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

People at War

By Patrick F. Cannon

Two books I read recently shed some light on how war affects a wide cross section of the people who live through it – The German War, by Nicholas Stargardt; and Paris at War, by David Drake.

I’ve read widely on the history of World War II, including what led up to it. While the primary focus of many of these books has been political and military, all necessarily pay some attention to the attitudes and experiences of those we might describe as average citizens. The subject books reverse that emphasis.

Stargardt looks at Germany as a whole, while Drake concerns himself mainly with Paris, although not Paris in a vacuum. Although this would change over time, Germany was of course initially the victor and France the defeated, with all that that implies.

With access to the letters and diaries of typical citizens, both books look at the totality of the home front experience, but I’ll focus on the fate of their Jewish citizens. 130,000 German Jews were killed, representing 55% of the pre-Nazi Jewish population. Since there was only a relative handful left in Germany at the end of the war in 1945, what happened to the rest?  The reason is related to the undoubted fact that the majority of Germans supported and indeed participated in the elimination of Jews and other “alien” groups.

From the beginning of his political career in the mid-1920s to his formation of a minority government in 1933, Hitler’s constant refrain was to blame the Jews for everything from Germany’s defeat in 1918, to its economic collapse during the Weimar Republic. He also equated the Jews with Bolshevism; indeed, the pairing became ubiquitous in his rhetoric and that of his henchmen. Ridding the Reich of the alien Jews would help to put real Germans back to work and return Germany to greatness. As a result, German (and Austrian) Jews, who saw the writing on the wall as more and more anti-Jewish measures were enacted, began to leave. Tragically, many who stayed could not convince themselves that the measures would go beyond discrimination to outright murder.

Unless they were directly involved with the extermination – the SS and Gestapo for example – most Germans didn’t directly witness the killing of their German Jewish neighbors. Many, in the army and related organizations, did witness the killing of Polish (2.9 million!) and other Jews. Amazingly, there was little censorship of letters sent by soldiers to their friends and families back home. They were good tourists, too, and actually inserted photos of Jews being killed with their letters. Some expressed regret, not that it was being done, but that is was necessary!

Hitler’s elimination of “undesirables” as a means of purifying the German/Aryan race actually began with the systematic euthanizing of the mentally ill and disabled. Initially, the Roman Catholic and other Christian hierarchies objected, but this faded away as the regime agreed to soften its stance against the established religions. Constant and consistent propaganda extolling the superiority of the German race and inferiority of the Jews and other so-called mongrel races became widely accepted. While individuals like Dietrich Bonhoeffer continued to protest, he and the more vociferous – and there were very few of them – became victims themselves.

While there was some underground resistance, ironically the only plot that came close to succeeding was the attempt by a group of Army officers in July, 1944 to assassinate Hitler. Ironically, it came only after some officers concluded that the war was lost, and they hoped that the elimination of Hitler would help them get better terms from the Americans and British. No such thoughts entered their mind while they were winning. They even harbored the vain hope that an armistice in the west would permit them to concentrate their efforts in holding off the Russians.

As the tide of war turned against the Germans after 1942, daily life for the average German began to deteriorate. In Paris, deterioration began with the German victory in June, 1940. The French, who had enjoyed an often messy democracy since the establishment of the Third Republic in 1870, began to resist the German occupation almost immediately, and the resistance continued to gain momentum until Paris was liberated on August 25, 1944.  Every attack on the German occupiers was met with brutal retaliation, yet the resisters persisted, eventually with the help of the Allies.

Of course, there were collaborators. 90,000 French Jews lost their lives, but this represented only 26% of the prewar population. (The Roman Catholic Hierarchy’s record was little better here than in Germany.) While a handful of German Jews were hidden by friends and survived the war, many more survived in France or managed to escape. Shamefully, those who were deported to the death camps were rounded up by the French police, on the orders of the puppet Vichy government. Many of the police and other collaborators who cast their lot with the Germans would be executed after the war.

And while France did not have a perfect record of resistance, at least they had one. After the war ended, Germans were forced to come face to face with what their government had done in their name and even with their support and approval. They would be forced in the years ahead to attempt to justify to their children and their children’s children what they had done or failed to do. But how do you explain away the deaths of six million of your neighbors?

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Stop! That’s Unauthorized! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

The Chicago Tribune, that former bastion of conservative Republicanism, has recently taken yet another step in its crusade to never use a word that might accurately describe a person or action if a softer and less accurate one can be found. Thus, we no longer are plagued by “illegal” immigrants, but by “unauthorized” ones.

Before you make the assumption that I’m anti-immigrant, let me assure you that I’m fully in support of legislation to legalize the status of most of the 11 million or so folks who originally crossed our borders on the sly, or overstayed their visas. I’m particularly concerned that we do not punish young people who were brought here as infants or toddlers.

But I am also concerned that we describe things accurately. Believe me, the desperate person from Central America or Mexico who seeks a way across the border with the United States at a place not controlled by customs agents, knows full well that he or she is committing an illegal act, else they would proudly use a controlled crossing point. There are laws specifying who may legally enter the United States as an immigrant; just as there are laws that say you may not murder your neighbor or steal his goods. We do not (at least yet) say that John Doe is accused of the “unauthorized” killing of John Smith.

As anyone who pays attention to immigration matters knows, there are activists who never use the word “illegal” when talking about immigration, and presumably won’t use “unauthorized” either. To them, borders are a construct of the powerful, meant to subjugate the poor and protect the jobs of the native born bigots.

“A world without borders” is a noble sentiment, but recent events in the European Union and elsewhere, including the United States, have demonstrated that some stringent but rational controls may be necessary. But the actions of the Trump administration (announced after I started this piece) have gone beyond the necessary to the absurd. Apparently the one law they failed to recognize was that classic: the law of unintended consequences. Instead of specifying that visa approvals would be suspended effective at a reasonable date, it apparently didn’t occur to the President and his Svengali Bannon that people with valid visas and green cards might actually be enroute. Or maybe they just didn’t care?

So, my quibbles about whether to use “illegal” or “unauthorized” may be frivolous in the current climate. I find myself wondering if New York Times columnist David Brooks may have been pessimistic when he predicted that President Trump would be impeached within a year. Now, even the Republicans who decided they might be able to work with him are having second thoughts, and would certainly prefer Vice President Pence. I’m sure they’re wondering, as I am, what inevitable future egregious action by President Trump would qualify as impeachable. The suspense is killing me.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Dogs, Part Three

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, will soon be 12 and is 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 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Dogs, Part Two 

By Patrick F. Cannon

If you read Dogs, Part One, you may have realized that it disposed of only one of the eight dogs I have owned. You may now fear that this series will go on and on as each week I tell you about the other seven in turn. You may also ask with some justification why I’m not using this space to point out that tomorrow the buffoonish vulgarian Trump will be inaugurated.

Fear not. This week I will dispose of several dogs, and I’ll let the professional soothsayers wish they could dispose of Mr. Trump. As for me, I’m dropping my subscriptions to the New York Times, the Nation, the New Republic, and Mother Jones; and adding Mad Magazine and The Onion.

Back to the real dogs. After our Irish Setter, Rusty, failed to return from her evening run, I didn’t own another dog until I was married with two small children.  With my first wife, Mary, and toddler Patrick and infant Beth, I was living in Albert Lea, Minnesota. Now, Mary was the daughter of a man who had once raised German Shepherds in a small Chicago apartment. A man who would rather dream than work, he later built a shed on his property in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin to house his carrier pigeons. Anyway, Mary loved dogs (pigeons not so much) and so we decided to get one.

As it happened, a man who worked for me raised Golden Retrievers as hunting dogs. He had a litter on hand, and we bought a male puppy who we named Caliban, after the troublesome sprite in Shakespeare’s The Tempest. The idea was that he and the kids would grow up together in love and harmony. Alas, dogs grow to their full size in about a year. Humans take somewhat longer. Now, Caliban was at the top of the Golden size scale and in his enthusiasm took to knocking my toddler son Patrick down on a more or less regular basis, mostly on hard surfaces. They didn’t have a concussion protocol in those days, so eventually we had to choose between our son and the dog. I won’t keep you in suspense; we chose Patrick.

A corporate power struggle, which my boss lost, caused us to return to the Chicago area to seek employment, and eventually we settled in Glenview. An opportunity to adopt a foundling Dalmatian named Dancer presented itself and we took the orphan in. It turned out he was an untrainable lunatic, although quite handsome. He also, to put it as discreetly as I can, had a serious problem with fecal gas. Indeed, he had the power to drive one out of a room or even the house. The combination eventually sent him packing.

After we moved to Oak Park in 1974 – where I would live for the next 42 years – Mary decided what we really needed was a German Shepherd, of which she had fond childhood memories. She found a breeder with pups, located Downstate (defined as anywhere in Illinois not in Cook or the immediately surrounding counties).  We visited and picked out a cute little guy and named him Sam. I mentioned that dogs grow quickly, and Sam became a big, handsome fellow in short order. He had a highly developed protective instinct and a taste for wooden furniture.

Despite our best efforts, we were never able to cure him of these tendencies. At the same time that many of our friends told us that they were afraid to visit, I noticed a piece in the paper reporting that the Chicago Police Department was looking for recruits for its canine unit. Dear Sam soon became Office Sam and I like to think he struck fear into the hearts of malefactors throughout the city.

Our next dog was another foundling, a miniature Poodle named Mimi. We got her through the efforts of my mother-in-law Lil, who called one day and said someone at her workplace had a dog that needed a home, and dear Lil immediately said yes on our behalf. When would we come to pick the dog up?

Mimi was as sweet as a dog could be, although I had my doubts about the purity of her pedigree. Nevertheless, we loved and enjoyed her until she wandered out of the back yard and was run over and killed in our common driveway by a careless neighbor.

By now, you must be saying to yourself: clearly, this man is not meant to have a dog. But, against all odds, my luck was about to change. (To be continued.)

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Dogs, Part One 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I have owned eight dogs, and almost a ninth. The ninth might have been the first, but it made a tragic mistake. Let me explain. I was living in Homestead, PA, and was either in the last part of first grade or the first part of second grade. My memory is a bit fuzzy in that regard. Anyway, as I recall, my brother Pete and I were ambling along an alley and came upon a stray dog, who defined perfectly the breed “Shaggy Dog.” He eagerly followed us home, perhaps helped along with a bit of rope.

We showed it to our mother, begging her to let us keep it (all young boys want dogs, as you must know). She was dubious, but decided to seek higher authority: “Tie it on the porch. Your father will decide when he gets home.” This we did, and left it there, perhaps repairing to the back yard (black steel mill soot only) to shoot some marbles. Thus, we were not there when my father trudged up the steps to the porch, to be greeted and then bitten by “Shaggy.” My father responded by giving the offender a good kick down the stairs. It wisely took off, never to be seen again.

Not long after, we moved to Chicago’s South Shore neighborhood, where my father was to manage a branch of a furnace company (he later started his own company). Dad was an outgoing, even charismatic, man and made many friends, quite a few in the nicer bars on 71^st Street. One of them offered him a female Irish Setter named Rusty. Perhaps feeling guilty for kicking “Shaggy” back into homelessness, he actually accepted.

Now, there was some story told then about why she was in need of a home, but I later suspected that she had been used for breeding and had to be retired. Now, perhaps your image of an Irish Setter is of a proud prancing redhead with shining, flouncing coat. Rusty was in contrast a bit on the dowdy side. Her coat was somewhat faded, and it occurs to me now that she was probably at least 10 years old.

She was very sweet, and patiently put up with the attentions of two young boys who – along with their parents – didn’t have a clue about how to properly care for a dog. We fed her the cheapest dog food my mother could find, Rival, although my father would occasionally come home with some horse meat. She also was given leftover meat bones, which now is apparently a no-no. We did bathe her, which was a hoot, as she would shake wildly after we rinsed her, thus inundating anything within 10 feet.

We lived across the street from the Jackson Park golf course, and in the evenings we would take her there and she would endlessly chase birds. Once, she managed to catch a Mallard duck near a lagoon, which she proudly deposited at our feet. It was unharmed, if somewhat put out. She had, as they say of bird dogs, a soft mouth.

At first, we took her out for her walks. Eventually, however, we took to just opening the back door (we lived in a large apartment building, with the courtyard in the back) and letting her out. She would run down the stairs, do her business (did anyone pick up dog poop then?) and return.  One day, she didn’t return. When we eventually noticed this, we organized a search, both in the park and the neighborhood.

We never found her. Perhaps she went in search of a better brand of dog food, or someone who was more responsible. Or maybe her former owners had simply moved to far away Stangelville, Wisconsin and didn’t want to take her, so she took off on a months-long trek to find them. I like to think she finally arrived, and can imagine the headline in the Stangelville Daily Bugle: “Intrepid Setter escapes Chicago to find former owners!”   (To be continued.)

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

What Law? 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Now, I don’t want to accuse everyone who’s reading this of being a law breaker, but chances are you’re as guilty as sin. Have you every jaywalked? Crossed against a light? Failed to come to a complete stop at a stop sign? Driven through an intersection when the light has turned red before you cleared it? Exceeded the posted speed limit? Talked on a hand held cell phone while driving? Texted while doing the same? Fiddled a bit on your income taxes? Are you a bicyclist who’s flaunted every traffic law on the books? And, horror of horrors, have you neglected to scoop up your doggies poop?

Let’s be honest – we all occasionally break the law or laws we find inconvenient. Human nature, we might say. When we do, we generally put only ourselves in jeopardy. And surely, some of the laws on the books are just plain silly. Legislators at all levels seem to think they must leave nothing their constituents might do to chance. So many laws, indeed, that the poor police have no earthly way of enforcing them all.

What do we say then when our elected leaders decide which Federal laws they wish to enforce, and which to ignore? You may well say, if your own politics agree, that the President of the United States is within his rights not to enforce a law with which he disagrees, and be furious when the next President decides the very opposite. You may have noticed the current occupant has issued double the number of executive orders as his predecessor, which his successor has promised to reverse.

There was a time, one imagines, when time and circumstances rendered some law obsolete or even odious, and it was repealed. Apparently, political gridlock has rendered this sensible alternative impossible, thus leaving it to our leaders to decide which laws they will enforce and which ignore. Before you accept this as the status quo, as we seem to have accepted that Congress has lost the power to declare war, I ask you to consider this exchange in Robert Bolt’s play (and later movie) A Man for All Seasons as perhaps relevant to today’s situation. It is between Sir Thomas More and his son-in-law William Roper, and is related to what Roper believes are repugnant laws during the reign of King Henry VIII (who will eventually cause the future Saint Thomas More to lose his head).

Roper: So now you give the Devil the benefit of law?

More: Yes, what would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?

Roper: Yes, I’d cut down every law in England to do that!

More: Oh? And when the last law is down, and the Devil turned ‘round on you, where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country is planted thick with laws, from coast to coast, Man’s laws, not Gods! And if you cut them down, and you’re just the man to do it, do you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then?  Yes, I’d give the Devil benefit of law, for may own safety’s sake!

If you have never seen the movie – the great Paul Scofield plays More – you might want to look it up. As with all great works of art, it still speaks to us.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Resolve! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

The New Year is upon us. What we do in the next 12 months may well alter the course of human events for all time to come, or at least for a day or two. As it is customary for delusional people like me to make resolutions, I offer these. Please feel free to adopt some or all for yourself; no royalties will be charged. Some depend on the resolve of others, for which I have usually hoped in vain.

As politicians at all levels continue to fail us, I am going to ignore them as much as possible. I will only get involved when I have an opportunity to sign petitions limiting their terms of office or taking away from them the power to gerrymander electoral districts to insure their reelections.

For the first time, I am unable to hope that the Chicago Cubs will finally win the World Series. Cubs fans may not know this, but the Chicago White Sox won this event in 2005. Now, we can dream that the two teams, joined as they are by the El’s Red Line, will soon meet in a “subway series.” I dare not imagine this will happen in 2017, but a recent trade gives hope that the Sox may only be a couple of years away from contending. Let us hope that their rise isn’t matched by an inevitable Cubs decline.

Staying in sports, we can dream that the McCaskey family will finally sell the Bears, thus giving hope that a new owner might emulate what the Ricketts family has done for the Cubs. The McCaskey clan seems only interested in providing a place of employment for otherwise unemployable members of their own family. I urge them to take the money and run before their fans get the jump on them.

I resolve to keep reminding my fellow citizens that facts are pesky things and often contradict their most cherished beliefs, to whit:

• Government intervention can reverse the tides of history and return manufacturing jobs to America. Most of the lost jobs are now done by computer-driven machines. They cannot come back because they no longer exist. Be wary of politicians who tell you otherwise.[1]
• Genetically Modified Organisms (GMOs) will destroy life as we know it. Many so-called “environmentalists” peddle this nonsense despite numerous studies that have proven that they are not only safe, but many will reduce the need for chemical fertilizers and weed killers. Avoid buying products that pander to ignorance by advertising their products as “GMO Free.”
• Illegal immigrants are flooding over the borders and stealing jobs from the natives. Actually, the number of illegals has stabilized in recent years, with the number from Mexico actually declining. The percentage in the work force is about 8 percent, down from the peak of 8.3 percent in 2008. By far, the highest percentages of illegals are in agricultural related jobs, mostly the kind of stoop labor Americans refuse to do.

Finally, I resolve to think as little about Donald Trump as is feasible. He is an ignorant vulgarian and will try to haunt my every dream. I am further resolved to let the other branches of government do what they were designed to do and hope for the best.

Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

[1] This is my first footnote, and therefore historic. When you see one, if you’re already bored, you may safely ignore it. In this case, I would just add that during the election both candidates railed against the trade agreements that have reduced abject poverty around the world. They claimed they wanted to “save” American jobs. The classic case of doing such is the Smoot Hawley tariff of 1930. It drastically raised tariffs on foreign goods, which caused other countries to raise their own tariffs on ours. The unemployment rate in 1930 was 8.7 percent, in 1931, 15.9 percent and by 1933, 24.9 percent. What do they say about history repeating itself?

Family 

By Patrick F. Cannon

My brother Pete will be 80-years-old on January 4. Because he will be in Florida by then, one of his grand daughters arranged an early celebration in Pittsburgh for December 10. Jeanette and I flew in on the 9^th, so we could spend a bit more time with Pete and his wife Mary Beth. I mention his grand daughter because her arranging the event is indicative of how much his family appreciates all that he has done and keeps doing for them.

He is 14 months older than me, so do the math. Because both of our parents died in their 40s, I have known him longer than I have known anyone. We are now separated by 500 miles; once, it was a few feet from crib to crib or a few more feet from bed to bed. I won’t go into our life stories, except to say it was often a story of riches to rags, and then happily back to riches again.

People say we resemble each other physically. I don’t know. We do resemble each other in some other respects. We both served in the military and used the G.I. Bill to get our university degrees. We have children of roughly the same ages and raised them while going to school part time. We have 14 surviving first cousins, and spent much of our childhood with them and the others who died too young. Only one of them (himself a fine man) is from my father’s family, of whom generally the less said the better.

Three of the four who live in the Pittsburgh area came to Pete’s party (the fourth would have loved to have been there, but had an unavoidable conflict).  We saw most of the rest of them in July at the semi-annual Donnelly family reunion, held for many years at a resort in the Laurel Highlands, about an hour east of Pittsburgh. It was the 50^th anniversary of the first one, which was more modestly held at a picnic pavilion at Renziehausen Park in McKeesport, PA. I didn’t attend the first one, but have been to most of them since.

I mention all of this, not because you might be fascinated, but because it occurred to me when I was at Pete’s party that I am the member of a family that works at being a family. I don’t know how many were at this year’s reunion, but it must have been at least 75, spanning four generations. At my age, I find it comforting that I am still close to my cousins, even though many live far away. I’m also  fortunate to have my late sister’s three daughters and their families and friends.

My wife Jeanette has an even larger family. She has no fewer than 50 first cousins, most of whom live in Wisconsin, where her father was born and where most of the family remains. They also have a reunion, on even a larger scale than my family’s. We have attended some, but also sometimes drive up from Chicago just to visit her elderly aunts and uncles. In addition, Jeanette’s two sisters have seven daughters (and seven sons-in-law) and they all live in the Chicago area with their many children. During the course of a year, we’ll usually see them all at some family event or another.

I realize that not everyone is as fortunate as we are. When you get older, you’re inclined to read the obituaries in the paper most days. Often, the featured and bylined obit will end with the phrase “no immediate survivors.” In most cases, though, the deceased left behind many friends, who become a kind of substitute family for people who have outlived their own. Anyway, when we begin to think we’re overburdened by family commitments during these holidays, we should spare a thought for those who wish they were. And maybe, if you have a few bucks in your pocket, give one or two to that homeless person you might normally pass by.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon