Taxing the Wealthy: The Continuing Controversy

President Obama’s recent talk about a “wealth tax” prompted the media to analyze and criticize the proposal—even though there was very little substance to the idea: no specifics, no numbers, and no chance it would ever get through Congress.

Technically, it wasn’t a “wealth tax” but a “alternative minimal” income tax, which would ensure millionaires paid the same effective tax rate as middle income taxpayers.

Nevertheless, critics promptly named it the “Soak the Rich” tax.

Curiously, this is the same name used to describe a similar plan in 1935. In that year, Franklin D. Roosevelt proposed raising the annual tax rate for individuals earning over $50,000 (roughly equivalent to $800,000 today.)

The Post—ever opposed to Roosevelt and the New Deal—believed that raising taxes on the wealthy was the beginning of a program to redistribute wealth. The rich, according to the editors, couldn’t provide the revenues needed; they simply didn’t have enough money.

The colossal debts which the Government has incurred can never be paid from “wealth taxes,” no matter how nearly confiscatory. The rich are too depleted, in both income and fortune, to yield the sums which are required. Strictly speaking, what the situation calls for is not so much more taxes as more individuals and corporations capable of paying taxes.

They believed the government could only get the revenues it needed by raising taxes on middle-income Americans.

Under any system of private enterprise, the necessary revenues cannot

As part of his re-election campaign, Roosevelt became increasingly critical of big business.

be had except by making people of moderate means pay far more than they now are paying. But an official announcement of such intention would be most unpopular in a political sense at the present time. On the other hand, an appeal to “soak the rich” is one of the oldest and most popular in the whole political game. Naturally, nothing is said at the start about making other people pay. That will come later.

He is an innocent and guileless soul indeed who does not realize that this program of soaking the rich is merely a preliminary to a grinding of the face of the middle class and the poor.

The Post consistently argued against any scheme to make the wealthy pay higher taxes. But this was 1935. Back in 1913, when Congress first approved a peacetime income tax, it held a different opinion. In that year, the editors regarded income tax as an enlightened, fair-minded approach to raising government revenue. And it published an article by Congressman Benton McMillin, who explained why wealthy should contribute more to the country.

Way down in the hearts of the masses of mankind there lurks a strong sense…

that vast accumulations of wealth in the hands of individuals or corporations should help to support the Government under which they are acquired, by which they are protected and without which they would vanish.

Why tax the widow’s mite and the orphan’s bread and not tax these accumulations? Why lay tribute on what we eat and wear, and leave untaxed millions in the hands of those who can never personally consume it, and with whom it is surplus?

If there ever was a time when the concentrated wealth of the land should bear its share of our enormous expense of government, it is now.

There were only two sources of revenue, McMillin said, that could be fairly and practically taxed:

whiskey, wines, beer and tobacco, because, being subject of voluntary consumption, they are more properly taxable than the necessaries of life; and incomes, because thereby each taxed citizen pays in proportion to his ability.

An income tax was more equitable than sales taxes, he wrote, because they put a heavier burden on lower-income taxpayers.

it takes as many yards of cloth to clothe comfortably and as many pounds of sugar, meat, and vegetables to feed bountifully a poor man as a rich one.

Hence, when taxation is based on consumption… the burden is borne unequally—the poor paying more and the rich less than their fair share.

Heretofore we have taxed Want instead of Wealth.

When President Roosevelt put his “wealth tax” proposal into the Revenue Act of 1935, he knew it wouldn’t get far. But it was an election year during the Depression. A growing number of middle- and lower-income voters were feeling impatient for recovery and resentful toward the wealthy, who they believed were responsible for the ailing economy. Demagogues like Senator Huey Long were gaining broad support for programs for redistributing wealth. Roosevelt hoped to win back these voters with a proposal that would be whittled down in Congress to a modest increase.

The Revenue Act that was finally approved raised the top tax bracket from 63% to 79% for any American making over $5 million a year. Which was just one person: John D. Rockefeller.

Classic Covers: The Art of Halloween

We rode our brooms back as far as 1913 to share original Halloween art with you.
Bobbing for Apples by J.C. Leyendecker

Bobbing for Apples by J.C. Leyendecker November 1, 1913

Bobbing for Apples
by J.C. Leyendecker
November 1, 1913

 

Before there were Rockwell covers, there was the great J.C. Leyendecker (a mentor to Rockwell). Leyendecker dressed up these adorable tykes for a neighborhood Halloween party in 1913—apple bobbing and all. This cuteness is quite the contrast with his Halloween cover ten years later (below).

Witches Night Out by J.C. Leyendecker

Witches Night Out by J.C. Leyendecker October 27, 1923

Witches Night Out
by J.C. Leyendecker
October 27, 1923

 

A creepy witch on a chilly, windy night – and a full harvest moon to illuminate her. Looking at her creepy face (sorry, lady), it is a little difficult to remember that this is the same artist famous for that rakishly handsome, chiseled-featured Arrow Shirt man and the slinky, elegant ladies and gentlemen in the 1920s Kuppenheimer clothing advertisements.

Halloween Fiddler by Norman Rockwell

Halloween Fiddler by Norman Rockwell CG October 22, 1921

Halloween Fiddler
by Norman Rockwell
CG October 22, 1921

 

A rarely seen Norman Rockwell cover from 1921 shows a fiddler at a Halloween get-together. It must be a lively tune, judging by the way he’s keeping time with a high-stepping foot. Rockwell did 36 covers for the Post’s sister publication, The Country Gentleman.

Lighting the Pumpkin by Eugene Iverd

Lighting the Pumpkin by Eugene Iverd November 3, 1934

Lighting the Pumpkin
by Eugene Iverd
November 3, 1934

 

This charming cover is from 1934. These kids are ready, dressed in their Halloween best and lighting a giant jack-o’-lantern. Artist Eugene Iverd did many of our best covers of children – see Artist Eugene Iverd’s World of Children, here.

Halloween, 1926 by Edgar Franklin Wittmack

Halloween, 1926 by Edgar Franklin Wittmack October 30, 1926

Halloween, 1926
by Edgar Franklin Wittmack
October 30, 1926

 

This well-dressed young man is regretting going to that Halloween party – there is something very scary out there! This creepy cover is from 1926.

Witch’s Mask by Charles Kaiser

Witch’s Mask by Charles Kaiser by Charles Kaiser

Witch\’s Mask
by Charles Kaiser
October 31, 1942

 

In this 1942 cover by artist Charles Kaiser, a little girl is frightened by the view of this witch’s mask through the window – which begs the question: was the witch winking before?

Limerick Laughs Contest Winner and Runners-Up for Jul/Aug 2011

The staff of the Post is pleased to announce the winner of the Jul/Aug Limerick Laughs Contest, Karen Davis of Camden, Arkansas! For her poem describing the picture to the left, Karen wins a cash prize—and our gratitude for a job well done. If you’d like to enter the Limerick Laughs Contest for our Nov/Dec issue, you can submit your limerick via the entry form here. Now, without further ado, here is Karen’s masterpiece:

While Big Mike was getting a tan

His son got the watering can.

He tipped it and poured it.

Dad snuffled and snorted.

Mom laughed while the little boy ran.

Of course, Karen’s limerick wasn’t the only one we liked! Here are some of our favorite runners-up, in no particular order:

I’m sure that mom carefully chooses

The playthings her little son uses.

But here there’s no doubt

Dad soon will find out

That he who snoozes, loses.

—Eleanor Stratton, Dubln, Ohio

In Mom’s garden the weeds will be gone,

But she said I could water the lawn.

I’ll just give Dad a spray

’Cause it’s hot anyway,

But he may soon utter more than a yawn!

—Virginia R. Wilson, Port Orange, Florida

He had planned a long bask in the sun,

But his boy thought he’d rather have fun.

Though his dad was asleep,

That cold splash made him leap,

And his nap in the sun was all done.

—Mary C. Ryan, Bradford, Pennsylvania

It is clear that the man who lies sunning

Has a son who is bored but quite cunning.

With his face-soaking deed

(And himself in the lead)

He is bound to get Dad up and running!

—Belva D. Sheaf, Pittsford, New York

The family summer vacation

Was spent in backyard recreation.

While Mom planted flowers

Dear Junior sprayed showers

And Dad woke with a “What in tarnation…?!”

—Roberta Nottingham, Greenville, South Carolina

It was such a very small chore

That turned out to be a big bore.

So instead of the flowers

He directed the showers

To where there was more fun in store.

—Edward R. Harvey, The Villages, Florida

When Mom plants and waters her flowers

It seems to have magical powers.

So I’ll try it on Dad,

And I know he’ll be glad,

After all, he’s been sleeping for hours.

—Dorothy Braisted, Staten Island, New York

Dad’s chores for the day were all done.

He chose a short snooze in the sun.

While Mom potted flowers

With no thoughts of showers

Dad’s snooze was rained out by his son!

—Burton Longenbach, Hingham, Massachusetts

From the look on kid’s face I surmise

Dad’s in for a real big surprise.

When hot under the collar

He’s liable to holler

Some words his son won’t recognize.

—Joan Verdeal, Adrvada, Colorado

Classic Covers: The Good Things Autumn Brings


“Geese in Formation Over Marsh” by Paul Bransom

Geese in Formation Over Marsh – Paul Bransom October 1, 1930

“Geese in Formation Over Marsh”
by Paul Bransom
From October 1, 1930

This 1930 cover by artist Paul Bransom (1885-1979) is a striking example of art found in The Country Gentleman magazine, a sister publication to The Saturday Evening Post for many decades. In fact, the Post launched the career of Bransom as a well-known wildlife illustrator with the purchase of some of his paintings for 1907 covers. We will have a feature on this artist soon.


“Missouri Moon” by E.P. Couse

Missouri Moon by E.P. Couse from Sept 1942 Country Gentleman

“Missouri Moon”
by E.P. Couse
From September 1942

Not all of the art was on the covers. Like The Saturday Evening Post, The Country Gentleman magazine featured works of fiction. This beautiful illustration by E.P. Couse was in the September 1942 issue. The story was “Missouri Moon” by MacKinlay Kantor and deals with a Native American threat on the plains. The caption reads, “These ladies and gentlemen are forting up, m’sieur. You shall remain until all danger is gone.”


“Dog with Pheasant” by J.F. Kernan

Dog with Pheasant by J.F. Kernan From November 1934

“Dog with Pheasant”
by J.F. Kernan
From November 1934

American illustrator J.F. Kernan’s wonderful art graced most major publication of the 1920s-’30s—The Saturday Evening Post, Collier’s, Outdoor Life, and, of course, The Country Gentleman among them. This beautiful cover is from November 1934.


“Flower Bouquet” by Kay

Flower bouquet by Kay From November 1940

“Flower Bouquet”
by Kay
From November 1940

Again, browsing inside the magazine, we found a section called “Country Gentlewoman” where the rural ladies had their say. This gem was in a 1940 article called “A Home-Grown Thanksgiving Dinner” where it was suggested that “a house bright with flowers, autumn leaves, and colorful fruits sets the stage for a happy day.” The artist signature is simply “Kay.”


“Lady on a Stool” by Manning De V. Lee

Lady on a Stool by Manning De V. Lee From September 1936

“Lady on a Stool”
by Manning De V. Lee
From September 1936

I couldn’t resist this stylish lady illustrating a September 1936 article called, “The Good Things Autumn Brings.” “Here is the quince,” the author writes, “greenish in color, hard, dry, and quite inedible when raw. But after preserving, it becomes reddish amber in color and has a flavor that only a quince preserve can have. It seems that nothing less than magic could make such a change. What happened to turn the inedible quince into a delicious preserve?”


“Boy Stealing Apples” by J.F. Kernan

Boy Stealing Apples by J.F. Kernan From October 20, 1923

“Harvest Moon”
by Phil Lyford
From October 1934

A 1923 cover by J.F. Kernan shows another one of “the good things autumn brings”—a harvest of sweet, ripe apples! The only problem is the boy ignored the “No Trespassing” sign, and the farmer is raring for justice.


“Harvest Moon” by Phil Lyford

Harvest Moon by Phil Lyford From October 1934

“Harvest Moon”
by Phil Lyford
From October 1934

Speaking of harvest, there is nothing like a bright harvest moon hanging low in the sky. This October 1934 cover by artist Phil Lyford shows that springtime is not the only season for romance.

Broadsides and Suicides: How War Changed During Three Days

Late in October, 1944, two incidents indicated the direction in which modern warfare was moving. In the space of just three days, a longtime foundation of war-making began losing its importance while a new one emerged.

During the battle of Leyte Gulf in the Philippines, ships of America’s 7th fleet surprised a large taskforce of the Japanese fleet at Suriago Bay. Late in the ensuring gun battle between battleships, the Mississippi fired a salvo at the retreating Japanese ships. No one could have known at the time, but that twelve-gun volley was the last salvo fired by one battleship at another. The era of the decisive naval battle was ending.

For over 300 years, battleships had been one of the most important weapons a nation possessed.  By dominating sea lanes, battleships could decide the outcome of wars and the fates of nations.But after this last salvo, battleships stopped engaging each other in direct, decisive battle, and naval warfare came to rely on air and underwater forces.

Just as the age of the battleship ended, the age of the suicide bomber began. This is how William L. Worden, writing for the Post in 1945, described the appearance of kamikazes in Leyte Gulf.

A kamikaze pilot attacks the USS Columbia.

A lone aircraft comes out of a cloud with a strange deliberation. It reaches a spot over the outer rim of ships, and then, seeming more deliberate than ever, the plane tips over into a steep nosedive. It is not a smooth dive. Tracers cut holes in the plane before it is well started down. Bigger shells take off pieces of the wings and crash into the cockpit. But the plane is traveling on a near-vertical course and does not veer.

The plane crashes head-on into the rigging of a ship. A cargo boom swings wildly, wreathed in fire from the plane’s gasoline tanks. The plane [crashes] through radio aerials and cargo lines, and into the sea a hundred feet beyond the target vessel. There it burns awhile, then sinks.

Conservatively, there have been well over 1,000 such dives against shipping all the way from the Philippines to the sea 100 miles off the mouth of Tokyo Bay. [“Kamikaze: Aerial Banzai Charge,” William L. Worden, June 23, 1945]

Suicide dives were not new, as Worden pointed out, nor were they unknown among American fliers.

Individual airmen of most of the world’s flying forces [have], at one time or another, used it as a desperate last-minute attack when they knew they were going to crash anyhow.

You may remember that Maj. Lofton Henderson, of the Marine Corps—for whom Henderson Field at Guadalcanal is named— was last seen diving his flaming, bomb-laden plane into the deck of a Jap carrier that was trying to flee from Midway.

It was also during the battle of Midway that fifteen pilots from a Navy Torpedo Squadron flew directly into the fire of Japanese ships knowing they had almost no chance of survival. (Just one pilot survived.)

The difference between a true suicide dive and the attacks Torpedo Squadron 8 made is an almost indistinguishable hair line.

A kamikaze pilot steers his plane toward a collision with the USS White Plains, October 25, 1944.

The important difference, Worden said, was the official nature of these suicide tactics. The Japanese military had purposely ordered the strategic suicide, making it a part of official government strategy.

Did it work? Official military reports at war’s end concluded that kamikazes had sunk 34 and damaged 368 ships. They had also killed 300 and wounded over 4,000 American servicemen.

The Japanese military might have thought kamikaze attacks would ensure victory. But by the end of the battle for Leyte Gulf, even they realized it was hopeless. Still they ordered their men to continue flying into U.S. ships. And they assured their men that vast numbers of kamikazes were held in reserve to halt any American invasion of Japan. In another Post article, a captured Japanese air commander told his American interrogator that—

“we had a plan to send out our entire kamikaze strength—more than two thousand planes—in wave after wave.”

What damage did be estimate this would have inflicted?

” Fifty to seventy-five per cent of your force,” he said. “All the carriers. Many other ships as well.” He added that they would have saved some six hundred of their best new fighter planes for a last-ditch aerial defense of the homeland. [“A Japanese Officer Explains Nippon Mistakes,” Lt. S.P. Walker, USNR, Nov. 11, 1945]

The Japanese military hadn’t expected that their kamikazes would motivate the Navy to be more vigilant and to fight smarter. They hadn’t considered losing and answering for their barbarities. They couldn’t have dreamed that their suicide bombers would be a factor in America’s decision to use a nuclear weapon on them.

A government that employs suicide attacks ignores the historic failure of terrorism, the inevitable day of earthly reckoning with an outraged enemy, and the fact that America can’t always be relied on to forgive and forget. By stiffening the resolve of its enemies, terrorists forge the weapon that will destroy themselves.

Miss Temptation

See more stories by Kurt Vonnegut.

Puritanism had fallen into such disrepair that not even the oldest spinster thought of putting Susanna in a ducking stool; not even the oldest farmer suspected that Susanna’s diabolical beauty had made his cow run dry.

Susanna was a bit-part actress in the summer theater near the village, and she rented a room over the firehouse. She was a part of village life all summer, but the villagers never got used to her. She was forever as startling and desirable as a piece of big-city fire apparatus.

Susanna’s feathery hair and saucer eyes were as black as midnight. Her skin was the color of cream. Her hips were like a lyre, and her bosom made men dream of peace and plenty forever and ever. She wore barbaric golden hoops on her shell-pink ears, and around her ankles were chains with little bells on them.

She went barefoot and slept until noon every day. And, as noon drew near, the villagers on the main street would grow as restless as beagles with a thunderstorm on the way.

At noon, Susanna would appear on the porch outside her room. She would stretch languidly, pour a bowl of milk for her black cat, kiss the cat, fluff her hair, put on her earrings, lock her door, and hide the key in her bosom.

And then, barefoot, she would begin her stately, undulating, titillating, tinkling walk—down the outside stairway, past the liquor store, the insurance agency, the real-estate office, the diner, the American Legion post, and the church, to the crowded drugstore. There she would get the New York papers.

She seemed to nod to all the world in a dim, queenly way. But the only person she spoke to during her daily walk was Bearse Hinkley, the seventy-two-year-old pharmacist.

The old man always had her papers ready for her.

“Thank you, Mr. Hinkley. You’re an angel,” she would say, opening a paper at random. “Now, let’s see what’s going on back in civilization.” While the old man would watch, fuddled by her perfume, Susanna would laugh or gasp or frown at items in the paper—items she never explained.

Then she would take the papers and return to her nest over the firehouse. She would pause on the porch outside her room, dip her hand into her bosom, bring out the key, unlock the door, pick up the black cat, kiss it again, and disappear inside.

The one-girl pageant had a ritual sameness until one day toward the end of summer, when the air of the drugstore was cut by a cruel, sustained screech from a dry bearing in a revolving soda-fountain stool.

The screech cut right through Susanna’s speech about Mr. Hinkley’s being an angel. The screech made scalps tingle and teeth ache. Susanna looked indulgently in the direction of the screech, forgiving the screecher. She found that the screecher wasn’t a person to be indulged.

The screech had been made by the stool of Corporal Norman Fuller, who had come home the night before from eighteen bleak months in Korea. They had been eighteen months without war—but eighteen months without cheer all the same. Fuller had turned on the stool slowly, to look at Susanna with indignation. When the screech died, the drugstore was deathly still.

Fuller had broken the enchantment of summer by the seaside—had reminded all in the drugstore of the black, mysterious passions that were so often the mainsprings of life.

He might have been a brother, come to rescue his idiot sister from the tenderloin; or an irate husband, come to a saloon to horsewhip his wife back to where she belonged, with the baby. The truth was that Corporal Fuller had never seen Susanna before.

He hadn’t consciously meant to make a scene. He hadn’t known, consciously, that his stool would screech. He had meant to underplay his indignation, to make it a small detail in the background of Susanna’s pageant—a detail noticed by only one or two connoisseurs of the human comedy.

But the screech had made his indignation the center of the solar system for all in the drugstore—particularly for Susanna. Time had stopped, and it could not proceed until Fuller had explained the expression on his granite Yankee face.

Fuller felt his skin glowing like hot brass. He was comprehending destiny. Destiny had suddenly given him an audience, and a situation about which he had a bitter lot to say.

Fuller felt his lips move, heard the words come out. “Who do you think you are?” he said to Susanna.

“I beg your pardon?” said Susanna. She drew her newspapers about herself protectively.

“I saw you come down the street like you were a circus parade, and I just wondered who you thought you were,” said Fuller.

Susanna blushed gloriously. “I—I’m an actress,” she said.

“You can say that again,” said Fuller. “Greatest actresses in the world. American women.”

“You’re very nice to say so,” said Susanna uneasily.

Fuller’s skin glowed brighter and hotter. His mind had become a fountain of apt, intricate phrases. “I’m not talking about theaters with seats in ’em. I’m talking about the stage of life. American women act and dress like they’re gonna give you the world. Then, when you stick out your hand, they put an ice cube in it.”

“They do?” said Susanna emptily.

“They do,” said Fuller, “and it’s about time somebody said so.” He looked challengingly from spectator to spectator, and found what he took to be dazed encouragement. “It isn’t fair,” he said.

“What isn’t?” said Susanna, lost.

“You come in here with bells on your ankles, so’s I’ll have to look at your ankles and your pretty pink feet,” said Fuller. “You kiss the cat, so’s I’ll have to think about how it’d be to be that cat,” said Fuller. “You call an old man an angel, so’s I’ll have to think about what it’d be like to be called an angel by you,” said Fuller. “You hide your key in front of everybody, so’s I’ll have to think about where that key is,” said Fuller.

He stood. “Miss,” he said, his voice full of pain, “you do everything you can to give lonely, ordinary people like me indigestion and the heeby-jeebies, and you wouldn’t even hold hands with me to keep me from falling off a cliff.”

He strode to the door. All eyes were on him. Hardly anyone noticed that his indictment had reduced Susanna to ashes of what she’d been moments before. Susanna now looked like what she really was—a muddle-headed nineteen-year-old clinging to a tiny corner of sophistication,

“It isn’t fair,” said Fuller. “There ought to be a law against girls acting and dressing like you do. It makes more people unhappy than it does happy. You know what I say to you, for going around making everybody want to kiss you?”

“No,” piped Susanna, every fuse in her nervous system blown.

“I say to you what you’d say to me, if I was to try and kiss you,” said Fuller grandly. He swung his arms in an umpire’s gesture for “out.” “The hell with you,” he said. He left, slamming the screen door.

He didn’t look back when the door slammed again a moment later, when the patter of running bare feet and the wild tinkling of little bells faded away in the direction of the firehouse.

That evening, Corporal Fuller’s widowed mother put a candle on the table, and fed him sirloin steak and strawberry shortcake in honor of his homecoming. Fuller ate the meal as though it were wet blotting paper, and he answered his mother’s cheery questions in a voice that was dead.

“Aren’t you glad to be home?” said his mother, when they’d finished their coffee.

“Sure,” said Fuller.

“What did you do today?” she said.

“Walked,” he said.

“Seeing all your old friends?” she said.

“Haven’t got any friends,” said Fuller.

His mother threw up her hands. “No friends?” she said. “You?”

“Times change. Ma,” said Fuller heavily. “Eighteen months is a long time. People leave town, people get married….”

“Marriage doesn’t kill people, does it?” she said.

Fuller didn’t smile. “Maybe not,” he said, “But it makes it awful hard for ’em to find any place to fit old friends in.”

“Dougie isn’t married, is he?”

“He’s out west, Ma—with the Strategic Air Command,” said Fuller. The little dining room became as lonely as a bomber in the thin, cold stratosphere.

“Oh,” said his mother. “There must be somebody left.”

“Nope,” said Fuller. “I spent the whole morning on the phone, Ma. I might as well have been back in Korea. Nobody home.”

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “Why, you couldn’t walk down Main Street without being almost trampled by friends.”

“Ma,” said Fuller hollowly, “after I ran out of numbers to call, you know what I did? I went down to the drugstore, Ma, and just sat there by the soda fountain, waiting for somebody to walk in—somebody I knew maybe just even a little. Ma,” he said in anguish, “all I knew was poor old Bearse Hinkley. I’m not kidding you one bit.” He stood, crumpling his napkin into a ball. “Ma, will you please excuse me?”

“Yes. Of course,” she said. “Where are you going now?” She beamed. “Out to call on some nice girl, I hope?”

Fuller threw the napkin down. “I’m going to get a cigar!” he said. “I don’t know any girls. They’re all married too.”

His mother paled, “I-I see,” she said. “I-I didn’t even know you smoked.”

“Ma,” said Fuller tautly, “can’t you get it through your head? I been away for eighteen months, Ma—eighteen months!”

“It is a long time, isn’t it?” said his mother, humbled by his passion. “Well, you go get your cigar.” She touched his arm. “And please don’t feel so lonesome. You just wait. Your life will be so full of people again, you won’t know which one to turn to. And, before you know it, you’ll meet some pretty young girl, and you’ll be married too.”

“I don’t intend to get married for some time, Mother,” said Fuller stuffily. “Not until I get through divinity school.”

“Divinity school!” said his mother. “When did you decide that?”

“This noon,” said Fuller.

“What happened this noon?”

“I had kind of a religious experience, Ma,” he said. “Something just made me speak out.”

“About what?” she said, bewildered.

In Fuller’s buzzing head there whirled a rhapsody of Susannas. He saw again all the professional temptresses who had tormented him in Korea, who had beckoned from makeshift bed-sheet movie screens, from curling pin-ups on damp tent walls, from ragged magazines in sandbagged pits. The Susannas had made fortunes, beckoning to lonely Corporal Fullers everywhere—beckoning with stunning beauty, beckoning the Fullers to come nowhere for nothing.

The wraith of a Puritan ancestor, stiff-necked, dressed in black, took possession of Fuller’s tongue. Fuller spoke with a voice that came across the centuries, the voice of a witch hanger, a voice redolent with frustration, self-righteousness, and doom.

“What did I speak out against?” he said. “Temptation.”

Fuller’s cigar in the night was a beacon warning carefree, frivolous people away. It was plainly a cigar smoked in anger. Even the moths had sense enough to stay away. Like a restless, searching red eye, it went up and down every street in the village, coming to rest at last, a wet, dead butt, before the firehouse.

Bearse Hinkley, the old pharmacist, sat at the wheel of the pumper, his eyes glazed with nostalgia—nostalgia for the days when he had been young enough to drive. And on his face, for all to see, was a dream of one more catastrophe, with all the young men away, when an old man or nobody would drive the pumper to glory one more time. He spent warm evenings there, behind the wheel—and had for years.

“Want a light for that thing?” he said to Corporal Fuller, seeing the dead cigar between Fuller’s lips.

“No, thanks, Mr. Hinkley,” he said. “All the pleasure’s out of it.”

“Beats me how anybody finds any pleasure in cigars in the first place,” said the old man.

“Matter of taste,” said Fuller. “No accounting for tastes.”

“One man’s meat’s another man’s poison,” said Hinkley. “Live and let live, I always say.” He glanced at the ceiling. Above it was the fragrant nest of Susanna and her black cat. “Me? All my pleasures are looking at what used to be pleasures.”

Fuller looked at the ceiling, too, meeting the unmentioned issue squarely. “If you were young,” he said, “you’d know why I said what I said to her. Beautiful, stuck-up girls give me a big pain.”

“Oh, I remember that,” said Hinkley. “I’m not so old I don’t remember the big pain.”

“If I have a daughter, I hope she isn’t beautiful,” said Fuller. “The beautiful girls at high school—by God, if they didn’t think they were something extra-special.”

“By God, if I don’t think so, too,” said Hinkley.

“They wouldn’t even look at you if you didn’t have a car and an allowance of twenty bucks a week to spend on ’em,” said Fuller.

“Why should they?” said the old man cheerfully. “If I was a beautiful girl, I wouldn’t.” He nodded to himself. “Well—anyway, I guess you came home from the wars and settled that score. I guess you told her.”

“Ah-h-h,” said Fuller. “You can’t make any impression on them.”

“I dunno,” said Hinkley. “There’s a fine old tradition in the theater: The show must go on. You know, even if you got pneumonia or your baby’s dying, you still put on the show.”

“I’m all right,” said Fuller. “Who’s complaining? I feel fine.”

The old man’s white eyebrows went up. “Who’s talking about you?” he said. “I’m talking about her.”

Fuller reddened, mousetrapped by egoism. “She’ll be all right,” he said.

“She will?” said Hinkley. “Maybe she will. All I know is, the show’s started at the theater. She’s supposed to be in it and she’s still upstairs.”

“She is?” said Fuller, amazed.

“Has been,” said Hinkley, “ever since you paddled her and sent her home.”

Fuller tried to grin ironically. “Now, isn’t that too bad?” he said. His grin felt queasy and weak. “Well, goodnight, Mr. Hinkley.”

“Goodnight, soldier boy,” said Hinkley. “Goodnight.”

As noon drew near on the next day, the villagers along the main street seemed to grow stupid. Yankee shopkeepers made change lackadaisically, as though money didn’t matter any more. All thoughts were of the great cuckoo clock the firehouse had become. The question was: Had Corporal Fuller broken it or, at noon, would the little door on top fly open, would Susanna appear?

In the drugstore, old Bearse Hinkley fussed with Susanna’s New York papers, rumpling them in his anxiety to make them attractive. They were bait for Susanna.

Moments before noon, Corporal Fuller—the vandal himself—came in to the drugstore. On his face was a strange mixture of guilt and sore-headedness. He had spent the better part of the night awake, reviewing his grievances against beautiful women. All they think about is how beautiful they are, he’d said to himself at dawn. They wouldn’t even give you the time of day.

He walked along the row of soda-fountain stools and gave each empty stool a seemingly idle twist. He found the stool that had screeched so loudly the day before. He sat down on it, a monument of righteousness. No one spoke to him.

The fire siren gave its perfunctory wheeze for noon. And then, hearse-like, a truck from the express company drove up to the firehouse. Two men got out and climbed the stairs. Susanna’s hungry black cat jumped to the porch railing and arched its back as the expressmen disappeared into Susanna’s room. The cat spat when they staggered out with Susanna’s trunk.

Fuller was shocked. He glanced at Bearse Hinkley, and he saw that the old man’s look of anxiety had become the look of double pneumonia—dizzy, blind, drowning.

“Satisfied, corporal?” said the old man.

“I didn’t tell her to leave,” said Fuller.

“You didn’t leave her much choice,” said Hinkley.

“What does she care what I think?” said Fuller. “I didn’t know she was such a tender blossom.”

The old man touched Fuller’s arm lightly. “We all are, corporal—we all are,” he said. “I thought that was one of the few good things about sending a boy off to the Army. I thought that was where he could find out for sure he wasn’t the only tender blossom on earth. Didn’t you find that out?”

“I never thought I was a tender blossom,” said Fuller. “I’m sorry it turned out this way, but she asked for it.” His head was down. His ears were hot crimson.

“She really scared you stiff, didn’t she?” said Hinkley.

Smiles bloomed on the faces of the small audience that had drawn near on one pretext or another. Fuller appraised the smiles, and found that the old man had left him only one weapon—utterly humorless good citizenship.

“Who’s afraid?” he said stuffily. “I’m not afraid. I just think it’s a problem somebody ought to bring up and discuss.”

“It’s sure the one subject nobody gets tired of,” said Hinkley.

Fuller’s gaze, which had become a very shifty thing, passed over the magazine rack. There was tier upon tier of Susannas, a thousand square feet of wet-lipped smiles and sooty eyes and skin like cream. He ransacked his mind for a ringing phrase that would give dignity to his cause.

“I’m thinking about juvenile delinquency!” he said. He pointed to the magazines. “No wonder kids go crazy,”

“I know I did,” said the old man quietly. “I was as scared as you are.”

“I told you, I’m not afraid of her,” said Fuller.

“Good!” said Hinkley. “Then you’re just the man to take her papers to her. They’re paid for.” He dumped the papers in Fuller’s lap.

Fuller opened his mouth to reply. But he closed it again. His throat had tightened, and he knew that, if he tried to speak, he would quack like a duck.

”If you’re really not afraid, corporal,” said the old man, “that would be a very nice thing to do—a Christian thing to do.”

As he mounted the stairway to Susanna’s nest. Fuller was almost spastic in his efforts to seem casual.

Susanna’s door was unlatched. When Fuller knocked on it, it swung open. In Fuller’s imagination, her nest had been dark and still, reeking of incense, a labyrinth of heavy hangings and mirrors, with somewhere a Turkish corner, with somewhere a billowy bed in the form of a swan.

He saw Susanna and her room in truth now. The truth was the cheerless truth of a dirt-cheap Yankee summer rental—bare wood walls, three coat hooks, a linoleum rug, two gas burners, an iron cot, an ice- box, A tiny sink with naked pipes, a plastic drinking glass, two plates, a murky mirror, a frying pan, a saucepan, a can of soap powder.

The only harem touch was a white circle of talcum powder before the murky mirror. In the center of the circle were the prints of two bare feet. The marks of the toes were no bigger than pearls.

Fuller looked from the pearls to the truth of Susanna. Her back was to him. She was packing the last of her things into a suitcase.

She was now dressed for travel—dressed as properly as a missionary’s wife.

“Papers,” croaked Fuller. “Mr. Hinkley sent ’em.”

“How very nice of Mr. Hinkiey,” said Susanna. She turned, “Tell him….” No more words came. She recognized him. She pursed her lips and her small nose reddened.

“Papers,” said Fuller emptily. “From Mr, Hinkley.”

“I heard you,” she said. “You just said that. Is that all you’ve got to say?”

Fuller flapped his hands limply at his sides, “I’m-I-I didn’t mean to make you leave,” he said. “I didn’t mean that.”

“You suggest I stay?” said Susanna wretchedly. “After I’ve been denounced in public as a scarlet woman? A tart? A wench?”

“Holy smokes, I never called you those things!” said Fuller.

“Did you ever stop to think what it’s like to be me?” she said. She patted her bosom. “There’s somebody living inside here, too, you know.”

“I know,” said Fuller. He hadn’t known, up to then.

“I have a soul,” she said.

“Sure you do,” said Fuller, trembling. He trembled because the room was filled with a profound intimacy. Susanna, the golden girl of a thousand tortured daydreams, was now discussing her soul, passionately, with Fuller the lonely. Fuller the homely. Fuller the bleak.

“I didn’t sleep a wink last night because of you,” said Susanna.

“Me?” He wished she’d get out of his life again. He wished she were in black and white, a thousandth of an inch thick on a magazine page. He wished he could turn the page and read about baseball or foreign affairs.

