Gentleman in Blue: A Sentimental Sketch by Laurence Stallings
Laurence Stallings took up writing after being wounded in the First World War. On June 26, 1918, he led an assault on a German machine gun nest in Belleau Wood and was severely wounded. He eventually lost a leg because of his wounds, but was decorated with the Silver Star and France’s Croix de Guerre. Following the war, he became a journalist for the New York World. He wrote a novel and, later, the highly successful play about the war, “What Price Glory?” It became the most important American drama of the Great War.
In this story, Stallings turns to the Civil War, which made a deep impact on his Georgian ancestors. He writes of death and chivalry from a child’s point of view.
(This story, printed in the February 20, 1932, issue of the Post, refers to African Americans in the slighting style found so often in early 20th Century fiction. While the black characters are not cartoonish, they aren’t fully human either. They appear only as servants of the house and only speak in dialect while the white Georgians’ speech never hint at an accent. However, we thought the quality of the story might offset these matters. Please let us know what you think.)
Read “The Gentleman in Blue” by Laurence Stallings [PDF].
Classic Covers: World War I
As we all know, we have too many wars to remember. Last month on this website, we ran a story on a Post newsboy who was killed in World War I. Seeing the photos from the article inspired me to show some World War I covers from both The Saturday Evening Post and Country Gentleman, a longtime sister publication. Some are well known, but I’ve discovered a few surprises. All are intended as a tribute to our veterans of today and yesterday.
Farm Appetites – Clyde Forsythe – November 24, 1917
We have plenty of poignant wartime covers, but this one is fun! These are hearty farm-boys-turned-soldiers, and the painting is appropriately named: “Farm Appetites.” It was done by cartoonist Clyde Forsythe, a friend of Norman Rockwell. In fact, it was Forsythe who encouraged the reticent, nervous young Rockwell to try to sell a cover to the venerable Saturday Evening Post. So Forsythe not only painted history, he helped to make it.
Women Work for War – Charles A. MacLellan – July 20, 1918
And who, pray, worked the land while the male farm hands were fighting the war? The “women’s land army”, that’s who. Some were country girls, others were out of their element working farms, but the women of the U.S. and Europe wanted to do their part back home.
Her Boy – K.R. Wireman” – September 15, 1917
Another seldom-seen Country Gentleman cover shows a proud mother at the mailbox, receiving a photo of her son in uniform. Let’s hope he’s back at the farm soon. This was by artist K.R. Wireman.
Necessary Height – Norman Rockwell – June 16, 1917
Back at The Saturday Evening Post, a gent we all know and love, Norman Rockwell, was also recognizing the war in his art. Only about 22 himself at the time, Rockwell shows us that even the youngsters were getting into the war effort. Playing recruiter, a boy (notice the “recruiting poster”) seems to be questioning the qualifications of a vertically challenged applicant.
Uncle Sam – Herbert Johnson – June 16, 1917
This trio was vitally important to the nation in World War I. The American soldier, good old Uncle Sam and the American farmer. This was from a painting by Herbert Johnson, a well-known political cartoonist for both the Post and Country Gentleman.
Soldier’s Christmas – J.C. Leyendecker – December 22, 1917
I can’t leave without sharing my favorite World War I cover, “Soldier’s Christmas” by J.C. Leyendecker. A soldier is sharing his meager holiday meal with a tiny French girl. Can’t help it – gets me every time.
The Ability and the Duty to Be Heroic
More than 450,000 Americans paid the highest price for their citizenship in the years between 1941 and 1945. Every one of them equally deserves our tribute, our gratitude, and our remembrance on Memorial Day.
A few deserve special recognition — not because their sacrifice was more noble, but because the accounts of their sacrifice, offered by their surviving comrades, illustrate the nature of courage, which we may never know until, by chance, it is required of us.
These stories show that heroism is unromantic, and sometimes pathetic, but something that lies within average Americans. Such a story is “A Boy Named Rodger Young,” [PDF] from 1945. Written by Chief Warrant Officer E. J. Kahn, Jr., it is a moving tribute to the courage of this young man, which earned him a posthumous Medal of Honor. But it is also reminder of the ordinariness of great heroes.
“Rodger Young was a very ordinary man who became a great one. There is no typical American foot soldier—our doughboys rightly deny the existence of any such insult to their individuality—but in a nation where type casting has become an institution, both on the screen and off it, Rodger Young could be said to have a pretty close resemblance to the average soldier. Perhaps his peacetime lack of distinction is in itself symbolic of the incredible change so many Americans made from obscure citizens to artful practitioners of a difficult and dangerous trade.
“Rodger Young did not look like a storybook soldier. He was short and light, with poor eyes and poorer ears, and yet he was an expert marksman who never faltered on the longest march. He had never been a particularly dashing young man, and he deeply loved his small-town life in the heart of the United States. And yet he elected to die violently on a remote and ugly island he had probably never heard of until a few weeks before he was buried there.
“In every conceivable way, he was an average man. He was only fair in his studies, and left high school after his junior year. He was far from well-to-do, but never so poor as to be hungry. He was devoted to his family. He went to church, but only now and then. He was fond of children. He was fond of dogs. He liked to play practical jokes on his friends, but would readily admit that be had an inferior sense of humor. He worked hard and faithfully at an unskilled job. He played a middling game of poker and pinochle. He went out with a variety of girls, owned a battered old car, was an eager, though inexpert, photographer, was punished by his mother for smoking at too precocious an age, and was so utterly inconspicuous that, after he became nationally recognized as a hero, the home folks in Sandusky County, Ohio, trying to reminisce about him, could not say for certain whether they recalled ever having seen him or not.
“He quit school because he had trouble reading. He had to wear glasses all the time, and became slightly deaf… He may well have been a legitimate 4-F.
“He was cheerful and not in the least apprehensive about his prospects. He refused to worry about himself and, in letters home, good-naturedly scolded his parents for worrying about him. “I can run faster than any Jap,” he used to say,” and I’ll be all right as long as I see the Japs first.”
” July 31,1943, was his company’s second day in battle. The doughboys had a rough introduction to the practical side of war. They had scarcely gone into the line when, three miles from the Jap-held airfield at Munda, they found themselves cut off. An order came thorough to withdraw. Sgt. Walter Rigby, commanding the platoon Young was assigned to, got the word and passed it along to his men, scattered throughout the jungle and under rifle fire from Japs close by. The order was relayed from man to man. A private lying near Young, suspecting that he might not have heard the order, poked him with a stick and, drawing his attention, motioned to the rear.
“Just about then a Jap machine gun opened up on the platoon, raking it with fire. The men tried to pull back, but movement was virtually impossible under the deadly surveillance of that gun, shooting from a hidden jungle position. Withdrawal seemed difficult; so, for that matter, did survival.
“Then the soldier who had announced gaily months before that he would be all right as long as he saw the Japs first, got a chance to confirm his prediction. He saw them first. He called out that he had spotted the gun. According to the role he had elected to play in his own combat story, he should have beaten the hastiest possible retreat. But Rodger Young forgot his cut. He forgot that he was only a private and had no official responsibility for the men around him. He opened fire with his rifle. The Japs answered him with a burst in his direction, and hit him. Then Rodger Young went in to action.
“With his rifle in one hand and a few grenades in his uniform pocket, he began crawling slowly toward the machine gun. Nobody can say what he was thinking. Perhaps he figured that his skill as a marksman gave him the best chance of all his buddies to knock out the gun. Whatever he figured, he must have had a pretty good idea that he was going on a one-way trip. The Japs saw him coming and turned the gun on him. They hit him a second time and he flinched. But he didn’t stop. He kept on inching forward and, and he got closer to the Japs. They ignored the rest of the platoon and concentrated their whole murderous fire on Rodger Young. That was the break the men needed to get out of the trap.
“As they crawled back successfully, Rodger Young dragged himself even nearer to the Jap position, and began tossing grenades into it. He was too close to the Japs by now for them to miss, and they didn’t. They hit him a third time and stopped him for good, just as one of his grenades fell into their position and stopped their gun.
“It was the next day before the platoon could get back in and recover his body. They buried him where he fell, wrapped in his shelter half, with a rough wooden cross over him and his helmet mounting the cross. His regimental chaplain gave a talk and said a prayer, and the mourners bowed their head extra low because Jap bullets were still flying around the area. Later, when there was time for it, they gave him a more dignified funeral.”
Average and unexceptional, Rodger Young showed that heroism was within us all, and none of us should think ourselves incapable of such courage.
Read “A Boy Named Rodger Young” by Chief Warrant Officer E. J. Kahn, Jr. [PDF]
Art Linkletter Writes for the Post
“Who would you pick as famous parents if you could live with two celebrities?” Art Linkletter asked a little girl. “You as father,” the girl said, “and Zsa Zsa Gabor as our mother.” Linkletter thought pairing him with the glamorous movie star made for an unusual combination and asked the girl why. “I think we could have a lot of fun with you,” she said, “and you could have a lot of fun with her!”
The above was an anecdote from a 2004 issue of The Saturday Evening Post, written when Linkletter was a mere kid of 91. But the famous host wasn’t new to the Post by any means. The May 17, 1952, issue featured a story on Stalin’s First Lieutenant, Part 8 of a series on British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, and an article about the almost forty-year-old host of radio and TV shows People Are Funny and House Party, one Arthur Gordon Linkletter, a gentle humorist we lost this week at age 97.
A graduate of San Diego State College with an A-minus average and every intention of becoming an English teacher, Linkletter “has been known to dumbfound whole boothfuls of hard-boiled Hollywood Brown Derby lunchers … by bursting into fourteenth-century verse in Chaucerian English,” the 1952 article reported. The same article reminds us that this man “has made a fortune out of slapstick.”
The most popular, and most remembered, segment of House Party were his interviews of school kids. In a three-part Post series in 1957 entitled “Kids Say the Darndest Things,” he discussed how his interrogation methods evolved.
“In the weeks before the curtain goes up, Junior is indoctrinated, coaxed, threatened and rehearsed by his family. Once we’re on the air, I attack this defensive position by asking, ‘What did your mommy tell you not to say?’” The answers, Linkletter wrote, “are wonderful.” Such as: “My mother told me not to tell any of the family secrets, like the time she dyed her hair blond and it came out purple.” Another replied “My daddy told me … no matter where it itches, don’t scratch anywhere.”
Perhaps even more intriguing was a five-part series entitled “Confessions of a Happy Man” that began in the August 27, 1960, issue. It is surprisingly revealing, since it begins by discussing the parents who gave him up when he was a few weeks old. It was a painful subject, but Linkletter forged ahead “because my experience may be of some comfort to an adopted child …”
He was equally frank about being indicted by a Federal grand jury during World War II for “falsely claiming to be a United States citizen – I was actually a Canadian,” and about his slow-to-rise but undeniable temper. When a young director blew up at children who accidentally wandered onto his set, Linkletter let him have it on the air, calling him “an arrogant young pup who is throwing his weight around.”
With friends like Clark Gable and Groucho Marx, he could, perhaps, be forgiven for lapsing into show biz “jargon and shoptalk.” He once passed his son Jack’s room and paused to listen to his bedtime prayers. “Thank you, God. Amen. Listen in again tomorrow night, same time, same station, for another in this series.”
Art Linkletter is survived by his lovely wife of seventy-five years (!), Lois, of whom he writes in “My Zany Rise to the Top.”
Read “Art Linkletter Says the Darndest Things!” by Patrick Perry, March/April 2004 [PDF]
Read “My Zany Rise to the Top,” by Art Linkletter. September 17, 1960 [PDF]
Cutaway
Carolyn and her husband are our friends, couple friends. Our evenings together go like this: Carolyn and Reuben arrive late in the afternoon, stopping first for wine and dessert at the gourmet store in Ybor City, the old Cuban section of town. They park their Jeep in our driveway and Carolyn whistles for Buck, our black Lab. When I open the door, Reuben is standing on the porch with a cardboard dessert box, impeccably dressed, smelling pleasantly of cologne. He and I take the flan into the kitchen, where he gets a taste of whatever I’ve prepared for dinner: a cassoulet or paella in the winter, a fresh ratatouille or lobster salad in the summer. Soon Carolyn appears in the kitchen. “Hi Nora,” she says, breathless from running with the dog. “Where’s your better half?” She reaches into the refrigerator for two beers and goes out to the back porch, where my husband, Ted, is waiting.
Tonight Reuben and I linger in the kitchen longer than usual. It’s August in Tampa, maybe the hottest day of the year; we’re both reluctant to leave the air conditioning. Finally we join Ted and Carolyn on the porch. They’re sitting in their usual spots on the wicker sofa, red-faced from laughing.
“What’s so funny?” says Reuben.
Carolyn wipes a tear from her eye. “I can’t say.” She gives me a wink. “There’s a lady present.”
Carolyn’s stories are usually bawdy or scatological, full of burps and farts and bodily emissions. She has the vocabulary of a trucker or a sailor. Reuben and I joke that we get together so Ted and Carolyn can curse. It feels good to joke about it. It reassures me that my jealousy of Carolyn is in remission. For a long time it consumed me. From the day he met her, Ted became more critical of me: my fears, my shyness, the time I spend in the bathroom putting on makeup or taking it off. He never complained about those things before. Not until Carolyn reminded him of everything I wasn’t.
“How’ve you been, Ted?” says Reuben, offering his hand. “Did Carolyn tell you what happened yesterday?”
“What?” says Ted.
“Get this,” she says. “Yesterday I had my first cutaway with a student.”
Carolyn works part-time as a skydiving instructor. Every weekend she does a dozen tandem dives with novice divers strapped to her belly. I listen as she explains how yesterday, diving with an exceptionally nervous student, she realized that their shared parachute had failed to open.
“Twenty seconds,” she says, pausing for effect. “I had 20 seconds to cut loose the chute and open the safety. Otherwise—” she claps her hands together. “Splat.”
“Cut it loose?” I say.
“When the chute opens there’s a whole mess of ropes,” Ted explains. “If you don’t cut it loose, the second chute will get tangled up in them. Then you’re cooked.”
I feel suddenly queasy. I have a desperate fear of heights; the thought of jumping out of an airplane makes me sick. Reuben puts his hands over my ears.
“Poor Nora,” he says. “Don’t listen. You’ll have nightmares.”
There’s more to the story—the intricacies of packing a parachute; comparisons to Carolyn’s two previous cutaways, both on solo dives—but I’m not listening. I’m watching Ted watch her. His blue eyes flash, and a spot of red appears in each cheek. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that this is why I keep inviting Reuben and Carolyn back. My husband is never more interesting to me than when we’re in Carolyn’s presence. Years ago—I’m not sure of this, but I think it’s true—he watched me that way. Every night he came into the restaurant where I worked and sat at the bar for hours, nursing a single beer. The stalker, my friends called him. Twelve years later his eyes skim over me; I am like a familiar painting, like the house he grew up in. I look at him the same way. Only when Carolyn comes do I notice his clean profile, his resonant voice, his wrists turning in the cuffs of his shirt. I remember that my husband is a handsome man.
We met Reuben and Carolyn two years ago, in a Thai restaurant on Dale Mabry Highway. We sat on opposite sides of the room; between us, a table of young men celebrated a birthday. The men toasted, laughed, drank. They wore stylish sweaters; they sang “Happy Birthday” in resonant tenors. Then, halfway through their meal, the birthday boy pitched face forward into his curry. An ambulance arrived. Just as the man was carried out on a stretcher, a waiter came out of the kitchen balancing two trays: Carolyn and Reuben’s pad thai, Ted’s and my yellow curries.
“We’re game if you are,” Carolyn called across the room. “We’re both organ donors, by the way.” We laughed, Reuben ordered a round of Korean beers, and by the end of the night they’d moved to our table. They fascinated me, the silver-haired gentleman and his young wife, her hair so short that a waiter had once called her “Sir,” even though she and Reuben were holding hands at the time. We all laughed when Reuben told this story, though later the whole thing struck me as strange. Carolyn is tall and slender, with delicate features; it seemed impossible that anyone could mistake her for a man. Stranger still, neither Carolyn nor Reuben seemed bothered by the waiter’s comment. This, I’ve since concluded, is the difference between them and us. In Carolyn’s place I would have been mortified. In Reuben’s place—having a stranger think he was sharing a romantic dinner with another man—Ted would have been livid.
At the end of the evening we swapped phone numbers. “We’ll never see them again,” I told Ted; but a few days later, Reuben called, inviting us to their house for a barbecue. We played badminton in their yard that evening, slightly drunk: Ted and I on one side of the net, Reuben and Carolyn on the other. After 10 minutes Reuben and I put down our racquets and stood off to the side swapping recipes for bouillabaisse. Finally we retired to the patio, watching Ted and Carolyn as we talked. They played until full dark, visible only by their white tennis shorts, their long bodies graceful as dragonflies.
They are alike in more ways than I can count. They both love dogs, action movies, college football; they are both skiers, scuba divers, climbers of rocks. From a distance they even look alike: blond hair, muscled calves, sinewy forearms. To me they are like champion horses, beautiful because of their strength.
The Florida evening is loud with bugs, the neighborhood coming back to life after the shuttered, sultry afternoon. There are katydids, dogs barking, kids playing baseball in the park down the street. We hear a loud crack, the satisfying collision of bat and ball.
“Good hit,” says Carolyn. “Sounds like a homer.”
Ted rolls his eyes. “I wish they’d go back to school already. Ask Nora. They make me nuts.”
I shrug. “They make him nuts.”
Reuben and Carolyn don’t have children either. For them the choice was easy, according to Ted; for us it’s been a struggle, a decision made after years of persuasion (his) and regrets (mine). Ted says Carolyn has no interest in babies, that she’d rather spend her best years rock climbing and skydiving than potty training and watching cartoons, and I know this only makes him love her more.
They agree on everything. The best scuba spots (the North Wall of Grand Cayman), the best way to catch a hammerhead (live blue runners), the best autumn marathon (Marine Corps; they trained together last summer). At least once in the course of the evening, they’ll say the same thing at precisely the same time. “In stereo,” Reuben will joke when it happens. I’ll laugh along with everyone else, relieved that the moment has passed.
“How are the mosquitoes treating you?” I ask. I’ve already shooed two away from my face. As the sun sinks lower, it’s only going to get worse.
“So far, so good,” says Carolyn, oblivious to the pink welt rising on her cheek.
Ted shrugs. “You know me.”
I do. Ted grew up in Florida, yet he’s never felt a mosquito bite in his life. He’s always surprised the next morning to find his arms and legs covered with red bumps. He has climbed Mt. McKinley, run four marathons, and dives to depths of 140 feet, yet he’s unaware of certain facts about his body: that he’s allergic to cats, that red peppers give him heartburn, that his arms become more freckled every year from not wearing sunscreen. He can’t tell when he’s dehydrated, constipated, or catching a cold. He doesn’t realize he’s losing his hair.
“My potatoes are boiling,” I say, getting up. “Any volunteers to make a salad?” We’re having shark steaks, from the 5-foot hammerhead Ted caught in the Keys last weekend, and his favorite garlic mashed potatoes. Ted does the catching, cleaning, and grilling. I do everything else.
“Sure,” says Reuben.
“We’ll take Buck to the park,” says Ted. “I’ll start the grill when I get back.”
Reuben follows me inside. I mix the salad dressing; he takes a head of romaine from the refrigerator and rinses it at the sink. We don’t talk much, but I admire the way he moves around my kitchen, humming softly. His forearms are tanned from the golf course. Everything about him murmurs gentleness and competence.
“We have good news tonight,” he says, reaching into the cupboard for a bowl. “I’m retiring. I resigned last week.”
For a moment I’m speechless, stunned by the thought that I’m old enough to have a friend who’s retired. I’ve never asked Reuben’s age, but I know he’s got 20 years on the rest of us, maybe more.
“Wow,” I say. “Congratulations.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for awhile.” He tears the lettuce into the bowl. “Don’t get me wrong. I love my work.” For nine years he’s been president of First Florida Bank. “But I’d like to be home for dinner once in awhile. I’d like to spend a little time with my wife.”
“She must be thrilled.”
Reuben chuckles. “I think she’s a little worried. I’ve been a workaholic since she met me. She’s afraid I’ll lose my mind.”
“You can travel. Play golf. You’ll find plenty to do.”
“I think so.” He looks up from the salad. “I’ve got one project lined up already.”
He’s about to say more when we hear Ted clattering up the porch stairs. He takes a glass from the drainer and fills it with water.
“You’re bleeding,” I tell him.
“Am I?” Ted looks at his legs. A bright string of blood is trickling down his blond shin; Buck must have tried to climb him, crazy to get the frisbee out of his grasp. He swipes the blood away with his sweaty forearm, then takes the glass out to the porch.
Reuben laughs. I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking: How can a person not know he’s bleeding? It gets back to the question I’ve always had about Ted: Is he brave because he fears nothing, or because he feels nothing?
A moment later Carolyn comes into the kitchen, her T-shirt plastered to her sweaty back. Her hair is sticking straight up and there’s a smear of dirt on her face. She looks terrific. I think of my family’s medicine chest when I was a little girl: the ointments and laxatives, the ovals of pink felt for the bony joint of my mother’s big toe, sore and swollen from years of stuffing her wide, flat feet into dainty pumps. Carolyn’s medicine chest would contain no evidence of the sad, secret maintenance a woman’s body requires: the depilatories and mustache bleaches, the yeast treatment creams, the Midol. I know this is true because I’ve checked.
“Nora, that’s one hell of a dog you’ve got,” she says, rinsing her hands under the faucet. “He’s a champ.”
I smile. “He says the same about you.” Naturally, Buck loves Carolyn. She grew up on a dog ranch in northern Minnesota with a father who bred huskies and raced dogsleds. I wonder if that cold childhood is responsible for her fast metabolism, her miraculous pink-and-white-skin.
She watches me drain the boiled potatoes into the sink. “Can I help?”
“Can you peel potatoes?”
She frowns. “How tough can it be?”
Reuben laughs. “I’ll be out on the porch,” he says. “Nora, keep her away from the stove. And don’t let her chop anything.”
On the climbing wall Carolyn can balance her entire weight on one toe and four fingers, so graceful it hurts to watch her. In the kitchen she’s like a teenage boy, all knees and elbows. I stand next to her at the sink and show her how the skins slip right off when the potatoes are cooked long enough.
“Will you look at that?” she marvels, as if I’ve demonstrated an ability to move objects with my mind. She digs into a potato with her fingers and laughs delightedly as the skin peels away. “Where did you learn this?”
“I’m an Irish girl. I was peeling potatoes before I could walk.” I cut the potato into quarters. “My mother could peel a dozen a minute.”
Carolyn whistles through her teeth. “Geez. I don’t know any of this stuff.” She reaches for another potato. “You can do anything.”
A flush warms my face. Like all redheads I have treacherous skin, the kind that hides nothing. “You’re joking.”
“No, really.” Carolyn touches my arm. “You’re like an Amish woman. You make all this amazing food, and you don’t even have a microwave.”
I laugh out loud. “You’re too much.” I set down my knife and do something I’ve never done before: I give Carolyn a hug. She’s a foot taller than I am; I stand on my toes to grasp her shoulders. She smells of soap and grass and chewing gum, like a little girl.
The screen door slams; we hear Ted’s whistle, his heavy footfalls. Carolyn releases me, like a teenage brother too embarrassed to touch. Ted comes into the kitchen carrying a couple of empties.
He says, “Did Carolyn really peel a potato?”
We eat on the screened porch. Carolyn tells another story, and Reuben raves about the fresh artichokes. Ted keeps our glasses filled.
“I talked to the travel agent,” says Ted. “She found us a terrific condo on Cayman Brac, but we have to reserve this week.”
Carolyn glances at me. “I’m not sure we should drag these guys on another dive trip.”
“Nora doesn’t mind,” says Ted.
Our last time in the Caymans, Ted and Carolyn did 14 dives in 10 days. I spent every afternoon drinking margaritas in the tiki bar with Reuben. It wasn’t a bad trip.
Ted clears the plates from the table. Reuben and I each left some potatoes; Ted’s and Carolyn’s plates are as clean as if they’ve licked them. He takes the leftovers down the porch stairs and whistles for the dog. Reuben leans back in his chair and smokes a cigar. He and Carolyn hold hands under the table. That’s something kids do, something Ted and I used to do, so long ago I can’t remember what it felt like.
I turn to Carolyn. “I heard the news. Reuben already told me. You must be thrilled.”
Carolyn looks at Reuben, confused. “News?” she repeats.
I refill my wine glass. “About his retirement.”
Carolyn laughs. “Oh, that good news.” She runs a hand through her hair. “Yeah, it’s great. Two more weeks and he’s a free man.”
We have coffee and dessert on the porch; Reuben helps me clear the cups and plates. When I come back outside Carolyn is leaning over the railing, staring into the distance. Ted has his back to us, his fingers in a pot of saguaro cactus, checking to see if it needs water.
“Climbing in the morning?” he asks. “6:30?”
“Me?” says Carolyn.
“Of course,” says Ted. “Who else?”
He’s right—neither Reuben nor I would be caught dead rock climbing—but the remark comes out sarcastic and a little cruel.
“Sure,” says Carolyn. “I’ll meet you at the wall.”
At 11:00 p.m., Reuben and Carolyn get up to leave. We walk them down the porch steps to their Jeep. Reuben’s arm is around Carolyn’s waist and they stumble slightly, trying to walk side by side down the narrow stairs. For a second I feel Ted’s hand at the small of my back. Then it goes away so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
“I have to tell you guys something,” she says. “I’m going to burst.” She turns to me. “We’re adopting a baby girl from Romania. She’s not coming for another three weeks, but I couldn’t wait.” She grabs my hand, not Ted’s. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”
Baby. I remember a time, months ago, when I ran into Carolyn in my gynecologist’s waiting room. It surprised me, then, that Carolyn would need such a doctor; that she possessed the same invisible network of tubes and organs I did. Equipment we’d both opted—I thought—not to use. She’s been trying all along, I think. Trying to have a baby.
“A baby,” I say. For the second time that night I take her in my arms. “A baby.”
I can imagine her as a mother. I’ve seen the transformation before, ambitious friends who quit their jobs in advertising or finance; glamorous friends who cut their hair and began wearing sweat suits. Somehow on Carolyn motherhood will look different, a breathtaking feat.
Ted won’t see Carolyn for a couple of months. Week after week she’ll break their climbing date. “She’s busy with the baby,” I’ll tell him; but he’ll be dejected, inconsolable, like Buck when we leave for a weekend and put him in the kennel. When Reuben and Carolyn finally invite us to their place, Ted will bring gifts he picked out himself: a miniature fishing vest, a GoreTex windbreaker. “It’s technical,” he’ll say of the windbreaker, as though the baby might find herself in a rainy wilderness where hypothermia was a danger. Carolyn will exclaim over the tiny clothes, but she’ll fold them and put them back in their boxes, and Ted will know that he has lost her.
Ted doesn’t know any of this now, but he suspects. I feel it in his body, his arm creeping around my waist. Together we watch the Jeep back out of the driveway. Carolyn drives one-handed, her left arm hanging out the window. We stand in the yard a long time, until the red taillights disappear at the end of the street.
Picnic Picks
Three picnic pleasers that won’t spoil the fun (or your summer diet)!
Tabbouleh
(Makes 4 to 6 servings)
Pack up some lettuce wraps or pita bread and hummus and scoop on the tabbouleh. This traditionally Middle Eastern dish is becoming a popular American picnic treat.
- 1 cup bulgur wheat, washed
- 2 cups water
- 2 cups tomatoes, seeded and chopped
- 1 cup green onions, finely chopped
- 2 cups parsley, washed and finely chopped
- ½ cup fresh mint leaves, finely chopped
- 1 cucumber, diced
- salt and pepper
- allspice
- 1 tablespoon sumac (optional)
- juice of 2 lemons
- ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
Directions:
Place bulgur in bowl. Heat water in microwave until hot, but not boiling, about 1½ minutes. Carefully pour hot water over bulgur. Cover bowl
with plastic wrap and let stand, about 45 minutes. In separate bowl, combine all vegetables and seasonings. When bulgur is done soaking, drain in strainer, pressing with spoon to squeeze out water. Add bulgur and lemon juice to vegetables and mix. Drizzle with olive oil just before serving.
Macaroni Salad
(Makes 4 to 6 servings)
Try swapping the mayo in your favorite salads—potato, egg, chicken, tuna, ham, pasta—with vegan mayonnaise. The dairy-free product is generally made with soy milk, vegetable oil, and lemon juice and contains no cholesterol. Try this lips-MAC ‘n salad at your next summer cookout.
- 2 cups uncooked whole-wheat macaroni pasta
- 1/2 cup vegan mayo
- 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
- 2 tablespoons dijon mustard
- 3 tablespoons sugar
- salt and pepper
- 2 stalks of celery, rinsed and chopped
- 1 carrot, peeled and chopped
- 1/2 small red onion, finely chopped
- 2 tablespoons black olives, chopped
Cook pasta according to directions. Rinse, drain, and set aside. In large bowl, whisk mayo, vinegar, mustard, and salt and pepper (to taste). Add celery, carrot, onion, and olives to mixture. Stir in the macaroni, cover, and chill for for 24 hours.
Mayo-Free Potato Salad
(Makes 4 servings)
No mayo and no mustard? You’ve got to try it to believe in this delicious new take on taters.
- 2 1/2 pounds Idaho potatoes, cut into large chunks
- 1/2 cup low-sodium broth
- 2 tablespoons black olives, finely chopped
- 1 red bell pepper, finely chopped
- 2 stalks celery, finely chopped
- 1/2 medium red onion, finely chopped
- 1 1/2 tablespoon pickle relish
- 1 lemon, zested and juiced
- 2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
- 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
- Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Place potato chunks in medium pot. Fill with cold water and bring to boil. Add salt and cook potatoes until tender, about 12-15 minutes. Once the potatoes are tender, drain and return to warm pot to dry.
Add the broth, olives, red bell pepper, celery, onion, relish, lemon zest and juice, red wine vinegar, and oil. Season with salt and pepper.
Plan Now for Safety on Memorial Day
“We want people to have fun on Memorial Day weekend, which officially kicks off summer,” said Dr. Angela Gardner, president of the American College of Emergency Physicians (ACEP). “But having fun also means staying safe, using good judgment and taking simple precautions that will help keep you out of the ER and most importantly, keep you alive.”
Top 5 Tips from the American College of Emergency Physicians:
Safe Meals: Use a meat thermometer. Cook fresh poultry to 165 F, hamburgers to 160 F, and beef to at least 145 F. Refrigerate all perishable food within 2 hours, 1 hour if the temperature outside is above 90 degrees F. Keep uncooked meats away from other foods.
Safe Grilling: Thoroughly clean a grill of any grease or dust. On gas grills, check tubes leading into the burner for any blockages from insects or food grease and replace connectors if needed. Do not use a grill in a garage, breezeway, carport, porch, or near any surface that can catch fire. Always follow the manufacturer’s instructions that accompany the grill.
Safe in the Water: Don’t drink alcohol when swimming or boating. Wear a lifejacket whenever you are on a boat. Make sure young children are supervised at all times when near the beach, on a boat, or by a pool or hot tub. Don’t swim alone or in bad weather. Learn to swim and teach your children to swim. We also recommend that you learn CPR in case of an emergency.
Safe in the Sun: Protect against sunburn and heat stroke. Wear sunscreen with an SPF of 15 or higher and apply it generously throughout the day. Wear a hat outdoors and UV-blocking sunglasses to protect your eyes. Drink plenty of water, especially when in the sun or sweating heavily. If you feel faint or nauseous, get into a cool place immediately.
Safe on the Road: Don’t drink alcohol and drive or travel with anyone who has been drinking. Wear your seatbelt at all times. Make sure your vehicle has been properly serviced and is in good working shape before a long road trip. Familiarize yourself with your surroundings and know the location of the nearest emergency room in case of an emergency.
“Many of the factors that will determine your safety over Memorial Day weekend—and any time this summer—come down to good decision-making and common sense,” said Dr. Gardner. “As someone who sees the consequences up close, my best advice is: know your limits, be mindful of certain risks and stay smart.”
Whistle Stops
Riding the rails on a vintage train may be the ultimate joy ride, an irresistible combination of adventure, history, and romance. America’s scenic railroads curve through wine country, back country, mountains, and river valleys. You never know what’s around the bend, but on these seven lines, count on something spectacular. While you can usually get tickets on the day of the trip, buying them in advance (especially for the popular wine tours) is recommended, particularly for weekend trips.
The American Rail |
Waiting On A Train An in-depth and scenic view of the past, present, and future of trains in America. |
Whistle Stops 5 classic American rail journeys for your next adventure. |
A Love of Rails An inside look at model train collecting—a consuming passion. |
Post Exclusive: James McCommons Will passenger-rails experience a rebirth in America? James McCommons spent a year riding trains in his search for an answer. |
From the Archives: the Passenger Rail Articles from the archive of America’s oldest magazine. |
Durango, Colorado
970-247-2733
Full service to Silverton runs May 8 through October. Winter trips to Cascade Canyon, 26 miles, run November through May. Tickets start at $81 adults, $49 children (ages 4-11).* Deluxe seating, packages are available.
Maine Eastern Railroad
Hop aboard a restored Art Deco-era streamliner for a 57-mile ride along the rocky midcoast of Maine. The train travels between Brunswick, home of Bowdoin College, and Rockland, lobster capital of the world. (The Maine Lobster Festival in Rockland annually attracts 75,000 visitors, who consume more than 20,000 pounds of lobster!) The scenery changes from the first mile to the last. Every bend of the tracks—and there are more than 100 turns—and every one of the 33 bridge crossings reveals another photo op: deer, moose, wild turkeys, woods, clam diggers, and colorful buoys marking lobster traps. Luxe cars feature overstuffed, reclining seats, lots of legroom, and large picture windows.
Rockland, Maine
866-637-2457
Regular service runs May 23-October 25, 2010, with special holiday trains in December. Visit online or call for ticket prices.
Napa Valley Wine Train
Three hours, 36 miles, and a four-course gourmet meal make a trip on the Napa Valley Wine Train as much about the food as the views. It runs through the heart of the valley’s most storied wineries, such as Rubicon, Robert Mondavi, and Opus One. Think Orient Express, American-style. Most coaches have plush, overstuffed seating, hand-rubbed mahogany paneling, and velvet drapery. Sign up for a lunch or dinner excursion with reserved seating in a nearly century-old refurbished Pullman or elevated Dome car. If it’s strictly scenery you’re after, book a seat in the restored Silverado car. Lunch is optional and you can simply BYOZ—bring your own zinfandel (or favorite varietal) for a $15 corkage fee.
Napa, California
800-427-4124
Year-round excursions. $49.50 adults, $25 children (age 12 and under) for Silverado car with a la carte menu; Gourmet trains start at $94 adults, $50 children (ages 2-12).* Crown and first-class cars extra.
Great Smoky Mountains Railroad
A century ago, a visitor described the young railroad that snaked through western North Carolina as “little more than two streaks of rust and a right-of-way.” These days, a trip aboard the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad is pure joy. Choose between two routes. The Nantahala Gorge excursion is a four-and-a-half-hour, 44-mile round-trip ride crossing Fontana Lake on a 100-foot-high trestle bridge to breathtaking Nantahala Gorge. Warm, moist air over the cold water creates a mystical fog. The trip includes a one-hour layover at the Nantahala Outdoor Center, a whitewater rafting and adventure resort. The Tuckasegee River trip travels 32 miles through old railroad towns with a layover in quaint Dillsboro, a town that looks something like a Thomas Kinkade painting and is known for its artisan shops.
Train aficionado? For an extra fee, enjoy the best spot of all with the engineer and a front-view seat in the cab of the locomotive.
Bryson City, North Carolina
828-586-8811
Nantahala Gorge excursions run throughout the year. Tuckasegee River excursions run June 22-August 14 and October 4-28, 2010. $49 adults, $29 children.*
Mt. Rainier Scenic Railroad
Herds of huge Roosevelt elk are prolific along the route of the Mt. Rainier Scenic Railroad, but the “wow” moment of the 18-mile journey comes when the rolling stock crosses the Nisqually River trestle and towering Mount Rainier comes into view. The train navigates through valleys, over mountain streams and through the foothills of Rainier. There’s a leg-stretching stop upon reaching the “gem of the Northwest”—Mineral Lake, home to the 10-pound trout.
Some cars date back a century. Both diesel and steam locomotives are in service. Choose among a standard antique car, a roofless open car, or a windowless “clopen” car. New for 2010 is the Nisqually River Observation car. Originally built in 1917 as a mine rescue car, it’s been beautifully transformed into a first-class lounge.
Mineral, Washington
888-STEAM11
Special holiday excursions are scheduled throughout the year. Regular excursions run Memorial Day through October. $20 adults, $15 children (ages 4-12).* Peak summer excursions extra.
*Ticket prices for all railroads subject to change and may vary by season.
Waiting on a Train
In a throaty roar, the Capitol Limited rumbled out of the train sheds of Chicago’s Union Station right on schedule. My seatmate, Jon, was a chatty computer programmer from Cleveland. After the conductor punched our tickets, we went up to the observation-lounge car for a snack and conversation. Ours was one of those pleasant encounters of train travel: good talk with a stranger, time to linger over coffee, and the panorama of America going by the window.
The evening sun tinged the smoke a reddish-gray as it curled up from Gary’s steel mills. Indiana corn fields, ragged with last year’s stubble and damp with winter runoff, awaited spring planting. In eastern Ohio, night came on and the land went black. Blinking red crossing gates, the sodium lamps of main streets, and the window glow of farmhouses streamed past the window. Intermodal freight trains—double stacked with scores of shipping containers—rushed by the opposite way. After Toledo, I went back to my coach seat, wrapped myself in a sports coat, and slept to Pittsburgh, the bump and sway of the rails a familiar balm.
The American Rail |
Waiting On A Train An in-depth and scenic view of the past, present, and future of trains in America. |
Whistle Stops 5 classic American rail journeys for your next adventure. |
A Love of Rails An inside look at model train collecting—a consuming passion. |
Post Exclusive: James McCommons Will passenger-rails experience a rebirth in America? James McCommons spent a year riding trains in his search for an answer. |
From the Archives: the Passenger Rail Articles from the archive of America’s oldest magazine. |
In the previous year, I’d ridden 26,000 miles on Amtrak trains, researching a book on the future of passenger rail. This coach seat to New York was a freebie earned from all the miles racked up on my Amtrak Rewards card. I could have flown, as most Americans do on business trips, but I wanted “train time”: the opportunity to unwind, read news papers, write on my laptop, and zone out on the landscape.
Only 2 percent of Americans have ridden an intercity passenger train, not a surprising statistic considering the median age of the population is 37 and American railroads gave up passenger trains in 1971, when Amtrak was created by Congress. Since that time, Amtrak has provided only a bare-bones national network, so for most Americans, a train isn’t a travel option. Finally, that may be changing.
Railroads and passenger trains are poised to expand in ways unimaginable just a few years ago. The $4-per-gallon gas crisis in 2008; the meltdown of the domestic auto industry; jammed and crumbling highways; stressed airports; a renewed focus on infrastructure improvements; the drive for a greener, more efficient economy; and the awarding of billions in federal stimulus dollars for high-speed trains all bode well for rail transportation. Even the big freight railroads, who own nearly all the nation’s rail infrastructure, have signaled a new cooperative attitude regarding passenger trains. They know that when the Great Recession is over, business will bloom again, and they’ll need government help to expand the infrastructure—not just for passenger trains, but for the intermodal trains that are surely taking market share from the trucking industry.
Warren Buffett, perhaps the country’s most respected investor and one with an expansive time horizon, sees American railroads as an industry with a bright future. Last fall, he and his investment company, Berkshire Hathaway, plunked down $26.7 billion to acquire Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railway (BNSF), the nation’s second biggest railroad. It already owned about one-third of the company’s stock.
Buffet, the so-called Oracle of Omaha who promotes value investing, called the purchase “a huge bet on that company. It’s an all-in wager on the economic future of the United States.”
A rail renaissance is underway. “Last century was the automotive century. I think the 21st is fixing to be the railroad century,” says Gil Carmichael, a former federal railroad administrator and the founder of the Intermodal Transportation Institute at the University of Denver.
Making it happen will require investment. Since the 1960s, the nation has lost nearly half of its rail infrastructure as railroads consolidated, removed tracks, and abandoned whole routes. Still, 150,000 miles remain, and these tracks run from city center to city center.
Carmichael and others are promoting Interstate II, or the Steel Interstate, a plan to double and triple track 20,000 to 30,000 miles of existing freight right of way. The tracks would be grade separated—meaning intersecting roads would run under or over rather than across the tracks. Intermodal freights could run 90 mph, passenger trains up to 125 mph, and heavy coal and grain trains could go their own slow speed. Initially, power would come from diesel locomotives, but eventually the corridors could be electrified, getting juice from greener sources, such as wind, solar, and biomass plants. Nuclear power is back in the mix, too.
“No leap in technology is needed to electrify trains. We know how to do that. The right of ways are already in place—we just need to expand them,” Carmichael tells me. “Putting billions into a rail corridor program would create jobs and build for the future.”
Some states are already ahead of the curve in this regard. In 2006, Amtrak and the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation spent $145 million to lay welded rail, put in concrete ties, straighten curves, erect an electrical infrastructure, and create a high-speed service on what’s known as the Keystone Corridor.
But nationwide, improving transportation infrastructure—whether it’s a rail line, a canal, an airport, or a highway—seldom comes quickly, cheaply, or without controversy. Congress created the National Surface Transportation Policy and Revenue Study Commission to recommend where the country should concentrate its resources in the coming decades. At first, the commission wasn’t going to consider rail, reasoning there wasn’t enough data to compare it to highways.
Then, Frank Busalacchi, a commission member and head of Wisconsin’s Department of Transportation, formed a separate “passenger rail working group.” He gathered experts, held public hearings, and even got some commissioners to board a train. In its final report issued in early 2008, the commission called for spending $225 billion annually on infrastructure, including $8 billion to $9 billion each year on intercity rail.
“Those commissioners who thought trains were old fashioned got their eyes opened. When you look out 50 years with perhaps 100 million more citizens, it’s clear you cannot meet the transportation requirements of this country with just air travel and highways,” says Busalacchi. There has to be investment and a shift to more mass transportation by rail.
Without rail, the study estimated, the country will need nine new airports the size of Denver’s and a doubling of the current 49,000-mile interstate highway system.
At 5 a.m., the Capitol Limited dropped me and a handful of passengers in downtown Pittsburgh, where we had a two-and-half-hour wait before boarding the Pennsylvanian to New York. The station was chilly; food came from vending machines, and outside, the city was still asleep. I walked a few blocks but failed to find a restaurant for coffee and breakfast.
If I’d been in Germany or a dozen other First-World countries running national rail systems, my connecting train would have waited across the platform or arrived within minutes. The station would be busy with people, restaurants, and newsstands.
It used to be that way in America. We had grand terminals and the best rail system in the world, built in the 19th and early 20th centuries by privately owned railroads that were subsidized by government through land grants, easements, legislation, and generous loans. Railroads made modern life possible and knitted together a disparate people and sprawling geography, said John Hankey, a historian and former curator of the Baltimore and Ohio (B&O) Railroad Museum.
“Good transportation is that important. By nature, we ought to be five different countries. The reason we aren’t is the railroad,” he says.
But railroads also were monopolies, big corporations wielded by tycoons and Wall Streeters. Their errant ways and fearsome reputation lead to heavy government regulation. When automobiles and cheap oil came along, federal and state governments saw no need to help the private railroads. Instead, they poured billions into subsidizing roads.
The decline in train ridership was well underway by World War II, when military research and development in aviation—again funded by government—led to the emergence of commercial aviation. But the stake in the heart of the privately run passenger train was the interstate highway system. Those wide, concrete swaths with nary an intersection or stoplight beckoned us to hit the roads in tens of millions of gas guzzlers churned out by Detroit.
For the average American, cars versus trains became a simple process of substitution, even an expression of freedom. No longer captive to a big organization like the railroad, we could go where we wanted, when we wanted.
“We’re Americans. We don’t like to be restricted. We embraced the automobile. It would have been denying our nature not to,” Hankey says.
At the time, trains seemed passé, a relic of another age. Abandoned by passengers, their freight business decimated by trucking, railroads were in terrible shape. In 1970, the nation’s largest railroad company, the Penn Central, went bankrupt and shook the country’s financial system. Other railroads would follow unless government acted.
To avoid nationalizing the industry, Congress came up with Amtrak, an entity that would relieve the railroads of their passenger trains. In return, the railroads agreed to give Amtrak priority over their routes, but even today passenger trains frequently are shunted to sidings to make way for freights. Sometimes, it’s because there’s just one track and not enough room for all the traffic out there. No surprise then that Amtrak has a long history of poor time performance and marginal service on shared right of ways.
Railway Timetable |
1826 Granite Railway, first commercial railroad in the U.S., opens in Massachusetts. The horse-drawn freight hauler quickly attracts tourists who catch a ride. |
1827 B&O Railroad is chartered to run passengers and freight from Baltimore to the Ohio River. Horsedrawn at first, B&O soon switches to steam engines. |
1830 First American-built steam engine, Best Friend of Charleston (South Carolina), begins regular passenger service, carrying 141 riders six miles. Destroyed in a boiler explosion-another first-a year later. |
1840s-1860s Railways expand from 3,000 to 30,000 miles of track in the U.S. Railroads supplant canals as the primary mode of long-distance transport. |
1869 “Golden spike” driven at Promontory Summit, Utah. Transcontinental Railroad is complete. |
1913 Grand Central Terminal, world’s largest train station, opens in New York. |
1920 Rail travel reaches its peak, carrying 1.2 billion passengers. |
1920s-30s The Great Depression bits into railroad profits and ridership. |
1934 Fast, efficient steamliners arrive as the Union Pacific M-10,000 and the Burlington Zephyr revive flagging passenger service. |
1940s-60s After World War II, cheaper auto and air travel means fewer passengers; railroads focus on freight, or go bust. |
1971 Amtrack takes over passenger rail, but even in the energy crisis, ridership declines. |
2009 Government stimulus package leads to rail revivla and infrastructure improvements-paving way for bullet trains. |
The problems really go back to the beginning, when Congress gave Amtrak two mandates—run a nationwide system and create efficiencies that would turn a profit. Amtrak has never made a profit, and in its 39-year history has lurched from one financial crisis to another. To stay solvent, it’s needed about a billion dollars a year in subsidy.
In terms of government dollars going into the transportation modes, that’s a drop in the bucket. But more importantly, profitability of passenger trains was a ridiculous notion to begin with, says William Withuhn, former curator of Transportation at the Smithsonian National Museum of American History.
“We’ve been hearing since 1971 that if Amtrak was reformed, got new equipment, or got rid of certain trains and routes, it would make a profit. It’s all a crock,” he says. “Passenger trains do not make a profit. Neither do roads or airports. That’s not the purpose of transportation. It’s national cohesion; it’s about moving people where they need to be. The reason America doesn’t have a world-class passenger rail transportation system is because it hasn’t paid for it.”
When the Pennsylvanian left Pittsburgh shortly after dawn, it took nearly five hours to reach Harrisburg (2 hours longer than driving the Pennsylvania Turnpike), but finally I had breakfast and a couple of newspapers to read. And for the first time, I traveled over the famous Horseshoe curve near Altoona, which was built in the 1850s to climb the Alleghenies. At the state capital, the Pennsylvanian switched out its diesel for an electrical locomotive, shook off the doldrums and cranked up to 100 mph. It wasn’t like the TGV I’d ridden in France, but it was a fast train—a demonstration of what can happen with investment. Trains aren’t just rapid but regular on this corridor—14 times daily each way—and frequency is what builds ridership. It’s the mantra I heard from rail experts everywhere—dependable, frequent, and fast service on corridors 100 to 500 miles long (distances too close to fly and too inconvenient to drive) are the sweet spots for rail.
Like Pennsylvania, a few state DOTs subsidize Amtrak service between their major cities, even going as far to purchase their own trains because Amtrak is too cash strapped to provide equipment. Washington has put $100 million into the Amtrak Cascades corridor between Portland and Seattle. Wisconsin subsidizes the Hiawatha service between Milwaukee and Chicago and plans an extension to Madison. Illinois will soon have 110-mph-Amtrak service between Springfield and St. Louis.
California’s efforts dwarf all others. In the past 20 years, it has invested $2.2 billion in corridor trains and created a network of feeder buses and light rail that extends Amtrak service to 80 percent of its residents. In January 2010, it received $2 billion of stimulus money to begin building a 200-mph-train from Los Angeles to San Francisco. Florida received $1.25 billion for a high-speed train from Tampa to Orlando. Both will run on new right of ways separate from Amtrak and the freight railroads. If these investments between the states and federal government continue, America may see its first true bullet train in 10 years and an Amtrak system that fulfills its promise. There may even be an Interstate II.
In Philadelphia, I switched to the Acela, currently America’s fastest train. Capable of 200 mph, the Acela averages just 80 mph on the Northeast Corridor between Boston and Washington, D.C., because of curves, a patchwork electrical system, and tunnels that go back to the Civil War. The corridor infrastructure needs billions in rehabilitation to make it truly high-speed.
Still, more than 100 trains move along it each day, and Amtrak captures half of the air/rail market between the big East Coast cities where trains never went entirely out of fashion.
My Acela crossed the Delaware River into New Jersey, ran through the gritty streets of Trenton, and blew by the auto traffic on I-95. In the Meadowlands, the Manhattan skyline and a bright, full moon rose up on the horizon.
It took 22 hours to cover the 900 miles from Chicago. In the 1930s, the Pennsylvania Railroad’s Broadway Limited did the same run from Chicago to New York in 16 hours. And it didn’t arrive at a charmless, utilitarian Penn Station complex, but at Pennsylvania Station, a gem of Beaux-Arts style architecture, and truly one of the great buildings of New York.
They tore it down in 1964 in the name of urban renewal, another casualty of a country that allowed its passenger rail system to go to seed.
As the preservationists said then of Pennsylvania Station—never again.
The One-Man Army
Ever hear of a one-man army? We hadn’t until we received a letter from Wilbur (Wib) Lynam. “In the June 9, 1945 issue of The Saturday Evening Post there was an article…entitled ‘The War’s Cushiest Billet,’ [PDF]” said the letter. “The article was concerning the experiences of a lone American sergeant serving on the island of Norfolk in the South Pacific. I happen to be that sergeant.” Naturally, this letter from 88-year-old Lynam piqued our interest and we had to read the 1945 article about the young Sergeant Lynam.
Over 600 miles northwest of New Zealand, Norfolk was a tiny, peaceful island before the Japanese eyed it in 1942. “Norfolk Islanders, for the most part,” the article recounts, “were still dreaming about their forbears who put old Captain Bligh off the Bounty and sailed off to new lands…” The descendants of Master’s Mate Fletcher Christian and other mutineers “brought the Bounty to Pitcairn Island. By 1853, Pitcairn had become crowded and the mutineers’ descendants petitioned Queen Victoria for a new home.” They were settled on Norfolk Island (which they got for a steal, as you will read in the article).
“Fletcher Christian’s a good friend of mine,” Sergeant Lynam stated in the article. “He doesn’t look like Clark Gable, by any means, because Fletch is only twelve. But he’s a long-distance descendant of the man who led the mutiny on the bounty.”
Fast forward to World War II. A new airstrip on the island and its traffic control station were vital for supply planes heading to the Solomon Islands. Sergeant Lynam was sent to oversee things, landing “a choice job, one of the Army’s best,” according to the article. “His friends aren’t going to believe him after the war,” the author states. “One lone American with a staff of four women on a South Pacific Island.”
It was unusual that a one-man army commanded a location. So much so, that a general stopping off at Norfolk “asked to see the commanding general of American troops, and was so surprised when he was confronted by the entire garrison in the person of Sergeant Lynam that he forgot what he wanted to say.”
The American “troops” on Norfolk “can’t complain because of the lack of sports facilities,” says the article. “Sergeant Lynam shoots a neat 50 on the islands nine-hole golf course. The swimming along the sand beach is tops. There are three or four tennis courts and unlimited horses to ride.” Pretty top-notch for a former penal colony. Sergeant Lynam was also well versed in the lore and legends of the island’s times of housing convicts.
From his origins in Indiana, he settled in South Haven, Michigan. The former “one-man army” is still married to “the love of my life” after 63 years. Life hasn’t always been “cushy” – he suffered from malaria three times after serving on Guadalcanal. In South Haven “I have had 2 heart attacks and a few bad falls, but all with full recovery and am healthy and happy and will be 89 years of age on May 26.” Happy birthday from your friends at the Post, Wib!
Norfolk “was a truly fascinating experience that I will always cherish,” wrote Mr. Lynam. “At the ripe old age of 89, I am still alive and well and still live with my memories of beautiful Norfolk Island and my pride at having been featured in the article in The Saturday Evening Post.” We share this article with pride in veterans like Sergeant Lynam and our current homesick troops who will understand that, scenic Island Paradise or not, the young Sergeant was quoted as saying, “I’d trade it all for an Indiana snowstorm.”
Read “The War’s Cushiest Billet” by Capt. Carlton Zucker [PDF].
May 22, 1947: The Cold War Begins
The Cold War seems unreal now. But it seemed unreal in its own time, too.
It involved nearly every nation on earth, and used a bewildering array of weapons: economic warfare, diplomatic maneuvering, and endless propaganda. And though it was a “cold” war in the west, it frequently erupted into long, bloody conflicts in southeast Asia, Africa, and Central America.
Here in America, the Cold War became the real and daily threat of sudden nuclear annihilation for 42 years, which only ended in 1991 when the Soviet Union suddenly imploded.
There was no signing of a peace treaty because there had never really been a war. If the Cold War had a formal beginning, it was probably May 22, 1947. On this day, President Harry S. Truman signed into law what might be his most durable legacy: The Truman Doctrine.
At the time, the Soviet Union was actively fomenting revolution in the post-war world, and gambling that the United Nations were tired of fighting. Soviet forces had already seized control of much of eastern Europe, and begun walling off eastern Germany. It was also looking to expand into the Mediterranean, where governments were still staggering from the war.
Great Britain, financially drained from six years of war, was unable to continue its aid to democratic governments in Greece and Turkey. The United States feared these countries would fall to Russian domination without British help.
The Truman Doctrine launched America’s counter-offensive to the Soviets with a grant of $400 million in aid to stabilize the Turkish and Greek governments.
The Truman Doctrine committed America to containing communism. It was the opening of a broader initiative that eventually granted $17 billion to help war-torn Europe rebuild its economies and peoples.
The Post provided extensive coverage of these events and Americans’ attitudes about what their government’s initiatives. A short editorial article from the June 7, 1947 issue was titled “Most Americans Think the U.N. Worth Saving.” Addressing Americans’ attitude toward the appropriation of monies to Turkey and Greece, it says:
“They accept the necessity of sending food and extending military aid to Greece and Turkey, but they have a feeling that the scheme is too much like the establishment of a military bridgehead and too little like economic reconstruction.”
The American people were also extremely concerned that the money and aid were not going to fix the “root” of the problem. The problem at the time was perceived as:
“We have done too little to prevent Europe from rotting at the core – i.e., Germany – and, as a consequence, find ourselves trying desperately to patch her up around the edges.”
This latter statement was clearly referring to the Marshall Plan’s $17 billion in aid.
In “Why The Truman Doctrine Makes Sense,” appearing just a few weeks later, the editors state that the US had averted a disaster in the Mediterranean.
“State Department officials are certain that, if the United States had not acted promptly upon the announcement of British withdrawal, Greece would have been the victim of a coup d’etat within a few weeks.”
Later that month, the editors wondered about the proper recipients of aid under the Truman Doctrine in “Must We Lend Britain More Billions?”
“Our Truman Doctrine makes no sense at all if the United States is to pour hundreds of millions of dollars into puny countries like Greece and Turkey and Korea without simultaneously guaranteeing Britain against economic collapse.”
History has shown the wisdom of Truman’s plan. The United States pumped a fortune into Western Europe, but it stabilized global politics enough to ensure a 44 year stalemate.
It could be argued on a much larger scale that Truman’s foreign policy have led to America’s present-day involvement around the world.
It must have been unsettling to many Americans in 1947 to hear their governments was getting ready to commit billions upon billions of dollars in aid to ensure global peace, but it proved, ultimately, to be a good investment. And it might give us reason to be hopeful for peace beyond today’s terrorism.
The Geometry of Love, by John Cheever
How convenient to reduce your marital difficulties to a mathematical formula! How convenient-and how dangerous!
Read “The Geometry of Love” by John Cheever [PDF]
Classic Covers: “Covering America” Art Show
The Post is proudly showing off paintings it made famous in your parents’ living rooms each week. The “Covering America” Art Show will be in Lafayette, Indiana (at the Art Museum of Greater Lafayette) from May 21 – September 11, 2010, with plans in the works for future exhibitions. From stunning landscapes to rousing brass bands, from churches to baseball fields, The Saturday Evening Post cover artists presented America during the 1950s and 1960s like no other medium. Come take a peek!
Singing Praise
Dick Sargent – March 7, 1959
“Never before has that little boy heard anything like Mrs. Bellows,” the editors said of this painting. Typical of artist Dick Sargent’s delightful humor, “Singing Praise” was a cover in March 1959. We don’t have to tell you the boy’s face is priceless (but we’ll say it anyway).
Walking Home in the Rain
John Clymer – October 20, 1962
The exhibit features several John Clymer covers, and this one from 1962 combines the artist’s talent for painting nature with a charming scene of children walking home in a chill autumn rain. The artist came across the scene in Rockport, Massachusetts while traveling and “looking for Americana”. “If there is a puddle to be found,” the artist noted, “kids will find it and walk in it.” Well, gee, isn’t that what boots are for?
Construction Crew
Norman Rockwell – August 21, 1954
This is progress? Home plate is giving way to the bulldozer for a new house. Always one for authenticity, Norman Rockwell found the boys by knocking on doors in Stockbridge and asking for members of the Little League team. Some were used as models in later covers. Is the tiny boy sucking his fingers too cute or what?
Patriotic Band Concert
Stevan Dohanos – July 7, 1951
Stevan Dohanos did over 120 memorable Post covers, and readers loved this one from 1951. There is a lot going on at this Fourth of July concert in Delhi, New York. Grandparents listening, dogs and kids checking things out, sailors chatting, and tiny tots are having meltdowns. The editors noted, “When Dohanos set up his easel opposite Town Hall, passers-by forgathered to see why, and the first thing they knew, the were on canvas.”
Jamming with Dad
John Falter – December 1, 1956
Dad crashes junior’s jam session and the guys are, well, less than enthused. Artist John Falter also did well over 100 Saturday Evening Post covers, and life with kids was a favorite topic. Note the college band photo on the wall – straw boaters and all. The photo montage of jazz greats gives us a clue to the type of music dad finds cool, and the kids…well, let’s just say they don’t dig all that jazz.
St. Bernard in Lamp Shop
George Hughes – October 25, 1952
Another frequent Post cover artist, George Hughes, clearly sympathizes with the nervous clerk in this painting from 1952. Editors noted, “it can be said in this lady’s favor that she would not take a bull into a china shop.” One swipe of Bernie’s tail would probably make the point moot.
Stroke Advances
Surviving a stroke by recognizing its symptoms and getting care quickly is of course critical to stroke recovery. But it is only the first step. Today, promising new therapies are giving stroke victims the tools and technology they need to recover—and reclaim—their lives.
In this two-part series, we offer exclusive online information about stroke symptoms, risk factors, treatments, and rehabilitation strategies to accompany the May 2010 Post Investigates feature: “Stroke Advances,” in which researchers tap into the brain’s remarkable ability to rewire itself, by Anne Underwood.
First Things First
Remember that strokes strike quickly, and you should, too. If you think someone may be having a stroke, think F-A-S-T:
F = FACE
Ask the person to smile. Does one side of the face droop?
A = ARMS
Ask the person to raise both arms. Does one arm drift downward?
S = SPEECH
Ask the person to repeat a simple phrase. Does the speech sound slurred or strange?
T = TIME
If the person shows any of these symptoms, time is important. Call 911 or get to the hospital fast. Brain cells are dying.
According to the National Stroke Association, a stroke occurs when a blood vessel breaks (called a hemorrhagic stroke) or a clot in a blood vessel that leads to the brain eventually becomes lodged and blocks blood flow to the brain (an ischemic stroke). Stroke symptoms can come and go as damage progresses, and may be difficult to recognize.
“This is the time when you need to be aware of specific stroke symptoms. Watch for them in loved ones especially, because they can be hard to notice in yourself,” advises Dr. Mateo Dayo of the Venice-Ocala Heart Institute.
Women at Risk
Stroke statistics for women are alarming. While many think of stroke as a man’s disease, women are more likely than men to suffer a disabling stroke, and, sadly, to die from it. In fact, strokes pose a greater threat to women’s health than breast cancer.
A unique set of risks—including hormones (related to birth control pills and hormone replacement therapy), migraines, and pregnancy—put women at special stroke risk.
Lack of awareness also plays a role. In a recent survey, 40 percent of women said they were only somewhat or not at all concerned about having a stroke in their lifetime.
Yet another challenge is that stroke symptoms in women may differ from those that men typically experience.
Common warning signs of stroke include: sudden numbness or weakness, especially on one side of the body; confusion and trouble speaking or understanding; trouble seeing in one or both eyes; trouble walking, dizziness, and loss of balance or coordination; and severe headache with no known cause.
But women may experience sudden face and limb pain, hiccups, nausea, general weakness, chest pain, shortness of breath, and palpitations, according to American Stroke Association experts.
Health professionals are aware of these differences. Unfortunately, many stroke victims and their loved ones aren’t.
“Women experience 60 percent more stroke deaths than men every year,” Dr. Dayo says. “That’s why it is so important for women to be aware of any changes in their body’s normal functions. Call 911 and remember when symptoms first appeared so early medical action can be taken.”
Plan Now For ER Stroke Care
Timely treatment with the clot-busting drug tPa (tissue plasminogen activator) at a hospital certified as a primary stroke center can help the 85 percent of patients whose strokes are caused by clots in the brain.
“Sadly,” says Dr. Ralph Sacco, a neurologist and president of the American Heart Association (of which the American Stroke Association is a division) in the May 2010 Post article, “only about 5 percent of patients actually get it because they don’t reach the hospital in time or they don’t go to a primary stroke center, which can give it rapidly.”
Six out of 10 Americans don’t know where stroke-certified hospitals are in their communities. To find stroke care near you, click here http://maps.heart.org/quality/ for a stroke Web mapping site from the American Heart Association and enter your address or zip code.
Care from a Distance
About 80 percent of Americans live within 60 minutes of a primary stroke center.
But, if you are not one of them, try searching for a nearby hospital that is equipped with a sophisticated telecommunications link to a specialized stroke center.
Such collaborations, called stroke “systems of care,” enable physicians in suburban and rural areas to provide fast and coordinated treatment and are gradually emerging across the country.
St. Luke’s Episcopal Health System in Houston, Texas, recently implemented a stroke system of care with the help of GE Healthcare.
“The minutes and hours following the initial onset of stroke symptoms are very critical to a patient’s outcome or survival. However, most often strokes don’t happen in the lobby of St. Luke’s,” said Connie Boyd, Service Line Director of Neuroscience and leader of the System of Care project within St. Luke’s. “Working with GE Healthcare, we realized that establishing relationships with community hospitals, some of which may even be considered competitive, was key to extending the reach of our stroke care capabilities and ultimately improving patient outcomes.”
Leslie Welborn and his wife, Ann, are grateful for the innovative approach to stroke care.
After her husband suffered a stroke in January, Ann took him to their local hospital, St. Elizabeth’s, which is located about three hours from Houston. Fortunately, the facility was involved in the St. Luke’s system of care.
Guidance from the experts in Houston enabled local physicians to quickly treat Welborn with tPA, dissolving the clot that was causing his stroke and buying much-needed time to transport him safely to St. Luke’s for surgery.
Less than one week later, Leslie returned home. “I can’t believe how well he is doing,” reports Ann—thanks to a system of collaborative care that stroke experts hope will help save countless lives.
Coming in Part 2: Promising new rehab methods help stroke survivors reclaim their lives.
“Burden-bearing Beastie,” by Fred G. Cooper
Last week, we heard from an Oregonian whose father remembered a poem he had read in the Post 78 years ago. At his request, we dug up the original and sent it along to him. He was nice enough to send us this reply.
You will never know the joy I saw on my dad’s face when he laid eyes on something that he had not seen since 1932. He was trying to memorize this poem while living with his family on their dairy farm in Blodgett, Oregon when the depression forced them to move to Philomath about 10 miles away. During the move, the Saturday Evening Post he was treasuring, became lost forever. He has talked about that poem for as long as I can remember. This is truly an answer to prayer. He will be 93 years old this September and can recite at least a dozen poems he learned as a youth. He never left this area becoming a candy maker, logger, sawmill owner and a pillar of the community. What a gift you have given all of us in locating this treasured memory of my father’s youth. You will always be welcome in Philomath, Oregon.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Steve
Philomath, Oregon
Thanks, Steve.
It’s e-mails like this that archivists live for.
And thanks for bringing this bit of humorous nonsense to our attention. We thought we’d share it with other Post readers.
Spring Cleaning
Ready for spring cleaning? We have terrific Saturday Evening Post covers from the past to inspire you and get you raring to go! Or, if nothing else, to show that misery loves company.
May Queen – J.C. Leyendecker – 5/15/37
We aren’t going to argue with her. This 1937 cover by artist J.C. Leyendecker shows a woman on a mission and she’ll take no prisoners. She stands on a pedestal as the “May Queen” and we suspect we could all use her about now.
Scrubbing the Floor – J.C. Leyendecker – 4/1/39
Another of Leyendecker’s cleaning women is taking no nonsense, either. This 1939 cover shows the man of the house dutifully (fearfully?) getting his tootsies out of the way. The floor must be scrubbed. If you don’t want wet socks, move ‘em, buster!
Cleaning Up after Muddy Husband – Harold Brett – 3/13/20
Another hubby is feeling the heat of spring cleaning, this time on a Country Gentleman cover from 1920. If you come in my house with your muddy boots, mister, be prepared to have a sweeper follow you.
Rug Beater – J.C. Leyendecker – 5/11/40
Man, this Leyendecker guy had everybody cleaning, even Junior! Before he can go play baseball, the youngster from this 1940 cover has to beat the rug. And the dust flies! It’s probably good batting practice.
Spring Cleaning – John Falter – 3/26/49
We love the house on this 1949 cover by artist John Falter. This is one busy household! Hauling out trash, washing windows, cleaning rugs. And a passerby who just can’t help nosing through the trash for treasure. That’s a rather precarious position for the poor guy trying to get a hold of the storm window. The artist said he would go through this routine with his father every spring and “invariably a sudden wind would come up at precisely the wrong moment,” bending his father back at a perilous angle. We happy to report the elder Mr. Falter never toppled off the ladder.
Window Screens – Thornton Utz – 4/10/54
Artist Thornton Utz shows us an unhappy camper. Okay, an unhappy screen cleaner from 1954. Buck up, buddy: the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming and cleaning is good exercise. Somehow, we don’t think our pep talk is helping.