News of the Week: Black Friday, Cyber Sunday, and National French Toast Day

Black Friday and Cyber … Sunday??

Online shopper
(Hurst Photo/Shutterstock)

Hopefully you’re reading this in the comfort of your home and not on your smartphone, in line at the mall because there’s a really great deal on a toaster today.

It’s Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving when people line up for hours before the mall opens, and then proceed to run over each other to get to something great before someone else gets to it. It’s an annual tradition. It’s such a tradition that more and more stores are now opening on Thanksgiving , for people who just can’t stand being with their families for another hour. But I am happy to see that some stores decided, “You know what? Thanksgiving is for visits with family and friends and eating pecan pie and not going to the mall.”

Besides, it’s 2015, and you can get deals online every day of the year, and you don’t have to worry about anyone punching you to click on a sale first (well, I don’t know who you live with, but I assume they won’t do that). And for online shopping we have Cyber Monday, three days after Black Friday when online sales go through the roof.

Wait, did I say Cyber Monday? Silly me, I meant Cyber Sunday!

RIP, Jim Perry

Remember when game shows ruled the networks? Most of them were replaced by talk shows where people yell at each other, nine hours of Today, and soap operas (and even the number of soap operas has dropped dramatically, another sad development). Now we just have a couple of game shows on in the daytime, CBS’s Let’s Make a Deal and The Price Is Right. One of the best hosts was the likable and funny Jim Perry. He hosted several game shows over the years and is probably best known for Card Sharks and Sale of the Century. Perry passed away from cancer at his home in Oregon at the age of 82.

On a related note, there’s a new game show network that’s not The Game Show Network. It’s called Buzzr. I found it by accident the other night while surfing the upper channel numbers of my cable system. They show a lot of older game shows, from black-and-white classics like What’s My Line? and I’ve Got a Secret to shows from the ’70s and ’80s like Double Dare (hosted by Alex Trebek) and the aforementioned Sale of the Century.

You’re So Vain, You Probably Think This Section About “You’re So Vain” Is About You

For years, one of the biggest pop culture questions has been whom Carly Simon’s song “You’re So Vain” is about. Turns out it’s about whom everyone thought it was about: Warren Beatty.

Simon herself has revealed that some of the song, though not all, is about Beatty, though other parts of the song are about other men she has known. People that other sections of the song might be about include Mick Jagger, Kris Kristofferson, and former Vice President Spiro Agnew.

Okay, I made that last one up.

Dorothy’s Dress

The blue-and-white dress that Judy Garland wore in the classic 1939 film The Wizard of Oz went for $1.5 million at an auction put on by Bonhams and Turner Classic Movies. Ten dresses were made for the film but most were rejected, and this dress is rumored to be one of the very few that still exist.

But wait: Is the dress actually blue and white? Let’s start a new controversy!

The Way Americans Used to Talk

You ever watch movies from the ’30s and ’40s and realize that people are talking in a way you’ve never heard before? It’s not British, exactly, it’s sort of a British-fied American accent. It’s called the Mid-Atlantic (or Transatlantic) accent and BrainStuff has a fun video that explains where exactly it came from and why people don’t talk that way anymore:

Robot Pets: The Perfect Gift!

I feel bad about making fun of this product, but not bad enough to not make fun of it.

Have you ever thought that it would be great for your grandparent to have a pet, but you’re not sure if it’s a good idea to buy them a real one? Now there’s a solution: Buy them a fake one! It’s the Joy For All Companion Pet from Hasbro!

It’s a fake cat that moves a little bit and purrs. The more you scratch or rub it the more it does. It’s just like a real cat, except for … well, all the ways that it’s not a real cat. It’s $99.99 and is supposed to give “comfort, companionship, and joy,” but I’m not convinced that it’s really for anyone except a certain small group of people. It seems more like a novelty gift than a replacement for a real cat. The upside? No hairs all over the place and no litter box to deal with.

I’m not sure why you wouldn’t just buy a stuffed animal for the senior citizen in your life. They’re cheaper and they don’t have that disturbing “some day we’re going take over the world” vibe.

Robot pets. A great way to say to your grandparents, “We love you but we don’t really trust you.”

Updates: Christopher Kimball and Stephen Colbert

Last week I told you that Christopher Kimball had left Boston Common Press and would no longer host the PBS cooking shows America’s Test Kitchen and Cook’s Country. This week we found out that Kimball will be staying on as host of the companion podcast for America’s Test Kitchen. This is terrific news. You can’t see his bow tie when you’re listening to the podcast, but you can imagine it.

Also last week we had video of Stephen Colbert’s interview with Bill Maher on The Late Show. The show has fallen to third place in not only overall ratings but also in key demos, with The Tonight Show and Jimmy Kimmel Live in first and second place. Is it because Colbert is too liberal and alienating half of the country?

Saturday Is National French Toast Day

French toast
SunnySideUp / Shutterstock

Did you see Clash of the Grandmas last weekend? It’s a new entry in the seemingly endless supply of cooking competition shows on Food Network, though thankfully not a weekly show but a one-time holiday special. But this one was actually good, with a group of grandmas competing against each other to see who could make the best Thanksgiving dishes for a $10,000 prize. The winner, Anne, was really funny and said whatever was on her mind (her grandkids even sent a special video to her during the show, wishing her luck and telling her not to say anything she’ll regret later) and should probably have her own show on the channel. Somehow she won without having made a pie in her life and not having eaten pumpkin in over 50 years.

One of the other ladies made a bread pudding, but instead of using a plain bread she used cinnamon raisin toast. That’s a great idea, because the spices are already inside and probably gave the dish more depth. Now tomorrow is National French Toast Day, and I don’t see any reason why you can’t use this tactic for French toast too (we used to use Anadama bread when I worked at a restaurant several years ago). I found a recipe for Cinnamon Raisin Swirl French Toast at The Comfort of Cooking.

And by sheer coincidence, it’s also National Raisin Bread Month. So it’s like the stars have aligned, and you have to make it this way.

Upcoming Events and Anniversaries

50th Anniversary special for A Charlie Brown Christmas (November 30)

ABC will air a one-hour special at 8 p.m. on the 50th anniversary of the Christmas classic, followed by the special itself.

Mark Twain born (November 30, 1835)

Read some memories of Twain in the Post archives.

Winston Churchill born (November 30, 1874)

The Saturday Evening Post Archives Director Jeff Nilsson writes about Britain’s entry into World War II and three simple words: “Winston is back.”

Henry Ford introduces first car assembly line (December 1, 1913)

Neon sign
Sorbis / Shutterstock

Why did Ford double his minimum wage in 1914?

Neon lighting makes public debut (December 3, 1910)

The technology we now see everywhere was introduced at the Paris Motor Show.

The end of Prohibition (December 5, 1933)

Grab a drink, and read Dorothy Parker’s classic short story “As the Spirit Moves,” originally published in The Saturday Evening Post.

It Comes with the Territory

It’s still dark when Mom wakes me, the sky outside my window black with the new moon. I sit up in bed, feeling the gravitational pull of the incoming tide as it floods the shallow sand flats just down the road, inundating my body, lifting the bow of my nose, and gently rolling out from beneath my heels as I brush my teeth, pull a T-shirt over my head, slather sunscreen on my neck and arms.

In the kitchen, Mom hands me a piece of peanut-butter toast. She’s made coffee even though Dad was the only one who drank it. Since he’s been gone, I’ve been trying to like it. I pour some into a mug and top it off with milk and sugar. It’s not bad like this. I think Mom just likes the smell of it in the kitchen. Reminds her of Dad.

“High tide’s at 9:15 this morning,” Mom says, turning the volume down on the marine radio in her hand. This is how she used to communicate with Dad when he was miles offshore with his clients, fishing. He died three months ago. Lung cancer. Mom still listens to the guides chattering about the weather, about who’s catching what. Sometimes she’ll say their names, laugh, and shake her head. “There’s Crusty Rusty,” she’ll say, talking about the cantankerous old guide who berates his clients when they lose a fish. Or, “There’s Four-and-a-Half Frank,” the captain who lost part of his first finger to a bull shark. All the captains have scars of some sort. My dad had puncture marks all over his arms and neck from his clients hooking him. It’s part of being a fisherman.

Once, I caught Mom with the radio in her hand and tears streaming down her cheeks, and I knew they must have mentioned Dad’s name, or maybe the name of the captain who bought his old boat. Or maybe she was thinking of the bank note she’d just paid off and the fact that there wasn’t much left. Dad had no life insurance. Now, watching me eat, her face is stoic and sober, like the morning. “Water should be moving pretty good right now,” she says.

“The bite’s on,” I say, gulping my coffee, choking down the thick toast.

“Think Flip will let you go out with him today?”

“He said if he has a full-day charter he might have room for me.”

“You be careful out there,” Mom says, patting my hand. “I know you’re a big fisherman, but you’re still my boy.”

“I’m not a boy anymore, Mom. I can fish as well anyone.”

“I know you can. Your daddy taught you well,” she says. “I packed you sardines in your lunch. You said you were tired of sandwiches.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

***

The air is cool as I pedal along the edge of the highway, thoughts of a day at sea pulling me along like the tide, the same tide that courses through my veins, that concentrates the fish, that dictates life here in the Florida Keys. Fishing is in my blood and it’s nearly all I think about. I’ve been on boats with my dad since I could walk. I’m only 14, but I can tie a Bimini twist and rig a sailfish spread just like he taught me. I’ve been coming down here every day since he passed away, hoping one of the captains needs a mate, hoping today’s the day I’ll get to show the world I know how to catch fish.

***

Bugs are still buzzing around the dock lights when I arrive at the marina. Men wearing shorts and flip-flops, caps on their heads and sunglasses hanging from neck lanyards, crowd around the front of the store, sipping coffee or massaging sunscreen into their skin. Bud, the owner of the marina, is taking orders for bait: squid, pilchards, mullet, shrimp. I love marinas, especially this one, which is where Dad used to keep his boat. You come down here early in the morning and everyone’s happy and slapping each other on the back, talking about the fish they’re going to catch. Some just want to have fun, but for others fishing is more important. It’s a way of life.

I lean my bike against the storefront, beside the ice machine, and take my lunch down to the docks where men are moving back and forth, carrying rods and reels, boxes of tackle and bait. I can tell what they’re fishing for by the kind of gear they’re carrying. Those with giant reels are going after marlin or tuna. The fly fishermen are here to chase tarpon on the flats. That’s the fish I know best, though it’s hard to convince most adults that a 14-year-old knows how to get these giants to bite.

Down the dock, at slip 47, I see Flip welcoming a couple sports onto his boat. I head over and say hello.

“Morning, Mark,” he says, resting his bare foot on the gunwale. Around his eyes, and looking like a white mask, is a tan line from his sunglasses, which now hang from his neck. “Wish I could take you out today, but they only booked me for half a day.”

That’s Flip for you. Noncommittal. Unwilling to take a chance. Polite, but full of excuses. A lot of people think that’s why he’s not married.

“No problem,” I say, feeling my heart dropping through the depths like an anchor.

“Why don’t you let Bud know you’re looking for work. He might know of something.”

“Sure,” I say. Flip’s a nice guy, but he’s just letting me down easy. Cash is tight in this economy. Guides aren’t running as many charters as they used to, and there’s not much demand for mates.

Still, the sting of rejection is overwhelming. Since Dad’s been gone, I find myself doing weird things. Like giving myself a hashmark tattoo with a hot fork. Like piercing my left ear with a barbless fish hook. Today, I rake my knuckles across a stack of cinderblocks as I head back up the dock.

I take a seat on the picnic table in front of the marina store, where I watch men tote their gear from the parking lot to the boats. I watch these same boats pull away from the docks and head out to sea, each one destined for its own adventure. For me, it’s another lost summer day with no work, stuck here on shore.

A few minutes later, I spot Bud and approach him. “Just wanted to let you know I’m still available, if you know of any of the captains looking for a mate,” I tell him.

Bud’s an intimidating guy. He was in Vietnam, and he doesn’t like crowds or loud noises. Once, I saw him chew a man out just for dropping a box of frozen bait.

“Thank you, Mark,” he says. There’s a tattoo of a bulldog on his knotty right bicep, beneath which are the letters USMC. “You’re getting to be pretty big. Another year or two and I’m sure we can get you out on one of these boats.”

“I can take a Penn Senator apart and put it back together in less than 15 minutes. My dad taught me.”

He grabs a bucket off the bait tank and begins filling it with live shrimp. “Your daddy loved those Penns, didn’t he? How old are you, Mark?”

“Fourteen.”

“Tell you what. Come see me when you’re 16, and we’ll talk,” he says.

From the way he says it, I know the conversation is over and I get that feeling in my stomach like I’ve swallowed a pound of lead sinkers. It’s the feeling of rejection and it makes me crazy, especially when I know I can do the job.

I get back on my bike and head over to Robbie’s Marina, just down the highway, where there’s always a group of tourists feeding the resident tarpon off the docks. Surprisingly, there’s no one around this morning, so I walk down to the dock and watch these prehistoric-looking fish swimming through the clear, shallow water. Their goggle eyes look up at me, having been conditioned to expect food. Some of these tarpon are bigger than me, and older. Their silver scales are like mirrors, reflecting the sand as they swim by or hover just beneath the surface, watching my every move, waiting.

I open my lunch, take out the tin of sardines Mom packed, and twist it open. Then I grab one of the oily fish by the tail and hold it out over the water, watching as the tarpon move into position beneath my hand. Drops of oil fall from the sardine, landing on the water with a gentle plop, then dissipating.

I’ve wrestled fish bigger than these 100-pound tarpon, but Bud doesn’t know this. He probably thinks I’d get seasick out there.

I flick the sardine, and one of the tarpon explodes from the water, launching its six feet of silver-scaled muscle straight up into the air, giant gill rakers rattling, its cavernous mouth opening and engulfing my hand. I should let go of the bait now, but I’ve got something to prove to Bud, to Flip, to everyone.

My brain fires orders to my arm: Pull back! Pull back! But I manage to resist and brace myself against a pier as the tarpon clamps his cinderblock mouth around my hand. For a moment the tarpon and me are eye-to-eye, two anglers shaking hands, a tiny piece of bait connecting us to another world. Then, as gravity pulls the fish back into the water, I feel his gritty teeth, themselves microscopic fishhooks, abrading my skin.

Blood streams down my fingers and drips into the water where moments ago sardine oil had been. They think I’m too young to work the boats, to go out into the bluewater. But I’m a fisherman, and I’ve got the scars to prove it.

I take another sardine from the tin and hold it out over the water.

The First Auto Race: Thanksgiving 1895

It seemed like a great idea at the time.

Having read about an automobile race in France, H.H. Kohlsaat decided he’d host America’s first auto race in Chicago. The year was 1895 and automobiles were still a great novelty. Kohlsaat, who owned the Chicago Times Herald, planned to exploit the growing interest in motoring by sponsoring a 54-mile race from downtown Chicago to Evanston, Illinois, and back. It would be open to all qualifying vehicles, foreign or domestic, powered by gas, electricity, or steam. The top prize would be $2,000 (the equivalent of over $50,000 today).

To draw a big holiday crowd, he set the race date for the Fourth of July 1895.

He quickly learned this was too soon for the competitors. Applicants begged Kohlsaat to postpone the race so they could get their vehicles ready for the competition.

So Kohlsaat pushed the race back to Labor Day. As that date drew near, the contestants pleaded for more time.

In the end, Kohlsaat pushed the date back to Thanksgiving Day, November 28.

He hoped that fair weather would hold for the race, but the night before Thanksgiving, a storm blew into town and buried Chicago streets in snow. High winds followed, blowing snowdrifts across racecourse streets.

Only six cars made it to the starting line in Jackson Park that morning. At 8:55 a.m., a small, shivering crowd watched the first vehicle set off. It was the only gas-powered American car in the contest and had been built by brothers Charles and Frank Duryea. The other three gas vehicles were all German machines built by Karl Benz, one representing the De La Verne Refrigerator Machine Company, one representing Macy’s Department Store in New York, and the last driven by Oscar Mueller of Decatur, Illinois, who proved a tough adversary.

The last two entries were electric models, a Sturges Electric and Morris and Salom’s Electrobat. No steam models competed.

After the cars disappeared, the crowd dispersed. It was 30 degrees and windy at the lakeside. With the vehicles expected to travel at just 5 mph, there would be nothing to see for the next 10 hours.

The vehicles struggled up Lake Shore Drive fighting wind and snowdrifts. As they passed Lincoln Park, they were suddenly greeted by cheers from a crowd of thousands. These weren’t race fans, but attendees at the football game between the University of Chicago and University of Michigan, who noticed the horseless carriages slowly working their way up the street. Shortly afterward, as Frank Duryea crossed the Rush Street Bridge, the steering arm on his vehicle snapped. He managed to get his vehicle to a blacksmith’s shop, where the arm was repaired, but the delay put him an hour behind the leading Benz car.

Years later, when Kohlsaat gave his account of the race in the Post, he wrote that early that on Thanksgiving afternoon “a large number of people gathered near the [Evanston] Industrial School and received the first comers with cheers. The Macy machine was then slightly in the lead.” Just two blocks beyond, though, Frank Duryea came up on the leader. “In accordance to the rules of the contest,” Kohlsaat wrote, the Macy Benz pulled to one side.

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Read “America’s First Horseless Carriage Race, 1895” by H.H. Kohlsaat from the January 5, 1941 issue.

The driver of the Macy Benz tried to close Duryea’s lengthening lead, but late in the afternoon, Macy’s driver ran into a sleigh that had overturned in the street. He was able to extricate the car and resume driving, but he soon ran into a horse-drawn hackney cab, which damaged the car’s steering. The driver managed to roll the car in-between the trolley car tracks and drive between the tracks to next checkpoint. Mechanics spent 80 minutes putting the Benz back in running order. But by 6:15, the darkening sky and cold winds were too discouraging. The Macy Benz vehicle dropped out of the race.

This left just Duryea and another Benz, driven by Oscar Mueller.

Duryea had now been driving for nine hours. He was experiencing trouble with his ignition, not to mention the snowdrifts. In addition, he’d taken a wrong turn that added several miles to his route. But he was still ahead of Mueller, who was facing even greater difficulties.

Before starting, Mueller had decided he would not just carry a referee, like all entrants, but an extra passenger as well. After spending the day in the back of the car, huddled against the freezing winds, the passenger was overcome by the cold. He was lifted out of the car and carried off for medical attention in a sleigh. Mueller kept driving, but he, too, was losing consciousness.

By 6:30 p.m., Duryea was getting close to the finish line. Kohlsaat wrote, “Lacking spectators, except here and there a solitary workman on his way home … the men on the motor gave vent to war whoops, cheers, cat calls, and other manifestations of joy over the victory they were winning.”

At 7:18 p.m., Frank Duryea crossed the finish line. He’d taken 10 hours and 23 minutes to travel 52.4 miles.

Almost two hours later, Mueller’s Benz came in sight, but now the referee was driving. In one hand, he held the steering tiller and, in the other, held up Mueller, who’d collapsed from the cold.

The first automobile race was over.

The next automobile race was held, more sensibly, on Memorial Day.

Cartoon from the front page of the Chicago Tribune, November 28, 1895.
Cartoon from the front page of the Chicago Tribune, November 28, 1895.

Not surprising, Chicago’s Thanksgiving Day race never became a holiday tradition. Chicagoans weren’t afraid to spend hours standing in the cold for a public event. But even as early as 1895, the holiday already established its cold-weather sport. As the Chicago Tribune declared on its front page that day, Thanksgiving was, “the day we celebrate — the day when football and turkey rule.”

Kohlsaat’s account doesn’t use the term “automobile.” As he explains, “There was considerable opposition to calling the horseless carriage ‘automobile,’ as the name was too Frenchy, so The Times Herald offered $500 for a name, and ‘motocycle’ was awarded the prize.”

That’s motocycle, without an r.

Years later, Duryea recalled his early days of inventing the automobile, and his early racing days. You can read his article “It Doesn’t Pay to Pioneer,” originally published in 1931, in the Post’s latest special issue: Automobiles in America!

A Rockwell Thanksgiving Portrait

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Pilgrim’s Progress
Norman Rockwell
Life magazine
November 17, 1921

Happiest of Thanksgivings, my friends!

Thanksgiving couldn’t come at a better time this year. It is the perfect moment to gather round, get together in appreciation — of one another and our lives. No matter what is going on in your life — challenging or glorious — there is so much to be grateful for.

A Pilgrim’s Progress is a painting Norman Rockwell did for Life magazine for its November 17, 1921, cover. His first Post cover was in 1916; in just five short years it is remarkable how much my grandfather improved his technique.

To look at his use of light in this image — that powerful, golden, focused light of the setting sun hitting the pilgrim boy’s face — creating deep shadows, drama, and movement. Compare this boy’s fully realized face to the faces of the three boys in his first Post cover (it was actually only one boy, Billy Payne, who posed for all three).

The Baby Carriage by Norman Rockwell
The Baby Carriage
Norman Rockwell
May 20, 1916

The pilgrim’s face is slightly caricatured, but it reveals a marked improvement on his approach to a child’s face. You can feel the bone and muscle structure; see the skin texture and the natural blush of youth.

I can only imagine how Pop captured this image realistically — he must have somehow convinced the model to stand with his legs stretched out on blocks. How many quarters must Pop have had to pay that poor boy to get him to stay in that pose long enough? The extreme clarity of the feathers on the arrows following and surrounding the “poaching” pilgrim provides a playful sense of movement and draws your eye into the picture. The arrows are flying toward the light. The dark woods behind him help to emphasize the importance of the light source and the sense of comedic drama.

My grandfather never rested on his laurels, he always kept looking for ways to improve his technique and step out of his comfort zone. It doesn’t matter what you do — baking, painting, singing, composing, writing, landscaping — it is the intent and craft behind what you do that make it valuable.

One of the most powerful, inexhaustible fuels in this life is appreciation.

Warmest wishes,

Abigail

Classic Covers: Black Friday

Christmas commercialization is no modern phenomenon. Put the Post cover artists in charge and the mundane experience of making lists, checking them twice, and scavenging stores to gather holiday bounty becomes a delightful, miserable, and just plain silly occasion.

Christmas Shopper

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Christmas Shopper
Neysa McMein
December 13, 1919


How we envision ourselves while Christmas shopping — calm and fabulous. This stunning self-portrait by Neysa Mc Mein, one of the Post’s more popular female artists, makes the whole event appear effortless. But we know it’s not as simple as waltzing into the nearest department store adorned in your favorite black mink.

Department Store at Christmas

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Department Store at Christmas
John Falter
December 6, 1952


Even 63 years ago the ugly tie was universally recognized as the least desirable Christmas gift. But sometimes, well, that’s the best a person can do.

Lost Child Department

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Lost Child Department
Thornton Utz
December 20, 1958


Black Friday may not have existed back in 1958, but Christmas gifts were still serious business. Shoppers flooded malls from gift finding through gift wrapping stages.

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

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‘Twas the Night Before Christmas
J.C. Leyendecker
December 26, 1936


Probably not a coincidence, this mom bears an uncanny resemblance to St. Nick. Although J.C. Leyendecker was best known for his stylish illustrations of fashionable people, he occasionally produced comic numbers, such as this colorful depiction of the frantic, last-minute shopper.

White Christmas

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White Christmas
Norman Rockwell
December 25, 1937


“Pops” Fredericks, the model for this illustration, never achieved fame on the stage or big screen. From a hobo, to Santa Claus, his many appearances on Rockwell covers have turned Pops into a crowd favorite here at the Post.

Father Rushing Home with Gifts

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Father Rushing Home with Gifts
J.C. Leyendecker
December 4, 1909


The crazy was felt even in 1909. Take notice of the rocking horse. After being popularized in England during the 1800s, it galloped into factory production. By the time this father ran home with the toy, it had become a staple present in America.

Hiding the Presents

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Hiding the Presents
Richard “Dick” Sargent
December 7, 1957


After the shopping is all said and done, we recommend being extra sneaky about where and when you decide to hide the presents. Kids have a knack for watching their parents with hawk-like eyes during the month of December.

Cousin Reginald

Cousin Reginald the Thanksgiving Turkey appeard on the cover of The Country Gentleman.© SEPS
Cousin Reginald Catches the Thanksgiving Turkey
Norman Rockwell
The Country Gentleman
December 1, 1917

In 1911, Norman Rockwell, just 17, got his first break illustrating the children’s book Tell Me Why: Stories. At 19, he became art director of Boy’s Life — and the same year did 100 drawings for the Boy Scout’s Hike Book. Even when he landed his first Post cover in 1916, the subject? A kid and a baby carriage. Children appear in the majority of his early work. No coincidence: At the time, the most popular cover subjects were beautiful women, cute kids, and dogs. Between 1917 and 1922, Rockwell created a series of covers for The Country Gentleman, depicting the misadventures of a city slicker named Reginald Claude Fitzhugh, who repeatedly fell victim to the antics of country cousins Tubby and Rusty Doolittle and Chuck Peterkin and his dog Patsy. Inspired by summers Rockwell spent in the country as a boy, the covers and cast of characters captivated audiences, as in the 1917 holiday classic Cousin Reginald Catches the Thanksgiving Turkey.

More from Norman Rockwell’s Cousin Reginald series:

8 Tech Gifts Under $100

The latest trendy smartphone alone could set you back $650 or more. But plenty of cool and clever tech gadgets cost a Benjamin or less. Here are our faves:

High Flyer

Hobby-class flying drones can run hundreds of dollars, but the Hubsan X4 H107L (www.hubsan.com) is nicely priced at around $30 online. A diminutive quadcopter small enough to rest on the palm of your hand, the Hubsan X4 packs enough oomph for dazzling flying tricks that you control wirelessly via a handheld transmitter. Four LEDs — one in each corner — make the drone easy to spot on night flights. But keep your trips short: Flight time is about 7 minutes with a control distance of 100 meters.

Hubsan X4 H107L$30
Hubsan X4 H107L
$30

 

Workout Buddy

The Apple Watch is pretty, but it’s crazy expensive ($350 and up) for someone who wants a basic fitness tracker. The frugal alternative? Misfit Flash ($30, misfit.com) is a stylish wristband that monitors physical activity — miles traveled, steps taken, and calories burned — and sleep quality. Flash syncs with your Android or iOS smartphone, where the Misfit app tracks your fitness progress and lets you set exercise goals.

Misfit Flash$30
Misfit Flash
$30

 

Phone Catcher

Maybe there’s a smartphone klutz on your list, a special someone suffering from a chronic bout of the dropsies. Lifeproof (lifeproof.com) specializes in ruggedized phone cases for inhospitable environments: a sandy beach, ski slope, or even a mountaintop. The dirt- and waterproof LifeProof NÜÜD ($81 for the iPhone 6; $90 for the iPhone 6 Plus) survives drops from 2 meters (6.6 feet) and is remarkably slim for a tough and sturdy case.

LifeProof NÜÜDAs Low as $81
LifeProof NÜÜD
As low as $81

 

Transformer

A standard tablet keyboard won’t bring glad tidings. But how about one that switches seamlessly between three devices: tablet, smartphone, and PC? Logitech Bluetooth Multi-Device Keyboard K480 ($50, logitech.com) connects wirelessly with up to three devices, and includes an integrated cradle for a phone and tablet. A left-side dial makes it easy to switch between devices: Tap out a text message on your phone, then flip the dial to begin writing a long document on your laptop or tablet — all on the same keyboard.

Logitech Bluetooth Multi-Device Keyboard K480$50
Logitech Bluetooth Multi-Device Keyboard K480
$50

 

Photo Enabler

Here’s one for the selfie fan on your list. Camkix Extendable Selfie Stick with Bluetooth Remote ($23, camkix.com) does pretty much what its name suggests — allow your narcissistic pal to take self-portraits with ease. The retractable stick extends from 11 to 40 inches, works with newer Android and iPhone models, and has a Bluetooth remote for controlling the phone’s camera shutter. Then again, you may not want to encourage this behavior.

Camkix Extendable Selfie Stick with Bluetooth Remote$23
Camkix Extendable Selfie Stick with Bluetooth Remote
$23

 

Sound Booster

Sure, a smartphone is handy for tunes on the go — but its speakers and headphones don’t do the music justice. The JBL Flip 2 ($100, jbl.com) is a portable wireless speaker with a 5-hour battery. It connects via Bluetooth to your smartphone (or other compatible device) to deliver clear audio with reasonably deep bass, given its soda can size. Another plus: A built-in microphone allows you to answer calls and use the Flip 2 as a speakerphone. A Christmas miracle? Not quite, but it’s still pretty cool.

JBL Flip 2$100
JBL Flip 2
$100

 

TV Enhancer

Roku 3 ($100, roku.com) is pricey as video streamers go, but it’s worth the $30 to $65 premium over competing set-top boxes. What sets it apart? Clever extras like voice search on the Roku 3 remote, which makes it far easier to search for titles, actors, and channels. The in-ear headphones plug into the remote, preserving the peace in the wee hours when you want to watch a show while your partner sleeps. Priced a penny under $100, Roku 3 delivers more than 2,000 channels from the Internet to your TV, including cord-cutter favorites like Netflix, Hulu Plus, and Amazon Prime Instant Video.

Roku 3$100
Roku 3
$100

 

Easy Reader

Big-screen smartphones outsell tablets by a wide margin, but the latter is still better for a lot of things, such as curling up with a good e-book. One of the best tablet deals this season is the Amazon Fire HD 6 — just $100 with free shipping (amazon.com). Don’t let the bargain price fool you. This 6-inch slate has a vibrant HD display, a speedy processor, and 8 GB of storage (4.5 GB available). For streaming movies, social media, and other light tasks, the Fire HD 6 is a great choice. Is $100 too much? Amazon unveiled a new $50 Fire tablet for the holidays. The 7-inch Fire is a notch below the Fire HD 6 in terms of speed and screen quality, but still good enough for reading and Web browsing. Its memory card slot adds up to 128 GB of additional storage, but don’t expect stellar photos from the so-so front and rear cameras.

Amazon Fire HD 6 $100
Amazon Fire HD 6
$100

 

After Everything

“No! Jackie, no! Please no,” he screamed.

Each night, I woke up convinced I was on the brink of death. But then my eyes would adjust to the darkness of my bedroom, and I would feel the writhing beside me.

“John,” I whispered and shook my husband’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

“Jackie!” He screamed again, a prisoner to sleep.

I pinched my thumb and forefinger on his narrow nostrils. My dangerous little luck charm.

John sat up so quickly that he nearly knocked me over. He panted in those terrifying few seconds it took for him to realize we were tucked in our bed, not in those bloody hallways again.

“It’s all right.” I rubbed his back. “I’m here.”

John threw his arms around me. “It felt so real.”

“I know, honey. I know.”

He squeezed. Sweat dripped down his broad back, wet against my hands. “You’re okay?”

“Perfectly fine.”
I kissed his cheek and lay down once more. In four hours, my alarm would shriek. It seemed so imminent.

John collapsed onto his back. “I’m sorry, Jac. I don’t know why this keeps happening.”

“It’s okay.” I propped myself onto my side so that I could face him. My left side, of course. My right arm wasn’t good for much those days.

“It’s not okay.” He finally caught his breath and turned to meet my face. The inches between our faces felt static with electricity, a warm reminder of why I loved this man so much. Even after everything.

“It’s probably coming up again because of the ceremony tomorrow.”

“Probably. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop.”

“Me too.” I’d be folding my laundry or walking the dog and then it would hit me, that the one-year anniversary was approaching. My stomach twisted like an old rag at the mere thought. “What happened in the dream?”

John closed his eyes. “It’s always the same thing.”

“It might help to talk about it.”

He gave a slight smile. “I’m the psychologist, remember?”

“Yes, and that’s exactly why you should understand my point. Come on, babe.”

“All right. This time, I was trapped in my classroom. From the window, I saw Gregory approach you. I knew he had a gun even though I didn’t see it. Then I actually saw the bullet move in slow motion. It …” He paused. “It hit you. And you stumbled. And fell. You wouldn’t move. I kept screaming your name and you wouldn’t … move. And I couldn’t help, but I knew you were …” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Then I woke up.”

Chills pricked my forearms. It sounded like it happened to someone else, not me. I hoped for a full-on flashback to grab me like a fist, but nothing. Just like every other time I tried to remember that moment.

“That sounds really scary, babe.” I placed my hand on his cheek. His blond stubble poked against my hand.

“It was.”

“But it’s done. It happened. I lived. He can’t hurt me anymore. Or anyone else.”

John rolled away from my touch. “See, I know that cognitively. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still out there.”

“He’s not, though. He’s never getting out.”

John was silent.

I rolled over, anticipating the hours of sleep that lay ahead of me. Sweet sleep, warm and cozy in my white sheets and lavender comforter.

“I don’t understand why I can’t deal with this and you can,” John blurted.

“We’ve been over this.” I closed my eyes.

“I know, I know. But I feel like I keep having these nightmares because I don’t have all the details.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “I hate to ask, but can you try and—”

“I’ve told you what happened, the best I could.” I grinded my teeth.

“I know, sweetie. But I’m saying I fill in the vague picture and make it worse.”

“I said I don’t remember.”

“You’re lucky.”

My back tensed.

I heard the slap of his hand against his forehead. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just really freaked out about the whole assembly tomorrow. I … I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

John curled around me and nuzzled his head in the nook between my shoulder and neck. “Your patience with me is astounding, Jacqueline Murney. How can I make it up to you?”

“By granting your wife a precious four hours of sleep before she has to wake and teach the youth of Brooklyn.”

He kissed my ear. “May I hold you while you catch those precious hours?”

“You may.”

The clock ticked beside the lamp on John’s desk, buried in papers and the DSM-IV. The thick book lay next to my daily army of vitamins, and painkillers, when physical therapy wiped me out.

Our Boston terrier, Freud, leapt on the bed and curled himself between our legs, despite that he wasn’t allowed. His breathing rattled, a result of his smushed — but cute — face. I skeeved the idea of fleas and germs where I slept. But on nightmare days, I let it slide.

“I love you, John,” I whispered. “Everything is gonna be fine tomorrow.”

“I love you too.”

* * *

The auditorium was hushed. Whispers pulsed in the droves of students woven in tight packs. The fear hung in the air like clouds before a burst of rain.

All eyes were on me. They always are, when you are a “survivor.” I forced a smile and ducked in the back.

“Jackie!”

Charlotte raced toward me. She plopped her thin frame in the seat to my left. “Please tell me this spot is unoccupied.”

Relief washed over me. If I had to sit beside any other student, this memorial ceremony would be equivalent to my wisdom teeth surgery. With a lot less drugs.

“All yours, kiddo.”

Charlotte grinned and relaxed into the seat. “Thanks. I’ve been dreading this whole thing for months now. Who the hell wants to listen to them rattle off the names of dead kids?”

“I treasure your sentimentality.” I slipped my arm around her shoulder. The move might’ve been odd in any other circumstance, but all boundaries get zapped when you’re lying in the hallway and your student’s hands are pressing on your freshly made wound. She came over for dinner once a month, I snuck her lunch from “the outside world” every Friday, and she even crashed on my couch during a snowstorm.

Even before the shooting, when I saw Charlotte, I smiled. There are annoying students, whiny students, kids who are just okay. And then there are Charlottes, who make it all worthwhile.

“But I mean, really,” she huffed her round cheeks. “It sucks every time we have to talk about it. I already think about it enough.”

I frowned. “You do?” The last thing I wanted was for Charlotte to picture my blood on her jeans and her hands.

“Well … yeah.” Charlotte tilted her cute, tiny head. “Don’t you?”

I drummed my fingernails on my thigh. When I thought of that day, I saw white. Only white. The hospital sheets, the bright lights. No red. Nothing.

“Of course,” I said.

She eyed me up and down with curious blue eyes. It’s hard to lie to someone when you’ve lost consciousness in her arms.

“You are so full of it. Do you really not think about it?”

I gave a small shrug. “I … can’t.”

Whenever I showed any discomfort, Charlotte was like a pit bull. “What do you mean? Is it too painful to think about?” She hesitated. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up. You’re just so … well you’re always so fearless and in control. I thought you wouldn’t mind talking about it.”

“I know. That’s not it. It’s … I think it was from all the morphine. I really don’t remember much of that moment. Only that I passed out. That’s it.”

Charlotte looked toward the floor. I tucked a piece of soft, light brown hair behind her ear, and she turned to me again. “I can’t think of anything but that moment. Nothing. I have these awful, awful nightmares.”

I imagined last night and almost each night since the shooting, when my husband saw my death projected behind his closed eyelids.

Guilt seeped through my system like a spider spinning its web. “I’m so sorry, Char. John has them too. He wakes up in the middle of the night, all freaked.”

“Really? Wow. Maybe I should talk to him. We could start Insomniacs Anonymous.” Charlotte rested her head on my shoulder. My good shoulder. “Speaking of, where’s the hubby?”

For the first time, I wanted to talk about it more, but I didn’t blame Charlotte for wanting to stop. She avoided John’s office like leprosy, one of the few students who didn’t spill her guts. Charlotte’s father and John spoke on the phone in the days after, when he was worried about her refusal to speak about the events. “It has to be on her own time,” John had said.

“He’s on his way,” I said.

“When can I expect a baby Murney? Will you name it Charlotte, after me?”

I rolled my eyes. I got that question ever since John slipped the ring on my finger. But with Charlotte, I knew she was only teasing.

“Charlotte, yes. But for Charlotte Brontë, of course.”

She blew air from her lips. “Oh yeah, you’re a huge Jane Eyre buff.”

We did try. Three months before the shooting, I went off the pill. The excitement of it all was thrilling, the attempts even more so, but … we’ve used protection since. We’re not ready anymore. I’m not ready anymore.

“There you are.” John waved to Charlotte and me before sitting to my right. “Did I miss anything?”

Charlotte lifted her head from my shoulder. “Jackie says she’s naming the baby after me.”

“What baby?” John’s thick eyebrows shot to the sky.

“Future baby,” I corrected quickly.

“The baby from the future.” Charlotte wiggled her fingers.

Principal Raymond took the stand. All became silent, even the three of us.

She faced straight ahead the entire time, not daring to look a single soul in the eye. She spoke about loving one another, about remembering the nine students and two teachers, about hope for the future. About surviving together.

Surviving?

I squeezed my eyes shut.

White. Beeping, beeping, beeping. John crying. Wanting to speak but my lips refused to move. The smell of iron.

I tried to be in that hallway again. What happened? All I could remember was after.

Hissing, the oxygen mask hissing. Red in my fingernails. My shoulder throbbing. “We’ve prescribed you morphine.” White, white, white.

John took my hand.

What haunts him at night is my ghost in the morning light.

“You all right?” he whispered as Principal Raymond went on about our bravery. “You look pale, babe.”

I felt Charlotte’s eyes on me. Worried.

“Mhm.” I squeezed his hand back and gave Charlotte my best reassuring smile.

“A moment of silence, please.” Principal Raymond bowed her head.

My heart was a jackhammer. I was sure everybody else could hear my pulse thudding in my ears. But John’s eyes were closed and Charlotte was staring at her pressed palms.

Principal Raymond cleared her throat. “Thank you. Before we conclude, I would like to remind students and faculty that our school psychologist, Dr. John Murney, is always here for you.”

A few heads turned toward us, and John waved with a sheepish grin.

Principal Raymond concluded, and the audience crept into somber chatter and solitary walks back to class.

The second she stopped speaking Charlotte leapt from her seat and peered at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

Beeping, the point of a needle breaking my skin, “Blood transfusion.” White light, white noise. White.

“Promise.” I stood, desperate to stretch my legs. To get out of there.

Charlotte’s pert nose wrinkled. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m fine, Char. Seriously. Just need some air.”

“Air?” she squeaked. “Are you going to pass out?”

“No, no! Not like that. I need to clear my head.”

“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “Can I come over for dinner tomorrow or Wednesday? I feel like we should … you know. Be together this week.”

“Sure, sweetie. I’ve gotta run, so text me when you’re free.” I squeezed John’s arm. “See you at home.”

I barreled out of there. Fresh air. I needed to feel it in my lungs. I yearned for the sun to warm my skin. I pushed past students who had just been reminded that their friends were killed, past a few who had stared at the face of that gun themselves.

Gunpowder. The smell lingered on my clothes, in my hair. For days.

In the distance, I heard Charlotte’s voice. “Dr. Murney? I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure.”

“I think I’m ready to talk about what happened that day.”

Finally outside, I inhaled. Alone. Silence.

My body trembled like a fissure before an earthquake. What had she seen? I saw pictures. My blood was all over that classroom. It had to be all over her, too. The poor kid. Every time I called in sick to work, Charlotte called on the verge of panic, convinced my wound had opened and I was dying. Her voice on the phone was always frantic, like a child separated from her mother.

She didn’t deserve that. John didn’t deserve that.

I didn’t deserve that. Any of this.

What was she going to say to him?

I wanted to know. I wanted to know so that John could know and he’d sleep at night. And I could finally, finally breathe.

Then the selfishness swallowed me, as it always did. I lived. I “survived.” Yet there I was, complaining. Nine kids will sleep forever. Two families lost a parent. And Gregory, although I tried not to think about him, died that day too, if only in freedom.

I slid against the brick wall and pressed my palms into my eyes. Tears dripped down my wrists.

I pressed so hard that I saw spots. White, white spots.

* * *

That evening, John had come home with a bottle of wine. The glasses barely clicked on the table before he wrapped me in his arms. We kissed and I felt weightless.

“I love you,” he panted as our bodies met. His beard scratched my chin, my cheek, my neck. His arms had never felt so solid as he rocked inside me. “I love you so much. You know that, right?”

“Of course.”

John cupped my face in his hands and put his nose to mine. His eyes were red rimmed. “You mean everything to me.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I’d never felt safer, wrapped in him.

Our breathing leveled off. I rested my head on John’s chest, and he traced hearts on my back.

“You talked to Charlotte today?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Well, yeah. She told me … everything.”

Everything? I wished I knew what “everything” meant. “Oh. Wow.”

“I feel better. A lot better.”

I perked up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I think I might actually get a decent sleep.”

“No way! Glad it only took hearing every grisly detail about your wife getting shot by a 16-year-old kid for you to get a full eight hours.”

“I hate when you joke about that.” John nudged me. “But I deserved it.”

“Humor is my coping mechanism. That’s what the psych term is, right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“How many kids barged into your office this afternoon?”

John laced his fingers through my dark curls. “It was like the Trail of Tears.”

“And you tell me I have a bad sense of humor.”

John chuckled, and I caught a whiff of his aftershave. Even after three years of marriage, little things like that sent a shiver down my spine.

“Where’d you go after the assembly?”

“I had a private lesson.”

“I came by your classroom. You weren’t there.”

Crap. “We painted outside. It was a nice day.”

“Uh huh.” John clicked his tongue. “You got freaked out today, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You know, the only reason Charlotte was ready to spill was because she thought it would help you. She said you didn’t look good. She’s worried about you, Jac. I am too.”

“I’m fine. Really. Just tired.” I feigned a yawn. “I’m gonna pass out. Some of us didn’t get enough sleep last night because their husbands thrash next to them.”

John snickered. “It’s charming how you think you can hide from me.” He kissed my cheeks, my forehead, my nose. My neck, my eyebrows, and my lips. “You know you can say anything to me, babe. But goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

John was right.

Three thirty a.m. and not a peep. Sirens rolled by throughout the night. He didn’t stir.

But my brain was still reeling.

White, fuzz in my brain, “Where am I?” so much light.

I slipped out of his arms and headed into the living room. The unopened bottle of wine still marked its territory on the coffee table, a reminder of our passion.

Freud leapt from his array of blankets. He followed me into the kitchen. I refilled his water bowl and a glass for myself. “Cheers, little man.”

I downed the water and reached for the TV remote.

CNN: “Breaking news this evening. Around 11 p.m., school shooter Gregory Vacher was murdered in prison. The 16-year-old was responsible for the massacre at Wakefield High School that left nine students and two teachers dead. It is believed he was killed by another prisoner …”

The glass shattered against the floor.

This couldn’t be happening.

I closed my eyes, and a storm pounded in my brain.

“Charlotte, get in the supply closet!”

“What about you?”

“Shh.”

I ran to lock the classroom door, but it was too late.

Gregory pointed the gun at my chest. “Mrs. Murney. Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

Bang.

Thud. I dropped to the floor.

Silence.

My shoulder ripped open.

Blood, the smell of my own blood. Charlotte’s hands, Charlotte’s tears. “Mrs. Murney, you have to stay conscious. Please, please stay with me!” Darkness, darkness.

Then white. Beeping, beeping. White.

“Jac?”

John’s voice called from the bedroom and pulled me to the present. “Are you okay? I thought I heard a crash.”

White, white, white.

All the man wanted was one night’s sleep. I wasn’t going to take it from him.

“Yep!” I turned the TV off. “Just dropped Freud’s bowl. I’ll be back in a sec.”

It was over. Everything was over.

I retrieved the broom and swept the glass pieces into the duster.

We must fix what’s been shattered. No matter how many pieces get left behind.

News of the Week: Maher’s Remarks, Murray’s Christmas, and a Memento Remake Nobody Asked For

Stephen Colbert vs. Bill Maher

You ever watch an interview on TV that makes you squirm a little bit? I don’t mean on the cable news networks, where arguments can sprout like mold on an old bagel. I mean on a show where you don’t expect to see something uncomfortable. You’re looking for laughs and skits and music and you get a serious discussion.

That’s what happened on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert on Monday. Colbert had Real Time host Bill Maher on his show, and along with the laughs there was a sense of realistic tension too. And this wasn’t one of those fake things, like when David Letterman conducted that weird interview with Joaquin Phoenix that turned out to be a prank. This was a nuanced, realistic kind of tension. Here’s the entire interview, including footage not shown on TV because of time restraints:

It starts amiably enough, but then about two minutes in Maher makes a comment about Nixon being the type of person Colbert would have voted for, and it’s odd from there. Though Colbert remains amiable enough throughout the entire interview, and it’s not the type of wall-to-wall tension where you think they hate each other, you can see Colbert disagrees with Maher on a few things, including religion. It’s almost as if you can look inside Maher’s brain and see he’s thinking, “But Stephen, you’re liberal! How can you believe in God and be serious about religion?!” You can also see that Maher wasn’t particularly thrilled when, at the very end of the interview, Colbert takes over the bit and Maher doesn’t get to finish his joke.

The interview has a lot more bleeps than you’ll usually see on television. But isn’t it interesting that Colbert’s Comedy Central show moved over to CBS largely intact? There’s a lot more political humor and serious discussion of current events than I thought would happen when Colbert took over for Letterman, and when you have that you get nights like this.

By the way, at the start of this episode, Colbert’s band, Jon Batiste and Stay Human, performed the French National Anthem as a tribute to France and the people lost in the terror attacks last week (and we send our thoughts out to the victims and their families as well):

A Very Murray Christmas

Netflix has released the trailer for their new Bill Murray holiday special A Very Murray Christmas, which debuts on December 4. It features a cast list that can only be described as “irreverently epic”: George Clooney, Amy Poehler, Jason Schwartzman, Miley Cyrus, Rashida Jones, Michael Cera, Paul Shaffer, Chris Rock, and Maya Rudolph. How is Tina Fey not in this?

Judging from the trailer, A Very Murray Christmas serves as both the title and also a description of what the special will be like:

These Are a Few of Oprah’s Favorite Things

Every year Oprah Winfrey gives us her list of Favorite Things. This year she’s teaming up with Amazon.

I won’t list of all of the things that she likes that most of us wouldn’t want to spend money on (Okay, I’ll mention one — the rose gold iPhone 6s for $839.00), but there are some nice gifts here, including some that, oh, I don’t know, you might want to buy for a Saturday Evening Post columnist. I mean, who wouldn’t want an Elvis cake?

And This Is One of My Favorite Things

<em>Mad Men Carousel</em> by Matt Zoller Seitz
Mad Men Carousel by Matt Zoller Seitz

TV criticism — and I can say this because I’ve been doing it for 21 years — is often terrible. The writing is terrible, the observations are weak or obvious, and if you read enough of it you realize that just because there’s more of it doesn’t mean it’s better (we’re currently drowning in TV reviews and “hot takes”). But when TV criticism is done right, when it’s done by a good writer who not only loves television but can write about it with a mixture of wit and thoughtfulness, it can not only be important, it can rise to the level of art.

And that’s what you’ll find in the new book Mad Men Carousel by Vulture writer and RogerEbert.com editor Matt Zoller Seitz. Matt’s one of the best critics around today, and this book is filled with his perceptive, detailed reviews of every single episode of the show, along with a historical time line of things mentioned throughout the show’s run, poems by Martha Orton at the start of each season, and some great illustrations by Max Dalton.

This book is not only the perfect gift for the Mad Men fan on your Christmas list, I think that Lionsgate and Abrams Books should make some deal to make sure it’s included with every single Mad Men complete series DVD set that is sold.

Wait. Did I mention above that I wanted an Elvis cake? I meant to say the Mad Men complete series DVD set. (And an Elvis cake.)

Christopher Kimball Has Left America’s Test Kitchen

Christopher Kimball
Glenn Dettwiler [CC BY 2.0], via Wikimedia Commons
Imagine O, The Oprah Magazine without Oprah. Imagine Turner Classic Movies without Robert Osborne. Or imagine The Daily Show without Jon Stewart (and judging by viewer reaction to new host Trevor Noah a lot of people don’t want to). That’s how I feel about Christopher Kimball leaving the company he founded and the company’s magazines, including Cook’s Illustrated. Kimball couldn’t come to an agreement on a new contract with the new people in charge at Boston Common Press, so he’s out. Kimball will also be giving up his hosting duties on the TV cooking shows America’s Test Kitchen and Cook’s Country (Kimball will still be seen as host of the 2016 seasons of the shows because production has already finished on them).

And to drive home the fact that this move is EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, Kimball’s blog is already gone from the America’s Test Kitchen Feed site.

There are plenty of talented cooks on the TV shows, and they’ll probably find a new host that’s “fine,” but it’s going to be very, very weird not to have Kimball as host. He set the tone and the style for the show. You think of the show, and he’s the person on it you think of. You can’t just throw a bow tie on someone else. It just won’t be the same.

Memento Is Being Remade, For Some Reason

You ever notice that books don’t get rewritten? You never see a publishing company issue a press release that says they’ve hired a writer to rewrite A Tale of Two Cities or The Great Gatsby or The Bonfire of the Vanities. Sure, there might be other books in a series featuring the same characters or sequels or prequels or new writers hired to continue a series after an author dies, but you never hear a publishing company say they’re going to remake a novel.

I know I went off on a little tangent there, but it’s just my way of saying that doing a remake of Memento is a really dumb idea.

Thanksgiving Recipes

Spirtz Cookies
Spirtz Cookies

If you wanted to eat what was served at the first Thanksgiving, you could have clams, venison, mussels, and plums. But it’s 2015 and we have a lot more options than they had in 1621. Besides, try explaining to your family that, hey, this year, instead of turkey, we’re having boiled eel!

If you want a one-stop for all of your Thanksgiving cooking needs, you probably can’t do better than The New York Times’ Thanksgiving headquarters. You’ll not only find recipes there, but also a complete guide on how to plan the day and how to not freak out during that planning. But I’d also add some recipes from The Saturday Evening Post archives, including Red Rice Stuffing with Dried Fruit, a Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cake with Spiced Glaze, and Spritz Cookies.

You could also be like Marilyn Monroe. Cooking-wise, anyway. Here’s her recipe for stuffing that was found among her personal letters. If the instructions are a little confusing the New York Times made it and lists the ingredients and instructions on their site a little more clearly. Note: There’s no eel in it.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody!

Upcoming Events and Anniversaries

President Kennedy assassinated (November 22, 1963)

There are approximately 3,000 different theories on the assassination, and Newsweek has a terrific, detailed piece on what happened that day.

Boris Karloff born (November 23, 1887)

The voice of The Grinch also made a mean guacamole dip you might want to try this holiday season.

Lee Harvey Oswald killed (November 24, 1963)

Millions of people watched Oswald get shot by Jack Ruby on national television.

Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species published (November 24, 1859)

You can read the entire text of the groundbreaking book for free at Literature.org.

National Hockey League is formed (November 26, 1917)

The NHL replaced the NHA, the National Hockey Association.

Thanksgiving (November 26)

You can start the day by watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and the rest of the day watching marathons of your favorite shows.

How to Police the Police

Can we trust the police?

Since the killing of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, last year, reports of unarmed suspects being shot by police have drawn national attention. The Washington Post tracks the number of fatal shootings by police, and notes that 30 of the dead were black and unarmed.

Even more troubling are the videos being posted online showing what appears to be unwarranted violence by police. They challenge assumptions about charges of abuse — and police departments’ claims that their officers act within the law.

Police brutality has been a painful reality to many Americans throughout our history. Police officers in the past have enforced racist policies, broken up peaceful protests and lawful strikes, harassed dissidents and sexual minorities, and forced confessions from convenient suspects.

