Art: Till the Cows Come Home
Sleeping Farmer
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
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
“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
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
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
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!
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.”
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.
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
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
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
- Plates, saucers, cups, bowls, and vases (Check out your local thrift store.)
- Glue (I suggest Weldbond or E-6000.)
- 1 can of spray paint (I used Krylon Dual Spray Paint’s Watermelon.)
Tools
- Large piece of cardboard (to protect your work surface)
Directions
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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!
- 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!
- 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!
(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.)
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 tell him you don’t care for dead squirrels,
Mrs. Goulard."
The Last Sweet Shot of Drew Claringbold
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
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?”
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
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 [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.]
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.
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
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.
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.”
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.
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
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
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
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
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:
- 45 fresh ideas for creating an unforgettable summer
- Travel Tech: Waterproof cameras for your beach break
- 10 smart iPad and iPhone apps for the beach
- 1 kabocha squash
- 1 butternut squash
- 1 sugar pie pumpkin
- 1 tablespoon pumpkin spice
- ½ cup grape seed oil
- Kosher salt, to taste
- Peel squash and pumpkin. Cut each in quarters and remove seeds by using a spoon.
- Place prepared pieces in bowl. Coat with oil and season with pumpkin spice and salt.
- Place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and roast in a 350 degree oven until you can easily push a skewer through them. (About 45 minutes to an hour.)
- 2 cups sugar
- 1 ½ cups water
- Canola oil
- ½ teaspoon cayenne pepper
- 1 cup pumpkin seeds
- Salt, if desired
- In small pot, bring water and sugar to a boil.
- Add pumpkin seeds. Cook seeds until coated with sugar, then strain off excess sugar water.
- Fill half of large pot with canola oil to 350°F. Make sure there is room in the top so it will not boil over.
- Fry seeds in small batches until golden brown.
- Remove from oil and spread seeds over parchment paper.
- Sprinkle seeds with salt and cayenne pepper.
- ¼ cup ginger (peeled, finely diced)
- ¼ cup shallots (peeled, finely diced)
- 1 cup vegetable stock
- ¼ cup cider vinegar
- Nutmeg (fresh, whole, mircoplane), to taste
- ½ cup grape seed oil
- Heat oil in saucepan and sweat ginger and shallots, stir frequently.
- When ginger and shallots are soft and translucent (but not brown), add vegetable stock. Reduce stock to 1/4 cup.
- Add vinegar and nutmeg, season with salt and pepper if desired.
- 2 pears (peeled and cut into 1-inch cubes)
- 1 cup cooked kabocha (cut into 1-inch cubes)
- 1 cup cooked butternut (cut into 1-inch cubes)
- 1 cup sugar pie pumpkin (cut into 1-inch cubes)
- 2 bunches watercress (washed and trimmed)
- 1 tablespoon pumpkin seed oil
- ½ cup nutmeg vinaigrette
- ½ cup candied pumpkin seeds
- Salt and pepper, if desired
- Place pear, pumpkin, and squash in bowl. Add 4 tablespoons nutmeg vinaigrette and mix till evenly coated. Place in center of plate.
- Place watercress in bowl. Season if desired. Add 1 tablespoon of vinaigrette and mix.
- Place watercress on top of pumpkin and pear, followed by candied pumpkin seeds.
- Finish dish with drizzle of pumpkin seed oil and nutmeg vinaigrette.
[Photos by Donald Man, D. Thompson.]
More Than Meets the Eye
At first glance, the subject of this painting seems obvious—a self-portrait of the beloved cover artist at a loss for ideas. That’s how most historians describe the picture. He is, after all, staring at a blank canvas with the due date looming. But here, as in most of Rockwell’s artwork, there’s more to the painting than initially meets the eye.
The real issue Rockwell was subtly illustrating was not deadline pressure, but the challenges of parenting. Notice anything wrong with the scene? Look closely around the artist’s feet. His brush handles are lying in clumps of paint, his sketches are underfoot, his empty matchbook is on the floor behind him, and his maulstick (used to support the hand while painting) is beneath the chair and out of reach. No wonder one wing of his collar appears to be about to take flight! Why were his tools in disarray? He had three sons under the age of 8, that’s why.
Norman turned to his wife, Mary, for guidance. Should he ban them from his studio? Mary, a former schoolteacher, said no. Instead, she suggested teaching the boys a lesson in responsibility using that old standby, flashcards. She asked Norman to draw his art instruments positioned in their correct places in the studio. Norman would use the flashcards to teach the boys to be more responsible with his equipment.
Although not a permanent solution, this gentle intervention was a step in the right direction, turning what had been an ongoing annoyance into a fun activity for the painter and his sons. Ultimately Rockwell commemorated the lesson by painting the “before” scenario shown here, in which the artist is unable to work in a studio that had been torn asunder by three small boys.
To order a print, click here.
Cartoons: The Swinging ’60s
The ’60s were a time of space exploration, women in curlers, and “finding yourself.” And our cartoonists were there.
America’s Painful Divide
“Politics ain’t beanbag,” said a Chicago humorist in 1895; it’s not a game for children. Ever since then the saying has been used to justify the rough-and-tumble nastiness of American politics. The competition always involves trickery and demagoguery, as politicians play fast and loose with the truth, using their inner press secretaries to portray themselves in the best possible light and their opponents as fools who would lead the country to ruin.
Why does it have to be this nasty? The country now seems polarized and embattled to the point of dysfunction. Up until a few years ago, there were some political scientists who claimed that the so-called culture war was limited to Washington, and that Americans had not in fact become more polarized in their attitudes toward most policy issues. But in the last twelve years Americans have begun to move further apart. There’s been a decline in the number of people calling themselves centrists or moderates (from 40 percent in 2000 down to 36 percent in 2011), a rise in the number of conservatives (from 38 percent to 41 percent), and a rise in the number of liberals (from 19 percent to 21 percent).
This shift to a more tribal mentality owes a lot to the stories we tell about ourselves. Everyone loves a good story, and these narratives are not necessarily true stories—they are simplified and selective reconstructions of the past, often connected to an idealized vision of the future. But even though life narratives are to some degree post hoc fabrications, they still influence people’s behavior, relationships, and mental health.
One such narrative, which the sociologist Christian Smith calls the “liberal progress narrative,” organizes much of the moral matrix of the American academic left. It goes like this:
Once upon a time, the vast majority of human persons suffered in societies that were unjust, unhealthy, repressive, and oppressive. These traditional societies were reprehensible because of their deep-rooted inequality, exploitation, and irrational traditionalism. … But the noble human aspiration for autonomy, equality, and prosperity struggled mightily against the forces of misery and oppression, and eventually succeeded in establishing modern, liberal, democratic, capitalist, welfare societies. While modern social conditions hold the potential to maximize the individual freedom and pleasure of all, there is much work to be done to dismantle the powerful vestiges of inequality, exploitation, and repression. This struggle for the good society in which individuals are equal and free to pursue their self-defined happiness is the one mission truly worth dedicating one’s life to achieving.
This narrative may not mesh perfectly with the moral matrices of the left in European countries (where, for example, there is more distrust of capitalism). Nonetheless, its general plotline should be recognizable to leftists everywhere. It’s a heroic liberation narrative. Authority, hierarchy, power, and tradition are the chains that must be broken to free the “noble aspirations” of the victims.
Contrast that narrative to one for modern conservatism. The clinical psychologist Drew Westen in his book The Political Brain extracts the master narrative that was implicit, and sometimes explicit, in the major speeches of Ronald Reagan:
Once upon a time, America was a shining beacon. Then liberals came along and erected an enormous federal bureaucracy that handcuffed the invisible hand of the free market. They subverted our traditional American values and opposed God and faith at every step of the way. … Instead of requiring that people work for a living, they siphoned money from hardworking Americans and gave it to Cadillac-driving drug addicts and welfare queens. … Instead of adhering to traditional American values of family, fidelity, and personal responsibility, they encouraged a feminist agenda that undermined traditional family roles. … Instead of projecting strength to those who would do evil around the world, they cut military budgets, disrespected our soldiers in uniform, burned our flag, and chose negotiation and multilateralism. … Then Americans decided to take their country back from those who sought to undermine it.
