Operation Round Orange

It’s day 11 of Operation Round Orange. I fear I’m driving Father mad, but I must not allow sentimentality to sway me. The stakes are too high.

Today our battle of wills brings us to the kitchen. Father sits on a chair in front of me, and I sit on my white plastic training potty with my big-boy pants around my ankles. The Elmo clones on my undergarments stare at me with their dead, accusing eyes.

“Come on, Joey, just go,” says Father.

“No,” I say.

“Don’t you have to go?”

“No, Mama.”

“Dada, I’m Dada.”

“Mama,” I say.

I smile as I see Father’s temples start to throb. He rises and turns the kitchen faucet on to a trickle.

“How about now, Joey?” asks Father. “Have to go?”

The sound of water spattering in the sink brings my bladder to near bursting, but I refuse to be betrayed by my own body.

“No, Mama. Orange?”

Father glances at a pile of oranges and bananas sitting in a fruit bowl. “Sure buddy. I’ll peel you an orange as soon as you go potty.”

I shake my head and point to a high kitchen cabinet, well out of reach. “Round orange.”

Father offers a nervous laugh. “You know that’s not where we keep the oranges, buddy.”

We lock stares. Beads of sweat threaten to erupt from my skin, but it is Father who breaks first.

“Fine, Joey. We’ll try again later.”

“Okay, Mama.” I stand, pulling up my undergarments.

Father reaches for the phone, and I stroll from the kitchen with as much dignity as my swollen bladder will allow. Out of sight, I charge down the hall.

The cat occupies her litter box but has long since finished her business, and we both know it.

“Move, kitty!” I say.

The cat stares at me, then looks away without moving.

I know her game, but we have an agreement, and I’m in no mood to renegotiate.

“Move, kitty!” I repeat. I drop my big-boy pants and the cat steps from the box just as my stream hits the floral-scented sand. Relief washes through me. When I’m finished, the cat offers me a sulky glare then moves to cover the evidence.

I pad back to the kitchen where I hear Father speaking on the phone.

“It’s been like two weeks, dude,” he says to the person on the other end. “No pee or poo at all. I’m freaking out!” He pauses, then blanches and shakes his head. “She’ll kill me if I have to take Joey to the ER.” He pauses again. “Yeah, she’s due back from the conference tomorrow.”

“Orange,” I say, pointing to the cabinet.

“What?” Father looks at me, bewildered, then hands me an orange from the bowl. “Just my kid asking for some fruit,” he says. “No, he seems fine.”

Sighing, I drop the fruit to the floor and pad to the living room. A pang in my bowels alerts me that my bladder was not the only part of my body in need of relief.

My baby sister and the dog are waiting on the couch. On the television an insipid purple dinosaur sings of love.

Seeing me, my sister flashes her fingers in a series of signs.

Slower, I sign back. I can’t understand you.

She flashes more signs, frustration evident on her face.

Yes, I know you hate the dinosaur, I say, but one thing at a time. Be patient.

She waggles her fingers too quickly for me to follow.

Slower, you idiot! I told you you’re going too fast!

My sister put special emphasis on the next set of signs.

Oh, real nice, I say. You kiss your mother with that mouth?

She extends her middle finger.

The growing pressure in my bowels reminds me of my more immediate concerns.

I know you can count to one, I sign to my sister. Can you make it to 10, like we discussed?

She nods.

“Dog,” I say — the animal’s ears perk. “Go.”

The dog scurries from the room, barking.

Following the animal to the kitchen, I find the dog pawing at the sliding glass window leading to the backyard. Father, still on the phone, slides the door open and the dog scrambles outside. An instant later my sister begins to squall in the living room.

“Crap, gotta go, dude,” says Father, replacing the phone in the cradle. He sprints from the kitchen, leaving the sliding door ajar.

I rush outside, joining the dog in a blissful squat. I smile as the sun bathes my face with warmth and the grass tickles my bare bottom. There’s something very primal about taking a dump with one’s best friend. I cherish these moments, but alas, all good things must come to an end.

Turning, I wave at my two neighbors sitting on lawn chairs in the adjacent yard. They stare at me and the dog.

The gray-haired man says to the gray-haired woman, “See, I told you he lets his kid shit in the yard.”

The gray-haired woman returns my wave.

***

It’s day 12 of Operation Round Orange and time is growing short. I find myself again on my plastic potty, and Father in his familiar chair.

“Round orange, Mama,” I say, pointing to the high cabinet.

Father sighs. “Just as soon as you do your business, buddy, I’ll get you that orange.”

“No.” I point again at the cabinet.

“Look, Joey, I don’t know what —” Father’s stops mid-sentence at the sound of the front door opening.

The dog barks happily in the living room. My sister gives an excited squeal.

“Oh, my baby, I missed you so much,” comes Mother’s voice.

Father’s shoulders slump in resignation. He rises to meet Mother, but I stay where I am. Now is the time for the pièce de résistance.

When Father and Mother return to the kitchen, my sister in Mother’s arms, I stand smiling next to my training potty.

“Look, Mama.” I point to the toilet. “Dada showed me.”

Mother peers down and beams. “Number one and number two,” she says. “I’m so proud of my big boy!”

Father stares at me, his mouth agape.

“Orange,” I say.

“Of course, Joey,” says Mother. “You deserve a prize.” She reaches for an orange in the fruit bowl and winks at Father. “Dad will get his prize later.”

Father grins, his face flushed. When Mother turns away, Father and I lock eyes.

“Round orange,” I say to him, pointing to the high cabinet.

Father stares at me one moment more, then nods.

Mission accomplished.

***

It’s day one of Operation Fighting Robots.

Father, the cat, the dog, and my sister and I sit in the living room. A jumbo-sized canister of cheeseballs once hidden in the kitchen cabinet lies open on the floor, half empty. The cat’s whiskers and dog’s muzzle are coated in neon orange.

The purple dinosaur is on the television again. My sister looks at me expectantly and makes a single sign. With orange-dusted fingers, I respond in the affirmative.

Pointing to the television, I say, “Robots, Dada.”

Wiping neon powder from his face, Father nods. “Way ahead of you, buddy.” He reaches for the remote.

Tylenol’s Modern Spin on ‘Freedom from Want’

I immediately loved the concept for the Tylenol spot, its message spoke to me — it is current and relevant. Taking my grandfather’s painting Freedom from Want, which he painted in 1943, and cleverly bringing that image of family togetherness and celebration into 2015 by reflecting it through three different American families — one African-American, another Asian, and also two moms with their happily extended family. What better way to visually tell the story of how our definition of family is expanding and ever changing? Yet our concept of family remains the same; it is the love and the celebration of that love that connects us all, regardless of race, sexuality, or any other difference. Norman Rockwell’s painting is a timeless reminder of what is most important.

The Year of Two Thanksgivings

With all the concerns about Christmas — or at least Christmas shopping — intruding on Thanksgiving, maybe Thanksgiving should always be the last Thursday of the month. That was the day Lincoln set aside as the national day of giving thanks in 1863.

But in 1939, President Roosevelt moved it to the fourth Thursday of November.

Naturally, many Americans were displeased with the change. They didn’t like having their holiday traditions moved around. And many were upset over Roosevelt’s reason for the move.

That year, Thanksgiving landed on the last day of November. Consequently the Christmas shopping season, which Thanksgiving traditionally marked even then, would be only 24 days long. Hoping to help retailers by extending the shopping season, Roosevelt moved the holiday—and the traditional start of shopping—back one week.

But many Americans had already made plans for the holiday. Football teams had already scheduled their last games of the season — traditionally played on Thanksgiving Day — on the 30th. The new date became a political issue. Republicans who claimed Franklin Roosevelt was tampering with Lincoln’s memory by moving the holiday opposed the holiday’s move and referred to the new date as “Franksgiving.” A New York Times poll showed Republicans opposed the move by 79 percent, Democrats by 48 percent.

Meanwhile, the dueling dates provided material for humorists, like the poet who wrote this item for the Post on October 14, 1939:

Feminine Urge

For practical reasons, Thanksgiving’s been changed,

So I’m thinking of pulling a fast one

By changing my birthday, on account of it comes

Too soon after the last one.

And Jack Benny’s writers worked the topic over for his November 19 show.

In this clip from The Jack Benny Program, Benny’s wife and co-star, Mary Livingstone, reads her poem about the confusion the two Thanksgivings caused. The first voice you’ll hear is Jack Benny. The second male voice is Benny’s announcer, Don Wilson. The third man, who is “all set to be one of them pilgrims,” is bandleader Phil Harris, who played the character of a vain and ignorant playboy. And the fourth is a writer who would occasionally come in to deliver one-liners.


Listen to the clip from Jack Benny’s November 19th, 1939 show


Mead Schaeffer

Mead Schaeffer
Mead Schaeffer

The child who sets out to be a career artist and skips the “starving artist” phase has a rare story indeed. But Mead Schaeffer’s ability was undeniable, his talents easily promoted. Born July 15th, 1898 to Presbyterian pastor Charles and his wife, Minnie, Mead grew up knowing he wanted a career in art. His work brought fame and fortune alongside a lifelong friendship with another American master, Norman Rockwell.

Born in Freedom Plains, New York, the Schaeffer family moved to Springfield, Massachusetts when Mead was a little boy. He graduated high school in 1917, and moved to Brooklyn, New York shortly after to attend the Pratt Institute.
At the Pratt Institute, Schaeffer studied under Harvey Dunn and Charles Chapman. His two mentors had started their own school, the Leonis School of Illustration, in 1915. The school’s philosophy followed that of their own teacher, the famed instructor Howard Pyle. Experiencing various art groups in the city, Schaeffer became acquainted with Dean Cornwell. Mead’s relationship with Cornwell led to Schaeffer’s first jobs producing illustrations for smaller magazines and publications. He graduated at the top of his class, already a working artist, in 1920.

Throughout Mead Schaeffer’s 20s, he worked for Dodd, Mead & Company, a publishing house for classic literature. Schaeffer provided illustrations for sixteen prominent works including The Count of Monte Cristo, Les Miserables, Typee, and Moby Dick.

On September 17th, 1921, Schaeffer married his wife, Elizabeth. They had two daughters, Consolle and Patricia. New York City soon became too cramped for the family. They moved to Rye, NY and then the artists’ colony at New Rochelle, NY where the artist first met Norman Rockwell. He later moved to Arlington, Vermont where he kept a studio in an old barn as Rockwell’s next-door neighbor.

Soldier manning anti-aircraft gun
Anti-Aircraft
Mead Schaeffer
February 5, 1944
 

Schaeffer was introduced to Saturday Evening Post editor Ben Hibbs through Rockwell. Schaeffer’s relationship with the Post resulted in a career spanning thirty years and 46 cover illustrations. Schaeffer became most famous for chronicling the military with authenticity.

Rockwell and Schaeffer set out to pitch an idea to the government about ads for war bonds, but they were rejected. Hibbs picked up the idea and sponsored their work through The Saturday Evening Post. Schaeffer spent 1942 to 1944 as a war correspondent. He flew in planes, rode in submarines, and toured with soldiers to get a feel for the soldiers’ experiences in World War II. His collection, including 16 Saturday Evening Post covers, went on a tour to 92 cities in the United States and Canada. The tour’s purpose was to drum up sales for war bonds.

After the war, in the summer and fall of 1947, the Schaeffers and the Rockwells took a two and a half month family vacation to the American West. The families were so close many works by both artists contain the other’s children as models. Schaeffer’s wife often took dozens of photographs from all angles while the artist studied the scene. After the trip, the artist studied his wife’s photographs and incorporated their view into his work. From all of his sketches and studies, the trip provided only six Post covers.

Over the course of a 30-year career, Schaeffer provided 5,000 illustrations to books, magazines, and advertisements. His last cover for the Post was December 26th, 1953. He spent much of his retirement sketching and fly-fishing, often taking trips to Puerto Rico. By the end of his career, Schaeffer had worked for The American, Good Housekeeping, Cosmopolitan, Scribners, Home Companion, Ladie’s Home Journal, Redbook, McCall’s, St. Nichol’s Century Magazine, and of course, The Saturday Evening Post.

He died of a heart attack on November 6th, 1980 while at lunch with his contemporaries at the Society of Illustrators in Manhattan. Today his works are on display at the USAA in San Antonio, Texas.

Covers by Mead Schaeffer

View full gallery »

Can You Trust Your Money Guy?

Man with Knife Behind His Back Shaking HandsHands

There’s a problem in the world of money managers. Not all of them are competent. Not all of them are honest — remember Bernie Madoff?

How do you know if you can trust your financial advisor? When you put your wealth into the hands of other people, they are placed in a privileged position. They can very easily take advantage of you. I’m not simply talking about outright thievery or Ponzi schemes. There are many small but nefarious ways money can be siphoned from your pockets. For example, a stockbroker is positioned to buy investments for himself prior to encouraging clients to buy them, which pushes up the price and guarantees the broker a quick gain. Another common practice is suggesting an investment but failing to inform clients that a comparable, less expensive option is available. When someone is handling your finances, you want to be sure they use their informed judgment exclusively to advance your best interests, not theirs.

Then there’s the problem of competence. Financial advisors should possess all the skills, training, knowledge, and experience necessary to do the job well. Among the proficiencies that are their duty are a strong understanding of economic science, financial history, and risk theories that inform their work on your behalf. Sounds essential, right? Surprisingly, a great many folks who style themselves as financial advisors lack much of this know-how. Unlike the historical professions of medicine or law, there is no single agreed upon credential for giving financial advice. Almost anyone can put up a shingle and start practicing. Whatever you think of lawyers, they are required to pass the bar and uphold a clear set of ethical standards. But many financial advisors, for example, have no training in economics and very few know the first thing about tax planning.

A person faces an explicit danger when he or she must rely on someone else for expert guidance or special skills. Society has traditionally mitigated this risk by turning to professionals and demanding that they live up to the various codes, rules, and ethics of their profession. In other words, those who have advantage over you because of their greater knowledge are entrusted with that power only in exchange for owing you the highest levels of duty.

The responsibility to “know fully what they are doing” has a legal name. It is called the duty of care. The advisors’ obligation to advance your interests rather than their own has a legal name. This is the duty of loyalty and it is, arguably, the most important thing society asks from its professionals. These two professional obligations, duty of care and duty of loyalty, together make up the components of fiduciary duty.

Here’s the catch. Not all financial service providers consider themselves bound by fiduciary duty. Many refuse to acknowledge it, some fight proposals to impose it, and others pay lip service to it while failing to truly live up to its demands. At present, even government regulators hold representatives of broker dealers to something less; the so-called “suitability standard” currently governs most financial advisors’ practices. That lower level of responsibility permits selling any financial product that is “suitable” for the client – even if it is the most expensive among many similar choices.

It is up to you to insist upon all appropriate responsibilities and obligations from anyone who lays hands on your money or influences the way you manage your wealth. As a most basic step, you should insist your financial advisor acknowledge their fiduciary duty to you in writing. Ask for a letter, on company stationery, and decline to hand over any money or sign anything until you receive it. Thereafter, watch like a hawk to make sure they live up to it. They owe it to you. In an ideal world, lawmakers and regulators would ensure that those responsibilities were complied with fully. Unfortunately, the way things stand today, the challenge of holding them to their duty falls to you.

The Great War: November 28, 1914

A regiment of Uhians on the march
A regiment of Uhians on the march

In the November 28, 1914, issue: German army cooks scoop up war medals and journalists fight censorship and military officers for the truth.

Three Generals and a Cook

By Irvin S. Cobb

Still observing the war from the German side, Cobb spent a week socializing with high-ranking officers in the Kaiser’s army. He was particularly impressed by a common soldier who had earned the Iron Cross decoration. Cobb was even more surprised that the medal had been awarded to a cook.

Three Generals and a Cook
Read the entire article “Three Generals and a Cook” by Irvin S. Cobb from the pages of the Post

“While the officer rattled the steel lids the cook himself stood rigidly alongside, with his fingers touching the seams of his trousers. Seen by the glare of his own fire he seemed a clod, fit only to make soups and feed a fire box. But by that same flickery light I saw … on the breast of his grease-spattered gray blouse … a black-and-white ribbon with a black-and-white Maltese cross fastened to it. I marveled that a company cook should wear the Iron Cross of the second class and I asked the captain about it. He laughed at the wonder that was evident in my tones.

“‘If you will look more closely,’ he said, ‘you will see that a good many of our cooks already have won the Iron Cross since this war began, and a good many others will yet win it — if they live. We have no braver men in our army than these fellows. They go into the trenches at least twice a day, under the hottest fire sometimes, to carry hot coffee and hot food to the soldiers who fight. A good many of them have already been killed.

“‘Only the other day … two of our cooks at daybreak went so far forward with their wagon that they were almost inside the enemy’s lines. Sixteen bewildered Frenchmen who had got separated from their company …  thought the cook wagon with its short smoke funnel and its steel fire box was a new kind of machine gun, and they threw down their guns and surrendered. The two cooks brought their 16 prisoners back to our lines too, but first one of them stood guard over the Frenchmen while the other carried the breakfast coffee to the men who had been all night in the trenches. They are good men, those cooks!’”

“I am in doubt as to which of two men most fitly typifies the spirit of the German Army in this war — the general feeding his men by thousands into the maw of destruction because it is an order, or the pot-wrestling private soldier, the camp cook, going to death with a coffee boiler in his hands — because it is an order.”

The Private War

By Samuel G. Blythe

In modern times, we expect wars to generate a steady stream of new reports from the front lines. But 100 years ago, the military reduced the news stream to a trickle. Every reporter’s dispatch was rigorously censored to remove any information that might aid the enemy or make the military command look bad. And, as Blythe reports, the British and French armies devised several diversions to prevent reporters from reaching the front.

The Private War
Read the entire article “The Private War” by Samuel G. Blythe from the pages of the Post

“[British Field Marshall] Kitchener does not recognize any right the public may have to information. … It is Kitchener’s unshakable opinion that all the news the British need; or should have, concerning the war is comprised in the line: Your King and Your Country Need You! And that is all the British people would get if he could put it over. However, powerful as he is, he is not powerful enough for that; and a few words have occasionally leaked out that were not contained in the official bulletins. The output has been small, however, considering the tremendous size of the conflict. …

“Greatly to the astonishment of the British War Office, it was learned that General Joffre, in command of the French troops, strenuously objected to the presence of the English correspondents. It was all very astonishing and very perplexing and very embarrassing. …

“[Some of the more impatient correspondents asked General Joffre about his objections.] ‘Objections?’ was the polite reply. ‘Why, there are no objections on our part, save as we object out of courtesy to, our ally, Great Britain. France will be very happy to have these correspondents with the army; but naturally, if the British authorities think it wiser not to allow them at the front we can do nothing but bow to that decision.’”

“Whereupon the situation became reasonably clear. The British War Office was using the French as the obstacle, and the French were doing the same thing with the British. It was a simple and efficacious case of passing the buck.

“And so it goes. The Press Bureau is press-bureauing; the censors are censoring; and Kitchener, on the British side, and Joffre, on the French side, are seeing to it that not a word is printed about this war which they do not desire to have printed.”


Step into 1914 with a peek at these pages from The Saturday Evening Post 100 years ago.

Happy Thanksgiving to All!

Freedom from Want by Norman Rockwell
Freedom from Want
Norman Rockwell
The Saturday Evening Post
March 6, 1943

People have always loved my grandfather’s painting, Freedom from Want, which first appeared in The Saturday Evening Post — it’s been celebrated and even lampooned many times. It is a painting about connection and the celebration of that connection.

No one is looking at the turkey or the grandmother and grandfather, and no one is praying or giving thanks — it’s what I call the “happy error” of the painting. Norman Rockwell was all about faces and interactions; if he painted everyone looking down and praying or looking back toward the grandparents and the turkey, you wouldn’t be able to see any of their faces.

Everyone is connecting with someone — the woman on the left is my grandmother Mary, who is conversing with the attractive woman across the table. The old woman is my great-grandmother, Pop’s mother, and she’s looking at Mary. The two men are interacting in the middle of the table (you just can’t see the one man’s face). The grandparents have a lovely, quiet, unspoken connection — the grandfather is clearly there to support her if the turkey gets too heavy. The man looking out at us is there to bring us into the moment, to invite us in.

The act of setting the turkey on the table brings movement into the painting. You can almost hear the lively exchanges at the table. And who is at the other end of the table? I can almost feel Pop’s presence there.

Enjoy your time with your family. In the end, that is what holidays are about. It’s not about getting the turkey with all its trimmings just right, its not about creating the perfect tablescape. It’s about family coming together to celebrate the simplest things — love and gratitude.

Warmest wishes,

Abigail

P.S. Pop always felt he had made the turkey too big. He also used to joke that the turkey was the only model he ever ate!

Nurse Ingrid

Gray slush on the dirty brown carpet melts into puddles as I wait in the checkout line at the Bibles for Missions thrift store. I wonder why it’s so busy, but then I remember it’s the 30th, check day. I should have come yesterday.

“Morning,” says Hedwig when it’s my turn. Her name is printed in neat block letters on the name tag pinned to her off-white sweater. You could bounce a dime off her tightly permed blue-gray hair. I’ve been to the store so often lately I feel like I know her. She rings my purchases through and with each pair of panties — powder-blue nylon grannies, black lace boy-cuts, hot-pink bikinis, industrial-strength taupe control-panel jobs, no-nonsense white cotton briefs, red satin thongs — her lips purse a little harder, fine lines around them deepen. Finally she says, “These are all different sizes, you know.”

I shrug. “I have a big family.”

Her lips almost disappear. She rings the rest of my order through in silence, the cash register display reflecting in her glasses. She doesn’t believe me, but it’s none of her business. I leave the store with two plastic grocery bags full of panties, 44 pairs at 50 cents each. Twenty-two bucks, and I’ve cleaned out their ladies’ underwear bin for the second time in a month.

Next week, I’ll hit Value Village for a change. Their prices are higher, but the kids who work there couldn’t care less what you buy, or why you buy it. Really, I just want to make a living. That’s all any of us want, isn’t it?

***

Snow whirls outside as Sunniva and Dana and I sit in front of my computer and nibble thick golden slices of Sunniva’s sockerkaka, sponge cake. Dark-haired Dana pushes her glasses further up her nose, reads aloud what she’s typed so far. “Nurse Ingrid is lonely. She is Swedish, blonde, 5’ 4”, age 26. She sounds a lot like you, Sunniva. ”

“Well. I’m a long way from 26. And let’s make her 22.”

“That seems kind of young, don’t you think?” I ask.

“Beth,” says Sunniva. “What the hell difference does it make?”

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter.” I sip my wine. “Thanks for bringing the cake, by the way. It’s awesome.”

Tack. I’m glad you like it. How about this: She’s lonely, 22, and she loves to sell off her used panties in her own eBay store.”

“Gently used?” I suggest.

“Lovingly used?” Dana muses.

“Let’s just go with ‘used’ for now. We can always change it later,” says Sunniva.

Dana raises her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

“We should wrap this up for now,” I say. “Almost time to pick up the kids.”

***

Things have been better for me since Sunniva and Dana and I started hanging out together. But many days I still feel lost. When Evan and Henry are at school, instead of doing some of the millions of other things I should do, I find myself once again wandering Westbrook Mall. It’s not that I want to shop for anything, particularly. I just don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I distract myself by fingering trinkets in the dollar store, by trying on clothes I have no intention of buying. Sometimes I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me in the change rooms — she looks old and tired; her straggly red hair I suddenly realize hasn’t been cut in months. In the food fair I sit with a cup of coffee and watch people come and go. Women with strollers and diaper bags and toddlers; sullen, dark-clad teenagers who should be at school; elderly couples who sit together, each lost to their own silences. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of a tall man, and before I can stop myself, I’ll think it’s Ian for a second, and in the next instant when I realize, of course, that it’s not, I feel like my insides have been hollowed out.

Then it’s time to go pick the boys up again. This new life as a widow is exhausting, bewildering. I wonder how I’ll ever get used to it. The six weeks I’ve been off work are already almost up, and the college probably expects me to come back, or to tell them whether I am coming back or not. My supervisor, Charlotte, has been really good. But I don’t feel ready to go back, I don’t feel ready to do anything except sleep, and heat up frozen food, and wander Westbrook Mall. I don’t feel ready to make a decision. Everything seems to be out of my control. And it terrifies me.

But then there’s Evan and Henry. They’re my lifeline, all that keeps me from drowning. If I have no other reason to get it together, I have them. Only I have no idea how to even start.

***

We came up with the concept of Nurse Ingrid on one of our special Fridays. Dana’s 3-year-old, Peter, Sunniva’s son John, and my Evan were all in the same preschool class, and Sunniva’s Michael and my Henry were in kindergarten together. All boys, they all got along so well. First we started getting them together for play dates outside of school. Then the three of us started having coffee in the afternoons when they were all in school, which we found a lot more relaxing than play dates. Then the coffee became wine, on special Fridays, once or twice a month. After all, we could walk over to the school from my place. And those Fridays were indeed special. We needed them.

That day the boys all wanted to go to the playground after school, even though it was freezing out, and the three of us huddled near the school doors, tipsy and leaning against the brick wall, while they chased each other up and over and around the dizzyingly red, yellow, and blue playground equipment.

Dana sighed. “Days like this I wish I could work from home. You see all these ads. You know, Internet jobs. Work from home. Beth, didn’t you make money selling stuff on eBay for a while?”

“Yeah, I did. It was kind of fun.”

“You sold vintage clothes, right?”

“Yeah. And other stuff. Collectibles. I got a lot of it when I worked in a thrift store when I was in university. When the kids were little I had to make some room, so I started selling off some of it.”

“So why did you stop?”

“Partly because I ran out of things to sell, and I didn’t have much time to pick up new stock in thrift stores. Partly because it’s still a customer service job — you’re always going to come across cranks and whiners who try to get something for nothing out of you. But mainly I quit because after a while the market got flooded with vintage stuff. I didn’t make enough on each item to make it worthwhile.

“Maybe you just weren’t selling the right clothes,” Sunniva suggested. “A friend of mine told me her sister-in-law sells her used underwear on eBay. For a lot of money.”

Dana’s round gray eyes grew even rounder. “Really? How much?”

“Fifty, a hundred bucks a pair. She lists her auctions as ‘sexy college co-ed used panties,’ sells them to men all over the world.”

I breathed out a low whistle.

“Come on, Beth. Are you shocked?”

“No. I’m figuring out the profit margin. Panties at the Bibles for Missions store are 50 cents a pair.”

“Holy,” said Sunniva in a little cloud of breath.

***

One special Friday we decide to get together in the evening. We order pizzas and Sunniva and Dana bring their kids over. After the kids eat we plug them into Finding Nemo in the family room downstairs, their blond and red and brown heads lined up in a row in front of the TV. The three of us take care of a few Nurse Ingrid auctions that are about to end, then we relax with a drink.

“Cheers,” I say. “Here’s to Nurse Ingrid.”

“She’s bringing in a lot of money, isn’t she?” asks Sunniva.

“She is. I never would have believed it. This is more money than I made working at the drugstore,” Dana says.

“We’ll see, but it looks like Sunniva and I may not have to go back to work, either,” I say.

“Sunniva, why did you quit nursing?” Dana asks. “I mean, it’s a good job.”

Sunniva smiles. “It’s hard work. And crazy hours.”

“It must be stressful,” I say.

“Stressful. Yes, well. That doesn’t even start to describe some of it. You see a lot of things you hoped you’d never see, things you never imagined you’d see, when you work in emerg. And I did it for a lot of years.

“The thing, though, that pushed me over the edge … a man brought his little girl in late one night. Six years old, pretty little thing. She was bleeding very heavily. The father was white as a sheet, wouldn’t tell us what happened. She just sat still, with her legs clamped together, wouldn’t let us examine her, wouldn’t answer any questions. We called the police, of course.”

Sunniva’s voice trails off.  I can’t think what to say. Then she continues. “She died later that night and he was charged. I think in the end he was in jail for less than two years.”

“Oh, Sunniva. That is so horrible.”

“It is horrible. And I tried to forget about it. But I just couldn’t. I felt sick every time I went in to work for a long time after that. It really frightened me, it still frightens me, to think that no matter how good our intentions are, no matter how hard we try to help people, there’s so much that’s out of our control.”

Dana gets up. She is pale. “You know, I just realized the time. Mel is going to be back any minute. I should get home.”

“Can’t he get his own dinner?” asks Sunniva.

“I need to get home. I’m sorry,” she mumbles, and goes downstairs to get Peter. He stomps up the stairs, whining that the movie isn’t over.

“Peter. Control yourself,” Dana says through her teeth. She’s bent over, helping him jam his snow boots onto his feet, and I notice that one arm of her glasses is held on with duct tape. I am just about to ask her what happened to them when I think better of it.

I think Sunniva’s story hit close to home for Dana, somehow. I’m sure Sunniva saw it, too, though we let it go, say nothing about it to each other.

***

Hedwig sees me come into the thrift store one morning and whips out from behind the counter with surprising agility, follows me down the housewares aisle, up the ladies’ wear aisle. She dips into the bin of men’s socks, fires rolled up pairs at my head with the precision of a marksman. I try to scream but no sound comes out of my mouth, and I duck into the change room. As soon as I lock the door, she bangs her fists on it, yanks on the handle.

“You think you can hide in there, you panty-hoarding harlot. But you can’t. You’ll have to come out sooner or later.”

Let go, let go of that door handle, I want to scream, and she rams into it with her shoulder.

I wake up covered in sweat. Clearly, there’s a problem here.

***

On a Wednesday morning, I’m in the long line at the Starbucks at Westbrook Mall, telling myself this is it, this is the last time I will wander around here for no reason. I wish they had an express line for people who just want coffee.  Just give me a damn medium coffee, I want to say. Instead I wait in line behind people ordering grande half-sweet sugar-free cinnamon dolce nonfat chai-tea misto or tall Americano with a nonfat steamed topper. Listening to them gives me a headache. And the couple in front of me, a beefy tattooed man in a hoodie and a slight dark-haired woman who wears a cropped T-shirt and tight pink pants — tight enough that she can’t be wearing underwear — make out while they wait. They keep jostling me, no matter how far I move away. I’m about to say something when they get up to the counter and order venti nonfat no-whip classic hot chocolates, extra foam or something.

Alas, when I take my damn medium coffee over to get a lid, the lovebirds are there. He has her up against the cream-and-lid station; her hands are down his pants. Just get out of the way, I think. I try to reach around them for a lid, but I can’t. My head throbs.

“Hey, take it somewhere else, would you?” I suggest.

The man spins around, roars, “Who are you telling people what to do?” He grabs the woman, starts kissing her again, but this time he stares at me.

“Charming,” I mutter, and take my lid and leave. Should have sold her some panties while I was at it.

I meant to wander around the mall, but after that I take my damn medium coffee and go home. The experience leaves me a little shaken, feeling fragile. The guy was a total asshole. He could have slugged me, could have whipped out a gun, tough Starbucks gangsta that he obviously was. Then the whole thing could have spun out of control. I could have taken a bullet to the brain. And where would Evan and Henry be then? I would have to be extra careful from now on, that was all. As the only parent, caution was my only choice.

At home I sit down at the computer, decide checking in on a few of our auctions will improve my mood. But there is an email from eBay. I read it a couple of times, then punch in Sunniva’s number, stare at my computer screen in shock as she picks up.

“Hello?”

“Busted! Dammit, Sunniva, we’re busted.”

“Beth?”

“Yes! The panties. We’re busted.”

“What do you mean, busted?” she huffs. “There’s no law against selling used clothes, is there?”

“No, there isn’t. But eBay will no longer allow us to sell used panties. Health regulations or some bullshit. They sent out an email. All our auctions are shut down.”

“Damn.”

“I know.”

Sometimes things happen and you realize maybe it’s a blessing somehow. We all knew the Nurse Ingrid thing wouldn’t last forever. But I think we wanted to be the ones to say it was time, we wanted to be in control of the ending. But there it was, pulled out from under us.

Now what the hell would I do with all those bags of panties? Re-donation seemed like the only answer.

***

After we receive the last payments from our happy customers before Nurse Ingrid suddenly disappears from eBay, we get together to split up the proceeds. It looks like it may be the last time the three of us will gather for a while; Dana’s decided to leave Mel, and she and Peter have moved in with her sister, on the other side of the city. She comes in my front door, stomps her snowy boots on the mat, has a huge red plastic Zeller’s bag in her arms.

“What’s all this? Stuff you’re getting rid of for the move?”

“No.” She nods at the bag. “Take a look.”

I peer inside. The bag is full of panties. New cotton briefs, three to a package, sensible colors: white, ecru, black.

“Oh, my God.”

“They had them on clearance. I just — I’m not really sure what got into me. Can you donate them to the thrift store for me? I won’t have time to swing by there.”

I try to imagine the look on Hedwig’s face when I come in with this donation. “Yeah, no problem. How are you and Peter doing?”

“Good. You know. Pretty good. For now, I think living with Catherine’s going to be the best thing for us. She works nights, so she can get him to and from school once I get a new job.”

“Sounds like you’re getting things under control.”

“Yeah. It’s going to be okay.”

“Dana, we’re not letting you go without having a drink and some sockerkaka with us,” Sunniva says, pouring her a glass of wine. “Sit down. Besides, I have some news, too: I’m going back to work.”

“Really? Where?” I ask.

“The general hospital. It’s a desk job, though, three days a week. Giving advice over the phone. I think I’ll like it.”

“Congratulations,” Dana and I tell her. I’m happy for Sunniva, but surprised. I didn’t see that coming at all.

After Sunniva and Dana leave, I rinse golden cake crumbs from our plates, rinse our wine glasses, and put them in the dishwasher. There’s still some time before I need to go pick up Evan and Henry, so I check my email. There’s an email there from Charlotte at the college. I don’t want to open it. I know what she wants. She wants me to tell her whether or not I’m coming back to work.

While I try to decide whether to open the message, I notice the Nurse Ingrid email file and decide it’s time to delete it, time to let it go. And then that’s it. The last trace of Nurse Ingrid is gone.

I get up, get my boots and coat, go out to pick up the boys. The sun has come out, the warmth feels good on my face. I decide I’ll answer Charlotte’s message after we get back. It’s time now, I can do it. Besides, I tell myself, if I’m having a problem when I’m back at work, if things are getting out of control, I can always phone Sunniva for some advice. Somehow, knowing that makes me feel better.

Who’s Afraid of Mike Nichols?

Mike Nichols with Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor
Mike Nichols with Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor on the set of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? in 1965. From The Saturday Evening Post, October 9th, 1965

His name would be familiar to anyone who grew up in the 1960s. Mike Nichols was the hip, laid-back comedian with a martini-dry delivery frequently seen on TV with his co-comedian, Elaine May. (The duo picked up a Grammy for Best Comedy Performance in 1961.) In 1966, though, he steered his career in an entirely new direction when he directed the screen version of Edward Albee’s grueling Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf.

The riveting film fed viewers through an emotional wringer and was nominated for 13 Academy awards, including Best Director. Nichols followed up his success by directing Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate the following year — this time taking home the Oscar for his direction, before moving on to other films, television dramas (winning four Emmys), and Broadway productions (scooping up eight Tonys).

All for the Love of Mike
Read the entire article “All for the Love of Mike” from the October 9, 1965 issue of the Post.

In “All for the Love of Mike” (The Saturday Evening Post, October 9, 1965), author C. Robert Jennings interviews the two leads — Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, who were married at the time — of Nichols’ Hollywood directorial debut and its director on the closed set at Warner Brothers Studio.

The relationship of the trio is almost inordinately warm. “Mike’s a very disturbing man,” says Burton. “You cannot charm him — he sees right through you. He’s among the most intelligent men I’ve ever known, and I’ve known most of them. I dislike him intensely — he’s cleverer than I am. But, alas, I tolerate him.”

And with unabashed sentiment, Liz adds: “I adore Mike, and I could talk about him for hours.”

Miss Taylor calls Nichols “Chicken Fat.” He calls her “Betty,” and he breaks her up — as when he mimicked a classic directorial banality (“Let’s have a nice little scene now with lots of feeling”) by announcing prior to the shooting of a scene: “Let’s have a nice little scene with no feeling.”

Once when Mike forgot to give his players their cue. Liz said, “I can’t act until you say ‘action.’”

“A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ac-ac-ac-action!” Mike stuttered insanely, shattering Miss Taylor’s professional calm.

Similarly, when Liz fell off a fire-engine-red bicycle, which she rides between the set and her dressing room, Mike carried the bruised star back to work in his arms. “You have to carry me every day,” said Miss Taylor, who was encouraged to put on extra pounds for her part. “I’ll have to get into training,” returned Mike recklessly.

On the Sidelines, Mussolini Awaits His Opportunity

Military parade in Rome
Military parade at the Stadio dei Marmi in Rome in front of Benito Mussolini (1939)
( via Wikimedia Commons)

You may have seen the photos of Benito Mussolini’s messy demise. The photos show the corpse of Italy’s ex-dictator, shot, beaten, and kicked, hanging upside down from the roof of a gas station. Seeing the brutality of his death, you get a sense of how fiercely the Italians hated the man who had dragged their country into a war that brought only poverty, disgrace, and death to their land.

Once Mussolini had enjoyed broad support in Italy. He presented himself as the savior of the country, promoting fascism as the solution for the country’s problems. He inspired young Italians to join forces, donning the black shirts of the fascist party members. He also inspired a young Austrian named Adolf Hitler, who looked up to Mussolini as a role model.

But Hitler was a fanatic. Mussolini was an opportunist. And nothing illustrated his opportunism better than his actions in 1939. In May of that year, he and Hitler signed an alliance in which they pledged to come to each other’s aid in the event of war.

Mussolini Prepares for War
Read the entire article “Mussolini Prepares for War” by Demaree Bess from the pages of the Post.

Furthermore, the agreement “stipulated that neither of the parties would take action within the next three years [to] cause war in the West,” wrote Post correspondent Demaree Bess. [Read the entire article “Mussolini Prepares for War” from the Nov. 18, 1939 issue of the Post here.] Mussolini needed that delay. His advisors had told him Italy wouldn’t be ready to launch a war before 1942.

 

Not surprisingly, Hitler ignored this clause in the agreement when, just four months later, he declared war on Poland. As his army launched its blitzkrieg, the world looked to his ally Mussolini. What would Il Duce (the Italians title for “the leader) do now?

Bess was hearing all sorts of wild rumors of possible alliances and confrontations—an alliance between France and Italy, war between France and Italy, even an attack from Germany. “I finally decided that the only way I could hope to learn about Mussolini’s real intentions would be by going to Rome,” he wrote.

Bess left a darkened, huddled Paris that anticipated German bombers at any moment. Traveling south, he found Italy sunny and peaceful. “As we walked about in the handsome new [Milan] railway station, we found ourselves delighted at the sight of so many little children. We had scarcely seen a child in Paris for the past month. We reached Florence at nightfall and were happy to see again the city of lights.”

The Italians were happy again with il Duce, then regarded as a man of peace. He was making no overt moves to drag Italy into Hitler’s crusade against France and England. “[Italy] seemed to be in a position to stay neutral as long as she liked — and to make money trading with the belligerents,” Bess wrote. Yet he became convinced that Mussolini had no intention of staying out of the war a moment longer than necessary. “He is standing on the side line now, watching how things go, but he isn’t idle. … He is preparing for war.”

Il Duce had set the country on the road to war many years earlier. “He has raised a whole generation of Italian youth in the faith that they should live dangerously, that pacifism is a vice,” Bess wrote. And now, though Italy was still neutral, Mussolini’s government was starting to ration food for civilians and stockpile it for the army.

Mussolini’s refusal to join Germany’s war prompted some to believe he was reconsidering his alliance with Hitler, which had always been “extremely unpopular with Italians,” Bess wrote. “Italians naturally dislike Germans. The two races don’t get along well together. Germans are impatient with the easygoing temperament of Italians and don’t conceal their impatience. Italians resent German assumptions of superiority merely because they are more efficient.”

For now, the Germans weren’t pressuring Italy to join their fight. In fact, Hitler found Italian neutrality useful. According to Bess, it allowed Mussolini to play a peacemaker who suggested there could be a “settlement of the war in the West, thus enabling Hitler to pose before his own people as a reasonable man who didn’t want to fight Britain and France.”

France and Great Britain were also satisfied with Italian neutrality, since it enabled them to maintain their control of the Mediterranean Sea without having to engage the Italian fleet.

Mussolini was under no pressure to commit Italy to the world war. “He foresaw that no pressure from either side could or would compel him to enter this war until he was ready to move,” Bess wrote. “Germany’s air force might destroy Italian cities, but what could Germany gain from that?”

Mussolini would remain neutral for as long as it was profitable. But Hitler’s swift victory over France led Mussolini to weigh the profits from war versus peace. If he remained out of the fight, his country might continue its gradual rise in prosperity. And he might take up the offer of trading concession in Africa that Great Britain and France would grant if Italy remained neutral.

But if Italy entered the fight, it might be able to share in Germany’s looting of conquered France. All he needed, Mussolini told his military chief, was to lose a few thousand Italian soldiers in the war to earn a share of the spoils at the victor’s table. And then Italy could simply seize whatever African colonies had belonged to the Allies.

Above all, Mussolini became trapped by his own bravado. Having posed as a modern-day Caesar, he needed to prove the might of his country’s forces.

On June 10, 1940, he committed Italy to the war. He sent his soldiers into France, prompting President Roosevelt to comment, “The hand that held the dagger has struck it into the back of its neighbor.”

The decision began a long, sharp decline in the fortunes of both Italy, and Mussolini, who suffered the consequences in Milan at the hands of an enraged mob.

Step into 1939 with a peek at these pages from The Saturday Evening Post 75 years ago:

Richard “Dick” Sargent

Richard Sargent 1954
Richard Sargent – 1954

Occupations: Artist, illustrator, portraitist

Schools: Moline High School, Moline Illinois Art School, Corcoran School of Art, Phillips Memorial Gallery

Studio Work: Printing and Engraving Plant, Advertising, Freelance

Art Genre: American Art

Marital Status/Family: Wife Helen and son Anthony

Richard “Dick” Sargent, one of The Saturday Evening Post’s most prolific illustrators, was a Midwesterner born in Moline, Illinois in 1911. His early career in art began just after his graduation from Moline High School, when he went to work for a local printing and engraving plant. While there, Sargent attended night classes at the Moline Illinois Art School, the foundation for his future career as an artist.

As his artistic prowess developed, he advanced further into creating professional artwork for advertising firms and later, a solo career as an artist and illustrator. The artist worked in advertising for over 20 years, starting in 1928, prior to making a name for himself as a freelance illustrator. During this time period, Sargent further honed his artistic skills by taking classes at both the Corcoran School of Art and the Phillips Memorial Gallery in Washington, D.C.

By the time Sargent headed out into the world to make a name for himself as a solo artist, he had started a family. They later provided inspiration for some of his most successful works of art. He married his sweetheart, Helen, and had a rambunctious, mischief-prone redheaded son named Anthony who was often depicted on the cover of The Post. The suburban life they built together established the perfect model for scenes of 1950s Baby Boomer households in everyday situations of suburban American life.

Boy discovers Santa outfit in attic trunk
Truth About Santa
Richard Sargent
December 15, 1951
 

In 1951, Sargent completed his first Saturday Evening Post cover, “Truth About Santa”, for the December 15th Christmas issue. While Sargent’s popularity grew through The Saturday Evening Post, he also received illustration work from magazines such as Fortune, Woman’s Day, Photoplay, and American Magazine. Americans adored Sargent and his art for the ability to show a pregnant scene with an open-ended conclusion that commented on the situational comedy of life.

In addition to his work as a magazine illustrator, Sargent also received special commissions that afforded him the opportunity to travel the world. In 1954, the USO sent Sargent to Korea to entertain troops fighting in the Korean conflict. He later remarked, “We’d put on civilian clothes to work in- the boys would get such a kick out of seeing somebody in good old stateside civvies.” He spent six weeks flying throughout the country where he met with American soldiers and created art for them to send home to loved ones.

Sargent caught the “travel bug” on his trip to Korea and again vacationed out of the North American continent to Paris, France in 1959. He used his wife as a model in many works he created there to highlight Parisian life and landmarks. By the 1960s, photography had taken the place of illustration in magazine cover art. This caused the couple to move to the Andalusia region of Spain to live out the rest of their days in peaceful retirement. Sargent died suddenly in 1978 at the age of 67.

Covers by Richard “Dick” Sargent

View full gallery »

Pumpkin Pie and I

Pumpkin Pie
Pumpkin Pie: If, like the author, you simply like pumpkin pie, you’ll love this recipe — velvety smooth, packed with flavor, and redolent of just the right touch of spice. (Photo courtesy America’s Test Kitchen)

Every girl has one — that guy that she’s “just friends” with. You’ve known each other for I-don’t-know-how-many years, but you’ve never once been attracted, because you’ve always been, and always will be, “just friends.” All your best friends and family love him. You don’t not like him. You want to like him. But there’s something missing. That spark. That je ne sais quoi.

Pumpkin pie is like that guy. I don’t love pumpkin pie, but I so desperately want to. I love all things pumpkin. I love cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and nutmeg with pumpkin in breads, muffins, and pancakes.

I like pumpkin pie. When it’s around, I eat it without thinking twice. I mean, it’s still a pie. I’ll even eat leftover pumpkin pie sitting in the refrigerator; not even bothering to remove the pie from that middle shelf because I’ve contorted my body to prop open the refrigerator door while I sneak five or six bites straight from the pie dish with my fork.

Still, it drives me mildly insane trying to understand why other people go bonkers over pumpkin pie. Usually, the crust looks and tastes like soggy cardboard, and the filling, which can be wonderfully fragrant and flavorful, has the mealy, squishy consistency of baby food.

I want to love pumpkin pie. I want to look forward to the prospect of it with eager, heart-pounding anticipation as soon as the calendar flips from September to October. Pumpkin pie comes around only once a year, and I want a spring and summer absence to make my heart grow fonder. But it doesn’t. And then something happened. I ran into a recipe from Cook’s Illustrated for the perfect pumpkin pie. It promises a flaky, crisp crust. It promises a smooth, delicious, and firm filling. I baked it, unsure of how I’d end up feeling.

After a little more effort than the Libby’s-like recipes we’re used to, I slipped it gently into the oven. When it came out, I let it cool down. I pierced through that soft, quivering custard with an 8-inch chef’s knife and pulled out a perfect, enormous piece. It was heavy. I put the piece on a plate, and I took a bite.

After all these years, I finally fell in … like. A very, very strong like. The spark was finally lit. Pumpkin pie and I? There’s a little something going on between us now.

Pumpkin Pie

Recipes courtesy America’s Test Kitchen
(Makes 8 servings)

Make sure to buy unsweetened canned pumpkin; avoid pumpkin pie mix. If candied yams are unavailable, regular canned yams can be substituted. When the pie is properly baked, the center 2 inches of the pie should look firm but jiggle slightly. The pie finishes cooking with residual heat; to ensure that the filling sets let it cool at room temperature and not in the refrigerator. 

Pumpkin Pie

Ingredients

Directions

Foolproof Single-Crust Pie Dough

(Makes one 9‑inch pie crust)

Vodka is essential to the tender texture of this crust and imparts no flavor — do not substitute water. This dough is moister than most standard pie doughs and will require lots of flour to roll out (up to 1/4 cup). A food processor is essential for making this dough — it cannot be made by hand. 

Pie Dough

Ingredients

Directions


Per Serving
Calories: 545
Total Fat: 31 g
Saturated Fat: 16 g
Sodium: 597 mg
Carbohydrate: 60 g
Fiber: 4 g
Protein: 8.4 g
Diabetic Exchanges: 4 carbohydrate, 6 fat

Cook the Pumpkin

To maximize flavor, we at America’s Test Kitchen, publisher of Cook’s Illustrated, concentrate the pumpkin’s liquid rather than remove it, and we’ve found it best to do this on the stove — an added bonus for the spices that we add to the filling as well. Cooking the fresh ginger and spices along with the pumpkin puree intensifies their taste — the direct heat blooms their flavors. Cooking minimizes the mealy texture in this pie where pumpkin is the star.

Supplement with Yams

When we used solely pumpkin puree, we craved more flavor complexity. We experimented with roasted sweet potatoes, which added a surprisingly deep flavor without a wholly recognizable taste. To streamline this technique, we tried adding canned sweet potatoes — often labeled yams — instead. The yams add a complex flavor that complements the pumpkin.

Add Extra Yolks

Our goal with this pie was to eliminate the grainy texture that plagues most custard in favor of a creamy, sliceable, not-too-dense pie. We start with a balance of whole milk and cream, and firm up the mixture with eggs. We don’t simply add whole eggs, though — that just makes the pie too eggy. Because the whites are filled with much more water than the yolks, we exchange some whole eggs for yolks alone. Don’t forget to pass mixed filling through a fine-mesh strainer. This will ensure the ultimate smooth texture.

Add Hot Filling to Warm Crust

If you’re tempted to bake the pie crust way ahead of time, don’t. It’s imperative that the pie crust is warm when you add the hot filling. If it is not, the pie will become soggy. Using a hot filling in a warm crust allows the custard to firm up quickly in the oven, preventing it from soaking into the crust and turning it soggy. Keep that crust warm!

Turn the Oven High to Low

Most pumpkin pie recipes call for a high oven temperature to expedite cooking time. But as we’ve learned, baking any custard at high heat has its dangers. Once the temperature of custard rises above 185°F it curdles, turning the filling coarse and grainy. This is why we cannot bake the pie at 425°F, as most recipes suggest. Lowering the temperature to 350°F only produces a pie that is curdled and overcooked at the edges and still underdone in the center. But baking at a low 300°F would mean leaving the pie in the oven for 2 hours. What to do? We combine the two techniques, blasting the pie for 10 minutes on high heat and then baking it at 300°F for the rest of the baking time. This lessens the cooking time exponentially and leaves us with a creamy pie that’s fully and evenly cooked from edge to center.

The Great War: November 21, 1914

In the November 21, 1914, issue: A German defends his country’s invasion of Belgium and a Canadian woman faces the scorn and pity of her neighbors after saving her husband from war.

Germany and England — the Real Issue

By Bernhard Dernburg

Bernhard Dernburg
Bernhard Dernburg
English and French writers had presented their countries’ justifications for war in previous weeks’ Post editions. This week was Germany’s turn. In tones alternately heroic and self-pitying, Germany’s former secretary of colonial affairs explained how his country had been forced to declare war.

“England claims that she went to war on account of the breach of Belgian neutrality and that she must fight to destroy the spirit of militarism that has led to such a flagrant disregard of solemn treaties, a tendency that is endangering the peace of the world and consequently must be crushed entirely. … Unfortunately, in order to crush militarism … the German people will have to be destroyed as a nation. …

“It has been stated that militarism in general is a threat to the peace of the world. Yet German militarism has kept the peace for 44 years.”

Germany only built up this army because, centuries earlier, its peoples had been pushed around by other nations.

“[Germany’s] soil has been the rendezvous of Swedes, Danes, Russians, Croats, Poles, Italians, French, and Spaniards for centuries past. Impotent and not able to ward them off, she has been continually destroyed, until the genius of Bismarck welded her 26 states together into one unit, and Germany made the vow that she would never again give anyone such chances. That is why we kept our army, and if a people have an army at all, it is a waste not to make it strong enough for any emergency. That it is not too strong may be judged from the fact that Germany is now attacked by seven nations. …”

Germany and England- The Real Issue
Read the entire article “Germany and England- The Real Issue” by Bernhard Dernburg from the pages of the Post.

According to Dernburg, neutral Belgium only had itself to blame for the war that had swept across its land. Hadn’t Germany thoughtfully offered the Belgians an ultimatum, which they turned down?

“It should not be forgotten that the offer of indemnity to Belgium and the full maintenance of her sovereignty, had been made not only once but even a second time … and that it would have been entirely possible for Belgium to avoid all the devastation under which she is now suffering.”

Dernburg concluded by assuring Post readers that Germany had no intention of bothering the United States, or extending the conflict into the Western Hemisphere.

“I … would most emphatically say that, no matter what happens, the Monroe Doctrine will not be violated by Germany either in North America or in South America.”

Three years later, the German government offered Mexico a military alliance. If Mexican forces would help Germany defeat the United States, the German government would give the land of Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona back to Mexico.

War and the Hearth

By Maude Radford Warren

A Canadian woman recalls the anxious days she knew before her husband left for the war. He was a veteran of the Boer War (1899-1902) and, once he returned to their Canadian farm, she explained to Warren why she hoped never to hear of war again.

War and Hearth
Read the entire article “War and Hearth” by Maude Radford Warren from the pages of the Post.

“For a long time he didn’t let a word out of him, but sometimes his friends would talk round the dining-room table of nights when I had set out some cider and currant bread for them. I’d be sewing on the clothes of the baby that was coming, and I’d listen. And then I’d hear about … wounded men crying and calling for their mothers — and the night so black you couldn’t tell where they were, even if it would have done you any good to know. When you come to think of it, a grown-up man has to go through a lot of suffering before he begins to cry in the dark for his mother. I wish now I’d never heard any of those stories, for I can’t put them out of my mind.”

For weeks she had hoped her husband would remain with her, on the farm, if Great Britain entered the fight.

“Then I noticed how my husband would keep poring over the newspaper, and I got so I was afraid to look straight at him, for fear of what I might see in his face. Then I got so I didn’t say very much to him.

“One day at breakfast, when I was cutting bread for the children, he leaned across the table and took the knife and loaf away from me, and began to cut it himself. And when he’d got about twice as much as we could eat cut off — to get all dry and hard — he said: ‘Mary, you needn’t say anything to me. If war is declared I’m going!’

“Then he got up and left the table without drinking his tea. So I knew he felt bad at having to go against me — for I didn’t want him to go, at least not yet.”

As hard as it was to let her husband go off to war again, the woman said, it could be worse. A friend of theirs was now regretting her actions to keep her husband out of uniform.

“Sarah Jordan never seemed to me to set much store by her husband — they quarreled a good bit; but when this war broke out he enlisted. According to the law she had the right to hold him back, because he was a volunteer; so she wrote a letter to the colonel of the regiment and gave it to one of the children to post. Mr. Jordan got it away from the child. Then he told Sarah there was some loophole out of the law, and that they were going to take him anyway. She wouldn’t believe it entirely.

“Anyway, she was always one to do things before everybody, with a lot of fuss. So she went up to the armory one day when the men were drilling — not the company only, but the whole regiment, and flung her arms round Jordan’s neck and claimed him before everybody. They’re both the laughingstock of all their friends; but people feel sorry enough for him though, indeed, as my husband said, this is no time when a man wants to be pitied. But Mr. Jordan is putting in his time making Sarah wish she had let him go.”


Step into 1914 with a peek at these pages from The Saturday Evening Post 100 years ago.

Hard Times (and Good)

This is the season to count one’s blessings. I’ve had so many over the years that it would be impossible to do a full account on this page. But a patch of rough luck hit our family this year. Our 6-year-old grandson, Sammy, after a bout of inexplicable tummy trouble, was diagnosed with lymphoma. (That would be cancer, but it’s easier to write lymphoma, for some reason.) After the initial shock, everyone rallied, as I suppose people do in wartime. You weep, and then you do what needs to be done. His brave mom spent dozens of nights with him in the hospital this summer and his equally brave dad, my son, was there whenever he wasn’t at work. Sammy was a good soldier throughout; he hung in all those months while his body was being pounded with chemo treatments. I’m not going to say he always did it cheerfully, but he did it.

My wife and I, who happened to be visiting at the time of the diagnosis, moved in temporarily so Sammy’s older sister, Sarah, would have someone to come home to. Together, we got through it, and after nearly four months, I’m happy to say, it’s over. Sammy, now 7, is going to be poked and prodded and otherwise carefully observed for several years, but by the time you read this, he will be back in school, back to normal life, where such questions as when’s dinner or what’s the newest Lego kit are all that matter.

He missed a summer, which in a child’s life is huge. But it will seem like a minor blip just a few years from now. Many people have it a lot worse, as Sammy himself observed. He met children who were looking at multi-year treatments, and poorer prognoses. “Grandma, I’m really lucky,” he said to my wife. “I had cancer, but I had the good kind.”

Baby Sofia

In the midst of this family crisis, there was also joy from another quarter. Our younger son’s wife had their first baby. She’s possibly the most beautiful little girl you could imagine (our staff fact-checkers verified it!). We were able to break away and spend a few weeks with the new baby, who was born in Rome. And, we fell in love with little Sofia. (How could we resist?)

The Durschlag Twins

I swerved my car to the left, just narrowly avoiding the Durschlag twins. Those little girls were too much. Seriously, they had the run of the neighborhood. It was as if every single property and every object that wasn’t tied down belonged to them. I screeched to a halt, and of course, they started crying in unison. The blond one began hitting her head with her fist, and I had to reach over and grab her hand causing the red-haired one to cry louder. Their mother, Doris, had dyed the twins’ hair so she could tell them apart, but I still couldn’t tell one from the other.

When the dust settled, it turned out they were playing with their little dolls. The twins each had identical twin daughters — grotesque rag dolls — all named Princess. According to the redheaded one, the four dolls had raced out into the street and she and her sister followed after to rescue them, just as I was coming over the hill. I nearly flattened the girls and their little rag toys.

Doris Durschlag came running out of the house in terror. She grabbed her little angels and yelled at me, calling me a reckless menace to the neighborhood. I was, in her words, driving at a madman’s clip — in reality, almost 15 miles per hour. Any slower and I might as well have pulled out a leash and walked my car home.

My personal issue with the twins went back a ways to when I came home from a morning golf game and found them in my front yard: One of them stood screaming while the other lay drowning in my sprinkler. I’m not exaggerating; she was flailing her arms, lying in a pool of water that the two of them created by turning the sprinkler upside down. I called the fire department on my cell phone — which was a bit of an overreaction as it turned out — while racing to the rescue. I turned the hose off and grabbed the drowning redhead, who, after a few healthy smacks on the back, coughed the water up out of her lungs. It was a scene that got the attention of the Hitchenses, my neighbors from across the street, who made a series of frantic telephone calls before they came rushing out to help. Doris Durschlag was one of the phone recipients, and by the time she raced down the street, the fire department was approaching from the other direction. A police car was in close tow with its sirens blaring.

“What did you do to my children?” she yelled as she ran and scooped them up. The girls had calmed down but started crying again when they realized they were in the middle of a bona fide scene and it was their turn to shine. Doris called out to the cop as he stepped out of his squad car.

“Arrest him,” she said pointing to me. “He tried to drown my babies!”

Meanwhile, two firemen were now trying to pry the drowned girl from Doris’ clutches so they could check her vitals. When the police officer approached, I explained I had been on the golf course since six that morning and pointed to my car, which was only partially pulled into the driveway with the driver’s side door still open.

Everybody but Doris believed me.

As time went by, the goofy-faced little Durschlags developed a reputation for wandering the neighborhood like doped-up raccoons. They even went so far as to jump, unattended on the Freiberg family’s trampoline until, after 15 minutes, the two of them did a seat drop together and went ripping through the canvas bed onto the hard ground banging their collective asses. Even though they were only marginally in pain, they had been trained by their mother to bellow the shrill scream of terror whenever they were in trouble, which brought all the neighbors out of their homes and over to the Freiberg’s backyard, and then, of course, someone called the cops. When Rob and Sheila Freiberg came home from an early matinee, there were flashing police lights out front and a crowd milling around their backyard as Doris Durschlag, clutching her two innocent babes, pointed at the Freibergs and yelled, “Killers!”

And now, on Draeger Street, it was my turn again to be the scapegoat.

“I’ll have you locked behind bars for the rest of your natural life, you child endangerer!” Doris was screaming like a maniac causing the boobsie twins to start wailing, loud enough to deserve one of those TV cartoon close-ups of their wide-open mouths, revealing vibrating tonsils.

People were coming out onto their front porches and lawns to study the commotion. I would have thought that after nine years with these children they would all just assume it was more Durschlag idiocy, but I guess there was always the fear that the kids might do something lethal on their property, à la the sprinkler incident at my house or the trampoline business at the Freibergs’.

“Look here, Doris, they ran in front of my car like frightened badgers.”

“My children would do no such thing.” She looked at them. “Would you?”

The blond one started crying, holding up her twin rag dolls with one hand while pointing at me with the other.

Several of the neighbors had become interested in our exchange and had crept closer, so they could hear the conversation. This was a chance for me to plead my case.

“What kind of mother lets her children play in the busy streets of the suburbs? Especially when they’re obviously challenged.”

That was a bad call. While I had her dead to rights on the playing in the streets point, I killed it when I brought up the pink elephant (or whatever you call it) about being “challenged.” Everybody knew her children were missing a few pieces of mental machinery, but nobody dared say anything. I mean, it’s not like they were mentally disabled or autistic or anything that would elicit support or sympathy; they were just peculiar in a Children of the Corn sort of way.

“You will regret those words, Mister!” I had hit a nerve.

“Doris,” I said. “Let’s be adults about this. I have a right to drive home without kids running out in front of my car chasing rag dolls.”

The redheaded one screamed, “They’re not rag dolls, they’re our children,” and started to cry some more.

“Do you see what you’ve done? You are a sick man,” Doris yelled. The crowd was now growing on the sidewalk across the street. Doris looked around at the rubberneckers, none of whom were coming to her rescue. “You’re all sick, every last one of you!” She was screaming hysterically like Blanche in A Streetcar Named Desire.

The blond twin came to her rescue. “Mommy, it’s OK, our children made it!” She held up her two dolls. “We saved them from the bad driver.”

“You haven’t saved them, darling. You don’t know.” She pointed at me. “He’ll keep coming. He’ll always keep coming until he kills every last one of us.” She looked around at the neighbors out on their front lawns and sidewalk. “And you don’t care. None of you care!”

All of a sudden a police car appeared from around the corner. As soon as Doris saw it, she started waving at it madly. “Now you’ll see!” she said.

The cop pulled over looking bored and reluctant. He slammed the gearshift on his steering wheel into park and picked up his radio, probably to announce his location to the dispatcher. He stepped out of the car door to the sound of Doris Durschlag yelling, “Arrest this man, he tried to kill my daughters!”

The redheaded twin yelled, “He tried to kill our daughters too,” and held up the rag dolls again.

“What exactly happened here?”

“What happened,” I said, “was that I was driving home, down Draeger Street, at a safe speed,” I enunciated safe as I looked over at Doris, “when I saw a bunch of objects fly out into the street and then these little imps came chasing after them causing me to hit the brakes at the last minute.”

The cop looked at Doris. “Where were you when all this happened?”

She pointed back at the house. “I was on the front porch dutifully watching my children and had just called them to come away from the street because I could hear this maniac with a revved engine a block away. This man was driving so fast it’s a miracle my children were able to escape death.”

“That’s a damn lie!” I yelled.

“Please watch your language around my children.”

“Sir,” said the cop, “I’m going to have to ask you to tone it down, please.”

I looked at the twins. “I’m sorry, girls.” Of course the blond one instantly started crying again.

“So how fast were you going, anyway?”

“No more than 15 miles an hour. Believe me sir, I live here. I know that there are children. Sometimes they play catch and a ball gets away. But this … this was deliberate.”

“Deliberate?”

“Yes. Those children threw their dolls into the street because a car was coming, and then ran out to grab them.”

Now both of the twins were crying. The cop looked at me funny as if maybe I was the one who was crazy. I looked across the street at the people on the sidewalk, but all were slowly starting to disperse like they didn’t want to get dragged into anything that included law enforcement.

I yelled at them, “Oh, come on!” The neighbors stopped to look at me as they were walking back into their homes. “Someone back me up.” I yelled. “These kids are constant trouble!”

I looked back at the cop, “You,” I said. “You must have reports on these kids; they’re all over the neighborhood jumping peoples fences like squirrels.”

“Sir, what I see here is a tragedy averted. I’m not saying you were driving recklessly, and I’m not saying these kids were playing recklessly. I’m saying it’s just one of those things. Now, let’s face it, it’s an act of grace for everybody involved that nobody got hurt.”

He squatted down in front of the twins. “You two are very lucky to have children of your own,,” he said, as he brushed one of the Durschlag’s bangs out of her eyes. He looked at the other one. “My wife and I both love kids; wish we had some — maybe we will one day.

“Kids, it would be as horrible a day as ever could be imagined if two sweet girls like you … or your daughters,” he said, nodding to the rag dolls, “ever got struck by a vehicle. I beg of you, little darlings, please look both ways before you run out into the street. Promise me this, will you, please? Promise Officer Ferguson that you’ll never run into the street until you’ve looked both ways.”

The two girls smiled. “We promise,” they said in unison and then the blond one held up her two rag dolls and added, “They promise too.”

Officer Ferguson had a tear in his eye as he looked up at me standing there watching this pitiful little reenactment of a pedestrian safety film. “What do you think?” he asked me. “Will they ever run into the street again?”

What the hell could I possibly say?

“No, I think they understand the safety risks now, Officer.” It was as unsatisfactory a moment as I could imagine, but then the blond twin came and grabbed my left leg and hugged it. Then the redhead grabbed the other. The cop watched this as he stood up, and the tears began trickling down his cheeks. I looked over at Doris Durschlag, but she was not at all moved.

“Girls!” she barked. “It’s time to go inside, and let this nice policeman get back to catching criminals.” They let go of my legs and waved goodbye to the two of us and followed their mother into the house.

Officer Ferguson looked at me and smiled. “Kids. They’re so darn cute! Treat ’em right, and you got friends for life.” He patted me on the back and walked over to his squad car and got inside. I walked over to my car, which was parked in the middle of the street, and I got in and drove home.

The next morning when I stepped out my front door, I found the little Durschlag twins walking up my lawn waving the morning paper as they carried it up to my front door.

Ellen Pyle

Ellen Pyle
Ellen Pyle

In the 1920s flapper era of parties and glamour, no Saturday Evening Post artist covered the period of graceful elegance like Ellen Bernard Thompson Pyle.  Born in Germantown, Pennsylvania on November 11th, 1876, Pyle had a slow-building rise to fame that spanned many decades between her art studies and her working years as an artist.

Pyle began her art studies at Drexel Institute (now Drexel University) in 1895.  While there, she studied under Lydia Austin and Charles Graffy.  She was at the top of her class, earning a spot in Howard Pyle’s summer art school at his studio in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania in 1898 and 1899.  It was at Howard Pyle’s summer school that she joined a group of prodigy illustrators including N.C. Wyeth, and met her future husband Walter Pyle, who was helping his brother Howard.

The story of her relationship with Walter was complicated, and ruled over much of her time away from her lifelong passion creating art.  Though the two met at Walter’s brother’s summer art school, it was years before they would reconnect.  Walter was 17 years Ellen’s senior.  At the time the two met, Walter was also married to another woman.

Having finished her formal education, Ellen moved home to live with her parents and was working as an illustrator from her makeshift home studio by 1901.

In 1903, Walter’s first wife died.  Six months later, he called upon Ellen and within the year, the two were married.  The two moved to Wilmington, Delaware.  Ellen took time away from art to raise her growing family.  The two, madly in love, had three children, son Walter Pyle, Jr. (1906) and three daughters Ellen (1907), Katie (1911), and Caroline (1914).

Ellen’s husband, Walter Pyle, was a wealthy businessman who owned a feather factory in the northeast.  In 1918, the family moved to their newly purchased 40-acre farm, Westbrae in Greenville, Delaware.  Shortly thereafter, Walter suddenly died of Bright’s Disease a year later in 1919 at the young age of 42.

Ellen, then widowed, returned to working as an artist in order to provide for her many children.  Walter’s sister Katherine sent three of Ellen’s illustrations to The Saturday Evening Post in 1922, two of which were immediately selected by The Post’s famous editor, George Horace Lorimer.

Over the course of the next decade and a half, Pyle completed forty covers for The Saturday Evening Post, illustrations for Parents’ Magazine, Literary Digest, Pictorial Review, Everybody’s Magazine, and 10 dust jackets for books by author Berta Ruck.  Ellen Bernard Thompson Pyle died of a heart condition on August 1st, 1936, at the peak of her career as a working artist.

Today, many of her illustrations remain housed in private collections including those built by her living relatives.  In 2006, an original Saturday Evening Post illustration was rediscovered through the television series Antiques Roadshow where the work was appraised with a value between $25,000-$30,000.  In 2009, her great-grandchildren organized a “career retrospective” show at the Delaware Art Museum.

Covers by Ellen Pyle

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