“What did you expect?” said Susanna. “I talked to you all night. You know what I said to you?”

“No,” said Fuller, backing away. She followed, and seemed to throw off heat like a big iron radiator. She was appallingly human.

“I’m not Yellowstone Park!” she said. “I’m not supported by taxes! I don’t belong to everybody! You don’t have any right to say anything about the way I look!”

“Good gravy!” said Fuller.

“I’m so tired of dumb toots like you!” said Susanna. She stamped her foot and suddenly looked haggard. “I can’t help it if you want to kiss me! Whose fault is that?”

Fuller could now glimpse his side of the question only dimly, like a diver glimpsing the sun from the ocean floor. “All I was trying to say was, you could be a little more conservative,” he said.

Susanna opened her arms. “Am I conservative enough now?” she said. “Is this all right with you?”

The appeal of the lovely girl made the marrow of Fuller’s bones ache. In his chest was a sigh like the lost chord. “Yes,” he said. And then he murmured, “Forget about me.”

Susanna tossed her head. “Forget about being run over by a truck,” she said. “What makes you so mean?”

“I just say what I think,” said Fuller.

“You think such mean things,” said Susanna, bewildered. Her eyes widened. “All through high school, people like you would look at me as if they wished I’d drop dead. They’d never dance with me, they’d never talk to me, they’d never even smile back.” She shuddered. “They’d just go slinking around like small-town cops. They’d look at me the way you did—like I’d just done something terrible.”

The truth of the indictment made Fuller itch all over. “Probably thinking about something else,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” said Susanna. “You sure weren’t. All of a sudden, you started yelling at me in the drugstore, and I’d never even seen you before.” She burst into tears. “What is the matter with you?”

Fuller looked down at the floor.

“Never had a chance with a girl like you—that’s all,” he said. “That hurts.”

Susanna looked at him wonderingly. “You don’t know what a chance is,” she said.

“A chance is a late-model convertible, a new suit, and twenty bucks,” said Fuller.

Susanna turned her back to him and closed her suitcase. “A chance is a girl,” she said. “You smile at her, you be friendly, you be glad she’s a girl.” She turned and opened her arms again. “I’m a girl. Girls are shaped this way,” she said. “If men are nice to me and make me happy, I kiss them sometimes. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes,” said Fuller humbly. She had rubbed his nose in the sweet reason that governed the universe. He shrugged. “I better be going. Good-bye.”

“Wait!” she said, “You can’t do that—just walk out, leaving me feeling so wicked.” She shook her head. “I don’t deserve to feel wicked.”

“What can I do?” said Fuller helplessly.

“You can take me for a walk down the main street, as though you were proud of me,” said Susanna. “You can welcome me back to the human race.” She nodded to herself. “You owe that to me.”

Corporal Norman Fuller, who had come home two nights before from eighteen bleak months in Korea, waited on the porch outside Susanna’s nest, with all the village watching.

Susanna had ordered him out while she changed, while she changed for her return to the human race. She had also called the express company and told them to bring her trunk back.

Fuller passed the time by stroking Susanna’s cat. “Hello, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” he said, over and over again. Saying, “Kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” numbed him like a merciful drug.

He was saying it when Susanna came out of her nest. He couldn’t stop saying it, and she had to take the cat away from him, firmly, before she could get him to look at her, to offer his arm.

“So long, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” said Fuller.

Susanna was barefoot, and she wore barbaric hoop earrings, and ankle bells. Holding Fuller’s arm lightly, she led him down the stairs, and began her stately, undulating, titillating, tinkling walk past the liquor store, the insurance agency, the real-estate office, the diner, the American Legion post, and the church, to the crowded drugstore.

“Now, smile and be nice,” said Susanna. “Show you’re not ashamed of me.”

“Mind if I smoke?” said Fuller.

“That’s very considerate of you to ask,” said Susanna. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

By steadying his right hand with his left, Corporal Fuller managed to light a cigar.

Guns & America

Last January, after Jared Lee Loughner shot Representative Gabrielle Giffords in Tucson, seriously wounding her and killing or injuring 19 others, Clarence Dupnik, sheriff of Pima County where it happened, told a TV interviewer that the law allowing Loughner to carry a concealed handgun anywhere (which he had purchased legally despite a history of mental illness) was “the height of insanity” and added, “I don’t know what else they [gun proponents] can do. Maybe they could pass a law that would require that every child have an Uzi in their crib.”

On the other hand, Charles Heller, co-founder of the Arizona Citizens Defense League, said that citizens carrying guns were what had saved Gabrielle Giffords: “The reason the perpetrator was caught was because of rapid action of the citizen militia. And it’s crucial, it’s vital, if a guy like that was to get loose and reload, it’s crucial to have armed people ready to defeat him.”

That kind of polarized reaction occurs every time there’s a big incident involving guns in the United States. Why? How did it get this way? How did we come to stand alone among advanced nations in both our love of guns and our disagreement about them? We really are unique in that way. Americans own nearly 300 million guns, and our rates of gun-related homicide are at least five times as great as in other advanced nations.

The story of our love-hate affair with guns turns out to be as old as the European settlement of America. When the first Europeans arrived they found a dangerous wilderness where they had to hunt to eat and always had to be ready to defend themselves in a land without laws. By 1650 they had gotten so in the habit of defending themselves that a Connecticut law required that “every male person … shall have in continuall readines[s], a good musk[e]t or other gunn, fitt for service,” and all the colonies had similar laws to make possible their localized assemblages of fighting forces, known as militias.

By the time of the Revolutionary War, guns represented not only protection against man and nature as well as a source of food but also freedom against English oppressors. King George had the British Army; Americans had their personal guns and militias. In the words of historian Clayton E. Cramer, “Americans used guns initially as tools for individual self-protection and hunting, but by the time of the American Revolution, firearms became symbols of citizenship, intimately tied to defending political rights. Gun ownership was not universal in early America—but in every period, in every region … gun ownership in our nation’s early history was the norm—not the exception.”

When 1,800 British troops marched toward Concord, Massachusetts, on April 19, 1775, 3,700 militiamen turned out with their guns to oppose them, and the armed rebels struck terror in the hearts of the British. Later in the Revolution, the Pennsylvania rifle, invented by a Swiss immigrant for hunting, gave Americans a big advantage over the British and their Brown Bess muskets. George Washington even had his troops wear hunting shirts because the British thought any American who hunted was “a complete Marksman.”

Americans appreciated their guns as crucial to their liberty. That’s why the second of the first ten amendments— the Bill of Rights—decrees that “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” On the other hand a national army was seen as a potential source of tyranny. That’s why the Third Amendment, almost forgotten today, says, “No soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.”

After the Revolution, in the early republic, “hunting and fishing probably were the chief American sports,” in the words of historian Richard Hofstadter. “For millions of American boys, learning to shoot and, above all, graduating from toy guns and receiving the first real rifle of their own were milestones of life, veritable rites of passage that certified their arrival at manhood.” As the nation itself reached adulthood, it did so by rapidly becoming more urban and industrialized. The rise of industrialization was very much about guns, too, as weapons makers in New England showed the way from individual craftsmanship to the use of interchangeable parts and assembly-line production.

Many of the boys who grew up with guns in the early nineteenth century went on to become the conquerors of the Wild West, where the role of guns became part of legend. When movies came along, the Western hero, always ready to draw and shoot, became a central part of American popular culture, and he was followed by the private eye, the gritty cop, and the gangster hero. Films from The Great Train Robbery to High Noon to Bonnie and Clyde to Reservoir Dogs have never stopped immortalizing the American love affair with the gun.

If the central place of guns in American life goes back to the beginning, gun control has a much shorter history. Outside of the Second Amendment, there was no major federal gun legislation until 1934 when Congress passed the National Firearms Act. President Franklin Roosevelt championed that law as a way to fight organized crime, and it did so by putting prohibitive taxes on machine guns, silencers, and other tools of hoodlums. A Federal Firearms Act in 1938 added licensing for anyone wanting to sell firearms and record-keeping of who bought guns.

Nothing much more happened in the way of gun laws until 1968 when, in the wake of the assassinations of John and Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr., a Gun Control Act took effect expanding the requirements for licenses and record-keeping and adding to the list of those, such as convicted felons and drug users, who couldn’t legally buy guns. Since then, there has been a slew of laws, some of them—such as the 1986 Firearms Owner’s Protection Act—easing restrictions, and others—such as the 1993 Brady Handgun Violence Prevention Act—tightening them. It has been estimated that today there are altogether more than 20,000 federal, state, and local laws regulating guns. It’s a bewildering patchwork.

Not until the passage of the 1968 law and the growth of urban crime to record levels in the 1970s and ’80s did guns and gun control become a big political issue. The National Rifle Association (NRA) was barely political at all for most of its existence. Founded in 1871 by a group of Civil War veterans who wanted to improve marksmanship among Americans, it only started a legislative affairs division in 1934 when the National Firearms Act was before Congress. The NRA made its first presidential endorsement in 1980, supporting Ronald Reagan against Jimmy Carter. But today, with more than 4 million members, it is often cited as the most powerful lobbying organization in the nation. It spent $10 million on the 2008 presidential election, and, in 2011, Wayne LaPierre, its chief executive, said of President Barack Obama, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, and Attorney General Eric Holder, “Why should I or the NRA go sit down with a group of people that have spent a lifetime trying to destroy the Second Amendment in the United States?”

That Second Amendment may itself be a main cause of the extreme polarization that LaPierre’s statement reflects. If guns are a central part of our history, of our tradition of standing up against oppressors, and of our sense of freedom to defend ourselves and to enjoy our lands, then the Second Amendment is the defining document certifying their place in our lives. But it is a very disappointing document, too, in that nobody can agree on what it means. If anything, it creates more problems than it solves.

Constitutional scholar Sanford Levinson wrote that “no one has ever described the Constitution as a marvel of clarity, and the Second Amendment is perhaps one of the worst drafted of all its provisions. What is special about the Amendment is the inclusion of an opening clause—a preamble if you will—that seems to set out its purpose. No similar clause is part of any other Amendment.” That opening preamble, of course, is “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State,” which is followed by “the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” What does that mean, about a militia? Does it tell us that the amendment only means to protect ownership of guns for collective military use, or, to the contrary, does the second part of the amendment confirm that we can own guns, period?

No one ever gave a definitive answer until 2008 when the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in the case of District of Columbia v. Heller, but even then the court mainly proved that it, too, was bitterly divided over the matter. The District of Columbia had passed a law banning ownership of handguns and requiring that people who owned rifles and shotguns keep them unloaded and locked or disassembled. A group of gun owners had appealed the law up through lower courts to the highest bar in the land.

The Supreme Court split five to four. In the majority opinion, Antonin Scalia, joined by Chief Justice Roberts and Justices Kennedy, Thomas, and Alito, wrote that the amendment’s words plainly “guarantee the individual right to possess and carry weapons in case of confrontation.” He added that the preamble “does not suggest that preserving the militia was the only reason Americans valued the ancient right; most undoubtedly thought it even more important for self-defense and hunting.”

Justice John Paul Stevens, in the main dissenting opinion, wrote that the decision was based on “a strained and unpersuasive reading” that “bestowed a dramatic upheaval of the law.” He also complained, “The Court would have us believe that over 200 years ago, the Framers made a choice to limit the tools available to elected officials wishing to regulate civilian uses of weapons … I could not possibly conclude that the Framers made such a choice.”

So there remains as profound disagreement as ever over just what the Second Amendment means and how broad the fundamental American right to own guns really is. That disagreement will probably never go away. However, though the 2008 decision came out firmly in favor of gun ownership rights, it has not noticeably changed the landscape of gun control laws. Since it was issued there have been more than 80 suits filed to overturn gun laws; few if any of them have succeeded.

Pro- and anti-gun forces continue to quarrel, flaunting competing and conflicting statistics about whether the prevalence of guns in American society makes us more or less safe. But in a land where guns are a central part of our heritage, where we prize individualism and self-reliance, but also where the violence done by guns vastly exceeds that of any other advanced nation, the sides in the eternal gun debate will likely never fully agree. Still, they surely can get along better.

Sanford Levinson wrote his landmark study of the Second Amendment partly to convince his fellow liberals that they should stop jumping to the conclusion that the amendment narrows the right to gun ownership. He concluded by writing, “Perhaps ‘we’ might be led to stop referring casually to ‘gun nuts’ just as, maybe, members of the NRA could be brought to understand the real fear that the currently almost uncontrolled system of gun ownership sparks in the minds of many whom they casually dismiss as ‘bleeding-heart liberals.’ Is not, after all, the possibility of serious, engaged discussion about political issues at the heart of what is most attractive in both liberal and republican versions of politics?”

Holiday Recipes from the Staff of the Post

For our Nov/Dec issue, we challenged the staff of the Post to a no-holds-barred cook off of classic holiday dishes. You can find the top four recipes in the magazine. Because we received so many yummy submissions, here are four runners-up!

Stuffed Celery

“During World War II, my maternal grandparents, Ethel and Edward Delaney, lived in New Jersey and would occasionally go into New York City for dinner and dancing. They tried this simple appetizer at a supper club and asked for the recipe. Little did they know, it would become a holiday staple served every Christmas since 1943.” —Elise Lindstrom, Post Dietitian

(Makes 25 servings of 2-3 pieces of celery each.)

Ingredients
Directions

Wash and trim celery then cut ribs into 3-inch pieces. In food processor, blend cream cheese, blue cheese, Roquefort cheese, and shallots until they reach the consistency of stiff whipped cream. Add salt and pepper to taste. Spoon the mixture into celery cavities and sprinkle with paprika. Serve chilled.

Per serving

Calories: 59

Total Fat: 4.3 g (Sat. Fat: 2.7 g)

Sodium: 190.6 mg

Carbohydrate: 2.1 g

Fiber: 0.5 g

Protein: 3.1 g

Diabetic Exchanges: ~1 fat


Festive Fall Salad

“This is one of my family’s absolute favorite fall salads! We love using fresh-picked apples from the orchard near our home—and the dried cranberries always say ‘Thanksgiving’ to me.” —Julaine Santiago, Circulation Director

(Makes 8 servings with dressing.)

Ingredients

Salad

Dressing

Directions

In large salad bowl, combine salad ingredients. In small bowl, whisk dressing ingredients. Drizzle dressing over salad and toss gently to coat. Serve immediately.


Per serving

Calories: 155

Total Fat: 9 g (Sat. Fat: 2 g)

Sodium: 129mg

Carbohydrate: 16 g

Fiber: 3g

Protein: 3.6 g

Diabetic Exchanges: 1 carbohydrate, 2 fat


Cauliflower Bake

“For almost a century, this simple but delicious holiday recipe has been a family favorite at our house.” —Patrick Perry, Executive Editor

(Makes 6 servings.)

Ingredients
Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Steam cauliflower until tender. Drain and mash. Add 1 sleeve crackers. Mix in butter. Add pepper and salt to taste. Mix. Place in baking dish and bake for about 15 minutes until cauliflower lightly browned on top.


Per Serving

Calories: calories: 185 calories

Fat: 10g (saturated fat: 5.4g)

Cholesterol: 20.7mg

Sodium: 187 mg

Carbohydrate: 20.8g

Fiber: 4.1g

Protein: 4.6g

Diabetic Exchanges: 1 1/3 carbohydrate, 2 fat


Stella’s Cranberry Salad

“My mother-in-law, Bev, makes this special dish for holiday gatherings, as did her mother Stella nearly 100 years ago. Because few of the current clan are fond of cranberries, I usually get some extra to take home, too!” —Wendy Braun, Health Editor

(Makes 12 servings.)

Ingredients
Directions

In small pan, bring water to boil. Pour into large bowl and stir in dry gelatin until completely dissolved. Add other ingredients and mix well. Pour into one or more serving containers. Chill overnight.


Per serving

Calories: 160

Total Fat: 6.2 g

Sodium: 36 mg

Carbohydrate: 25 g

Fiber: 2g

Protein: 3.6 g

Diabetic Exchanges: ~2 carbohydrate, 1 fat


Latkes

“Ever since I was a little kid, my whole family has gotten together to enjoy these Hanukkah treats. They may not be particularly healthy—but they’re delicious!” —Aaron Rimstidt, Research Assistant

(Makes 8 servings.)

Ingredients
Directions

For optimal flavor, cook in iron skillet. Grate potatoes by hand or in food processor. Turn into bowl filled with cold salt water. Stir, drain well, and squeeze out as much liquid as possible. Grate onion into potatoes. Add eggs, flour, salt. Mix well.

Heat oil (1/2 inch deep) until hot without smoking. Scoop batter with tablespoon, pressing out excess liquid then place carefully into skillet. Flatten with back of spoon so latkes are approximately 3 inches in diameter. (Do not turn pancakes until very brown on downside.) When cooking second batch, you may need to add more oil. Be sure it is very hot before resuming cooking. Cook pancakes until well browned and crisp. Drain on paper towels. Best served immediately or keep in warm oven.

Per serving

Calories: 281.6

Total Fat: 14.9 g (Sat. Fat: 1.3 g)

Sodium: 898 mg

Carbohydrate: 33.1 g

Fiber: 3.9 g

Protein: 5.3 g

Diabetic Exchanges: 2 carbohydrate, 3 fat

Treasures of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library

The profile on former Post contributor Kurt Vonnegut in the Nov/Dec print issue of the magazine mentions the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library (KVML), which opened its doors earlier this year in Vonnegut’s hometown of Indianapolis. Despite its name, the KVML is much more than just a library. The non-profit organization also serves as an educational facility, art gallery, and community outreach center. And thanks to the support of three of Vonnegut’s children—Mark, Edie, and Nanny—the library also houses an assortment of the writer’s personal artifacts. Here are some highlights of what the KVML has on display.

Vonnegut’s Typewriter: Vonnegut used this Smith-Corona Coronamatic 2200 during the 1970s to write books such as Breakfast of Champions and Jailbird. A bit of a technophobe, he never switched to word processors or computers, preferring the tactile nature of the typewriter instead.

Vonnegut’s Purple Heart: Vonnegut sardonically wrote in his final novel, Timequake, “I myself was awarded my country’s second-lowest decoration, a Purple Heart for frost-bite.”

A Pack of Vonnegut’s Pall Mall Cigarettes: Throughout his life, Vonnegut was a smoker, a habit he dubbed “a classy way to commit suicide.” His children found this unopened pack of Pall Malls, his preferred brand, behind his bookcase after he died.

An Unopened Letter from Vonnegut’s Father: Vonnegut’s father, Kurt Sr., wrote this letter to his son during World War II, but it was lost in the mail for quite some time. When Vonnegut finally did receive it, he never opened it—and it remains sealed to this day.

Ceremonial Nazi Sword: Vonnegut wrote in Chapter 1 of Slaughterhouse-Five, “O’Hare didn’t have any souvenirs. Almost everybody else did. I had a ceremonial Luftwaffe saber, still do.”

Rooster Lamp: Vonnegut always wrote by the light of this red rooster lamp. It originated in Indiana, traveled to the east coast with with the writer, and has now returned home to “roost.”

Alplaus Volunteer Firemen Reminder Card: In God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, the title character obsessively joins fire departments, spurred on by a horrific experience in World War II. Vonnegut did the same. He wrote in Slaughterhouse-Five that after the war he became “a volunteer firemen in the village of Alplaus, where [he] bought [his] first home.” This postcard from the Alplaus fire department, dated April 4, 1949, was sent as a reminder for a volunteers’ meeting.

Portrait of Kurt Sr.: This framed photograph of Vonnegut’s father hung on the wall of the writer’s work space for years and years.

Rejection Letter: The library has quite a few of Vonnegut’s rejection letters—he liked to save them—which are periodically rotated. This one from The Atlantic Monthly is dated August 29, 1949.

To learn more about the life and work of Kurt Vonnegut, visit the KVML at 340 N. Senate Avenue in Indianapolis. The library is open noon to 5 p.m. daily except Wednesdays (closed on Wednesdays). Admission is always free.

The No-Talent Kid

It was autumn, and the leaves outside Lincoln High School were turning the same rusty color as the bare brick walls in the band-rehearsal room. George M. Helmholtz, head of the music department and director of the band, was ringed by folding chairs and instrument cases; and on each chair sat a very young man, nervously prepared to blow through something, or, in the case of the percussion section, to hit something, the instant Mr. Helmholtz lowered his white baton.

Mr. Helmholtz, a man of forty, who believed that his great belly was a sign of health, strength and dignity, smiled angelically, as though he were about to release the most exquisite sounds ever heard by men. Down came his baton.

“Blooooomp!” went the big sousaphones.

“Blat! Blat!” echoed the French horns, and the plodding, shrieking, querulous waltz was begun.

Mr. Helmholtz’s expression did not change as the brasses lost their places, as the woodwinds’ nerve failed and they became inaudible rather than have their mistakes heard, as the percussion section shifted into a rhythm pattern belonging to a march they knew and liked better.

“A-a-a-a-ta-ta , a-a-a-a-a-a, ta-ta-ta-ta!” sang Mr. Helmholtz in a loud tenor, singing the first-cornet part when the first cornetist, florid and perspiring, gave up and slouched in his chair, his instrument in his lap.

“Saxophones, let me hear you,” called Mr. Helmholtz. “Good!”

This was the C Band, and, for the C Band, the performance was good; it couldn’t have been more polished for the fifth session of the school year. Most of the youngsters were just starting out as bandsmen, and in the years ahead of them they would acquire artistry enough to move into the B Band, which met in the next hour. And finally the best of them would gain positions in the pride of the city, the Lincoln High School Ten Square Band.

The football team lost half its games and the basketball team lost two-thirds of its, but the band, in the ten years Mr. Helmholtz had been running it, had been second to none until last June. It had been first in the state to use flag twirlers, the first to use choral as well as instrumental numbers, the first to use triple-tonguing extensively, the first to march in breathtaking double time, the first to put a light in its bass drum. Lincoln High School awarded letter sweaters to the members of the A Band, and the sweaters were deeply respected—and properly so. The band had won every statewide high-school band competition in the last ten years—every one save the one in June.

As the members of the C Band dropped out of the waltz, one by one, as though mustard gas were coming out of the ventilators, Mr. Helmholtz continued to smile and wave his baton for the survivors, and to brood inwardly over the defeat his band had sustained in June, when Johnstown High School had won with a secret weapon, a bass drum seven feet in diameter. The judges, who were not musicians but politicians, had had eyes and ears for nothing but this eighth wonder of the world, and since then Mr. Helmholtz had thought of little else. But the school budget was already lopsided with band expenses. When the school board had given him the last special appropriation he’d begged so desperately—money to wire the plumes of the bandsmen’s hats with flashlight bulbs and batteries for night games—the board had made him swear like a habitual drunkard that, so help him God, this was the last time.

Only two members of the C Band were playing now, a clarinetist and a snare drummer, both playing loudly, proudly, confidently, and all wrong. Mr. Helmholtz, coming out of his wistful dream of a bass drum bigger than the one that had beaten him, administered the coup de grace to the waltz by clattering his stick against his music stand. “All righty, all righty,” he said cheerily, and he nodded his congratulations to the two who had persevered to the bitter end.

Walter Plummer, the clarinetist, nodded back soberly, like a concert soloist receiving an ovation led by the director of a symphony orchestra. He was small, but with a thick chest developed in summers spent at the bottom of swimming pools, and he could hold a note longer than anyone in the A Band, much longer, but that was all he could do. He drew back his tired, reddened lips, showing the two large front teeth that gave him the look of a squirrel, adjusted his reed, limbered his fingers, and awaited the next challenge to his virtuosity.

This would be Plummer’s third year in the C Band, Mr. Helmholtz thought, with a mixture of pity and fear. Nothing, apparently, could shake Plummer’s determination to earn the right to wear one of the sacred letters of the A Band, so far, terribly far away.

Mr. Helmholtz had tried to tell Plummer how misplaced his ambitions were, to recommend other fields for his great lungs and enthusiasm, where pitch would be unimportant. But Plummer was blindly in love, not with music, but with the letter sweaters, and, being as tone deaf as boiled cabbage, he could detect nothing in his own playing to be discouraged about.

“Remember, now,” said Mr. Helmholtz to the C Band, “Friday is challenge day, so be on your toes. The chairs you have now were assigned arbitrarily. On challenge day it’ll be up to you to prove which chair you deserve.” He avoided the narrowed, confident eyes of Plummer, who had taken the first clarinetist’s chair without consulting the seating plan posted on the bulletin board. Challenge day occurred every two weeks, and on that day any bandsman could challenge anyone ahead of him to a contest for his position, with Mr. Helmholtz as utterly dispassionate judge.

Plummer’s hand was raised, its fingers snapping urgently.

“Yes, Plummer?” said Mr. Helmholtz, smiling bleakly. He had come to dread challenge days because of Plummer, and had come to think of it as Plummer’s day. Plummer never challenged anybody in the C Band or even in the B Band, but stormed the organization at the very top, challenging, as was unfortunately the privilege of all, only members of the A Band. The waste of the A Band’s time was troubling enough, but infinitely more painful for Mr. Helmholtz were Plummer’s looks of stunned disbelief when he heard Mr. Helmholtz’s decision that he hadn’t outplayed the men he’d challenged. And Mr. Helmholtz was thus rebuked not just on challenge days, but every day, just before supper, when Plummer delivered the evening paper. “Something about challenge day, Plummer?” said Mr. Helmholtz uneasily.

“Mr. Helmholtz,” said Plummer coolly, “I’d like to come to A Band session that day.”

“All right—if you feel up to it.” Plummer always felt up to it, and it would have been more of a surprise if Plummer had announced that he wouldn’t be at the A Band session.

“I’d like to challenge Flammer.”

The rustling of sheet music and clicking of instrument-case latches stopped. Flammer was the first clarinetist in the A Band, a genius that not even members of the A Band would have had the gall to challenge.

Mr. Helmholtz cleared his throat. “I admire your spirit, Plummer, but isn’t that rather ambitious for the first of the year? Perhaps you should start out with, say, challenging Ed Delaney.” Delaney held down the last chair in the B Band.

“You don’t understand,” said Plummer patiently. “You haven’t noticed I have a new clarinet.”

“H’m’m? Oh—well, so you do.”

Plummer stroked the satin-black barrel of the instrument as though it were like King Arthur’s sword, giving magical powers to whoever possessed it. “It’s as good as Flammer’s,” said Plummer. “Better, even.”

There was a warning in his voice, telling Mr. Helmholtz that the days of discrimination were over, that nobody in his right mind would dare to hold back a man with an instrument like this.

“Um,” said Mr. Helmholtz. “Well, we’ll see, we’ll see.”

After practice, he was forced into close quarters with Plummer again in the crowded hallway. Plummer was talking darkly to a wide-eyed freshman bandsman.

“Know why the band lost to Johnstown High last June?” asked Plummer, seemingly ignorant of the fact that he was back to back with Mr. Helmholtz. “Because,” said Plummer triumphantly, “they stopped running the band on the merit system. Keep your eyes open on Friday.”

Mr. George M. Helmholtz lived in a world of music, and even the throbbing of his headaches came to him musically, if painfully, as the deep-throated boom of a cart-borne bass drum seven feet in diameter. It was late afternoon on the first challenge day of the new school year. He was sitting in his living room, his eyes covered, awaiting another sort of thump—the impact of the evening paper, hurled against the clapboard of the front of the house by Walter Plummer.

As Mr. Helmholtz was telling himself that he would rather not have his newspaper on challenge day, since Plummer came with it, the paper was delivered with a crash that would have done credit to a siege gun.

“Plummer!” he cried furiously, shaken.

“Yes, sir?” said Plummer solicitously from the sidewalk.

Mr. Helmholtz shuffled to the door in his carpet slippers. “Please, my boy,” he said plaintively, “can’t we be friends?”

“Sure—why not?” said Plummer, shrugging.

“Let bygones be bygones, is what I say.” He gave a bitter imitation of an amiable chuckle. “Water over the dam. It’s been two hours now since the knife was stuck in me and twisted.”

Mr. Helmholtz sighed. “Have you got a moment? It’s time we had a talk, my boy.”

Plummer kicked down the standard on his bicycle, hid his papers under shrubbery, and walked in sullenly. Mr. Helmholtz gestured at the most comfortable chair in the room, the one in which he’d been sitting, but Plummer chose instead to sit on the edge of a hard one with a straight back.

Mr. Helmholtz, forming careful sentences in his mind before speaking, opened his newspaper, and laid it open on the coffee table.

“My boy,” he said at last, “God made all kinds of people: some who can run fast, some who can write wonderful stories, some who can paint pictures, some who can sell anything, some who can make beautiful music. But He didn’t make anybody who could do everything well. Part of the growing-up process is finding out what we can do well and what we can’t do well.” He patted Plummer’s shoulder gently. “The last part, finding out what we can’t do, is what hurts most about growing up. But everybody has to face it, and then go in search of his true self.”

Plummer’s head was sinking lower and lower on his chest and Mr. Helmholtz hastily pointed out a silver lining. “For instance, Flammer could never run a business like a paper route, keeping records, getting new customers. He hasn’t that kind of a mind, and couldn’t do that sort of thing if his life depended on it.”

“You’ve got a point,” said Plummer, looking up suddenly with unexpected brightness. “A guy’s got to be awful one-sided to be as good at one thing as Flammer is. I think it’s more worthwhile to try to be better rounded. No, Flammer beat me fair and square today, and I don’t want you to think I’m a bad sport about that. It isn’t that that gets me.”

“That’s very mature of you,” said Mr. Helmholtz. “But what I was trying to point out to you was that we’ve all got weak points, and—”

Plummer charitably waved him to silence, “You don’t have to explain to me, Mr. Helmholtz. With a job as big as you’ve got, it’d be a miracle if you did the whole thing right.”

“Now, hold on, Plummer!” said Mr. Helmholtz.

“All I’m asking is that you look at it from my point of view,” said Plummer. “No sooner’d I come back from challenging A Band material, no sooner’d I come back from playing my heart out, than you turned those C Band kids loose on me. You and I know we were just giving ‘em the feel of challenge days, and that I was all played out. But did you tell them that? Heck, no, you didn’t, Mr. Helmholtz; and those kids all think they can play better than me. That’s all I’m sore about, Mr. Helmholtz. They think it means something, me in the last chair of the C Band.”

“Plummer,” said Mr. Helmholtz evenly, “I have been trying to tell you something as kindly as possible, but apparently the only way to get it across to you is to tell it to you straight.”

“Go ahead and quash criticism,” said Plummer, standing.

“Quash?”

“Quash,” said Plummer with finality. He headed for the door. “I’m probably ruining any chances for getting into the A Band by speaking out like this, Mr. Helmholtz, but frankly, it’s incidents like what happened to me today that lost you the band competition last June.”

“It was a seven-foot bass drum!”

“Well, get one for Lincoln High and see how you make out then.”

“I’d give my right arm for one!” said Mr.  Helmholtz, forgetting the point at issue and remembering his all-consuming dream.

Plummer paused on the threshold. “One like the Knights of Kandahar use in their parades?”

“That’s the ticket!” Mr. Helmholtz imagined the Knights of Kandahar’s huge drum, the showpiece of every local parade. He tried to think of it with the Lincoln High School Black Panther painted on it. “Yes, sir!” When he returned to earth, Plummer was on his bicycle.

Mr. Helmholtz started to shout after Plummer, to bring him back and tell him bluntly that he didn’t have the remotest chance of getting out of C Band ever; that he would never be able to understand that the mission of a band wasn’t simply to make noises, but to make special kinds of noises. But Plummer was off and away.

Temporarily relieved until next challenge day, Mr. Helmholtz sat down to enjoy his paper, to read that the treasurer of the Knights of Kandahar, a respected citizen, had disappeared with the organization’s funds, leaving behind and unpaid the knight’s bills for the past year and a half. “We’ll pay a hundred cents on the dollar, if we have to sell everything but the Sacred Mace,” the Sublime Chamberlain of the Inner Shrine was on record as saying.

Mr. Helmholtz didn’t know any of the people involved, and he yawned and turned to the funnies. He gasped suddenly, turned to the front page again, looked up a number in the phone book, and dialed feverishly.

“Zum-zum-zum-zum,” went the busy signal in his ear. He dropped the telephone clattering into its cradle. Hundreds of people, he thought, must be trying to get in touch with the Sublime Chamberlain of the Inner Shrine of the Knights of Kandahar at this moment. He looked up at his flaking ceiling in prayer. But none of them, he prayed, were after a bargain in a cart-borne bass drum.

He dialed again and again, always getting the busy signal, and walked out on his porch to relieve some of the tension building up in him. He would be the only one bidding on the drum, he told himself, and he could name his own price. Good Lord! If he offered fifty dollars for it, he could probably have it! He’d put up his own money, and get the school to pay him back in three years, when the plumes with the electric lights in them were paid for in full.

He lit a cigarette, and laughed like a department store Santa Claus at this magnificent stroke of fortune. As he exhaled happily, his gaze dropped from heaven to his lawn, and he saw Plummer’s undelivered newspapers lying beneath the shrubbery.

He went inside and called the Sublime Chamberlain again, with the same results. To make the time go, and to do a Christian good turn, he called Plummer’s home to let him know where the papers were mislaid. But the Plummers’ line was busy too.

He dialed alternately the Plummers’ number and the Sublime Chamberlain’s number for fifteen minutes before getting a ringing signal.

“Yes?” said Mrs. Plummer.

“This is Mr. Helmholtz, Mrs. Plummer. Is Walter there?”

“He was here a minute ago, telephoning, but he just went out of here like a shot!”

“Looking for his papers? He left them under my spiraea.”

“He did? Heavens, I have no idea where he was going. He didn’t say anything about his papers, but I thought I overheard something about selling his clarinet.” She sighed and then laughed nervously. “Having money of their own makes them awfully independent. He never tells me anything.”

“Well, you tell him I think maybe it’s for the best, his selling his clarinet. And tell him where his papers are.”

It was unexpected good news that Plummer had at last seen the light about his musical career, and Mr. Helmholtz now called the Sublime Chamberlain’s home again for more good news. He got through this time, but was momentarily disappointed to learn that the man had just left on some sort of lodge business.

For years Mr. Helmholtz had managed to smile and keep his wits about him in C Band practice sessions. But on the day after his fruitless efforts to find out anything about the Knights of Kandahar’s bass drum, his defenses were down, and the poisonous music penetrated to the roots of his soul.

“No, no, no!” he cried in pain, and he threw his white baton against the brick wall. The springy stick bounded off the bricks and fell into an empty folding chair at the rear of the clarinet section–Plummer’s empty chair.

As Mr. Helmholtz, red-faced and apologetic, retrieved the baton, he found himself unexpectedly moved by the symbol of the empty chair. No one else, he realized, no matter how untalented, could ever fill the last chair in the organization as well as Plummer had. He looked up to find many of the bandsmen contemplating the chair with him, as though they, too, sensed that something great, in a fantastic way, had disappeared, and that life would be a good bit duller on account of it.

During the ten minutes between the C Band and B Band sessions, Mr. Helmholtz hurried to his office and again tried to get in touch with the Sublime Chamberlain of the Knights of Kandahar, and was again told what he’d been told substantially several times during the night before and again in the morning:

“Lord knows where he’s off to now. He was in for just a second, but went right out again. I gave him your name, so I expect he’ll call you when he gets a minute. You’re the drum gentleman, aren’t you?”

“That’s right—the drum gentleman.”

The buzzers in the hall were sounding, marking the beginning of another class period. Mr. Helmholtz wanted to stay by the phone until he’d caught the Sublime Chamberlain and closed the deal, but the B Band was waiting—and after that it would be the A Band.

An inspiration came to him. He called Western Union, and sent a telegram to the man, offering fifty dollars for the drum, and requesting a reply collect.

But no reply came during B Band practice. Nor had one come by the halfway point of the A Band session. The bandsmen, a sensitive, high-strung lot, knew immediately that their director was on edge about something, and the rehearsal went badly. Mr. Helmholtz was growing so nervous about the drum that he stopped a march in the middle because of a small noise coming from the large double doors at one end of the room, where someone out-of-doors was apparently working on the lock.

“All right, all right, let’s wait until the racket dies down so we can hear ourselves,” he said.

At that moment, a student messenger handed him a telegram. Mr. Helmholtz beamed, tore open the envelope, and read: DRUM SOLD STOP COULD YOU USE A STUFFED CAMEL ON WHEELS STOP.

The wooden doors opened with a shriek of rusty hinges, and a snappy autumn gust showered the band with leaves. Plummer stood in the great opening, winded and perspiring, harnessed to a drum on wheels that could have contained a dozen youngsters his size.

“I know this isn’t challenge day,” said Plummer, “but I thought you might make an exception in my case.”

He walked in with splendid dignity, the huge apparatus grumbling along behind him.

Mr. Helmholtz rushed to meet him, and crushed Plummer’s right hand between both of his. “Plummer, boy! You got it for us! Good boy! I’II pay you whatever you paid for it,” he cried, and in his joy he added rashly, “and a nice little profit besides. Good boy!”

Plummer laughed modestly. “Sell it?” he said. “Heck fire, I’ll give it to you when I graduate,” he said grandly. “All I want to do is play it in the A Band while I’m here.”

“But, Plummer,” said Mr. Helmholtz uneasily, “you don’t know anything about drums.”

“I’ll practice hard,” said Plummer reassuringly. He started to back his instrument into an aisle between the tubas and the trombones—like a man backing a trailer truck into a narrow alley—backing it toward the percussion section, where the amazed musicians were hastily making room.

“Now, just a minute,” said Mr. Helmholtz, chuckling as though Plummer were joking, and knowing full well he wasn’t. “There’s more to drum playing than just lambasting the thing whenever you take a notion to, you know. It takes years to be a drummer.”

“Well,” said Plummer cheerfully, “the quicker I get at it, the quicker I’ll get good.”

“What I meant was that I’m afraid you won’t be quite ready for the A Band for a little while.”

Plummer stopped his backing.

“How long?” he asked suspiciously.

“Oh, sometime in your senior year, perhaps. Meanwhile, you could let the band have your drum to use until you’re ready.”

Mr. Helmholtz’s skin began to itch all over as Plummer stared at him coldly, appraisingly. “Until hell freezes over?” Plummer said at last.

Mr. Helmholtz sighed resignedly.

“I’m afraid that’s about right.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s what I tried to tell you yesterday afternoon: nobody can do everything well, and we’ve all got to face up to our limitations. You’re a fine boy, Plummer, but you’ll never be a musician—not in a million years. The only thing to do is what we all have to do now and then: smile, shrug, and say ‘Well, that’s just one of those things that’s not for me.’ ”

Tears formed on the rims of Plummer’s eyes, but went no farther. He walked slowly toward the doorway, with the drum tagging after him. He paused on the doorsill for one more wistful look at the A Band that would never have a chair for him. He smiled feebly and shrugged. “Some people have eight-foot drums,” he said kindly, “and others don’t, and that’s just the way life is. You’re a fine man, Mr. Helmholtz, but you’ll never get this drum in a million years, because I’m going to give it to my mother for a coffee table.”

“Plummer!” cried Mr. Helmholtz. His plaintive voice was drowned out by the rumble and rattle of the big drum as it followed its small master down the school’s concrete driveway.

Mr. Helmholtz ran after him with a floundering, foot-slapping gait. Plummer and his drum had stopped at an intersection to wait for a light to change, and Mr. Helmholtz caught him there, and seized his arm. “We’ve got to have that drum,” he panted. “How much do you want?”

“Smile,” said Plummer. “Shrug! That’s what I did.” Plummer did it again. “See? So I can’t get into the A Band, so you can’t have the drum. Who cares? All part of the growing-up process.”

“The situations aren’t the same!” said Mr. Helmholtz furiously. “Not at all the same!”

“You’re right,” said Plummer, without a smile. “I’m growing up, and you’re not.”

The light changed, and Plummer left Mr. Helmholtz on the corner, stunned.

Mr. Helmholtz had to run after him again. “Plummer,” he said sweetly, “you’ll never be able to play it well.”

“Rub it in,” said Plummer, bitterly.

“But you’re doing a beautiful job of pulling it, and if we got it, I don’t think we’d ever be able to find anybody who could do it as well.”

Plummer stopped, backed and turned the instrument on the narrow sidewalk with speed and hairbreadth precision, and headed back for Lincoln High School, skipping once to get in step with Mr. Helmholtz.

As they approached the school they both loved, they met and passed a group of youngsters from the C Band, who carried unscarred instrument cases and spoke self-consciously of music.

“Got a good bunch of kids coming up this year,” said Plummer judiciously. “All they need’s a little seasoning.”

Pearl Couscous with Roasted Pumpkin and Medjool Dates

As every kid knows, pumpkins are a symbol of fall. But what can you do with the orange squash besides carve it? Transform this everyday veggie into something elegant by adding a simple combination of fresh herbs, grated lemon, and toasted nuts! The Medjool dates add a hint of sweetness and complement the earthy flavor of the pumpkin. (Reprinted from Flavor First by Cheryl Forberg. Copyright (c) 2011 by Cheryl Forberg. By permission of Rodale, Inc.)


Pearl Couscous with Roasted Pumpkin and Medjool Dates

Makes 8 ¾-cup servings

Ingredients
Directions

Combine the dates or prunes, walnuts, cheese, parsley, and lemon zest in a small bowl. Set aside.

Preheat the oven to 425°F.

Combine the pumpkin or squash, shallots, and oil in a medium bowl and toss well. Transfer to a baking sheet. Roast for about 30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the pumpkin starts to brown but is still holding its shape.

Combine the broth, salt (if desired), cumin, and cinnamon in a Dutch oven and bring to a boil. Add the couscous. Stir to coat, cover, and simmer for 5 to 10 minutes, or as directed on the couscous package. When the couscous is coked, add the roasted vegetables and date mixture and toss gently to combine. Garnish with the cilantro. Serve hot.


Calories: 170

Protein: 6 g

Total Fat: 6 g (Sat. Fat: <1 g)

Sodium: 230 mg

Cholesterol: 0 mg

Carbohydrates: 32 g

Fiber: 6 g

Hope or Hype? The Post Critiques Carnegie’s Bestseller

Friends and influence—who needs ’em?

It seemed everybody needed them back in the Depression when Dale Carnegie published How To Win Friends and Influence People.  The book appeared in bookstores in November, 1936, and was reprinted 16 times in a few months. By the time the Post ran a story on Dale Carnegie the following August, he had made $125,000 on the book—the equivalent of $2 million today.

Carnegie was as surprised by this success as much as anyone. One person who wasn’t surprised, though, was Margaret Case Harriman, author of “He Sells Hope,” the Post article. As she saw it:

The secret of the book’s success seems fairly simple. Every man or woman who buys it is instantly handed, for the sum of $1.96, the information that he, or she, is potentially as powerful, brilliant, rich and successful as anybody in the world, and perhaps a good deal more so than most. Like the beauty doctors and the professors of charm, Dale Carnegie sells people what most of them desperately need. He sells them hope.

But hope didn’t just sell itself, Harriman conceded. She chronicled Carnegie’s long, hard, wandering route to success.

He was born in 1888, in Maryville, Missouri, the second son of a worthy family pursued, to a fantastic degree, by hard luck. His father was a farmer—that is, he would have liked to be a farmer if the One Hundred and Two River had not overflowed every spring and ruined his crops.

Mrs. Carnegie, Dale’s mother, was a devout Methodist who sang hymns at her work, undismayed by the things that happened around her, and who wanted her two sons, Dale and Cliff, to become missionaries.

Young Carnegie proved to be that uniquely American type, the ambitious dreamer. He threw himself into debate and dramatics, seeking any opportunity to get up before an audience and win their attention and admiration. After college and several attempts to become a salesman he developed his own course in public speaking, then wrote a book on the subject. By 1916, Harriman wrote,

"Dictation with one hand; how to influence plant life with the other.""He Sells Hope," Aug. 14, 1937

Dale Carnegie was doing well. He had conducted courses in public speaking at YMCAs throughout the country with such success that he was able to open his own office, and to hire halls around town where ambitious young men were nightly exhorted to “Speak Out,” to “Go In There and Fight,” to “Wham it Across,” and to “Keep Their Hands Out of Their Pockets.”

The book [on public speaking] lacked the bang-up approach, the sly flattery of the reader, that was later to send the sales of How to Win Friends and Influence People up into the hundreds of thousands.

Eventually, Carnegie came to see that Americans had a greater desire than just an ability to speak in public. They wanted to be liked. They wanted to matter to others. His book, How to Win Friends and Influence People, addressed this need.

Carnegie’s success, according to Harriman, was his discovery of some fundamental truths.

(a) “Deep in every man lies the Desire to be Im­portant,” (b) “A man’s name is to him the sweetest and most important sound in the English language,” (c) “The only way to get the best of an argument is to avoid it,” and (d)—not disclosed in Mr. Carnegie’s works—there is no better way to attract the attention of a care-ridden public than by a wholesale application of comfortable generalities.

She didn’t consider Carnegie to be purposely deceptive, but a well intentioned promoter who stumbled on a concept that was highly marketable, particularly in the challenging Depression years. Carnegie believed that friends and influence were essential to everyday life, which he viewed as—

"A man's name is to him the sweetest sound in the English language."

a grim battle … with people eternally struggling against fearful odds, groping in a vast darkness haunted by specters.

Once he asked a pupil if he was completely happy. The man thought about it briefly, and then said, “Yes.” The answer left Carnegie speechless for half a minute before he unleashed a flood of incredulity upon the happy pupil. Although one of his most frequent counsels to his followers is “Don’t Argue,” Carnegie is a tenacious arguer—always avoiding any appearance of arrogance, however, by adding, “Of course I may be wrong.” The pupil stuck to his statement, and Carnegie, giving in, looked puzzled all evening. He had found one of the few things he couldn’t explain—a contented man. There may have occurred to him the disturbing thought that, if all men were happy, there would be no Dale Carnegie.

It’s hard to say why Harriman took such a cynical view of Carnegie. Thousands of people reported that their lives had been significantly improved by Carnegie’s book and course, and they have remained popular for decades in a country that is continually using up and discarding ideas.

This year, for the book’s 75th anniversary, Dale Carnegie and Associates has produced an updated version, How to Win Friends and Influence People in the Digital Age.

As the New York Times notes, this version may be new but not improved. Carnegie’s plainspoken prose has been updated with terms like “relational longevity” and “faith persuasion,” which sounds like an oxymoron.

Carnegie’s basic message survived the skepticism of Ms. Harriman. It will probably survive this revision for the digital age.

Rockwell’s Silly Side

What happens when a fireman (even in a painting) smells smoke or plumbers are turned loose in a fancy boudoir? Our favorite artist has the answers.

“The Fireman”

The Fireman 5/27/44
“The Fireman” From May 27, 1944

This may be the only known time when a picture frame inspired the painting that went into it. Rockwell found this unique frame while browsing through a junk store. Well, if you have an empty frame, you have to fill it, right? Carved into the old find were some artifacts of the fire-fighting profession: axes, ladders, and so on. It practically begged for an old-fashioned fireman to occupy it. So the artist conjured up this gent in the turn-of-the-century uniform, complete with a big, bushy mustache. In a fit of pure goofiness, he added a stiffly disapproving glare and displayed a lit cigar beneath the painting for picture-within-picture fun.

“The Plumbers” 

The Plumbers – 6/2/51
“The Plumbers” From June 2, 1951

For pure silliness, you can’t beat “The Plumbers” from 1951. Who but Rockwell would come up with a couple of working stiffs in a fancy boudoir? The homeowner is out for the day, but not the indignant, pink-bowed Pekingese. While crawling under dank sinks and unclogging who-knows-what is all well and good, why not have a little fun? “Here, Clyde, let me make you smell pretty!”

As usual, the details are terrific: look at that wallpaper, the grubby coveralls, and the plumbers’ tools (you can click on the cover for a closer view). These guys were actual plumber acquaintances of the artist, and they were asked to bring along their gear. Who else would have friends who looked like Laurel and Hardy?

“Tattoo Artist”

Tattoo Artist – March 4,1944
“Tattoo Artist” From March 4, 1944

During the WWII years, there were many, many serious Post covers with soldiers. If you look up artist Mead Schaeffer at Curtis Publishing, you’ll see armed paratroopers, jungle commandos, and military personnel in a myriad of war activities. Oh, speaking of Mead Schaeffer, he was a buddy of Rockwell’s and posed for this painting as the tattoo artist. He staunchly maintained that Rockwell made his posterior larger than in real life, which Rockwell denied. By the way, Mr. Schaeffer, I dig those socks. Apparently, the issue remains unresolved to this day. The sailor in the painting had apparently been in many ports, but Rosietta, Olga, and the rest are ancient history. This is a new port, and there is a new love-of-his-life. Rockwell even used a sheet of available tattoos as the background.


“The Critic”

The Critic – April 16, 1955
“The Critic” From April 16, 1955

The young art student is studying a painting that is studying him—an “unstill life,” if you will. Except for the frowning Dutch masters in the other painting, it is all in the family. The art critic studying a locket in the painting is Jerry Rockwell, the oldest son of the artist. The whimsical lady in the painting is his mother, Mary (Rockwell added flaming red hair for fun). Should the student notice the painting looking back at him or look over his shoulder to see the Dutch gents glaring at him, I suspect he would run screaming from the museum and take up another subject to study.

Caramelized Lamb Roast with Apricot and Cranberry Stuffing

People in the U.S. often overlook lamb, but it can actually be one of the leaner options for meat—and it is also a good source of conjugated linoleic acid, which possesses antioxidant activity. The following recipe for caramelized lamb roast makes a delicious, hearty meal. And the apricot and cranberry stuffing really adds some great fall flavor as well! (Recipe and photo courtesy the American Lamb Board.)


Caramelized American Lamb Roast with Apricot and Cranberry Stuffing

(Serves 8 to 10.)

Ingredients
Directions

Lay lamb flat on cutting board. Trim off all visible fat. Use meat mallet to flatten pieces of meat so that all of the lamb is about 2 inches thick. Wrap up meat and refrigerate. 

In small bowl combine apricots and cranberries; set aside. In small skillet heat oil over medium-high heat. Add onion, rosemary, salt, and pepper. Stir and sauté 3 to 4 minutes. Add orange juice and cinnamon; bring to a boil. Pour over dried fruit; mix and let stand for 15 minutes.

Preheat oven to 500°F.

Lay meat flat on board, cut side up, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Cut meat in half, making two rectangles. Divide filling between the two pieces of meat. Evenly spread fruit mixture over meat. Start at the smallest end and roll up meat as tightly as possible. Place seam-side down on board. Tightly tie string around roast at 1-inch intervals. Tie string around roast from end to end. Repeat process, making two roasts. Place roasts on a rack in roasting pan. Place roast in oven, and immediately turn down temperature to 325°F. Baste roast with corn syrup every 15 minutes. Roast for about 50 to 60 minutes or to desired degree of doneness. Remove from oven, cover, and let stand for 10 minutes. Slice into 1/2-inch-thick slices.

Calories: 402

Protein: 42 g

Fat: 13 g

Sodium: 243 mg

Cholesterol: 130 mg

Carbohydrates: 28 g

Fiber: 1 g

Cartoons: Oldies But Goodies

"When's the best time to catch him in a good humor?" From July 09, 1949

"When's the best time to catch him in a good humor?"
From July 09, 1949

It was a treat to discover this first cartoon because it’s by Mort Walker from 1949. Walker later became famous, of course, for the Beetle Bailey comic strip. Hmmm, younger guy getting roughed up by authority figure—might there be a pattern here?

"This is Professor Schmertz, authority on structural engineering. He wants to ask you something!" From July 16, 1949

"This is Professor Schmertz, authority on structural engineering. He wants to ask you something!"
From July 16, 1949

"This is his den or her sewing room, depending on which one you're talking to." From June 22, 1957
"This is his den or her sewing room, depending on which one you're talking to."
From June 22, 1957
"Does Ike take Mamie?" From September 8, 1954

"Does Ike take Mamie?"
From September 8, 1954

"Frankly I think these family reunions are getting too unwieldy!" From January 6, 1962

"Frankly I think these family reunions are getting too unwieldy!"
From January 6, 1962
"This is Corporal McClane, mother! He's snatching a last moment of happiness." From August 8, 1942

"This is Corporal McClane, mother! He's snatching a last moment of happiness."
From August 8, 1942

"Wait, let's watch this! It ought to be pretty good." From August 29, 1942

"Wait, let's watch this! It ought to be pretty good."
From August 29, 1942

The Cowboy and the Columnist, or Joan Didion ♥ John Wayne

A recent Harris poll gave the names of America’s ten most popular movie stars. Every actor on the list was alive and working—except for the one who hadn’t made a movie since 1976: John Wayne. It didn’t surprise the pollsters; Wayne has made this Harris list every year since 1964. But it might surprise younger movie fans who wonder why the Duke’s popularity has outlived those of his contemporaries such as Bogart, Brando, Grant, and Gable.

Partly it was his roles. Wayne always played heroes who showed integrity, fairness, and courage—virtues prized by a generation that had confronted a depression, a world war, and a cold war. But it was also his talent for giving these roles credibility. His gestures, his walk, his speech—whether on- or off-screen—all seemed to intensify his heroic charisma.

No less a writer than Joan Didion (renowned “new journalist” and author of Slouching Towards Bethlehem) felt this charisma. She and Wayne had first met in 1943 when he was a cowboy in a black-and-white two-reeler and she was a nine-year-old kid on a sun-baked air base where movies were the only entertainment. She described their meeting for the Post in “John Wayne: A Love Song.”

In the darkened Quonset hut which served as a theater… while the hot wind blew outside… I first saw John Wayne. Saw the walk, heard the voice. Heard him tell the girl in War of the Wildcats that he would build her a house, “at the bend in the river where the cottonwoods grow.”

I tell you this neither in a spirit of self-revelation nor as an exercise in total recall, but simply to demonstrate that when John Wayne rode through my childhood, and very probably through yours, he determined forever the shape of certain of our dreams.

In John Wayne’s world, John Wayne was supposed to give the orders. “Let’s ride,” he said, and “Saddle up.” “Forward ho,” and “A man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.” “Hello, there,” he said when he first saw the girl, in a construction camp or on a train or just standing around on the front porch waiting for somebody to ride up through the tall grass.

Didion wrote those words in 1965 after visiting Wayne on a movie set. In person, he seemed larger than life while giving the impression of a decent, unassuming guy.

There was Wayne, in his 33-year-old spurs, his dusty neckerchief, his blue shirt.”You don’t have too many worries about what to wear in these things,” he said. “You can wear a blue shirt, or, if you’re down in Monument Valley, you can wear a yellow shirt.”

There was Wayne, in a relatively new hat, a hat which made him look curiously like William S. Hart. “I had this old cavalry hat I loved, but I lent it to Sammy Davis. I got it back, it was unwearable. I think they all pushed it down on his head and said, “O.K. John Wayne. You know, a joke…”

(That hat, and several others, went up for auction this past week in Los Angeles, as Wayne’s family finally acceded to fan’s request to purchase some of their father’s movie memorabilia.)

Didion also noted several moments of pure, unrehearsed “Duke.” For example, when Michael Anderson, a young member of the cast, was given his own chair with his name on the back, he hurriedly brought it to Wayne’s attention.

“You see that?” Anderson asked Wayne, suddenly too shy to look him in the eye. Wayne gave him the smile, the nod, the final accolade. “I saw it, kid.”

There was also the moment when the crew, during a lunchtime break, discussed what they’d do to anyone who threatened their lives.

[Director Henry] Hathaway removed the cigar from his mouth. “Some guy just tried to kill me he wouldn’t end up in jail. How about you. Duke?”

Very slowly, the object of Hathaway’s query wiped his mouth, pushed back his chair, and stood up. It was the real thing, the authentic article, the move which had climaxed 1,000 scenes on 165 flickering frontiers and battlefields, and it was about to climax this one, in the commissary at Estudio Churubusco outside Mexico City.

“Right,” John Wayne drawled. “I’d kill him.”

Later, when Didion and her husband had dinner with Wayne and his family, she felt how his charm could fill an entire restaurant.

For a while it was only a nice evening, an evening anywhere. We had a lot of drinks, and I lost the sense that the face across the table was in certain ways more familiar than my husband’s.

John Wayne, photographed in 1978, shortly before his death.

And then something happened. Suddenly the room seemed suffused with the dream, and I could not think why. Three men appeared out of nowhere, playing guitars. I watched Pilar Wayne lean slightly forward, and John Wayne lift his glass almost imperceptibly toward her… We all smiled, and drank… and all the while the men with the guitars kept playing, until finally I realized what they had been playing all along: “Red River Valley” and the theme from The High and the Mighty. They did not quite get the beat right, but even now I can hear them, in another country and a long time later, even as I tell you this…

In a world we understand early to be characterized by venality and doubt and paralyzing ambiguities, he suggested another world, one which may or may not have existed ever, but in any case existed no more—a place where a man could move free, could make his own code and live by it; a world in which, if a man did what he had to do, he could one day take the girl and go riding through the draw and find himself there at the bend in the bright river, the cottonwoods shimmering in the sun.