Campanastan

Season's Greetings and Best Wishes for 2022

Season’s Greetings 2021 & Best Wishes for 2022!

"The real problem of humanity is the following: we have Paleolithic emotions, medieval institutions, and godlike technology." - E.O. Wilson

I joke with Mary Frances about our combined ages. When married in 1993 we were in the 80s. Then we hit the 'Big 100'. She was not amused. Well, surprise - we are rapidly approaching 150. Then I developed another metric: given our declining faculties, what % of a single human would we be if we could combine our best faculties? With my eyesight and hearing and her arthritic hands, we're about 100% - maybe around 95%. I'll be sure to report our 'progress' next year. You can do this with your own spouse or significant other! I'll gladly send you the algorithm (it's in FORTRAN 4). 

On a serious note, we are again counting our blessings this year as I am sure many of you are. Don’t need to elaborate. Need to thank and praise all those who are putting their lives on the line every minute of every day. Amazing! It’s remarkable how some people step up during crises and others bitch and moan and go on about their personal freedoms being revoked or restricted. Hey, it's a public health crisis!

Déjà vu, right? But things are different this year. We both have been vaccinated and boosted. I finally taught my fall classes in live mode, although what with Omicron loose I might be going back to Zoom on 3 January. And we have a new POTUS. I took my first plane flight since January 2020. In late August I flew to Burlington, VT, to see some friends: former UNM student and fellow Long Islander Jeanine McGann; and Josh Newton, a native Green Mountain boy and famous for http://www.joshswaterjobs.com. I then headed to NH to see Carol Stein and Dave McTigue in their 200-year-old farmhouse. I know Carol from the College of William and Mary (Class of 1972) and Albuquerque (Sandia National Labs). There, she walked into my UNM office in 1989 and we resumed our friendship. Dave went to Williams and then Stanford/MIT and then to SNL. I enjoy them both so much. I then headed to northern New Hampshire (White Mountains area) to see the Boston-area fellows from my caddying days - Frank Colvario, Tony Wozniak, Gary Conserva, Jack Morganto, Robert Caggiano, Vincent Lunetta, et al. Couple of days spent reminiscing. See my post here: https://bit.ly/33wGGEY.

Interesting note about VT and NH. VT's adult vaccination rate was something like 87%; NH, was, let's say, a lot lower. I commented to a friend that maybe NH should change its motto to: 'Live free and die.'. NH folks dismiss Vermonters as 'quiche eaters'. Ouch!  

Had a nice visit from Marc Herman and Sarah Iden, who spent a few hours with us on their motoring trip from Tucson. They were staying on the Oregon coast. Mary Frances had never met them and would love to see them again soon.

Conferences/meetings in which I participated were all virtual. In 2022 I hope to go to a few live ones: Washington, DC; Austin, TX; Tuscaloosa, AL; Seattle, WA. I was planning to go to the 9th World Water Forum in Dakar, Senegal, in March but have decided not to. Despite my plans, I think that the Omicron variant may have something to say about travel. I also have a 'delayed' 50th class reunion at W&M, which decided to have the classes of 1970, 1971, and 1972 celebrate together at the end of April. I would love to go but I think the event will be Zoomed.

My 100-minute daily walk is still on tap. I did miss three days for a total of six since 3/15/2020. It's been great. Love the solitude, darkness, and clarity of thought. And then there's the weight loss.

Mary Frances is doing well, reading, tending to horses, seeing friends, serving on our HOA's BoD, taking online Spanish classes, mediating, etc. She did take a spill on a horse (not Shadowfax) but luckily, no broken bones. She still has chronic pain and is seeing a neurologist. Sadly, she later put down beloved Shadowfax. He was starting to suffer from some afflictions. She had him for ~25 years and he was quite a horse - rescued in NM. He was over 30 years old.      

I had a couple of health issues. I had oral surgery on my right gums that had me on liquids and soft foods for 6 weeks or so. I have to get the left side done this spring. In November I had a dizzy spell at the end of my morning class and wound up going to the ER courtesy of Corvallis EMT. Seems my blood pressure was unusually low. I stayed at the ER about 2.5 hours and the only thing I got was a cup of ice cream from the head cardiologist (cost: $$). My meds have been adjusted; seems my blood-pressure meds were too effective so my new physician (she's from the Hamptons!) eliminated one of them so things seem to function properly. If you don't get one of these in 2022, well.... 

We've spent the time right after dinner watching foreign (UK, NZ, Australian) police shows. They are all very good. We had trouble with the Aussie (Mystery Road) accents; less so with NZ (The Brokenwood Mysteries). Compared to US police shows they are tame; very few guns, little gunplay. The UK shows, Midsomer Murders and Foyle's War, stand out. The latter is my favorite - about an English chief inspector in the London-Hastings area from early 1940 through WWII. Not quite Chicago PD. And then there are the (real) veterinarian shows. I have always admired vets but these folks are amazing.  

The ACJ Foundation is still going strong. Our most recent project in Honduras, Las Vegas del Corrazal, was about finished. It dodged two late 2020 bullets – Hurricanes Eta and Iota. Then an EQ struck in late 2021 and rendered the spring dry so we had to locate another. Friend Rolando López and I chat every few weeks via WhatsApp. Rolando's reputation and word are solid gold in Honduras. We have several projects on the waiting list, including an ag school. I need to get down there in 2022 to implement them. If you want to help visit http://www.acjfoundation.org and click ‘Contributions’. Visit ‘Financials’ (IRS 990EZ forms) to see how we spend your $$. If you send a check, ensure it is dated no later than 31 December 2021 for deductibility in 2021. Thank you all for your generous support!

Enjoy 2022 and please work for a peaceful, kinder, safer world! Please wear your mask when and where you should and get vaccinated!     Love, Mary Frances and Michael

Download copies:

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Graphic from calamityware.com

V.B. Price's Weekly Column — American Conservatism 2021: Pointless, Hypocritical, Chaotic and Crooked to the Core

American Conservatism 2021: Pointless, Hypocritical, Chaotic and Crooked to the Core V.B. Price

It was naïve of me, no doubt, to believe as a kid that conservatives in America are supposed to preserve tradition, slow inevitable change to a pace the human mind can deal with, be the guardians of the national ethos and conserve resources with the spirit of enlightened frugality. It’s the way my mother and some of my older relatives thought about conservatism in the 1940s. Even then, though, conservatives saw poverty as a moral failure and really didn’t like foreigners very much, or people who didn’t look like white people. They did, indeed, champion hard work but saw “labor” as the “enemy” and were miserly with wages, benefits and social safety nets, as if effort was enough to ensure success without good luck and the leg up of status, class and the “right” race and gender. Still, there seemed to be something honorable about their frugality and their belief in the virtue and practicality of work and saving. My late father-in-law was as honorable and as conservative a person I’ve known. We agreed about virtually nothing when it came to policy. But there wasn’t a crooked bone in his body. He was, in the best sense, an American gentleman — kind, respectful of women, hardworking, generous, neither a spendthrift nor a hoarder and a staunch Republican. He was a straight arrow and an environmentalist. He truly believed it was your duty to leave your camp site cleaner than when you found it. So what happened to his political party? How did conservatives become aligned with a profligate, egomaniacal, misogynist gold-faucet jockey, a tax evader and grifter like Donald Trump, a man who thrives on bankruptcy, who doesn’t pay his bills, who stiffs contractors, who thinks environmentalism is a form of communism, who is a sexual predator and who is adored by white supremacists and bigots, a person who would flagrantly taunt and stalk and mock his female presidential opponent during a televised debate? It has something to do, I know, with a combination of the entitlement of patriarchy, a political party that has shown itself to be generally anti-feminist, embracing a greed for power that is bonded in the psychology of self-righteousness, blaming the other, rationalization and sense of privilege that stimulates hypocrisy at every turn. What could be more hypocritical than the posturing of a Reaganesque Gentleman Cowboy like the conservatives who run the Texas legislature, who recently created an abortion ban that is as deeply disrespectful of women, and as profoundly threatening and dangerous for them, as any misogynist law in America? And on top of that, these conservative gentlemen, the upright guardians of conservative American culture, authorized in that same law private citizens becoming snoops, moral police, prying and spying on their neighbors and more than likely accusing them of being accessories to illegal abortions, all without probable cause. And to top it off, the conservative gentlemen on the Supreme Court refused to give the women of Texas a chance to contest the constitutionality of such law before it wreaks havoc on their private lives and reproductive health. So much for the gentlemanly respect for women. Hypocrisy drives people crazy. Young people in particular find it maddening, especially when adults tell them not to do something then turn around and do it themselves. “Never hit or hurt or disrespect a woman,” is the cowboy gentleman’s code. But not when it comes to abortion in Texas. Hypocrisy used to be hateful, and hypocrites used to be seen as reprehensible moral vagrants trading on their privilege while indulging their worst vices. But we don’t seem to mind much anymore. In fact, hypocrisy seems to be the dominant MO of a vast segment of our business and political leadership. Not all of it, but a troubling great swath of it. Some pundits say it has to do with American “exceptionalism” and the arrogance it spawns. But virtually every nation thinks it’s the best. The Chinese do, so do the Russians; certainly the British and the French and the Brazilians do. No nation can live up to its own hype, especially if it’s so riddled with hypocrites that its national pride seems pointless. Can a whole culture be without purpose? It can be if it’s become the victim of a class of parasites willing to say anything and do anything, damned be the consequences. We seem to be a culture that’s come to waste itself pursuing, as political scientist Richard Fox has said, “endless wars to achieve endless peace.” We’re a culture that allows whole cities to be nearly destroyed by flood and storms, like New Orleans, because we — and the Chinese, the Russians, the Indians and virtually everyone else in the industrial world — denied climate change and its dire predictions for so long that we’ve actually let them come true. We live in a culture in which a large minority of our people have been hoodwinked into believing, by arch hypocrites, that wearing masks and getting vaccinated in a deadly pandemic is an act of political coercion, a con game of “junk science” swindling them of their freedom. We live in a culture that demonizes people from other cultures, that is still racist, practicing segregation in multiple gross and subtle ways, a culture of crippling poverty and obscene wealth, a culture in which poor people are lambasted for using food stamps and rich people are thought to be clever for evading taxes, a culture that boasts of its democratic form of government while working strenuously in some states to make it next to impossible for people of modest means to vote, a culture in which a class of charlatans with political power claim the validity of “alternative facts.” Yes, we also live in a culture in which a still slim majority of us believe what Rabbi Danya Ruttenbergsays that “our job is to take care of one another. To fight for a world where everyone is safe, is free, is whole. All of us. In this together.” But ours is the same culture in which a large minority apparently believe we should only take care of ourselves and let the devil take the hindmost, a world in which even good men, seemingly selfless servants of the people can offend, threaten, sexually molest and generally abuse their female associates and employees while supporting policies that further the cause of economic and environmental justice. Hypocrisy isn’t just the province of conservatives. *Nullius in verba: take nobody’s word for it Comments can be left at the Mercury Messenger. They can also be posted on this blog, but V.B. Price won't see them.   "Do you mind if I sit back a little? Because your breath is very bad." - Donald J. Trump.

Pausing to Remember: Twenty Years Gone

I am usually at a loss for word on this date. It's been like this for quite some time. In the early years after 9/11 I would get calls from journalists. Those calls stopped after a few years, although I believe I got one in 2011.

This year has been different. It's a decadal anniversary so more people seem to be engaged. I have received the usual messages from those who frequently send them but I have received some from people I have not heard from since the first one. It's been quite enjoyable.

I am providing a copy of a one-pager by editor Susan Goldberg from the September 2021 issue of National Geographic. Its title is 'Pausing to Remember'.

If you’re age 30 or older, you probably remember what you were doing when you heard about the events of September 11, 2001. It’s one of those indelible, where-were-you moments, like the attack on Pearl Harbor or the Kennedy assassination for earlier generations.

This month, we commemorate the 20th anniversary of “9/11”—that instantly recognizable, vastly inadequate shorthand to describe a day that killed nearly 3,000 people and launched the longest war in modern U.S. history.

Two stories in this issue explore 9/11. One’s an on-the-ground report from Afghanistan. The other features still life photography of seemingly ordinary objects—a pair of boots, a watch, a snapshot—that aren’t ordinary at all. These objects, some never before displayed, came from the rubble of the World Trade Center in New York, a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, and the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia. Those were the sites where al Qaeda terrorists crashed hijacked planes, instantly creating a frightening new world.

The plane that hit the Pentagon was American Airlines Flight 77, bound for Los Angeles. At 9:37 a.m., five hijackers slammed it into the building’s west side, killing themselves, 59 others aboard, and 125 on the ground. Among the dead were eight people traveling to an ecology conference sponsored by National Geographic. Every year on September 11, at our Washington, D.C., headquarters, we pause to remember them.

Three of the National Geographic travelers were 11 years old: Bernard Brown, Asia Cottom, and Rodney Dickens, each with a future whose promise would never be realized. Each child had been selected to attend the conference. Each child, according to tributes written at the time, was smart, determined, kindhearted. Today, when Bernard, Asia, and Rodney would be 31 years old, it’s devastating to think of our collective loss.

On 9/11 we also lost three caring teachers: Sara Clark, James Debeuneure, and Hilda Taylor, who accompanied the students. Sara, 65, and her fiancé were making wedding arrangements. James, 58, a father and grandfather, enjoyed golf and collecting art. Hilda, 58, a mother and grandmother, loved to cook and work in her garden.

The others whose passing we mourn were National Geographic employees. Ann Judge, 49, arranged trips around the world for our journalists and executives; Joe Ferguson loved teaching children about geography. He was 39.

We salute those we lost 20 years ago with this quote from the Pentagon 9/11 Memorial: “We claim this ground in remembrance of the events of September 11, 2001. To honor the 184 people whose lives were lost, their families, and all who sacrifice that we may live in freedom. We will never forget.”

Ann Campana Judge was my younger sister. She is on the far right in the picture. I was teaching my Environmental Studies class at the University of New Mexico Tuesday morning when I saw Mary Frances standing in the back of the room. I knew something was amiss. She told me that American Airlines called to say that Ann had a boarding pass for flight 77. They could not verify that she was on the plane. They called later that night to verify that she was. I miss Annie each day.

 

"A little bit of irreverence is good; a lot is better." - Ann Campana Judge (1951-2001)

V.B. Price Opines: 'Why Is Voting Under Attack?'

Here is V.B. Price's weekly column.

Why Is Voting Under Attack

The all-out war over voting going on in our country at the moment has a paradoxically profound and inspirational message. What it’s telling us is that voting is still the single most important public act in American culture.

If it wasn’t, the Republican party would not be turning its death ray against it, risking everything, even the party’s honor, dignity and good name to undermine the foundational right and duty that empowers all Americans.

Winning the vote is everything. In the messy grind of the daily news cycle, many of us overlook the enormity of this truth.

Even a would-be tyrant with a well-oiled Big Lie propaganda machine, who owned the Justice Department and all its means of intimidation, who had both houses of Congress in his pocket, as well as many state governments, and a majority on the Supreme Court, could still be voted out of office in America. We are not a totalitarian nation quite yet. And the GOP doesn’t like it one little bit.

That’s why Associate Supreme Court Justice Samuel Alito would debase himself in support of bald-faced, racist anti-voting election laws in Arizona, just to diminish the demographic advantage Democrats have over Republicans — some 49% to 40% — according to the Gallup Poll, the largest in nearly a decade.

When Alito wrote the majority opinion supporting new voting laws in Arizona that forbid the collection of absentee ballots by any one or group other than a voter’s relatives and caregivers, he was sanctioning a direct attack on the voting rights of rural Native Americans across the country, especially those on large reservations, such as the Blackfeet in Montana and the Navajo in northern Arizona. Voters there often have to travel many miles to find a mailbox or a post office — much farther than most urban dwellers. They prefer to pool their signed and sealed ballots and let a third party deliver them in a batch to be mailed, saving perhaps thousands of voters from having to drive long distances. Republicans say they think this increases the opportunities for voter fraud, indirectly accusing Democrats of tampering somehow with the ballots.

Alito’s majority opinion supporting such a rule went like this, according to NPR's Nina Totenberg: “Just because voting may be ‘inconvenient for some,’ Alito wrote, doesn’t mean that access to voting is unequal.”

If access to voting is convenient for some but inconvenient for others — by rule of law — I’d say that represents a fundamental and unconstitutional inequality.

To make voting legally more difficult for people who live far away from postal services is penalizing them for geographical and cultural circumstances beyond their control. That this is directed largely at rural Native Americans makes such a law a form of racist hate crime against a cultural class of voters. And of course the GOP would do that now that New Mexico’s Deb Haaland — a member of Laguna Pueblo and a Native American rights activist — is President Biden’s Secretary of the Interior, in charge of Bureau of Indian Affair (BIA).

Diminishing the number of Democratic voters is so important to Republicans that they shamelessly brand themselves as haters of Native Americans who they imply are more prone to committing election fraud that non-Native Americans.

The Republican Party has detached itself from the moral core of the Constitution that’s carved in stone over the entrance to U.S. Supreme Court: “Equal Justice Under Law.” It’s not the fault of rural Native Americans that many of them live prohibitive distances from a post office. It’s the fault of the federal government that there’s not enough post offices on reservation land.

So the “inconvenience” suffered by some in voting is not only unequal to the “conveniences” of others, it's an inconvenience imposed by government policy. That’s about as far away from fairness and equality as you can get.

The attack on voting by political interests that tend to lose big elections because they are not in the majority has been going on for decades. And it hasn’t all been about Jim Crow, though that’s still the most egregious and disgusting. After the Goldwater defeat in 1964, for instance — a loss describedas the most crushing presidential defeat in American history — the notion that voting really wasn’t very important started seeping into the national dialogue, almost part and parcel with the rise of economist Milton Friedman’s free market fundamentalism and his class-based denigration of the wisdom of the “lesser classes” known as the “general public.” Voting was considered the privilege of the advantaged few, not of the disadvantaged multitude.

That piece of propaganda is an early conservative Big Lie directed at young people in particular. Voting was portrayed as a useless waste of time. After all, it’s only one vote, so why should you bother, the argument went. A general feeling of disempowerment seeped across the country through the counterculture and the left. Then, the 2000 election came along and the so-called uselessness of voting was reinforced when the conservative majority on the U.S. Supreme Court actually decided the election in favor of the loser, George W. Bush. In doing so, the Court might also have signed the death warrant for an inhabitable climate around the world by sending into political oblivion one of the most effective anti-climate change crusaders, Vice President Al Gore.

Then eight years ago, a five-vote conservative majority on the U.S. Supreme Court all but eviscerated the 1965 Voting Rights Act by absurdly ruling that its prime provision — making previously notorious Jim Crow states get federal approval before passing new voting laws — was no longer needed because racism had been solved in America.

Soon we’ll see again, in the wake of the 2020 census, how successful the attack on voting has been when conservatives in various state legislatures work furiously to fiddle with party proportions in election districts so that they give themselves an artificial advantage that their actual numbers do not warrant.

There’s only one sure way to end this attack on the right to vote. Vote the attackers out of office.
 

*Nullius in verba: take nobody’s word for it

(Image from Get Out the Vote Campaign poster by Angie Cibis)

"When you invent the ship, you invent the shipwreck." - Paul Virilio

Caddy Camp Campanas: A Love Story

Today we remember D-Day, the heroic effort that signaled the end of World War II in Europe. It is also my father's birthday - he would have been 107! This picture of him dates from the early 1970s. He died in 1984.

His younger brother Vic, a West Point paratrooper, jumped into Normandy 77 years ago today. 

I wrote this post in  honor of my father and his brothers Vic and Dom.

The picture to the right shows the brothers Campana - Dom, John, and Vic with my mother Ruth. It must be from the late 1960s.

 Here goes:

I clearly recall seeing the White Mountains of New Hampshire. For a young boy from Long Island, NY (with its towering hills soaring to 400 feet), the sight of Mt. Washington, the highest mountain in the Northeast at 6,288 feet, conjured images of Mt. Everest or Mt. McKinley from the pages of National Geographic. It was the summer of 1957 and my mother Ruth was driving our Ford Fairlane full of children – me, my older sister Ellen and younger sister Ann – to see my father John, who ran the Bretton Woods Caddy Camp on U.S. Route 302, within sight of the iconic Mt. Washington Hotel, the site of the famous Bretton Woods monetary conference in 1944.

My father spent his summers working at camps to earn money. During the school year he taught at Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn, NY, the second-oldest high school in the USA. Dad was a native of Boston and proud to have graduated from the USA’s oldest high school and oldest college – Boston Latin School and Harvard, respectively. He was terribly bright and an athlete as well. Although small in stature he excelled at baseball (shortstop and pitcher) and ice hockey (right wing). But golf was his passion and training young men to serve golfers was a labor of love. Before the BWCC he directed the caddy camp at the Balsams Resort in Dixville Notch, NH.  

The campers came mainly from the greater Boston area and towns around New Hampshire, Maine and Vermont. They spent their summers earning money and getting a healthy dose of that crisp New Hampshire air. On their days off they would hitch-hike to some of the may scenic areas, climb some of the mountains or earn extra money by working at the hotels washing dishes, pans, etc.

One of their great pastimes was competing against other camps in the area. A favorite opponent was the Maplewood Caddy Camp, about 15 miles west on U.S. Route 302, which served the Maplewood Hotel and golf course. The MCC was operated by the North Bennet Street Industrial School (NBSIS; the ‘Industrial’ has since been dropped) a craft, trade and industrial arts school in Boston’s heavily Italian-American North End. The camp’s director was John T. Dexter, universally known to his campers as ‘Mr. D’ or simply ‘D’. He and my father were good friends and my father enjoyed the trips to see ‘D’ and visit the MCC.

I learned that summer that my father enjoyed those MCC visits so much because they were like trips back to his youth. John P. Campana was a caddy at the MCC during the late 1920s-early 1930s. Not only did he caddy there but so did his brothers, Victor and Dom. I never spoke with my uncles about their experiences but did so with my father. I suspect that they would have told me the same. For one thing MCC got them out of the city, expanding their horizons. Although many of the campers were from the North End, not all were. But all learned the value of hard work, doing a good job even if you didn’t feel like it, working under unpleasant conditions (e.g., caddying in pouring rain), getting along with those you did not especially want to know. Other characteristics? Honesty. Frugality. Teamwork. Friendship. Loyalty. Honor.

The three Campana brothers learned their lessons well. Dom went to college and had a successful career. Vic graduated from West Point and became a paratrooper. He jumped into Normandy on D-Day. He retired as a lieutenant colonel and then began a career as a high-school teacher. John left the Boston area and for 36 years was a New York City high-school teacher and administrator. Their sons went to caddy camp as well. Dom’s son Ken was at Bretton Woods with my father, and would have a long career as a meteorologist with the National Weather Service after earning a Master’s degree from MIT. Uncle Vic’s son Victor Jr. (aka ‘Cubby’) would follow in his father’s footsteps as well.

As for yours truly, one 1957 summer day in New Hampshire, Mr. D asked my father if I would like to become a camper. I jumped at the chance and started a 10-year caddy camp career: 6 years as a camper and 4 years as a counselor. Half those summers were at MCC, but in summer 1963 MCC ceased to exist because the Maplewood Hotel burned to the ground that winter. So the NBSIS moved the caddy camp to Cape Cod to service golfers at Clauson’s Resort (now the Cape Cod Country Club). Quite a change from the White Mountains, but it was hard to beat those year-end New England clambakes!

The camp experience meant as much to me, if not more, than it did to my father and uncles. Why? My mother Ruth Emerson and my father met in New Hampshire in 1941. My father again worked summers, this time as a golf instructor at the Maplewood Hotel’s golf course. My mother, a North Carolina schoolteacher, had a summer job as a waitperson in the Maplewood Hotel’s dining room. They met and had their first date on Bastille Day (14 July) at Parker’s Drug Store in Bethlehem.

The NBSIS caddy camps no longer exist. It’s sad. When I told my wife Mary Frances about my camp adventures she was incredulous. She had never heard of such a thing and could not believe someone had the foresight and wisdom to create such an experience for boys. It is hard to explain to the uninitiated how enriched my life has been but for the existence of the camps and the friendships they fostered. Although I am now on the other side of the USA (Oregon) it matters not one whit. I’ll hop on a plane to attend the reunions we now hold. The boys with whom I worked – Frank Colvario, Peter Xeller, Guy Battista, Tony Wozniak, Rick Bellitti, and many others – greet me as a dear friend. They are likely unaware of how much they affected my life.

As I embark on life’s 18^th fairway, I can feel the bags of Sam Chase and Herb Kaplan (two of my favorite golfers at Clauson’s) weighing on my shoulders. Wouldn’t trade that sensation for anything.

Michael E. Campana is a professor at Oregon State University in Corvallis, OR. He attended the Maplewood camp from 1958 through 1962 and Clauson’s from 1963 through 1967. He failed to inherit his father’s talent/love for golf and doubts he could carry doubles with the Chase and Kaplan bags for one hole, much less 18.

But for Five Saudi Arabians, She Would Be 69 Today

Hard to imagine that my 'baby sister' should be turning 69 today. Yes, today would have been my younger sister Ann Campana Judge's 69th birthday had not five Saudi Arabians - not Iraqis, not Iranians, not Afghans - murdered her on 11 September 2001.

She and colleague Joe Ferguson were on American Airlines Flight 77 escorting three middle-school students and their teachers to Los Angeles for a field trip sponsored by their employer, the National Geographic Society. They were to meet up with a number of other students and teachers to visit the Channel Islands.

It's not hard for me to imagine what she might have looked like today: not much different than she did in the above photo (she's on the left; my older sister Ellen is on the right). She was one of those people who would never look her age. The photo was taken in Spring 2000.

Read more here.

I miss you, Annie! We all do. 

"Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once." -- William Shakespeare (from Julius Caesar)

Why Celebrate Bastille Day on Long Island? 79 Years and Counting

July 14th - Bastille Day, a French national holiday formally known in France as La Fête nationale or more commonly, Le quatorze juillet - was always celebrated in my childhood home. 

But we were not French, although since my mother was of English and Scots-Irish descent, I suspect there was some French (Norman?) blood coursing through her veins.  

July 14th was the day my parents celebrated their first meeting and date in 1941. That landmark occurred in the hamlet of Bethlehem, NH, at the Maplewood Hotel and Golf Course, which at the time was a semi-fashionable resort in the White Mountains. My father John was an assistant golf pro at the Maplewood course, and Ruth Emerson a waitress at the hotel. He was 25 and from Boston; she was only 21 and from North Carolina. Their meeting resulted in a 'soda date' at Parker's Drug Store on Main Street. Hey, Earth girls are easy! 

Courtship followed, culminating in marriage on 29 May 1943. They were happily married for 41 years, till my father's death in 1984.

Great role models, and I finally got it right, Mom and Dad. My first date with Mary Frances was 18 December 1987: dinner (Marie Callender's in Reno) and a movie (The Princess Bride).  

Good things happen to those who wait.

"This is true love - you think this happens every day?" - Westley, The Princess Bride

The Fourth of July: Independence and RAPPS

In between the fireworks, auto and furniture sales, and barbecues, take a few minutes today to read the Declaration of Independence and the remarkable Bill of Rights, the first ten amendments to the Constitution, which came along 11 years later:

Download Const

Download Usdeclar

Mary Frances and I do so each July 4th.

If you are an American citizen, thank your lucky stars for those 56 guys who signed the Declaration in Philadelphia in 1776 and started this thing rolling.

While you are at it, give extra thanks for the First Amendment, which guarantees five fundamental rights, which you can remember with the mnemonic RAPPS: religion, assembly, press, petition, and speech.

Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, two giants in American history - friends, then opponents, and finally friends again - both died on this day in 1826. As I get older, I think less of Jefferson and more of Adams. Both were great men, but the former 'talked the talk' but didn't always 'walk the walk' (e.g., slavery) whereas the latter tried to do both.

Enjoy the day, and enjoy RAPPS!

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness." -- Declaration of Independence

"...a Republic, if you can keep it." -- Benjamin Franklin, at the end of the Constitutional Convention, when asked, "What have you wrought?"

Happy 106th Birthday to John Pilgrim Campana! Remembering D-Day

Like many others, today I am honoring those who served and those who died 76 years ago on D-Day and the entire Normandy Invasion. Special thanks to the Allied troops - American, Canadian, British, Australian, New Zealand, Free French, Free Dutch, et al. - who made it happen and rescued Europe and the world.  

My father's brother - my Uncle Vic - was one of those young men who was there that fateful day. He was a paratrooper - 82nd Airborne - who made a nighttime jump into France. He survived that one, and 48 other jumps over Europe. 

Thank you! And a special thanks to the French people, still so welcoming and appreciative lo these many years!

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 Giovanni Pellegrino Campana would have been 106 today. 

That name is on his birth certificate, but we knew my father as John Pilgrim Campana. Born on 6 June 1914, he was the son of Italian immigrants Consiglia and Domenico Campana, who arrived on these shores from Naples, Italy, in the late 1890s.  

The family settled in Boston, where my father grew up working, playing baseball, ice hockey, but most of all, studying. He vaguely recalled the Great Molasses Flood of 1919. He attended Boston Latin School, the oldest and arguably still the best high school in the USA.

 

After that, it was off to the oldest college in the USA, Harvard, where he graduated magna cum laude with a degree in history in 1936. In those days, Harvard was not a hospitable place for Italian-Americans, Irish-Americans, or Jews; forget about Latinos, Asian-Americans, Native Americans, or African-Americans! It was the bastion of WASPs - White (or Wealthy) Anglo-Saxon Protestants.
 

He loved playing hockey - he was a right winger - but didn't play for Harvard after his freshman year. He told me that the rich kids on the team would rent one of the indoor arenas for practices that were restricted to themselves and their friends. So while he worked, they practiced and his skills fell behind. When he told me this, there was nary a trace of bitterness in his voice. That's just the way it was.

But his true sports love was baseball. He played shortstop athlete (traditionally the position reserved for the bast athlete) and pitched on the Harvard team till he graduated in 1936. Here is the team ball signed by all the players on the 1936 team, with the cherished inscription: Harvard - 3, Yale - 0.

 

He married 'Southern belle' (North Carolina) Ruth Ellen Emerson in 1943 and they had three children. They first lived in Manhattan, then moved out to Queens, and finally, headed to the Long Island suburbs in December 1951, where they remained until 1978, retiring to Mooresville, North Carolina.

He started teaching in the New York City school system in 1938, a career that spanned 36 years, 26 of which were spent at Brooklyn's Erasmus Hall High School, the nation's second-oldest high school. He taught history and political science. He recalls EHHS students Barbra Streisand, chess champion Bobby Fischer, Neil Diamond, Billy Cunningham, and Lainie Kazan. Don't ask him about the first two. In those days, EHHS was one of the nation's best. Its top students won scholarships to the USA's finest universities. Even the top Jewish students, who for years could not get into the Ivy League schools, routinely made Princeton, Yale, and Harvard starting in the mid-1950s; African-Americans (few in number at EHHS in those days) and others soon followed.  As I grew up, I remember many visits from former students who would drop by to thank him for all he had done. They told me what a remarkable teacher and man he was and how much he had helped them.

He left EHHS in 1964 to help open Canarsie High School in Brooklyn. He was the Assistant Principal, a position that earned him more money but meant no more teaching. That was a tough call for him.
 

His time at CHS was difficult - an unreasonable boss and trouble from the start. In those days, the races and ethnicities mixed far worse than they do today. On some days scores of NYPD officers patrolled the halls and grounds. When a chair whizzed by his ear during a cafeteria free-for-all, he knew it was time to retire. That was 1974. This photo was taken a few years before he left CHS.

 

My father was an inveterate and prolific letter-writer. He would write letters to all kinds of people: political leaders, heads of state, CEOs, editors, sports figures, et al.  At the time of his death he was working on a book titled, One Small Voice, a collection of his letters. His favorite target was Tom Yawkey, then the owner of his beloved but then-incompetent Boston Red Sox. He would instruct Yawkey on whom to trade, whom to release, etc. It was a futile exercise, of course, but he enjoyed it. One of my big regrets in life was seeing him die in 1984, before the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, 2007, 2013, and 2018. But at least he did not witness the 1986 debacle. That surely would have killed him. My father's devotion to the Sox and their history still have an impression on me: although I am a Yankees fan, there is a soft spot in my heart for the Red Sox.

 

I often wonder how the Internet would have appeared to him. Given his love for writing and commentary, would he have become a blogger? Somehow I doubt it. He was committed to letters.
 

He was a student of history, languages (five), politics, sports, chess, and more. He was small in stature and an unlikely athlete. Baseball, hockey, golf, bowling, and tennis were his games. He was a Democrat who was not overly fond of John F. Kennedy and the Kennedy clan. He remembered too much from his early days in Boston and also never forgave patriarch Joe for being an early Hitler supporter. But he voted for JFK over Richard Nixon in 1960; that was a no-brainer.

 

 

My late younger sister Ann and he would have some epic confrontations; they were too much alike. One of his unbreakable rules was, 'Never drive the car into Manhattan.' I recall an incident where Ann was to drive his precious Mustang into Queens to catch the subway into Manhattan. Well, she sort of forgot about the rule, and drove into the city. Next morning as he got up to go to work, he saw a note from Ann that said, 'Sorry - it was the g-d [god-damned] bus!' He did not understand the note till he went out for his morning drive into Brooklyn. That's when he noticed a huge crease running the length of the driver's side of the Mustang. Seems that Ann had had an encounter with a city bus. She left the note and was spending the day at the beach. Lucky for that, too - she had been partying with friends in Manhattan and was in no shape to face my father.

 

I am glad he did not have to witness her death at the hands of terrorists. 

 

I loved listening to him discuss history, especially American history, his forte. He actually 'rescued' my interest in history, because my high-school history teachers were generally pretty pathetic. They often emphasized rote memorization with little dicussion of what the events meant. That's where my father came in. He provided the big picture.

 

I shudder to think of his assessment of our national leadership these days - not just the President but the others as well. He would be dismayed to see that we could do no better. He would be appalled at the neo-Nazi 'patriots' who have become the darlings of some politicians. Have the latter forgotten the monster named Hitler? No way - not in JPC's country!

 

Although he suffered the stings of discrimination - even as an adult - he would never equate his experiences with those visited upon African-Americans and other people of color. I am glad he did not have to witness the horror of 'I can't breathe!'.   
 

Whatever my skills are in teaching and education, I owe to him. He was so proud when I received my PhD. He had an ABD ('all but dissertation' - half done, on Stephen Decatur and the Barbary Pirates) from Fordham - marriage and a family intervened - and he never finished. He would have made quite a professor!

 

His beloved Red Sox will not win this year, if MLB can figure out how to play.  The Bruins might win the Stanley Cup if the NHL decides upon a schedule. Oh, how he loved watching Bobby Orr! Some of my fondest memories of our time together are of watching the then-inept New York Rangers play at Madison Square Garden in Manhattan. They usually lost, as did the Bruins, who were equally inept. Those were the days of a six-team ('original 6') NHL: Chicago, Detroit, Toronto, Montreal, Boston and New York.

 

I miss you, Dad; I think of you each day. You're my role model.

 

And I'm wearing a mask.
 

“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.” ― G.K. Chesterton

 

"Democracy is like a raft; you're safe, but your feet get wet." -- John P. Campana

Mother's Day 2020 Recollections: Real Ice Cream, Strong Coffee, Kids and Children, Four-Letter Words, & Numerology

Real ice cream she loved; butter pecan was by far her favorite. Today's penchant for frozen yogurt would be a non-starter. Strong coffee? You'd better believe it! Don't ever serve her a cup if she could see the bottom; it would go right down the drain. Kids? No, a 'kid' is a baby goat; the word is 'children'. Four-letter words from a Southern lady? Numerology? Well, you'll have to read this entire post.  

My mother, Ruth Ellen Emerson Campana, is shown below (c. Easter 1953 or 1954) with the family. Note the scowl on Ann's face - not the angelic smiles of older sister Ellen and me. Did that facial expression ever portend the shape of things to come!

Mom died on 8 May 2003 at the age of 83. Hard to believe that was almost exactly 17 years ago. Although she lived for almost two years beyond 9/11, that event killed her just as sure as those five Saudi Arabian terrorists killed her youngest child, Ann Campana Judge, on American Airlines flight 77.

 

 My mother was a remarkable woman. Born in Cabarrus County, North Carolina, in 1920, she was an archetypical Southern lady. No profane language, kind, compassionate, soft spoken, a beautiful drawl, proud of her Southern Scots-Irish roots but no apologist for the Confederacy and slavery although her great-grandfather fought for the South. At age 23, she married my father, John Pilgrim Campana, an Italian-American from Boston, and the two of them settled in New York City, where my father taught high school in Brooklyn.

Although my Harvard-educated father was the family scholar (BA summa cum laude and Fordham ABD), my mother was no slouch. She majored in history and English at Flora Macdonald College (now part of St. Andrew's Presbyterian College) in Red Springs, NC, and graduated at 20. She acquired her love of learning from her mother Julia Johnston Emerson, who was a college graduate in a time when that was almost unheard of for a woman. What stubbornness she had no doubt came from her father Harris Emerson, a farmer and an avowed Republican in a time when the South was the 'Solid South', always voting for Democrats (hard to believe, I know). My mother said he was a Republican because everyone else was a Democrat.

I owe many of my semi-decent English skills to her. Each Sunday night she would would write five words and their definitions on my blackboard. Those were the 'Weekly Words.' I relied on her to correct my writing more than I did my teachers. Why? Because she was far better than they!

My friends loved her. 'How come your mother's so nice?' was a common question. But she was no pushover. My father's hot-blooded Italian nature often manifested itself when one of us overstepped our bounds, but my mother would generally raise her voice only slightly, or just glare at us. The message got through.

While still raising three children, she returned to teaching in 1960 and taught fourth grade. Her students idolized her. Here is a beautiful tribute from one of her fourth-grade students, Fred Avolio. Fred also remembers the 'Weekly Words.' And yes, Fred, I remember bringing my pet iguana Leroy into her class.

My mother was also somewhat (!!) naive. One story, somewhat risqué, stands out. I must have been 16, Ann 13, and older sister Ellen was away at college. We were chatting at the dinner table, something we did every evening. My mother related a discussion that occurred in the teachers' lounge at her school. Seems she came in during a conversation, and a few of the teachers were laughing about something called '69'. She was puzzled so she asked one of her colleagues what it was (she had concluded that it had nothing to do with math). He told her that she had better ask someone in her family. So she did. Ann and I could hardly contain our laughter, and my father's jaw dropped like I had never seen (he taught high school in Brooklyn so I knew he knew). It was Ann who matter-of-factly told her what it was. Then my mother's jaw dropped. I think what surprised her and my father more than anything was that their 13-year old daughter knew exactly what it was. Yes, that faclal expression above was coming home to roost.

On another occasion at the dinner table, she told us that one of her fourth-graders had made a gesture to a classmate and she was unsure what it meant. We children knew what was coming. When my father asked what it was, she extended her right arm and raised her right middle finger. Before my father could recover, Ann, all of 12 or 13 at the time, exclaimed, "'Fuck you!' It means 'Fuck you!'" I thought the Big One was going to strike my father. I chimed in and said that it didn't mean that literally but more like 'Fuck off!' At that point my mother said she got the message and did not need to know any more. In all our years chatting at the dinner table that was the only time I recall the word 'fuck' being spoken - not once, but thrice.   

Needless to say, I did not mention either of these instances in the eulogy at her funeral service, although I was tempted to. It would have sent those North Carolina Presbyterians over the edge.

Despite the fact that she lived in the North for 35 years, she never lost her Southern grace and charm.

In 1978 she finally returned to her beloved Tar Heel State. She and my father settled in Mooresville, just north up I-77 from Charlotte. She and I shared one dislike: that of including 'NC' after Charlotte in lists of US cities' weather or some other characteristic. Every other city stood alone, but there was 'Charlotte, NC'. She viewed it as very disrespectful for NC's beloved Queen City. Check it out - some newspapers still do that. 

I know how she would would have dealt with the current pandemic and 'sheltering in place', etc. She would have calmly explained that the good of society was pre-eminent and that we would need to do these things and not complain. My father, ever the history scholar, would have said the same but with more detail about the Spanish flu and WWI. 

When my sister Ann was murdered, my mother was living with her and husband Geoff Judge in Great Falls, VA. After Ann was killed she continued to live with Geoff (an amazing man who treated her as he did his own mother) but soon after that she began to shut down. When Ann's beloved black Lab Bubba died, that was it. First she decided she couldn't walk on her own. Then, she stopped talking. Finally, she stopped eating. The end came soon after that, peacefully, while she slept. I believe the death certificate read 'heart attack' but I knew better. It should have read 'broken heart' - burying her baby killed her.  

The irony is that today's saying is something she would say whenever she heard of a parent burying a child. I doubt she ever expected she'd have to do the same.

Especially her youngest.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

I turn 72 in three days, and the older I get, the wiser I've become. You were right about so much stuff, Mom. I do forgive you for trying to transform me into a Southern gentleman. Some things aren't just meant to be! Probably one of the few times you failed.  But I still won't apologize for not going to law school.

Boy, do I miss you! I finally visited your ancestral homeland - Scotland. I thought of you a lot.

And it's funny, but each time this year I get a strange hankering for some butter pecan ice cream. And none of that low-fat or frozen yogurt stuff - the real deal. 

I love you, Mom!

"The hardest thing any parent has to do is bury a child." -- Ruth Emerson Campana

70 Years Ago Today A Movement Began - At A Baseball Game, No Less

Remember those who suffered four years ago today in Boston.

Another memorable event of a different type occurred on this day in 1947. 

Seventy years ago today, on a cold Tuesday in Brooklyn, Jack Roosevelt 'Jackie' Robinson took the field in a game against the Boston Braves at Ebbets Field. He was to face Johnny Sain, one-half of the legendary "Spahn and Sain and pray for rain" pitching duo of the Braves.

Robinson didn't do too well that day: grounded out, flied out, hit into a double play,reached on an error. But his feat went far beyond what he did at the plate or in the field. He became the first African-American since the 1880s to play in a major league baseball game, and entered the history books. We didn't know it at the time but the USA's civil rights era began that day.

Jackie Robinson was a great athlete, but he proved to be an even greater man. Robinson endured a lot of crap (a euphemism) from other ballplayers, the public, sportswriters, and fans. He was a proud man, but had promised Dodgers owner Branch Rickey that he would hold his tongue and his fists for two years. Rickey feared that if Robinson proved to be too combative right off the bat, naysayers would proclaim 'I told you so!' and the cause of major league baseball integration would be damaged.  

I like this 1997 passage by Ira Berkow, in which he talked about Robinson and Dodger teammate and fellow Hall of Famer Pee Wee Reese, a Southern boy from Kentucky who was the Dodgers' captain at the time Robinson came to the big leagues.

The first of the two incidents occurred at the beginning of spring training in 1947, when Robinson had been called up to the Dodgers from Montreal, Brooklyn's top minor league team, on which Robinson had starred during the 1946 season. A petition was drawn up by a group of mostly Southern Dodgers players that stated they would not take the field with a black man.

"I'm not signing that," Reese told the ringleaders, who included Dixie Walker, Kirby Higbe and Bobby Bragan. "No way."

Reese, the soft-spoken but respected team captain, with a Southern upbringing, perhaps surprised the petition-carriers. "I wasn't thinking of myself as the Great White Father," Reese says now. "I just wanted to play baseball. I'd just come back from serving in the South Pacific with the Navy during the Second World War, and I had a wife and daughter to support. I needed the money. I just wanted to get on with it."

But there was more to it than the money.

And Reese's refusal to sign the petition, many believe, meant the end of the matter.

Robinson played, and endured vicious abuse from opposing teams, from beanballs and spikings to racial epithets and spitting. Robinson had promised Branch Rickey, the owner and general manager of the Dodgers, that for at least his first two years in the major leagues, he would hold his tongue and his fists, no matter the provocation. And one day -- it was probably in Cincinnati, Reese recalled, in 1947 or 1948 -- the attack was so nasty that Reese walked over to Robinson and put his hand on the black man's shoulder.

"Pee Wee kind of sensed the sort of hopeless, dead feeling in me and came over and stood beside me for a while," Robinson recalled, as quoted in the forthcoming biography "Jackie Robinson," by Arnold Rampersad (Alfred A. Knopf). "He didn't say a word but he looked over at the chaps who were yelling at me through him and just stared. He was standing by me, I could tell you that." The hecklers ceased their attack. "I will never forget it," Robinson said.

After reading that pssage I gained a huge amount of respect for Pee Wee Reese. He could have easily gone the other way, but he did the right thing. Not easy for a white guy from Kentucky in the late 1940s.

Jackie left us at the all-too-early age of 53. What he endured no doubt contributed to his untimely death. Robinson was a truly remarkable man who rose to a challenge few of us could ever imagine, much less face with such grace, strength, and courage.

At the tender age of 8, in 1956, I saw him play against the St. Louis Cardinals and Stan "The Man" Musial at Ebbets Field. He was nearing the end of his Hall of Fame career, but still went 2-for-4. My father attempted to explain to me the significance of what he had done, but I was too consumed with hot dogs and cotton candy to comprehend. Later, I understood, and realized that what Robinson had done helped free us all. He is now one of my all-time heroes, right up there with Nelson Mandela and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Arnold Rampersad wrote an excellent biography, Jackie Robinson. Read it. Never mind that you're not a sports fan. It is not a sports book; it's about a courageous man, a hero for all, who just happened to play baseball.

And don't forget the movie, 42. It's well worth your time. 

To honor Robinson, all major league baseball players will wear number 42 in today's games. With the retirement of Mariano Rivera, no player permanently wears 42.

"Some numbers will always be associated with an athlete; '42' will forever be associated with a movement." - John Saunders, ESPN

Remembering Dr. King, the South, and Some of Her 'Infamous Sons'

Today we honor Dr. Martin Luther King,Jr,who would have turned 88 yesterday. I am sure that Dr. King is looking down favorably upon President Barack Obama, soon to leave office after two terms. But I suspect he would be deeply troubled by the current political climate which has given license to bigots and their ilk to spew their vitriol, exacerbated and enhanced by the use of social media. He would be saddened by the seeming desire to return America to greatness, which to some is code for a time when America was segregated and people of color were invisible and marginalized. It's clear that we have much work to do.  

But back to honoring Dr. King.   

I have come to appreciate and admire him (and all the civil rights workers) by reading Taylor Branch's brilliant trilogy of the civil rights era: Parting the Waters: America in the King Years, 1954-63; Pillar of Fire: America in the King Years 1963-65; and At Canaan's Edge: America in the King Years 1965-68.

What thoroughly amazes me were the toughness, resiliency, and resolve of the civil rights workers, and how they honored King's insistence upon nonviolent resistance. Along with King, the names of heroes such as John Lewis (now a Georgia Congressman; listen to him on the Diane Rehm Show), Ralph Abernathy, Hosea Williams, Rosa Parks, Coretta King, Septima Clark, James Meredith, Andrew Young, Marian Wright, Diane Nash, Fannie Lou Hamer, James Bevel, Bob Moses, et al., are forever burned in my mind. Similarly, I shall not soon forget place names like Selma and Montgomery, or people like Lester Maddox, George Wallace, Bull Connor, Orval Faubus, Strom Thurmond, and their ilk.

As I read the aforementioned books, cringing at what humans can do to each other, one thought haunted me: what would I have done had I been a Southern white person during that time (I am actually half-North Carolina Scots-Irish WASP)? I've concluded that I probably would not have been one of the segregationist ringleaders, but certainly would not have risen to the defense of the oppressed. I probably would have (very quietly) supported their cause, but not done anything to jeopardize my comfortable middle-class lifestyle (see the quote below). Certainly Northerners were no better than Southerners when it came to desegregation; recall the Boston busing "incidents" of the 1970s.

Another thing also amazes me: how much the Southern poor whites ("poor white trash") and blacks had in common. Both were horribly oppressed, but skillful politicians kept the poor whites riled about the "uppity Negroes". If the two groups had united, there would have been hell to pay.

I do have a few interesting memories about that period, as I was a student in Virginia (College of William and Mary) from 1966-1970. One stands out. Just after I arrived in Virginia, Sen. Harry F. Byrd died - he was the scion of the infamous Byrd (members of the FFV) political dynasty in Virginia, and the whole state mourned his death. What I remember most about that time is the characterization of Byrd by a local columnist:

"Never was there a man who so dragged his feet through the sands of time."

Here is a humorous memory. I played alto saxophone in the W&M marching band, and we had been engaged to provide entertainment at the Southern Governors' Conference (in Williamsburg or Jamestown). While we stood in formation, who should start darting among the band members, fiddling with the music and instruments and being a nuisance? It was none other than  Lester Maddox, newly-elected segregationist governor of Georgia. He finally asked our band director, Charles 'Chuck' Varner, if we knew Dixie, and if so, could we play it? Varner, annoyed by all of Maddox's antics, calmly but firmly said, 'No, Governor, we don't have the music for it but we would gladly play Marching Through Georgia for you. Maddox stopped, scowled fiercely, and then darted off whence he came. Way to go, Chuck!

"I look to a day when people will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character." ~ Martin Luther King, Jr., 28 August 1963

"That's part of American greatness, is discrimination. Yes, sir. Inequality, I think, breeds freedom and gives a man opportunity." - Lester Maddox

A Sign of the Times? Thoughts for 2017

Great start to 2017.

My neighbor has this sign on her front lawn. She obtained it from a friend who got it in Seattle. There is a URL on the sign but I can't find the sign on the site. 

In any case, I love the sentiments it expresses. 

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." - Edmund Burke

My 2016 9/11 Remembrance

Last year I traveled to Vermont and New Hampshire visiting friends and will be attended a reunion in Bethlehem, NH, on the 9/11 weekend. This year I will be flying on 9/11, taking a flight to Newark and thence to Orlando for a meeting. I can't recall flying on 9/11 since Ann was murdered. I have not consciously avoided it; that's just the way it turned out.

I wrote the following five years ago, on the tenth anniversary of 9/11. Can't improve on it, so here it is again. Hard to believe the 15th anniversary is upon us.

*********************************************************************************

I have not had time to read much email and this is the first time I have turned on my computer since the morning of 10 September, so I am not plugged in very well. Perhaps that is good.

I will be avoiding all the 'specials' on the tenth anniversary of 9/11. Not interested in all the contrived 'linkages' between 9/11 and the guy who collects trash in Toledo who found an image of the burning Pentagon in some dumpster or the football player who has the Twin Towers tattooed on his biceps. Sorry.

My desk is littered with magazines whose covers shout features like "Where Have We Been?", "What Went Wrong?", "Are We Safer?", "Why Do They Hate Us?", blah, blah, blah, I can't read any of them. I should say I can't finish any of them.

Actually, I did read one excellent article: "What 9/11 Wrought" by Joseph Lelyveld in the current issue of Smithsonian magazine. Read it. 

As much as I despise those who rained death upon us, I don't like what we have become. Xenophobes. Jingoes. Torturers. What moral authority the USA had, it's been greatly diminished.

I'm driving to Seattle today for a meeting tomorrow and Tuesday. When I had planned to drive it did not dawn on me that it would be on 9/11. Flying today wouldn't bother me, but it will be nice to be on the road for about five hours. No media folks trying to get a sound bite.

But let me give a shout-out to the first responders, many of whom made the ultimate sacrifice to save others. And Pat Tillman.

******  

Ten years ago today my younger sister Ann Campana Judge was murdered by the five men you see here. 

She was on American Airlines Flight #77 - the one that was crashed into the Pentagon.

I will always remember that these men, as well as 10 of the other 14 murderers, were Saudi Arabians. The other four were nationals of the UAE (2), Lebanon, and Egypt. 

When we buy Saudi oil, some of our money goes to organizations that support these kinds of people. 

We should never forget that.

A few days after 9/11/2001, a field outside the Pentagon was 'appropriated' by loved  ones of the victims. We left mementos of those we lost.

Below you can see what what my niece Becky and I left in Ann's memory.  The Marlboro Lights and Diet Coke should have been accompanied by a fifth (or more) of Dewar's Scotch but we exercised some good judgment - we left a Dewar's ad from a magazine. Besides, Ann would have wanted us to consume it.

 In 2008 they dedicated the Pentagon Memorial. The Washington Post had a special section on it.

I've been to the memorial thrice and it is a remarkable place. It's open 24/7.

Below are some pictures, including Ann's bench and her name carved in stone at the entrance.

In August 2009 I had a nice long visit. I sat on her bench and said "God bless!" to the  other 183 murdered  heroes who are memorialized, including the three middle-school students and their teachers Ann and NGS colleague Joe Ferguson were escorting to Los Angeles to join others for a field trip to the Channel Islands. It was the students' first airplane trip.   

Here are more pictures.

Next time I vist I'll bring some Diet Coke, a pack of Marlboro Lights, and maybe a bottle of Dewar's. Those were three of Annie's favorite things.

One thing gnaws at me: what were Ann's last moments like? Was she aware that they were going to crash? She must have - she was an experienced flyer who'd flown out of DC airports many times. She knew they were flying too fast and too low. And they were going in the wrong direction to be landing at DCA. Did she die on impact or suffer? Was she comforting the children? Probably.

Somewhat morbid, I know. 

I have her effects in a box (Mary Frances had this custom-built for me) in our library - her driver's license, some business cards, etc. It's amazing how well they survived the conflagration. She was incinerated but her business cards survived.

Here is an article about the foundation I created to honor Ann.

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." -- attributed to Edmund Burke 

"A little bit of irreverence is good. A lot is better." -- Ann Campana Judge  

Celebrating Seven Years: SUSIE Students Arrive in Oregon from Central America and the Caribbean!

Thought I would celebrate the seventh anniversary of the arrival of our SUSIE students, twenty-three young women and men from Central America (Panama, Honduras, Costa Rica, and Nicaragua) and the Caribbean (Jamaica, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, and Trinidad and Tobago). Most arrived on Sunday, 28 June 2009. We were all excited.

I like to think of them as future Western Hemisphere leaders.

SUSIE is an acronym for Study of the U.S. Institute for the Environment, and was funded and sponsored by the Study of the U.S. Branch in the U.S. Department of State’s Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs. It was a five-week summer program that dealt with water supply, water quality, water and wastewater treatment, land and coastal development issues.

Ana Maria Peralta, one of three Dominicanas, who later pursued an MBA in Spain, assembled this photograph:

 
The instructors are arranged along the left side and top. The picture of Mt. Hood is signifcant because on the day before we all went to Washington, DC, we took them up to a few patches of snow where they all experienced snow for the first time.

Here is a larger picture of all of us in Washington, DC, where we spent a week after five weeks in Oregon:

 
 Here is a story about the program and the students; view their project presentations.

Each student was different, but all shared great intelligence and a desire to learn. I told them that they were going to spoil me for my fall Geology 101 class. They did!

Four years ago at this time I was traveling through Honduras and Nicaragua and saw three of the SUSIE students. I saw Julio Eguigurems (above) on 27 June 2012 in Honduras. He was working at the national forestry school in Comayagua. I then traveled to Nicaragua to see Laura Espinoza García and Natalia Raudez. Laura has since completed her Master's degree in Belgium (with a scholarship) and Natalia is married and a mommy. I unfortunately missed Lucia Paiz Medina, who had completed her Master's degree in Brussels.

Julio may be applying for a Master's degree at OSU, and Dara-Marie Raggay of Trinidad and Tobago was accepted at OSU for a Master's in Environmental Science but did not matriculate.

Amazing people!

You don't know how much I miss you and how much you enriched my life!    

"Sometimes the only difference we can make is passing our wisdom to someone else who will make the bigger difference." -- Linda B. Gray

What You Get for Father's Day When You Don't Have Children

"Time spent with cats is never wasted." - Sigmund Freud

Happy 102nd Birthday to John Pilgrim Campana! Remembering D-Day

Like many others, today I am honoring those who served and those who died 72 years ago on D-Day and the entire Normandy Invasion. Special thanks to the Allied troops - American, Canadian, British, Australian, New Zealand, Free French, Free Dutch, et al. - who made it happen and rescued Europe and the world.  

My father's brother - my Uncle Vic - was one of those young men who was there that fateful day. He was a paratrooper - 82nd Airborne - who made a nighttime jump into France. He survived that one, and 48 other jumps over Europe. 

Thank you! And a special thanks to the French people, still so welcoming and appreciative lo these many years!

***********************************************************

 Giovanni Pellegrino Campana would have been 102 today. 

That name is on his birth certificate, but we knew my father as John Pilgrim Campana. Born on 6 June 1914, he was the son of Italian immigrants Consiglia and Domenico Campana, who arrived on these shores from Naples, Italy, in the late 1890s.  

The family settled in Boston, where my father grew up working, playing baseball, ice hockey, but most of all, studying. He vaguely recalled the Great Molasses Flood of 1919. He attended Boston Latin School, the oldest and arguably still the best high school in the USA.

 

After that, it was off to the oldest college in the USA, Harvard, where he graduated magna cum laude with a degree in history in 1936. In those days, Harvard was not a hospitable place for Italian-Americans, Irish-Americans, or Jews; forget about Latinos, Asian-Americans, Native Americans, or African-Americans! It was the bastion of WASPs - White (or Wealthy) Anglo-Saxon Protestants.
 

He loved playing hockey - he was a right winger - but didn't play for Harvard after his freshman year. He told me that the rich kids on the team would rent one of the indoor arenas for practices that were restricted to themselves and their friends. So while he worked, they practiced and his skills fell behind. When he told me this, there was nary a trace of bitterness in his voice. That's just the way it was.

But his true sports love was baseball. He played shortstop athlete (traditionally the position reserved for the bast athlete) and pitched on the Harvard team till he graduated in 1936. Here is the team ball signed by all the players on the 1936 team, with the cherished inscription: Harvard - 3, Yale - 0.

 

He married 'Southern belle' (North Carolina) Ruth Ellen Emerson in 1943 and they had three children. They first lived in Manhattan, then moved out to Queens, and finally, headed to the Long Island suburbs in December 1951, where they remained until 1978, retiring to Mooresville, North Carolina.

He started teaching in the New York City school system in 1938, a career that spanned 36 years, 26 of which were spent at Brooklyn's Erasmus Hall High School, the nation's second-oldest high school. He taught history and political science. He recalls EHHS students Barbra Streisand, chess champion Bobby Fischer, Neil Diamond, Billy Cunningham, and Lainie Kazan. Don't ask him about the first two. In those days, EHHS was one of the nation's best. Its top students won scholarships to the USA's finest universities. Even the top Jewish students, who for years could not get into the Ivy League schools, routinely made Princeton, Yale, and Harvard starting in the mid-1950s; African-Americans (few in number at EHHS in those days) and others soon followed.  As I grew up, I remember many visits from former students who would drop by to thank him for all he had done. They told me what a remarkable teacher and man he was and how much he had helped them.

He left EHHS in 1964 to help open Canarsie High School in Brooklyn. He was the Assistant Principal, a position that earned him more money but meant no more teaching. That was a tough call for him.
 

His time at CHS was difficult - an unreasonable boss and trouble from the start. In those days, the races and ethnicities mixed far worse than they do today. On some days scores of NYPD officers patrolled the halls and grounds. When a chair whizzed by his ear during a cafeteria free-for-all, he knew it was time to retire. That was 1974. This photo was taken a few years before he left CHS.

 

My father was an inveterate and prolific letter-writer. He would write letters to all kinds of people: political leaders, heads of state, CEOs, editors, sports figures, et al.  At the time of his death he was working on a book titled, One Small Voice, a collection of his letters. His favorite target was Tom Yawkey, then the owner of his beloved but then-incompetent Boston Red Sox. He would instruct Yawkey on whom to trade, whom to release, etc. It was a futile exercise, of course, but he enjoyed it. One of my big regrets in life was seeing him die in 1984, before the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, 2007, and 2013. But at least he did not witness the 1986 debacle. That surely would have killed him. My father's devotion to the Sox and their history still have an impression on me: although I am a Yankees fan, there is a soft spot in my heart for the Red Sox.

 

I often wonder how the Internet would have appeared to him. Given his love for writing and commentary, would he have become a blogger? Somehow I doubt it. He was committed to letters.
 

He was a student of history, languages (five), politics, sports, chess, and more. He was small in stature and an unlikely athlete. Baseball, hockey, golf, bowling, and tennis were his games. He was a Democrat who was not overly fond of John F. Kennedy and the Kennedy clan. He remembered too much from his early days in Boston and also never forgave patriarch Joe for being an early Hitler supporter. But he voted for JFK over Richard Nixon in 1960; that was a no-brainer.

 

 

My late younger sister Ann and he would have some epic confrontations; they were too much alike. One of his unbreakable rules was, 'Never drive the car into Manhattan.' I recall an incident where Ann was to drive his precious Mustang into Queens to catch the subway into Manhattan. Well, she sort of forgot about the rule, and drove into the city. Next morning as he got up to go to work, he saw a note from Ann that said, 'Sorry - it was the g-d [god-damned] bus!' He did not understand the note till he went out for his morning drive into Brooklyn. That's when he noticed a huge crease running the length of the driver's side of the Mustang. Seems that Ann had had an encounter with a city bus. She left the note and was spending the day at the beach. Lucky for that, too - she had been partying with friends in Manhattan and was in no shape to face my father.
 

I loved listening to him discuss history, especially American history. He actually 'rescued' my interest in history, because my high-school history teachers were pretty pathetic. They often emphasized rote memorization with little dicussion of what the events meant. That's where my father came in. He provided the big picture.
 

Whatever my skills are in teaching and education, I owe to him. He was so proud when I received my PhD. He had an ABD ('all but dissertation' - half done, on Stephen Decatur and the Barbary Pirates) from Fordham - marriage and a family intevened - and he never finished. He would have made quite a professor!

 

I doubt his beloved Red Sox will win this year. And the Bruins are not en route to the Stanley Cup as they were a few years ago. Oh, how he loved watching Bobby Orr!

 

I miss you, Dad; I think of you each day. You're my role model.
 

“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.” ― G.K. Chesterton

 

"Democracy is like a raft; you're safe, but your feet get wet." -- John P. Campana

Mother's Day 2016 Recollections: Real Ice Cream, Strong Coffee, Kids and Children, Four-Letter Words, & Numerology

Real ice cream she loved; butter pecan was by far her favorite. Today's penchant for frozen yogurt would be a non-starter. Strong coffee? You'd better believe it! Don't ever serve her a cup if she could see the bottom; it would go right down the drain. Kids? No, a 'kid' is a baby goat; the word is 'children'. Four-letter words from a Southern lady? Numerology? Well, you'll have to read this entire post.  

My mother, Ruth Ellen Emerson Campana, is shown below (c. Easter 1953 or 1954) with the family. Note the scowl on Ann's face - not the angelic smiles of older sister Ellen and me. Did that facial expression ever portend the shape of things to come!

Mom died on 8 May 2003 at the age of 83. Hard to believe that was 13 years ago. Although she lived for almost two years beyond 9/11, that event killed her just as sure as those five Saudi Arabian terrorists killed her youngest child, Ann Campana Judge, on American Airlines flight 77.

 

 My mother was a remarkable woman. Born in Cabarrus County, North Carolina, in 1920, she was an archetypical Southern lady. No profane language, kind, compassionate, soft spoken, a beautiful drawl, proud of her Southern Scots-Irish roots but no apologist for the Confederacy and slavery although her great-grandfather fought for the South. At age 23, she married my father, John Pilgrim Campana, an Italian-American from Boston, and the two of them settled in New York City, where my father taught high school in Brooklyn.

Although my Harvard-educated father was the family scholar (American history ABD) , my mother was no slouch. She majored in history and English at Flora Macdonald College (now part of St. Andrew's Presbyterian College) in Red Springs, NC, and graduated at 20. She acquired her love of learning from her mother Julia Johnston Emerson, who was a college graduate in a time when that was almost unheard of for a woman. What stubbornness she had no doubt came from her father Harris Emerson, a farmer and an avowed Republican in a time when the South was the 'Solid South', always voting for Democrats (hard to believe, I know). My mother said he was a Republican because everyone else was a Democrat.

I owe many of my semi-decent English skills to her. Each Sunday night she would would write five words and their definitions on my blackboard. Those were the 'Weekly Words.' I relied on her to correct my writing more than I did my teachers. Why? Because she was far better than they!

My friends loved her. 'How come your mother's so nice?' was a common question. But she was no pushover. My father's hot-blooded Italian nature often manifested itself when one of us overstepped our bounds, but my mother would generally raise her voice only slightly, or just glare at us. The message got through.

While still raising three children, she returned to teaching in 1960 and taught fourth grade. Her students idolized her. Here is a beautiful tribute from one of her fourth-grade students, Fred Avolio. Fred also remembers the 'Weekly Words.' And yes, Fred, I remember bringing my pet iguana Leroy into class.

My mother was also somewhat naive. One story, somewhat risqué, stands out. I must have been 16, Ann 13, and older sister Ellen was away at college. We were chatting at the dinner table, something we did every evening. My mother related a discussion that occurred in the teachers' lounge at her school. Seems she came in during a conversation, and a few of the teachers were laughing about something called '69'. She was puzzled so she asked one of her colleagues what it was (she had concluded that it had nothing to do with math). He told her that she had better ask someone in her family. So she did. Ann and I could hardly contain our laughter, and my father's jaw dropped like I had never seen (he taught high-school in Brooklyn so I knew he knew). I believe it was Ann who matter-of-factly told her what it was. Then my mother's jaw dropped. I think what surprised her and my father more than anything was that their 13-year old daughter knew exactly what it was. Yes, that faclal expression above was coming home to roost.

On another occasion at the dinner table, she told us that one of her fourth-graders had made a gesture to a classmate and she was unsure what it meant. We children knew what was coming. When my father asked what it was, she extended her right arm and raised her right middle finger. Before my father could recover, Ann, all of 12 or 13 at the time, exclaimed, "'Fuck you!' It means 'Fuck you!'" I thought the Big One was going to strike my father. I chimed in and said that it didn't mean that literally but more like 'Fuck off!' At that point my mother said she got the message and did not need to know any more. In all our years chatting at the dinner table that was the only time I recall the word 'fuck' being spoken - not once, but thrice.   

Needless to say, I did not mention either of these instances in the eulogy at her funeral service, although I was tempted to. It would have sent those North Carolina Presbyterians over the edge.

Despite the fact that she lived in the North for 35 years, she never lost her Southern grace and charm.

In 1978 she finally returned to her beloved Tar Heel State. She and my father settled in Mooresville, just north up I-77 from Charlotte. She and I shared one dislike: that of including 'NC' after Charlotte in lists of US cities' weather or some other characteristic. Every other city stood alone, but there was 'Charlotte, NC'. She viewed it as very disrespectful for NC's beloved Queen City. Check it out - some newspapers still do that. 

When my sister Ann was murdered, my mother was living with her and husband Geoff Judge in Great Falls, VA. After Ann was killed she continued to live with Geoff (an amazing man who treated her as he did his own mother) but soon after that she began to shut down. When Ann's beloved black Lab Bubba died, that was it. First she decided she couldn't walk on her own. Then, she stopped talking. Finally, she stopped eating. The end came soon after that, peacefully, while she slept. I believe the death certificate read 'heart attack' but I knew better. It should have read 'broken heart' - burying her baby killed her.  

The irony is that today's saying is something she would say whenever she heard of a parent burying a child. I doubt she ever expected she'd have to do the same.

Especially her youngest.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

I turn 68 in five days, and the older I get, the wiser I've become. You were right about so much stuff, Mom. I do forgive you for trying to transform me into a Southern gentleman. Some things aren't just meant to be. Probably one of the few times you failed.  But I still won't apologize for not going to law school.

Boy, do I miss you! Last year I visited your ancestral homeland - Scotland. I thought of you a lot.

And it's funny, but each time this year I get a strange hankering for some butter pecan ice cream. And none of that low-fat or frozen yogurt stuff - the real deal. 

"The hardest thing any parent has to do is bury a child." -- Ruth Emerson Campana

For Analytic Geometry Cognoscenti: Mathdance!

I got this from David Zetland. Very good!

Brings back memories of Brother Joe Altinger in high school.

"Chemistry is physics without thought; mathematics is physics without purpose." - Unknown

Why Adults Should Avoid Halloween Costumes

Former Minister of Humor Marty Ennis provided these decadent Halloween costumes to demonstrate the utter depravity of Western culture.

Such dress would never be tolerated in Campanastan! No words are necessary. 

Note that all of the offenders are men.

Happy Halloween!

 

 
 

And the most egregious offenders:

And while you're trick-or-treating, have something to eat!

 

 
Oh yeah - happy birthday, Nevada! Remember Chic Hecht today!

And for those of you in the US, we change to standard time on 1 November 2015 at 2 AM, so set your clocks BACK one hour before retiring tonight.

"From ghoulies and ghosties and long leggity beasties and things that go bump in the night, good Lord, deliver us!" -- Scottish proverb

The Donald Trump Blow-Up Sex Doll Hits the Streets

Get your own Donald Trump sex doll - it's far more useful than the real thing. Proceeds will help Syrian refugees, according to Syrian artist Saint Hoax.

Keep those Syrian refugees out of those damn Trojan horses!

Check out this article.

"You know, it really doesn`t matter what [the media] write as long as you`ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass." –Donald Trump

A Wonderful Twenty-Two Year Journey with Mary Frances

Twenty-two years ago this day on the shores of Lake Tahoe I was lucky enough to marry Mary Frances, shown here in Edinburgh, Scotland.

This T-shirt says it all, and no, she did not buy it for me.

I love you!

"Love doesn't make the world go 'round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile." - Franklin Jones 

It Ain't Over Till It's Over: R.I.P. Yogi Berra, 1925 - 2015

It's finally over for Lawrence Peter 'Yogi' Berra, who died today at age 90.

Berra was best known for his malapropisms, many of which made sense when you thought about them - Berra just had a 'special' way with words. People who knew of his quotes were often unaware of his great baseball career, in which he played 18 years for the New York Yankees, appeared in 14 World Series, won 10 World Series and 3 Most Valuable Player awards.  He's been in more World Series games than any other player. There is no doubt that he was one of the greatest catchers in baseball history.

But he was also a 'regular guy'. As a teenager he found himself on a Navy gunboat during D-Day and received a Purple Heart. After the war he joined the Yankees at age 21 and became one of its best and most beloved players. He deftly navigated the path among personalities as diverse as Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, and Whitey Ford, all of whom are his compatriots in baseball's Hall of Fame. 

Despite all the adulation, he never forgot his roots and remained a 'regular guy'. He was humble and kind. Like Stan Musial, he countered Leo Durocher's claim, 'Nice guys finish last.' I recall one game I attended at Yankee Stadium in 1961. I went down close to the field to see if I could get a better view of one of my heroes (Mickey Mantle, actually). Yogi walked by on his way to the batting cage, looked at me (although I was in the midst of perhaps 25 other boys), waved, and said 'Hi, kid.' Wow!

Here are some of his best quotes, not all of which may have actually been said by him. 

“If you don’t know where you are going, you might wind up someplace else.”

“Why buy good luggage, you only use it when you travel.”

“The towels were so thick there I could hardly close my suitcase.”

“When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

"Nobody goes there anymore, it's too crowded."

“It gets late early out here.”

“I don’t know (if they were male or female) fans running naked across the field). They had bags over their heads.”

“Take it with a grin of salt.”

“It ain’t the heat, it’s the humility.”

"In baseball, you don’t know nothing.”

“We made too many wrong mistakes.”

“So I’m ugly. I never saw anyone hit with his face.”

“If the people don’t want to come out to the ballpark, nobody’s going to stop them.”

“Baseball is 90 percent mental. The other half is physical.”

"He hits from both sides of the plate. He’s amphibious.”

“I always thought that record would stand until it was broken.”

"It ain't over till it's over."

“You should always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise, they won’t come to yours.”

 “It’s déjà vu all over again.”

We love you, Yogi. You've left two great legacies!

He was Everyman, and he will be missed by many, whether they loved baseball or not.  

My favorite quote? It would have to be this one:

"I can't believe how many memories I've forgotten." -- Yogi Berra, upon
returning to his St. Louis childhood home.

Memo to Ohio: Simple Solution to the Denali-Mt. McKinley Name Change - Rename Ohio's Highest 'Peak'!

President Obama has decided to restore Mt. McKinley to its native name, Denali. The Alaska mountain is the USA's highest at about 20,237 feet (6,170 meters) above mean sea level. The State of Alaska requested this name change about 40 years ago and a dispute has existed since then.

The name change has caused consternation among some, especially Ohio natives and the Ohio Congressional delegation in particular. President William McKinley, in whose honor the mountain was officially renamed in 1917 (unofficially in 1896), is a native son of Ohio. The original unofficial naming was apparently somewhat of a joke.  

So what's the solution? If Ohio thinks so much of President William McKinley, why not name its highest peak after him, not Alaska's? And what is Ohio's highest 'peak'? It's Campbell Hill, which towers 1,549 feet (472 meters) above mean sea level in north-central Ohio, north of Columbus in Bellefontaine.   

So is this a big letdown after Mt. McKinley in Alaska? Just look at some views of the new Mt. McKinley in Ohio:

View more here. Awesome!

Turns out the 'summit' of the new Mt. McKinley os on private property. But Ohio would not be claiming the property itself - just the naming rights. If the Campbells complain, I'm sure some accommodation can be reached. 

The new Mt. McKinley may not be as impressive as the Alaska mountain, but it will be a true 'people's mountain' since so many will be able to access it. Think of the tourism aspect! And it's only a few hours from Indiana's highest point.

Problem solved!

"You love to bash your city or state — but get really defensive when other people do it. Ohio might be like a drunk uncle, but it’s your drunk uncle, goddamn it." - Ohio saying

The Carnage Isn't Over Till the Last Person Shoots - Wait'll Next Time!

Never thought I'd give a shout-out to the New York Daily News but here is the NYDN's editorial about the Virginia journalists' shootings and its front page, plus a cartoon from Bill Bramhall.

You go, folks!

'How many Alisons is this going to happen to before we stop it?' - Andy Parker, father.

Now, About Your Library Vote....Perhaps You Should Reconsider? @CitizensUnTied

Naaahhhhhh....

From the good folks at Citizens UnTied and others.

 

"Politicians and diapers must be changed often and for much the same reason." - Unknown

The New York Post: Maintaining Its Journalistic Standards

Glad to see that one of my hometown newspapers, the New York Post, is maintaining its journalistic standards.

"There can be no higher law in journalism than to tell the truth and to shame the devil." - Walter Lippmann

North Bennet Street School Caddy Camp Reunion Almost Here - 11-13 September 2015 in NH. Buy an Ad!

The North Bennet Street School's Caddy Camps Reunion/Summit is fewer than four weeks away: 11 - 13 September 2015. It is open to all those who attended any of the NBSS caddy camps, not just those in New Hampshire. It will be held in the neighborhood of Bethlehem, NH, at the Maplewood Golf Course and Inn and Maplewood in the gorgeous White Mountains.

Download NBSS_Caddy_Reunion_Newsletter_11-13_Sept2015 

Note: The NBSS used to be known as the 'North Bennet Street Industrial School' or 'NBSIS'.

There is a website - CaddyCamps.com - and Facebook page. Check each for timely information.

A new wrinkle - an Ad Book will be distributed to all attendees and former campers who have paid their dues. Put an ad in the book honoring friends, relatives, or whatever! A full-page ad is $100 and a half-page ad is $60. All copy and payments are due by 1 September. Contact John Daly ([email protected]). See the following forms for complete information:

Download Ad Book Information

Download Ad Book Application Form

Here is some information recently posted on the Facebook page:

Want to buy a brick?

See you there! 

"If you are caught on a golf course during a storm and are afraid of lightning, hold up a 1-iron. Not even God can hit a 1-iron." - Lee Trevino

If Great Scientists Had Logos

From the folks at lolworthy.

“There is something fascinating about science. One gets such wholesale returns of conjecture out of such a trifling investment of fact.” – Mark Twain 

Jimmy Carter, National Treasure

Great cartoon by Mike Luckovich at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

Regardless of your opinion of his presidency, you'll have to admit that since he left office, Jimmy Carter has entered the realm of a national treasure. He's bypassed golf courses and gazillion-dollar speaking fees before hedge fund managers to make the world a better place.   

"We must adjust to changing times and still hold to unchanging principles." - Jimmy Carter

How Donald Trump Sees the World

From David Phillips.

"An 'extremely credible source' has called my office and told me that @BarackObama's birth certificate is a fraud." - Donald J. Trump on Twitter, 6 August 2012

North Bennet Street School Caddy Camp Reunion in New Hampshire, 11-13 September 2015: More Info

On 4 April 2015 I posted on the planned North Bennet Street School's Caddy Camps Reunion/Summit, 11 - 13 September 2015. It is open to all those who attended any of the NBSS caddy camps, not just those in New Hampshire. It will be held in the neighborhood of Bethlehem, NH, at the Maplewood Golf Course and Inn and Maplewood in the gorgeous White Mountains.

Download NBSS_Caddy_Reunion_Newsletter_11-13_Sept2015 

Note: The NBSS used to be known as the 'North Bennet Street Industrial School' or 'NBSIS'.

There is a website - CaddyCamps.com - and Facebook page. Check each for timely information.

Here is some information recently posted on the Facebook page:

Want to buy a brick?

Hope to see you there! 

Now I think I'm going down to the well tonight 
and I'm going to drink till I get my fill 
And I hope when I get old I don't sit around thinking about it 
but I probably will 
Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture 
a little of the glory of, well time slips away 
and leaves you with nothing mister but 
boring stories of glory days

Glory days well they'll pass you by 
Glory days in the wink of a young girl's eye 
Glory days, glory days
-- Glory Days, by Bruce Sprinsgteen

Beware of Greeks Bearing Debts: New ATMs Appear in Athens

These new ATMs should provide some relief to the beleaguered Greeks....

Who is Katie Hopkins, you ask? Check for yourself.  

Looks like our plan to eat more Greek yogurt has not helped much.

"Η φτήνια τρώει τον παρά." - Greek proverb [English equivalent: "If you buy cheaply, you pay dearly."]

Stupid Is As Stupid Tweets: An Unintended Cautionary Tale from Larry Nance, Jr.

University of Wyoming basketball player Larry Nance, Jr., tweeted this about Kobe Bryant and his rape accusation in 2012:

 
 

In yesterday's NBA draft, guess which team selected Nance? Yes, Kobe Bryant's team, the Los Angeles Lakers.  The Tweet has since been deleted, but not before attention was brought to its existence. 

The first practice could be interesting.

Read about Twitter faux pas made by other NBA draftees. 

This is a lesson for all of us.

"When you are dead, you don't know you are dead; it is difficult only for others. It is the same when you are stupid." - Unknown

One Solution to South Carolina's Confederate Battle Flag Dilemma

From the pen of Chan Lowe.

I like this idea.

I must confess - my great-great grandfather M.A. Emerson was a member of the North Carolina Company K and fought for the Confederacy.

"You can’t claim to be a proud, patriotic American while you honor the flag of the largest treasonous uprising against this country in our history." - Allen Clifton

A-Rod Goes Deep for the Big 3-0-0-0

Alex Rodriguez, arguably (?) the most vilified man in US professional sports (certainly in major league baseball) achieved another milestone in grand style yesterday - his 3,000th hit was a home run, just like Yankee hero Derek Jeter's a few years ago. 

Earlier in the week he knocked in his 2,000th run.  

Bud Selig, the recently-retired MLB commissioner, would be turning over in his grave were he dead. 

A-Rod is having a good year for a guy who turns 40 next month and missed all of last season under suspension: 14 home runs, 40 RBIs and a .283 batting average after today's game. He's no longer playing the field but serving as the Yankees' DH.

During spring training pundits were predicting a terrible year for Alex. He could no longer get around on the fastball and could not handle a major-league curve. Granted, he will slow down as the season progresses but I don't think many thought he'd been hitting the way he is in mid-June. I know I didn't.

The Yankee management must be (somewhat) pleasantly surprised. They did not think he could hit and wanted desperately for him to take the graceful way out and not come back for the 2015 season.

Although I'm not a big fan of A-Rod I'm happy for him. The guy knows a bunch of people hate him and did so even before all the PED stuff - his reputation as a prima donna is legendary. Yet he's seemingly unfazed and in there swinging away and making contact. More power to the guy, and shame on the Yankee management for treating him like crap. 

It's so sad that he screwed things up and then lied about PEDs to boot. He was on his way to a Hall of Fame career even without the drugs. 

What a waste.

"I just don't see the light. Where is the light? What am I in this for?" - Alex Rodriguez

Oregon: About to Pass New Jersey on a Tankful of Self-Pumped Gas!

Few people know it but Oregon and New Jersey are the only two states in our union that forbid people from pumping their own gas. In all fairness, each has exceptions.  Oregon has limited exceptions for commercial drivers and motorcyclists. In New Jersey, you can pump your own gas if you are a politician, know Governor Chris Christie, or are a member of the Mafia. 

That may soon change, folks. Oregon's moving into the latter quarter of the 20th century

Today's Oregonian reports that our legislature passed a bill allowing us to pump our own gas in counties with fewer than 40,000 residents (half of our 36 counties) between the hours of 6 PM and 6 AM. The bill now goes to Governor Kate Brown for her (presumed) signature.

One concern: in a state that just legalized marijuana, perhaps this is not a good idea. 

"Today I voted for limited self-service gas in extremely rural areas late at night. Am I still a real Oregonian?" - Sen. Sara Gelser, D-Corvallis

TSA & the T-Rex: The Least of Its Worries

This was in the Oregonian earlier this week. No need to comment.

 

"Every victory is only the price of admission to a more difficult problem" - Henry Kissinger

A Living Will for the Rest of Us

Great humor from friend and colleague Ari Michelsen, who is a long way from doing this task.

LIVING WILL FORM 


I, ____________, being of sound mind and body, do not
wish to be kept alive indefinitely by artificial means.  

Under no circumstances should my fate be put in the hands of
pinhead partisan politicians who couldn't pass
ninth-grade biology if their lives depended on it,
or lawyers/doctors/hospitals interested in simply running up
the bills.

If a reasonable amount of time passes, and I fail to
ask for at least one of the following:

______a Beer
______a Margarita
______a Bourbon and Water
______a Bloody Mary
______a Gin and Tonic / Vodka Tonic
______a Glass of Chardonnay
______a Steak
______Lobster or crab legs
______The remote control
______ a bowl of ice cream 
______The sports page
______Sex
______or Chocolate.


It should be presumed that I won't ever get any better. 

When such a determination is reached, I hereby instruct my
appointed person and attending physicians to pull the plug,
reel in the tubes, and call it a day. 

At this point, it is time to call the New Orleans Jazz Funeral
Band to come do their thing at my funeral, and ask all of my
friends to raise their glasses to toast the good times we
have had. 


Signature: ________________________
Date:         _____________________ 



NOTE:          
I also hear that in Ireland they have a Nursing Home with a
Pub.
                 
The patients are happier, and they have a lot more
visitors.  

Some of them don't even need embalming when their time
comes.  

If anyone knows the name of this happy place, PLEASE pass it on
to me! 

"Bedre med en fugl i hånden enn ti på taket." - Norwegian proverb (Translation: "Better to have one bird in hand than ten on the roof.")

Tom Toles: A Great Way to Close Out May 2015?

"When I finish as the host of 'Jeopardy!' I'm going to go up to Taft in central California. They have a small college there that teaches you about oil drilling." - Alex Trebek

...And My Sister Ann is Alive and Well and Living in Paraguay

The photo below was posted by Charles Frith with the Kalil Gibran quote shown at the bottom. Unsure what the point of this is. Conspiracy theory? 

So I suppose my sister Ann is alive and well and living the good life in Paraguay.

"The obvious is that which is never seen until someone expresses it simply." - Khalil Gibran

Caddy Camp Memories: Nicholas DiMasi Remembers 'The Sandbagger'

Some of you know that I have fond memories of my days as a caddy in the White Mountains of New Hampshire and on Cape Cod during the period 1958-1967.

Here is a photo from a little reunion on Cape Cod two years ago. 

Here is notice of an impeding reunion in New Hampshire 13-15 September 2015. 

The wonderful reminiscence below is by Nicholas 'Nicky' DiMasi, whom I remember from my early days as a caddy in NH. Nicky was a few years older than I, and I hope to see him in NH this September. I did not know 'The Sandbagger' but I knew some golfers like him, like 'The Inventor'. 

The Sandbagger

by

Nicholas DiMasi 

    Some of you may know the meaning of the title of this piece, but if you have never played the sport of golf, you will not know the meaning.  I want to share with you a story of how I came to learn the meaning of this word.

   From one of my past essays, you may recall that when I was thirteen years old, I left my home in the city to spend my summer at a caddy camp in New Hampshire.  This caddy camp was affiliated with a rather large hotel called “The Maplewood” hotel, and it was located right in the middle of the White Mountains of New Hampshire, not far from the famous Mount Washington.  This story takes place in the 1950s.  It was the time when wealthy people from the New York City area used to take their whole family up to the mountains for summer vacation.  The hotels were great resorts.  They provided all your meals, all sorts of activities and sports to play, and had entertainment every night in the hotel theater.  

    Every day, I would arrive at the golf links, and be assigned to caddy for one of the guests, or for one of the senior managers at the hotel.  Now, in the first few weeks caddying, I wound up caddying a lot for the fellow who was the singer in the nightly show at the hotel.  I did not like caddying for him, mainly because he was cheap.  He never gave me a good tip, and often treated me in a rather condescending way.  However, there was one thing that I admired about him, and that was that he was a really skilled golfer.  He was great at driving the ball, and even better around the green.  He rarely made a mistake in his game.

   Now comes the part of the story when I learned the meaning of “sandbagging”.  You see, after weeks of caddying, I realized that the game of golf, even among amateurs, was not always played for the fun of it.  It was often played for money.  Many times, while I was being paid for caddying, I witnessed large piles of money being exchanged between the losers of the round and the winners of the round.  The amount of money exchanging hands was eye-opening to a young boy like me.

   Often times, I would be one of the caddies in a foursome that included the singer that I mentioned earlier.  He was playing in a round of golf with some of the wealthiest guests at the hotel.  I knew this from the fact that they often gave me a big tip.  Well, I was somewhat shocked to see this singer guy hit some awful shots in the early stages of the round.  He would laugh it off, as he said he was having a bad day, but after the betting on the round got more expensive, since players were doubling- down on each hole, suddenly his game would improve tremendously.  I quickly figured out what he was doing.  He was purposely losing the beginning holes in order to make the guests think that he was just an average golfer, or even a hacker.  Then he would take all their money in the back nine holes, while he laughed it off by saying he was lucky.  He wasn’t lucky.  He was setting them up for the kill, luring them in so to speak.  What a scam he had.  He was, as it is referred to in golf, a “sandbagger”.

    So, in conclusion, I want to let you know that I learned more than how to play golf as a caddy.  I also learned, at this really young age, to be very careful in my dealings as I grew to adulthood.  There are people in this world that will lure you into real danger, and to use a Yiddish word that my good friend Mike might enjoy, I learned not to be a “schlemiel”, as some of those guests were.  

Enjoy!

 

"While playing golf today I hit two good balls. I stepped on a rake." - Henny Youngman

Physician, Heal Thyself! Eat That Root!

Great graphic from Janis Ian's FB page via Jerry Sehlke.

“The New England Journal of Medicine reports that 9 out of 10 doctors agree that 1 out of 10 doctors is an idiot.” ~ Jay Leno

It's the Beginning of My 68th Year So I'll Laugh If I Want To!

Why don't I just say I'm 67 today? Just wanted to express it the way my dear, departed Aunt Angela would've done.

In addition to a vintage CD of Bobby Goldsboro's Greatest Hits my wonderful older (by three years) sister Ellen sent me the hilarious card below. But instead of B.G. I'll take this tune any day. 

Mary Frances got me three novels - World Gone By by Dennis Lehane, Jazz Palace by Mary Morris, and The Volcano That Changed the World by James W. Mercer.

She knows I love novels but always 'forget' to get them.  And I will even be able to read them because of a special gift...

Such an auspicious day, too - got the regular Avastin injection in my right eye so the vision's okay for another 5-6 weeks. And I am so thankful for that! After all, it earned me a free espresso drink at Starbucks! 

"My dear, congratulations upon entering your 40th year." - My late Aunt Angela, to my mother on the occasion of her 39th birthday

Revenge is Sweet - Even After 628 Years

I took this cartoon from Jerry Coyne's blog.

Kudos to Garry Trudeau.

If you have some time on your hands and want to see some comments by people with far too much time on their hands, read the comments to Jerry's post. I'm incredulous. 

1387 - two years before the Battle of Kosovo.

“In taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior.” – Francis Bacon

Children Ask the Darndest Questions!

From good friend Caroline Ajootian.

Ahh....youthful curiosity!

"Before you call yourself a Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu or any other theology, learn to be human first.” - Shannon L. Alder

Memo to Self: Don't Be Fat and Ugly in the UK

Found on a car at a UK store. Looks like the fashionistas have struck again.

Read more here.

"We hear a great deal about the rudeness of the rising generation. I am an oldster myself and might be expected to take the oldsters' side, but in fact I have been far more impressed by the bad manners of parents to children than by those of children to parents." - C.S. Lewis

Ailurophiles Unite! Celebrate Sinko de Meow!

Another goodie via Caroline Ajootian from Funkagenda.

"Remember - they'd eat us if they could." - Ailurophile Mary Frances Campana, referring to cats

Former HP CEO and Savvy Business Maven Carly Fiorina's Campaign Gets a 404

So what do you see when you go to carlyfiorina.org? Try this:

You then scroll down past row after row of frowny faces till you reach the end:

I doubt Ms. Fiorina does her own domain-name registration so I can't really call her out for failing to do so. But it does not reflect well upon her campaign, especially for someone who touts her business acumen. 

And here is what you get when you visit TedCruz.com:

"If you're not humble, life will visit humbleness upon you." - Mike Tyson, in the New York Observer, via The Week. 

I'm Sure Glad They Got the Orioles - White Sox Baseball Game In!

Oh, yeah - the Orioles won, 8-2.

From Jimmie Margulies...

“The NAACP should have riot rehearsal. They should get a liquor store and practice robberies.” - Rush Limbaugh