The two narratives are as opposed as could be. But research shows that the obstacles to empathy are not symmetrical. Even though conservatives score slightly lower on measures of empathy and may therefore be less moved by a story about suffering and oppression, they can still recognize that it is awful to be kept in chains. And even though many conservatives opposed some of the great liberations of the twentieth century—of women, sweatshop workers, African Americans, and gay people—they have applauded others, such as the liberation of Eastern Europe from communist oppression.
But when liberals try to understand the Reagan narrative, they have a harder time. Many in the audience actively reject these concerns as immoral. Loyalty to a group is the basis of racism and exclusion, they say. Authority is oppression. Religion is used to suppress female sexuality and justify homophobia.
John Lennon captured a common liberal dream in his haunting song “Imagine.” Imagine if there were no countries, and no religion too. If we could just erase the borders and boundaries that divide us, then the world would “be as one.” It’s a vision of heaven for liberals, but conservatives believe it would quickly descend into hell.
As a one-time liberal atheist, I’ve come to believe, based on my own research, that conservatives are onto something. They understand the importance of what I’ll call “moral capital.” (Please note that I am praising conservative intellectuals, not the Republican Party.) Capital, in economics, refers to the resources that allow a person or firm to produce goods or services. There’s financial capital (money in the bank), physical capital (such as a wrench or a factory), and human capital (such as a well-trained sales force). When everything else is equal, a firm with more of any kind of capital will outcompete a firm with less. We can define moral capital as the resources that sustain a moral community. More specifically, moral capital refers to the degree to which a community possesses interlocking sets of values and practices that mesh well with evolved psychological mechanisms and thereby enable the community to regulate selfishness and make cooperation possible.
What does it take to sustain moral capital? Is it enough to just link people together in healthy and trusting relationships? Will that lead to good behavior for years to come?
If you believe that people are inherently good, and that they flourish when constraints and divisions are removed, then yes, that may be sufficient. But conservatives generally take a very different view of human nature. They believe that people need external structures or constraints in order to behave well, cooperate, and thrive. These external constraints include laws, institutions, customs, traditions, nations, and religions.
Large-scale human societies are nearly miraculous achievements. Our complicated moral psychology co-evolved with our religions and our other cultural inventions (such as tribes and agriculture) to get us where we are today. We need groups, we love groups, and we develop our virtues in groups, even though those groups necessarily exclude nonmembers. Conservatives fear that if you destroy all groups and dissolve all internal structure, you destroy your moral capital.
This, I believe, is the fundamental blind spot of the left. It explains why liberal reforms so often backfire, and why communist revolutions usually end up in despotism. Left-wing reformers often overreach, change too many things too quickly, and reduce the stock of moral capital inadvertently. Conversely, while conservatives do a better job of preserving moral capital, they often fail to notice certain classes of victims, fail to limit the predations of certain powerful interests, and fail to see the need to change or update institutions as times change.
The third-century Persian prophet Mani preached that the world is the battleground between the forces of absolute goodness and the forces of absolute evil. His preaching developed into Manichaeism, a religion that spread throughout the Middle East and influenced Western thinking. Unfortunately, the rising rancor and polarization between liberals and conservatives has turned our politicians into Manichaean priests. Compromise is a sin. God and the devil don’t issue many bipartisan proclamations, and neither do our politicians.
America’s political class has become far more Manichaean since the early 1990s. Before 1995, congressmen from both parties attended many of the same social events on weekends; their spouses became friends; their children played on the same sports teams. But nowadays most congressmen fly to Washington on Monday night, huddle with their teammates and do battle for three days, and then fly home on Thursday night. Cross-party friendships are disappearing; Manichaeism and scorched Earth politics are increasing.
I don’t know how Americans can convince their legislators to move their families to Washington, and I don’t know if even that change would revive cross-party friendships in today’s poisoned atmosphere, but anything we can do to cultivate more positive social connections might also alter behavior. Other structural changes that might reduce Manichaeism include changing the ways that primary elections are run, the ways that electoral districts are drawn, and the ways that candidates raise money for their campaigns.
The problem is not just limited to politicians. Technology and changing residential patterns have allowed each of us to isolate ourselves within cocoons of like-minded individuals. In 1976, only 27 percent of Americans lived in “landslide counties”—counties that voted either Democratic or Republican by a margin of 20 percent or more. But the number has risen steadily; in 2008, 48 percent of Americans lived in a landslide county. Our counties and towns are becoming increasingly segregated into “lifestyle enclaves,” in which ways of voting, eating, working, and worshipping are increasingly aligned. If you find yourself in a Whole Foods store, there’s an 89 percent chance that the county surrounding you voted for Barack Obama. If you want to find Republicans, go to a county that contains a Cracker Barrel restaurant (62 percent of these counties went for McCain).
Morality binds and blinds. This is not just something that happens to people on the other side. We all get sucked into tribal moral communities. We think the other side is blind to truth, reason, science, and common sense, but in fact everyone goes blind when talking about what they hold sacred. So if you really want to open your mind, open your heart first. If you can have at least one friendly interaction with a member of the “other” group, you’ll find it far easier to listen to what they’re saying, and maybe even see a controversial issue in a new light.
The next time you find yourself seated beside someone from “another” group, give it a try. Don’t just jump right in. Don’t bring up morality until you’ve found a few points of commonality or in some other way established a bit of trust. And when you do bring up issues of morality, try to start with some praise or a sincere expression of interest.
We’re all stuck here for a while, so let’s try to work it out.
To view a video of Jonathan Haidt with journalist Bill Moyers, visit saturdayeveningpost.com/haidt.
An excerpt from The Righteous Mind by Jonathan Haidt. © 2012 by Jonathan Haidt. Published by arrangement with Pantheon Books, an imprint of The Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.
The Other French Chef
When I was researching Julia Child recently, I came across an interesting 1962 article about French cooking: “French Food—U.S. Style” by Esther Riva Solomon. It must have been part of a work-in-progress because her book, titled, Instant Haute Cuisine, appeared the next year.
Ms. Solomon wanted to share what she had learned in Paris where, like Julia Child, she had attended the famous Cordon Bleu school for chefs. But her book appears to have sunk into obscurity while Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking became a long-running best-seller.
I’m only guessing here, for I am no chef (although I like to think I have mastered macaroni avec frommage et cut-up hot dogs), but the word “Instant” in Ms. Solomon’s title might explain why she is little remembered today.
In her Post article, she said, “Cordon Bleu was everything I’d hoped it would be, but the most valuable thing I learned there was a principle that would have shocked the chef. To him, it was impossible to turn out haute cuisine—classic French cookery—without spending hours in the kitchen, going through countless steps of preparation. Most American women don’t have that kind of time. Fortunately almost anyone can copy French masterpieces quickly, and so well that gourmets can’t tell the difference.”
“[In the Cordon Blue classes] I began to see that the more involved a dish, the less each subtlety matters in the total taste picture. The more steps, the more you can substitute and get the same effect…
“While the other students took copious notes, I found myself watching for ingredients which I could duplicate with the best of the processed foods available in supermarkets back home. Potato soup, for example. So many French soups start with potatoes. But there’s at least one excellent frozen potato soup I can buy almost anywhere. By substituting it in my Potage Grand Duc recipe (cream-of-cauliflower soup), I can save more than an hour of work. The soup manufacturer has already done the work for me.”
Apparently America’s cooks, and their families, could tell the difference between speedy cuisine and the old, slow method. It must have been surprising for Ms. Solomon to see American women actually finding the time and the patience to cook in the classic, painstaking manner. Given the choice between saving time and producing a classic poulet à l’estragon, most cooks think the extra time worth the investment.
Roasted Pumpkin Salad
Fresh pear with roasted pumpkin and kabocha and butternut squash, topped with peppery watercress, drizzled with nutmeg vinaigrette, and sprinkled with crunchy, candied pumpkin seeds… Excuse us while we wipe the drool from our chins.
This delicious, pumpkin-inspired dish comes from the kitchen of Chef Aaron Wright and The Tavern at Lark Creek in Larkspur, California.
Roasted Pumpkin Salad
Time-saving tip: Purchase peeled, pre-cut squash and pumpkin.