Water, Water, Water

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It might be the summer of pouring a bucket of ice water over your head – which will probably be remembered in the way flagpole sitting and goldfish swallowing are – but I’m not participating. The first I heard about it (ice water pouring, not flagpole sitting) was yesterday as I was driving Lilly and her friends somewhere. They were talking about it. But I would have heard about it today anyway, since I noticed something about it online at a place I usually visit.

I spotted peewee football players practicing in the park visible from my deck today, instead of baseball players. Some baseball will still be practiced and played in the weeks ahead. But peewee footballers mean the end of summer is nigh. So does the beginning of school. Lilly starts Thursday; Ann next Tuesday.

Even so, it’s still summer. This is the kind of thing you see during that season.

water truck

Not long ago, the village replaced some turf they’d dug up at the edge of my front lawn. Every now and then, a water truck shows up to water it.

Come and Take It

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There probably aren’t too many Come and Take It flags flapping in the Illinois wind, but there’s one in my back yard. It’s along with a Stars and Stripes, one of many that a Realtor posted on our block – all near the street – for the Fourth of July this year.

Come and Take ItIt’s the flag I bought as a souvenir of my visit to Washington-on-the-Brazos State Historic Site in April. It was a little long to take in a suitcase on an airplane – and it’s a little pointy, just the kind of thing that might alarm a literal-minded TSA agent and who might indeed take it – so I left it at Jay’s house, intending to pick it up in July, when I could take it back in my car. Remarkably, I remembered to do just that, though it’s been in the car for a few weeks.

Nothing like an obscure historic flag of defiance to brighten up your deck. Unlike the Gadsden Flag, it hasn’t been co-oped by anti-government radicals (anti-government, except for their Social Security and Medicare).

O-Bon 1990

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Things I Did During O-Bon (August 12-19)

• Saw the Daimonji Gozan Okuribi on August 16 in Kyoto. I parked myself on the banks of the Kamogawa River among a large crowd also there to see the event. Sure enough, not long after dark, the first of the bonfires came to life, a 大 shape, “dai” or large, defying a bank of rainclouds that occasionally cut loose on the audience. It looked a little distant, but it was worth seeing once.

[The Japan National Tourist Board tells us that “although there are several interpretations as to the origins of this event, it is generally regarded as a fire set alight at the gate for seeing off the souls of ancestors after commemorating the welcoming of their souls. The character of “dai” (meaning “large”) on Mt. Daimonji, and those of “myo” and “ho,” which make up the word “Myo-ho” (wondrous teaching of Buddha) on Matsugasaki Nishiyama and Higashiyama mountains are famous.”]

• Took some long walks in Osaka and one in Kyoto, from the Kenkakuji (Golden Pavilion) to the Nijojo Castle. The latter was closed by the time I got there [I eventually visited the Nijojo.]

• Visited a few museums, including the Osaka Municipal Museum; the Kyoto National Museum; and the Museum of Oriental Ceramics. [Some years later, I told an acquaintance of mine who’s a gifted potter that I’d been there, and he was clearly envious of the experience. I liked the pottery well enough, but his instincts were right. It should have been him rather than me, in terms of who could appreciate it best.]

• Also spent time at the National Museum of Ethnology, which has all kinds of interesting artifacts, such as a yurt, Polynesian vessels, African masks, lots more. The museum is at Expo Park, site of Expo ’70, the world’s fair held in Osaka that year. That’s probably the first time I’d ever heard of the city. Other relics from the fair include the enormous outdoor sculpture called “Tower of the Sun,” looking very much like something created in the late 1960s. [By Taro Okamoto, who died in 1996. I had no idea there was anything inside the work.]

• Discovered a second-run theater in Osaka, admission only 600 yen for two movies. Good place to go for air conditioning, a traditional reason to go to the movies. This week saw Lair of the White Worm and Salome’s Last Dance, a sampler of Ken Russell’s recent twisted visions. Before seeing them, I’d mostly known his movies by reputation. Altered States, which I did see once upon a time, was much worse than either of these.

There Ain’t no Coupe de Ville Hiding at the Bottom of a Cracker Jack Box

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I never was much for Cracker Jacks. Maybe because it was marketed as the kind of thing adults thought kids should like. Or maybe that it seemed fossilized in another time even 40 years ago, though simply being old usually doesn’t put me off a thing. Mainly, though, it’s that molasses taste.

A box of Cracker Jacks made its way into the house recently. I think one of Ann’s friends brought it over. At least it still looks like a box of Cracker Jacks should, complete with mascot Sailor Jack and his dog Bingo. The candy is, of course, part of Chicago history, though it hasn’t been owned locally in quite a while, unlike that other Gilded Age favorite, the Tootsie Roll.

I didn’t eat any Cracker Jacks this time, but I did find the “prize.” An Arizona Diamondbacks sticker. I’ve read that there’s also some kind of code for some kind of app, but I couldn’t find that. Really, Frito-Lay? You can’t spring for two- or three-tenths of a cent for a little plastic toy made in Guangdong Province?

Calendars for ’15

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One, two – which famed movie star’s going to die next to make it three? Not that that really happens, so vague is the idea. But if one does in a day or two, people are bound to point that out. Alas for Lauren Bacall, she might suffer from the Groucho Marx effect – dying too close to someone even better known at the time of her death, and thus being overshadowed in death. That happened to Mother Teresa as well.

Speaking of the tireless forward motion of Time, calendars for next year have already started arriving. Lilly’s high school calendar, which doubles as a thick wad of rules and policy, is too utilitarian to be that interesting. Better is the Teamwork Velocity Date Log Planner, an 8 x 10-inch booklet with each month from December 2014 to January 2016. Why a paper calendar in the era of electronic gizmos in your hand? I’d argue that it’s easier to find something on a calendar in this form. And it never crashes or has virus issues.

Anyway, the selection of holidays isn’t too odd: U.S. holidays, plus a number of Canadian and Mexican ones; a scattering of Jewish and Islamic dates. I do see that a few Orthodox dates are mentioned. The next Orthodox Christmas, for instance, is January 7, 2015 on the Gregorian calendar. Kwanzaa lives on among calendar makers, and so does “Patriot Day” on September 11, which I don’t think I’ve seen anywhere else but a calendar.

Here’s one on the calendar that I’ve missed: National Tartan Day, which is April 6. TartandayScotland.com tells us that “in 2004, the House of Representatives decreed that April 6, the date of the signing of the 1320 Declaration of Arbroath, should be established as National Tartan Day, to recognise ‘The outstanding contribution and achievements made by Scottish Americans to the United States.’ ”

Each month at the top of the page is some CEO or entrepreneur wisdom. Quotes from the likes of Jack Welch, Donald Trump, and Marissa Mayer. Mostly living or not-too-long-dead captains of enterprise and invention, but John D. Rockefeller’s on the list, too. All well and good, but I’d rather see more quotes from plutocrats like Rockefeller, and more colorful quotes, too. His ought to be “God gave me my money,” and naturally, “The public be damned” springs to mind (William Henry Vanderbilt).

The International Pizza Doctrine

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Seeing the Perseid Meteor Shower’s always been problematic here in the Chicago suburbs, where the sky is usually washed out at night, but this year especially so. It’s been overcast most of the time since Sunday. And usually cool today – I think we spent the day in the 60s F.

No matter. The place to be for the Perseids is somewhere in the Rockies. I might make it one of these days. At least Google doodled the subject today (and it appeared about 48 hours earlier on the Japanese version of the search engine, which sometimes has doodles the English version never sees).

Recently Lilly discovered that I’d eaten one of the larger slices of pizza left by her friends the other day in our garage refrigerator, and she made some complaint. I cited the International Pizza Doctrine to her. Later, I Googled that phrase to get the exact wording, and was shocked when no such thing readily came up, even when adding “Sam Hurt” and “Eyebeam” to the mix. So I did the only thing a reasonable person would, and thumbed through my Eyebeam books until I found it.

From Eenie, Meenie, Minie, Tweed, p. 59, a strip first published September 24, 1983: “Leftover pizza, like fish in the stream or birds in the sky, is not susceptible to ownership.” (Ratliff quotes it; Eyebeam adds, “Engraved on the refrigerators of mankind throughout history.”)

Someone needs to mention the International Pizza Doctrine online, so here it is, maybe to last as long as the server farms of Silicon Valley glow hot with gooey petabytes.

One more thing: I’ve taken to calling Lilly’s usual group of friends “your hoodlum friends.” It’s an homage to the Coasters, of course, since her friends are about as hoodlum as after dinner mints.

Do a Type of Revolution

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Google News sometimes turns up odd things. On Sunday evening, an item turned up in the Business section with this headline: “Marijuana helps Washington to earn more revenue,” published by an unknown entity called Upstart Magazine. The tipoff should be that no editor would keep “to” in that head. No editor whose native language was English, that is.

Sure enough, I defy you to tell me that the first paragraph of the story was written by a native English speaker. Not, mind you, a native speaker who can’t write. Somehow the difference is clear.

Marijuana was not legal to sell in Washington. But after making it legal to sell this in the state does a type of revolution. During the first month almost $3.8 million of Marijuana is sold out. Which makes the state tax revenue of $1 million.

Well, maybe the readership isn’t supposed to be native speakers, either.

Border Crossings of the ’00s

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Somewhere in western South Dakota in early August 2005, I got the idea to document our crossing into Montana, where we were headed en route to Yellowstone NP. Document my crossing, really, in a moment of self-absorption. Because anyone who likes maps knows that borders are fascinating. So I got a paper plate and drew “46” on it. As in, my forty-sixth state.

MontanaUS212Lilly took the picture. I thought the number would be a little more visible, but it isn’t. In any case, that’s beside the road on US 212, which cuts from South Dakota briefly through Wyoming, and then into Montana. We camped that night at Custer National Forest and the next day stopped at Little Big Horn.

The next year, I wanted the number to be visible, so I had Lilly stand closer. This wasn’t actually the moment I crossed in North Dakota from Minnesota, which was on the Interstate 94 crossing the Red River of the North between Moorhead, Minn. and Fargo, ND a few hours earlier.

I noticed that just north of our campsite in Lindenwood Park in Fargo, on the river, was a footbridge back into Minnesota.

NorthDakotaNo paper plate seems to have been handy, so I used a piece of paper. Standing in the middle of the bridge, I had Lilly capture the moment.

Road Eats ’14

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Serendipity is your friend on the road, but you have to be open to it. After spending some time at the Wichita Public Library’s main branch in downtown Wichita on July 14, we headed west on Douglas Ave., the way we’d come into downtown. We wanted lunch, and I thought I’d seen something interesting coming in. But I couldn’t remember exactly what. Then I saw Nu Way Crumbly Burgers.

Crumbly Burgers, yumClearly my kind of place. It’s a small Wichita chain. “The Nu Way tradition began on July 4th, 1930, at the same location we still call our ‘original’ home at 1416 West Douglas,” the Crumbly web site tells us. “It all started when Tom McEvoy… moved from Iowa to Wichita and built the first Nu Way. The dedication and absolute commitment to quality Tom began can still be tasted today as we carry on his reputation.

“We still make Nu Ways with the exact same recipe using our patented cookers and we still make our world famous Root Beer daily along with our homemade Onion Rings.”

Crumbly burgers are loose-meat sandwiches and root beer is, well, root beer, and we had both (Ann’s was a float), sitting at the counter. Considering that it was mid-afternoon on a Monday, the place was busy. For good reason. Those crumbly burgers might crumble, and you have to position your wrapping to catch those loose odds of meat, but they were satisfying. The frosty chilled root beer hit the spot exactly.

Nu Way harkens back to the ’30s. In Dallas, Keller’s evokes the 1950s, I think. But not the ’50s of televised nostalgia – we saw a lot of that in the ’70s – but just an ordinary burger-and-shakes joint that’s simply never been updated. Jay calls it Jake’s, since that used to be its name, but there was some kind of family ownership split or something. We went to the one on Garland Rd., but there are a few others, including one that’s supposed to be a drive-in. Anyway, the Garland location serves tasty burgers, fries and shakes, ordered and picked up at the front counter.

Bun ‘n’ Barrel is on the Austin Highway in San Antonio. Points for actually having two apostrophes. It’s been there since I can remember (it was founded in 1950, so that makes sense). The last time I went might have been in the late ’70s. It doesn’t seem to have changed too much with time, though there’s been a few recent renovations, such as the addition of a little nostalgia-oriented decor. They’re also happy that what’s-his-name on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives showed up to do a segment a few years ago.

Bun 'n' BarrelThere’s a barrel on the roof, but I had a hard time getting a good shot of it. Also, it was over 90 F that day, and I didn’t want to loll around outside. Instead, I snapped the painted concrete  barrel out in the back parking lot.

Bun n BarrelI got the wrong thing: a ham plate. It wasn’t bad, but it was exactly like ham I can get at a grocery store. Probably the barbecue or a burger would have been a better choice.

Threadgills in Austin isn’t a classic road-food diner or a greasy spoon, but it makes a mighty chicken fried steak. Be sure to have it with mashed potatoes and fired okra. Its nostalgia is late ’60s, early ’70s. For instance, I saw that the Jerry Garcia Fest will be at the restaurant’s beer garden this weekend. We went to the one in South Austin, one of two locations. The current restaurants are descended from a beer joint that opened as soon as Prohibition ended, with a musical heyday 40 or 50 years ago.

Finally, if you’re southbound on I-35 north of DFW and you take the very first exit after crossing into Texas, and then gas up at the gas station there, you will also see this.

Fried Pies!Among roadside eatery names, that’s high concept. Through much of southern Oklahoma, I’d seen fried pies advertised, like you can see pasties advertised in the UP. I decided it was time to investigate. It was arrayed like a doughnut shop, except replete with fried pies – bigger than the ones you buy in the grocery store, if you’re in the mood for high-calorie, barely mediocre treats. I bought a chocolate pie and a coconut one, and Ann and I split both. They were a lot better than any factory-make ones at a grocery store.

Mother Jones in Mt. Olive

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Gene Autry – the singing cowboy, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” Gene Autry – recorded “The Death of Mother Jones” early in his career: 1931, shortly after the death of labor agitator Mother Jones (Mary Harris Jones). It’s worth a listen.

For years I’ve been seeing the sign on the Interstate advising me that Mother Jones’ memorial is off Exit 44 in Mt. Olive, Ill., not far outside greater St. Louis, but it’s been a one-of-these-days destination. The day turned out to be July 27, 2014, our last day of the trip. I’d planned to have lunch at Crown Candy Kitchen in St. Louis, and remarkably enough, I didn’t have any trouble finding that establishment. But at about 1 on that Sunday afternoon, a line was out the door. Crown Candy might be good, but not that good.

So we pressed on into Illinois. I’d stopped for lunch in Litchfield some years ago, and had a good enough memory of that, so that was the target. But then I saw the Mother Jones sign, and a billboard for a diner in Mt. Olive, pop. 2,000-plus. A winning combo. We got off at Exit 44 and followed the signs to the Union Miners Cemetery, final resting place of Mother Jones and presumably a lot of mining men. This is the view from her memorial.

Union Miners CemeteryThe view of her memorial.

Mother Jones Memorial, July 2014Why Mt. Olive? The Illinois Labor History Society tells us that Mother Jones herself made the request a few years before her death.

A Special Request to the Miners of Mt. Olive, Illinois:

When the last call comes for me to take my final rest, will the miners see that I get a resting place in the same clay that shelters the miners who gave up their lives of the hills of Virden, Illinois on the morning of October 12, 1897 [sic], for their heroic sacrifice of [sic] their fellow men. They are responsible for Illinois being the best organized labor state in America. I hope it will be my consolation when I pass away to feel I sleep under the clay with those brave boys.

— Mother Jones

Mother Jones Memorial, July 2014The monument was dedicated in 1936, and according to the society, “The cash raised for the monument was $16,393.25. All of the labor involved was donated. It stands 22 ft. high on a 20 x 18 ft. base. It is built of 80 tons of pink Minnesota granite. The name of the sculptor is lost from the record.

“The dedication was, itself, a monumental event. Five special trains and 25 Greyhound buses brought celebrants to Mt. Olive. Others came in private cars or hitch-hiked to the town. The crowd was estimated at 50,000. There were 32,000 in the line of march.”

The memorial also includes plaques to men killed in the Virden Massacre, which Jones mentioned, a gun battle in 1898 between union men and company guards over whether strikebreakers were going to detrain at a major mine in Virden. The miners prevailed, in that no one got off the train, but a number of them died. The names of the dead I saw included E.W. Smith, E. Kraemmerer and Joseph Gitterle. “General” Alexander Bradley has a plaque too, though he died in 1918.

“Who were the miners who led this fight? The best known was Alexander Bradley, a 32-year-old mule driver who worked in the Mt. Olive mines,” says Illinois Labor History… By the mid-1890s, Bradley had traveled widely throughout the Midwest, tramping with other unemployed miners to Chicago and taking part in the famous march to Washington DC of Coxey’s Army of the unemployed of 1894.

“In the course of the strike, ‘General’ Bradley, as he became known, developed a well-earned reputation as a colorful and charismatic figure. Arriving with his ‘troops’ in Collinsville, for instance, Bradley sported ‘corduroy trousers, a light blue coat, white shirt, brown straw hat, toothpick (narrow and pointed) shoes, at least three emblems of secret societies and several rings on his fingers…[as well as] a light cane or a furled umbrella.’ ”

More about Virden – “Hotter than San Juan Hill” — is here.