Rethinking The 20th Century

First published in the Camden Chronicle (date unknown)

Throughout the year 1999, writers of all stripes told us over and over again which events in the 20th century were newsworthy and worth remembering. World Wars I and II were favorite subjects. The Battle of the Bulge, the A-bomb drop on Hiroshima, the decision to commence the Marshall Plan were on just about everybody's A-list, too. The Great Depression, manned flight, and the development of the automobile were events of the ten decades from 1900 to 2000 mentioned as the most compelling events of this period as well.

There were some events, less glorious, but just as meaningful to the person we call The Common Man. One of these was Henry Ford's decision in 1915 to raise all of his worker's pay to $5.00 a day.

Just imagine if some entrepreneur/industrialist, say Bill Gates of Microsoft, announced tomorrow that every employee he has will be paid, $100,000 a year beginning right now. Think of all the waves that would make in the computer industry. Wall Street would panic and Congress would rush to pass laws raising taxes.

In 1915, the going wage was $2.00 per day. Sometimes an extremely skilled and diligent worker was raised to the sublime wage of $2.50 per day, but that was tops. Five dollars a day was unheard of and many predicted that Ford would go bankrupt in a few months unless he got hold of himself and returned his pay slips to their old number. When Mr. Ford held the line on his pay increases, many of his investors began bolting for the door.

Former Michigan governor Lewis Cass's money had been in the Ford Motor Company. FOMOCO was not on the Stock Exchange then. The Dodge family pulled out of Ford and started their own automotive company.

Ransom E. Olds, the founder of the Oldsmobile Corporation, threatened to put Ford out of business by selling his cars cheaper than Ford because he assumed Ford would have to raise prices because of his wage policy. Instead, Ford cut prices and kept Olds in the pressure seat.

But boy! Did Ford's workers love it! Families that had been renting a place to live suddenly were buying homes. The children of Ford workers who never expected to go to college were now enrolling in higher education. Now, even the lowest paid employee at Ford could afford one of the black beauties he helped to build. Soon, Model Ts began appearing in the driveways where they never were expected before.

For the average man, one of the greatest benefits of the Ford $5.00 a day plan was to lift expectations for all workers in almost every industry. Edison workers said, "If Ford can do it, why can't Edison?" Skilled workers at Ford's suppliers, such as the steel industry, began leaving their jobs in Youngstown, Pittsburgh, and Wierton, heading for Dearborn and Mr. Ford's shop.

If the steel magnates complained to Ford, he merely threatened to build his own steel works (which he later did) and cut them off completely.

When I debate all those who believe government is the answer to all the welfare needs of us citizens, I ask this question: Who has done more for poor people in America, Henry Ford or Lyndon Johnson?

Another powerful event that took place during the 20th century that went unnoticed by the New York scriveners was the birth of the Dionne Quintuplets in May 1934 in Callander, Ontario.

I was a little over four years old when these five girls were born but I either remember the event or heard it spoken of so much that it seems I can remember the real thing.

That five children were born prematurely and all kept alive was, for the time, nothing short of miraculous. All five weighed a total of 11 1/2 pounds at birth. The attending doctor, a physician named Roy Dafoe, gained worldwide fame for his delivering techniques and the makeshift incubator he built to house the infants during the early weeks. For a while, the mother's life was in danger. Dr. Dafoe showed considerable skill treating her and saving her life. These were the days before fertility pills and five live births from the same pregnancy were rare. The girls were made wards of the British crown. Canada was still a British colony then. People came from all over the world to view these miracle babies. Childless women on three continents wrote to the Dionne father to pay him for his services if he would impregnate them.

To the average person, Henry Ford's $5.00 a day wages and the Dionne Quintuplets were bigger events than the Wright Brother's flight at Kitty Hawk, bigger than the surrender of Germany in World War I. These were working man happenings. These were things housewives could understand and talked about over the back fence. Even children knew something big was taking place.

Jim, circa 1995, making a point

What Makes A Leader

This article first appeared in the October 10, 1990 issue of The Camden Chronicle. If anyone knows the Larry Vick mentioned in the article, I'd be interested in what happened to him and the project he supported.

It is gratifying and reassuring to see so many letters to the Editor on the Opinion page of The Chronicle lately. Gratifying because that is what the Opinion page is for, it is the place for people in the country to call attention to a problem they feel is plaguing the community or to just get something off their chest. In addition, it is the place in a small community, sometimes the only place, for the thinkers to put forth new thoughts and ideas.

Many people feel the places to look for leadership and innovation in our political and social worlds are among our federal politicians and in our appellate courts. If not that high, at least to the elected and appointed officials at the State level. However, when we examine the process closely, most of the time we find the real thinking comes from the grass roots. With few exceptions, our political and social leaders are so busy maintaining the status quo and perpetuating themselves in office there is little time left to think of the people who elected them.

For this reason it is unexpected and reassuring to see a local politician taking the bull by the horns when he feels there is a need and putting the political process to work in the way it was intended at the local level.

In the past few weeks, County Commissioner Larry Vick has just about single-handedly sold the County on building a Civic Center to provide a place for young people, as well as the elderly, to meet and play and enjoy themselves in a manner that is good and right. I don't know Larry Vick, but I like the way he works. He sets forth his ideas in a coherent style and asks for help without whining or begging. He knows that alone he can accomplish nothing, but when a community works together, a lot can be accomplished in a very short time.

As mentioned before, I never met young Mr. Vick, but I knew his father personally and his grandfather by reputation, so I know the bloodline is good. When one tires, as I do, of reading about greedy inept politicians in our big city newspapers, reading about Larry Vick's energy and interest i his community is like a breath of fresh air.

The Saving Grace of 'Catch-22'

This article first appeared in the June 7, 2000 issue of The Camden Chronicle

When I heard on the news that Joseph Heller died, it sent my mind sailing backwards to a time when things were not going well for me and he helped me laugh my way through my low time.  

You see, Heller wrote a book called "Catch-22." It was about an Army Air Force bombardier who had seen too much German flak thrown up at his plane during bombing runs and was seeking any way to be grounded in order to stop his missions. The book's central character was Air Force Captain Yossarian and he was about as craven a coward as you'll ever read about, but don't feel superior because he is not unique. I'm almost certain that everyone who has ever fought in a war has shared Yossarian-type feelings.

Yossarian wanted to be declared insane and grounded by the medical staff, thus ending his dangerous missions over Italy where Hermann Goering's (Hitler's Luftwaffe leader) anti-aircraft gunners were defending targets. The trouble for Yossarian was that the Army's medical section opined a bombardier who wasn't afraid was a crazy person. The scared ones were perfectly normal, thus "Catch-22."

At the time I read the book I was in as blue a funk as Capt. Yossarian. The milk plant where I had worked since my 18th birthday had closed down and laid off its entire staff. Management included. I was as scared as Yossarian because I was having to plot a whole new course for my life's work. I had a young consort and a child to protect and support, a mortgage to meet and bills to pay. Money was scarce.

From my 18th birthday, the day I was hired at the milk plant, until the day I was summarily dismissed, I never expected to work at any other place. Career-wise, I thought I had found a home. As I found out when I was reading "Catch-22," there are forces working against all of us which we don't have much control over. Despite all of our plans, sometimes we must grab hold of the nearest hand grip and go along for the ride.While we're at it, we might as well relax and enjoy the ride we're on.

Because of my youth and my willingness to work, I had been welcomed into all parts of the milk plant. In three or four years, I was on speaking terms with people in every aspect of the plant's operations. Because of his, and the fact that I showed up for work everyday, I was a valued, well-paid employee who was appointed to break in the college grads recently recruited from Michigan State with degrees in Animal Husbandry and Dairy Management.

I had so much confidence I was cocky and real sure of myself, conditions that don't lend themselves to much fright or self-reflection. When the boom was lowered, I was in no condition to handle the pressure.

As Yossarian did, I panicked. At first I went into a state of denial. I didn't want anyone to know I had lost my job. I just couldn't bring myself to believe there would be no more job to go to each morning, where I would be completely confident of what I had to do and the manner in which I was to do it. For a week, I told people who asked that I was on vacation. I knew soon or later I would have to admit I was out of work. Not just out of work, it was worse than that. I was forced into a new system of life where I was just another "hand."

The woman I consorted with then, and as now, tried to console me but I refused to be comforted. The questions I asked myself and the decisions I had to make were mountainous to me. For the first time in a long time, I lost confidence in myself. Ask any athlete what a loss of confidence means. I asked myself questions like, should I accept the first job offer that comes along or hold out for a better one? Should I look for work in other fields or restrict myself to applications in the dairy industry, a field I knew well. "Catch-22" conditions had forced my company out of business and and was affecting the entire industry in Detroit. Very few companies were hiring new people. I found out there were plenty of other guys like me in the job market with as much skill and experience.

Then I happened on Joseph Heller's book and I realized there are worse conditions to be in than merely out of work. It was a fun book. I laughed when I read the lines that reminded me of myself and how I had overreacted to my situation. Sure enough, it wasn't long before I was established in another job and enjoying my work again.

On the last page of "Catch-22," Yossarian is asked how he feels. "I'm very frightened," was his reply. "That's good," the Major doing the asking said. "That proves you're still alive."

Where's Bobby Gentry When You Need Her?

This article was first published in the September 5, 1990 issue of The Camden Chronicle. 

Just about the time I say to myself, "Self, I believe I've seen or heard about every dumb thing a bumbling politician or stupid, arrogant bureaucrat can do," one comes up with a new ineptness that baffles the mind.

Here in Michigan we are blessed with the normal amount of bumbling politicians but due to the wealth of the state and the high tax structure, we will put our number of over-bloated bureaucracies up against any state, with the possible exceptions of New York and Massachusetts.

Zilwaukee Bridge collapse, 1987

Some years ago, the Michigan Department of Transportation decided to build a bridge over a Big Sandy-sized river on Interstate 75, north of Detroit*. The span they designed and built would have crossed the Amazon at the river's widest point. The original cost estimate was amazing and the over-runs were atrocious. Before it was finished, a portion of the bridge fell delaying work for months and months. Meanwhile, three departments were pointing the finger at each other with none taking the blame. As usual, the taxpayer felt a mighty surge in his hip pocket.

Now, none of our state departments has committed a blunder that is funny, unless you are a fish. In this particular case, the cost to the taxpayer is low enough that we can laugh about it. The Michigan Department of Natural Resources was testing the effects of coal-fired power plants on the fish in the Muskegon River. The method they used was to put a poison called Rotenone in the water near the return point that the power plants used. Then they would count the number of dead fish that floated to the surface. Unfortunately, they let it get out of hand. The poison floated downstream three miles, merrily killing fish along its way. The department head, David Hales, immediately pleaded guilty.

"We broke the law," he said, "and we'll pay a penalty." He ordered his department to pay two $25,000 fines to the State's General Fund.

"We're no different than anyone else," said Mr. Hales. "We violated the law, so we have to pay."

This brings up two questions. First: When something is dead, can it be counted? Does Benton County count the people buried in Mt. Zion Cemetery in its census? And, if so, does Mary Parker count since she escaped**?

The second question is: since the Rotenone damage to sport fishing in the river is estimated at $100,000, why compound it by giving away $50,000? Why not use that money to repair the damage? Bureaucracies alone may not destroy the state of Michigan but Lordy, Lordy, they sure provide some comic relief.

Editor's Notes:
*   I believe Jim is referring to The Zilwaukee Bridge, located on I-75 over the Saginaw River. 
** For more information about the mystery of Mary Parker, click on the link above. 

And Bobby Gentry's song was one of Jim's favorites. 

Advice For Graduating Seniors

Editor's Note: This was originally published in The Camden Chronicle, but the exact date is unknown. At the time of Jim's death in January 2000, the biggest internet story was the fact that none of the dire predictions surrounding January 1, 2000 ("Y2K") had come to pass. Facebook, Twitter, etc., may have been ideas percolating in some teenager's consciousness, but I have my doubts about that. In the article below, as with many issues, Jim foreshadows the use of social media by employers and others to monitor behavior and use those observations to make a range of decisions impacting employment, college admissions, and so forth. 

At lunch a few days ago, a friend and I were discussing the opportunities, or lack of opportunities, facing this year's group of high school graduates. My friend, a southern expatriate like myself, was explaining, "When I came to Detroit in 1947, a fellow could sleep 'til 8:00 on just about any morning and still get a job before lunchtime. My advice to a high school grad is to continue on with their education. Jobs are much harder to come by now."

I suppose my friend's advice makes sense, but as for me, I have no advice for a student continuing on to college because I never went and cannot speak with authority.* But I do have advice for a young person who is beginning a lifetime  of work in a supermarket, hamburger franchise, machine shop, factory, or any of the thousands of unskilled jobs that are required to keep this country humming: KEEP A JOURNAL!

Not a diary. Not a record of holding hands with a Saturday night date. I'm talking about a record of the people you work with and especially the ones in authority over you.

From the moment you make application and are hired, every move you make and every word you speak will be reported in some personnel file the company requires its managers to keep. Your personal life will be recorded, too. Your habits, such as smoking and drinking, will be noted and scrutinized in the event that you are eligible for some sort of promotion or advance in the company. Screening agencies will be hired to check on your family life and your friends. Is your spouse the proper sort? Will he or she fit into the company's scheme of things? Are your friends well behaved? Do they have sexual or social failings that could bring embarrassment to you and, through you, to the company?

In order to minimize the effect these company-kept personnel records might have on you in the future a journal of all your workmates, and especially middle- and upper-management in the organization, is absolutely essential. This way, when sales are slow, new orders are not forthcoming and your boss pulls your personnel file because layoffs are the order of the day, you can pull out your own file and explain why it would be better if you are kept.

Records are a powerful tool and anyone can keep them. Remember, a properly kept journal can be far more valuable than the high school diploma you just earned.

###

More editor's notes: 

* This is sort of true. Jim didn't get a high school diploma in 1948 as he should have, instead he quit school two months before graduating and hopped a bus for Detroit. I never did hear a story that made sense. In one serious questioning, he explained that he had done badly on tests and quit before he thought he would be humiliated by flunking. In another, he claimed that he just wanted to come to the big city and make money. Quitting and being motivated by money were two traits I never would have used to describe my father. However, after being discharged from the Navy (see Letters From The USS Valley Forge), Jim received a G.E.D. and did take some courses, including creative writing and public speaking, from Henry Ford Community College. 

As with much of Jim's writing, the tone is a bit tongue in cheek. As a father, he never advocated blackmailing supervisors in the event of an unfortunate conversation. However, he did recommend constant observation of one's environment and listening for what was not being said. He also recommended a Pharm.D. as the best of all possible careers to anyone who would listen. 

Nilla Banana Pudding, The Sweetest Sin

First published in the July 25, 1990 issue of The Camden Chronicle

Mark Twain told a story of a maiden lady who became ill. The doctor was called and after an examination declared that tobacco was the culprit.

"If you give up snuff dipping," he said, "I can almost guarantee a complete recovery."

The lady protested, "I am a clean, fastidious woman. I have never used tobacco in my life."

"Is drinking your problem?" the doctor asked. "Perhaps if you gave up the bottle, your health would improve."

Again, the patient took issue. "I am," she said, "the daughter of a long line of teetotalers. If I put a glass of the Devil's brew to my lips, Heaven would split open and Satan would cackle from his hellish throne. Never, under any circumstances, would I partake of spirits."

"Well, then," the doctor opined, "it must be your social life. If you will give up some of your gentlemen friends and live a more sedate life, your health will improve dramatically."

The lady became agitated, "Doctor! I am a lifelong spinster! The only man I have been alone with in my adult life is Deacon Waverly, and even then there is always three feet of space and a pair of overalls between us. You are barking up the wrong tree. My life is as pure as the driven snow."

"Too bad, then," said the doctor. "You have no bad habits or shortcomings to give up in order to get well. It looks like you're a goner. Good day, madam."

I posed this question to the woman I consort with: If you were suddenly taken ill and had to give up some lifelong or beloved habit to improve your health, what would it be?

"That's easy," she said. "I would give up cornbread. That's the only way I would give up cornbread -- if my life was threatened. And, if that did not work to improve my health, I would made the supreme sacrifice: I would give up porch swinging. Life without cornbread and porch swinging would hardly be worth living, anyway. A just God would not overlook such a sacrifice on my part. I feel confident that the Almighty will honor those offerings laid at his feet."

While I pondered her answer, I wondered what I would do in like circumstances. I gave up smoking long ago. I never was much of a drinker. At my age, an overactive social life would probably be more dangerous to my health than anything nature could contrive.

The only over indulgence that plagues my life is vanilla wafers. That will attest to the dullest of existences. If Mark Twain were here, I wonder how he would feel about my plight.

Back of the Box Recipes, click here

Editor's note:

The Mark Twain story that Jim cites appears to be in "Following the Equator: A Journey Around The World" and is often referred to as the "Moral Pauper." Twain's version isn't quite like Jim's, but you know how storytellers embellish. One of Jim's favorite quotes from his mother was "I know that story's the truth 'cause I made it up myself." 

It's true about those dang bland cookies. There was always a box of Nabisco Vanilla Wafers in the house and there was nothing Jim loved more than the Banana Pudding recipe on the box.

The Art of the Deal - Southern Style

First published in the August 9, 1990 issue of The Camden Chronicle

I can remember exactly when and where it happened, when I acquired an affluent feeling, when I felt like I had left the common herd and had taken my place among the CEOs of this life. Until then, the only claim I had on the upper echelon-ship of everyday comings and goings was as a trustee in the church.

Being a church trustee requires no great amount of talent or training. All you have to do is show up at most meetings, say a short prayer if you are asked, keep your pledge more or less current, and speak well of the pastor in public. I could say something about what it takes to be a deacon or song leader, but I have digressed too much already.

There was this man who owed me a small sum of money. He came by my house while the workmen were building a new garage to replace the old one that was nearly rotted to the ground.  As he stood beside me watching the workmen perform, he explained that ready cash was still in short supply around his house and it would be a while before he could return the loan in the currency of the land.

"By Golly!" he exploded, his eyes lighting up. "I've just come into possession of a new garage door opener!" He gave the brand name and motor horsepower.

"It would sure be the thing to open the door on your new garage! I'll give you the opener and help you install it in lieu of the debt!"

Since I held no collateral on the loan and the amount was not a great lot, the idea appealed to me, but the clincher was his offer to help with the installation. I knew my debtor was skilled in things mechanical and the installation of the door opener would be a snap for him, while the removal and replacement of a light bulb sometimes taxes my engineering abilities.

True to our agreement, the next day my friend brought over the electric door opener and installed it in short order. Debt paid. We shook hands, agreed that both had made a great bargain and parted friends. He promised to keep me in mind if he needed to borrow money again. I thanked him and said I would certainly mention his name if anyone inquired about a garage door installer.

That night, after things had settled down and the woman I consort with was watching television in another part of the house, I stood at the kitchen window with the garage door remote. I pressed the button and watched the door quietly slide up and down. What a feeling of power!

"I am no longer a small time country boy," I told myself. "I have arrived." An automatic garage door opener is the difference between feeling influentially stable and just hanging on with crowd.

The editor (Connie Parker Harrison) beneath the Influentially Stable Garage Door Opener,
August 1986, with Kevin Cornett and friends.

Father's Day, 1990

First published in The Camden Chronicle June 13, 1990

Parker Family 1953
From left, back row: John Moses, Walter, Polly, Jim (author of the blog), JoAnn, Larry
Seated: John Wyly ("Dad") and Bertha Sterling

To the anti-tobacco crowd he would be an ogre and to a clean air freak, he would be a Mount St. Helen's disaster, but my father was one of the few totally honest men I ever met. He didn't rule his home like a dictator or an emperor. His rule was more benevolent, like the Speaker of the House. When possible, all family members had a say in any decisions made. He was a kind, soft-spoken man, seldom raising his voice even when angry. He could usually find some humor in all but the rankest disregard of household rules.

In the daytime during working hours, he either chewed tobacco or dipped snuff. In the evening, he enjoyed filling his pipe with tobacco strong enough to tote a mule across Harmon's Creek. He would lean back in his chair and fill the room with a smoke cloud as thick as fog in the Smoky Mountains.

I saw him cry twice. Once, when he gave my eldest sister to be a wife. In those days, expensive church weddings were out of the question. The loving couple usually went to a nearby marriage parlor in Mississippi, quietly married and that was the extent of the ceremony. After my sister and her betrothed drove away from our house, I saw dad wiping tears. The other time he cried was when my youngest sister was bitten by a rabid dog and he feared for the life of one he loved.

The Director of Life miscast dad for the role he played. Dad was a farmer, but he had no talent or desire for the role. The only natural trait he ever showed around the farm was an affinity with animals. All of his animals loved him. Horses and mules obeyed him like children. Cows would relax and produce more milk when he was around. A certain cow we owned that never missed a chance to impale me on her spike-like horns would snuggle those same horns under my father's arms and croon like a lovesick partridge when he stroked her neck.

Dad died broke. When he realized the end was near, true to form, he called a friend who was a retired funeral director to make arrangements for his last service. It was his way of relieving his wife and children of that unpleasant task. His death was a shock to me. It just seems some people should never die.

For The Love Of Books And Libraries

First published in The Camden Chronicle February 21, 1990. Picked up by The Dearborn Press and Guide and The Dearborn Times -Herald. 

Terry and the Pirates Vol. 2: 1937-1938

by Milton Caniff

Fifty years ago at Liberty School, Herman Presson taught me how to read. Then he taught me why I should read. Finally, through his Friday afternoon storytelling sessions, he showed me how to enjoy reading. Mr. Presson could get more action, excitement and pure romance from a book than anyone I've met since I left his care. If books were as compelling and stories were as amazing as Mr. Herman convinced me they were, I couldn't wait 'til I could read and understand books for myself.

Alex Raymond's Jungle Jim (November 26, 1939)

I have not been disappointed. Books have long been my main source of relaxation and learning. My early reading was made up mostly of comic books. Some the the lads read Captain Marvel and Superman, but my taste ran more towards Jungle Jim and Terry and the Pirates. Somehow the supernatural antics of the Superman type stories never appealed to me.

Then came the "Big Little" books. Anyone old enough to remember when the Dixie Theatre sat smack in the middle of the block on the east side of the Court House in Camden will recall these marvels of literature. On one page were printed words and on the next page was a picture pertaining to the story. They were just the right size to fit in your hip pocket and were always handy to fend off loneliness. They were also nice to have in your pocket in case your old man or teacher decided to correct your attitude.

As I grew, I read almost all of Zane Grey's books, then I moved on to Jack London's "White Fang" and "Martin Eden." After reading Grey and London, comic books and the Big Little Books were too light for me.

The people in Camden and Benton County are lucky. You have a well stocked library to borrow from. I know because two years ago I spent the best part of an afternoon there just browsing through the books on the shelves and visiting with the volunteer librarian on duty.

These winter months are the perfect time for anyone to read, but especially so for retirees and people on Disability. Go down to the library. Get yourself a library card, if you don't already have one, then check out some good books. Don't look for books that are easy to read. Get the ones with words that will send you mumbling and cursing to the dictionary to figure out what the author is saying. Find some books on subjects that will have you groping through the encyclopedia. Reading might as well be fun and fun might as well be learning. I believe books are man's greatest invention. If nothing else, they will give your TV set a rest.

Editor's Note:
Jim's love of literature has been a major influence in my life. I wrote about it in a post, "Marketing Books To Boys" at The Bookshop Blog. 

When The Brain Shifts Into Neutral

First published in The Camden Chronicle December 27, 1989

Why is it that when the human body is placed in a state of enforced idleness, the human brain belonging to that body insists on going into neutral also? In the eight weeks since a heart attack and a subsequent bypass operation rendered me more slothful than an inchworm crawling on a mulberry leaf, my mind seems to think it has every right to a period of recuperation, too.

I mentioned this to my sister. She says the answer is simple: when the body is idle, the brain has no reason to do anything other than idle along with the rest of the crowd. She may be right. When I was working, it seemed like every day two or three ideas would bang inside my head without any effort on my part. Not all were good ideas, certainly not all were original, but they kept bumping around against each other inside my mind, sorting themselves out, until finally, at the end of the day, they would settle down into one pretty good thought to ponder and write about.

A few days ago, after the woman I consort with made her way to work, I sat alone at the kitchen table gazing out the window watching a small flock of birds gather around the chimney stack on the roof of a neighbor's house to keep warm. They reminded me of  how the kids in my family used to flock around the wood stove in our living room on a cold morning, first warming one side, then the other. Moving in and out, occasionally squabbling about who had the better position.

At the table, on my second cup of decaf, it seemed like the perfect place and time to grope for new ideas, so I gave myself an assignment: sit at the table for 30 minutes or until an idea I'd never thought of came to mind.

"Don't read, don't ponder, don't even answer the phone if it rings. Come up with one thought that is original."

In 30 minutes I could not. Oh!! It occurred to me to research the reason Chinese people like rice and Irishmen prefer potatoes, why our fingernails grow as long as we live but our teeth do not, why God made some birds that can fly and some that cannot -- is it because He has a sense of humor after all? You might want to take this up with your doctor or your preacher or even your hair-dresser.

Maybe I'm just in a slump, but it seems to me that the body's action begets brain action. That's why I'm looking forward to the time I can do more than walk five or six blocks a day. I want to go among the people to, as the big time writers say, interact and inter-relate. My body is healing, but my mind is atrophying. I'll sure be glad when I can get them working on the same level.

In the Liberty Column of the next issue was a comment from Andrea Madden, whose husband, Walt, was Jim's cousin.

"A message to Jim Parker in Michigan. We really did enjoy your article in last week's paper, about the 'brain' going on a leave of absence during the months after surgery. Don't worry not fret, just let Norma do your 'thinking' and everything will be OK. My better half says he went through the same feelings of 'limbo' in 1984 and here it is 1990 and not much improvement, so don't worry about such minor details!!! Just knowing that friends and family are there to guide you along will help." 

Affairs of the Heart

First published in The Camden Chronicle November 15, 1989

If I have been abnormally quiet lately, it is because of affairs of the heart. No!! Not that kind of affairs of the heart. I'm still living at the same address, still consorting with the same woman.

The heart affairs I'm talking about are the kind that wake you up in the middle of the night with pains in the chest. There's a quick ride to a nearby hospital where they do an EKG, compare it with one taken last year during a regular check up and announce there have been changes in the graph. Then, on to Intensive Care for 72 hours.

After this, I'm transferred to another hospital where a four-way heart bypass operation* is performed. Oh, the wonders of modern science!

Twenty years ago, I probably could have looked forward to spending the rest of my days in dull servitude to pain and shortness of breath. Instead, my surgeon tells me that in three months or less, I can go back to work.

The surgeon is a remarkable person. He breaks open the chest in much the same way that a coal miner breaks open the earth to extract ore. The surgeon and miner know exactly what they are looking for: the miner has his eyes out for a seam of coal, the surgeon is looking for the heart valves that are plugged, the ones he must pass. When he fines them, he strips a vein from the leg or other part of the body, cuts it into short pieces and sews them into the heart to bypass the blocked section.

The patient, of course, knows nothing about what is going on inside his body during the operation, which is a good thing. This patient would have died of fright if he had been aware of what was happening during surgery.

The first 48 hours after surgery, the patient is treated in much the same way as a wood cutter treats a log. There are so many pipes, valves, and wires emanating from the body, the patient looks and feels like a cut of wood before the small limbs are trimmed off.

Vital signs and bodily functions are checked constantly. Doctors gaze and grin, proud of the work they have performed. Nurses poke, prick and pluck, taking blood, smoothing bed clothes, and speaking encouraging words to prevent the patient from lapsing into a blue funk.

Therapists come three times a day to beat the patient's back. This is to keep congestion from building up in the lungs; pneumonia is always a post surgery danger with this kind of operation.

On the third day after surgery, I'm transferred to a ward with three other patients like myself. Now the monitoring becomes much less severe. I'm permitted to walk to the bathroom. This is progress. The pipes, valves, and wires have been reduced to two lines and a tube which is built on wheels and rolls with me as I walk.

After five days in the ward, I'm sent home. I slept better, felt better and thought straighter.

My doctor says he's pleased with the progress I've made so far. But it is slow at best. Patience has never been one of my virtues. There is only one word that can be used in a family newspaper to describe this confinement. That word is ORDEAL. All other descriptive words border on profane. I'm glad it's over. I'm glad I had it done. But I sincerely hope you never have to go through it.


*Editor's note:
The terminology sounds a little archaic now, but in the 80s, when the surgery was new, this was the common term for a quadruple bypass in the area of Michigan where Jim lived. 

Quick Draw McBush

First published in the Camden Chronicle August 22, 1990 

It takes seven days for a copy of the The Chronicle to reach our hearth. While I am reading last week's copy, you are reading this week's copy. I've never experienced jet lag, but the feeling I get reading seven day old news must be something near to a jet lag feeling.

Our postal system claims to be the fastest in the world. I sure am glad it's not the slowest. I just looked it up: in 1860 the Pony Express carried a message from St. Joseph, Missouri to Sacramento, California in just over seven days. One would think that with all the high powered equipment and educated people available to the post office, they could negotiate the distance between Camden and Dearborn a little faster. The ad that was used to recruit Pony Express riders is interesting. It read:

"Wanted... young men and boys, small in stature and wiry. Must be skilled horsemen and good shots."  Apply, etc. 

All we ask of today's postman is to be able to read, write and move. Maybe movement is too much for them.

Produced and Directed by Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera,
1st aired week of January 23, 1961

By the  time you read this, it may all be over but at this moment oil laden war clouds are rising in the Middle East. Iraq has moved into Kuwait and is making threatening gestures towards the Arabian Peninsula. Mr. Bush, like a presidential Quick Draw McGraw, is yelling, "Hold on thar, Mr. Saddam Hussein!" and is rushing into the fray with his rocket tipped Kabongers to stem the tide of the world's best supply of crude. 

Meanwhile, TV and news reports are awash with middle eastern experts who tell us why Mr. Bush is right or why he is wrong. Take your choice. Which brings up a  couple of questions: What do experts do when there's nothing to expert about? And, why is someone an expert when he sees only one side of the question? 

I am enjoying Alma Oatsvall's journey into old time religion. She talks about baptizing in a creek, rather than a church baptistery. I was baptized in a creek, but I don't remember which one. It probably wouldn't be hard to find; there would still be a dirty spot in the water where my sins were washed away. 

Why doesn't someone write a letter to The Chronicle about the old time box suppers and Sunday socials? I attended a couple of these functions but was too small to participate. 

Eulogy for James Parker

[Editor's note: this eulogy was written by and read at Jim Parker's funeral by his daughter, Connie Parker Harrison. Jim died January 20, 2000; he was able to see that the dire predictions for Y2K were all a bunch of hooey, something that tickled him quite a bit.]

It was about two months ago that my father stood where I am now and gave a eulogy for his mother. I never thought I would be doing something similar so soon.  

As we drove out to Flatwoods Cemetery behind Berthie's hearse, my father said he thought funerals should reflect who the person was and sometimes ministers can't really convey all of that, perhaps out of ignorance or maybe out of discretion. 

As I planned this eulogy, I thought about some stories that I could tell, about times my dad was profound and others when he was funny and those incidents when he was infuriating. I thought about retelling some of the stories that have been told to me about my dad and the ways that he affected other people. But finally, I decided the best way to honor my father's memory would be to use his own words.  

About 10 years ago, my father had open heart surgery and his life, which had seemed to stretch so far into the future, became finite. My dad had talked for years about wanting to move from Michigan back to Tennessee, and I think it was at the time of his surgery that his need to move back home became more urgent.    

I'm glad that he had so many years here to spend with his family, to make new friends, and to enjoy time with his old friends.  I'm grateful that he travelled, lived in a home he loved, and had enough opinions to fill two newspaper columns and then some.  But most of all, I'm glad that he was loved and appreciated by the people who meant as much to him. I found a poem my father wrote in June, 1998 that I think sums up how happy he was to be home.

(The poem, "Tennessee" was read. Click on this link to read the post.)

Jim at the Joe (Joe Louis Arena, Detroit), he may have
moved home but he never left the Red Wings

No Way, Lady Luck

[Originally published August 30, 1989 in the Camden Chronicle.]

It was six o'clock in the afternoon.

"That's it," said the woman I consort with. "That's the motel we stayed in on our way out. The rooms are clean, the beds are firm, and I'm tired. Let's spend the night here."

We had been driving since ten in the morning from central New York state where we had spent a week visiting, among other places, the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. But that's another story. At that moment, we were driving west on the Queen's Highway, Canada 401.  It runs, with the aid of Canada 403, across southern Ontario from Windsor to Buffalo, New York.

I pulled the Chevy into the parking lot of the hotel chosen by the consort. With nary a thought of rejection, I approached the check-in desk to register for a room. The young lady behind the counter smiled as sweetly as a person can.

"Sir, " she said, "We are ALL full up and I've called every motel within fifty miles. They're full, too."

And then the fun began.

We stopped at a restaurant to eat. The food sat a little heavy on my stomach because of the uncertainty about where we would spend the night. For the next two hundred miles, we stopped at every motel along the 401 only to hear the same story, "All full up."

At 10:30 PM, the woman I consort with, who had been short-talking me since 7:00 PM, muttering something about nuclear weapons and Canada.

"Any nation that provides room and board for pigeons (she was talking about the world renowned Jack Miner Bird Sanctuary in Kingsville, Ontario) and doesn't provide enough motels for people, doesn't deserve to exist."

I tried to explain to her that Canada, though large in land mass, is small in population with only 25 million people. They can't afford, nor do they need, a motel every few miles on their freeways the way we do in the United States.

She refused to be comforted. It was at that time we saw a sign, Ridge Top Ontario Food and Lodging. [Editor's note: don't try looking for them, they're out of business.] We stopped. The price was too high. The room wasn't clean. The bed was spongy. We grabbed it like it was the Taj Mahal.

After a shower and a little TV, we were able to relax and get a reasonable night's sleep. The next morning, after pancakes and coffee (compliments of the motel), the consort was willing to discuss a reprieve for Canada.

"Perhaps," she mused, "if they will do studies concerning the feasibility of more motels, I will let them off with just a dusting of DDT."

We learned a lesson. The next time we go traveling, we will call ahead for reservations. We'll not accept what Lady Luck wants us to have.

Editor's Note:

When the hotel clerk explained the local event taking place in that area of Ontario, the lack of hotel rooms all made sense. This is Jim's version of their cranky trip. While Norma ("the consort") and Jim had a consistently strong relationship, they had a regular habit of bickering like two teenage siblings on car trips. For years, I had a front row view of their squabbles and sighs from my perch in the back seat. It should be noted that I was with Jim and Norma on this trip to Upstate New York, but had the foresight to hop on an Amtrak train running from Utica to Manhattan, making for me a far more peaceful trip.

Also, the "consort" was a huge fan of Canada and throughout my teenage years regularly crossed the border to explore the shops and tea rooms of Windsor and London, Ontario with her friends. She would never have threatened the country; that's more Jim's style.

The Non-Fiddling Campbellites, The Mary Parker Saga, Part 2

[Originally published in the July 11, 1990 issue of the Camden Chronicle]

Dear Editor:

There are a number of reasons why I write these letters to the Editor. First, I enjoy writing them and, if the letters and phone calls I receive are a true indication, there are some subscribers who enjoy reading them. That pleases me to no end. Then, sometimes other rewards come in surprising ways. Two days ago I answered the doorbell to find a man standing on the porch.

"Are you James Parker?" he cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. Since he carried no net nor wore a badge, I admitted that I was.

"I'm Shannon Parker and the Mary Parker you write about, the one that escaped from her grave at Mt. Zion Cemetery, that was my grandmother." I invited him inside and there followed an hour of animated and enjoyable conversation.

Shannon Parker said he was born in 1919 and spent his early years in Carroll County, mostly in Bruceton. Later, he went to high school in Holladay in Benton County. In 1940, his family moved north, first to Ohio, then to Michigan and, except for a few years making war on the Germans, he has been in the Detroit area since.

He talked of his immediate family.  His wife's picture showed a motherly looking lady with features that must have made her a stunner as a teenager. He passed me pictures of his son, daughter and grandchildren -- beautiful people, blonde and intelligent looking young folk you would claim for your kin, whether they were or not. Only one flaw showed up in Shannon Parker's otherwise perfect character: he belongs to the Church of Christ. A Campbellite! Or, if you remember the vernacular, a "Camelite!"

Now, most Parkers are Methodists, defending and promoting that religion from the rising of the sun til the bats go to roost. Shannon was probably influenced by his wife, who is an English girl and strong-willed, as English girls are wont to be. I can say this because my earliest recollection of going to church was to the Cedar Grove Church of Christ!

Alexander Campbell, ca. 1855

The Church of Christ was founded by a man named Alexander Campbell.  In 1906, a rift over music developed among the adherents of the faith. One group said only the human voice could make a joyful noise until the Lord. Others maintained that the noise would be a lot more joyful if accompanied by an organ or a piano. They split with the No Instruments group referring to the Musical Instrument group as "fiddling Campbellites."

Cedar Grove Church used no instruments; all singing was a cappella. My mother belongs to the faith and was determined that the souls of her children were going to be saved without music. "She believes," said my father, "that music-saved Christians will have to sit on a nail keg in the back row of the Heavenly Church."

They went round and round about that issue, but neither gave in. Dad died a Methodist and Mom, though old and unable to attend the services, still retains her beliefs and her joyful noise is all her own.

I didn't get Shannon Parker's sect affiliation but the next time we meet, I'll ask if he plays a fiddle or uses a tuning fork.

Basketball. Pfft.

Originally published in the July 4, 1990 edition of The Camden Chronicle

Well, guess who won

If there are some Benton Countians whose lives are so dull and uneventful that they are interested in professional basketball, they know that the Detroit Pistons (a team that does not play in Detroit at all, but in the far northern suburb of Auburn Hills) and the Portland Trailblazers (a team that represents a small town in Oregon) are currently locked in a play-off contest to determine who is the best there is in that game. This might be likened to to a contest to see which creek bed is rockiest, which waterfall is the spillingest, or which dandelion patch is the yellowest.

The basketball season and play-offs last for such a Methuselah-like period and the games are so much alike in execution that the sportswriters in this town are running out of cliches and redundancies to describe the action and events. No doubt the problem is the same in that one horse town of Portland, so writers in both cities have stopped writing about the games and the players and have begun to insult the locations to which each team ostensibly belongs. One Detroit paper referred to Oregonians as "Californians who couldn't cut the mustard." That same writer said Portland was so foggy that on a clear day you could see the bathroom and "Oregonians didn't know what a baked potato was until Mount St. Helens exploded." The same article referred to Portland as a suburb of Seattle, while calling it a "jerktimber town" rather than a jerkwater town.

The small town writers from Portland were not intimidated by our Detroit scriveners. In an editorial, one Portland paper described Detroit as a halfway house on the way to Houston. The same editorial said that Antoine Cadillac was accompanied by an Indian when the transmission gave out on his canoe. Cadillac, this writer asserted, had to stop at a place that later became Detroit before continuing on to Montreal, leaving the Indian behind to start the city. Another writer said, "Henry Ford was prospecting for rust when he struck a Model T. He convinced the world it was a Toyota and the Tokyo of the West was born."

I find reading this far more enjoyable than reading about "post ups" and "technical fouls." Reading about setting the picks and scoring triple doubles excites me not at all.

The best line I read was by a man who was asked if he would watch the play-offs on TV.

"Watch the play-offs?!" he exclaimed, "if they were playing in my backyard, I wouldn't raise the shade."

Siblings

[No date noted.]

My sister was on the phone. She is a little older than me and, like most people, still retains childhood jealousies when anything good happens to a younger sibling.

"Saw your picture in the paper," she said, trying to sound disinterested.

Scan of Jim's column headline, circa 1990

"Yes, what did you think of it?" I asked.

"You're looking older, more gray in your hair." She paused. "More wrinkles. And you're putting on weight. How much did you pay them?"

"I didn't pay them anything," I protested. "The paper asked me for the picture, said they wanted to see what I looked like. Is that so hard to believe?"

She ignored my question. "I have to admit when I first saw your picture, I thought you had been arrested and I was glad Daddy is not alive to see it. You know what a law and order man he was, it would have broke his heart."  She hardly stopped for breath. "I bet you didn't read any other story that was in the paper. I bet you just sat and looked at your picture all week."

"I did too read some other stories in the paper. There was a story on the front page about a mussel diver who said he contacted a body while working in 22 feet of water in Kentucky Lake, but then he lost it, then he found it again. But couldn't bring it to the surface."

The thought occurred to me that the body could have been that of our kinswoman, Mary Parker, who escaped from her grave at Mt. Zion Cemetery some months before. Mary had lived down near Harmon's Creek. Maybe that high ground at Mt. Zion was just too dry for Mary and she decided to go swimming.

"Don't go making jokes about a dead person." She sounded pained. "So you read the front page and nothing else?"

"Sure!! I saw the pictures of all the high school graduating kids. A lot of names sounded familiar, I probably know most of the fathers and grandfathers. And that's not all, in the "Liberty News," Andrea Madden wrote about a preacher who had hit the happy trail because he wasn't being paid enough.  In her "Chalk Hill" column, Nell Morrisette mentioned a lady from Ooltewah, Tennessee. That sent me scuttling for my atlas. I never heard of that town before. Sure enough! There it was, in the Southeast corner of the state, a few miles east of Chattanooga. And there are only two people in the obituary section this week, which is a considerable improvement over the last issue."

My sister seemed not to have heard. "I hope," she grunted, "if they print your picture again, they do it in color - not black and white - so the wrinkles will stand out more."