But such violations of the law never represented the majority of law enforcement officers. And pressure from the public and elected officials has exerted a reforming influence on police practices over time. Abuses still occur, but a growing number of departments are now becoming more transparent in their operations and addressing charges against their officers through civilian review boards.

Civilian review is a significant change from the traditional policy of law-enforcement agencies, which protected officers from any public scrutiny.

Back in 1964, the shooting of a black teenager by an off-duty white policeman in New York sparked six days of rioting in Harlem. In response to tensions between police and the black community of the city, John Lindsay, then mayor of New York, proposed a civilian board that would review complaints against the city’s police.

Front page of the article, "Civilians Shouldn't Judge Cops" by Walter Arm
Read the entire article, “Civilians Shouldn’t Judge Cops,” by Walter Arm from the May 7, 1966 issue of the Post

Lindsay’s idea was bitterly denounced by Walter Arm, a former deputy commissioner of the New York Police Department, who published an op-ed in the Post. Its title expressed his opinion succinctly: “Civilians Shouldn’t Judge Cops.”

Arm believed that only police officers were qualified to judge fellow officers. Civilians couldn’t fairly evaluate police officers’ actions based on the complaints of other citizens. Civilian review would “damage police work irremediably … [and] reduce hard-won police discipline and effectiveness to a mockery.”

Officers wouldn’t get an impartial judgment from civilians, Arm wrote, because “police today are a minority, victims of a stereotyped misconception and group libel. … Most advocates of civilian-review boards can’t seem to understand … that ‘brutality’ is the exception, not the rule.”

Police officers were professionals, he argued. Like surgeons, or military officers, they should be judged only by their colleagues. “Their work is so unusual that only people with knowledge of this work can judge whether it is done correctly.”

Arm asserted that police officers rarely misused their power because knew they would face punishment from their superiors. What’s surprising is that he made this claim knowing of widespread illegalities within the New York Police Department. Years earlier, he had written Pay-off! The Inside Story of Big City Corruption, an exposé of how the police were protecting the city’s illegal gambling rackets. Despite uncovering evidence of broad corruption, he believed the New York police administration kept the department clean.

Mayor Lindsay was never able to place the civilians he wanted on the department’s review board. A proposal to authorize direct civilian review of police officers was defeated in a citywide vote. But the idea didn’t die; New York established an all-civilian review board in 1993.

Responding to a demand for greater accountability, several departments across the country are now setting up civilian review boards.

There are currently about 200 such boards across the country and more departments are considering them.

But some departments that have already established civilian review are finding it isn’t the remedy they’d hoped. In 2013 critics found the Baltimore board was ineffective and had little cooperation from the city government. The Department of Justice recently investigated the board in Cleveland, which it found as secretive as the old police review system.

Many police departments still object to civilian review, claiming — as did Arm — that civilians don’t understand what police officers face; the difficulty of acting quickly, decisively, and correctly in dangerous situations.

Civilian reviewers probably can’t understand the challenges of modern police work. But officers may prefer to be judged by their testimony to a review board than by a two-minute video of them shot from a bystander’s smartphone.

The public deserves police officers who act in accordance with the law, and are punished when they betray their authority. But our police also deserve the support, and the assumption of professionalism, from the public. And both deserve the chance to express their concerns over the eroding trust between civilians and cops.

The Post will continue to encourage fair discussion and provide an outlet for both sides to express their views”

Turkey Time!

Nestled between a month of shopping for the perfect Halloween costumes and a month of fielding kids’ pleas for PS5 Pros, iPhone7s, and personal drones, sits Thanksgiving. These classic covers revolving around food, family, and togetherness illustrate the funny and sweet moments in the middle of America’s busiest holiday season.

Turkey Dreams

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Turkey Dreams
J.C. Leyendecker
November 24, 1917

On the night before Thanksgiving, visions of turkeys danced in their heads. Sugarplums come next month.


Pilgrim Stalking Tom

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Pilgrim Stalking Tom
J.C. Leyendecker
November 23, 1907

Ready, steady, aim! This stealthy pilgrim is doing his best to bring home the turkey bacon.


Boy Watching Grandmother Trim Pie

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Boy Watching Grandmother Trim Pie
J.C. Leyendecker
November, 21, 1908

Grandma’s hope is to pass down the art of pie making, but her grandson seems to be leaning more toward flavor taster than baker.


Thanksgiving Prayer

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Thanksgiving Prayer
R.E. Miller
November 22, 1941

It’s hard to focus on the Thanksgiving prayer when the food is within an arm’s reach.


Thanksgiving Cherub Sharpening Knife

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Thanksgiving Cherub Sharpening Knife
J.C. Leyendecker
November 13, 1909

Who gets to carve the still-steaming tom? Apparently this year, the honor goes to whoever looks best in an apron.


Thanksgiving Dinner 1919

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Thanksgiving Dinner 1919
J.C. Leyendecker
November 29, 1919

This young man’s eyes might actually be as big as his stomach.


Pilgrim Boy Carving Turkey

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Pilgrim Boy Carving Turkey
J.C. Leyendecker
November 12, 1910

Artist Leyendecker has done it again! Capturing the elation in that first bite of Thanksgiving dinner.


Prayer Before Cake

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Prayer Before Cake
Henry J. Soulen
March 29, 1913

You can guess what he’s thinking: “Didn’t the prayer before dinner cover dessert?”


After Turkey Nap

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After Turkey Nap
J.C. Leyendecker
November 26, 1938

Ahhh, yes. The moment we all look forward to … the nap. This kid’s doing it right — tuckering out at the table.


Your Holiday Angst Is America’s Oldest Tradition

Hard-knock life: One-quarter to one-half of new arrivals died within one yar due to diseases like dysentery, typhoid, and malaria.Shutterstock
Hard-knock life: One-quarter to one-half of new arrivals died within one yar due to diseases like dysentery, typhoid, and malaria. (Shutterstock)

Do you have complicated feelings about Thanksgiving? Maybe your ancestors were among this continent’s indigenous peoples, and you have good reason to be rankled by thoughts of newly arrived English colonists feasting on Wamapanoag-procured venison, roasted wild turkey, and stores of indigenous corn. Or maybe Thanksgiving marks the beginning of a holiday season that brings with it the intricate emotional challenges of memory, home, and family.

If you’re someone who feels a sense of angst, foreboding, or misery about this time of year, take heart: American history is on your side.

The truth of our history is that only a small minority of the early English emigrants to this country would have been celebrating as the New England Puritans did at the first Thanksgiving feast in 1621.

A thousand miles south, in Virginia and the Carolinas, the mood and the menu would have been drastically different — had there ever been a Thanksgiving there. Richard Frethorne, an indentured servant in the Virginia colony during the 1620s, wrote in a letter: “Since I came out of the ship, I never ate anything but peas, and loblollie (that is, water gruel).”

And don’t imagine for a second that those peas Frethorne was gobbling down were of the lovely, tender green garden variety dotted with butter. No, in the 1620s, Frethorne and his friends would have subsisted on a gray field pea resembling a lentil.

“As for deer or venison,” Frethorne wrote, “I never saw any since I came into this land. There is indeed some fowl, but we are not allowed to go and get it, but must work hard both early and late for a mess of water gruel and a mouthful of bread and beef.”

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Frethorne’s letter is a rare surviving document reflecting the circumstances of the majority of English colonists who came to North America in the 17th century. The New England Puritans, after all, comprised only 15 to 20 percent of early English colonial migration.

Not only did the majority of English colonial migrants eat worse than the Puritans, but also their prayers (had they said any) would have sounded decidedly less thankful.

“People cry out day and night,” Frethorne wrote. “Oh! That they were in England without their limbs — and would not care to lose any limb to be in England again, yea though they beg from door to door.”

English migrants in Virginia had good reason not to feel grateful. Most came unfree, pushed out of England by big economic forces that privatized shared pastures and farmlands and pushed up the prices of basic necessities. By the 17th century, more than half of the English peasantry was landless. The price of food shot up 600 percent, and firewood by 1,500 percent.

Many peasants who were pushed off their homelands built makeshift settlements in the forests, earning reputations as criminals and thieves. Others moved to the cities, and when the cities proved no kinder, they signed contracts promising seven years of hard labor in exchange for the price of passage to the Americas, and were boarded onto boats. A trip to Virginia cost Frethorne and others like him six months’ salary and took about 10 weeks. One-quarter to one-half of new arrivals to Virginia and the Carolinas died within one year due to diseases like dysentery, typhoid, and malaria. Others succumbed to the strain of hard labor in a new climate and a strange place — an adjustment process the English described as “seasoning.” Only 7 percent of indentures claimed the land that they had been promised.

Most of these common English migrants did not read or write, so vivid and revealing letters like Frethorne’s are rare. But in the research for my book Why We Left: Untold Stories and Songs of America’s First Immigrants, I learned how English migrants viewed their situation through the songs they sang about the voyage across the Atlantic Ocean. Those songs survived hundreds of years by word of mouth before they were written down in the 20th century.

These were not songs of thankfulness — not by a long shot. They were ballads full of ghastly scenes of the rejection, betrayal, cruelty, murder, and environmental ruin that had driven them out of England — and of the seductive but false promises that drew them to America. These 17th-century songs planted the seeds for a new American genre of murder and hard-luck ballads that was later picked up and advanced by singers like Johnny Cash, whose ancestors, like mine, were among those early hard-luck migrants from England to America.

So if you find yourself a little blue this holiday season, take your marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes with a liberal dose of the Man in Black, and reassure yourself that you are a part of a long, long American tradition.

3 Questions for Dennis Quaid

Jeanne Wolf with Dennis Quaid
Jeanne Wolf with Dennis Quaid

Dennis Quaid has lived out some childhood fantasies in his award-winning career portraying such legends as astronaut Gordon Cooper in The Right Stuff and Jerry Lee Lewis in Great Balls of Fire — not to mention President Clinton in HBO’s The Special Relationship.

One can’t quite say that being like Donald Trump was a fantasy for Quaid, but viewers may observe shades of “The Donald” in Samuel Brukner, the ruthless billionaire with a mouth bigger than his net worth at the center of the TV series The Art of More. The first 10 episodes of the new show, which delves into the crime and deception behind the glamorous facade of two fictional New York auction houses, begin streaming on Crackle, November 19. Quaid also stars in the movie Truth, which opened at the end of October.

Quaid is an avid cyclist and an even more avid family man. He has a son Jack, from his marriage to Meg Ryan, and twins, a boy and a girl, with his wife, real estate broker Kimberly Buffington. He got headlines after he became an activist demanding better guidelines for hospital safety when his newborn twins were given a near fatal dose of medicine. “It was a lot of stress, and who needs that?” he remembers. “But the kids had a happy ending, and that’s the good news.”

The Saturday Evening Post: I’m told you are a very involved and fun dad.
Dennis Quaid: It’s the second time around with the twins. The thing about it is that it’s a lot different to have a boy and a girl. Having a girl is such an amazing experience. So different from having a boy because she knows more than I do already. I just really have fun watching them grow up. Then with my 23-year-old, Jack, who’s become an actor, it’s really the whole reward of the friendship that we’ve developed. It’s fantastic. Something I didn’t expect. You put the time in, and it’s like what you put in is what you get out. The best piece of advice I think I’ve given my kids is I want them to follow their heart. I want them to do something that they love. My mother was really great about that, making me feel like I could do really anything that I made up my mind I wanted to do.

SEP: In The Art of More you play a handsome, rich, show-offish jerk — is that a kick?
DQ: It’s always fun to play someone like Samuel Brukner because he doesn’t follow the rules. People like him are fascinating to watch because they have so much money and power that they can say anything they want. That’s why it’s fun to watch Donald Trump these days. He’s always been a novelty act. Now, he’s just taken it up a notch. Like Trump, Brukner doesn’t care if anyone else sees him as a jerk. Or, if he does, he keeps it a closely guarded secret.

SEP: You’ve been on the screen for a long while now. Is acting still fun for you?
DQ: I feel a lot more at ease than I did way back when. When you’re young and brash, you’re also secretly scared to death. Now, I don’t have the pressure of “you’ve got to make that next movie that’s going to put you over the top.” But at the same time, you always need that fire in your belly; otherwise, it’s just a job.

News of the Week: Christmas Wars, Computer Concerns, and the Case of the Confusing Yam

Starbucks cup
Phonlawat_51 / Shutterstock.com

Starbucks and the War on Christmas

Ah, the Christmas season. That time of year when bells jingle, choirs sing, snow falls, and people argue about paper cups.

It seems that the War on Christmas comes earlier and earlier every year. This year’s battle centers on Starbucks. This year the coffee shop chain decided to go with a plain red cup with their green and white logo, instead of something featuring Santa or reindeer or snowflakes, and some people are rather upset by that decision.

Here’s the thing: As E! Online illustrates, the company’s cups are always rather minimalist, and if they do have something on them it’s usually a drawing of snowflakes or a reindeer or ornaments and trees. And is there even any religious aspect to snowflakes and reindeer and candy canes we’re missing by having a bare cup this year?

To be clear, Starbucks says there is no directive for employees not to say merry Christmas to their customers, and they do sell coffee labeled Christmas Blend, a Merry Christmas gift card, an Advent calendar, and many other festive things. While I do think that there have been examples of companies and towns being overly politically correct during the Christmas season in the past, this isn’t one of those times. As even The National Review says, viewing plain coffee cups as an attack on religion is embarrassing.

Of course, presidential contender Donald Trump has weighed in on the controversy. While Trump said, “Seriously, I don’t care,” he also hinted he might end the Starbucks lease at Trump Tower, adding “maybe we should boycott Starbucks. … If I become president, we’re all going to be saying merry Christmas again — that I can tell you.”

And millions of people around the country are waiting to see just how he’s going to enforce that.

 

Computer in a trash bin
denisgo / Shutterstock

The End of the Personal Computer?

In an interview with The Telegraph Apple CEO Tim Cook asks the question, “I think if you’re looking at a PC, why would you buy a PC anymore? No really, why would you buy one?” And to answer that I would say, “Because I like them, that’s why!”

If he wanted me to expand on my answer, I’d say it’s because a laptop (or desktop) is the natural tech to use for producing content like writing. I haven’t used tablets or smartphones that much, but I can’t imagine working on them for an extended period of time. Movies? Games? Surfing the Web? Sure. But for real work I’ll go the traditional route (and there’s no way I’m going to start doing everything on a watch).

It’s a little disconcerting to hear the CEO of the company that makes the MacBook laptops say that the personal computer is going away because a MacBook is what I’m typing on right now. But I’m going to predict that we’re still going to have desktops and laptops for many years to come, so don’t worry about it.

 

Daniel Craig
Piotr Zajac / Shutterstock.com

Ranking the Bonds

Whenever a new James Bond movie opens, people love to rank all the movies and the people who have played 007. With SPECTRE in theaters now — and don’t listen to the critics, it’s a good flick — I thought I’d rank the Bonds.

The way it usually works is that you like the Bond you grew up with. I didn’t see any of the Sean Connery movies in the theaters — I saw all the Roger Moore ones there though — but I watched Connery’s Bond countless times on TV and he will always be number one to me.

  1. Sean Connery
  2. Daniel Craig
  3. Timothy Dalton
  4. Pierce Brosnan
  5. George Lazenby
  6. Roger Moore
  7. Barry Nelson (played Bond in a 1954 episode of the anthology series Climax!)
  8. Everyone who played Bond in the awful 1967 version of Casino Royale

Who’s your favorite Bond?

 

The Blackout of 1965

Where were you when the lights went out in the Northeast in 1965? I was around 5 months old so I was probably in my mother’s arms or, knowing me, crying because the TV just went out. The blackout, caused by human error, affected many states, including New York, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Vermont, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and even Ontario, Canada. While not everyone in those places lost power, the outage did hit 30 million people, and they didn’t have power anywhere from just a few hours to over 13 hours. Imagine this happening today, and people couldn’t post on Facebook for 13 hours. Oh the humanity!

This week marked the 50th anniversary of the event. Here’s NBC’s breaking news coverage:

 

The Return of MST3K

In the not-too-distant future, probably 2016 AD, we’re going to see the return of the original Mystery Science Theater 3000. After 15 years and the straightening out of some legal issues, creator and original host of the make-fun-of-movies show Joel Hodgson is bringing it back.

They’ve set up a Kickstarter and it has already reached $1 million, and there’s still almost a month to go in the campaign. The gang hopes to reach at least $2 million, so they can do three episodes on DVD/online. If they reach $3.3 million, they’ll do 6. $4.4 million will get us 9 episodes, and $5.5 million will mean a full 12-episode season.

Fa la la!

 

IBM WatsonBy Clockready (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons
IBM Watson
By Clockready (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons

Watson, The IBM Chef

Sure, IBM’s Watson computer can beat Jeopardy! champions Ken Jennings and Brad Rutter, but can it make beef stroganoff?

I don’t really know. I would love to explore the IBM Chef Watson site more thoroughly, but you have to register with either a Facebook or IBM account. I have neither so what I can see on the site is rather limited. Apparently you can use the site — a joint effort between IBM and Bon Appetit — to create recipes and share them with your friends.

The recipes I’ve seen on the site include a Tomato Tart, Party Bourbon Punch, Salmon Tacos, and a Russian Celery Parsley Bread Lemon Juice Sandwich (yes), created by engineer and chef Florian Pinel for his TED Talk about food waste.

 

Potatoes and Yams
Brent Hofacker / Shutterstock

Sweet Potatoes Are Yams

I wonder if Watson knows the difference between sweet potatoes and yams? It will soon be Thanksgiving so I thought I’d investigate.

According to The Kitchn, there really isn’t any difference. The yams we eat here in North America are sweet potatoes, even if they’re labeled “yams.” A real yam is native to Africa and Asia and you’re probably not going to find one, unless you go to a specialty supermarket. And to confuse things more, there are two types of sweet potatoes, firm and soft. The yams you find at the supermarket are the soft, sweet potatoes and are labeled yams because they kinda look like real yams. Got that? Good. Maybe you can explain it to me.

I’ve been eating canned yams, the ones in sweet syrup, for many years, while at the same time refusing to eat the sweet potatoes at the Thanksgiving table. I guess it’s time to revisit sweet potatoes, as long as they’re covered in enough stuff like cinnamon and marshmallows to mask the taste. When you reach a certain age, it’s hard to change your eating habits. I yam what I yam.

 

Upcoming Events and Anniversaries

Suez Canal opens (November 17, 1869)

The 101-mile waterway connects the Mediterranean Sea to the Red Sea.

President Nixon’s “I am not a crook” press conference (November 17, 1973)

Nixon made the comments while meeting with 400 Associated Press editors in Orlando, Florida.

The “Heidi Game” (November 18, 1968)

The New York Jets vs. Oakland Raiders game had a really exciting ending. Too bad NBC interrupted it with a showing of the movie Heidi.

President Lincoln delivers Gettysburg Address (November 19, 1863)

Here’s the full transcript of Lincoln’s speech in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

Nuremberg trials begin (November 20, 1945)

The post-World War II military tribunals prosecuted military and political leaders of Nazi Germany.

Hickory, Dickory, Dock

David “Slag” Miller had no idea what his friend was talking about. The two were sitting on a patch of grass behind old Sara Parker’s house, a tall row of hedges obscuring the train tracks of Lowburg Station in front of them.

“You want me to become a mouse?” Slag asked.

Chapleton Ratcliffe took another toke on his cigarette. He coughed harshly upon exhaling.

“No, man, that’s not what I’m sayin’. I want you to be like the mouse in that nursery rhyme. He runs up the clock, the clock strikes one, he runs back down. Got it?”

Slag processed this. “You want me to steal a clock?”

“No, Slag! I want you to steal the old lady’s jewelry, the stuff she keeps in that white box on the dresser. The one that we can see right now!”

Slag’s eyes followed the direction of Chapleton’s finger to a small beige vanity with the box in question directly under the mirror.

Chapleton took a final drag on his cigarette, tossing the butt into the hedges. He ran down the logistics again. Sara Parker left her house every morning at 7:55 to buy lottery tickets at Zaprosta’s Deli. Since she walked, it took her about 20 to 25 minutes. A freight train went by from 8:00 to 8:03 every day. Real loud. As soon as they heard the train, Slag would smash the window of Sara Parker’s bedroom, reach in and open the lock, then climb through. He’d grab the jewelry box and skedaddle.

Slag was caught on the last word.

“Skedaddle,” Chapleton repeated. “Means scoot, scram, hightail it outta there.”

“Hightail?”

“Never mind that!” Chapleton said. “Just grab the jewelry box and get out!”

“Why don’t we get it now?” Slag suggested.

Chapleton shook his head. “Not now. I’m too tired. Besides, we don’t know where the old bag is.”

Slag’s brain made an illegal U-turn. “What bag? I thought we were grabbing a jewelry box.”

His friend’s look said it all. But Chapleton reinforced it anyway. “Are you a complete moron?”

Slag considered his answer carefully before deciding that the question was rhetorical.

***

Packed with caffeinated commuters, the 7:48 a.m. whistled its way south towards the city as the train pulled out of the station. Seven more minutes, Slag thought. Where was Chapleton? Then suddenly his friend materialized at the edge of the parking lot. Slag waved, a gesture which Chapleton didn’t acknowledge. Instead he broke into a run, stopping to catch his breath when he arrived at the bench where Slag was sitting.

Slag grinned. “Good morning.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Checking the time on his cellphone, he sat next to Slag.

“7:49,” he announced. “At 7:55, I want you to go out front by the newspaper kiosk, like you’re buyin’ the paper, and when you see the old lady leaving, give the word.”

“Give the word,” Slag repeated.

Chapleton patted him on the shoulder. “You got it, bro’.”

“What should I say to her?”

Chapleton drew in his breath with a hiss. “You don’t say anything to her! You tell me, then we go behind the house. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Six minutes shot by. Chapleton nodded to Slag. Puzzled, Slag nodded in return.

“Go, you idiot!” Chapleton told him.

Slag went. In 44 seconds he was back.

“The word,” he said playfully.

The aspiring burglars got into position. The shade on the bedroom window was drawn this time, which made Slag a little nervous.

“Hey, Chap.”

“Hey what?”

“Why do I have to be the mouse? I mean, you could smash the window, unlock it, and climb in, and I could stand guard.”

“Because you’re a wiry little guy,” Chapleton explained. “I’m 6′ 1″, 222 pounds.”

“But your last name is Ratcliffe. And a rat is basically a big mouse.”

Chapleton glared at him. Then he handed Slag a cloth grocery bag containing a pair of work gloves and a ball-peen hammer.

“Put on these gloves. And when you hear that freight train roll by, you smash that window, unlock the latch, and climb in. Grab the jewelry box, hand it to me, then climb back out. Fast.”

Slag slipped the gloves onto his trembling hands. “But the shade. I can’t see.”

“Don’t worry about it. You can pull up the shade after you smash the pane. Be cool, buddy. I’m right here.”

A rumble in the distance, followed by an ear-piercing wail, heralded the approach of their not-so-silent partner. Then came the roaring mechanical monster. Slag drew the hammer back gingerly, then closing his eyes, dealt the first blow. Opening his eyes to gauge the damage, he saw that several more blows were required. These he duly delivered. He turned to Chapleton for reassurance.

“Go! Go!” his friend urged.

Slag reached inside and fumbled with the lock, while Chapleton grew noticeably more impatient. Finally the lock yielded. Slag slid the broken window to the left, then hoisted himself into the opening, his feet fluttering like a scuba diver’s fleeing from a shark. Tipping forwards, he accidentally kicked Chapleton in the face with both feet, then tumbled onto the hardwood floor with a painful thump. Closely following the stream of profanity from Chapleton was the sound of the window shade’s falling off its hooks and on top of Slag, who also cursed.

Slag struggled to his feet. “Chap, you all … ?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just go.”

The object of their quest lay before them. Slag approached the jewelry box like a ninja stalking his victim. With each furtive step, he came closer to his inanimate quarry. Two more steps … His foot struck a small porcelain bowl, sending the object flying into the vanity and shattering.

“What the … !”

Chapleton watched helplessly from outside. “Slag, come on, man! What’s the matter?”

“She’s got a bowl lying in the middle of the floor!”

“Forget the bowl! Get the box!”

Yes, the box. He could reach out and grab it now. But instead he stopped and stared, mesmerized by its sheer plainness. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about it, and Slag’s limited mental capacity found this absolutely remarkable.

“Slag!” Chapleton called. “Pick up the box and hand it to me! Do it, man!”

Obediently, Slag did. Holding the box delicately in front of him, he walked towards the open window. Then he stopped, turned around, and set the box back on the vanity.

Chapleton was fuming. “What are you doing?”

Slag was calm now. “I’m checking the contents, Chap. We don’t want to steal an empty box.”

Chapleton slapped his forehead. Slag lifted the delicate bronze latch and pulled the lid open. Three or four pearl necklaces. A diamond tennis bracelet. A gaudy ring set with a huge ruby. Half a dozen sparkling earrings, one pair consisting of dangling rows of emeralds. A jade bracelet and a gold-and-onyx scarab broach. A man’s white-gold wedding band.

“Slag!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Closing the box, Slag started to turn around towards the window, his means of ingress and egress. What he noticed higher up on the wall stopped him. A magnificent looking old clock, made of some dark, exotic wood and complete with golden chimes hanging from the underside.

He had one word. “Wow.”

“Slag, if you don’t get outta there now, I will come get you!” Chapleton said.

“Chap, this here’s one beautiful clock. Might be worth something.”

But Chapleton was already engrossed in climbing through the open window. Grunting and cursing about halfway through, he realized that he could go no farther.

“I’m stuck! What did I tell you, Slag? Get me outta here!”

Thinking quickly, possibly for the first time in his life, Slag grabbed Chapleton’s hands and pulled. The stubborn window yielded a little, and Chapleton slid forward about an inch. He grimaced. Slag grunted, yanking his friend until his waist was flush with the windowsill. But this was as far as he got.

Slag panicked for just a second. Then his face lit up.

“I’ve got an idea!”

“Great,” Chapleton muttered.

Opening the bedroom door, Slag dashed down the short hallway to the front door and turned the handle. After three tries, he finally thought to turn the lock counterclockwise. He ran around to the back of the house, and standing behind his friend’s protruding lower torso, slammed his palms repeatedly into Chapleton’s backside.

“Slag, get your hands off my … !”

Immediately Slag complied. Taking a step back, he raised his right knee and with a jump kicked his friend in the pants. Neither he nor Chapleton saw the humor in the latter’s response.

“I’m gonna kick your butt, Slag!”

But Slag persisted, with the result that Chapleton, sore in both senses of the word, finally fell through the opening and onto the floor of Mrs. Parker’s bedroom. He lay there groaning for a moment, then stood up, and looked at Slag like he wanted to kill him, which he might have done had he not been startled by a sudden noise behind him. Unbeknownst to the bumbling burglars, the timepiece that Slag had been admiring was a cuckoo clock, set to go off every half hour. And it was 8:30 a.m.

Without first turning around to determine the source of the noise, Chapleton raced toward the treacherous window, soon finding himself in the same predicament as he had been a minute ago, with the obvious difference that he was facing the opposite direction. Eyes wide with terror, Slag grabbed Chapleton’s arms and pulled. And pulled.

“Ow!” Chapleton whined.

The mechanical bird retreated into its ornate wooden nest. Then another sound came from farther behind Chapleton. A woman’s voice. Old Sara Parker!

“Is anybody here?” she called.

“Slag, quick! Pull me out! The old lady’s back!”

Seizing his friend by the shoulders, Slag summoned all his available adrenalin and with a mighty grunt, extricated him, ripping the sleeves of Chapleton’s shirt in the process. By the time the bedroom door opened, both young men were tearing across the parking lot, without their intended plunder.

***

Chapleton wasn’t angry. When Slag called at about nine that night, he himself took the responsibility for the botched break-in.

“Don’t beat yourself up, dude. It was my bad … Yeah, I know that, but you wore gloves, so they can’t get any prints off it … Who knows how she can sleep with a damn cuckoo clock going off every 30 minutes? Maybe she’s half deaf … I gotta go into the restaurant tomorrow night from 5 to 11 … I wash dishes, man … Okay, you too.”

Opening a bottle of Southern Comfort, he settled into his recliner and flicked on the TV. About 15 minutes and three ounces later came a knock. Heaving his aching frame out of the seat, he trudged toward the door and swung it open. A couple of policemen were waiting.

“Chapleton Ratcliffe?” one of them asked.

Chapleton nodded. He was sure glad that he had showered and changed his clothes earlier.

“I’m Officer Berger, and this is Officer Weinstock. We’d like to ask you a few questions. Can we come in?”

Moving away from the door, he gestured for the pair of patrolmen to enter. In his right hand he still clutched the Southern Comfort.

“Where were you this morning between 7:30 and 8:30?”

He was at home in bed, he told them, and no, there was nobody who could confirm that. He was neither indignant nor intimidated, and his answers, if not true, aroused no cause for undue suspicion, he thought. He didn’t know about any burglary or vandalism or whatever. The officers pressed a bit, asking him if he and his friend David Miller liked to hang out at the train station.

“Sometimes, yeah. But we never did anything wrong. Besides, I don’t even own a ball-peen hammer.”

“We said that a hammer was used,” Berger informed him. “Nobody said it was a ball-peen hammer.”

Innocent Days on the Internet

“The Internet can and will change your life.”

Readers who saw those words in a 1997 Post article might have easily dismissed them as journalistic hype. The Internet was still quite young and unexplored in those days. It gave little indication it would grow into the force that would reshape America’s economy, politics, society, education, and arts.

It had been developing slowly and quietly. While the first tests of the Internet took place in November 1969, as late as 1993, there were only 50 websites in operation. The first secure online purchase wasn’t made until August 1994 (when a Web developer bought a copy of Sting’s CD Ten Summoner’s Tales.)

Screen shot of The Saturday Evening Post home page in 1997
Screen shot of The Saturday Evening Post home page in 1997 accompanied the article “Trekking the Internet.” The caption read: “The Saturday Evening Post has joined the Net.”

Web traffic was climbing steadily, though, and the number of Internet users doubled every year. By 1997, over 70 million people around the world were online. But this was still less than 2 percent of the planet’s population. Large sections of Americans were only vaguely aware of this thing called the World Wide Web. The Post article, “Trekking the Internet,” probably introduced many readers to such terms as “HTML” and “browser” and “URL” (“pronounced ‘You Are Ell,’” the authors helpfully added).

We’re now so accustomed to the Internet that it’s amusing to read the authors’ comments on basic operations. “You can ‘save your place’ on the Web and create a list of your own favorite sites. The list of personal favorites is usually referred to in the software as the … Bookmarks section.”

Though some of the players they describe have passed from prominence — America Online’s WebCrawler and CompuServe’s NetLauncher — the Internet is still much as they described it then: “fascinating, stimulating, and thought-provoking … also silly, irreverent, and mundane.”

The biggest difference between then and now, though, is the Internet’s attitude toward commercialization. The article reported that Internet users and service providers would tolerate no advertising on the Web. When two attorneys sent a spammed advertisement to thousands of newsgroups in 1994, the Internet “responded swiftly and with considerable ferocity. All messages originating from [the lawyers] were intercepted and destroyed. Their fax machine was swamped by a flood of dummy calls, effectively disabling their machine. Their service provider was also deluged and cut off [the lawyers’] service. … They went to another service provider who offered them the same discourtesy.”

Perhaps it was naive to think the Web could remain commercial-free. Back in the 1920s, many Americans had expected radio would remain free of advertising, and America’s airwaves unsullied by singing jingles for scouring powder and deodorant. But radio went commercial, as did the Internet.

Unlike radio, however, the Internet allows users to intercept and block the advertising sent at them. Ad blockers are becoming so efficient that advertisers are starting to worry.

It’s likely that ad blocking will change the amount and type of advertising we see on the Web. But then, change is perhaps the only constant in the digital world.