our real name) and Murrays, my fraternal grandmother’s name. (By the way, if you like sheep and rocks, Inishbofin is just the place for you). I know very little, however, of Granny Donnelly’s Irish ancestors. One of my aunts used to correspond with one of them in Ireland, and I recall it was in the North. Now, the name Brown is fairly common among the Scots, so it may be that there is some Scotch-Irish blood lurking in the family tree. As I recall, Ms. Ross was of that heritage. I suppose I could check it out, but it’s getting close to lunch time and one must rations ones time.

I take it as a given then that I’m descended from her. Sainted grandmothers do not lie, particularly those who went to Mass every day of their long lives. On my father’s side, by the way, I was told that the mighty kings of Ireland lurked somewhere in our family tree, but then most Irishmen make similar claims. What I’m actually getting at is this: if I’m related to the legendary seamstress Betsy Ross, then I have a claim to membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution! For how can they hold out against the inexorable tides of history when the Boy Scouts cannot?

As you know, virtually every former all male organization now (more or less) happily admits women. I worked for one of them for many years – the International Association of Lions Clubs – and they soon discovered that women could roar with the best of them, and bounced far fewer dues checks than did the men. Is it not now time for these seemingly exempt all female organizations to stop hiding behind their sex, and enter the brave new world of gender equality? (By the way, I haven’t bounced a check since 1965.)

After breaching the walls of that bastion of female WASP exclusivity, I may seek membership in the American Association of University Women and the Women’s Christian Temperance Union (although the latter might exclude me on a technicality). I would, however, hesitate to seek affiliation with the Colonial Dames, as I’m told you are required to sing their official song – Their Ain’t Nothin’ Like a Dame – at every meeting.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Health Insurance Made Simple 

By Patrick F. Cannon

You buy life insurance. You die. Your beneficiaries collect and head for the French Riviera to mourn your passing. If they’re truly lucky, you die by accident with a policy with double indemnity! But don’t commit suicide unless you’re clever enough to hide the fact.

While there are several kinds of life insurance, once one decides whether whole life or term insurance, it’s relatively simple. You pay the premium and they pay up if you die. Car insurance is also relatively simple. You decide on the level of coverage (no deductible, $500 deductible; level of liability; rental car or not; new car replacement; etc), then pay your premium. If a Steinway concert grand piano falls from a great height and crushes your car, you can expect some kind of payment.

When we come to health insurance, all bets are off. Since the Federal government has inserted itself, you may be required to pay for stuff you don’t want, need or are actually opposed to for religious or moral reasons. This morning’s news (Tuesday, October 10, 2017) reported that the Trump administration was rescinding a previous requirement that birth control be a required benefit in health insurance coverage under the Affordable Care Act. Predictably, a female law student at Notre Dame University – one of the institutions that objected to the requirement on religious grounds – is suing to have the requirement reinstated.

Despite the undoubted fact that a majority of Roman Catholics disagree with and actually flout their church’s ban on birth control, the church has steadfastly held firm. Before the requirement was removed, you won’t be surprised to discover that Notre Dame and many other religious organizations of all faiths had sued the government, claiming that the mandate violated the religious freedom clause in the Bill of Rights. Presumably, they will now withdraw their suits, or at least put them on pause.

As you might imagine, lawsuits were immediately threatened by the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) and others, citing the equal protection clause of the 14^th Amendment; and the establishment clause of the First Amendment, which essentially mandates the separation of church and state. It’s a tricky one, isn’t it? Religious groups argue that the birth control mandate violates their religious freedom rights and the ACLU and others argue that dropping it violates the right of every woman to have access to birth control services no matter the tenets of the religious organization she has chosen to work for or study with.

Wouldn’t you just love to be a Federal judge just now?  While you might agree with one side or the other, you will find that the framers didn’t bother to say anything about the right to health insurance, or any other insurance for that matter. So, you’re stuck with the First and Fourteenth Amendments, conflicting interpretations and all.

You can also bet that there will be lawsuits aplenty as a result of Illinois Governor Rauner’s signing of a bill that permits Medicaid to pay for abortions in the state. In case you didn’t know, Medicaid is funded by the Federal government, but generally administered by the states. Rauner claimed he signed the bill because poor women shouldn’t be denied the abortions that wealthier women could afford. Fair enough if you believe in abortion, which the Cardinal Archbishop of Chicago made clear he doesn’t.

(For the record, I’m covered by Medicare, which for some reason doesn’t cover either birth control or abortion.)

Federal involvement is a good thing in many areas. But the current health care mess is a perfect example of what happens when a national consensus is not reached or even sought by one or another of the political parties. Unlike many other countries, this is not a “one size fits all” kind of society. We try to make it so at our peril.

Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Viet Nam Remembered

 By Patrick F. Cannon

I haven’t seen any numbers yet, but I suspect that Ken Burns’ documentary series on the Viet Nam war will not have had the kind of ratings that made his Civil War series such a success. A few people I talked to said they thought it would be too painful to watch. I did watch it, and it was painful.

I served in the Army from 1961 to 1963, so got out before our country became so deeply mired in Viet Nam’s civil war. By then, we had already taken the first steps in what would become a steadily escalating involvement. Most Americans were only vaguely aware of what was happening. In 1962, while stationed in France, I decoded a classified message that asked commanders to see if any troops under their command with certain skills would be interested in volunteering for service in Viet Nam. Immediate promotion and possible civilian status were the carrots. The stick was you had to extend your term by one year.

I was approached, but as a typical draftee, I turned it down. A couple of years later, in 1965 I think it was, a bartender I knew was called back into the Army. He had the same MOS (military occupation specialty) as I did, so I had a couple of tense years wondering if I would be next. Although I was subject of recall until 1967, I never got the dreaded letter.

By then, I was married and we were expecting our first child. Viet Nam was not uppermost in my mind; indeed, I think like most Americans then I supported our involvement. People of later generations – with the hindsight of history – find it difficult to understand that support. But here’s the thing: by 1962, the Soviet Union had effectively taken over Eastern Europe and tried, but failed in Greece, Italy and France; Mao had been victorious in China; South Korea had been invaded by North Korea and China; the “Wall” had gone up in Berlin; and Russia had placed offensive missiles in Cuba. And those are just the highlights.

(By the way, if all the people who later said they had opposed the war all along had actually been telling the truth, it would have ended much sooner.)

Initial support, then, seemed reasonable to most people. After all, we had stopped the Communists from taking over South Korea; why should South Viet Nam be any different? In the end, what we didn’t realize was that the North Vietnamese weren’t ever going to give up until either they won or were all dead. They later admitted that 1.1 million North Vietnamese army soldiers and Viet Kong fighters had died, along with 2 million civilians, North and South. We had 58,220 dead and estimated that the South Vietnamese army had lost approximately 250,000. What we were willing to tolerate paled in comparison with our adversaries.

Among the many insights in Burns’ documentary is that former North Vietnamese still alive are now questioning whether their sacrifices were worth it in the end. Another is that it’s now clear that our military leaders came much earlier than we then thought to the conclusion that the war could not be won without suffering unacceptable losses. Decisions to expand and continue the war were made by politicians, often for purely political considerations rather than the national interest. Thus, we now remember Lyndon Johnson more for pursuing an unwinnable war than for the accomplishments of his Great Society. Richard Nixon’s legacy is even more complicated. While he “ended the war,” the manner of his doing it still leaves a bad taste.

But like his Civil War and World War II documentaries, it is the stories of individuals on both sides that are most compelling, including those who survived and those who did not. As I said, I escaped the service just in time. Although  many of their names are now lost to me, I have wondered if some of those I served with – particularly those who intended to make the Army a career – ended up in Viet Nam and later, on the Wall.

Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Freedom of Speech is Great, But…

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’m an absolutist when it comes to freedom of speech. When President Trump says something stupid, I cringe just like most people, but I would never deny his right to be an idiot.

This past weekend, NFL players, in protest of the president’s calling on team owners to fire players who don’t stand respectfully for the national anthem, exercised their free speech rights by kneeling or locking arms, or both, during the anthem. The basic point was to protest against continuing bias in the way black men are treated by the police in many parts of the country. They had every right to do as they did. Instead of condemning them we should try to understand why they did it.

If urged to explain why this country is so great, many Americans would give “freedom of speech” as an example, without actually fully believing in it. Take Richard Petty, for example.  For those of you who don’t know who he is, he holds the record for number of victories in stock car racing. Now retired, he heads up a team in the sport’s major series. When asked about the controversy, he commented that any member of his team that didn’t stand respectfully for the anthem would be fired. Now, I didn’t take the time to check, but I doubt Mr. Petty has many African-American employees, NASCAR (that’s the governing body of the sport) not being well known for its diversity, either in its drivers or fan base. Mr. Petty no doubt considers himself a proud American, but has he read the Bill of Rights?

On the other side of the political spectrum we have Middlebury College in the Vermont town of the same name. I’ve been there and it’s everyone’s idea of what a quaint New England town should look like. It even has a covered bridge. The college campus itself fits the image perfectly. Is bucolic the right word?

Anyway, on March 2 Charles Murray, a sociologist best known for his book The Bell Curve — which concluded, among other controversial findings, that African-Americans were, as a group, less intelligent than whites — was scheduled to speak on campus. As you can imagine, his views are not widely held, and he has often been accused of promoting eugenics, which – in its most extreme form – advocates the sterilization and even euthanasia of those deemed unfit to procreate. Adolph Hitler was a notable enthusiast, as was the Lone Eagle, Charles Lindbergh. Although largely forgotten now, forced sterilization was practiced widely in this country until very recently. Look it up; you’ll be amazed at how common it was.

A recognized campus organization had invited him. The college’s administration, while generally opposed to his ideas, had no objection, provided a discussion would follow, led by a faculty member who would be permitted to question his research and conclusions. Murray agreed to this. In the event, he was shouted down by many of the 400 students who attended. He and his interlocutor, Professor Allison Stanger, were then taken to a television studio, where the presentation actually then took place. Later, when escorting Murray to his car, Stanger was actually injured by a hostile crowd barring their way.

So, we have two events. In one, African-American athletes – widely supported by their white team mates, by the way – staged a silent protest at what they believe are injustices suffered by their race. In the other, privileged college students (Middlebury is not cheap) shout down a speaker to prevent his views being heard, a phenomenon that has become all too common at our colleges and universities, where one would expect an atmosphere that would encourage the free expression of ideas instead of their suppression.

Attempts to limit free speech are nothing new in this country. But they are always wrong.

Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Now, That’s a Name!

By Patrick F. Cannon

Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Now, that’s a name to reckon with. No mere mortal could have had such a name, nor was Izzy (as the family must have called him) anything like the average plodding drudge of his time. Born in England in 1806, his father Mark was a French engineer who had skipped out of France to escape the fate of the many Frenchmen who had not been considered quite enlightened enough after the Revolution.

Educated in England and France (after things had settled down a bit) he joined his father’s engineering firm, which was then engaged in designing the infrastructure that would create the modern world. Together, they designed a tunnel under the Thames, which was completed in 1843 and was instantly considered a wonder of the world. It is still being used.  He then went on to design the right of way (including bridges, viaducts and tunnels) for the Great Western Railway, which connected London with Bristol.

He also transformed steamship design. In 1837, his “Great Western” was the first to carry passengers across the Atlantic. The “Great Britain” of 1843 was the first iron ship to have screw propellers. Finally, the “Great Eastern” was launched in 1859, the year he died. It was nearly 700 feet long and displaced some 22,000 tons. It had its problems and was not a commercial success, but it did lay the first successful Transatlantic Cable in 1866. It was to be nearly 40 years before another ship as large was built.

His first name came from the Germanic “Isanbert,” which made its way to Anglo-Saxon England. It eventually fell out of use, so one wonders how Brunel’s father came upon it. While we may never know, he might well have chosen the name to set him forever apart from the run of the mill engineer, perhaps thinking that Isambard Kingdom Brunel would be hired before someone named Bertie Brunel. (In case you’re wondering, “Kingdom” was his mother’s maiden name.)

Closer to home and our times was Kenesaw Mountain Landis. Older baseball fans may know who he was, but younger fans may think the “Mountain” should be in quotes, thinking perhaps he was a hard-hitting hillbilly slugger. Actually, he was the Federal Judge appointed Commissioner of Baseball in the wake of the 1919 Black Sox scandal. Born in 1866, he was a Chicago lawyer before being appointed to the bench by Teddy Roosevelt. While a judge, he was best known for fining Standard Oil nearly $30 million for a railroad kickback scheme, and for his harsh sentences for draft dodgers during World War I.

While a little before my time (he died in 1944 when I was too young to hate the Yankees), period photos show a scrawny little man with a mop of white hair. He always appears a bit on the stern side, which was apparently the point in hiring him. As to the name, his father named him Kenesaw Mountain because he (the father that is) was wounded in the Civil War battle of Kennesaw Mountain (two Ns is the correct spelling of the mountain in Georgia). Fortunately, the little tyke was generally called Kenny. One shudders to think what his name might have been had his father been wounded at the Battle of Peach Tree Creek.

Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

  Monuments, Man! 

By Patrick F. Cannon 

The Chicago area is blessed with many monuments. Some are vast, like the Buckingham Fountain, donated by Kate Buckingham in honor of her brother Clarence. Few people who see its glories have a clue who Clarence was, but they’re glad it’s there.

Many of the monuments include a statue. In my recent wanderings, I’ve come upon statues of Shakespeare, Schiller, King Wenceslaus, Grant, Lincoln and two Native Americans who seem to stand guard at the Congress Parkway entrance to Grant Park. I kind of feel sorry for them. They’re called the Bowman and Spearman, but the sculptor has forgotten to give them the actual weapons. Legend has it that they once had their weapons, but vandals swiped them. Not true. Maybe the sponsors just ran short of dough and the sculptor wasn’t willing to toss them in gratis.

Unless you don’t watch or read the news anymore – and who could blame you? – you’ll know that statues of Confederate generals are being toppled throughout old Dixie. Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson have come in for particular attention. Jackson was a brilliant general and something of a religious fanatic. He apparently treated his slaves decently, making sure they learned how to read and write, primarily one supposes so they could read the good book. Also, Lee was probably the greatest commander on either side in the Civil War and widely considered a decent man. When the war ended, he urged his fellow Southerners to accept their defeat and pledge their loyalty to the Union.

Nevertheless, strictly speaking, they were traitors, whose statues ought not to be on public ground. They’re there in the first place because the Federal Government and its courts enabled the states of the old South to turn back the clock and create a new version of slavery called Jim Crow. If the “lost cause” white supremacists and their pals in the Ku Klux Klan want to venerate Lee and Jackson, let them erect statues in their back yards next to the Weber.

In Chicago, we have our own monument madness. First, there’s the ongoing kerfuffle about Balbo Drive and the classical Roman column donated to Chicago by Benito Mussolini to commemorate General Italo Balbo’s seaplane journey from Italy to Chicago. You can look up the bios of these two gents; suffice to say they were notable Fascists and ended up being our enemies during World War II. Nevertheless, some members of the Italian-American community consider it a personal insult that anyone would want to make any changes.

As it happens, our Italian-American friends are also under siege about Columbus Day. Many of our progressive souls, including my friends in Oak Park, have replaced Columbus Day with something called Indigenous Peoples’ Day. It seems Christopher was responsible for every bad thing that subsequently happened to the peoples who were already living in the Americas. Alas, he was a man of his times. There is no reason to believe that the results would have been any different had the first man to demonstrably set foot in the New World been a Dutchman, an Englishman, a Spaniard or a Portugeezer (how would you spell it?).

We can’t, unfortunately, expect historical figures to think and act as we would like. We venerate Abraham Lincoln for freeing the slaves, and believing that African-Americans were entitled to the same rights as all citizens. He never thought, however, that they were equal in other ways. In our enlightened times, he might well be considered a racist. Should we then topple all his statues, and rename Lincoln Park?

In an effort to be helpful to my Italian friends, I do have a suggestion about the Balbo problem. By all means, keep the Roman column; after all, it’s the real thing. Just take up a collection for a new base that could read: “This ancient Roman column commemorates the great achievements of the ancestors of the eminent Italian-Americans who have contributed so much to the greatness of their adopted City of Chicago.”

Oh, and rename Balbo Drive. How about Vito Marzullo Drive?

Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon