Marry Up! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

When considering marriage, it is wise to find a potential partner who is somewhat higher on the scale than yourself. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean the richer scale, although there’s nothing necessarily wrong with marrying someone who has big bucks. Although it’s fashionable to denigrate the rich, envy is unbecoming.

What I really mean is that you should strive to find a spouse who is kinder, more generous, more forgiving and more empathetic than you.  People will then assume that if this person loves you, you can’t be all bad. I find myself in this happy situation.            Many of you who are reading this know my wife Jeanette. If you are a relative or friend, you’ll know that your birthday will be remembered. If you’re sick, you will be visited and, if required, fed. Let me give you an example.

We moved into our condo last August. There are 60 units in the building, and when I meet a neighbor in the lobby or the elevator, I give them a cordial “hello” and might even comment upon the weather or the state of our eccentric elevators. In a very few cases, I might even remember their names. Now, I don’t believe Jeanette has met everyone in the building, but if she has, she knows at least their name, and much more in some cases.

One of our neighbors had shoulder surgery and couldn’t drive. Jeanette barely knew her, but immediately offered to drive her to her therapy appointments. Not only that, but she cooked several meals for her as well. Now, if a friend asked me to do the same, I would likely agree. But you don’t have to ask Jeanette – she will beat you to the punch and offer.

Once you’re her friend, you’re her friend for life. Although it’s been more than 30 years since she taught there, she still has her fellow teachers from St. Francis Borgia School over for lunch every year. Ditto with her stint at the Art Institute. She has dinner several times a year with two of her former co-workers, and belongs to a book group composed of former employees of Lions Clubs International (where, by the way, we met).

Relatives get their due. On her father’s side of the family, she has something like a thousand relatives, including elderly aunts and uncles who have survived into their 90s. Most of them are in Wisconsin, and most years we dutifully drive north with her sisters and brothers-in-laws to Two Rivers to see them. (We also come home with many pounds of wieners, a local specialty.)

Although not as numerous, my family is not forgotten. I have two nieces in the Chicago area, and on Sunday last they were here for Easter dinner, along with husband, man friend, great nephew (with wife and baby), and my daughter, son-in law and his niece, down from Madison for the occasion. Most of my surviving cousins are in the Pittsburgh area or Ohio, and every other year Jeanette dutifully treks to western Pennsylvania for a family reunion. We are particularly close with my brother Pete and his wife Mary Beth, and throw in a visit with them every year in Florida.

Jeanette tends to go overboard in the family dinner line. I always tell her that she’s making too many hors de oeuvres, and ask “do we really need a salad and two vegetables?”  She looks at me like I’ve taken leave of my senses (I was brought up on overcooked roasts, mashed potatoes and canned green beans.) Then she goes right ahead and overdoes things. Later, while cleaning up the mess that 12 people and several courses can produce, she might mutter “never again.” But I don’t believe her. By the time Thanksgiving draws nigh, all the struggles of the past will be forgotten as she begins to wonder why we can’t have three vegetables!

As it happens, I will often say to myself “you should call so and so,” which I mostly fail to do, perhaps thinking that the intention alone does me credit. Jeanette will, however, remind me to actually do it, just as she herself checks in regularly with friends and relatives. Like I say, she makes me look good.

Today happens to be her birthday. She will get quite a few birthday cards, but not nearly as many as she sends. Her sisters and other relatives and friends will call. On Saturday, we’ll celebrate her birthday by going out to dinner with daughter Beth and son-in-law Boyd. Knowing Beth, there will be silly gifts, a comic card and a lot of laughter.

From me, there’s this:  Happy Birthday, Jeanette. Glad I married up!

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

One Leg at a Time 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Onward and upward, as the saying goes. When last I explored the history of apparel, I started at the bottom with the lowly shoe. Let us now move to a consideration of the pant; or, for the more fortunate, pants.

As you should know, these coverings of the legs and that part of the body they are attached to, is a fairly recent development in the long history of unnakedness. The Assyrians, Babylonians, Egyptians, Israelites, Greeks and Romans all failed in their efforts to do more than wear the same dress-like garments as their wives, daughters and concubines. From my deep study of the visual historical record on the walls, ceilings and floors of surviving structures, I have concluded that pants as we know them are a fairly recent arrival in the long panorama of history. Methuselah might have lived for 1,000 years, but he did so pantsless.

As we know, people in the Middle Ages mostly wandered about in sackcloth and ashes, but at long last something like pants began to appear during the Renaissance, largely after silk was discovered by Confucius and brought to Europe by Marco Polo. This fine fabric was flexible and was first used for stockings. Then Lorenzo de Medici (Il Magnifico to his friends) posited that if the ladies of the court kept weaving, their efforts might result in something that we would later call panty hose

All well and good, except when worn the male member and its accoutrements (one strives for delicacy) became perhaps more obvious than even Italians thought proper. But this was the Renaissance after all, and Leonardo da Vinci soon invented the cod piece. This shame saving device came in various sizes, of which “extra large” became the favorite. Like Starbucks coffee, “small” had no place in the cod bins of Florence.

By the late 17^th Century, pants as we know them had almost arrived. Perhaps you are familiar with knickers, once favored by golfers and small boys. Something like them, although a bit tighter, began to appear. Stopping at the knee, they still required stockings to hide one’s hairy calf. Another century passed before Beau Brummell extended the pants leg down to the top of the shoe when he tired of washing his socks every night.

Fast forward to today, when pants are available in a truly amazing variety of styles and colors. Men may wear short shorts, Bermuda shorts, cargo pants, pedal pushers, and even jammie bottoms. One may have fat pants, regular pants and even tight pants that expose one’s brightly colored socks. I must add that only in a decadent age such as ours will men wear – as the height of fashion – clothes that don’t appear to fit.

Now, alas, even women have taken to wearing pants. This curiosity began in the 1930s when progressive women began wearing pants and even smoking cigarettes in public. Had we only known where all of this might lead!

With the exception of stubborn Scots and Saudi princes, attempts by men at the cutting edge of fashion to reestablish the skirt have thus far failed, save only for the occasional fellow who dons a wig and a stylish dress and pretends he’s Elizabeth  Taylor or Marilyn Monroe.  Harmless fun to be sure, but not Brummell-like in its lasting impact.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

If Sherman Could See Us Now 

By Patrick F. Cannon

“I am sick and tired of war. Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those

who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the

wounded who cry out for blood, for vengeance, for desolation. War is

hell.”

General William Tecumseh Sherman wrote those words about the Civil War, and he wrote from experience. He was the first military leader who dared to admit that he intended to take the war to the civilians who supported his enemies, in this case the plantation owners and slaveholders of Georgia who supported the Confederate rebellion. While he was careful not to order his soldiers to murder civilians, he did encourage them to burn the crops and houses of those who opposed them. His famous “March” through Georgia did much to bring the war to an end by the following spring.

Civilians have always been victims of war. At the least, they have been a target of foraging armies; at worst, the victims of murder and rape. With the exception of sieges, land battles were fought outside of cities, on ground appropriate for the deployment of armies. Most of the civilians in these areas would have fled to safety before the battle was fought. Sieges were an exception. If the besieged city did not surrender, but forced the besieging army to take it by storm, civilians were considered fair game for slaughter, as having participated in defending the city or town.

Compared to later wars, World War I saw relatively few civilian casualties. While the Germans were inclined to execute suspected civilian “fifth columnists” in their march through Belgium and Northern France during the war’s initial battles, once the opponents settled into prolonged trench warfare, most civilians had long since been evacuated. Later in the war came ominous portents. Germany used Zeppelin air ships and later airplanes to bomb London, causing 1,413 deaths in London by the end of the war. During the Second World War, more than 60,000 Londoners were killed by German bombs. Although the numbers are open to question, approximately 600,000 Germans were killed by British bombs alone. In one raid, 45,000 Germans were killed when bombs caused a fire storm in Hamburg.

The British and then the Americans bombed Germany continuously from the fall of 1940 to nearly the end of the war in May, 1945. In the year or so that the Americans bombed the Japanese home islands, 333,000 civilians were killed, including the victims of the atomic bombs at Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

While these numbers pale in relation to the 70 million people who died during the war – of whom 60 percent were civilians – they do suggest the increasing ability of aerial bombardment to bring the war to non-combatants. Air power theorists had originally believed that bombing would be accurate enough to limit damage largely to industrial and military targets, In practice, they soon discovered that true accuracy was a pipedream.

The relentless bombing of German cities by the British was retaliatory. Early German raids on London targeted the docklands and other presumed military targets. Predictably, many of the bombs missed and hit residential areas. The British then sent bombers to Berlin to retaliate, whereupon the Germans decided to bomb London indiscriminately. Whereupon…well, you get the idea.

Fast forward to today. With current technology, largely developed by the United States, it is now possible to place bombs and other airborne munitions with great accuracy.  In Syria, for example, care has been taken by US and coalition air forces to avoid civilian casualties. As in all wars, however, mistakes in targeting take place. Such a case came to light recently, for which the US apologized. It also came to light that ISIS has forced civilians, including women and children, at gunpoint into areas from which they then launch attacks. When these areas are then attacked by coalition forces in turn, civilians once again become the cynical victims.

By the way, the Syrian government and its Russian allies have no qualms about killing civilians. In the last few days alone, they have dropped more of the infamous barrel bombs on civilian areas, and have apparently resumed the use of chemical weapons, once again crossing the red line famously drawn by the former United States administration.

Unlike Sherman, it’s clear that not everyone is “sick and tired of war.”

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

The Bogeyman is Coming 

By Patrick F. Cannon

People who know me are familiar with one of my favorite sayings: “It’s an ill wind that blows no good.” While I think Donald Trump’s election was regrettable, the fear it engendered has at least had some positive effect on some sectors of the economy.

When I visited my son in Florida recently, he told me a very sad story. A daughter of a friend of his is an actress, married to an actor who is having a run of good luck, i.e., he has a recurring role in a successful television series. Since acting is a precarious profession at best, this run of good fortune should have had them over the moon. But no, she was so horrified by Trump’s victory that she has had to double her weekly visits to the therapist to four. Only by seeking these hours of expensive bucking up is she able to face the day.

I should have thought that Los Angeles area therapists of all kinds were already at full stretch caring for the tender egos of the entertainment industry. Perhaps you watched the Academy Awards – almost every presenter and recipient seemed obsessed with the election. Their therapists no doubt clapped their hands in glee as they saw the palpable fear emanating from the stage.

The other industry seeing a bump is a bit less obvious. Most folks are unaware that there is an industry dedicated to survival. They provide products and services for those who might be or feel threatened by natural disasters – a legitimate concern in some areas – and those who fear that the government is somehow out to get them. The industry gained some momentum when President Obama was elected. As you may recall, there was widespread fear that he was going to send his minions around the county to confiscate the fire arms of law abiding citizens. It didn’t happen, of course, and Obama is safely gone.

As it happens, one of the companies in this business, Day One Gear, is located in Forest Park, IL, where I live; indeed, the owners live just down the block. They drive (of course) three off road vehicles. Among their license plates are those that read “Day One” and “Bug Out.” No doubt they were among the exhibitors at a recent trade show for survivalists held at a Chicago area fair grounds. A few were interviewed for a story in the Chicago Tribune and commented that they were starting to see liberals appearing at the show for the first time. As fear of Obama recedes, the tides have rolled in with Trump. As I said, it’s an ill wind.

Let’s see how President Trump has succeeded in imposing his totalitarian will upon the country. His ban on immigration from certain countries has been tied up in the courts for weeks. His second executive order may in fact be upheld eventually because he seems to have the authority under existing law. (The “Rule of Law” apparently only applies when you agree with it, an attitude that both the former and current presidents share.). Just a few days ago, the new health care law meant to replace the hated Obama Care failed in the House of Representatives. To his credit, President Trump spread the blame for this – first blaming the Democrats and then the Republicans.

Although he rails against “fake news,” he has yet to shut down the New York Times, or jail any of its reporters, much less have them murdered as his buddy Vladimir Putin is so fond of doing. He is, of course, rolling back regulations on the environment and other areas, but his should come as no surprise, since the Republican Party has been advocating this for years. Since voters around the country have given them the presidency and control of both houses of Congress, you can expect more of the same.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Go Cats! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

My alma mater, Northwestern University, was chosen this year to participate in the NCAA basketball tournament for the first time in its history. Then, to add icing to the cake, they won their first game. They gamely lost their second game to the number one seed, Gonzaga, whose only prior claim to fame was its most famous attendee, Bing Crosby. This came just after an even more momentous event: the first World Series victory by the Chicago Cubs since 1908.

As any sports fan knows, these highs are to be cherished because, alas, history tells us that they will not last. For the young men who played for Northwestern, the education they receive in return for their hard work, will last.  Although the numbers can fluctuate from year to year, nearly 100 percent of Northwestern’s basketball and football players will graduate.

I saw another statistic about Northwestern recently. Someone went to the trouble to look at all the Illinois high school athletes who had received football scholarships, and determined that only 12 percent could have been admitted to Northwestern.

I don’t mean to suggest that Northwestern is unique in graduating its athletes. Duke University, for example, graduates a high percentage of its athletes, but it also indulges in a practice for its basketball team that has become known as “one and done.” It does this to take advantage of the National Basketball Association’s (NBA) policy of not drafting or employing players unless they have attended college for one year or simply sat out for a year after graduating from high school. To take advantage of this absurd policy, Duke and other “basketball schools” (Kentucky comes to mind) knowingly recruit players who they know in advance will stay only for the mandatory year, then opt for the draft.

Most of these young men are African-Americans. The most talented among them have been groomed since their skills first became apparent by coaches, family, street agents and other assorted hangers on, who all hope to get their share when their protégé signs that big contract. They all conspire to keep their charges just eligible enough academically to get accepted to a major college, which in turn strives in turn to keep the young man eligible for that one year. Courses designed to do just that are readily available.

Chicagoans will be familiar with the case of Derrick Rose. He was a “one and done” with the University of Memphis. In 2007-08, he led the team to the NCAA championship game, which they lost to Kansas. It was later discovered that someone else had taken Rose’s SAT test, and Memphis was required to vacate the entire season by the NCAA. By then, Rose had signed a lucrative contract with the Chicago Bulls, unconcerned that his cheating had cost Memphis so dearly (an unconcern that seemed to extend to almost everything in his career).

Fortunately, the graduation rate for African-American athletes is increasing, if still below that of other ethnicities. But the reality is that the very best of them will always be under pressure to take the money and forget the education. I happen to think it’s a bad bargain, since so few actually make it or have long careers. In the end, though, it’s their decision.

To me, the true hypocrisy is dual: the NBA for its senseless policy of not permitting high school graduates from going directly to the NBA; and our universities for hiring athletes rather than educating students.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Starting At the Bottom 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Unlike President Trump, most of us had to start at the bottom and work our way up. Therefore, I must most sincerely apologize for last week’s history of hats. I certainly should have begun my history of apparel at the bottom with the lowly shoe, and only then worked my way upwards. Since you have had to forgive me for much of what I write in this space, I hope you will indulge me once again.

There is no convincing evidence to suggest that the cave dwellers wore shoes (or didn’t for that matter). As you know, they covered the walls of their caves with quite convincing drawings of cows and other ruminants. No self portraits, alas. It makes one wonder how later artists knew what they looked like, but that’s a mystery for another day. Anyway, as they were hunters and gatherers, their feet no doubt developed sufficient calluses to obviate the need for additional protection. Which makes me to wonder how they cut their nails, since all they had were those flinty things? Hmmm.

The first actual evidence of shoes in northern climes came with the discovery of a well preserved pre-historic body in the Alps. I have written of this before, but when an ancient glacier melted, it uncovered the body of a poor fellow who had been waylaid by a band of ruffians, bopped on the head unto death, and left to become one with the glacier. When discovered recently by Swiss mountaineers, he was wearing what were obviously primitive shoes, as well as a jaunty hat. The shoes consisted of a piece of leather gathered about the poor fellows ankles and held in place by what we might now call a shoelace; simple, surely, but presumably adequate enough for trekking up and down the Alps.

In last week’s article, I outed the Assyrians, Egyptians and Babylonians as early hat wearers. Ancient carvings also reveal that they invented the sandal. I’m sure most of us have had the experience of stepping barefooted on a sun-roasted sand beach. Just imagine living on such a surface! Early carvings show stick figures hopping about wildly. Researchers originally thought they were performing a ritual dance, but later concluded they were trying to traverse the hot desert sands. Later carvings showed similar figures strolling jaunty jolly on those same sands, but now with what we now know as sandals upon their feet.  Hieroglyphs give credit for this foot saving innovation to Ibn El Beer Kun Schtok.

Shoes gained a separate sole upon the rise of Christianity. As time passed, they became ever more sophisticated. By the time of King Henry VIII, they were made of the finest leathers, often adorned with rare jewels. Alas, poor Henry was too fat to see his feet, but they were the envy of his courtiers. About this time, the sock was invented. To be blunt, even Kings rarely washed and shoes began to exude rare odors. Putting a bit of fabric between the foot and the shoe helped somewhat; it also obscured the related fact that feet and ankles were not only gamey but grimy.

Just when women became obsessed with shoes is unclear. Shoes that survive from the reign of the self same Henry show the high heel for the first time. In addition to adding a bit of height to aristocratic ladies, it made their legs a bit more fetching. Not in public, of course, but perhaps in the privacy of the bed chamber? It is reported in court chronicles that Ann Boleyn owned no fewer than 300 pairs of shoes, the highest number recorded until eclipsed in our own time by the legendary Imelda Marcos.

Due to the efforts of our forbearers, we now have a bewildering variety of foot wear to choose from. I myself still own two pairs of fine business shoes, now dusted off only when a rare formal occasion demands. For daily wear, I favor a pair of sturdy walking shoes; when they wear out, I spring for a new pair. A couple of years ago, giving in to pressure from loved ones, I bought a pair of blue suede loafers for summer wear. I wear them only when I visit my son and brother in Florida every year, and for the odd garden soiree. I do not own a single pair of sneakers, which should only be worn by tennis players and children.

In closing, I should mention that modish young men seem to have abandoned the sock when wearing sneakers, loafers and boat shoes. On the other hand, I have noticed that some elderly men wear black socks with their sandals. What next, I wonder?

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Hats Off! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Although it’s impossible to know for certain, there seems to be no evidence that cave men wore hats. I suspect that their simple tools were unequal to the task of cutting hair, so there was a sufficient mop on top to keep away the cold.

Ruins scattered about the Middle East provide evidence that ancient civilizations like the Assyrians, Babylonians and Egyptians liked to have a hat or headdress to complete their outfits. I suspect the lower orders had to make do with a bit of cloth to keep the Sun at bay. I understand the modern version is called a bullmoose.

If one is to believe later artists, Jesus favored a hatless page boy, as did his disciples. His Roman overlords also seemed to favor the hatless look, although for formal occasions a simple laurel wreath was deemed de rigueur. The wreath also tends to adorn the numerous portrait busts of Romans one sees in the antiquities collections of biggish museums.

By the Middle Ages, however, hats were fairly common. Kings, of course, wore crowns, which were considered the top hats of the time. The court jester (see Danny Kaye’s movie of the same name) wore the first of the silly hats, which featured multiple pom poms. The lower nobility were allowed to wear lesser crowns called cornets as a way of blowing their own horns. The serfs had to make do with hats made from the local grasses, thus the term “serf and turf.”

With the Renaissance came new prosperity and the first recorded hat craze. Fine wool and silk were used and jaunty feathers began sprouting. Initially, all were a bit on the floppy side, but the invention of the blockhead permitted shaping and stiffening. The famed Three Musketeers brought hat fashion to new heights, making France the center of the chapeau industry. By the middle of the 18^th Century, a gentleman could choose between the bicorn, tricorn or unicorn. The bicorn could be worn fore and aft or side to side, depending upon the whim of the owner. Women’s hats became fantastical creations, and were often topped with birdcages (real birds included) or model ships at full sail.

This excess came to a halt with the American and French revolutions. In France in particular, fancy hats went away with the heads of their owners. As the 19^th Century progressed, hat rationalization proceeded apace, and men everywhere were adorned with the Derby (called a Bowler in England, for reasons that seem sensible to them), the Homburg, the Top Hat, the Trilby and the classic Fedora, all made of felt in the blockhead technique.

As a young lad starting out in the business world in the mid 1960s, these styles were still au currant. After Memorial Day, they were replaced with straw hats, including the stiff brimmed Boater. But woe betides the heedless chap who wore them after Labor Day! But had I just been a bit more alert, I would have noticed that change was afoot. John F. Kennedy, a hero to the young, had taken to going bare headed! Although I had myself bought a fedora, eventually I felt empowered enough to consign it to the top of the closet.

(I must pause here to pay tribute to the French beret. After some 500 years, it still has its adherents. It’s particularly popular in military circles, since it provides a certain jauntiness that the old caps lacked. They are still worn by civilians, of course, and their effect is heightened by a burning cigarette hanging from ones lip, in the manner of Jean Paul Belmondo, or his spiritual father, Jean Gabin.)

Fashions, of course, come and go. For example, the fedora seems to have made a comeback, albeit in a miniature form, atop the heads of slight young men called hipsters. No one had ever adequately explained just what a hipster is, but it seems to have something to do with wearing black and displaying copious tattoos.

But for the last several years, it is the cap, not the hat, which has gained the most favor. Its rise has been insidious. Perhaps you recall Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds? Early on, we see a few birds here and there, just as we might on a normal day. Then, slowly but inexorably the number of winged creatures increases until their numbers become ominous. Just so with the ubiquitous baseball cap. When returning from Florida recently by air, I counted 16 heads with caps upon them in the seats in front of me, including on three women. They didn’t attack me, but I was fearful.

As a young lad, I played some baseball and proudly wore the game’s signature cap. I remember you had to shape the bill to fit the current fashion. When I stopped playing (curses on the hated curve ball), I stopped wearing its caps. I confess that I now wear similar caps when I play golf. When I leave the course, they return to their rightful place in the trunk of my car.

There was a time when wearing any kind of hat indoors was considered boorish. I can recall when gentlemen took their hats off even when they entered an elevator, much less a restaurant. Now, one sees baseball caps on the heads on men and women of all ages in even the best restaurants. And though the bill was meant to keep the sun out of ones eyes, the most fashion forward of cap wearers reverse it, presumably to keep it off the backs of their necks. I haven’t checked, but perhaps artificial light has unseen rays that addle the brain. There must be some reason why caps never leave heads.

The lack of dress codes generally gives us freedoms we should all embrace. Artfully torn jeans, liberal sentiments or obscene epithets on our T-shirts, $300 sneakers, copious tattoos – all let us advertise a new kind of individualistic uniformity, one that lets us relax as we escape the shackles of a more restrictive if more elegant and decorous past.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Editor’s Note: Mr. Patrick Cannon, the proprietor of this space, has fled to warmer climes, leaving to me the task of imposing upon your time to read his weekly missive. In this case, it’s yet another chapter in his unneeded history of the world. I make no claims on the accuracy of what follows, except to say that I take exception to his fiction that Carlyle, that besotted Scot, had anything to do with inventing the term “Middle Ages.” It was Edward Gibbon who thrust it upon the world, albeit quite by accident. It seems he presumably meant to write “Muddle Ages,” but his pen failed him when scribing the “u”, leaving off the upward sweep, which resulted in the copyist thinking it was an “i”. I have this from that unimpeachable source, Wikipedia.

Chapter Six

The Middle Ages

By Patrick F. Cannon

We historians constantly strive to keep things simple. When the profession was struggling to come up with a handy name for the period between the Dark Ages and the Renaissance, one of our brighter luminaries (Carlyle, as I recall) said: “You know, it was a period midway between the birth of Christ and this very day, so why not call it the Middle Ages?” So there it is. What could be simpler?

Of course, like much of history, this may well have to be reevaluated in the future. Imagine the historian of the 30^th Century. He asks himself why everyone calls the Middle Ages the Middle Ages when to him the Middle Ages would have been the 15^th Century, which we now know as the Renaissance. One could of course get bogged down with such questions; so we must let the historians of the future do what we ourselves do today – change history to suit the needs of the times.

Such questions aside, when did it begin? Most competent authorities believe the Battle of Hastings was the true beginning of the Middle Ages, since it isn’t easy to think of anything important happening before 1066.

William the Conqueror, by the way, wasn’t always known as William the Conqueror. He started as simple William, Duke of Normandy. He often walked the beaches of his realm and wondered what lay beyond the horizon (actually, on a clear day he could see what lay there; it was England). As a young lad, he had heard tales of the strange goings on over the water and determined some day to extend civilization to the heathens there. When he discovered that they didn’t speak French, the die was cast.

Offering the usual incentives of plunder and free land, he gathered an army and set sail in 1066. After a trouble-free passage, he landed on the coast, which seemed the most sensible approach. King Harold, who had just defeated Tostig and Harold Hardrada (no relation) of Norway, soon learned of this new threat to his throne and turned to face the new invaders. The two mighty hosts met at Hastings. The Normans prevailed and Harold was killed in the battle. His son, known as Childe Harold, escaped and went into exile.

Harold was the first known victim of that well- known truism: always avoid war on two fronts. Poor Harold (as he’s come to be known) really can’t be blamed, since he simply wasn’t aware that William was on his way. When he found out, flush with his victory, he coined what has become a very popular British expression – “Bloody Frogs!”

It took William a few years to conquer the entire country, greatly facilitated by the construction of the Tower of London in 1067. When the Saxons rebelled in 1070, they chose as their leader Hereward the Wake, with predictable results. After their defeat, the Saxon nobles disappeared into Sherwood Forest, where they subsisted for the most part by robbing the rich and getting rich themselves. One of their numbers, Robin of Locksley, uncharacteristically shared a bit of his ill-gotten gains with the poor and has been famous ever since, if more or less unique.

Relations between the Normans and Saxons improved somewhat under Richard I, who is known as the Lion Hearted. After returning from the Crusades (and a spell of captivity for ransom in Germany), Richard pardoned all the Saxons, making Robin Earl of Locksley. Other of his followers were handsomely rewarded as well. Friar Tuck became Bishop Tuck, and Little John became Big Bad John.

After the Lion Hearted died, his Brother John was crowned King and it rather went to his head. He was soon taxing all and sundry and generally making a nuisance of himself. Eventually, the Barons had had enough and forced John to sign the Magna Carta (Big Letter) at Runnymede in 1215. This famous document limited the power of the King and enabled the Barons to get some of the spoils for themselves. Later Kings were quite annoyed that John had signed the letter, so his name was never used again in polite society. If his name had been Henry, then presumably there would not have been a Henry VIII, which would have changed the course of history.

A word perhaps needs to be said about chivalry. Since high born women of the time were not encouraged to have sex before marriage, their suitors were forced to worship them from afar (even if they got close, they often discovered the infamous chastity belt, or “iron maiden” as it was sometimes called). Naturally, they comported with women of the lower orders, but spent most of the rest of the time mooning after the remote maidens. Some swains composed poems and simple ditties. If they were brutish illiterates (as was often the case), they would hire a wandering poet/troubadour to do it for them.  A real highlight for them would be when their lady threw them a hanky (unused, one would hope) to tie to their lances before they lumbered into battle. This was considered a good luck token, but it appears to have worked only half the time.

Knights and nobles were always looking for opportunities to shine. Thus, when Pope Urban appealed to the Christian rulers in 1096 to free the holy places in the Holy Land (Jerusalem and its environs), they jumped at the chance. Richard the Lion Hearted was foremost among them. Despite taking forever to get there, they finally rescued the holy places in 1099. Then, as now, killing your enemies in great numbers only made the holy places holier.

Alas, the Muhammadans had their own holy places in Jerusalem and seethed at their loss. They recaptured Jerusalem in 1187 under the mighty Saladin. Not to be outdone, the Christians set out on another crusade. When it didn’t work out, the children of Europe decided to take things into their own hands and 30,000 of the little tykes set out on the Children’s Crusade. It wasn’t anything like a Disney movie and the children who weren’t killed were sold into slavery.

But their noble sacrifice shamed their elders into trying again in 1228. They were successful, but were tossed out again in 1243. Had they persisted, the next crusade would have been the seventh and might well have finally succeeded, but they had lost count and suffered the consequences of faulty math. Not for the last time, history was the victim of politicians who couldn’t add.

Now that they had given up fighting the Muhammadans, the Europeans naturally took to fighting among themselves. While we might think that the six years of World War II was quite long enough, the English and French fought what has come to be known as the 100 Years’ War. While one might quible and point out that the wars actually lasted 107 years, we can certainly agree that there was a certain animosity between them.

(Some might say that some of this animus persists. When the Channel Tunnel was

being built in the 1980s, an English clergyman was quoted as wondering why anyone would want to go to France at all, much less quickly.)

Alas, the rest of Europe behaved little better than the English and French. Most of Germany and Italy were carved into little Duchies and Principalities, which were endlessly squabbling among themselves. One of the consequences of so many petty states, particularly in Italy, was that the market for paintings and other decorations greatly expanded, since even the pettiest prince wanted to grace his castle with pretty pictures, including one of himself. Artists who once didn’t have enough work to bother perfecting their talents suddenly were working overtime. One of them, Giotto, noticed one day that the people he was painting didn’t much look like the paintings themselves and was determined to do something about it.

While he was fiddling with noses and perspective, to the north a lusty young priest named Martin Luther had just about had it with the church’s main source of income – the selling of indulgences. And in the Celtic areas of France, Scotland, Wales and Ireland, the more sporting of the young men were inventing a new game to while away the cold and rainy days. In case you haven’t figured it out for yourselves, the Three Rs – Reformation, Renaissance, and Rugby – were looming over the horizon.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

I’m Not From Here Myself 

By Patrick F. Cannon

My father was born in Ireland, and arrived at Ellis Island as a toddler in 1908. Somewhere, I have a copy of the ship’s manifest, and even a picture of the ship itself. I’m not unique in my generation in having a foreign-born parent. Just in the last couple of days, I’ve exchanged e-mails with a friend with a similar background. So, we know what it means when someone calls the United States “a nation of immigrants.”

Today, about 45 million of our fellow Americans have legal immigrant status, which is about 14 percent of the total population. Some became citizens; others have permanent resident or other status. The largely accepted number of illegal immigrants is 11.5 million, which has been fairly steady or even slightly declining over the last few years. And the influx of new legal immigrants has recently averaged just over one million per year; about 60,000 of those have been refugees.

Listening to some of our fine politicians, you would think the ratio of legal to illegal was just the opposite. Interestingly, Mexico is at the top of both the legal and illegal lists: 6.5 million of the illegal total, and 140,000 of the yearly legal list. China and India are next with about 70,000 each. They also figure on the illegal list, with 200,000 for India and 120,000 for China. Although I haven’t taken the time to check, I suspect many of these were admitted legally on student or travel visas, and simply didn’t go back when their visas expired.

It has obviously been much easier to enter the United States illegally from Mexico or Central America than it is from China. Unless you’re smuggled by sea in a shipping container, as has happened, you have to get an expensive airplane ticket and have a passport and visa if you’re coming from the Far East (or anywhere across the water for that matter).

If you live in an area with significant numbers of both legal and illegal aliens, Chicago for example, you are very likely to see and even interact with them almost daily. If you eat out, a very high proportion of the folks who cook your food and help serve it will have come from Mexico or Central America. They may have installed your new roof, and certainly have cut your grass and otherwise maintained your lavish gardens. If you’re alert, you’ve also seen them packed in vans on their way to do day labor throughout the city and suburbs.

Despite the odious pronouncements of President Trump, they seem to commit crimes at a rate less than the national average. But if they do, and are here illegally, the current law requires that they be deported. Actually, the current laws provide that anyone who is here illegally is subject to deportation. There are some legal niceties involved in the process, unless the person is more or less caught in the act of illegally crossing a border, or has done so fairly recently.

The Trump administration has pointed out that deportation hit record levels during the Obama administration, and this is quite true. As we now know, they have plans to accelerate the process. While the famous wall on our southern border may not rise immediately, a significant increase in border agents and police is in the works. While the priorities will actually be much the same (criminals, people caught at the borders, serial offenders), the numbers are likely to set new records. And all of this will be done, not through some extralegal whim of the mercurial President, but to enforce existing laws.

Who then should we blame if good people get caught in the net? The people who enforce the laws or the people who make them?  Do illegal aliens who have been here for a specified number of years, and have a clean record, deserve some kind of legal status? Does Congress really think that the existing laws make sense? Are they prepared to see 11.5 million people (or whatever the actual number is) rounded up like cattle and deported?

When legislatures fail to do their duty, bad things can happen. Look at Illinois. Washington is just failure on a bigger scale. Deplore President Trump to be sure. But what has your Congressman and Senator done for you or the country lately?

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

You’re in the Army Now 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I can’t recall his name now. After all, it’s been 56 years since my country called me to the colors under the auspices of the Selective Service Act of 1940. I’ll call him Joe Schmoe, which kind of fits. Anyway, Joe was my bunk mate during Army basic training at Ft. Benning, Georgia.

            Nowadays, with the all-volunteer Army, I suspect the living conditions for soldiers, even during basic training, are much better. In 1961, we were housed in World War II vintage barracks, which were never meant to be permanent. Simple, two-story frame structures with no insulation, they were heated by coal furnaces, which were tended, on a rotating basis, by the occupants. Since few of these fine young men had any relevant experience, the heating was unreliable at best. While March in Georgia (when I arrived) wasn’t quite as cold as Chicago, it was damn cold enough when revile sounded at 6:00 am the morning, particularly if the furnace had gone out overnight, which was most of the time.

            These particular barracks had been unoccupied since the Korean War, and we spent many of our off hours trying to scrub them clean. We never quite succeeded, to the horror of our platoon sergeant. Back to Joe. When some of us arrived at Ft. Benning by bus from Ft. Leonard Wood in Missouri, where we had spent two weeks of misery before the Army decided to send us south, we were directed to the barracks and told to throw our duffle bags on any available bunk. All of the first floor bunks had already been taken by earlier arrivals, so I trudged up stairs and threw my bag on the first available lower bunk.     By the time Joe arrived, all the lower bunks had been taken, so he favored me by choosing my upper. Now, if you equate “bunk beds” with the kind that families use to furnish kid’s rooms, you would be mistaken. These were in a more minimalist tradition, consisting of a three-inch thick mattress atop a single layer of saggy springs. Nor was there a charming little ladder to provide access to the upper. Since the mattress itself was only about three-feet wide, many a young soldier, accustomed to more generous accommodations at home, found himself tumbling to the floor during a fitful sleep. One got used to these thumps in night. I can’t recall that anyone got seriously injured as a result of these unexpected nocturnal flights.

            Trying to be a good neighbor, I welcomed Joe. “My names Pat Cannon,” I said, and put out my hand. Joe was a frail thing, maybe 5-8 and 140 pounds, with what looked like blonde hair (it was, like my own, mostly fuzz). He held out his limp hand. “I’m Joe. Where are you from?”

            “I’m from Chicago,” I said. “How about you?”

            “I’m from Chicago too…well Maywood.”

            “Maywood? I went to Maywood Park once…to the race track.”

            “Oh, yeah…I’ve never been there. Have you been to Skip’s Drive-in?”

            “No. I’ve just been to the track. Where’s Skips?”

            “It’s not too far from the track. You should go. On Fridays, guys bring their rods

            and customs and park in the lot. You can see a lot of cool cars.”

            “Well, maybe I’ll go there sometime, but I live kind of far away.”

            “You should.”

That was it, except that a couple of weeks later, we had an almost identical conversation, since poor Joe could summon up very little in the way of repartee. He wasn’t much of a soldier either. I certainly wasn’t a budding George Patton myself, but poor Joe was a ringer for Beetle Bailey. He just managed to scrape by, sort of like a D student. Nevertheless, I think he might have graduated, but fate intervened.

            We were probably about two thirds of the way through the eight-week ordeal when we finally got paid. As I recall, recruits earned about 70 bucks a month, enough to perk up morale. There was an immediate exodus to the enlisted men’s club down the hill, where a beer could be had for 25 cents. We even got a chance to visit the nearby metropolis of Columbus, Georgia, where beer was a bit more expensive and rumor had it there were loose women to be found.

            In addition to cheap beer, available cash always meant gambling in the army. Let me pause here for some demographics. In 1961, our world was at peace, but the draft was still in effect. Of the 200 or so recruits in Company B, 2^nd Engineer Battalion, 2^nd Infantry Division (charged with training us), about half were draftees and half enlistees. Draftees would serve two years; for enlistees, the term was three. Draftees tended to be older and better educated; I had finished two years of college and we actually had several college graduates.  Enlistees, who we fondly called “lifers”, were as young as 18. Many were from the South, and some were barely literate. While Joe was from the North, he more or less fit that profile.

            When some of us went into Columbus, Joe got lured into a poker game. The big winner was a draftee from Brooklyn. I can’t remember the exact amount, but let’s say poor Joe lost 50 bucks, or most of his pay. Brooklyn lived at the last bunks in our row. His winnings were in his wallet, locked for the night in his wall locker. The next morning, he discovered that someone had gotten into his locker and removed exactly $50 from his wallet, which contained a good deal more. Apparently, someone had pushed up the bottom of the locker far enough to reach the wallet, remove the money, and then replace the wallet. How this was managed with bunks full of sleeping warriors was a matter of wonder.

            Brooklyn recalled that Joe had seemed stunned at losing the exact amount missing, and went in search of our platoon sergeant, who was a decent guy and decorated veteran of the Korean War. He confronted Joe, who readily admitted taking the money, which, he said “was mine…I was just taking my own money back.”

            This explanation didn’t square with the Uniform Code of Military Justice, so Joe was ordered to pack his belongings. The Military Police (MPs) duly arrived and Joe was driven away, never to be seen again. Perhaps some day he made it back to Skip’s which, alas, is long gone.

            Shortly after, it was discovered that two of the recruits who had gone into town had not returned. The same platoon sergeant commented that they would probably end up going home, where the MPs would be waiting for them. We found out later he was right.

            In the event you think only lowly recruits run afoul of the Army, before basic training was over one of the mess sergeants was arrested for stealing meat, and the assistant platoon sergeant of Company C was busted for showing porn movies at a buck a head. I didn’t see the movies myself, but several reports deemed them barely worth the price of admission.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon