On the year’s shortest day, Robert Frost famously watches a villager’s woods fill up with snow. On the second, I hear a menacing forecast. On the third, I awake to see a saltmarsh fill up with water.
Frost’s horse thinks it queer to stop without a farmhouse near, but I’m still at home upon a hill in bed before a window watching grasses disappear.
My windows rattle in gusts of storm, odd echoes of harness bells that shake the old man back awake. But this old man watches, making no mistake, pausing nothing but breakfast.
Nor is there a house in sight from my island to the mainland where Frost’s woods stretch toward a frozen lake. My marsh, now lake, keeps moving north, whitecapped in surging tide.
Frost’s darkest evening becomes my gray day, all grasses now submerged in a shade matching sky, as well as the two-lane road, leaving but a utility pole and the top half of a fire hydrant as reminders of just where I am.
No, that’s not at all Frost, but for the old man who stopped on Plum Island four decades ago, it’s a first.
Frost’s downy flake is my driving rain; his easy wind my gas heat, an easy, welcome warmth up from my floor.
Mouth of a river? Atlantic salt marsh? Arrival of winter? Sea-level rise? Encroaching climate change? A cacophony, perhaps a symphony of ocean, moon, storm, and melting glaciers?
My estuary may be lovely, but it is neither dark nor deep. To tell of its contrary charms, I’ll leave for another day, for there’s an omelet I must eat.
Does way ever lead onto way? All I know is that the tide will turn and the grasses reappear on these darkest days of every year. And I will sip coffee.
Hard to imagine anyone comparing the film She Said to Romeo and Juliet.
But first things first: She Said is as powerful a film as I have ever seen. While the “reporting twins” played by Carey Mulligan and Zoe Kazan are most reminiscent of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein as played by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman, and while the New York Times‘ pursuit of Harvey Weinstein and Miramax resembles the Washington Post‘s investigation of Richard Nixon in All the President’s Men (1976), She Said‘s impact is more akin to that of an event, a la Little Big Man (1970), Thelma & Louise (1991), and BlacKkKlansman (2018).
Nixon’s crimes in question, after all, had nothing to do with gender or race.
Flush with Director Maria Schrader’s attention to detail, She Said‘s boldest stroke is a dual introduction: first, a brief prologue of a young Irish girl hired for the crew of a film as it is being shot on the Irish coast, followed by her running in terror down a city street; second, a few scenes in 2016 of the New York Times‘ revelations of sexual abuse by a presidential candidate–ending with the announcement of his election.
And then to the full expose of Weinstein and Miramax. Women agonize as they re-live assault and rape, Ashley Judd one of three actresses playing herself. Reporters Megan Twohey and Jodi Kantor agonize as they coax those women to tell stories they might hesitate to tell of themselves. Their editor, Rebecca Corbett played by Patricia Clarkson (sounding uncannily like Nancy Pelosi), guides them through their agony by asking them about their families and telling them to go home and get some sleep–all while reminding them to get documentation.
We see them at home with supportive husbands, one of them a reporter with grueling deadlines of his own, and children. Kantor’s pre-teen daughter is starting to ask difficult questions. Twohey’s newborn is rocked by a husband who sashays unabashedly in a public park while listening to her grill a staffer with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission over “non-disclosure agreements” via cellphone.
At the risk of reading into it, that’s one of a few scenes aimed at what we call “policy and procedure.” Almost as a sub-plot, She Said exposes the ubiquitous term as an all-purpose excuse not to think. In this case, it’s a gag order on conscience.
As a piece of the larger story, it’s yet another obstacle that women face regarding future employment, reputation, and the threats they must endure. It’s impossible not to recall Christine Blasey Ford’s futile testimony in Brett Kavanaugh’s confirmation hearing when the reporters come to a realization in mid-film:
Kantor: The only way these women are going to go on the record…
Twohey: Is if they all jump together.
Cinematically, She Said fills every frame with detail. A scene with any film’s two main characters talking will be as riveting as what they say. She Said passes that test, but adds more when they walk down a sidewalk toward the camera with two construction workers–male–halfway between. After an earlier scene in a pub where Twohey has to scream at a jerk to leave them alone, what do we expect as they walk past the hard-hats and toward us? But what then happens?
When Twohey, after arriving at his home after dark and unannounced, asks an accountant about payouts, the expression on the face of his wife could be a scene all by itself. No matter that the wife’s question to him, “What payout?” is her only line in the film. It’s also one of several reminders that the grievance conveyed by the film is not limited to a list of Weinstein’s 82 victims, or to the hundreds of thousands who signed on to the #MeTwo movement.
From the reporters’ daughters to their editor, She Said effortlessly reminds us that this is about all women–and therefore all of us–today and into the future.
Which may be why, this time, the two women do not drive themselves off a cliff.
A comparison to Romeo and Juliet seems bizarre only because we have come to confuse comparisons with equations. We have lost the distinction: For an equation you need to match everything, for a comparison just one.
Many will insist that for a comparison to be useful, its two objects must have more in common than in contrast. Better to compare She Said to other newsroom films in a storied tradition that runs from All the President’s Men through Absence of Malice (1981) to Philomena (2013), Spotlight (2015), and Bombshell (2019). As an event, I’ll add Network (1976).
All of those would make for good conversation, but I’ll counter that a single point of comparison can be as incisive and enlightening as several. In fact, all the differences might make it moreso.
Differences between She Said and Shakespeare’s most frequently adapted play are obvious: Neither plots nor settings have anything to do with each other; characters live lives that couldn’t be more foreign to each other; and dialogue in a film about the birth of the #MeToo movement is necessarily too graphic for iambic pentameter. If only Father Lawrence had a cellphone!
Moreover, any comparison to the world’s most renowned love story may understandably annoy, perhaps offend women in the #MeToo movement and men who supported it. That, however, is the point: Romeo and Juliet is also literature’s most incisive statement on revenge. From Romeo’s revenge to Weinstein’s accountability, it’s one spectrum that the two stories share.
You could say that, for public consumption, R&J is disguised as a love story.
So, too, She Said serves a dual purpose. Cast as an expose on sexual harassment, as was Bombshell three years ago, it also serves as a journalism seminar. In a day when we are too easily led to believe that the press makes everything up, we see the pains taken to insure accuracy. In a day when the refusal to publish unfounded smears is considered by many to be censorship, we see the point and purpose of the First Amendment illustrated. In a day when people fall for lunatic conspiracies and cheer for those who threaten violence, we see people who stand for truth.
I’m not sure which is the disguise and which the incisive statement, but She Said is as much a manifesto for freedom of the press as for an end to sexual harassment.
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L2R: Reporters Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey played by Zoe Kazan and Carey Mulligan; editors Dean Baquet and Rebecca Corbett played by Andre Braugher and Patricia Clarkson.
Actually, there is a second item that this film has in common with all of Shakespeare’s plays: comic relief, mostly in the form of well-placed one-liners. This is one of several scenes in which the reporters knock on the door of someone who has not answered their calls. Success is mixed, as no one at this point wants to be named. This one shuts the door as soon as Kantor (on the right) says New York Times, Harvey Weinstein, and Miramax. Camera shifts to Kantor who turns to Twohey and deadpans: “Think she’ll go on the record?”
Lines in the Newburyport Post Office any day in December look like the lines entering a Renaissance faire on a mid-October weekend.
Difference is that, on the holiday that has five names, we rennies and our patrons wore all the color and decoration. In this season of three religious feasts, most everyone is bundled up in dark, thick coats with colorfully wrapped and decorated packages in hand.
Across the Merrimack River on another errand, I swing by the Salisbury Post Office, figuring it can’t be too busy.
Bingo! Just one counter, but I’m third in line, and the two before me are quick. In addition to two small packages needing to be weighed, I need stamps. Forgive me, but I’ve never cared for Christmas stamps or any seasonal postage. If it’s any consolation, I love carols–even the dreaded “Drummer Boy”–and often played many of them with pizazz for many a Christmas past, but on envelopes? No stars, halos, snowmen, or decorated trees for me. Years ago, I made an exception for Gabriel with his alto-sax, but he has yet to make an encore as a thumbnail pic with a serrated edge.
Always asking for stamps with musicians, I mailed everything with Pete Seeger and his banjo on the top righthand corner of the envelope this summer and fall. Though I doubted there would be any left for sale, I asked the Salisbury clerk, who lit up at the question:
Sure we do! Lots!
Wow! Hard to believe. They were issued so long ago, I thought they had to be gone.
Jack, you’re on the other side of the bridge. Can’t sell’m this side.
I buy three panes. She puts at least three back in her drawer.
Salisbury is the northeast corner of Massachusetts, sandwiched between the Merrimack and the state border with New Hampshire while the Atlantic pounds its east side. In a blatant crime against cartography, surveyors sent up from Boston in colonial times decided to ignore the common sense of letting the river, like the ocean, be a natural boundary and claimed a three-mile buffer from the north bank for the Mass Bay Colony.
We can only wonder if this map set the precedent for another Massachusetts invention soon to follow: gerrymandering
As a much smaller town, Salisbury may lack Newburyport’s culture and commerce, but it does have Annarosa’s Bakery with its rosemary & sea-salt dinner rolls I can’t get enough of. If you go looking, it’s on Rt. 110 just across from a memorable billboard for a CBC store: “You have in-laws. We have pot.” Now that’s the holiday spirit! After a short drive, I was still laughing when I arrived at the post office where I would learn of a postage stamp that our neighbors to the north want none of.
Good chance that most Americans born after the Eisenhower years do not know who Pete Seeger was, or know only the name. We children of that decade knew him as a folk-singer. Our parents may have known him as a conscientious objector blacklisted in the McCarthy Era. In the Sixties he was a leading voice in civil rights, anti-war, and environmental movements. At the end of the Sixties, he was one of the foremost reasons that the Smothers Brothers show, a forerunner of all the creative commentary we now see on cable TV, was banned from network television. This was back when all television was network. Censored was his song, “Waist Deep in the Big Muddy,” clearly aimed at a Democratic president.
Seeger was tireless. He harmonized with voices for humanitarian causes right up to the day he died in 2014 at the age of 94. Though his banjo was inscribed with a combative message–“This Machine Surrounds Hate and Forces It to Surrender”–his own statements and song lyrics were always in the spirit of peace and unity, usually addressed to “brothers” and “sisters.” Never cast in anger, his songs conveyed spiritual and cultural messages as much as political. His best known, “Turn, Turn, Turn,” an adaptation of the Book of Ecclesiastes, serves as an example:
To everything – turn, turn, turn There is a season – turn, turn, turn And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time to build up, a time to break down A time to dance, a time to mourn A time to cast away stones A time to gather stones together
That the people of Salisbury have any of this in mind when they purchase stamps is doubtful. Far more likely they prefer pics of race cars that had a recent issue, or American flags that are always issued. And now there’s one with Johnny Cash walking the (rail) line with his guitar far more likely to sell on either side of any American bridge.
No doubt I would have taken a pane home had Seeger not been there.
Still, there is room for doubt.
Three hundred years after its first crime against cartography, Massachusetts is the bluest of blue states while New Hampshire has been trending purple in recent years. Relative to New England, New Hampshire screams red in a sea of blue, and if you zoom in to our little corner, the change in color is not at the state line but at the Merrimack River. Only the fireworks stores observe the border.
Whether or not the clerk had any of that in mind with her “other side of the bridge” crack is anyone’s guess. But I think she was in on the joke. A wry smile on her face suggested that she would have felt my pain had she no pane to offer.
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The USPS poster for the day of release. Next to the date it says: Newport, Rhode Island 02804. This refers to the Newport Folk Festival where the color-tinted, black-and-white photograph was taken in the early Sixties while Seeger played his signature five-string banjo. The photographer was Seeger’s son, Dan Seeger. Kristen Monthei colorized it for use on the stamp.
Back when I started writing newspaper columns some 40 years ago, I noticed that several of my favorites–such as Ellen Goodman on the Boston Globe‘s opinion page and Dan Shaughnessy in the Globe‘s sports section–had a habit of writing end-of-year columns of random thoughts.
Headlines would read “1983 in Review” or “Tying up Loose Ends” or “Preparing for Auld Lang Syne” or “Clearing out the Mail Bag.” Yes, back then it was a bag, not a box. How quaint!
Reading with a mixture of envy and amusement, I was reassured that if my turn came up in Newburyport’s Daily News, and I didn’t have a single subject worth 650 words–or that could not be contained in 750–I could always throw together a grab bag of doings and undoings around town.
As Newburyporters know, there’s no shortage of doings here, and those doings are outdone by undoings, but I never did any listing of them. Not for want of trying, but because every time I started one, I thought of more to say about my first “random” item, and went on and on until it was no longer random but fully, if not over- developed. Whether or not those columns were well developed is another matter, and I’m sure it comes as no surprise to Daily News readers that I went on and on.
When charged with that literary crime, I plead Irish.
Looking over my records, I see that I focused on three subjects in my first few years: Street music, cross-country drives with my pre-teen daughter, and the goofy national disaster known as Ronald Reagan. May seem strange that my pet subjects were completely unrelated to each other, but today I write book and film reviews while the Red Sox or Patriots or Celtics or Bruins are on a screen just over and past this one.
I can look up whenever an announcer gets excited. I can oscillate or saucer Jack Edwards’ colorful verbs into my own sentences about strolling on Plum Island, fighting City Hall, and sitting out on State Street. I can hit mute when I have to listen to a video for the sake of transcribing a quote. I can go from First Amendment to first down without calling time out.
Is that random? Some would call it eclectic or eccentric. Critics might call it confused or erratic, if not schizophrenic. I don’t call it anything, although it might be a by-product of semi-retirement.
Must be semi-retirement that has me thinking, after all these years, that I might finally write a column of random tid-bits. Such a collection–from left-over scraps cut from columns and blogs–seems suited to this feeling that I can do whatever I want whenever I want.
May sound overstated, but it’s actually understated. For me, semi-retirement is more advantageous than the full deal. I work just two days: One as a projectionist in a cinema where I push a few buttons and then sit for two hours, ideal for a writer; the other when I drive about 250 miles with eight or ten stops, ideal for thinking of things to write–with NPR on if I need a prompt, off if I do not.
I’m lucky that my employer’s Ford Transit has far better brakes than I. Truth is, I’m incapable of writing a random grab bag. I have no brakes at all. How many times have I started a single paragraph or sentence to post on its own on social media, only to think of context, of cause and effect, of comparisons, analogies, and metaphors? Time after time, on and on.
Some remain in my files, but they are mostly bad jokes that belong in the trash. No one really wants to hear that Coal Mine Owners’ senator, Joe Manchin, chairs the senate’s Energy Committee, do they? Much less my response that we might as well have Kevin McCarthy chair the Ethics Committee and Porky Pig as Secretary of Agriculture.
You see it right there: I’m already filling out the canvas. Want more? No? Too bad:
Corporate servant Kyrsten Sinema, despite her defection from the party that sent her to DC, remains chair of the Banking and Commerce committees. Jim Jordan, despite his obstinate denial of an election that was upheld by over 60 court challenges in the battleground states, will soon chair the House Judiciary Committee. By that standard, Hannibal Lechter could head the Food and Drug Administration.
Good thing Hershel Walker lost or they’d name him chair of Education.
Even if you did have a taste for that sort of low-ball humor, I see that my word count has topped 750, leaving no time for anything more than a sign-off.
Oh, how I envy Ellen Goodman and Dan Shaughnessy!
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Even in church, I argue on and on. One friend tells me that’s called confession. Probably not talking about the writing process, but the pen in the pocket has to count for something. Photo by Richard K. Lodge.
Took me by surprise to learn that William Lloyd Garrison was a dedicated teacher.
We think of him as a leader of the Abolitionist movement and as the co-founder, publisher, editor, and lead writer for The Liberator, a newspaper that appeared every week for 34 years.
He didn’t quit until the Emancipation Proclamation was delivered and it was clear that the Union was about to win the Civil War. After that, he became a leading voice for women’s suffrage. He also added his voice to the call for Prohibition, but he can be forgiven that lapse. Two out of three ain’t bad.
So how did he find time to teach?
Historian Kabria Baumgartner, a professor at Northeastern and a resident of Newburyport, tells us that Garrison instituted apprenticeships at The Liberator to serve a dual purpose: to produce the paper and to teach young Black men “the power of the pen and the power of the press.”
In Newburyport’s 3rd Annual William Lloyd Garrison Lecture at the Old South Church, just around the corner from where he was born and raised, Baumgartner took most of us by surprise. Her title, “I Will Be Heard: Antislavery Printing and Youth Activism at William Lloyd Garrison’s Liberator Office,” hinted at a talk that at times was more about the technology of typesetting than the history of race relations. So the surprise was not his inclusion of Blacks in the process, but that he and co-founder Isaac Knaap, another Newburyport native, made a point of grooming them to send them elsewhere.
Elsewhere was across a country that was expanding by the day, down the Ohio, across the Mississippi, to the Rockies, where they would establish independent Black-owned newspapers. Baumgartner reminds us that this was a time when the Southern states were passing anti-literacy laws, banning pamphlets from the North, and putting bounties on the heads of influential pamphleteers such as David Walker whose “Appeal to the Colored Citizens of the World” set the stage for Frederick Douglass, another leader of the Abolition movement.
She then spoke of something most of us never hear in school. Newspapers in the North that called for Abolition lived with violence an ever-present threat. At least three died, burned to the ground in New York, Ohio, and in Alton, Illinois, where the white publisher was fatally shot trying to fend off a pro-slavery mob. When The Liberator published a sketch of the riot, Elijah Lovejoy became a martyr for the Abolitionist cause.
Another surprise–and another item that this native New-Englander never saw in a textbook–was Baumgartner’s revelation of “drapetomania.” To counter all criticisms of slavery, Southern politicians concocted the myth of “benevolent” conditions, a myth that I do recall from my 1950s & 60s texts. By 1851 the plantation owners feared that the number of runaways would make the myth impossible to believe.
To their rescue came a Mississippi doctor named Samuel Cartwright who “hypothesized” that the desire to escape was a mental illness–drapetomania is a combination of the Greek words for escape and madness–that resulted when owners became friendly with servants. This only confused the servants who…. Ya, right!
The concept was immediately mocked and satirized in the North. In the South? Don’t know about drapetomania, but in their howling objections to The 1619 Project, we heard several Republican office holders, on both federal and state levels, insist that slavery, for the most part, was “a benevolent institution” and the enslaved lived comfortably and well–an absurd claim echoed today by the absurd dismissal of January 6 as “a normal tourist day.”
Baumgartner, the author of last year’s In Pursuit of Knowledge: Black Women and Educational Activism in Antebellum America, did not shy away from today’s echoes of the mid-19th Century. She compared the anti-literacy laws to Florida’s recent “anti-woke” law and to the “boogeyman” reactions to critical race theory, calling it “a false debate.”* She hit closer to home when she addressed New Hampshire’s passage “of what is effectively an anti-critical race theory law.” Speaking of New Hampshire teachers:
Some of them are very nervous and scared that if they are teaching about Black history, any aspect of it, someone’s watching them, might report them. They might lose their job… Those laws are very, very similar, eerily similar to the anti-literacy laws passed in the South in the 1830s to suppress Abolitionist literature… There’s a direct tie.
As a friend told me later on, her “calling out New Hampshire for its CRT law, and [its] chilling effect on education, was admirable… [I]f ever there was a call for action where someone asks ‘Is this still going on, and what can I do?’ that was it.”
In a tone that suggests something Baumgartner has repeated hundreds of times, she sighed that CRT “is not taught in elementary or high schools,” only “in law schools.” She said it twice.
At the risk of reading into her words, Baumgartner’s use of boogeyman suggests a belief that CRT has become a term to mean anything about race and discrimination, both present and past. As whites who complain about it are quick to claim, CRT makes their children “uncomfortable.”
Without her saying it, that may have been the most, well, uncomfortable echo in Baumgartner’s talk. Coming at the end of “I Will Be Heard,” it was a sharp reminder of what she said earlier of Daniel Laing Jr., an independent Black printer in Boston, likely one of Garrison’s apprentices though there is no record of it. His marriage was announced in The Liberator, if that helps.
Already renowned and respected as a printer of books and pamphlets that fueled the Abolitionist cause, Laing’s dream was to become a doctor. He and two other Black men entered Harvard Medical School in 1850 but were soon expelled after protests by Harvard’s faculty and other students.
According to the stated grievance, Laing and his two friends made Harvard’s white people “uncomfortable.”
Garrison would have been proud. Whether Laing was his apprentice or not, making people uncomfortable was his life’s work. Moreover, when all else fails, it’s a potent educational tool. But there were no failures in Baumgartner’s assessment of William Lloyd Garrison as a teacher, the role that made his most far reaching, if least known contribution toward a more perfect Union.
As a postscript to the lecture, and to this blog, Baumgartner was followed by five vocalists accompanied by one pianist sent by The Performing Project of Lawrence to sing a song of worship that two friends tell me is from the soundtrack of The Color Purple (1985). I still have figured out the song’s title, but I’m working on it, and will post, as soon as it comes, an answer to my query at:
Meanwhile, you can hear it on the video pasted below, starting at the 1:05:10 mark. If you can identify it, please let me know.
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*Applications of 19th Century laws to today’s gag orders and other curbs on discussion of climate change, reproductive rights, and gender issues in various Southern states are easy to make. Texas’ law offering $10,000 bounties for information on women seeking abortions could be modeled on the infamous Fugitive Slave Law.
Almanacs have fascinated me since childhood. Can’t pinpoint any item in one, much less a specific date, but my father’s addiction to newspapers made it happen.
Every day he brought home three Boston papers: The Globe, The Herald, and The Record-American. Our hometown Lawrence Eagle-Tribune was flung onto our porch each afternoon. And anytime we visited my mother’s family ten miles downriver, The Haverhill Gazette was sure to come home with us.
Summer vacations were never vacations from news. My aunt and uncle in Ohio subscribed to The Akron Beacon-Journal, which my father managed to read before they did each morning. In the afternoon, he’d saunter down to a nearby store and return with the Cleveland Plain-Dealer.*
In New Hampshire’s White Mountains, he’d find, buy, and read The Manchester Union-Leader–even though he considered it an insult to the intelligence of anyone able to read. “It’s important to know what they say,” he’d explain.
As I came of age in the mid-Sixties (with all that that implies), I’d inherent his addiction to news and agree with his assessment. When I was 19, I was electrified to hear William Kunstler, trial lawyer for the Chicago 7, emphasize it in more blunt terms to a packed house in the Salem State College Auditorium:
“We must keep abreast of evil!”
Almanacs keep us abreast of good and evil, the comic and the tragic, hope and menace, the popular and the profound, and everything in between.
When I was young, I was more consumed by ornate trivia in the almanacs many newspapers carried under rubrics such as, “This Date in History.” Weird entries such as, “1109–Rudolph the Rude of Romania arrives in Russia to marry Czar Raskolnikov’s daughter, Rubella, and claim her dowry of uranium, rubber, and recipes for rhubarb pies.”
No wonder they are usually placed on the comics pages. My amusement at such things lasts to this day, although, as I got older, I learned to use almanacs as a valuable source of ideas, as well as a resource for ideas I already have. For example, while trying to make sense of the MAGA movement in recent years, it helps to spot the entries for the 1950s when McCarthyism gripped the nation.
Almanacs also remind us that extremism is not confined to any ideology any more than it is to either side of any border–as well as reminding us, much like any late-night comic, that it can offer the wildest comedy. For an example of both, here’s today’s entry in an almanac posted by a life-long friend who shares my fascination:
1951–Santa Claus and angels were banned in Hungary at Christmas this year. Pictures of tractors holding gifts would replace Santa Claus and his elves. It was not entirely clear why communist officials became so provoked at Saint Nick, but it seems that they could use some of his generosity.
I suspect that my friend himself added the commentary of the second sentence, as he did months ago when he added to the notice of Moby-Dick‘s publication in 1851 that someone named “Jack Garvey deserves an autographed copy.”
Be that as it may, I was, if not amused, bemused to learn that in the year of my birth, for my first Christmas, the Commies replaced Santa & his sleigh with pictures of tractors loaded with gifts. Sounds pathetic, but when pictured, it’s hilarious. Seems outrageous, but it’s nothing other than flat-out ridiculous when imagined in song:
You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not pout
I’m telling you why
Fat tractors are coming to town
Other adaptations would include “Rudolph the Red Nose Sparkplug” and “I Saw Mommy Kissing Johnny Deere.”
Nonsense aside, I let very few days go by without seeing an almanac. Haven’t had many days of travel or hospitalization these past twenty years that I’ve been reading newspapers–not as many as my father, but enough–online rather than in print.
Before that, there were three summers that my daughter and I took ten-day vacations in Ontario to attend the theater festivals in Stratford and Niagara. We agreed that they would be “news holidays” as well. Before the curtains were drawn, we strolled the parks along the Avon River or overlooking Lake Ontario until finding benches where I’d read my Sinclair Lewis, and she her Anne of Green Gables.
On some summer day in 1991, I thought it enough that she pick up my addiction to reading.
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*My uncle rolled his eyes. More than once he asked what an afternoon edition would have that a morning paper lacked. Then came that hot summer day in 1966 when the entire state of Ohio was plunged into mourning. It began for us when my dad returned with a front-page banner headline in a font so large and thick we could have read it from across the street: “Jim Brown Quits Football.”
PHOENIX (Dec.9)–Angered that the defeat of Hershel Walker guarantees that she will remain the stupidest person to ever serve in the United States Senate, Kyrsten Sinema has announced that she is leaving the Democratic Party.
Sinema has yet to say whether she will continue to caucus with Democrats–as do independents Bernie Sanders of Vermont and Angus King of Maine–or with Republicans as she awaits instructions from her corporate donors.
A chance remains that the eccentric opportunist–who often looks like she’s on her way to a flower show, perhaps hoping to revive music’s glam-rock era as a glam-gov of politics–may join the Republicans who are more inclusive of eccentrics and opportunists–a la Marjorie Toxic Greene, Gym Jordan, etc.–in their rank ranks.
As Andy Borowitz put it in his headline today:
Nation Shocked To Learn That Kyrsten Sinema Had Been a Democrat
Sinema’s drift from the Democrats became apparent just months after Joe Biden was sworn into office and called for economic reforms that required an end to the filibuster–a legal method of obstruction that the Southern states contrived well after the Constitution was written and ratified.
The filibuster’s first and foremost purpose was to protect slavery from those who wanted to end it.
Now used to stop legislation that most American’s want–such as protecting reproductive rights and gun regulation–just so a Democratic president will not get credit for it, the filibuster is dear to Sinema’s corporate donors. Hence, instead of siding with Democrats, the stylish dunce wrote an op-ed column to explain that she could not vote to end a law that is in the Constitution.
When Arizona Democrats, understandably aghast, pointed out that the filibuster is nowhere in America’s founding documents–that it is explicitly against the Constitutional principle of majority rule–Sinema held her ridiculous ground, apparently unable to tell John Adams from John Calhoun.
Maybe Arizona needs more statues?
Precedent for this appears in Donald Trump’s campaign speeches when–to the delight of his MAGA crowds–he ridiculed the word “emoluments,” not just a word mentioned, but a concept emphasized in the Constitution. And we’re surprised he’s ready to terminate the whole thing?
Amazingly, no one on Sinema’s senate staff caught the error or fact-checked it after the objections were raised. This also suggests that she has always been under complete control of her corporate donors, and her staff exists as mere dressing. But they are all so very well dressed that, as one Republican grumbled, they “seem to think the Capitol corridors are fashion runways.”
Reports from Arizona say that Sinema is leaving the Democratic Party to dodge a primary challenge. No doubt Arizona Dems feel betrayed by a former Green Party activist who joined them in 2004, immediately making her mark by lambasting another Democratic turncoat, Joe Lieberman of Connecticut, for abandoning John Kerry’s presidential bid.
That was then. By 2018 Sinema’s star rose to the top of hopefuls Arizona Democrats had for unseating Republican Senator Martha McSally. Now she seems ready to join ranks with Arizona’s US Rep. Paul Gosar who retweeted Trump’s call to terminate the Constitution. So what happened?
Is she positioning herself to be Tulsi Gabbard’s running mate in 2024?
Before 2018 Sinema never heard from corporate donors. Judging from her willful ignorance regarding the filibuster, she may have never heard of corporate donors–or of the attempts of Arizona’s late Senator John McCain to regulate them, or of the Supreme Court’s 2010 decision, Citizens United, to give them free hand.
After today’s announcement, there’s a chance that Sinema’s donors may be as done with her as is the Democratic Party. Now that they’ve split Arizona voters who lean Democratic, they’ve guaranteed victory for whatever smiling, head-nodding clown the Republicans want to run.
New Jersey resident Dr. Oz is available. So is Texas resident Hershel Walker.
Today, about to announce: FILE PHOTO: U.S. Senator Kyrsten Sinema (D-AZ) walks from her hideaway office to the Senate floor at the U.S. Capitol in Washington, U.S. August 2, 2022. REUTERS/Jonathan Ernst/File Photo
Let’s get this straight: All senate Democrats with the exception of the one from West Virginia voted in favor of the provision for paid sick leave that all railroad unions sought.
Repeat: Democrats favor paid sick leave.
And this: Only six of 50 senate Republicans, not enough to surpass the filibuster, voted for paid sick leave.
Repeat: Republicans oppose paid sick leave.
Put another way: If we put more Democrats in Congress, they can and will pass a bill calling for paid sick leave.
Also: The Biden Administration pushed for paid sick leave, and Biden himself endorsed paid sick leave. He still endorses paid sick leave.
Bottom line: If, Democrats regain the House, add enough seats in the Senate to either eliminate or overcome the filibuster, and keep the White House in 2024, the railroad workers and those who work in many other occupations across the country will have paid sick leave.
Why am I being so repetitive in stating this?
Because Biden and Democrats are now being blamed for the absence of paid sick leave in the compromise bill that passed. No matter that it was Republicans, nearly all of them, who blocked the provision. Right wing trolls are already posting memes on social media with cartoons showing Biden behind his aviator glasses and licking ice cream telling a worker, “No way, Sonny!”
For people who can read, the loudest attacks are coming from progressives who still think that a strike would be preferable to the compromise. Predictably, they say nothing of consequences that would have included mass layoffs of workers, many of them unionized, in other sectors of the economy.
Gee, I wonder who the American public would blame for that?
Chris Hedges, in an essay headlined, “Know Thine Enemy,” claims that the Democratic Party “has become a full partner in the corporate assault on workers.” David Swanson, Executive Director of World Beyond War, makes the same case applied to America’s military presence around the world. Former Ohio Rep. Nina Turner, an early and avid supporter of Bernie Sanders in 2016, simply charges “the Senate” with blocking paid sick leave.
They all make valid points, well worth considering, which is why I attach the links below. Hedges accurately describes “class warfare,” a classic inconvenient truth we must confront. Swanson’s insistence that the Democrats ignore activists and whistle-blowers at their–and our–own peril reveals a classic example of a party taking their own supporters for granted. On the other hand, Turner’s tweet is a classic example of Barack Obama’s frequent quote from Voltaire, a warning against “making the perfect the enemy of the good.”
Yes, I wish I could side with Hedges and Swanson and other progressives–including a couple of long-time college friends who have been putting those valuable if sometimes impractical voices on my screen. Wish, also, that Nina Turner was still in the House, or the Senate, or in the administration.
There’s a good chance she could be if those of us left of center, including progressives, realize that we are faced with a two-party system. This may be news to those who can’t remember Gore v. Nader in 2000, but like it or not, division on either side guarantees victory for the other.
As an aside, Ranked Choice Voting would change that, making third parties possible and viable, and campaigns more focused on issues, while also making extremists and cranks less likely to gain nominations.
Until that happens, we are stuck with a numbers game: More Democrats in office, more votes for progressive legislation such as reproductive rights, voting rights, gun safety, consumer protection, addressing climate change, and paid sick leave.
As well as what needs emphasis here, occupational safety.
There’s good reason for the outcry regarding paid sick leave, but the term by itself understates the problem. Though it is complex, Heather Cox Richardson gives it a thorough and clear summary in her most recent newsletter:
The story behind today’s crisis started in 2017 when former president Trump’s trade war hammered agriculture and manufacturing, leading railroad companies to fire workers—more than 20,000 of them in 2019 alone, dropping the number of railroad workers in the U.S. below 200,000 for the first time since the Department of Labor began to keep track of such statistics in the 1940s. By December 2020, the industry had lost 40,000 jobs, most of them among the people who actually operated the trains.
Those jobs did not come back even after the economy did, though, as railroad companies implemented a system called precision scheduled railroading, or PSR. “We fundamentally changed the way we operate over the last 2½ years,” Bryan Tucker, vice president of communications at railroad corporation CSX told Heather Long of the Washington Post in January 2020. “It’s a different way of running a railroad.”
PSR made trains longer and operated them with a skeleton crew that was held to a strict schedule. This dramatically improved on-time delivery rates but sometimes left just two people in charge of a train two to three miles long, with no back-up and no option for sick days, family emergencies, or any of the normal interruptions that life brings, because the staffing was so lean it depended on everyone being in place. Any disruption in schedules brought disciplinary action and possible job loss. Workers got an average of 3 weeks’ vacation and holidays, but the rest of their time, including weekends, was tightly controlled, while smaller crews meant more dangerous working conditions.
PSR helped the railroad corporations make record profits. In 2021, revenue for the two largest railroad corporations in the U.S., the Union Pacific and BNSF (owned by Warren Buffett), jumped 12% to $21.8 billion and 11.6% to $22.5 billion, respectively.
As another college friend, responding to Richardson, writes with sarcastic flair:
Thank you, Pres. Grump for all you have done to our country. It is not far from the truth to say the unions are the victims, and the pawns.
Uncle Joe is caught in the middle between the industry, the unions, and Congressional shenanigans. It would not have made much sense for him to veto the bill that got to his desk.
Still, Richardson reveals why we should not dismiss the objections of progressives out of hand. How closely were the reasons for those record profits considered in the debate over sick leave? Or, how quickly were those reasons dismissed, and by which senators?
Would there have been a different outcome if this had been cast to the public as an issue of occupational safety rather than paid sick leave for workers who already have three weeks paid vacation and paid holidays, as yet two more college friends point out?
My college friends–from Salem State to South Dakota State–may not believe it, but those questions can be erased in 2024 if we pay attention to numbers. As we have seen over and again, only one party supports occupational safety while the other, plus one senator from a coal-mining state, keeps opposing it.
Ditto paid sick leave, with apologies for the repetition.
Though not in the least surprising to anyone paying attention, the tweet from Mar-an-Ego this weekend was shocking in the extreme.
Broadcast, print, and social media are buzzing with a question I never thought I’d hear in my lifetime: Has any president, while in office or later, called for “terminating” the US Constitution?
For two years many of us have asked if any president, prior to January, 2020, ever attempted to reverse the result of an American election. Here’s as close to the answer–for both–as I can come:
Yes, there is one.
Our tenth president, slaveholding Virginian John Tyler was elected to the Confederacy’s House of Representatives 16 years after he left the White House. Tyler had not been elected, but became president in 1841 when our ninth president, William Henry Harrison, died of pneumonia just one month after his inauguration.
Tyler was so unpopular that neither the Democrats nor the Whigs wanted him as a candidate in 1844.
Who knows what he did in the years leading up to the Civil War and secession, but I’d say that running for the House in the CS Congress was, in effect, a call for the termination of the US Constitution.
If you are wondering why I say “running for” rather than “serving in,” it’s because Tyler died of a stroke before he showed up in Richmond to take the seat.
Had he died in 1841 instead of the newly elected Harrison, another former president, John Quincy Adams, would have called it a stroke of luck. Adams had high hopes for Harrison as a native Virginian and military hero before settling in and representing Ohio in the US Senate. Adams was confident that Harrison could guide the South out of a slave economy, and he knew that Tyler would preserve it. The only president to serve in Congress after leaving the White House, Adams fought Southern gag orders and pushed for Emancipation for 17 years before dying at 81 on the House floor in 1848.
A one-term president defeated in his bid for re-election in 1824, Adams considered the death of Harrison and the swearing-in of Tyler as the most demoralizing time of his life.
The answer may be two.
However, if we add the one I have in mind, then we may have to consider Richard Nixon and possibly Herbert Hoover as well. As unlikeable as they were, and for all the harm that both did, there’s no reason to pin either with a “call to terminate” Constitutional law. At least not an open call.
Coincidentally, the one I have in mind was also a vice-president who ascended after a president’s death and was never elected on his own. Ironically, he and Tyler always bitterly opposed each other.
Pres. Andrew Johnson, a Tennessean who was on the 1864 ticket with Lincoln to appeal to voters in the border states, may never have called for a suspension of the Constitution, but as historian Brenda Wineapple tells us, he was…
“… a man with a fear of losing ground, with a need to be recognized, with an obsession to be right, and when seeking revenge on enemies—or perceived enemies—he had to humiliate, harass, and hound them. Heedless of consequences, he baited Congress and bullied men, believing his enemies were enemies of the people. It was a convenient illusion.”
In effect, all of the humiliation, harassment, and hounding, made the “radicals” of the time–i.e. senators and representatives who had pushed for Emancipation and were then pushing for the 13th, 14th, and 15th Amendments–fear that Johnson could subvert a premise of the US Constitution:
“But if this impeachment failed, given all the favorable circumstances, all the breaches of law, all the usurpation, the staunchest Radicals felt that no American President would ever be successfully impeached and convicted, and there would alas be no limit to presidential power.”
If what happened this weekend goes without consequence, that fear will be realized. Given all that has already gone free of consequence, perhaps it already has.
William Henry Harrison as a general about 35 years before his election to the presidency. What made his reputation was a victory over the Sac & Fox tribe at a place named Tippecanoe. Hence, the campaign slogan in 1840: “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too!” https://drloihjournal.blogspot.com/2017/10/william-henry-harrison-governor-of.html
Over 45 years ago, National Geographic ran a cover story on the Ohio River that began with a startling claim:
The Ohio carries more water than the Mississippi to their confluence at Cairo, Illinois.*
If that wasn’t enough, the magazine went on to remind this already pop-eyed and drop-jawed reader that Cairo is 125 miles south of St. Louis where the Missouri joins in. Therefore, the Ohio carries more water than the Mississippi and Missouri combined.
Don’t know what geography textbooks say today–at times I wonder if geography is even taught today–but in the Eisenhower-Kennedy years, their lists of the world’s longest rivers always hyphenated ours: Mississippi-Missouri.
As a kid who imagined myself as an American citizen at an early age–writing a letter to Richard Nixon while wearing a Jack Kennedy pin when I was nine–I found the hyphenation vaguely insulting. Other continents’ river names stood alone: Nile, Amazon, Yangtze, Yenisey. Ours needed help.
But there I was, a grad student taking a cartography class faced with the topographical fact that most of the water flowing through New Orleans and the Delta into the Gulf of Mexico is not on either side of the hyphen favored by record keepers, but from the uncredited Ohio.
Past 70, I learn that Herman Melville called the Mississippi bluff a century before I was born on the banks of New England’s industrial-grade Merrimack River. While setting the last novel published in his lifetime, TheConfidence-Man, on a Mississippi steamboat, he observed the confluence in St. Louis. He then read a book titled A Condensed Geography and History of the Western States: or, the Mississippi Valley (1828) which confirmed what he thought he saw.
An elegiac description of it was found in his desk after he passed. Scholars believe it was intended as a prologue for Confidence-Man, but that Melville decided it was too “expansive” to suit the “restrained” tone of the novel.
Lucky for me he didn’t feed it to the fire, as I learn I was not alone in my quest for geographic truth, topographic accuracy, cartographic precision. True, Melville never mentions the Ohio, but by that same token, while telling others of my discovery 40 years ago, I’ve never mentioned the Tennessee River that joins the Ohio within 40 miles of Cairo.** And it is the Tennessee, not the Ohio, that FDR’s New Deal tapped for hydro-electric projects to help take us out of the Depression.
All that matters is that, unlike the solo performances of the Nile in Africa, the Amazon in Brazil, the Yangtze in China, ours is the effort of many, a fluid E Pluribus Unum. I’ve mentioned just four, but just look at a map and consider the stretch of the Arkansas, the Cumberland, the Red, the Canadian, the Wisconsin, the Minnesota, the Des Moines, and the Platte, North and South.
Once again, I’m indebted to Melville. This time for bringing this memory to the surface and into this installment of “Mouth of the River,” and I am attaching his description of the Mississippi-Missouri confluence below.
Must say, though, that I now wonder if Melville, who spent most of his youth in Albany and his senior years in New York City, knew that the Hudson–which connects the two with a series of straight lines joined by slight angles rather than the sweeping curves characteristic of rivers–is technically not a river, but a fjord.
As the word Abraham means father of a great multitude of men, so the word Mississippi means father of a great multitude of waters. His tribes stream in from east and west, exceeding fruitful the lands they enrich. In this granary of a continent, this basin of the Mississippi, must not the nations be greatly multiplied and blest?
Above the Falls of St. Anthony, for the most part he winds evenly on between banks of fog or through tracts of pine over marble sands in waters so clear that the deepest fish have the visible flight of the bird. Undisturbed as the lowly life in its bosom feeds the lordly life on its shores, the coroneted elk and the deer, while in the walrus form of some couched rock in the channel, furred over with moss, the furred bear on the marge seems to eye his amphibious brother. Wood and wave wed, man is remote. The unsung time, the Golden Age of the billow.
Like a larger Susquehannah, like a long-drawn bison herd, he browses on through the prairie, here and there expanding into archipelagoes cycladean in beauty, while, fissured and verdant, a long China Wall, the bluffs sweep bluely away. Glad and content, the sacred river glides on.
But at St. Louis the course of this dream is run. Down on it like a Pawnee from an ambush foams the yellow-painted Missouri. The calmness is gone, the grouped islands disappear, the shores are jagged and rent, the hue of the water is clayed, the before moderate current is rapid and vexed. The peace of the Upper River seems broken in the Lower, nor is it ever renewed.
The Missouri would seem rather a hostile element than a filial flood. Larger, stronger than the father of waters, like Jupiter he dethrones his sire and reigns in his stead. Under the benign name of Mississippi it is in truth the Missouri that now rolls to the Gulf, the Missouri that with the Timon snows from his solitudes freezes the warmth of the genial zones, the Missouri that by open assault or artful sap sweeps away forest and field, graveyard and town, the Missouri that not a tributary but an invader enters the sea, long disdaining to yield his white wave to the blue.
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The cartography class I mention was at South Dakota State University in Brookings, SD, about 60 miles north of Sioux Falls on the Sioux River, a tributary to the Missouri you can see on this map, though it is unlabeled. The Sioux is honestly more of an occasional flood plain than a recognizable river, something that can be said of many rivers in the Plains. Notice the proximity to the Des Moines and the Minnesota, tributaries to the Mississippi. As I recall, I lived within 20 miles of the divide between the two basins. https://biotech.law.lsu.edu/maps/mrtp/mrtp.htm
*Vesilind, Priit J. “The Ohio–River with a Job to Do.” National Geographic, 151, No. 2 (Feb. 1977), 245-273. (Accessible online if you have a subscription.)
**This was as far as Huck Finn and Jim wanted to go in pursuit of freedom, Cairo being the southernmost tip of Illinois, a free state, while every state south was slave. They needed to get off the Mississippi and onto the Ohio, but they missed the juncture due to heavy fog. That necessitated Huck’s decision: Either turn in the runaway Jim for his own freedom and a bounty, or aid and abet Jim, making himself a fugitive for violating Southern state laws. That scene may well be American literature’s finest moment.
Mouth of the River 