Art: Till the Cows Come Home

Sleeping Farmer

Sleeping Farmer by John Atherton August 23, 1947

Sleeping Farmer
by John Atherton
August 23, 1947

 

This landscape from 1947 was about as sentimental as artist John Atherton got. Most of his 47 Saturday Evening Post covers were still life studies, or a factory, a grain elevator, etc. He detested human-interest or sentimental covers.

Once he asked his friend Norman Rockwell what he was working on. “Oh, you don’t want to know, Jack,” Rockwell replied. Atherton insisted until a very reluctant Rockwell spilled the sappy details of a painting for a Boy Scout calendar where the boys are looking reverently at a cloudy image of George Washington praying. “Jack grunted horribly and grabbed at his back, twisting about in his chair as if he’d been stabbed,” Rockwell recalled. “But Jack was deeply loyal. If anyone else disparaged my work, he’d light into them.” Atherton knew what he was good at and that nobody was better than Rockwell at what he did.

Surveying the Cow Pasture

Surveying the Cow Pasture by Amos Sewell July 28, 1956

Surveying the Cow Pasture
by Amos Sewell
July 28, 1956

 

It is intimidating to have several large beasts staring at you while you work. Fortunately, despite their full-sized figures, they tend to be gentle animals. The surveyor’s biggest fear should be stepping in a cow pie.

Artist Amos Sewell illustrated 45 Saturday Evening Post covers, and well over a hundred fictional stories within the magazine.

Yakima River Cattle Roundup

Yakima River Cattle Roundup by John Clymer May 10, 1958

Yakima River Cattle Roundup
by John Clymer
May 10, 1958

 

“When I got into my early teens, like all boys, I got to wondering what in the world could I do to make a living and live in the mountains? One day I got to thinking about it and thought, That’s it! I’ll paint pictures and then I can live wherever I want to live,” said John Clymer. Where he lived as a boy was not far from this view of the Yakima River in Washington.

For 20 years, from 1942 to 1962, Clymer illustrated nearly 90 Post covers, most of them scenic and many, like this one from 1958, pretty enough to momentarily take your breath away. He and his father did not round up cattle as we see here, but editors inform us that they did fish the Yakima “for trout and, furthermore, caught some.”

Slow Mooving Traffic

 Slow Mooving Traffic by Ben Kimberly Prins April 11, 1953

Slow Mooving Traffic
by Ben Kimberly Prins
April 11, 1953

 

Well, this is disruptive. One might say—all together now—udder chaos. Artist Ben Prins got the idea for this illustration, which was his first Post cover, because he had been in a similar situation where he “performed heroically as one of the toreadors,” claimed Post editors.

Little Cowboy Takes a Licking

 Little Cowboy Takes a Licking by J.C. Leyendecker August 20, 1938

Little Cowboy Takes a Licking
by J.C. Leyendecker
August 20, 1938

 

The little cowpoke is certainly dressed for the part, but we wonder if he will ever be a hardcore ranch hand. This 1938 cover was by our most prolific artist, J.C. Leyendecker. He illustrated Post covers over a remarkable time span, from 1899 to 1943, often sumptuous and elaborate art of elegant ladies or gentlemen. So it comes as a delightful surprise when we find the artist’s humorous side.

Shoo the Moos

Shoo the Moos by Stevan Dohanos July 1, 1950

Shoo the Moos
by Stevan Dohanos
July 1, 1950

 

Before dragging grandma and baby through the barbed-wire fence, dad might want to wait and see if the cows will cooperate and vacate this ideal picnic spot (click on the artwork for a larger image).

Post editors noted that the bovines were not all that obliging when artist Stevan Dohanos was painting this 1950 cover. A cow aimed north by the local dairyman would stubbornly decide to go east or west. And as we can see, the white cow seems disinclined to move at all. This cover was painted in Westport, Connecticut, at the “Blue Ribbon Dairy Farm and Cow-Posing Academy.”


Do you have a cover theme you would like to see or a favorite Post artist you want to learn more about? Just let us know.

Reprints of Saturday Evening Post covers are available at Art.com.

Ready, Set, Get Moving!

Family on a hike
Hike or bike trails to explore the great outdoors. Photo courtesy Shutterstock.

Exploring the great outdoors can be a springboard to better health, says Dr. Mary Reimer, director of the Reimer Wellness Center in Palo Alto, California.

For starters, drink plenty of water and stretch before being active. Then, slather on the sunscreen. Finally, jump-start your healthiest year ever with Dr. Reimer’s tips for day trips that leave you energized—not exhausted!

1. Explore new places. Scope out choice destinations via bike and hike paths. Resist the urge to see as many things as possible from the car.

2. Enjoy new activities. Pack up the kids and play beach volleyball or tackle an outdoor adventure course. Alternatively, sign up for a yoga retreat, or plant the garden or flower bed you’ve always wanted.

3. Eat new foods. While you are out and about, discover tasty seasonal snacks (and save calories) at farmers markets and produce stands—not at the gas station. When eating out, watch portion sizes and savor a variety of local flavors by sharing entrees with family members or ordering smaller appetizers.

For more about outdoor fun, see Get Out, Get Fit.

What True Grassroots Campaigns Looked Like

Like the presidency, itself, the way we choose our president has changed over the years. In the past decade, the price tag on presidential campaigns has risen sharply. Before the year 2000, total spending for each election never cost more than $450 million. But in 2004, it suddenly shot up to $850 million. It reached $1.3 billion in 2008, and this year, it’s expected to exceed $5 billion.

If it seems that the presidential campaign has changed dramatically in our lifetime, consider how it looked to Rebecca Harding Davis. In 1903, she wrote “Nothing… [shows] the change in this country during the last 50 years as the difference in our conduct of the presidential campaigns.”

She was 72 years old when she wrote “Presidential Campaigns of Today and Yesterday” for the Post, and she could look back over 19 presidential campaigns that she’d witnessed from her home in western Virginia. The biggest change was that elections no longer centered on a great moral issue, which divided the country before the Civil War. “The crucial question usually is, in fact; some difference in financial policy—a matter but vaguely comprehended by the masses. It is likely to affect the pocket of the country rather than its conscience. Hence, no voter now, unless he is looking forward to office, is likely to lose a night’s sleep in anxiety about the issue.”

The other difference was that the campaigns were no longer conducted at the local level. Now they were directed by distant “commanders” who spent the money and made the decisions in some distant city. How different, she wrote, from the elections she remembered from the 1830s, when “the campaign was a part of the personal life of each American.”

Henry Clay
Henry Clay, though all the country knew his family and breeding, was always represented in his campaigns as a dirty, ragged boy coming home from the mill astride of a mule. For every vote Clay won for being a gentleman and statesman, he won a 100 for that bare-footed image.

In the old days a presidential campaign was a family feud. The candidates were known to every farmer, butcher and schoolboy from the Penobscot to the Missouri. They were called “Bill ” or “Jim” in every store and smithy, and were hated or loved with the passion of clansmen against or for their chiefs.

Men stabbed each other to the death in the fury of dispute as to whether Mrs. Andrew Jackson smoked a pipe after dinner or not, or whether Hamilton had maligned Burr, or Burr had murdered Hamilton.

Each village had its mass meeting, to which the farms and little towns of half a dozen counties sent deputations; there were party mottoes, party songs, party flags.”

The first of these campaigns which I remember was that of Harrison and Van Buren.

Every household was at work for weeks preparing for it. Hams were boiled, turkeys and chickens roasted by the scores. … An open table was set on the lawn or the porch of each dwelling, and every house was made gay with bunting and appropriate mottoes, such as “The latch-string is out.” “All welcome!”

Deputations came from towns and hamlets within a circuit of fifty miles. … Each division had its band of native talent and its homemade flag of original device.

The only duty of the convention, apparently, was to march and counter-march all day, up and down the long streets with flying flags, to the sound of fifes, drums, and clashing cymbals. Lawyers, farmers, butchers, and bakers marched under the queer banners with a stern exultation. … There were bands of men from the other side of the [Ohio] river, their horses and themselves covered with strings of horse chestnuts, or buckeyes, Ohio being the “Buckeye State,” and Harrison the “Ohio Pioneer.”

The town was in a frenzy of delight at these shows; the church bells rang, the people crowded the sidewalks, cheering as each band went by.

Campaign Float
"There was a real forge, the sparks flying, the blacksmiths banging the iron and shouting out Whig songs." Illustration of a campaign float.

Undoubtedly the most popular of the devices were the floats on which were log cabins supposed to represent the birthplace and home of “Old Tip” [the nickname given to Harrison for his victory over Tecumseh’s tribe at the Battle of Tippecanoe.]

In some of them the boy Harrison, exceedingly ragged and unwashed, was seen squatted by the fire; sometimes he was engaged in cutting up a bear which he had just killed.

One cabin, however, drove the lookers-on into a fervor of loyalty to the candidate. In it the boy, a pistol in each hand, was holding at bay two gigantic Indians who were attacking the windows. Of course the people shouted. Nobody then doubted that the squatter always was a just, wronged man, and a favored child of God, and the Indian always a fiend, made up of all vices, the offspring of the devil. We never then looked on the other side. That is a modern uncomfortable habit.

In 1903, Ms. Davis watched the campaign between Teddy Roosevelt and Alton Parker, and wondered, “What quiet doctor or minister in any country town would now parade the streets bestrung with buckeyes and shouting campaign songs?” Those campaigners were part of a country that was still young in the 1840s and ‘50s. They hated and loved with unreasoning fury, she believed, and were led by personal likes and dislikes in a way that would seem childish “to this more adult generation, which is governed by high moral reasons, or by greed, or by expediency.”

Meeting Mr. Greene—Journal of a Hospice Volunteer

Hands

I arrive early at the hospice in-patient unit every Tuesday afternoon so the volunteer finishing her shift can brief me before I start mine.

“The patient in room four has visitors,” Deborah says on a early autumn Tuesday. “The one in room seven is actively dying. His wife is with him and their daughter is on the way. The woman in eight is sleeping and the man in room 10, Mr. Greene, will stand in his doorway when he wants a cigarette.”

“Wait, what? I didn’t know patients are allowed to smoke,” I said.

“Yes, of course, but outside,” Deborah replies. “His cigarettes are on the nurse’s conference table.”

Ten minutes later, I look up and see Mr. Greene standing in the doorway of his room. I don’t know how long he has been there since he is as quiet as a shadow. Mr. Greene is wearing plaid flannel pajama bottoms and navy velvet slippers. A purple hospital gown hangs like a drop cloth over his skeletal frame. The middle of his face is wrapped in a gauze mask that stretches flat across the hole where his nose should be, and his left eye is closed and bulging so far out that it looks like it could fall off his face with the slightest motion. Although I read ‘sinus cancer’ in his chart, I am startled by how grotesque he looks.

“Mr. Greene, what can I do for you?” I look down at my desk and pretend to straighten up a row of folders while I regain my composure. I flash to my dear friend Leslie who died from breast cancer after a long, bitter battle with the disease.

“Devra, get me out of here!” I can still hear Leslie’s frantic, final words, barked as though she had somewhere to go and was deathly afraid of being late. Leslie was not referring to the hospice room. I believe Leslie wanted out of her cancer-ridden body and she knew I would understand.

I felt helpless standing by her bedside as she pleaded, tugging at her oxygen line with one hand and pulling off her covers, exposing her scarred chest, with the other. The angry red criss-cross lines that marked her torso caught me by surprise and my legs started to buckle. Then she screeched again, bringing me back to her.

“I’m with you, Lester,” I said, using her college nickname, “and I want to help you get out of here.” I tried to sound reassuring even though I had no idea what I could do to relieve her struggle.

Leslie’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, but I knew she could hear me. So I took hold of her hand and talked to her—a steady stream of reassurance, jokes, and silly commentary on me and the others in the room (her husband, daughter, parents, sister)—until she quieted down and drifted into a deep, restful sleep.

I felt my fears dissolve as I focused on easing hers. And, I realized that I actually was helping Leslie by simply being there.

The year after Leslie died, I became a hospice volunteer. I reasoned if I could provide some comfort to Leslie in her final days, maybe I could help others. But right now I feel like a fraud because I am frightened of Mr. Greene, as if he were the monster he appears to be. I am also afraid that I will not be able to step outside my fear of death; the way I could with Leslie.

“I want a smoke.” Mr. Greene’s voice is soft but deep and clear.

I stand, maybe a little too quickly, and glance around for someone else—anyone else—to take him outside. There is no one.

“OK, I’ll grab your cigarettes while you take a seat in that wheelchair next to your door,” I say, my voice a little shaky. I hope Mr. Greene does not sense my discomfort.

“I don’t need to sit in no wheelchair,” Mr. Greene says in a weak protest, as though he knows he won’t get his way but has to try.

I do not want to take his pride away from him, but I stand firm. “We both know the hospice has a rule about this,” I say. “Please, sit down.”

I grab Mr. Greene’s Ziploc baggie of Newports and Tastee Diner matches off of the conference table. As I get closer to Mr. Greene, who is now sitting in the wheelchair, I notice the bandage wrapped around his concave face is leaking a thick yellowish liquid and I feel my throat get thick. My gut reaction is to look away, and I remind myself that my goal is to make him—and every hospice patient—as comfortable as possible. I recall Leslie once telling me she did not like to be stared at or treated differently when she was bald and bloated from chemo, so I take a deep breath of courage and step behind the wheelchair.

“My name is Devra. I volunteer here on Tuesday afternoons,” I say, as I start to push. The wheelchair moves easily, as though it is empty.

“Harold,” Mr. Greene says.

“Harold. It is nice to meet you.”

I guide him toward the exit and spin the chair around to back out, using my right hip to open the door. We roll onto the stone patio which is lined with low green boxwoods and benches dedicated to people who spent their last days in the hospice. Beyond the shrubs is a sloping lawn dotted with oak trees that look like they are trying to reach up to heaven. Some still have a few resistant dried leaves clinging to the upper branches. The air is crisp around the edges, and I did not remember to put on my coat, so I steer Mr. Greene over to a wooden bench in the sun.

After I make sure Mr. Greene’s chair is secure, I sit down next to him and take out the Newports. I give the pack a shake and straighten my arm in front of Mr. Greene who slowly pulls out a cigarette and places it between his lips. I strike a match and hold it up between us when I realize I am on his blind side and he can not see it. The flame travels quickly to my fingertips and dies out. There is only one match left. I strike it, this time standing in front of him as I put the flame up against the cigarette. “Here you go,” I say. He tightens his mouth and inhales. The cigarette shrinks in and glows red. Mr. Greene takes a long pull, thanks me, and crosses his legs.

I sit back down, point my face up to the sun and close my eyes while I search for a safe topic of conversation. “It says in your chart you lived in New Orleans during Katrina,” I say, turning to look at Mr. Greene.

“Yup,” he replies, staring straight ahead.

“New Orleans is a great city. Did you listen to a lot of music while you were there?”

“Nope.”

“What did you do there for fun?”

“Drank.”

Dead end. I am determined to bond with with Mr. Greene so I wait a beat then try a different subject.

“Have any family around here?”

“Nope.”

Another dead end. Since Mr. Greene does not feel like talking, I close my eyes and listen to the slow beat of his inhales and exhales. When he goes quiet, I glance over. He is holding up the smoldering butt. “Got another?” he asks.

I consider telling him one is the limit, then realize that sitting outside and smoking on a lovely autumn day is one of the few pleasures available to him. I quickly hand Mr. Greene a cigarette so he can light it with the one he is holding since there are no more matches. Mr. Greene can not quite make the connection so I gently guide his hand to help him. His skin is cool, and crinkly like tissue paper. After the new cigarette starts to burn, he leans over to tamp out the old butt against the pavement. He checks to make sure it is dead before he flicks it into the bushes behind us.

I lean back and wait quietly for him to tell me he is ready to go inside. He startles me when he speaks. “Them’s nice boots. You get them around here?”

When I open my eyes and sit up, I see Mr. Greene studying my feet. “These boots? I got them in Texas about 15 years ago. They’re old favorites,” I say, delighted that he is talking to me, as though it is a signal that I am well-suited to be here.

“Yes sir, them’s nice boots. Very nice boots. I had a pair of boots once,” Mr. Greene says, holding his cigarette away from his face as he sits back and rests his elbows on the arm of his wheelchair. “Bought them in Washington years ago.” He brings the cigarette back up to his mouth, inhales, nods, and then exhales. “Didn’t take long before my stepfather stole them,” he says. A tail of ashes drops off of his cigarette and lands on his left foot. He leans over to clean off his slipper then sits back up. “Should have seen that coming.”

Now that he has opened up and seems at ease, I want him to keep talking, to tell me more about his life, but he does not. We sit in silence while he slowly finishes his cigarette. I wonder what I was so afraid of earlier and wish I could start today’s shift over.

“As much as I am enjoying sitting here with you, I think it is getting a little chilly,” I say, reluctant to break the spell, but the sun is starting to slip behind the building. “You ready to go inside now, Harold?”

“Yup. Thank you, dear,” he says, and I am glad he cannot see my eyes well up when he calls me dear.

I slowly wheel Mr. Greene back to his room and stay with him until he gets back into bed. When I ask, he says he does not need anything else. He is tired and would like to rest. So I go back to my desk and wait for him to appear in the doorway again. He does not before my shift ends.

When the next volunteer arrives, I brief him as I gather my belongings. On my way out I walk into Mr. Greene’s room to say goodbye, but he is sleeping peacefully. I do not want to wake him so I hold his hand and watch him breathe for a few moments before I leave, already looking forward to my next shift.

Some names have been changed in this story out of respect for privacy.

If you are interested in becoming a hospice volunteer, go to hospicefoundation.org/volunteering.

Upcycled Display Stands

Close-up Upcycled Display Stand by Martha Latta. Photo by Martha Latta.

I sell much of my jewelry at stores all around the country, and some stores require a display be provided with the product. I wanted a sort of funky, yet vintage look. So I decided to create my displays from old cups and saucers. The total cost of the entire display was under $10, and it looks fantastic. Take a look below for the materials list and full instructions as well as the finished product!

How to Make Upcycled Display Stands from Old Cups and Saucers

Materials

Tools

Directions

  1. To start, you will want to go to your local thrift store, and pick out a selection of plates, saucers, cups, and vases. Take the time to stack them on top of each other in different ways, to determine height and size of each piece. You also want to make sure the pieces fit together and won’t be top heavy. I purchased 8 saucers and 8 different cups for less than $5 at my local Value Village (secondhand store). Once you get them home, wash them well, and remove any price tags or grease pencil marks. Then allow them to dry completely.
  2. When everything is dry, it is time to start gluing the pieces together. Again, remember to make sure none are top heavy and that the bottoms of the plates and the glassware fit together well. To glue my plates and glasses together, I used a glue called Weldbond. You can find it at most hardware stores. (To be honest, if I make more of these, I would use E-6000 because I found out the the dry time on the Weldbond is 24+ hours and so that made my project take longer!) With Weldbond, you need to put a coat of glue on both pieces of the display stand and let it sit for about 5 minutes BEFORE you press the two pieces together.
  3. The more glue you use, the longer it will take it to dry, but a soft bond is formed after about 5-6 hours. It will be totally dry after 24-36 hours depending on how much glue you used. Putting glue on both pieces first and letting them sit a minute creates a stronger bond.
  4. (I hope you have another project to work on—of course you do!—because it is going to be a whole 24-36 hours before the Weldbond dries. Set the pieces in a place where they won’t have to be moved, so the seal isn’t interrupted during the dry time. Be patient and don’t rush it. When the Weldbond is clear, then it is dry and you can move on to the next step.)

  5. Now that the glue is dry, it’s time to take your stands outside and set them in a flat place with some cardboard below to protect your grass/driveway/patio from the spray paint. The fun part is about to begin!
  6. Using short, small bursts, cover the display stands with a thin coat of paint. Don’t hold the spray nozzle down for an extended period of time or the paint will begin to run and drip. A thin coat will probably not cover any designs on the plates or cups, so plan to put 2-3 coats of paint on them. Also remember that you need to get both sides (top and bottom) of the displays, so you will have to flip them over. Be sure to let the coats dry or you will have fingerprints in the paint!
  7. Once your displays are dry to the touch, move them back inside (I hope I didn’t need to say this before, but don’t spray paint inside!) and let them sit for about 24 hours so that the tackiness goes away and the smell of the paint goes away. Once you have totally dry displays, you are ready to set them up and show off your product!


Upcycled Display Stands by Martha Latta
Martha Latta’s displays are set up at Hip and Handmade in the Enroute Spa at the Indianapolis International Airport. Martha is author of the e-book, The Blogging Adventure: Tips & Prompts for a Crafter by a Crafter, and offers an e-course titled “30 Day Blogging for Crafters.” To purchase Martha’s e-course, e-book, or her handmade goods visit SundayAfternoonHousewife.com.

Cartoons: Welcome, Guests

Our cartoonists show how easy it is to make guests feel welcome. As long as you don’t have a dog or a child … or husband.

"Just let him know that you’re not afraid of him." from October 1975

"Just let him know that you’re not afraid of him."
October 1975

“Oh, George, you’ll never guess who’s come to spend the weekend with us!” from September 10, 1955

"Oh, George, you’ll never guess who’s come to
spend the weekend with us!"
September 10, 1955

"We're looking for a mattress for our guest room. We don't want anything too comfortable.” from Jan/Feb 2009

"We're looking for a mattress for our guest room.
We don't want anything too comfortable."
Jan/Feb 2009

"Come right in, folks—never you mind what George says." from November 25, 1950.

"Come right in, folks—never you mind what George says."
November 25, 1950.

"I'm usually more polite than this, but my mom says there's no pleasing you." from Mar/Apr 2000

"I'm usually more polite than this, but my mom says there's no pleasing you."
Mar/Apr 2000

"Just tell him you don’t care for dead squirrels, Mrs. Goulard." from December 18, 1943

"Just tell him you don’t care for dead squirrels,
Mrs. Goulard."
December 18, 1943


The Last Sweet Shot of Drew Claringbold

Two men golfing

I was never what you’d call a good friend of Drew Claringbold. We were acquaintances mostly, occasional golfing buddies. Like most members of the Duffin’s Bay Golf & Country Club, what I knew best about him was his swing. His superb swing. When I was a teenager hanging out at the club and looking for caddy jobs, I would inevitably wander over to the practice tee if Claringbold was there hitting balls. On rare occasions, I’d be the only spectator present, but most of the time there’d be at least six or seven golfers watching him hit a wonderful low draw, his magnificent high fade, punch shots, slow risers, lobs. He could work the ball just about any way he wanted. I’m sure we all thought if we observed him long and hard enough, we’d walk away with the magic formula that would make our swings as fluid as his. In my case, it never happened, and let’s leave it at that.

Drew Claringbold was simply the best golfer at the Duffin’s Bay Golf & Country Club. It may not sound like much, but consider that he was 11 times the club champion, four times runner-up, and five times its senior champion. The belief around the clubhouse was that if his game was clicking, the tournament was pretty much settled before he reached the back nine. What prevented Claringbold from winning every year was consistency. Claringbold, so blessed with a swing for the ages, was also cursed with an uncertain putting stroke. He wasn’t a bad putter, just an unpredictable one.

When he was rolling the ball smoothly, confidently, he was unbeatable, and those who were with him the day he set the course record of 60 (on a par 72), swore up and down they had never seen a player putt it better. Claringbold fired at the flag all day and only a few unlucky bounces kept him from being inside eight feet on every hole. On the rare occasions he was 20 feet or more away, he holed each putt as if it were a tap in.

“Yeah, it was a pretty good day out there,” was all Claringbold said afterward as he bought drinks for his three playing partners and a few hangers-on who had walked with him from about the 14th hole, when word reached the clubhouse that he was on a birdie tear.

But that was just one magnificent day in a long, spectacular career.

None of the Duffin’s Bay old-timers could remember a time when Claringbold didn’t have that swing. Those in the know, and with a few connections, said Claringbold’s swing rivaled Ben Hogan’s. That both had tapped into some great golfing secret that only a select few had ever done. Among the stories I heard at Duffin’s 19th hole was that Claringbold had played with the great Hogan a few times and had never lost by more than a couple of strokes. One story floating around was that he even beat the grand master one autumn day in a friendly match in Texas some 50 years ago. Claringbold never confirmed it, but a faint smile would escape his lips when anyone ever brought it up.

He was a lawyer by trade and a damn good one according to most. I saw him try a couple of cases and recall the grace with which he walked around the courtroom, his lithe figure moved first to the witness, then back to his desk, then over to the jury. He showed intense concentration as he pored over his notes or deconstructed a story that didn’t quite fit the scenario. The demands of his profession, however, never got in the way of squeezing in his four or five rounds a week. Such are the perks of the small-town lawyer.

Once, when I still had the callowness and bravery of someone shy of 20, I asked Claringbold, with deepest respect in my voice, why he hadn’t pursued a professional golfing career. He looked at me quizzically, as if no one had ever posed the question, and then stared out toward one of the fairways for what seemed like such a long time that I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me. But I stayed patient and imagined he was replaying some great shot in his mind before giving an answer. Finally, he looked back at me and with a shrug and said, “I guess I loved the law more.”

Then he walked away, head bent and shoulders slouched, as if he regretted his answer and his life choice.

Despite his accomplishments on the links, and the awe he inspired in all of us Duffin’s Bay golf groupies, there was one nemesis to Claringbold’s game, besides the aforementioned putting. To the astonishment of everyone, Claringbold had never been able to birdie the 10th hole. According to sources better than I, he had birdied every other hole countless times and eagled about half of them. But the 10th remained unattainable.

What made this remarkable was that the opening hole of the closing nine was far from being the club’s toughest. Running almost straight for 465 yards to a fairly generous green, the 10th was the type of hole that needed two solid, but not spectacular, shots, followed by a good putt for birdie. A few poplars, spruce, and maples hugged the right side to separate it from the par-5 first hole, and a couple of shallow bunkers protected the green on either side. But beyond a few bushes at the back, there was nothing too challenging for a good golfer, let alone a great one, to overcome.

Still, Claringbold couldn’t birdie it.

Even when he was playing his best, he could only summon par. There was no explaining it really. His woods and irons were so true that he rarely missed the green in two swings. But somehow he could never get it down from there. Twenty feet, 12 feet, eight feet, five feet. Regardless of how far his ball was from the hole, his putter would desert him. Once when I was older and playing with him, he stuck his second shot 18 inches from the flag. I didn’t dare say anything in case it jinxed him, but I could barely contain the thought that I’d be there when he finally birdied the 10th. But when he hit his putt, the stroke was just slightly fast and the ball lipped out.

“Damn this hole,” he said, in what was probably the strongest language he had ever used.

In later years, when he had retired from law, Claringbold would spend almost all his days at Duffin’s Bay. On some evenings just before the sun would set, he’d head for the 10th hole just to play it and nothing else. Sometimes he’d hit a couple of balls to increase the odds. Drew knew that a birdie under such circumstances wouldn’t count, but he had to prove to himself it could be done. Even with the rules of golf loosened, he couldn’t notch the elusive bird.

It was strange and unexplainable. Here was a guy who routinely birdied, and a few times eagled, the par-4 seventh, easily the toughest hole on the course—a landing area that was maybe 25 yards wide and 250 yards uphill from the small tee. Hit it too far left or right and you were in the woods. Hit it short of the landing area, as most of us did, and you were fighting a blind, uphill second shot at best, or else enduring the slow agony of watching your ball roll downhill to a flat spot that was maybe 100 yards from the tee.

We all cursed the seventh.

Once, when I was caddying for Claringbold, he smacked a lovely drive on the seventh. It pierced the slight wind and landed at what looked to be 275 yards dead center. When we got there no ball was seen. I walked around in circles for several minutes and finally noticed a 7-iron someone must have forgotten lying on the fairway at about the 270-yard mark. Acting on a hunch, I headed into the woods on the right, and there was his ball, dead behind a couple of birch trees in thick grass. No shot.

Incredibly bad luck. Claringbold grunted disapproval, but otherwise seemed unfazed. He looked at his shot, saw that he couldn’t go straight for the green, and asked me to walk across to the left woods to “keep an eye on this one.” I’m sure what happened next was planned. He took a 4-wood from his bag; made a short, punchy swing; and popped the ball almost straight left, watched it carom a tree near where I was standing, and saw it bounce on the green. One putt, 18 feet, for his third stroke.

He didn’t say anything until the eighth tee where he pulled out his card and pencil (he didn’t like caddies keeping his score) and muttered “routine birdie.” We all cracked up. He then took out the 7-iron we’d found on the seventh, teed his ball about 180 yards from the par-3 flag, and swung. Knocked it in for an ace before he tossed the club in the garbage can.

Geez, the guy was amazing. Except at the 10th.

When he was in his late 70s, Claringbold was in a minor car accident, which reduced some of his mobility. He still had the swing, but age and injury had reduced its power. He played occasionally for a year or two after, but he was eventually relegated to sitting in the clubhouse to watch others play the game he loved and excelled at. Ironically–he’d say unfortunately–the main clubhouse window overlooked the 10th tee.

Every so often I’d see him staring out that window and shaking his head. “I could birdie that hole,” I heard him once mutter. “I could.”

One evening in late summer, I walked off the ninth into the clubhouse and saw him finishing up his dinner. He looked up and smiled.

“How’s the score today?” he asked.

“Not bad today, Drew. I’m five over.”

“Pretty good… for you.” And he chuckled. “You going to fit in the back nine?”

“Naahhh, not enough time.”

He stood up, slowly. “Come on, a group just went off. You could do it.”

He stared at me, not saying anything, but something made me say what I hadn’t even considered for the past couple of years. “Tell you what. I’ll play the 10th and come back on the 18th if you come with me.”

“Sure,” he said, without hesitation.

“And play, too.”

That stopped him momentarily. He looked first at me, then the 10th hole, then back at me. There was just a hint of a smile. “Of course, my clubs aren’t here. They’re in the trunk of my car.” Who knows why he kept them there, long after his playing days were over.

“Really? Well, give me the keys and I’ll get them for you.”

Claringbold seemed to be doing everything in slow motion, even talking. “All right,” he said quietly. “Yeah, let’s do it. I’ll meet you on the tee.”

He moved sluggishly in an awkward shuffle, but didn’t change his mind. I went to get his clubs and took my time, knowing it would take him awhile to reach the 10th. When I got there, he was sitting on a bench, pale and weak looking.

“You sure you’re up for this, Drew?”

He coughed violently for a moment, and then stood up. “Yes, yes, I’m all right. Damn congestion, that’s all. Hand me the driver, please.”

Something about golf invigorates a person. Perhaps it’s the notion of being outside with nature, breathing the air, the quiet hum of a summer evening. But as he took his club, he appeared to shake off 20 years of age, standing tall once again and looking as if he had never left the game. Watching him take his backswing was like seeing him again through 18-year-old eyes. For a man in his condition, he simply smoked it. It landed about 220 yards out and rolled another 25 dead center.

“Not bad for an old geezer,” he said.

For one of the few times in my life, I outdrove him, but at that point I didn’t care. I was getting one more chance to play with Drew Claringbold, and he was still showing me a thing or two. He had his clubs on a pull cart, but was breathing hard when we reached his ball. He waved off any suggestion that we stop and rest. “I’m feeling OK,” he said, but the words came out languidly between breaths. He was sitting about 220 yards from the flag, and I suspect that the drive took so much out of him that there was no chance he could go for the green. Claringbold thought otherwise. “Hand me the driver again, please. I think I’ve got a pretty good lie.”

There are those that’ll tell you they were there the day Drew Claringbold hit his second shot with a driver on the 10th. They’ll rhyme off details about the wind conditions, the lie, the grace of his swing—even what he was wearing that evening. But I know it was just the two of us out there in the middle of the fairway, the sun low on the horizon. When the club connected with the ball, I followed its flight, knowing he’d hit a good one. It just sailed, and for a moment, I had the feeling it might never come down. But a sound nearby interrupted, and I looked back to where he had been standing.

I like to think that before he crumpled in a heap some 245 yards out on the 10th fairway, Drew Claringbold, before he drew in his last breath, had also watched that sweet second shot of his. I like to think he looked intently as it hit the front of the green, took a couple of bounces, and started rolling. And I also like to think that the expression on his face, as he lay there on the ground, was one of pleasure rather than some final grimace of pain more likely to accompany a sudden heart attack. I just don’t know.

What I do know is that throughout his long, marvelous golfing life, Drew Claringbold, the finest man I ever had the chance to play the game with, never birdied the 10th hole at the Duffin’s Bay Golf and Country Club. But I’ll never forget the last shot he hit and how it rolled smoothly toward the hole, before dropping into the cup.

For an eagle.

Going it Alone

Ann Kim today
Ann Kim today: “Here I am with my two sons on New Year’s Day this year. We’re at Ocean Beach in San Francisco. They were just 3 and 7 when I was diagnosed, and now they are young men. I am so grateful for each day I have with them.” Photo courtesy Ann Kim.

Shortly before my 39th birthday, when I was taking a shower, I felt a lump about the size and shape of a pea in my right breast. I felt a chill go through my body. A week later, on my 39th birthday, I got a biopsy. When the doctor called with the results (I was setting out the birthday cake for my older son’s seventh birthday), the news was bad: I had breast cancer. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. It just felt surreal.

In literature and film, medicine is often depicted as a paternalistic profession, with patients given little information and expected to follow their doctors’ orders blindly. In real life, my experience was the opposite. Instead of having an all-knowing doctor telling me what to do, I found myself with a team of doctors relying on me to make the critical treatment decisions. I was like a president with advisors, but I knew nothing about the topics, and the choices and the information were overwhelming. What I expected was Dr. Brilliant Guide; what I got was Dr. Me.

My first appointment was with a pre-eminent breast surgeon at a top-rated comprehensive cancer center. She carefully laid out the options for me: lumpectomy with radiation or mastectomy with reconstruction. The lumpectomy would mean a less invasive procedure and a quicker recovery but also require several weeks of daily radiation and a lifetime of mammograms and MRIs. The mastectomy would entail more invasive surgery and a longer recovery time but eliminate the need for radiation and ongoing screening. Long-term survival odds were the same. My surgeon had no recommendation either way.

Anxious to get her to cast a vote, I tried a personal approach. I had Googled my surgeon before the appointment and found that we were of the same age and ethnicity, and we were both mothers. “You and I could be sisters—twins, even,” I told her. “If you were in my shoes, what would you do?”

Ann Kim during chemotherapy (2005)
Ann Kim during chemotherapy in 2005: “This is one of the few photos I have of myself when I was bald. My sons and I are cuddling together in bed during a trip to Yosemite in the winter.” Photo courtesy Ann Kim.

She paused before answering. “Whenever women ask me that, I tell them that it’s a personal decision, and that I can’t make it for them,” she said. “But when I look at you, I see myself. I would choose a mastectomy with reconstruction.”

I was grateful for her answer but also frustrated on behalf of other patients. Why do doctors express their much-more-informed opinion so reluctantly?

I had more decisions to make when I met with a plastic surgeon. He laid out the options: saline implant, TRAM flap (which uses skin, fat, and muscle from the belly region to construct a breast), or LAT flap (which uses skin, fat, and muscle from the back region to construct a breast). I chose to get an implant, but I developed severe capsular contracture, which is when scar tissue forms around the implant and causes painful stiffness and hardening of the tissue. After multiple surgeries, I had to remove the implant altogether. In retrospect, I wish I’d considered the choice of no reconstruction at all, but it was not something that I even thought to discuss with the plastic surgeon, nor did he mention it to me.

The hardest phase of my medical training was choosing an oncologist, the person responsible for administering chemotherapy and other systemic cancer treatments. Weeks had passed since my surgery, and I was convinced that the cancer was already beginning to spread. I wanted to begin chemotherapy right away. But the oncologist offered me the most intimidating set of choices yet.

I could take four rounds of Adriamycin plus Cytoxan, either at four-week or three-week intervals. I could add four rounds of Taxol or Taxotere, again at either four- or three-week intervals. I could participate in a clinical trial in which I would receive either a new drug called Herceptin or a placebo. After my chemotherapy ended, I could choose to take five years of an oral hormonal drug called Tamoxifen, or I could suppress my ovaries by taking a drug called Lupron or Zoladex and take five years of an Aromatase Inhibitor such as Letrozole (brand name Femara), Exemestane (Aromasin), or Anastrozole (Arimidex), or I could take five years of Tamoxifen and follow it up with another five years of an Aromatase Inhibitor.

My head was spinning. Having spent an hour describing the options, the oncologist had run out of time and had to move on to her next patient. Rather than recommending a particular course of treatment, the oncologist told me and my husband to go home and think about it and make an appointment to meet with her again.

I didn’t want to wait several more weeks mulling over treatments I didn’t really understand. At my friend’s suggestion, I met with another oncologist. He offered the same options as the first oncologist but recommended a specific course of treatment and gave strong supporting reasons for it. I appreciated that he was advocating an aggressive approach (adding a third chemotherapy agent and combining ovarian suppression with an Aromatase Inhibitor). But, mostly, I was grateful for a straightforward answer. He became my oncologist.

For young women with breast cancer, treatment decisions often extend beyond surgery, radiation therapy, and oncology to medical specialties such as genetic counseling, fertility planning, gynecology, psychiatry, physical therapy, and primary medicine. Unfortunately, even at a comprehensive cancer center, the patient must coordinate these various disciplines. And if you go “a la carte” like I did, mixing and matching doctors in different practice groups and at different hospitals, good luck.

In the end, I had to create an Excel spreadsheet just to keep track of my appointments: breast surgeon every six months; mammogram every year (ideally just before the breast surgeon visit so that we could discuss the results); MRI every year for the first two years (ditto, but scheduled six months from the mammogram); oncologist every four months for the first five years, then every six months thereafter; ditto for the blood test with tumor markers; PET/CT every year for the first three years; bone density test every year for the first five years (to track the bone thinning effects of the Aromatase Inhibitors); MUGA heart scan every few months for the year of Herceptin (owing to the cardio-toxic effects of Herceptin and Adriamycin); gynecologist every six months; primary physician every year; and so on. I was able to keep track of this because I’m fairly organized. But what about most people?

In many respects, the collaborative approach that doctors take to cancer treatment is welcome. No one wants a high-handed doctor making treatment decisions without the patient’s involvement or understanding. But a patient can’t in the end play the role of doctor. We might want to know why a doctor is recommending something; but we still want a recommendation. Also, many of us need a guide just to navigate all the appointments and logistics, which can be Byzantine.

Today, nearly eight years after my initial diagnosis, I continue to be vigilant in monitoring my health. (Hormone-sensitive cancers like mine have a “long tail”—meaning they can recur 10, 15, even 20 years after diagnosis.) I read articles and books about cancer. I attend lectures and take notes about the latest treatments. And I participate in a breast cancer support group.

If, knowing what I know now, I were able to go back in time and advise myself on how to be Dr. Me, I would have said three things that I also say to new acquaintances in similar circumstances. The first is that you should always bring a family member or friend to your appointments and have him or her take notes. Often, we patients are so overwhelmed that we can’t remember what we were just told or don’t ask any questions. The second is that you must take care of your whole self. Treat yourself to delicious and healthful food every day. Watch a funny movie and laugh with your friends. Take naps and hot baths as needed. The third is that you should feel free to complain. I have seen too many friends suffer in silence, whether it’s nausea from chemo (doctors often prescribe the cheapest anti-nausea drugs before moving up to the more powerful stuff) or simply trouble getting an appointment. If the front desk or support staff are unhelpful, tell your doctor—doctors don’t want to lose you as a patient.

In an ideal world, of course, no patient would have to shoulder so many responsibilities along with trying to get well. One of the best improvements that could be made would be for patients with cancer to have a “patient advocate.” If you were diagnosed with cancer, the medical center would partner you with a professional patient advocate who would guide you through the cancer treatment process. The patient advocate would set up appointments for you, make sure your care was coordinated, and offer general health-related suggestions (alternative treatments, massage, nutrition classes, support groups). The advocate might even accompany you to appointments and help you with decision making. This would go a long way toward letting those with serious conditions have the luxury of being patients, so that they don’t have to be Dr. Me.

Ann Kim is the president of Bay Area Young Survivors (BAYS), a support group for young women with breast cancer in the San Francisco Bay area.

Article originally published at Zócalo Public Square (zocalopublicsquare.org).

Help When You Need It

The American Cancer Society (cancer.org) provides helpful information about all types of cancer, and offers amazing programs such as peer support, free wigs and cosmetics, and free transportation to appointments.

For general information about breast cancer, as well as a helpful online community (chat boards), breastcancer.org is a good resource.

Other websites that Ann recommends:

Right Action for Women (rightactionforwomen.org), founded by actress Christina Applegate, educates women about what it means to be at “high risk” for breast cancer and provides aid to those without insurance or the financial flexibility to cover the high costs associated with breast screenings.

Casting for Recovery (castingforrecovery.org) provides an opportunity for women with breast cancer to gather in a natural setting to learn the sport of fly fishing, network, exchange information, and have fun.

Cleaning for a Reason (cleaningforareason.org) partners with maid services to offer free professional house cleaning to women undergoing treatment for any type of cancer.

Little Pink Houses of Hope (littlepinkhousesofhope.org) offers weeklong retreats in North and South Carolina for breast cancer families, providing food, lodging, and activities. Participants provide transportation.

Cancer and career: Many facing cancer have questions about how the disease will affect their jobs. The Disability Rights Legal Center (disabilityrightslegalcenter.org) and Cancer and Careers organization (cancerandcareers.org) are great resources to help with these issues.

The Long Tradition of the Smear Campaign

Daddy Cleveland
"Another Voice for Cleveland"

There’s always the hope, with the start of every presidential campaign, that this time it will be different. This year, maybe the candidates will offer intelligent, practical solutions to the country’s problems. They emphasize what they’ll do, not dwell on the many shortcomings of their opponent.

And usually we’re disappointed. No matter how earnest and well-intentioned a presidential campaign begins, by the time it approaches the finish line, it usually assumes an atmosphere somewhere between a carnival midway and a bar fight.

We had an intelligent, respectable election once, and the winner was George Washington. By the time the next election came around, the gloves were off and the tar buckets filled, as Jack Anderson pointed out. [The Pulitzer-prize winning author’s article—”The Dirtiest Campaign Tricks in History”—appeared in the Post on November, 1976]

In the 1796 election, John Adams suffered a blow when the Boston Independent Chronicle alleged that during the Revolution he had publicly supported Washington while surreptitiously attempting to have the General cashiered. In truth, it was Adams’s second cousin, Sam, who had sought Washington’s scalp.

Adams’s opponent, Thomas Jefferson … was accused of being the son of a half-breed Indian and a mulatto father. Voters were warned that Jefferson’s election would result in a civil war and a national orgy of rape, incest, and adultery.

Andrew Jackson's ultimate goal, according to opponents.

Andrew Jackson [was portrayed by his opponents] as a bloodthirsty wild man; a trigger-happy brawler; the son of a prostitute and a black man… his older brother had been sold as a slave [and] Jackson … had put to death soldiers who had offended him. Worst of all, Jackson and his wife were depicted as adulterers. Through a technical mixup, Rachael Jackson had married Andrew before her first husband divorced her. “Ought a convicted adulteress and her paramour husband be placed in the highest offices of this free and Christian land?” screamed the Cincinnati Gazette. Rachael succumbed to a heart attack before the couple could move into the White House, and many of Jackson’s advocates attributed her death to the calumnious campaign of 1828.

In 1839, Martin Van Buren was accused of being too close to the Pope, when, in fact, he had done little more than correspond with the Vatican in his job as Secretary of State under Andrew Jackson. His opponents, nevertheless, spread the canard that a “popish plot” was afoot to ensure Van Buren’s election.

During the Polk-Clay race of 1844 the Ithaca, New York, Chronicle [quoted] … one Baron Roorback … [who] had witnessed the purchase of 43 slaves by James K. Polk. The entire story was a hoax. Polk had purchased no slaves; in fact, there was no Baron Roorback. But that didn’t keep the story from gaining wide attention.

During the campaign of 1864, Lincoln was tagged with every filthy name in the political lexicon, from ape to ghoul to traitor. Midway through his first term, his detractors accused his wife of collaborating with Confederates, a charge which compelled the President to appear, uninvited, before a Senate committee which was secretly considering the allegations [and swear to his wife’s innocence.]

In a rather complicated cartoon, Satan lures James Polk toward war with Britain over the Oregon territory.Click image to enlarge.

The campaign of 1884 held the dubious honor of being the dirtiest in American history. … In July, the Buffalo Evening Telegraph … accused Cleveland of fathering an illegitimate son a decade earlier in Buffalo. It turned out that Cleveland, a bachelor, had dated the child’s mother, as had several other men. The boy, therefore, was of questionable parentage. Yet the inherently decent Cleveland had provided for him. A chant soon arose in Republican ranks: “Ma! Ma! Where’s my pa? Gone to the White House, ha! ha! ha!”

Cleveland’s opponent, James G. Blaine … involved in a business scandal. A railroad line had permitted him to sell bonds for a generous commission in return for a land grant. “Burn this letter!” Blaine instructed one cohort in a cover-up attempt. Thus evolved the Democratic comeback to Cleveland’s critics: “Blaine, Blaine, James G. Blaine, the continental liar from the State of Maine.”

Warren Harding… became the subject of a whispering campaign about his ancestry. A great-grandmother, it was alleged, had been a Negro, and a great-grandfather had Negro blood.

The dirty tricks don’t end once the ballots had been cast, either.

Candidate Lincoln, according to Pro-South Democrats, would lead the country straight into insanity.

In the election of 1876, Democrat Samuel Tilden won the popular election but fell one electoral vote shy of a majority. The electoral tallies in several states were counted and recounted, juggled and changed, until finally the election was thrown into the Congress. A Republican Senate and a Democratic House set up an Electoral Commission to decide the winner. Through some political maneuvering that fairly reeked of scandal, Republican Rutherford B. Hayes was declared the victor.

Lyndon Johnson first won his Senate seat in 1948 by an 87-vote margin when 203 previously unnoticed ballots were miraculously discovered several days after the election. The “voters,” curiously, had approached the polls in alphabetical order, and 202 of them had cast their marks beside the Johnson name. This election gave LBJ his nickname of “Landslide Lyndon.”

Dead men not only vote in American elections; occasionally they are candidates. Philadelphia’s Democratic party bosses, for example, ran a dead man in last April’s primary. The cadaverous candidate was Congressman William Barrett, who departed the scene fifteen days before the election. The party hacks kept Barrett’s name on the ballot in the hope that uninformed voters would select him anyway. Thus the bosses could handpick his replacement.Barrett won.

 

Next: The Big Change in Presidential Campaigns

Classic Art: Frank X, The Other Leyendecker

Couple Kissing at Piano from July 27, 1907
Couple Kissing at Piano
from July 27, 1907

It must have been like having a movie star for a sibling, being the “oh, yeah, you’re the brother” guy.

Frank Xavier Leyendecker was born in Germany in 1879 (or ’76 or ’77, depending upon the source) and from boyhood, he seemed to be something of an afterthought.

After enjoying early success, Frank’s demons of inferiority complex and substance abuse ruled.

This cover is from 1907.

Although the family immigrated to America in 1882, primogeniture still held some sway to the Leyendecker parents, who were determined that older brother Joe (J.C.) receive the training required for future success.

They were somewhat less concerned with their younger son’s prospects, but J.C. conscientiously worked to bring young Frank and his talent along with him, including to Paris in 1886 to study at the Acadèmie Julian.

Dancing at Dutch Pete’s from September 26, 1903
Dancing at Dutch Pete’s
from September 26, 1903

This 1903 cover, Dancing at Dutch Pete’s, appears to have retained a bit of the Parisian influence the brothers enjoyed.

Paris was the heart of the international art world, and Laurence S. Cutler and Judy Goffman Cutler, authors of a book on J.C., write: “At 22 years of age, J.C. was already considered to be an upcoming art figure alongside such luminaries as … Alphonse Maria Mucha and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.”

J.C. was considered the biggest talent to attend the academy in many years, which could be one reason that, while there, “J.C. studied diligently while F.X. tended to focus more on drinking, drugs and carousing with the other art students,” according to art blogger Donald Pittenger.

Like his more successful brother, Frank did commercial work, though he had a bit of an attitude about doing advertisements, feeling he was destined for fine arts. Michael Schau, author of another tome on J.C. Leyendecker, writes, “Whether or not he (Frank) lacked the vision or self-confidence to attempt such work is hard to tell.”

November 1914 cover from Vanity Fair
November 1914 cover from Vanity Fair

Frank’s earliest success was with Collier’s magazine around the turn of the century. He also did work for Life magazine and, as we see in this stunning 1914 cover, Vanity Fair.

The richness of color is a reminder that Frank was also a stained glass artist and designer. It is also a reminder that, like his brother J.C., Frank’s diversity of style was amazing.

The fragment of his work shown here illustrates passionate, cute, romantic and elegant scenes. We’ll add one more style: the realistic and poignant (see below).

In this 1918 cover, “Soldier Writes Mother a Letter,” a soldier writes by candlelight and in the background we see the sweet white-haired recipient of his letter.

It is Frank’s only cover for Country Gentleman magazine, a sister publication to The Saturday Evening Post, for whom he did 17 covers.

Country Gentleman cover of a soldier writing to his mother.
Soldier Writes Mother Letter
February 23, 1918.

As we have indicated, the Post was by no means their only client, but it is illustrative of the hard-working nature of J.C. that he had done well over 130 covers for them by this time (he was to become the magazine’s most prolific artist, with 322 covers).

Although the creative genius was there, Frank became more depressed and less productive as J.C.’s star continued to rise. After a dispute with J.C.’s partner, Charles Beach, J.C., who had always stayed with his brother, moved out.

The Cutler book on J.C. Leyendecker states: “With nothing else left, no place in the fraternal relationship, a broken spirit, and overshadowed by J.C.’s successes, Frank lapsed further into his sad indulgences.” Depression, heavy drinking, smoking, and drug use culminated in his death at age 45 in April of 1924.

How to Keep your Gadgets Safe at the Beach

Beach, photo by Donald Man.

Let’s take a trip back to my childhood. The year was 1992, and “Too Legit to Quit” was still my favorite song. I had the stereotypical late ’80s boom box and carried the cassette tape (which I bought with my allowance, of course) around with me like a prized trophy. I even had a little dance to go along with song. I was cool (or at least I tell myself this), and life was good.

One hot summer day, my parents took me and my brothers down to the beach for some fun, and my music had to come along with me, despite my dear mother’s protests. The boom box was set down on the towel, and I ran off to play in the lake, kicking a plume of sand up behind me that went right into the boom box and ruined my precious childhood song.

The moral of this story? “Too Legit to Quit” was a terrible song, and I should have listened to my mother and not brought unprotected electronics to the beach.

Fortunately, there are some things you can do to keep your electronics safe out on the sand.

Ditch your camera

Camera

While that fancy $600 DSLR camera sure does take nice pictures, hauling it to the beach probably isn’t the best idea in the world. Besides exposing it to the elements, you never know who or what you’ll come across at the beach—or rather, who or what will come across you. No need to let some random young surfer-wannabe splash water on your camera.

Instead, pick up a relatively inexpensive waterproof camera. A waterproof device will be able to withstand the punishment of a kid-friendly environment, while giving you the peace of mind that your expensive investment isn’t going to get damaged. Check out our advice on waterproof cameras for some ideas.

Think waterproof

iPhone Case

It might seem like overkill, but a waterproof case can be indispensible for a day at the beach. Not only is it going to protect your phone against those accidental swims in the ocean friends are often wont to impose, but it’s also going to make sure that no sand gets in your phone.

The best way to pick up a case is to hit your local sporting goods store for a quick fix, or hop on Amazon if you’ve got a couple days to wait for delivery. Just do an Amazon search for “waterproof cases iPhone” (or whatever your phone is) and you’ll get a bunch of great results.

A couple things to keep in mind though. First, be ready to spend between $35 and $50 for one. Any less and I wouldn’t recommend it, since you might be getting an inferior product (and you don’t want to take that chance with your $600 smartphone). You should also be willing to get a waterproof case that doesn’t exactly match your device, especially if you need to pick one up right now at the sporting goods store. There are cases which are waterproof that work just fine with an iPhone inside them, and generally run a bit cheaper than cases meant specifically for the iPhone.

An added benefit to the waterproof case is that you can—and should!—take your favorite gadgets hiking with you, safe and dry despite the elements.

Get some fresh air

We’ve all been there, out in nature with our cell phones when some dirt or other debris gets on it that we just can’t get off easily. When you’re at the beach, the key danger is sand, which isn’t a friend of any electronic device. It’s hard, coarse, and can easily damage fragile eletronics.

The best way to get sand out of your electronics is to blow your device clean with some compressed air. Don’t hold the air right up against your gadget. Instead, hold it back a foot or so; you want just enough air to be impactful but not so much that you’ll damage any sensitive components. You may have to give your device a couple blasts of air, but eventually, all the sand will make its way out—and onto your floor. (Another great tip: Do this outside in the garage.)

Remember the basics

Beach Umbrellas

And yes, the final item on our list is simply an umbrella. Why is such a basic item necessary for the high-tech aficionado? It’s simple, really. If you’re going to be out in the sun, then your devices are going to get hot—really hot. I recently found this out the hard way when spending the day relaxing by the pool with some co-workers. I reached for my iPhone, which despite being protected in a good case was not only burning-hot to the touch but also wouldn’t function. It even popped up an error message letting me know it needed to cool down.

When your phone is telling you to get some shade, it’s probably a good idea! So our last tip to protect your gadgets at the beach: keep ’em cool and out of the sun!

And in case you you were wondering, my iPhone was so hot that we were able to watch a drop of water quickly evaporate off its screen. Now that’s a sunburn!


This story originally appeared on Tecca. More from Tecca: