By Patrick F. Cannon

Back in the mid-1960s (they really did exist), I worked for an integrated paper company. “Integrated” in that case just meant that they grew or bought the trees, made wood pulp into paper of various kinds, then made  the paper into bags and boxes (they also made finer paper for writing and printing). I was in the part of the business that sold bags to people like Ralston Purina, Quaker Oats, Quickrete, MiracleGro, Organic Compost (“Number One in the Number Two Business”), and Kingsford Charcoal, among many others. We also sold a lot of paper potato and onion bags.

            I remember being somewhat flabbergasted when some environmentalists began to accuse the paper industry of murdering trees in their greedy quest for profit. The lunatic fringe even drove spikes into trees soon to be  harvested, causing serious injury to loggers. This confused me, since I knew that my company (Union Camp) actually grew most of the trees they used on the one million acres of forests they owned, or bought trees from tree farmers. While obviously it takes a lot longer to grow a Pine tree than a stalk of corn, the idea is much the same. You harvest, then plant. Although I had long left the industry by then, eventually plastic bags began to replace paper for many uses.

            Nevertheless, recycling paper became a hot topic, especially newspapers and magazines. I think it can be said that these efforts were the beginning of today’s recycling industry. Today, most paper products include at least some recycled material. Metal recycling actually predates paper. Today, 40 percent of steel comes from scrap; and fully 60 percent of aluminum comes from those beer and soft drink cans you throw in the recycling bin.

The percentage for glass is 31, but only 5 for plastic. I’m not sure why this is so low. I put all my plastic in the recycling bin, but it doesn’t amount to much, since I don’t buy soft drinks or water in plastic bottles. Our refuse hauler does pick up garbage and recycling in different trucks, but I have no idea what happens to it after that.

            Once upon a time, fast-food restaurants relied on paper for cups, plates, wrappers and straws. Slowly but surely, as with grocery and commodity bags, plastic began to replace paper. The reason? Much cheaper. But unlike paper, most plastic stubbornly resists decomposition. Added to this is the ubiquitous plastic water bottle. I have never quite understood why people with access to safe drinking water insist on buying water, but unreasoning fear has always encouraged irrational behavior. In this country at least, some folks are starting to use refillable water bottles.

            Of course, if the world’s population was the same as it was in the 1960s – about 3 billion – the scale wouldn’t be as acute, but it’s now 8 billion and growing. At least if all that plastic ended up in landfills, it wouldn’t be able to create vast islands of plastic in the world’s oceans (that’s the Pacific). So, the once irrationally despised paper is now making a comeback. So, you might want to hug that tree for different reasons! Or buy paper company stock. By the way, Union Camp later merged with International Paper, which is now the world’s largest pulp and paper company. Their future looks bright.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Last weekend, for the first time in 5 years (Covid intervened; it’s usually held every  two years), I attended the Donnelly Family Reunion at the Seven Springs Mountain Resort, located about 50 miles east of Pittsburgh in Pennsylvania’s beautiful Laurel Highlands. The family originated in the Pittsburgh area; the majority still live in Western Pennsylvania or Ohio, but some came from Chicago, New York, Florida, and even California.

            Attendees were all descendants of the children of Frank and Catherine Donnelly, my mother’s parents. All of their children are now gone. I’m in the next generation, and  the second oldest of nine surviving cousins. I didn’t count, but there must have been 50 or 60 people there from four generations. To be honest, I didn’t know who some of the little kids belonged to, but they all had a ball.

            We had group dinners on Friday and Saturday evenings. Although some folks brought special dishes, the meals were catered, as befits the family’s increasing prosperity. The 2016 reunion marked the 50^th anniversary. The early ones were held at Renziehausen Park in McKeesport, PA.  In those days, dinners were pot luck. There was always fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans, pickled beets and eggs, Jell-O molds, and cold beer and pop. My cousins and I were younger then, of course, so a softball game before dinner was traditional.

            The reunion is now being organized by my children’s generation.  No softball game is possible, but the kids are kept busy with various games. One of them was a three-legged race, which some of the adults also gave a shot, with hilarious results. The reunion and many of these games were organized by Jill Spear, the daughter of my cousin Jim Suttman and his wife Linda.

            As usual, the finale was the traditional multi-generational egg toss. For many years, the major domo has been another Suttman cousin, Bill. I’m ashamed to say that my daughter Beth and I were the first out. She was blameless; it was I who dropped the egg. It was held in a light rain. Only thunder, lightning and torrential rain who have caused cancellation!

            One of the reasons I love going to Seven Springs is that nothing seems to change in the area. Once you get off the Pennsylvania Turnpike, everything is familiar. You pass no Walmart’s, or large retailers of any kind. You stop for groceries at Sarnelli’s; beer and wine are sold on the lower level. It’s very much like the corner grocery used to be; it has everything you actually need for a short stay, and the people are friendly. Up the road is a farm stand where the justly famous local peaches are sold.

            Maybe there’s just no room for big-box stores. Level building sites are few and far between. Seven Springs sits at an elevation of nearly 3,000 feet. The resort offers skiing in the winter. In the summer, there’s golf, tennis, pickleball (!), horseback riding, fishing, and skeet shooting. If you’re up to it emotionally, it’s near the Flight 93 9/11 National Memorial. This year, I again visited Frank Lloyd Wright’s famous Fallingwater, the summer home he designed for the Kaufmann family of Pittsburgh department store fame (that’s it in the photo). Accompanying me this time were my son Patrick, daughter Beth and her husband Boyd. (By the way, the fall color rivals anything you’ll find in New England.)

            I think the first reunion was in 1966. At 85, I’m  the second oldest; my cousin Jim Goldstrohm is nearly 87 and I was pleased to find him as healthy and talkative as ever. I look forward to seeing him two years from now at the next reunion, where I fully intend to catch the egg at least once!

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

Is Two a Collection?

By Patrick F. Cannon

I get the digital edition of the New York Times. Because I once visited their web site to check on something, one of the ads that pops up regularly is for the auction house, Sotheby’s. The other day, the ad led me to information about an auction of wrist watches in Hong Kong. The estimates quoted were in Hong Kong dollars. My feeble math conversions told me that many of the time pieces were expected to fetch US$250,000 or even more.

            As it happens, I own two watches, both getting on in years. One is a Seiko, which adorns my wrist as I write this. My wife Jeanette bought it for me as a present nearly 40 years ago. Every once in a while I have to change the battery, but it keeps perfect time (or near enough for me). The other – a Hugo Boss – was a gift from the former foreign minister of the Republic of Korea. I don’t recall exactly, but I’m thinking it’s about 25 years old. My benefactor was then an international director of Lions Clubs International; he later became its international president.

            Although it says “Swiss” on the dial, I was initially suspicious, since Korea then was notorious for what are called “copy watches,” which look like the real thing, but stop running about the time you get them home. Not so in this case; the watch still keeps perfect time, and I alternate wearing it with the Seiko.

            It would never occur to me to have a collection of watches that I didn’t wear. Don’t get me wrong. Some of the watches in the Sotheby’s auction are quite stunning, combining art with precision technology. If you’ve ever seen the workings of a Patek Philippe, Breguet, Omega or Rolex, you can’t help but admire the skill that went into the manufacture and assembly of those teeny tiny parts. But I would have thought that all of that artistry is wasted if the watch is never actually used to tell the time of day, or to time one’s racehorse.

            Automobiles are another area where the highest prices are often paid for cars that have never been driven. I like cars, but it would never occur to me to buy one and put it in the garage. In many cases, the intent is to hold it (and I’m sure that holds true for many collectibles) until the value goes up, then sell it to another collector who won’t drive it either. Believe me, if I bought a Ferrari, it would be tearing down the road almost immediately.

            I’m told that one of the hottest areas for collectors is sneakers. Again, they should be unworn unless they had been worn in battle by someone like Michael Jordon. A pair of his recently sold for a record $2.2 million. When I was a lad, you got a pair of sneakers (we called them tennies) at the beginning of Summer, and wore them out by the time school started again in September. As I recall, they had to be disposed of as hazardous waste.

            But people, and markets, are fickle. You might get caught holding the bag if the market for fancy purses collapses. As for me, I do have quite a few books. Who knows, maybe one or two are worth more than I paid for them. The water colors, etchings, lithographs and photographs on my walls are there because they remind me of the places I’ve been, and the books I’ve written. I even have a framed photograph of a Cow Moose that I bought at an outdoor art fair in Crystal Lake, Illinois. That Moose was standing in the water in Maine, looking directly at me and saying “take me home.” So, I did. I wonder if I should start collecting Moose pictures?

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I can understand the dismay that many people felt when the Supreme Court told President Biden that he couldn’t forgive student loan debt without Congressional action. Announced prior to last year’s elections, the forgiveness  would have cost the country’s taxpayers $430 billion. Since Congress passed the laws that established the grant and loan program in the first place, the Court held that only they could modify its terms through new legislation.

            When President Biden first made the announcement, a great many people – and not just Republicans – predicted that the courts would take a dim view of his executive order. Not least among them were the millions of former students who had diligently paid off their loans. Despite them and expert legal opinion, the president did it anyway. Some cynics even suggested he did it purely for political reasons!

             Frankly, I never understood why the Federal government got itself into the student loan business in the first place. Much of the money went to enrich schools of dubious reputation with abysmal graduation rates. Many of them eventually went out of business, leaving students with nothing but debt. It should come as no surprise that Donald Trump got into the action. It would have been cheaper in the long run to simply give needy but deserving students outright grants.

            Perhaps even more controversially, the court told Harvard University and the University of North Carolina that they could no longer use racial preference in recruiting entering classes. The court’s decision was based primarily on the 14^th Amendment, in particular the clause that reads: nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws. The clause was meant to give constitutional reality to the end of slavery. In this case, it was cited to prevent universities from denying equal protection to a different group – Asian Americans. Whether you agree with the decision or not, it’s going to profoundly affect access to the so-called elite schools, but will have little or no effect on the majority of schools that are happy to accept a majority of applicants.

            (Since I first wrote this, in a bit of “tit for tat,” a group of African-American and Latino students have sued Harvard over its practice of giving preference to so-called “legacy” applicants, the children of alumni or large donors. About 40 percent of Harvard students, many of them legacy admissions, pay the full tuition and fees of $57,261 per year. If the student’s family makes $85,000 per year or less, they pay mothing. It’s hard to escape the irony that legacy admissions are helping to subsidize the education of minority and low income students.)   

            Of somewhat lesser impact was the decision that said it was OK for a person to refuse to provide a service that conflicted with their religious beliefs. In this case, a web developer refused to create a site for a same-sex wedding, since her religion teaches that such unions are immoral. Instead of respecting this sincerely-held belief, and simply finding a developer who had no such qualms, the couple sued, giving the Supreme Court an opportunity to look at the proper balance between freedom of speech and freedom of religion. In this very narrow and specific case, it chose religion.

            All of this took place as the integrity of the court has increasingly come into question. Both Justices Thomas and Alito have received expensive trips from “friends” who appear to have had business before the court. Both deny these gifts had any influence on their decisions. They may be telling the truth, but it has brought to light that the Court has no real code of ethics. For this, and for purely political reasons, only 18 percent of us have a great deal of confidence in the court, according to a report by the Association Press (AP). 36 percent have “hardly any,” and 46 percent have “only some.” The Court has never been held in lower repute, nor has the Congress for that matter.

            My opinions about all of this are of no importance. What is important, it seems to me, is the knee-jerk demonization of the “other side.” For example, none of the Supreme Court’s decisions in these cases is without legal justification. But based on comments that you find on the air, in print and the internet, you would be forgiven for thinking the justices in the majority were an evil cabal of heartless brutes.

            These attitudes extend to every corner of our political discourse, making it impossible to solve the solvable problems that face the country. Almost every day, my computer in-box is full of shrill invective from both sides of the political divide. Some of you are responsible for sending this stuff to me. I wish you would think a little  before you press the “forward” key.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

“It’s a wonderful modern world we live in,” said Captain Jack Aubrey in director Peter Weir’s movie Master and Commander, based on Patrick O’Brian’s novels about the British navy during the Napoleonic Wars. He was commenting on a new American ship design. I could make the same comment about television streaming services that permit you to find at a whim just about any movie you might like to see, including that one, which I highly recommend.

            Just the other day, I watched 12 Angry Men, a 1957 movie about a jury wrestling with the verdict in a murder case. Written by Reginald Rose and directed by Sidney Lumet, it has an extraordinary cast, headed by Henry Fonda, but including Lee J. Cobb, Martin Balsam, E.G Marshall, Jack Klugman, Jack Warden, and Ed Begley. I can think of few films with so many quality actors. If you haven’t seen it, you should.

            If you would like to focus on a single actor, who better than Spencer Tracy? Like the team of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Tracy is often linked with Katherine Hepburn, and the movies they made together are certainly worth seeing. But I would also recommend three of his later roles: Bad Day at Black Rock, in which he uncovers a murder while searching for the father of a soldier who had served under him in World War II (Robert Ryan is great too as the villain); Inherit the Wind, a thinly fictionalized story about the famous Scopes Monkey Trial, in which he plays the role based on Clarence Darrow (Fredric March is also superb as a fictionalized William Jennings Bryan); and The Last Hurrah, where his Irish-American  mayor of Boston makes one final run for office.

            Although he appeared more on stage than in films, the British actor Paul Scofield is best known here for his Academy Award-winning role in the film version of  Robert Bolt’s A Man for All Seasons. He also won a Tony Award for the stage version that tells the story of Sir Thomas More’s refusal to support Henry VIII in his difficulties in getting the Pope to agree to his divorce. As a result, he lost his head, but was later made a Saint.

In another role with religious overtones, he played the chilly Judge Thomas Danforth in the movie version of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible. A special favorite of mine is John Frankenheimer’s The Train. Scofield plays an obsessed Nazi Colonel, who packs up a museums worth of French paintings and puts them on a train bound for Germany just before the Allies liberate Paris in 1944. His nemesis is a French railway worker played by an indominable Burt Lancaster. Burt doesn’t know a Monet from a Miro, but he’s determined to stop this demented Nazi from stealing French culture.

Finally, in the female actor category, no one was bigger from the 1930s through the 1950s than Bette Davis. Before Meryl Streep came along, Davis had the most Academy Award nominations, ten (she won twice). One of her wins was for 1938s Jezebel, whose title says it all. I would also recommend The Little Foxes, based on Lilian Hellman’s play; but especially All About Eve, which was 1950s Best Picture Academy Award winner. In it, she plays veteran actor Margot Channing, who is challenged by the devious Eve Harrington, played by Anne Baxter, who, coincidentally, was Frank Lloyd Wright’s granddaughter.

So, if you’re tired of streaming series that never seem to end, why not search into the past for the work of some very great actors?

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Last Thursday, I was leading a tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Chicago-area sites called “Wright Around Chicago.” It begins in the lobby of the Rookery Building in Chicago’s Loop, which Wright remodeled in 1905. A bus then takes the group to Oak Park for a tour of his Unity Temple; after that, the group walks to the architect’s Home and Studio a few blocks away.

            During the walk, I describe several Wright-designed homes we pass on the way. Last Thursday, we passed a home with Roses growing along its fence. Several members of the  group actually stopped to smell those roses, so I did too. It was a sunny day. The rose bushes were in the shade of one of the most beautiful residential streets in the world. Why wouldn’t I stop and smell those roses? Things aren’t all that bad after all, I thought to myself.

            Usually, it’s all too easy to smell the rot instead of the roses. Just to take one example, have we ever had a sadder group of politicians? Maybe we have,  but in the past they hid their ignorance better, or at least didn’t insist on it. The Chinese want to dominate Asia; and the Russians want their empire back. The Earth is warming, and we don’t yet know for sure what that means. And the Cubs and Sox seem to be back to their old ways.

            But when I turned the radio on early Saturday morning, I was greeted with one of Mozart’s thrilling horn concertos. At my whim, I could play CDs that would yield the genius of Beethoven, Shubert, Bach, Brahms, Gershwin, Porter, Cohen and Berlin; and the voices of Bennett, Sinatra, Fitzgerald, Armstrong, Astaire, Pavarotti, Flemming, and even Blossom Dearie. You may prefer the Smashing Pumpkins, Kiss, Led Zeppelin, the Stones, Alexisonfire, The Sadies, Beyonce, or Taylor Swift. It’s all out there, and much more.            Any day I want, I can take myself by EL or car to the Art Institute, where I can be reminded of the creative genius of men and women who live both today and a thousand years ago or more. They saw something in people and places that they thought were worth preserving for all of us. And the Institute has a school that encourages talents that may be remembered a thousand years from now.

            In about a month, I will travel to the Laurel Highlands of Western Pennsylvania for the Donnelly Family Reunion, the first to be held since Covid. The attendees will be descendants of my Grandparents, Frank and Catherine Donnelly and their seven daughters and one son. I will be the second oldest; the patriarch is my cousin Jimmy Goldstrohm (no actual Donnelly’s are left). The 50^th Anniversary Reunion took place in 2016 at the Seven Springs Resort; the first was a picnic held at Renziehausen Park in McKeesport, PA. As I recall, the men of my generation – still in the bloom of youth – played softball to work up an appetite. What can be better than to see once again the cousins you grew up with, and their children and (now) children’s children?

            Finally, when I opened my blinds this morning, the Sun was out, and the four pots of flowers I bought to hang on my balcony railing were in full bloom. The pots were planted by Pesches Garden Center in Des Plaines, and to tell you the truth, I’m not sure what all the flowers actually are, but they give me pleasure, and maybe also to passersby who look up. Throughout Chicagoland and where you live, people have planted and are tending gardens that we can all enjoy. If there are Roses, why not  stop and smell them?

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

In one of the great about-faces in recent sports history, the Professional Golfers’ Association (PGA), specifically its subsidiary PGA Tour, has entered into an arrangement with the Saudi Arabia Sovereign Wealth Fund to merge its tour with LIV (the Roman numeral for 54, the number of  holes in its tournaments), the tour the Saudis organized to compete with the PGA.

            With unlimited funds, LIV had lured some PGA members away by paying them huge upfront bonuses. It was reported that an aging Phil Mickelson, known to be a heavy gambler, received no less than $200 million to turn his coat. Amusingly, Phil did call his benefactors “scary MFers,” presumably because Saudi Arabia’s de-facto ruler, Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman Al Saud, had almost certainly ordered the murder of Washington Post journalist Jamal Khashoggi, a Saudi who had dared to criticize him and his regime.

            Salman is laughingly called a reformer because women can now get a driver’s license in the desert kingdom. This gives them the right to drive to the many public executions that are such a feature of Saudi justice. Perhaps they can also watch as the odd hand is chopped off, maybe with the other three wives they share their husband (whom they must obey in most matters).

            The Sovereign Wealth Fund has been seeking this and other opportunities to invest in sports in what has come to be called “sportswashing.” Investments have been made in football (soccer to us), Formula 1 auto racing, boxing, the WWE, and – I kid you not – cricket. Perhaps the sport the Middle Eastern rulers have been involved with the longest is Thoroughbred racing, and the breeding of its participants.

            The leader here has been and continues to be Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum. He is the ruler of Dubai, part of the United Arab Emirates, for which he serves as prime minister. While a student at Cambridge in England, he began attending the races and became a fan. His family owns Dubai and its oil, so he was able to get into the racing and breeding business at the top. Since he was willing to bid for the best-bred horses against a then-dominant syndicate of English and Irish owners at American auctions in the 1980s, particularly the produce of dominant sire Northern Dancer and his sons, he was able eventually to begin breeding his own horses.

            Last year, his operation, called Godolphin after one of the three foundation Thoroughbred sires, led both the owners and breeders lists in the United States. In addition to this country, Godolphin has similar operations in Great Britain, Ireland, France, Australia and Japan. He also built a race track at home, which hosts the Dubai World Cup ($12 million purse) and associated races with purses totaling $30.5 million. Not to be outdone, the Saudis now host the Saudi Cup, which has a purse of $20 million!

            Held in February and March, these meets have effectively destroyed major winter racing in this country, since I’m not aware of any American owners who can resist the Middle Eastern dough, regardless of the dismal human rights records of their smiling hosts. The legendary Santa Anita Handicap now can only attract horses not quite good enough to ship to the desert kingdoms.

If you read equine industry publications, you would not be unduly reminded of the unpleasantness behind the wealth of your benefactors. You would be more likely to hear what a nice chap Sheikh Mohammed is, and how generously he treats his employees. The fact that he had to kidnap his own daughter after she tried to escape his clutches is never mentioned, nor is how Dubai treated the foreign workers who created a modern city to lure big-spending tourists.

Many of the PGA golfers who supported the PGA Tour in its struggle with LIV have felt betrayed. The Irishman Rory McElroy was a leader in defending the PGA Tour, and has said he was blindsided and appalled by the merger. But like the Thoroughbred breeders in Kentucky, he’ll have to get used to dealing with autocrats. After all, the money’s really good.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon   

By Patrick F. Cannon

Later today, I’m going to pick up a new suit. It replaces my former blue suit that was slightly out of style and – to be frank – a bit tight. The new one was tailored just for me, and took about five weeks from first fitting to delivery. I bought it because I’m scheduled to attend at least two weddings this summer; and I think there may be others to follow.

            I also own a navy blazer, a brownish patterned sports jacket and three pairs of dress slacks. This is a sufficient wardrobe for an elderly chap such as me, but when I was going to the office every day (for nearly 40 years),  I would have had a minimum of six suits in my closet, as well as at least a dozen dress shirts and maybe 30 ties. And, of course, a navy blazer and at least one other sports jacket. I usually got by with three pairs of leather dress shoes.

            I bring this up because I recently had a conversation with a younger relative, who’s a senior executive in his 50s, who said he regrets that dress codes seem not only to be a thing of the past, but are considered stupid. Let me stipulate that there is no logical reason for requiring any particular mode of dress. Recent generations will argue that comfort alone should be one’s guide. How can one argue against comfort? (Don’t you love seeing TV personalities wearing a suit and tie and white tennies?)

            Over time, the trend in men’s clothes has been to less and less formality. The Regency fop (love that word!) would be appalled at how drab men’s clothes steadily became. But I can tell you  that even 50 years ago, it was common for a man of means to not only own several business suits, but formal wear as well. Wealthier chaps who got invited to chic soirees might own a tail coat, as well as both a black and a white dinner jacket. The first time I went to an evening concert at Orchestra Hall in Chicago, at least half the men were dressed formally.

            Opening night at the Lyric Opera was a major Chicago social event. Everyone was dressed to the nines (why not the “tens” I often wondered?). And I can recall that when the new Arlington Park opened in 1989, gentlemen were required to wear a jacket and tie to lunch in the Million Room. Later, only jackets were required; then finally only a collared shirt and no jeans. I was there one day and noticed two young men at a table wearing t-shirts. I asked the waiter about this, and he explained that they were big bettors. By then, the track was owned by Churchill Downs, Inc., whose greed resulted in the track’s sale to the Chicago Bears.

            Some private clubs still have dress codes, but do any restaurants, other than requiring shoes and “no shorts?” In recent years, I have been to restaurants which would have once required at least jackets for gentlemen, and seen male patrons wearing jeans, t-shirts and (horror of horrors) baseball caps, often with the bills at the back (are they perhaps loathe to cover up their tatts)? Even Alinea, Chicago’s only three-star Michelin Guide restaurant, and perhaps its most expensive, no longer requires jackets for men, although I’m sure it likes to see them. No mention is made of hats!

            As it happens, one of the weddings I’ll be attending specifies formal attire. While I’m sure the wedding party will be wearing formal attire, I can’t believe they expect the guests to do the same. But I  could be wrong. My guess is that they at least hope that male attendees will be wearing a suit and tie. If they insist on formal dress, and bar my entry, I should be sorry to miss the celebration, but secretly delighted they were trying to uphold a higher standard of decorum.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I was in at the beginning. The beginning of the women’s movement I mean. The marches, the bra burnings, the demands for equality in opportunity and pay. It was also the heyday of the “sensitive” man, the husband or partner who was willing to share child care and household chores. “Stay at home” dads suddenly became commonplace; those who resisted often found themselves in the divorce court.

            If this social revolution had happened 20 or 30 years sooner, it might have been truly earthshaking for men. I remember my mother hauling out the wringer/washer once a week and spending most of the day doing the laundry. During warm weather – and if it wasn’t raining – the laundry was hung outside to dry. During the winter, it was hung in the basement or attic (if you had one). The next day, out came the ironing board and iron. There was no such thing as no-iron or permanent press, so almost everything had to be ironed. Another day shot.

            In my youth, men didn’t cook. And, if you can believe it, the food you bought was largely raw, expecting to be actually cooked. The floors one trod upon did not then have protective coatings that provided an everlasting shine. The poor housewife could often be found on her hands and knees scrubbing away, then applying a coat of wax that had then to be buffed.

            But in the secret halls of male power, wise heads could see the inevitable rise of feminist discontent. A series of meetings were held in remote locations. For example, manufacturers brought to fruition long suppressed plans for labor-saving  appliances: automatic clothes washers and  driers; dishwashers; frost-free refrigerators that actually made and dispensed ice cubes; micro-wave ovens; and ranges that cleaned themselves!

            Also unveiled were the long-known secrets for treating fabrics so laborious ironing was no longer necessary. Rugs and carpets that repelled stains suddenly became available. Wood floors could now be coated with miracle finishes that retained their shine. Linoleum – which required constant upkeep – gave way to perpetually-glowing vinyl. The large and clumsy vacuum cleaner with its annoying cord gave way to the battery-powered light-weight wand.

            Beginning with the TV dinner, food companies developed a sometimes bewildering variety of prepared dishes that one could simply pop into the oven or micro-wave. Already-prepared gourmet dishes became available at the local super market. No longer was ordering-in limited to the local Chinese restaurant or pizzeria; meals could dash to your door from even the finest eatery.

            All of this and more was planned to come to fruition just as the women’s movement reached its peak. Men were thus shamed into sharing housework that had largely ceased to exist. House-husbands were able to ship the little tykes off to day care. When they reached school age, things got even better. After they put them on the school bus, they could get together with their fellow men for coffee or some poker, or even a round of golf. Thus refreshed, they could commiserate with their returning wives, who had spent the day clawing their way up the corporate ladder.

            So, men everywhere have this now-disbanded secret society to thank for their new-found leisure. I can now reveal that one of its leaders, the legendary Henry Kissinger, has just celebrated his 100^th birthday. Happy birthday Hank, and thanks!

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon  

By Patrick F. Cannon

When I was a young lad in the Pittsburgh area, my choice of beers seemed more than adequate. The main brands were Duquesne, Iron City and Fort Pitt. McKeesport, where I lived from 1950-56, had its own brand, Tube City (McKeesport was the home of the National Tube Company, part of US Steel). If you had a few extra pennies, and wanted to show your sophistication, you could order Rolling Rock from distant Latrobe, PA. The country and private club nabobs may have quaffed national brands like Budweiser or Schlitz after their golf or tennis, but not we mere mortals.

            In those days, bars had to close on Sundays. Wily and thirsty Pennsylvanians would leave their favorite tavern at midnight on Saturday and meander (or stagger) over to their nearest private club, which were exempt. As it happened, the Sons of Italy, the Greek American Protective Association or the Ancient Order of Hibernians, didn’t care much about your ancestry as long as you paid your membership dues.

            While I drink beer only rarely now, my local liquor store – Binnys, a major Chicago-area chain – probably has at least a hundred brands to choose from (actually more like 700. I checked). In addition to the traditional national brands (Bud, Coors, Millers, etc.), there will be a bewildering array of imports and “craft” beers. I’m sure Pittsburgh has a similar culture of beer lovers thinking they have come up with a new way to make beer. They go into (and out of) business on almost a daily basis. Some succeed in a big way. In Chicago, Goose Island was such a notable success that it was bought by the folks who own Budweiser.

            I rarely drink beer myself anymore, but I do keep some on hand for guests. At the moment, I have some Stella Artois from Belgium, Bernard Bohemian Lager from the Czech Republic, and Two Brothers Domaine Dupage Ale from Warrenville, IL (which happens to be in DuPage County). Lurking in the back of the fridge is one 16 ounce can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. It’s there in case my daughter Beth wants a Radler, which is beer mixed with 7-Up or something similar. She feels using expensive beer is a waste for this German-invented thirst quencher.

            Just think about this embarrassment of riches! What a great country! Instead of choosing from maybe 10 brands of beer, Capitalist entrepreneurship has given you 700! (Actually more, but that’s all my Binnys has space for.) There are lagers and pilsners, ales and stouts. Some are now aged in used bourbon barrels, or flavored with rare fruits and spices. You can find the palest of pale ales, and the blackest of stouts. Like dry? Like sweet? Like hoppy? Or malty? Some brewer is ready to please.

            Don’t like beer? The craft spirit folks are ready to oblige. Just take Bourbon for example. Binnys has 277 kinds available, priced from $10.99 to $399.99 for 750 ml (you can actually pay up to almost $3,000 for the rarest of elixirs).  If you prefer Rye whiskey, don’t despair (although you have only about 100  brands to choose from).

            I won’t even start on wine. The point is that it’s a Golden Age for the drinker. As long as people are willing to risk their money, talent and passion to come up with a better brew or spirit, they’ll have a receptive audience. It’s like building a better mousetrap.

            But I wonder what they’re drinking in Havana and Pyongyang tonight? 

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon