Classic Covers: Sunday Morning Slackers

Poor, late-rising sinner. He really wants the Sunday paper, and needs that milk for his coffee. But who should be outside his house enjoying fellowship with good parishioners but the minister himself! The Post editors commiserated. “Miss church,” they said, “and if you see no one else all afternoon, you are bound to meet the pastor.” There must be a moral in artist Constantin Alajalov’s 1948 cover.

At least the slug in Norman Rockwell’s May 16, 1959 cover got out of bed on time for church. He’s just not going. Curled up with the Sunday paper, he feels a decided chill in the air as his properly turned out family marches behind him on the way to church. If you’ll look closely, you’ll see something devilish about the man’s tousled hair – Rockwell’s little joke, no doubt. Perhaps Dad will repent by next Sunday.

Well, we’re gradually improving here. The gentleman in artist Charles MacLellan’s 1912 cover got up, dressed nicely and made it all the way to the pew. Alas, to the dismay of the Mrs., he fell asleep during the singing (we assume, from the open hymnal she is holding). Let us hope for her sake that his snores don’t drown out “Rock of Ages”.

The women’s choir is getting ready in the two-part cover by Thornton Utz. The top panel shows the silver-haired organist preparing to sit, no doubt wondering about the chaos in the dressing room behind her. But as the bottom panel shows, all the ladies make it on time. Well, almost. While the choir opens, two young ladies (or maybe one and a half) are scampering to their spots. But at least their songbooks are open and their voices are preceding them. And once they catch their breath, they can send up a little prayer of thanks that the congregation cannot see the state of the choir room.

Tired of Chili? Try Black & Brown Fiesta

If you’re tired of chili, try this recipe, which will give you southwestern flavors but a different texture.

Black & Brown Fiesta

Rice with Black Beans
Black & Brown Fiesta

Heat oil in medium skillet over medium heat. Add onion and peppers and saute, about 3 minutes. Add garlic and saute about 3 to 5 more minutes or until peppers and onions are slightly soft. Add broth, water, and seasonings and stir. Add beans and stir. Bring to boil. Add rice and stir. Reduce heat to low and simmer, covered, until rice is cooked and liquid is absorbed, about 12 to 15 minutes.

Remove from heat. Divide into 4 servings and top each serving with a portion of cheese, chopped tomato, and sour cream.

[As a side dish, serve with grilled chicken, fish, or lean pork. As an entree, divide portions into 3 instead of 4 and serve in shallow dish over generous portion of shredded lettuce.]

 

Curried Chicken and Avocado Salad Sandwiches

Curried Chicken and Avocado Salad Sandwiches

Curried Chicken and Avocado Salad Sandwiches, photo courtesy of The Food Channel.

(Makes 4 servings)
Recipe courtesy of McCormick and The Food Channel.

Mix mayo, curry powder, and salt in large bowl. Add chicken, avocado, cranberries, and cilantro. Toss to mix.

Divide chicken salad evening among 4 slices of whole-grain bread. Top each with lettuce leaf and remaining slices of bread.

 

The Eagle That Never Flew

It’s one of those tokens of the past that you might recognize but can’t identify. It’ll show up, unexplained, in old advertisements and movies. Between September, 1933 and July, 1935, it appeared on every cover of the Saturday Evening Post.

It’s unofficial name — the only name it ever had — was the Blue Eagle, and it was the emblem of the National Recovery Administration (not of the National Rifle Association). It was displayed by businesses that supported the NRA codes for price and wage-controls.

The NRA was one of President Roosevelt’s first efforts to stimulate the depressed economy. It created codes that would reduce competitive pricing and increase employment.

It took time to write these codes for each industry. So, in 1933, the NRA asked businesses to accept a voluntary code for all employers. The NRA code set minimum wages and maximum hours, but allowed competing businesses to set prices for their industries.

The businesses that adopted the blanket code, according to John Kennedy Ohl, were asked to display “a Blue Eagle accompanied by the words ‘We Do Our Part,’ on a placard in their windows or on their products. Consumers were to give their business only to those firms that adhered to the code.”

The Blue Eagle from Egg to Earth
The Blue Eagle from Egg to Earth By General Hugh S. Johnson January 19, 1935

The program was run by Hugh S. Johnson, a blunt and impassioned zealot who used every medium in his power to achieve compliance. Under this direction, says Ohl, “the NRA orchestrated a great outpouring of ballyhoo and patriotic appeal replete with radio speakers, motorcades, torchlight processions, mass rallies, parades, and a nationwide speaking tour by Johnson… The Blue Eagle appeared on posters, billboards, flags, movie screens, magazines, newspapers, and numerous products. Beauty contestants had the Blue Eagle stamped on their thighs, and in Philadelphia fans cheered a new professional football team dubbed the Eagles after the NRA’s icon.”

For all the wing flapping, though, the Blue Eagle never left the ground. After two years, and determined opposition from some industries, the Supreme Court declared the NRA unconstitutional.

Later that year, Hugh Johnson published a series of articles in the Post that attempted to justify what he called “the greatest social and economic experiment of our age.” In his article, he claimed the NRA had several achievements.

“Whatever may properly be criticized about NRA, it created 2,785,000 jobs at a desperate time and added about $3,000,000,000 to the annual purchasing power of working people. It did more to create employment than all other emergency agencies put together, and it did so by creating normal jobs everywhere and without drafts on the Federal Treasury… It abolished child labor. It ran out the sweatshops. It established the principle of regulated hours, wages and working conditions. It went far toward removing wages from the area of predatory competition. It added to the rights and freedom of human labor.”

National Archives
National Archives

Few historians would agree with his assessment. By making these claims, David M. Kennedy says, “for neither the first time nor the last, Johnson was whistling ‘Dixie.’ Much of the modest rise in production and employment in the spring of 1933 owed not to the salutary ministration of NRA but to nervous anticipation of its impact.”
Kennedy points out that Johnson’s attitude proved a handicap for the agency.

“Johnson faced… persistent industrial recalcitrance with his trademark mix of bluster, bravado, and baloney. ‘Away slight men!’ he railed to a group of businessmen in Atlanta. ‘You may have been Captains of Industry once, but you are Corporals of Disaster now.’ Pleading for minimum wage standards, he declaimed that ‘men have died and worms have eaten them but not from paying human labor thirty cents an hour.’ The ‘chiselers’ who tried to shave NRA standards, he thundered, were ‘guilty of a practice as cheap as stealing pennies out of the cup of a blind beggar.'”

In his Post article, Johnson never considered apologizing for his devotion to what he called his “holy cause.”

“Perhaps I am overzealous or even fanatic on this subject, but I feel it so intensely that I will fight for it. I have sacrificed, and will sacrifice, for it. No personal interest — neither my own nor another’s — can stand in the way of anything which I think will help it.”

His passionate devotion sometimes blinded him to the impracticability of the NRA. In other areas, though, he was keenly perceptive, and some of his observations about business and employment were true for the 1920s as well as today:

“Savage wolfish competition without any direction whatever has proved to be one of the most destructive forces in our economic life. When it got savage and wolfish enough, it began immediately to gnaw upon the living standards of wage and salary earners, and that happened to include over 80% of our population.

“When times are fabulously good, the great prosperity of the few filters down to the many and tends to obscure this tendency. But in normal times, and especially when a depression such as that which began five years ago comes upon us like a blight and millions of men begin tramping the streets, looking for any kind of work that will afford a crust of bread for their families, the whole aspect changes.

“Families are no longer self-contained, economic units that can be put on wheels and trundled into a new environment to start things over again. Our nineteenth-century safety valve of cheap or free new lands and a constantly expanding country has ceased to exist. The old order of our frontier days is gone forever, and by no man’s designing.

“All this has brought benefits, but it has also brought great griefs. The roaring, clacking engine of our industry and commerce has become a vast and highly active machine of which no individual is more than an integrated part. Each performs a specialized function. In most cases, living income comes as a matter of determination by a power with whom there is no bargaining in any true sense. The individual worker accepts the wage scales decreed by employers and is thankful, and his separation from the particular ratchet in which he revolves may be a tragedy. At his doorway there is no longer an open road to high adventure in a new and brighter country, and even if there were such a road, his specialization has unfitted him to take it.

The official cause of death for the Blue Eagle was the Supreme Court’s decision in Schchter v. The United States. However, it faced a more immovable opponent in American industry, as Ohl points out:

National Archives
National Archives

“Ultimately… the NRA failed because of its underlying premise… the belief that the various segments of the economy could look beyond their own interest and work together for the national welfare. This belief was naive in the case of organized business. Starved for profits and often unwilling to accept labor as even a junior partner, it pursued its own interests and used the NRA to restrict production, raise prices, and thwart labor’s aspirations.”

Sixty-six years later, the government rushed to the aid of American banks that were facing collapse. Within the year, though, bank executives were paying themselves large bonuses made possible by the support of taxpayers. Now, as in 1933, many businessmen in America view catastrophe and government emergency-assistance as an opportunity for profit.

Read the Blue Eagle from Egg to Earth [PDF].

 

Reading The Post at the South Pole

Every day, we get request for material from our old issues. Some of the requests are particularly fascinating. Around Christmas, for instance, we heard from a woman who wanted a copy of our 1958 article, “I Lived With the Russians in Antarctica,” by Gordon D. Cartwright. When we read in her e-mail that she was “a specialist in Antarctica and Antarctic exploration,” we just had to contact her.

The woman is Lucia Simion, an Italian who has, to use her term, “over-wintered” at the Concordia Station in Antactica. She told us,

“I am not the only one, since many other people, women and men, researchers and technicians, are under the spell of this lonely place at the end of the world. The air sparkles with millions of tiny snow crystals and – except for the snow that cracks under your thick Sorel boots—there is a huge, fantastic silence.”

Read the article
I Lived With the Russians in Antarctica
by Gordon D. Cartwright
October 18, 1958

This Concordia station consists of a few buildings surmounted by two white towers. Even by Antarctica standards it’s near nothing: “far from the Ross sea and the Dumont d’Urville sea…and even far from the South Pole, 1,800 kilometers away…”

One might well ask why a person would want to spend the winter in an isolated spot in the middle of the most remote continent on the planet. “Dome C is considered to be one of the best places on earth for astronomy and astrophysics,” Simion’s article states. “More and more experiments and telescopes are coming to the station. Lots of big projects are programmed for the future, including the search for extra-solar planets, observations in the infrared spectrum, and the study of cosmic microwave background radiation.” .

Between 1997 and 2004, “Dome C hosted the successful EPICA project (European Project for Ice Coring in Antarctica), during which the most ancient ice to date in Antarctica was retrieved—a climatic archive spanning over 800,000 years.”

The Concordia station is European, being owned and operated by two countries – France and Italy. As an Italian who lives in France, Ms. Simion fits right in. “Most of the time people go along very well,” she writes. But there can be conflict, “especially about…FOOD. Yes, it’s hardly believable, but Italians and French have different tastes. So the chef must prepare French and Italian food!!! One day snails…the other day risotto!” Saturdays are special: “Pizza party for everybody”.

The article Ms. Simion requested concerned an American meteorologist who spent a year with Soviet scientists at the South Pole. It must have been an unusually warm spot for people in the middle of a Cold War.

Ms. Simion writes that the article, “is very interesting, even if it was published 52 years ago! The Saturday Evening Post was ahead of its time.”

To read the 1958 article (also with excellent photos), “I Lived With the Russians in Antarctica,” click below:

Article: “I Lived With the Russians in Antarctica” from October 18, 1958.[PDF]

And, oh, yes, the next time you feel like complaining about winter, remember the scientists at the South Pole, and think about what “40 degrees below Zero” would feel like.

“Lazarus”: The Expanded Version

It’s safer in the dark, and when the lights go down I’m glad. The screen ahead wakes up in startled white, and, as a soft drink commercial plays, someone in the booth adjusts the camera: The image jerks to center, then settles into focus. A couple stumbles their way into seats and pulls off their jackets as a child runs up the aisle, spilling popcorn. The previews have begun.

Outside the theater, a group of true believers had come to take advantage of the opportunity that grace and the modern cinema affords them. They had anchored a plastic statue of their savior to a station wagon luggage rack, and driven to the far side of the parking lot (as close as the law will allow them, I suppose) to wave signs and hand out tracts. I drove past, looking away, and waited in the car until a parking space opened at the front of the lot, then ducked my head as I got out and entered the theater, thankful that they couldn’t see me.

Perhaps a similar vigil still takes place outside Nick’s house, where his mother and stepfather may have settled back into the guarded normality of a troubled marriage, or are separated and deciding to divorce. Nick isn’t with them, for better or worse: He is marking time for the summer with his father’s family, as he did last summer, or maybe taking an extra term in school. In any case I’ve had no news of him since the bitter blessing that we—all of us here: the couple in front of me, the child above, a last few stragglers taking their seats as the lights dim—have come to witness on the screen.

Below me a family creeps in, cowed by the darkness and the lighted screen, and finds their seats: Three children sit between their parents. They pass a bucket of popcorn among them. After a few ads for coming attractions, a cartoon comes on, a Bible story told in singing animation: the price we pay for seeking moral uplift at the multiplex. A group of vegetables, complete with eyes and ears, faces and—presumably—souls, reenact the story of Lazarus. A cucumber evangelist—unidentified, but most certainly John, who is called the apostle Jesus loved—relates the Savior’s journey to the house of Mary and Martha, both stalks of broccoli, to find that their brother Lazarus has recently died. At the tomb, Jesus (shown only as a portentous shadow at the foot of the screen), commands the stone to be rolled away. We are transported to the inside of the tomb where light floods the interior as the stone is withdrawn and the Shadow falls across the open door. We hear His voice bid the dead arise and see a crown of cauliflower, laid peacefully on a slab of rock, stir beneath what appear to be a waxed paper shroud. Outside the tomb, the crowd watches first in dread, then amazement as the ruffled, white head inches toward the opening, and Lazarus, blinking, emerges unspoiled into the light. I unzip my jacket and expose the collar that marks me, as much as it can in the dark, for what I am.

And what are we to make of this? What are we to do, marvel as much at the vibrant and tasteless retelling as the miracle itself? How are we to regard the Shadow at whose hands—if It has hands—the miracle has been enacted? What are we to feel for this cruciferous family, reunited and happy in the end? And the crowd of onlookers—a whole produce department of greens and legumes—will they, animate creatures all, ever reconsider what they’ve witnessed, and who or what has not been saved? Why Lazarus, they fail to ask, and why not someone else? For whom is this particular miracle meant?

Of course they won’t. A miracle simply occurs—there is no further question. But why? Will no one ask what the leper felt as he returned to his home to find his children frightened strangers, his wife mistrustful and grudging in her embrace? Or what exactly the blind man saw as his parents aged and died in his restored sight? Or how Lazarus felt on the 10th anniversary of the miraculous day after his long sleep in the tomb?

On that question, the Gospel of John is silent; Lazarus is never mentioned again. As the sun set and the long line of astonished onlookers thinned and drifted off, convinced and unsettled, did he lie down and, for a moment, wish for the cool dark from which he’d come, for the oblivion he hadn’t asked to be awakened from? Did he wonder what, exactly, he’d been spared—and to what purpose? So that he could serve, unvolunteering, as the sign of another’s promise? To live out this odd twilight life the target of stares and whispers? To spend the rest of his days in numb disbelief, dreading again his approaching end? What sort of blessing, what sort of salvation, was this? And what is Nick doing now, I wonder, as the cartoon’s credits end and the feature, made in this odd afterlife of his, begins? I cross my legs and consider the darkness: With all eyes forward, I am all but invisible and no more interesting, unrecognized, than anyone else here who has come to watch the movie and not search the audience for a face they might have seen on television. I am as alone and untroubled as cauliflower in the tomb.

In the classroom he was restless, his fingers drumming out figures of notes, his desktop an imagined piano, his eyes studiously vacant, as if he knew I noticed and would assume him lost in thought, mentally rehearsing a particularly vexing piece. As if he assumed I’d admire his application, his dedicated skill. I did. Nick was a worker, a practicer. Not an original mind, no—I knew this after a week of class: He listened attentively when others spoke, then rehearsed their thoughts in his own balanced prose. His gift is a sort of mimicry, a talent for restatement; and what he writes, he writes beautifully. But still he says nothing new. He has his quirks (for a while all praiseworthy things are ‘quite lovely’—a phrase I underline in red and urge him to avoid), but he’s a talented student, and if he affects nonchalance in his judgments, if his words sometimes stray into pomposity (quite lovely?—from a 17-year-old?), then the sin is easily forgiven: What a teacher praises—what a teacher can come to love, if he is not careful—is the rapt attention of a good student.

The Bishop had hinted as much—and a good deal more. “And this was a student in your classes?” I shrug. It isn’t a question. “And that was all?”

“We hit it off. I got to know him, and his family.” My hands are open, palms up, in my lap. The afternoon sun is bright on the blinds behind him at his enormous desk.

“We had common interests, mostly music, and he excelled in class.”

“And that would explain your visit to the hospital?”

“Not entirely.” I stiffen at his tone, sit up, and level my eyes on his. “There’s also a matter of pastoral care—a student of mine, after all.”

He leans forward, pressing the point. “One you had gotten to know quite well.”

“Yes.”

He looks down. “And his family. Of course.”

Our friendship begins when I recognize a melody he’s whistling at the start of class, less for his own pleasure than to be heard taking pleasure in it, and look up from the roster. “Who’s whistling Liszt?” The class goes silent, off guard, and he raises his hand, caught in an instant of perfect confession. We talk for a moment, before I have to return to taking attendance, about recordings and performers, and after class I quiz him further. His preferences are odd for his age, the landmark recordings of a generation ago. Mention of newer players draws a blank. That night I pull down a recent performance of the second Liszt concerto and burn him a copy. When he comes in the next day, he’s done the same for me with his own recording.

Of course the movie gets the dynamics more or less exactly wrong. The child on the screen is dogged and noble, talentless but determined to rise above his failings. His teacher, a man—a priest—decidedly unlike me, a photogenic firebrand against my clumsy middle age—sees this hidden potential. A bond grows over remedial studies after school. They struggle together, battle the material, and inevitably the boy not only masters his work, but writes an essay, which, in its insight and daring, wins him a scholarship—though not before the necessary complication requiring the miracle arises.

Nick was not insightful or daring. He was a skillful redactor of what he learned. I watched him work hard and read thoroughly, and I also watched him work to please me, which is always the first task of a good student. I was flattered when he glossed my comments in his papers; gratified, as we started a slide lecture in my Art History class, to see him set up the projectors before I could ask; and finally entertained at the comments his friends repeated, angling for some favor of their own—I was his favorite, I was the one he respected. And if I grew to forgive him his occasional solipsism, if I passed over the error that I might have noted in one of his less-talented classmates—and if a common interest seals the bond as we traded discs weekly and discussed music in my classroom over lunch—then it is in just such currency that the debts of affection between teacher and student are paid.

He loved Rachmaninoff and Chopin, the grand and sentimental pieces teenagers always do, and prided himself on his taste. He gave the impression that what he admired somehow made him smarter, as if an inclination for the classics is the mark of sophistication. I didn’t correct that, but when I could, I brought in pieces that I knew would challenge him, and if I hit the mark, I was glad: I am a teacher, after all, and he was a child.

But he was not my child, and when the talk turned to family (I was curious, I’ll admit: Who nurtured his interests? Who first played that Liszt concerto for him? Who preceded me?), his conversation cools. I have met his mother, a pert and careful woman, young to have a child in high school, but already in a second marriage: “She’s just a Midwestern cheerleader,” he says with a shrug. And his stepfather?

“He’s an ass.”

“Why do you say that?”

He looks away. “He just is.”

“Everyone hates his father at your age—I did.” The disc player on the table beneath the chalkboard falls silent. The disc within hisses to a halt. The piece has ended.

“He’s an ass. That’s all. It’s private.” He stands up to leave as the bell rings. I am his teacher, after all—and only that. And he is a child.

The Bishop shifts in his seat and drums his plump fingers on the surface of his desk. “I’ve had a chance to review the file,” he says casually, tapping a manila folder as if he expects me to recognize it. He sits forward and smiles, resting his elbows on the desk as if sharing a confidence. “I won’t be recommending further action.”

“Further action?” I stare back blankly across the expanse of his desk. “I don’t understand. This is what you wanted to tell me?”

“No, no—of course not.” And he is suddenly all business, drawing himself up and brushing off the blotter as if sighting a crumb. “There’s the question of how we should respond.”

“Respond to what?”

“Well, there hasn’t been a complaint—not exactly.” He opens the file and leafs through the top few pages before lifting out a form. Light from the window behind him glows through it, lighting it in reverse. “This is the police report.”

“The police report? How did you—”

“It’s public record.” He looks at me sternly for a moment, then the conspiratorial smile reappears. “Miracle cures. Any doctor can tell you stories, maybe a few of them—things he’s heard of, even seen. And with the Church still investigating.” Another shrug. “Cooperation is easy in some things.”

“A police report of the cure?”

“Oh, goodness no—the cure?” He chuckles to himself, then, “Of the domestic disturbance, as they call it.” He lays the paper flat and points to the phrase as if citing a verse, “The argument between the mother and stepfather.” He frowns and looks up. “You’re certainly aware of that?”

“Of course.”

“Well, it seems that a certain comment has arisen. About your place on the staff, your work, and your relationship with the boy.” He looks up, brightly. “I understand. I taught for a while myself. A particular fondness, right?”

“Well, yes, but as a student. A student in class—”

“And whose treatment in a hospital you were aware of.”

“Only after prayers were requested. On the announcements.”

“But also before that, I believe.” His eyes are down, he is arranging a sheaf of papers before him in a grid: a game or a puzzle he appears absorbed in working out. “The relationship, I mean.”

“The parents requested his schoolwork—the mother called me.”

“There,” he says, dropping a last page into place. “She called you. And you took that as an invitation to visit—of course. Due diligence as teacher and pastor. Entirely plausible.”

The diagnosis, when it came, was less a surprise than a possibility I had consciously put out of mind. For a week he had found it hard to type, and the imagined improvisations no longer occupied his fingers on the desktop. He complained of headaches, and a looseness in his handwriting crept into his papers. He was absent on a Friday, and three days later his mother called the school with the news. A biopsy would be performed that afternoon. Prayers were requested.

The whole anxious episode is omitted from the film. Our hero learns of his student’s illness and unthinkingly, selflessly rushes to the ward, arriving before the child is out of the anesthetic. But I sat in the parking lot where a few days later the faithful would come to stand with signs and prayers of their own, and I debated what right I had to be there, what right to intrude. I was not family, and this was not an occasion for a casual call, no matter how I would later make it seem to the Bishop. Even the Gospel story has Jesus hear the suggestion that for Lazarus nothing more could be done. But still he caused the stone to be rolled away, and still I got out of the car and crossed the lot to the hospital. Miracles are worked, after all, and worked as much for those whose lives are affected as for the crowd of witnesses inevitably gathered to certify that something—something improbable, something that should not have been accomplished—has taken place in their sight.

And that was not quite how it happened. In the film, in the minds of those around me in the theater, a young man in a black and Roman collar, clean-cut and desperately hopeful, extends his hand toward the boy in the hospital bed. He raises his other hand to God and offers a prayer intimated in whispered voice-over. In the film—in fantasy—the child is angelically asleep, but Nick was awake when I arrived, and smiled as I said hello. He turned his head to show me the scar. His mother, watching from the corner, smiled palely, dark circles under her eyes. I placed my hand on his head impulsively and gently brushed the stitches with the side of my thumb. “Does it hurt?”

“Just a slight headache—just like they said.” His scalp is warm beneath my palm, and for a moment I am acutely conscious of how much I care for him—how I would lift him up and hold him if I could. But he is too old for that: He’s 17—another fact the believers in the parking lot and in the seats around me have gotten wrong; they see a winsome cherub, not the unshaven adolescent in a rumpled hospital bed, his body giving off the tang of unwashed flesh in the still heat of his room.

His mother sighs and smiles again, and is about to speak when I look down sharply. I had felt a crumbling sensation under my thumb, as if a thin crust of blood had dried along the edges of the incision and is now flaking away. But this is more: The stitches themselves break apart, spilling down the side of his head and trailing past his ear. I jerk my hand away, afraid I might have hurt him, horrified at the thought. “What’s that?” he asks, suddenly alert. His mother starts up and stares. She sees what I see: The bristles of the sutures are scattered on his neck and shoulder, below a wound that looks half-erased, a sketch of an injury left incomplete, with the skin whole and unbroken where it had once been sewn.

“What is it?” he asks, sitting up, and I place my hand back on his head and push him gently down, my thumb retracing the path it had swept along the bristling surface of the scar. His mother and I gape unthinking as the last of the ugly line crumbles and falls away, the stitches dropping across his cheek as his hand comes up to feel them. She gasps and takes an incredulous step back from the bed before looking wildly toward the hallway and lurching from the room, a hand across her mouth as a sob escapes her. I take my hand away: Only a slight red line remains of where the incision had been. “What?” he demands. But I can’t speak. His mother is shouting in the hallway. “Is it all right?” he asks. My stomach buckles, and I step back into the bathroom behind me. Doubled over, head swimming, I hear the nurses rush into the room where their patient now shows no evidence of their care. The miracle is complete.

But the film shows something different. The priest, alone with the boy in the bed, kneels and extends his hand in thrilled assurance toward the sleeping child, his prayer no less fervent for his confidence in what will happen next. His hand makes contact, squarely covering the dark line in the skin with his palm, and a sort of electric pulse passes between them as the light around the bed shifts subtly and music wells up. The camera stays on the tense and ministrative hand until the swell of sound peaks and it relaxes and pulls away: His scar is gone, the healthy flesh restored. The boy’s eyelids flutter as he wakes and turns his face upward, into the light. Around me in the darkness, a few of the faithful break into weak applause. A cell phone lights up in the rows below, creating a halo around its user’s head before it is snapped shut.

Of course there was no music. There was no glow or odor of sanctity in the room—if anything, the heat from the closed window and the crush of bodies brewed the sour reek of vomit and, before Nick was bundled onto a gurney and rushed from the room, the place had the usual human scent commingling about us, all sickness and confusion as the hurried nurses quelled raised voices, made a few hushed and urgent intercom calls and then, as his mother and I watched from the hallway, wheeled him away to certify the substance of things hoped for.

I leaned forward and placed both hands flat on the Bishop’s desk. “If I’ve been accused of something, I believe I have the right to—”
“There’s been no real complaint. None whatsoever.” He gathers up the papers one by one and taps their edges flush. “Not about you, at least. But the atmosphere among the students, the parents at the school—you understand?” It isn’t a question.

“I have a job, don’t I?”

“We’ll cover for you, there. The term is ending after the coming week. Certainly you can leave plans, a final exam. That can be taken care of?”

“Then where are you sending me? What’s going on?”

“Healing is what’s going on, that’s all: a time to recoup, to meditate on a fortunate event. At a distance.”

“Where?”

“Another parish school—you’ll have work to do, real work with new students. Just as you’ve done so well in the past. But a different setting. At least for the time being.”
I
n the diagnostics waiting room, his mother holds my hand and weeps, her face buried in a tissue she clutches to her nose. She rocks in her seat as the bay window before us shows her son’s body, shrouded in a blanket, his head at the center of the machine that rotates around him and maps the site of the surgery, the machine that will confirm my worst fears: There is no longer any scar—that much we know—and every trace of the surgery is also gone. The growth that had revealed itself to the same instruments the afternoon before is now missing from the readings, a dark knot in his brain has been untied without evidence, and only the clear, untroubled map of God’s creation is manifest on the screen before the frowning technicians.

That night, my picture appears on television, and I have to take the phone off its hook. After a dozen calls—from the formerly hopeless and the newly curious—I’d sat down for a moment, considering whether someone might not have heard the story, might not have seen the doctors interviewed, might not have heard the word miracle flaunted as if it were not a term of personal judgment—someone who, absorbed in their own sorrows, might be in genuine need. Then the phone begins to ring again, and I count 25 long pulls at the bell before it stops. I take the receiver from its cradle and wait for the dial tone to cut off.

Two days later he is home from the hospital, his discharge as much for his sake as to discourage the throng of well-wishers who have come to glean their share of the story. They have massed at the edge of the hospital grounds, clutching rosaries and placards attesting to their faith. They have prayed and stared up, unsure exactly which window lit the scene they replay in their minds: A man in a black and Roman collar, clean-cut and hopeful, places his hand on the head of a boy in the bed beside him. They have found out the back entrances, hidden themselves in closets and posed as patients or staff. The night before he is discharged, a police officer is posted at either end of the corridor, as if the boy had somehow become dangerous. One confused and resourceful young woman, finding his room, knelt beside him for a few moments as he slept, staring raptly at his face in the half-light before she is apprehended and escorted out of the building. That night she appears on the evening news, recounting her story: an incurable illness, vaguely described, which is already—she is sure of it—cured. First Nick’s picture, then mine, taken from a recent yearbook, is flashed on the screen behind the sound of her voice. “God is here with us,” she intones. “I could feel Him.”

A similar scene plays out at school: Students slow their steps as they pass my room, staring in bemusement. Sharp whispers before the bell each hour settle into rapt distraction. My students are uncomfortably quiet, both alert and distracted. No hands go up when I ask a question or prompt a response. Each hour is measured out and endless. Conversation falters over lunch. A fellow teacher in the room across the hall, an older woman who has never stopped mourning a child lost to leukemia a decade before, waylays me at the end of the day. “Is it true?” she asks, her eyes tense and despairing. Why could a miracle not have happened for her? she must wonder. Why Nick and not her child? When I visit him a day later I find a group on the street outside his house, and the word goes out as I climb the steps: The wonder-worker has arrived.

The visit is difficult. I sit stiffly in a chair opposite him; he is stretched out on the couch under an afghan. His stepfather, a tongue-tied, rough-edged man, frets between us, uneasy with a priest in the house, as if he fears he might give inadvertent offense less to me than to God Himself. Nick is dull and tired, still on the pain medications his doctors prescribe and irritable from all of the attention. Mine is not the only phone off the hook these days. “They get all excited if I look out a window,” he says, waving loosely at the street. And for my part I am ill at ease as well: What is there to say? News of the doctors’ reports, news that no verifiable cause can be found for the missing lesion—a spot incontrovertibly documented on celluloid—has been confirmed in the local papers, witnessed on the evening news. After a few minutes of polite conversation, I rise to leave, and as the door shuts behind me, I hunch my shoulders and look down, ducking into the car and driving off in the direction opposite the shouts from the corner.

On screen the story also ends abruptly, but before I would have called it done. After a scene of thanksgiving, after an embrace that clumsily includes the priest, the boy, his mother, and a doctor (once doubtful, now brought to the threshold of belief, we are somehow assured), the miracle worker throws his coat over his shoulder and boards an elevator. He descends to the lobby in silence, accompanied by medical staff and a girl in a wheelchair, and watches the girl ushered out by her parents through wide glass doors. Then he follows, the street gradually filling with light until he is no more than a thinning silhouette, a shadow in the white confusion of the day. The screen fades to white and music rises as credits roll upward. So it ends.

But nothing really ends, of course. Mornings I am greeted uncomfortably or—which is worse—too warmly, though the all-consuming topic is never broached, and soon I am alone in the teachers’ lounge, alone at the mailboxes in the office. Attendance declines in my classes as students stay away or their parents have them transferred, and I stop taking attendance. The woman across the hall hurries to class and shuts her door, refusing to meet my gaze. I am surprised in the school parking lot, interviewed and prodded, and stutteringly made to explain that I had no explicit desire for a cure, and no comment on the outcome—and I am asked why not? As if a miracle had to have been my intent; as if I must have meant somehow to consciously manipulate the mechanics of grace.

And soon we are all back in the news. His mother and stepfather have had an argument, and the watchers outside the house, alert to every noise and nuance of light and shadow on the drawn curtains, call the police. Their miracle, they imagine, is in danger. On the evening broadcast Nick and his mother are shown being escorted from the house, their eyes averted, his mother holding a handkerchief to her face. The next day school is alive with rumors, and I learn that they have taken refuge in a local motel. I have no doubt about what has happened: A marriage already sinking has been asked to carry the weight of an act I did not ask to perform, of the blessings we’ve all received unbidden. How much grace, I wonder, should anyone have to bear? The credits over, the screen ahead fades slowly to black, and I get up, zipping my jacket up to my chin, hunching my shoulders and looking down as I find the exit.

A few days later Nick stops by school, returning a disc I had loaned him. His face looks puffy and flushed against the collar of his white shirt, but he tells me only good news: The brain scans still show nothing, his doctor has taken him off his medication, and his handwriting is improving. “Here,” he says, handing me a small envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Just a card,” he says, and shrugs. “It took me an hour and a half to write.”

I turn it over, rub my thumb across my name on the envelope as I did when I brushed the stitches away. But my name, in his odd, attenuated handwriting, remains.

“I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t mean to—”

He bristles: This is not the scene he’d decided on. “That’s all right. That’s private. Never mind.” Private? Of course. In the end, I’m his teacher. “Look, I’m going to spend the summer with my dad. I’ll see you when I’m back.” That’s a lie, and we both know it, but we say goodbye, and I watch him walk down the hallway, his white shirt catching the glare of the sunlight through the windows above the rows of lockers, before he turns and disappears down the stairs.

The Bishop looks up from the file. “Maybe in the fall all of this will have blown over. Then we can talk again.”

“I asked for none of this,” I say pleadingly. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Of course not. Miracle cures! Not every unknown is the agency of the divine.” He turns in his chair, looks out the window behind him. Trees are coming into leaf on the grounds below. “But something did occur—a miracle, if we read the papers. And a miracle is upsetting—by its nature, upsetting—and that upset requires an opportunity to heal.”

Outside the theater I am blinded in the midday light and stumble into a boy who’s placed himself squarely in the path of the exiting audience. His head is shaved and he wears a starched white shirt, and for a moment my heart stops before my vision clears, and he pushes a pamphlet into my hands. “Do you believe in Jesus?” he asks me.

I squint back at him. “What?”

“Do you believe in Jesus?” he asks again. He smiles, and the effect is to wipe Nick more firmly from my mind, brush his face away and replace it with this new one in just the way I once erased a scar from an inch of incised flesh. No music, no holy, hopeful glow, only the murmurs of the crowd that parts around us and fans out into the parking lot and the hard light of a summer afternoon, the light that must have made Lazarus blink back sharp tears as he awakened and, pulling the shroud away, stared uncomprehending at the crowd coming into focus before him.

I hand the pamphlet back. I know everything it could possibly say, and what it doesn’t say as well. “Of course,” I tell him as I shoulder past and find my car, relieved again to be unrecognized.

Who was the apostle Jesus loved? It wasn’t John. It was Lazarus, whom he sent ahead into death only to call him back again; Lazarus who made the journey first. And what did that love provide? A lifetime of doubt and discomfort. That is the miracle.

For more information on The Lorian Hemingway Competition go to www.shortstorycompetition.com

Party Pears

Party Pears

Party Pears
Party Pears

(Makes 6 servings)

Peel and halve pears. Scoop out core with spoon. Rub each half with cut side of lemon to prevent browning. Place cut side down on lightly vegetable-sprayed baking sheet. Draw pretty designs on pears with tip of sharp knife, incising them about 1/4-inch deep. Brush with melted margarine, sprinkle each with one teaspoon sugar. Just before serving, place pears under preheated broiler. Grill until sugar carmelizes lightly. Pour Honey Cheese Cream in shallow dessert platter. Arrange pears on top and serve. Garnish each with a clove and mint leaf.

Honey Cheese Cream

Honey Cream Cheese
Honey Cream Cheese

(Makes 4 to 6 servings)

Put all ingredients in food processor and process until blended. Honey should be at room temperature, other ingredients should be very cold. Serve cold, to contrast with warm pudding. If made in advance, store in refrigerator and give sauce a quick spin before serving so honey will be well blended with other ingredients.

Recipes from The Saturday Evening Post Health Cookbook for Family and Friends, © The Saturday Evening Post Society. All rights reserved.

Classic Covers: Sled Dogs or Dogs That Sled

It’s a classic Norman Rockwell cover from 1919. The boys are careening downhill on a sled, having a great ol’ time. But look at the dog’s face. Sheer terror!

Now, we could swear it was the same dog on a 1923 Country Gentleman cover by a prominent artist named J.F. Kernan. Did Rockwell lend Kernan the dog? If so, the mutt had taken to sledding in the intervening years. This one is going for the gusto!

Really, people should ask Fido if he wants to go for a sleigh ride. On a 1930 cover by artist Alan Foster, the boy and grandpa are having a great time, but the pooch is nearly as terrified as the Rockwell dog above. We wonder if grandpa made it all the way down the hill with his still lit pipe.

Sledding by sunset are the folks on the 1948 cover by artist John Falter. Reluctant to give up a great winter’s day, the kids are still at it. And yes, one little white pooch is still sledding (in a little girl’s arms).

The snowfall is so deep on artist John Clymer’s January 1954 cover that dad is up on the roof clearing it off. Junior, on the other hand, is enjoying the white bounty, taking the dog for a sled ride. This pace a dog can handle.

Our earliest sledding cover? This beauty from November 1900. The snow created a social event, with people trudging uphill greeting sledders going downhill. And, yep, there is a pooch in the center of the action, having a ball in the snow.

Douglas MacArthur: Controversial Hero

America has never been short of controversial figures. Our history is filled with characters that are both idolized and villainized. People who study the lives of Alexander Hamilton or Andrew Jackson often find it difficult to remain neutral about their careers.

Douglas MacArthur is a particularly good example of these controversial Americans. Born 130 years ago on January 26, MacArthur still inspires incredible devotion and harsh criticism. Any American who sparks such extreme opinion must represent something deep and valuable in the national character.

MacArthur had an extensive military career, to say the least. His military history began in 1903 when he graduated from West Point with honors. He served with distinction in the First World War, where he commanded the 84th Infantry Brigade. His soldiers were among the first to cross no-man’s land in the final advance into German-held territory.

By 1918 he was near the top ranks of the military, and was selected as the army chief of staff in 1930. The timing of this promotion was unfortunate due to the economics of the time and his efforts were mostly directed at preserving the military’s meager strength during the Great Depression. He retired from the US Army in 1937, only to be recalled to active duty in July 1941.

He is best known for his command of the Pacific Theater in World War II. After escaping from enemy encirclement in the Philippines in 1942, he directed the Allied forces that pushed the Japanese back across the Pacific, island by island. In 1945 he received the surrender of the Japanese Imperial forces and, until 1951, directed the allied occupation of Japan.

The General's Last Fight by Col. Sid Huff
The Courting of Jean Faircloth
by Col. Sid Huff
September 8, 1951

When the Post published a series of articles about MacArthur in 1951, you would have been hard-pressed to find Americans not familiar with the man. He had commanded the first nine months of the Korean War on behalf of the United Nations forces. He had launched a decisive invasion on the Korean coast in the rear of North Korea’s army. His forces threw the communists back so decisively that a fearful Communist China launched a counterattack. President Truman ordered MacArthur to pull back American forces. MacArthur wanted to continue his advance and wage war in the style he knew best, without political complexities. He spoke out publicly against Truman’s decision, and Truman relieved him of command.

The Post published eight articles about MacArthur written by Col. Sid Huff, MacArthur’s aide for 15 years. The article presented a side of MacArthur not familiar to the American people. The series didn’t focus solely on his military leadership and war heroism, but also on his family, and the man “behind closed doors.”

In the first article from September 8, 1951, Huff talked about the General’s personal character. When asked by some if MacArthur was always the military man featured in the news and public, Huff responds,

“Actually the General is a very serious man who has been occupied for years with problems of grave import to America, and he so concentrates on what he is doing that there is little time left for any relaxation except the movies. He has no hobbies. He plays no games, such as golf or cards. He has no interest in ‘small talk.’ And he doesn’t enjoy meeting people merely for the sake of making new acquaintances. On the other hand, he has tremendous charm as well as a commanding, exciting personality; he can be tactful, gracious and even gallant, as the occasion commands, and he can and often does lean back in his favorite red-painted rocking chair and enjoys a real belly-laugh that makes the rafters ring.”

Huff describes MacArthur’s reaction to command being taken from him.

The General's Last Fight by Col. Sid Huff. October 27, 1951
The General\’s Last Fight
by Col. Sid Huff
October 27, 1951

“Anybody who knows MacArthur soon realizes that he is sensitive to criticism. In a way, this sensitivity is his Achilles’ heal… MacArthur was widely criticized — much of the criticism arising from political motives — and the more he was criticized the harder he worked. He directed a masterful retirement in Korea and he seemed in public to be as unaffected by the attacks made on him personally as he had been earlier by the lavish praise he received when he was winning. But in the lonely watches of the night it hurt. It hurt him so keenly that his staff did everything possible to protect him. We even hid newspapers and magazines from him if they contained particularly unrestrained criticism…”

When notified of being relieved his military command, Huff says, MacArthur responded, “without much change of expression or demeanor. He didn’t like it, but it was an order.” MacArthur did not drag his feet. He tied up the loose ends and returned to the US.”

Even beyond the articles featured in The Post in 1951, MacArthur lived out his days rather quietly. Other than chairing the Board for the Remington Rand Corporation, he lived his final years in New York City. He died in Washington, DC in 1964.

MacArthur’s critics cannot be dismissed; they point to the general’s arrogance and self-absorption, his short-sighted preparations in the Philippines, his readiness to promote a war with China, and his political posturing in the ’40s and ’50s. They also compare MacArthur’s performance with those of Generals Eisenhower and Marshall — men who achieved greater things without his posturing or recklessness.

Still, MacArthur was a powerful figure to Americans during the war years. He became a symbol of America’s strength and determination. He inspired devotion and confidence, both of which proved valuable to our success in the World War. Any man who draws such lasting admiration from so many Americans must represent something great about our country.

In the 1977 Saturday Evening Post article “More Than A Star,” Gregory Peck described his role as the general in the movie, “MacArthur.”

“I came to this role with a grab bag full of prejudices… Now I’m full of admiration for the man. His faults were on such a grand scale they’re too obvious to discuss. They weren’t petty. There was no meanness in him and most of the things that MacArthur detractors say are based on idiosyncrasies — his long hair, his corncob pipe, his informal dress. It was kind of inverse snobbism — never wearing any medals. It was the theatricality of knowing less is more. When he stood with generals and admirals, he stood out in his simplicity. He made them all look silly.”

Read The Courting of Jean Faircloth, published on September 8, 1951 [PDF].

Read The General’s Last Fight, published on October 27, 1951 [PDF].

The End of Devil Hawker

Last Christmas, Warner Brothers’ Studios released its seasonal blockbuster, “Sherlock Holmes.” Younger viewers who saw the movie might not have known that this was close to the 200th time the character of Holmes appeared in a movie. The great detective has become a literary industry that has rewarded many since he entered in the world in 1887, the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Post readers may not know that Doyle published several times in our magazine. Three of his short stories — none, alas, featuring Holmes — appeared in the late 1920s.

Without further ado, we present “The End of Devil Hawker,” a Regency-era adventure that include a cameo appearance by Lord Byron. It appeared in the Post on August 23, 1930.

The End of Devil Hawker, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. August 23, 1930
The End of Devil Hawker
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
August 23, 1930

(1859-1930) The creator of Sherlock Holmes wrote a variety of short stories, historical novels, non-fiction, and more. A physician, like Holmes’ companion Dr. Watson, Doyle only began because he had trouble establishing a lucrative medical practice. His creation of Holmes made him a global celebrity. In later years, he came to resent the detective he created, but realized that Holmes would always be a good financial provider for him.
Doyle was an athlete who excelled in soccer, cricket, and golf. In addition to his contributions to literature, Holmes was a humanitarian who championed the cause of George Edalji.

Edalji, a man with British and Indian parents was accused of blackmail and animal mutilations. Doyle’s non-fictitious detective work proved Edalji’s innocence and was a factor in the creation of the Court of Criminal Appeal in England.

Doyle’s three stories in the Post are “The Death Voyage,” “The End of Devil Hawker,” and “Maracot Deep.”

Read The End of Devil Hawker, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. August 23, 1930. [PDF]

Why America Should Care About The World Cup

It is a global phenomenon unlike any other. Children from Ghana to Denmark dream of participating in this event, and its following is unparalleled. Viewer numbers are staggering – the cumulative television audience in 2006 was estimated at over 26 billion. When it is played in South Africa this year, it will draw representatives from 6 continents and Oceania.

It is the FIFA World Cup, the biggest stage for the most popular sport in the world.

Polish Soccer Fans at the 2006 World Cup
Poland’s energetic fans. Crowds like this are more likely to happen at a football game than a futbol game in the US.

That is, the world outside of the U.S. Although soccer is known as the “universal language,” it has never had anywhere close to the appeal in this country as the “other” football. Many Americans simply don’t care. They see the game as soft (I grew up in Indianapolis watching Reggie Miller make a career of acting his way to the foul line, but even he would roll his eyes at the some of these soccer flops) or un-American. The rules for the most popular sports in the U.S. – football, baseball, basketball – have more or less been written here, which can’t be said for soccer; and a game with no hands allowed seems to clash with the ideals of the hands-on, blue-collar American worker.

However, like it or not, soccer has arrived in this country. Many Americans enjoy watching and playing the sport, and youth leagues have even become so commonplace they have added a new term to the American lexicon: “soccer mom.” Increasing participation in the sport has inevitably led to the U.S. having better caliber players, and, for possibly the first time ever, our country has a team that is expected to make some noise in the tourney.

It might not be such a bad thing. For one thing, soccer is emblematic of the “melting pot” that our nation is supposed to be. Americans loved the movie “Remember the Titans” because it showed how sports transcended and broke down the racial barriers of segregation. Soccer is breaking those same barriers for Hispanics and other ethnicities on high school teams all across the country. Furthermore, any sport that consists of as much running as soccer for 90+ minutes should be irresistible to Americans who love tough sports. And, like basketball, soccer is a semi-contact sport; teams can be just as physical, intimidating, and/or dirty.

No sane person would wear these outfits. Fanatical fans make the World Cup all the more interesting.

American should also love the passion within soccer. After all, there are three areas of our lives where fanaticism is accepted, and sometimes even encouraged: patriotism, religion, and sports. Considering that A) soccer players are in the event to honor their country, and B) it is the most widely followed sporting event on the planet, the World Cup blends two of these areas on an unmatched scale. There are few stages on which human emotions play so fully: jubilation in victory; agony in defeat; insanity among fans; love among teammates. This event epitomizes what sport is all about. What can be more entertaining than passion?

Americans should appreciate a team that has earned respect from the rest of the world the hard way – through grit, toughness, and skill. It shouldn’t be hard to fall in love with this team.

The talent is there: America stunned everyone by finishing second in the recent Confederation’s Cup, beating #1 ranked Spain and losing a 3-2 nail-biter to the legendary Brazilians in the final.

This trophy is worth getting excited about.

We also seem to have luck on our side. There seems to be a consensus among the experts that the U.S’s first round draw (England, Algeria, and Slovenia) was relatively favorable. The U.S., ranked 14th in the world, will be heavily favored against Algeria (26) and Slovenia (31), and we shouldn’t be shocked if they upset the 9th-ranked Brits. A win against any two of these three should be enough to advance them. They could even win all three opening round games (We are, of course, knocking on wood very heavily).

This is uncharted territory for us. We know international competitions – we are accustomed to bringing home tons of medals every Olympics; and we know about big-time sporting events – the Super Bowl, NBA Finals, Indy 500, etc.; but we don’t know as much about the combination of the two that we will find in South Africa. A look at the history of the tourney tells us to expect the unexpected.

There have been iconic moments – when Brazil effortlessly passed the ball around Italian defenders in ’70, building momentum pass by pass until they finally blasted it into the net.

Or when Argentinean Diego Maradona took the ball from his own half, single-handedly dribbled past at least five English defenders, and scored in ’86.

There have been more dubious moments as well – Zinedine Zidane’s head-butt and subsequent ejection that probably cost France the ’06 Cup; Maradona’s “Hand of God” in that same ’86 game.

At certain points, the World Cup has become more than a sport as it reflected world politics.

Neither opposing defenses nor the Iron Curtain could stop the Germans in 1990.

Crochet for Kids

Get your kids hooked on a skill that will last a lifetime. Teaching your kids or grandkids the art of crocheting is more than an opportunity for family bonding: It’s a way to stimulate their creative side, improve motor coordination, reading, and problem-solving abilities, while offering an opportunity for them to participate in community service and other activities.

The Crochet Guild of America (CGOA)provides helpful instructions for parents, grandparents, and educators who are interested in keeping this valuable art form alive for a new generation to enjoy.

Marty Miller, president of the CGOA, has noticed a steady increase in the popularity of this art among a younger generation. “More and more children, preteens, and teens are crocheting. We see them at our conferences, at guild meetings, and classes and workshops,” says Miller, who suspects the trend has something to do with crocheting’s soothing effects and being able to creative resources. “You can use all sorts of materials—yarn, thread, wire, rags, plastic bags, clothesline, and even candy licorice strips.”

People of all ages, however, take away valuable life lessons. “If you don’t like what you’re making,” Miller points out, “it’s easy to change.” It’s a craft that also encourages trying new things. “If something doesn’t work, rip it up, and try again. … Eventually, you’ll get a result you like. We shouldn’t be afraid to try.” An important lesson for more than just children.

Many brand-name craft stores offer local classes—beginning through advanced. You can also find original patterns available for purchase (and some for free) from Etsy sellers, at etsy.com.

Additionally, the Craft Yarn Council of America is home to a plethora of knitting and crocheting project ideas, patterns, and tips as well as serving as a resource for charitable opportunities and upcoming events.

If long distance is keeping you from teaching the young loved one in your life the art of crochet, let them know you’re thinking about them with a handmade ice-cream surprise. Try this sweet pattern, courtesy of eCrochetPatterns.com.

Download the Ice Cream Cone Necklace Purse Crochet pattern instructions [PDF].

I Know That Face! Rockwell’s Regular Model

Here’s a test for Rockwell fans, do you recognize this man?

Norman Rockwell must have been captivated by the looks of James K. Van Brunt the day he showed up in Rockwell’s studio, pronouncing himself as a bold veteran of Fredericksburg and brave fighter of Indians forces. Standing 5 feet, 2 inches tall with a craggy face, knobby nose, and distinctive mustache, Van Brunt became one of Rockwell’s favorite models — posing for numerous covers. So many, in fact, that Post editors began to complain.

Rockwell eventually told Van Brunt he would no longer be able to use him as a model unless he shaved his mustache. He refused, then returned a couple weeks later and said he would do it for $10, which Rockwell paid. “I guess the notoriety he’d gained from posing for me had overcome his pride in his mustache,” Rockwell said. The result can be seen in The Old Sign Painter from February 6, 1926.

Do you recognize Van Brunt in the following covers?

The Dangerous Doctor King

American history is filled with heroes, but only three are honored with national holidays — Christopher Columbus, George Washington, and Martin Luther King Jr. Of these, only the latter two were born in America, and Washington’s birthday also serves as President’s Day to honor all other presidents. Martin Luther King Jr. has his own holiday (although, the state of Virginia combines his holiday weekend with Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson Day).

A dedicated national holiday is a unique honor for an American, particularly when he was regarded with dread and suspicion in his own time.

Civil rights have always been a troublesome issue for a country that is publicly dedicated to equality. But for many years, the fate of minorities in the United States was only a peripheral problem to American society; white Americans could live their lives without ever confronting the problems of racism and segregation.

That began to change in the mid-20th century. The U.S. Federal Government secured the support of black Americans for the war effort by offering them new chances for advancement, both in the military and in military contracting. In 1954, the Supreme Court decided there could be no legal justification for racial inequality. States could no longer justify segregated schools. In 1955 Rosa Parks inspired 50,000 black Americans to protest segregation on buses in Montgomery, Alabama. In 1957 President Eisenhower sent federal troops to Little Rock to enable black students to enroll in the local high school. Black activists staged sit-ins in the 1960s, and Freedom Riders took Ms. Parks’ protest further, testing the government’s willingness to support integration on interstate transportation.

In a relatively short time, the issue of race had moved to center stage. Some white Americans who had always enjoyed the full benefits of their rights had difficulty understanding the black Americans’ impatience and mistrust of the government. And they wondered about the charismatic leader who had emerged from this movement and talked boldly of immediate action. Martin Luther King Jr. made civil rights an issue that could not be ignored or dismissed as racial politics. It was an American issue.

The Post published an article about Martin Luther King Jr. in 1963. Its author, Reese Cleghorn, recognized the need for integration, but he was skeptical about King.

He reported the Birmingham riots as if he had no stake in the conflict between black Americans fighting for their overdue civil rights and white racists who wanted to refuse them. Cleghorn seems to have gathered up every criticism he could find about King — though he was too busy to include the name of his sources.

<em>Martin Luther King Jr.: Apostle of Crisis</em><br />by Reese Cleghorn<br />
”Martin Luther King, Jr.: Apostle of Crisis“ by Reese Cleghorn

For instance, he links King with violent black protesters:
“Thus did racial violence come this spring to the most rigidly segregated major city in America. It marked a collision of two power systems, the first represented by Bull Connor, vigorously enforcing laws that preserve the status quo of racial discrimination, the second by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. making a carefully planned assault on those laws and that discrimination.”

He presents King as a dangerous provocateur:
“[King] lighted a fire under the pressure cooker, well knowing that the ‘peaceful demonstrations’ he organized would bring, at the very least, tough repressive measures by the police. And although he hoped his followers would not respond with violence — he has always stressed a nonviolent philosophy — that was a risk he was prepared to take. Two months earlier his No.1 staff assistant, the Rev. Wyatt Tee Walker, had explained, ‘We’ve got to have a crisis to bargain with. To take moderate approach, hoping to get white help doesn’t work. They nail you to the cross, and it saps the enthusiasm of the followers. You’ve got to have a crisis.'”

King was imperious:
“For these and other reasons, some integrationist leaders felt that King had blundered in bringing crisis to Birmingham. It was not the right place, they maintained; this was not the right time; and mass marches to fill the jails—a tactic that bears King’s personal brand—was not the right tactic. Further, King had gone into Birmingham not only against the advice of these leaders but without even informing them. ‘That’s just arrogant,’ one said in exasperation.”

King was self-serving:
“Other detractors within the desegregation movement have bitterly accused King of tackling Birmingham primarily to raise money and to keep his name and his organizations, the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), out in front on the teeming civil-rights scene.”

He was playing with fire:
“King’s magic touch with the masses of Negroes remains. They do not understand the intricacies of his tactics. What they see is a powerful crusader for equality who does something instead of just talking, who sticks lighted matches to the status quo and who is impatient with talk of waiting. Given the increasing unrest among Negroes, King’s flare seems likely to spread a trail of little Birmingham’s through the nation during the next few months.”

He was out of his depth:
“King bears heavy organizational responsibilities, and it is in this realm that he is most criticized.”

He was immoderate:
“Seven leading Alabama churchmen, some of whom had staked their prestige and positions upon a moderate solution in Birmingham, had openly criticized [King’s] actions there. He answered them with a publicly released 9,000-word letter … [which] split him from the white moderates of the South and suggested that Negroes would plot their own course in the future.”

Martin Luther King Jr. might have looked threatening to white Americans in the early ’60s, even those that considered themselves informed and fair-minded. He appeared far more attractive in a short while, though, as angrier voices arose in the black community. When the Black Muslim church started gathering supporters and Black Panthers became active, Dr. King suddenly seemed extremely moderate, reasonable, and comfortable.

Overall, Cleghorn tries to be informed, but he was writing from a time when middle America still felt it had the luxury of disapproving and dismissing the voices of black America. Cleghorn does little to allay fears of future riots and racial violence. Even the chosen photograph seems to heighten the effect; you’d have to look long and hard to find a more menacing picture of Dr. King.

Click here to read Cleghorn’s original article from 1963 [PDF].

Veggie Pizza Appetizer

Veggie Pizza Appetizer

Vegetable Pizza
Vegetable Pizza

(Makes 12 servings)

Preheat oven to 375 F. Roll out dough onto 9 x 13-inch baking pan. Pinch edges together.
Bake crust for 10 to 12 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool on pan.
In medium bowl, combine cream cheese, mayonnaise, and dressing mix. Spread mixture on crust. Top with veggies and sprinkle with cheese. Chill for one hour and serve.

The Designated Hitter Debate

We wanted to do justice to the complexities of the Designated Hitter Rule, so we asked two Post staff members—both baseball fans—to take opposing sides in the debate. We found their exchange enlightening—and amusing.

(Batting for the “Pro” side is Aaron Rimstadt)
Pro 1. Fans like home runs. Purist may enjoy watching intricate, defensive games, but casual fans, kids, and people who put together highlight reels love homers. DH’s provide them the fireworks they want in a game.

(The “Con” is handled by Kelsey Roan)
Con 1: Fans may love a homer, but fans also love a stolen base, and the National League (the one without Designated Hitters) has more of the latter on average. National League hitters—including pitchers—are not willing to waste energy on a slim chance to fire the ball out of the park. Instead, they wisely choose to slap smart hits into the field and run them out. Designated Hitters and other big sluggers are slow and cumbersome. Base hitters are crafty and fast, making energetic leaps and dusty slides to get their base. Call me a purist, but that’s more enjoyable baseball than watching a bulky, overpaid old player hitting another home run.

Pro 2. Great Designated Hitters like David Ortiz, Frank Thomas, Paul Moliter, Harold Baines, Carl Yastrzemski. ‘Nuff said.

Con 2: Don Drysdale, Rick Wise, Greg Maddux, Roger Clemens, Cy Young, BABE RUTH. That’s right, we’ve got the Babe himself.

Pro 3. Who wants to see a bad hitter hopelessly flail at the ball? Or watch a good hitter get intentionally walked because the pitcher knows he can strike out the opposing pitcher who is up next?

Con 3: Who wants to see a good hitter hopelessly flail at a ball? Sluggers are considerably more likely to strike out swinging, because they will swing at anything that looks right—and there are many pitches in even a mediocre pitcher’s arsenal that exist only to trick the eye. (Also, people love to argue that pitchers can’t hit, but a DH can’t field for beans. I, for one, prefer to see smart fielding than big hitting.)

Pro 4. The NFL—by far the most popular sports league in America—uses specialized players for offense and defense. Major League Baseball, on the other hand, is struggling with attendance. Why not use specialized players? What’s wrong with a manager utilizing various players’ specific talents?

Con 4: The charm of baseball is that all the players are versatile. Specializing players sucks the soul out of the game. Instead of talking about a great all-around player who hits and fields like a champ, fans find themselves asking “Who’s that? Oh, the guy who bats seventh.”

Pro 5. The DH lets aging stars and fan favorites play a few more years. A 10-time all-star who has lost the quickness needed for fielding can still fill seats with his hitting. In fact, the DH provides a one-two punch for ticket sales. He provides more offense, and he extends the careers of marketable players.

Con 5: It allows aging stars to play well past their primes. Everyone likes to see a big name play, but the best baseball is played by the young guns, who bring fresh enthusiasm and athleticism to the game. An aging star is big and bulky and can no longer run well. Give me a rookie any day.

Con 6: The DH Rule robs managers of a key bit of strategy: the double switch. If the pitcher is due up in a tough patch like the bottom of the ninth with two men on and two outs, the manager can push the pitcher to a different section of the batting order, and move a good hitter into that key segment.

Pro 6. Well, the DH Rule lets managers use a strong hitter instead of waiting to send in a pinch hitter in the ninth inning. In fact, it allows the manager to not have to worry about his worst batter at all.

Con 7: The DH Rule started with the intention of making baseball more flashy and exciting. Yet, there is not a great difference between the stats in the American League, where they use Designated Hitters, and the National League, where the pitcher must take his turn at bat. The American League tends to accumulate more wins in interleague play, but the general stats are inconclusive. If one league has a superiority over the other in any area, the difference isn’t large enough to matter to anyone but the most scrupulous statistician.

Pro 7. The batting averages for the American League have been better than the NL every year between 1973, the year that the DH was instituted, and 2008. In 2009, the three teams with the best batting average (Angels, Yankees, and Twins) were in the AL. So were the top two HR teams (Yankees and Rangers), top three scoring teams (Yanks, Angels, and Red Sox), top four in total hits (Angels, Yankees, Twins, and Blue Jays), top three in RBI’s (Yanks, Angels, and Red Sox), and top three in On-Base Percentage (Yanks, Red Sox, and Angels). Admittedly, the difference in batting averages between the two leagues has been relatively small every year (for example, the AL edged the NL in ’07 with a batting average of .271 versus .266), but the fact that it has done so every year is significant.

Pro 8. The American League has better teams. It won six of the last 10 World Series, and it is hard to believe that the DH didn’t help. The Red Sox might not have won two titles in the past decade without a certain DH known as “Big Papi.” Another all-time great, Frank Thomas, helped the White Sox to their ’05 title as a hit-only player.

Con 8: The American League also has worse teams. They may have the Yankees and Red Sox (which are only as great as they are because they spend outlandish amounts of money for big players), but they also have the Cleveland Indians, the Kansas City Royals and the Oakland A’s. The DH Rule has made the AL a real hit-or-miss league, instead of fostering a strong, stable league. When teams in a league are closer together, there is more excitement because it is not completely clear who will come out on top.

For our last inning, we’ve reversed the batting order.

Con 9: The National League sells more tickets. Isn’t that the whole goal of the Designated Hitter Rule: to bring in more fans? Why is it, then, that the American League doesn’t sell nearly as many tickets as the National League, despite keeping a Designated Hitter at the ready? Maybe it’s that people would rather see baseball than a Home Run Derby. I know I would.

Pro 9: History tells us that the DH actually improved ticket sales. In 1972, the year before the DH rule, nine of the 12 AL teams drew an attendance of less than a million. In ’73, there were only four. Two of those four were over 900,000 (seven AL teams were under 900,000 in ’72). Attendance also went up for the NL in ’73, probably because the new rule created a buzz around the game in general. Considering that teams from the AL have also won more World Series (the AL boasts a 21 to 15 advantage since ’73, including eight of the last 12 champs), they will have benefited from the increased revenue from jersey sales, corporate endorsements, etc.