Category Archives: US History

Untimely Demises

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Woke up from a dream this morning with the notion that Ed Asner had died. That was a little odd, considering that I seldom dream about well-known people. For a moment I wondered, did that happen? No, I dreamed it. I wish Mr. Asner well, and hope he has more years yet.

Guess it would have been really strange if I’d dreamed about Harold Ramis, whose passing made me wonder, for a moment, what his colleague – co-conspirator – Douglas Kenney would have done if he’d lived as long. Probably not too much on-camera work, though he had a single, memorable line in Animal House, which he co-wrote.

Speaking of untimely death, not long ago I got around to seeing a Smithsonian Channel documentary, The Day Kennedy Died, which first aired in November. Narrated by Kevin Spacey and directed by British documentary filmmaker Leslie Woodhead, it’s a first-rate bit of work. A lot of the material’s familiar, of course, but it also included less-familiar aspects of the story, along with lesser-known images, deftly woven into a strong narrative that eschews the conspiracy speculation that’s encrusted the event.

Also worth watching: a short documentary about the eruption of Mt. St. Helens, vintage 1984 and posted on a YouTube channel called Rare Educational and Entertaining Videos. Until I watched the video about the eruption the other day, I hadn’t realized that there’s a children’s song about Mt. St. Helens. But I knew about stubborn old Harry Truman and some of the intrepid scientists who died trying to gather information about the volcano.

Quantill’s Graves

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Odd discovery for the day: the remains of William Quantrill seem to be buried in two different places. I was looking at the Wiki page devoted to the notorious raider and noticed, without apparent explanation, pictures of two gravestones for the man, one in Ohio, another in Missouri.

I looked into the subject a little further and this article has some explanation of it. Through a series of convoluted acts of skullduggery on the part of his mother and others, parts of Quantrill ended up in two different places, one close to where he grew up, the other close to where he made his name.

Reminds me of the two gravesites for Daniel Boone, but in that case there’s a dispute about where all of his mortal remain are – Kentucky or Missouri. In Quantrill’s case, the two states seem to have divvied up the distinction of having his final resting place.

Thursday Bits

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In the mid-afternoon, a call center employee called me, pitching an extended service plan for a major appliance I bought about a year ago. That doesn’t count as violating the do-not-call list, I suppose, because of some verbiage in the sales agreement. She was about 15 seconds into her pitch when I offered up a curt “no thanks” and hung up.

My reasoning about most service plans and extended warranties and so on is fairly simple. If it were to my benefit, the company wouldn’t be offering it. The odds are I’d pay them to do nothing, and they know it. I know it too.

I saw about 20 minutes of Geronimo the other day – the latest in a long line of movies I’ve seen bits and pieces of. It’s vintage 1962, so while the Indians were portrayed sympathetically, the title character wasn’t actually played by an Indian. I recognized him at once: Chuck Connors.

His blue eyes weren’t the only Hollywood stretchers in the movie. In 1886, when the story takes place, Geronimo was already in his late 50s. Connors was about 40, and a buff 40 at that. The Apache warrior’s wife was played by an Indian, however. An actress born in Bombay.

Never mind. One of the U.S. cavalry officers looked awfully familiar. The one who wanted to let Geronimo surrender, rather than blow him up with artillery, as his commander seemed eager to do. Who? I thought for a minute. Adam West. A pre-Batman Adam West.

Here’s a lesser-known Geronimo story: as an old man at the St. Louis World’s Fair in 1904.

I had reason to be out briefly at about 11 p.m. tonight, under a near-cold, clear sky. I had to look for him and he was there, off in the southeast, large and rising over the horizon: Orion. Harbinger of winter in these parts. So are the chill in the air and the increasingly bare trees, but it’s good to have celestial cues, too.

LaSalle & Oglesby

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Lincoln Park is peppered with statues, some better known than others. Thousands of people drive by this fellow every day, since he overlooks the intersection of two large streets bordering the park, Clark and LaSalle.

Fittingly enough, it’s René-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle, perched over his namesake street. How many of the passersby know that? I wasn’t sure who it was until I read the plaque, which calls him “Robert Cavelier De La Salle.” Considering we’re talking about a 17th-century Frenchman, both styles are probably OK. The statue was made in Belgium, of all places, designed by one Jacques de La Laing, and was a gift to the city from Lambert Tree, a wealthy Chicagoan and second-tier Illinois politician of an earlier time (died 1910). His more important legacy is the Tree Studio Building.

In some alternate universe, in which Frenchmen took to the Midwest in greater numbers than they really did, and in which France prevailed in the Seven Years’ War, LaSalle might be revered as the forefather of a French-speaking nation stretching from the shores of the Great Lakes to the Mississippi Delta. A country that regularly chaffs against the English-speaking nation on the Eastern Seaboard and the Spanish-speaking one to the west (and Russians in the Pacific Northwest, just for fun), and which also has restive populations both English and Spanish within its borders.

In the world-as-it-is, LaSalle gets a fair amount of recognition anyway. I remember learning about him long ago in Texas History class, since he made it all the way to the future site of Texas before being offed by his own men. Also, a lot of things are named after him — or at least share the name — besides the street, and it’s worth noting that LaSalle St. is a metonym for the financial industry in Chicago.

Deeper into the park, on a small hill in fact – how did that get there? Must have been manmade – is a statue of Richard J. Oglesby, Union general, 14th Governor of Illinois, and U.S. Senator. He’s obscured to the west by a large tree and probably not that easy to see from Lake Shore Drive to the east, though I haven’t tested that assumption. I’m fairly sure obscure applies to him generally speaking, though I’ll have to ask someone who went to Illinois public schools back when such a thing as Illinois History was taught, and see if he was mentioned.

In any case, the statue is the work of sculptor Leonard Crunelle, a protégé of Lorado Taft, and was dedicated in 1919, when there were still people who remembered Oglesby (he died in 1899). In Decatur (Ill.), I understand, his home is a museum, and the town of Oglesby in LaSalle County, which is north-central Illinois, is named after him.

The Auditorium Theatre

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How many inglenooks are there in public buildings in greater Chicago? A fireplace recess, that is. I wouldn’t know, but it couldn’t be too many.

The Auditorium Theatre on Congress Ave. downtown has two large ones, echoing the enormous size of the theater itself, in the dress circle lobby. In 1889, when the theater was spanking new, the inglenooks featured gas fireplaces with cast-iron “logs” and long benches warmed by radiators underneath the cushions, and walls adorned by foliate mosaic friezes. Socializing went on, but so did warming. The Earth was colder then, and indoor heating was much more primitive.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t notice the inglenooks when I attended a show at the Auditorium Theatre in 1989. Or was it 1988? I went to see a radio broadcast of Michael Feldman’s Whad’Ya Know? Or was it Lily Tomlin’s one-woman show? It’s a jumble. In any case, I remember the Auditorium Theatre being opulent in the late 1980s, but since then Roosevelt University, which owns the building, completed a restoration in 2001 to make it look more like it did when the structure was spanking new. So when I saw the theater on Saturday, I saw something new – which looked old.

On December 19, 1889, President Benjamin Harrison and Vice President Levi P. Morton  – just about everyone’s favorite obscure high office holders of the Gilded Age, I figure – came for the dedication of the Auditorium Theatre. Interestingly enough, they’d been nominated for these offices in the summer of ’88 at the theater, even though it wasn’t finished yet. That’s where the Republican Party held its convention that year.

President Harrison said a few words at the dedication, which are on a plaque hanging on the wall at the south inglenook: “I wish that this great building may continue to be to all your population that which it should be: opening its doors from night to night, calling your people away from cares of business to those enjoyments and entertainments which develop the souls of men and inspire those whose lives are heavy with daily toil and in this magnificent and enchanted presence, lift them for a time out of dull things into those higher things where men should live.”

He and his vice president would have seen an interior very much like I saw this weekend, a tour de force design by Louis Sullivan and Dankmar Adler, with its 3,500 clear-glass electric light bulbs luminously arrayed on the ceiling arches, the balcony and the gallery fronts, the 20 x 24-foot murals depicting winter and spring, and the 4,200 seats, including some way, way up in the third balcony. These days, I understand, there are 3,877 seats; people have grown fatter in the last 130 years.

The theater has plenty of other distinctions, which are best explored at its web site. Like many other grand buildings, it was nearly destroyed. Supposedly in the early ’30s, when it seemingly had outlived its economic usefulness, bids were taken for demolition. But the theater and its surrounding building (more about which later) were so solidly built that no one wanted to pay to have it razed.

Another story I enjoyed about the theater is its World War II use. The USO had the stage and some of the front-row seats removed to install a bowling alley. It looked like this.

For Chicago developer Ferdinand Peck, the theater was only one component of the property, and so it remains today. The Auditorium Theatre is part of the Auditorium Building, which originally included office space and a hotel, and now has office space and classrooms. Since 1946, Roosevelt University has owned the building as well as the theater, which have separate entrances. The Auditorium Building also could be explored as a part of Openhousechicago, so I took a look.

The building has a fine lobby, and a grand staircase with nice stained glass, and a good view of Grant Park and Lake Michigan from its library on the 12th floor. It also pays homage to a president and first lady.

This mosaic is on the landing between the first and second floors. Also in the lobby are busts of Franklin and Eleanor, in case you’re inclined to think the school was named after the other famed Roosevelt.

Pullman Ruins

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What creates a ruin? The elements over time, neglect, war, accidents, extreme weather, assorted acts of God. In the case of the industrial structures at Pullman State Historic District, arson. After the structure was severely damaged in 1998, the Chicago Tribune reported that “the police determined the fire to be arson and arrested a 45-year-old man on Wednesday,” the article noted. “Sgt. Maurice Sullivan, a detective with the police bomb and arson unit, said that the man confessed to setting the blaze at the direction of voices he heard in his head.”

Much reconstruction of the Administration Building and Central Clock Tower has been done since then.

Inside, though, it’s still mostly raw space. These things take time.

The nearby industrial buildings aren’t in such good shape, inside or out, though they’ve probably been stabilized.

Even though I believe the buildings ought to be restored, there’s still something satisfying about wandering around ruins. Especially when large pieces of iron equipment are nearby.

What is it? What was it used for? Someone could probably tell me. Why did it end up in exactly that place and position? Who were the workmen who moved it to where it is, and did they intend to abandon it, or just put it somewhere temporarily – but never got back to it? Maybe no one knows these things any more. Or maybe I’m misinterpreting the object. Could be it was removed from the wrecked building after the fire, and will return after its restoration.

Someday, parts of the Pullman district, including the industrial sites, might be part of a National Historical Park, along the lines of the one in Lowell, Mass. The National Park Service recently reported that it thought Pullman had the right stuff to be such a park, and Congress and other interested parties have to figure out how to pay for it. Considering Congress’ recently difficulties with even basic governance, it might be a while before that happens.

Sounds like a good idea to me. A petition to grant park status to Pullman was at the Visitors Center when we picked up our House Tour tickets, and I signed it.

On Stolp Island

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I took pictures at the western end of the New York Street Memorial Bridge in Aurora, but naturally I had to walk across it too. Or at least across the western section of the bridge to Stolp Island, because I didn’t realize at that moment that the eastern section of the bridge counted as part of the same bridge.

HistoricBridges.org explains: “The New York Street Memorial Bridge is technically a single bridge spanning the entire river. However, in the 1960s, fill was brought in to expand the island northward, and the center of the bridge was buried in the fill. Today, a parking garage is located south of the former center of the bridge and a casino is located north of the former center of the bridge.”

I made it as far that former center of the bridge, where I saw a plaque dedicated to Gen. Pershing.

It looks like it was tacked on to the parking garage, but the plaque came first, put there in 1960 for Pershing’s centennial (about 12 years after he died). Not far away was a bas-relief, flanked by eagles. I didn’t see a sign describing the work, but it’s safe to say it honors the ordinary soldiers of the Great War.

Across the street, in front of the casino, is the statue “Victory.”

“The Chicago Architectural Bronze Company manufactured the bronze tablets and light fixtures. Roman Bronze Works of New York City cast the bridge’s crowning central figure of Victory,” according to HistoricBridges.org.

Does anyone entering the casino mistake her for Lady Luck? Of course, Lady Luck doesn’t spend much time in a casino, however much gamblers want her to. Or maybe she does, but hews more closely to Fortuna, who inspired both good and bad luck. I think Dame Probability runs the joint – and she’s always on the side of the house.

The New York Street Memorial Bridge

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On Saturday afternoon, I got a good look at the New York Street Memorial Bridge in Aurora, Illinois, which spans the Fox River.

My vantage for this image was from the Fox River Trail, next to the river. The bridge connects the west bank of the river to a large island — large enough, in fact, that a good bit of downtown Aurora is built on it — and then another section of the bridge (not pictured) connects the island with the east bank of the river. The building in the background is the Hollywood Aurora Casino, which is located on the northern tip of the island — Stolp Island, to use its euphonious name.

HistoricBridges.org tells me that “the New York Street Memorial Bridge was designed as a memorial to World War I veterans. The bridge is far more than a typical memorial bridge where a simple memorial plaque is placed on the bridge. Instead, the bridge displays a truly beautiful design where the bridge itself is the memorial. At each end of the bridge, a concrete statue titled ‘Memory’ rises up above the railings at the westernmost and easternmost pier points.”

This is one of the “Memory” statues. At the base of this statue — and I suppose the other three, though I didn’t check — is a plaque. Oddly, its language doesn’t explicitly memorialize those who fought in WWI, but considering the date on the plaque, those who built the bridge probably assumed that everyone would know who it was for. The plaque says:

MEMORIAL BRIDGE

Aurora – Illinois

1930-1931

Be this memorial forever dedicated to the defenders of American ideals; as a reverent memory to the departed; as a vivid tribute to the living; and as a patriotic challenge to posterity, that these ideals shall not perish. Anon.”

More from HistoricBridges.org: “The bridge was originally proposed and designed by Aurora City Engineer Walter E. Deuchler, but citizens then requested the bridge be a memorial bridge and so Emory Seidel and Karl Miller of Seidel Studios of Chicago… were hired to redesign the proposed bridge as the memorial bridge seen today.”

More about the bridge is at the site, including information from the National Register Historic District nomination form.

A closer look at “Memory.”

Posterity drives and walks by her every day. Who sees her as anything more than a bridge ornament? A few, perhaps. Could be that “Memory” has mostly been forgotten.

Up in the Air, Junior Birdmen

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Today I know more about “Up in the Air, Junior Birdmen,” than I ever have before. I read the Wiki page, of course, but that isn’t very meaty. A page on a site devoted to aviator Walter Lees is better, including bits of primary source material, or at least reprinting some.

Yesterday I wrote a short item about a trio of volunteers who helped build bicycle-powered pedal planes for an aviation museum. Non-flying planes, that is, the kind that kids tool around in for amusement and edification. I needed a headline. That request went to my synaptic warehouse, that sprawling place with an idiosyncratic and often infuriating filing system, overflowing with jumbles of memories, images, and logical reconstructions — or is it big ideas, images, and distorted facts? — and out popped “Up in the Air, Junior Birdmen.”

Perfect. I’m rarely so good at headline writing. But where did that come from? I wasn’t in the Junior Birdmen demographic, considering it was aimed at boys of the 1930s.

Later it occurred to me. I might have heard about it earlier, but I definitely remember Tom Lehrer mentioning it as a gag on one of his records, before he sang “It Makes a Fellow Proud to be a Soldier.” The early 1960s audience clearly understood the reference, because it got a laugh.

“Some of you may recall the publicity a few years ago about the Army’s search for an official Army song to be the counterpart of the Navy’s ‘Anchors Away’ and the Air Force’s ‘Up in the Air, Junior Birdmen’ songs. I was in basic training at the time…”

So today I did a small amount of checking on line about the Junior Birdmen phenomenon. Added a bit of information to the otherwise incredibly minor Junior Birdmen file somewhere in my synaptic warehouse. And no visit to the Internet for useless information is complete without a stop at YouTube, in this case to hear the song itself – which I don’t think I’d ever heard before.

Well, I can’t say completely useless information. I got a headline for a paid piece of writing out of it – one that the editors kept.

Looking for Tail-Gunner Joe

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A funny thing happened to me yesterday, late in the afternoon, as I scoured through St. Mary’s Cemetery in Appleton, Wisconsin, looking for a particular tombstone. I wasn’t having any luck finding it. But I did enjoy the graveyard’s handsome grounds, which are near the Fox River.

On Independence Day, we’d set out for northeastern Wisconsin – to see Appleton and the other Fox River cities, plus take a jaunt up to Door County.  I enjoyed parts of Appleton last year without my family, and I thought they’d like some of the places I’d been. As for Door County, we paid a visit in 2001, but it was too short and we’d long wanted to go again. This visit was also too short – I figure we’d need a week to do Door right.

Yesterday was our last day, and I headed out for St. Mary’s Cemetery by myself, since no one else cares to visit cemeteries. Specifically, I wanted to see the place’s most famous – infamous – resident, Sen. Joseph McCarthy. I couldn’t find him for a while. Find-a-Grave wasn’t exact enough. There were other McCarthys – even other Joseph McCarthys, since the cemetery is well populated with Irish names – but the Senator was elusive.

Then I spotted a man and his small daughter riding through the cemetery on something like one of those drivable carts you see at grocery stores. Eventually, they came fairly close to me, and I had to ask, since we were the only (living) people in the cemetery, and no guide signs or other clues pointed the way.

“Excuse me, do you know where Joseph McCarthy is buried? You know, the Senator.” Even in Appleton – he was from nearby Grand Chute – I can’t assume anything.

The man, about 10 years younger than me and with close-cropped reddish hair, looked at me for a moment. “We’re not supposed to tell people that,” he said. “He was my great-uncle.”

“Oh.”

“But I will tell you he’s at one of the corners, near the river.” And then they started on their way again. I guess he decided I didn’t want to harm the memorial, which of course was true. I just wanted a picture. Soon I found the stone and took one.

What are the odds of running into a grand-nephew of Joe McCarthy? (Assuming he wasn’t kidding about that.) I checked, and McCarthy was from a family of seven children, so in Appleton, the odds wouldn’t be that bad.