Agriculture, Culture, Marketing, Thank You

Own Your Burger!

A welcome sign on route 94 into Wisconsin.

One of the great treats of living in northern Illinois is being able to hop over the state line into Wisconsin. The land of beer, cheese, sausage, milk, football, hunting, fishing, camping, farming and hard work is a near infinite portal to the pursuit of happiness.

I need to tell you about just one of those diversions: the Culver’s Butterburger.

In an era when dairy products are viewed as gateway fats, it’s crazy to promote a burger naming butter as a signature ingredient. But in Wisconsin, what else is more appropriate? This burger is not politically correct. It’s frank, and honest.

In fact, the Butterburger is a winning trademarked name that has been touted proudly since 1984. And its sidekick? Fresh Frozen Custard, which is made with, yes, you guessed it, eggs. Not a lot, but they are in there.

The Butterburger is raw culinary honesty at its best. Culver’s makes no bones about promoting the zest and robust fullness of their foods. Yep, it’s got fat, and it tastes good. The Butterburger is a visual treat too. Packed with yellow cheddar, red tomatoes, green lettuce, pickles, and purple sweet onion, it looks like a miniature carnival carousel. It lacks only a calliope and an operator.

The Culver’s bag is all message. “Welcome to delicious”.

We were told about the Butterburger nearly 20 years ago, but never had the temerity to go to Culver’s and try one on. The thought of it repelled. We visualized a hamburger swimming in butter, squirting mayonnaise, dripping juice with every bite.

And then the ads started. We saw Craig Culver, capped and jacketed in blue, coaching the cook staff on the proper way to flatten the fresh beef patty on the grill. It had a family feel about it, and somewhat reminiscent of another family burger business, Wendy’s.

We ordered two sandwiches, well beyond our appetites and good guidance.

But the ads persisted, and one day, they introduced the Butterburger Deluxe Double. Two beef patties, mayo, and all the colorful rest. That was when I learned that the butter was actually brushed onto the bun and grilled before the burger was assembled. Well, that’s not so bad, is it?

So on a hot day in September, we drove to a Culver’s in Wisconsin, just over the line, and against all dining habits and trashing healthful instincts, guiltily ordered up two Deluxe Doubles to go. We waited a full five minutes as they actually cooked the burgers for us, squashing them down just like Craig instructed. Then, presented with a bulging bag of two you-know-whats, we drove like bootleggers off to a neighboring lakeside park to enjoy our feast with some ice-cold beers.

The experience was “our first” of a sort, and it was sinfully delightful. Forbidden foods should be like that. Reaching into the bag, we pulled out two promising, boxed beauties. They looked just like the ads. Sitting down on a bench, we marveled at the sensory delights of a bulging fat, colorful, shameless sandwich, dripping in beef juice and mayo. It was hot, succulent, cheesy, and messy, with chunks of tomato and purple onion escaping out the sides of our mouths. To some it might just be a burger. To me, it was ambrosia.

The sandwich bulges with color, meat and veg, and oozes cheese and mayo.

Just wondering how deeply we had entered into the badlands of fat, I checked the Culver’s website, and found that our Butterburger Deluxe Double weighed in at 810 calories, with 155 mg. of cholesterol. Bad? Eaten every day, not good. But once in a while, I could live with.

Incidentally, I took the fight to Wendy’s and bought a “Double Dave” named after the late Dave Thomas, founder, and felt the experience similar, but lacking the purple onion and extra mayo and raucously celebrated butter, it was a second place presentation. The Double Dave also boasted 810 calories and 175 mg. of cholesterol, but without the hutzpah, the bravado of the Butterburger’s brazen image, it didn’t deliver the guilty satisfaction I felt in Wisconsin.

To some, a burger. To me, ambrosia.

The Culver’s website also gave me a look at the larger picture. It’s a family run, privately owned business, 736 restaurants sprinkled across the midwest and south. Wendy’s has 6,000. The company is HQ-ed in Sauk Wisconsin, a smallish town north of Milwaukee.

Culver’s targets its charitable giving and philanthropy towards agriculture, supporting the education of young farmers with activities in the National Future Farmers of America, Farm Wisconsin Discovery Center, and most intriguing, Cows on the Concourse, in Madison Wisconsin.

Welcome–a burger most proud!

childhood, Culture, Thanks

Where The Time Went

The James Park Grandad from Preston Lancashire.

As I’ve mentioned before, the curse of the Baby Boomer is to inherit their parents’ estates. It is a blessing too, but the cursing starts when you search for a place to put it all. Nevertheless, in our case, we have been blessed with time…time in the form of clocks.

Taking a stand in the workshop.

The Park Grandfather Clock
As a very young fellow, barely walking, I was enchanted by the tall, wooden long-cased clock that guarded over our hallway in our first home in Delhi. The antique was built sometime between 1816-1855 by James Park in Preston, Lancashire, England. My great great grandfather had acquired this handsome old wooden gentleman when it was fairly young, and had kept it running, just as his son, grandson, and great grandson, my father, would continue to do. A gorgeous piece of cherrywood sculpture, graced by a brass works that with regular winding would tell the time of day, the day of the month, and chime the hours with a beautiful bell.

As a toddler, I scrambled and slid across those hardwood floors with baby fat knees, making it up to the glass-windowed front door of the clock. Inside, a long pendulum punctuated by a baseball-sized brass medallion swung slowly behind two ominous, bullet-shaped weights. These weights were cast iron, hung on pulleys, and tipped the scales at 20 pounds each. They looked like ’88 shells from a WW2 anti-aircraft cannon.

The grandfather clock’s windowed door presented a tiny brass handle which I found intriguing, and happily, just within reach. Fascinated by the pendulum’s slow swing, and the twin 88’s, I pulled the door open for a closer look. The bob was suspended on a steel pendulum connected to a fragile tin hook called a feather, at the top of the clock. With the strength that only a curious tyke can offer, I pulled at the bob, stopping it in its perpetual track, and without a moment’s delay, gripped it hard while I climbed into the case. The tin feather gave way, and I fell in.

As you might guess, calamity followed, and the clock tumbled over on top of me, spraying the hardwood floor with shattered glass and chunks of 150-year-old lacquered cherry and clock hands. When my horrified parents lifted the clock up, they found me nestled between the two 88’s, unharmed. The clock’s case was demolished, and after a forceful, shrill, and pointed scolding from my mother, dad picked up the pieces, and packed the works into a box.

Grandad’s works. The gnarly toothed wheel counts the strikes of the bell.

Forty years passed before dad opened the box again. Using some plans he purchased from a clock company in Kitchener, he built a new case, out of Norfolk County cherry, installed the aged brass works, and had the clock up and going. It was another thirty years later in 2012, with some transitions along the way, that the now shrink-wrapped clock was retrieved from storage and made its way into our home. I mentioned storage because that is an essential tool for seniors today: a place to store our late parents’ stuff.

The clock was a mechanical puzzle for me. It took literally 2 months of leveling, machine cleaning, tinkering, timing and fiddling with the works of the clock and its chime to get it to run. During this time I scanned the internet to identify its maker, James Park, and thereby, date the clock.

Today, the revered piece quietly and solemnly ticks away beside my workshop bench in the basement. It’s not exactly a man cave down there, but it’s home to the clock. I visit regularly, and address it as my old friend, winding up the 88’s, a reminder of my heritage, and its place in our family.

The Seth Thomas Clock

The Seth Thomas. It had not moved in over 70 years, but comes to life.

Still again, as a young boy, I sat at an ancient cherry desk, once owned by my grandfather, worrying an eraser across a smudged arithmetic drill sheet. Above the shelving of the desk rested an equally aged mantel clock. Its rectangular wooden case stood about 16 inches high, and housed a chipped black and white face. By opening the hinged, windowed door, one could wind the works.

This clock, in my entire history with it, never worked. It merely sat as desk candy, adding some dignity to our den, but no timely input. The brass bob hung still, and the black bedspring that acted as the chime, stood mute.

When we were emptying out my parents’ home, it was one of the first items we took for our own home. It was placed on top of our piano, a previous inheritance, still and quiet.

The Seth Thomas works, made by Ansonia Clock Company, which was sold to the Soviets in 1929.

Having revived the James Park, I felt emboldened to bring Seth Thomas back to life, or at least, find out why it was comatose. Taking the machine apart, I discovered that the works were brass, and made by the Ansonia Clock Company of Connecticut, and New York. Seth Thomas was started in 1813, but Ansonia came 62 years later, so the clock was built after 1875, but before 1929, when Ansonia was sold to the Soviet government under the direction of Joseph Stalin. A little known legacy of Stalin is the birth and robust growth of Russian timepiece manufacture which still prevails today.

Having bared the brass works, I viewed a spotless brass and steel jumble of springs, cogs, spindles, bushings and wheels. They were wound up tight. I removed the bob, and laying the machine on its side, washed it down with some mineral spirits. Suddenly, the pendulum started to quiver sporadically. More scrubbing, and the pendulum rattled to life, flicking back and forth unimpeded by the brass bob. After a few minutes, the clockworks were up and at it, relieving wound-up spring pressure frozen since the early 1940s.

The Seth Thomas has now taken a new position on a side table in our family room. It needs winding every three days, and faithfully attempts to strike its bedspring marking the hours and half hours. I turned off the striker to avoid the continual reminders that time is passing. But still, I enjoy twisting the brass key to re-wind the clock, and it gives me a moment to reflect on who has touched this antiquity.

The Railroad Clock

Our railroad station clock. Sparkling, shiny, stainless bob and weight.

Our first acquisition was a wall clock that was hung in the house of my wife’s family. It has no apparent brand stamped on it, but was reputedly taken from a railroad station in the years before WW1 by her grandfather, and passed along to her family, and then to us.

The rail road clock is a beautiful weight-driven clock with a sparkling, engraved stainless steel bob and cylindrical weight. Tom, my father-in-law saw to it that this time piece worked flawlessly, and had it refurbished by a professional years ago. It keeps perfect time, and that’s all. No chimes. No rising and setting suns and stars. Perfect for predicting arrival wait times in a train station.

An instruction in DYMO.

This clock is distinguished in two ways. First, Tom placed a cautioning instruction inside the case using his ever-present DYMO labeler: “Do Not Wind Weight Above This Level”. This is no small point to recall. Everything that moved in his home was liable to be DYMO-ed. He loved labels. Second, Tom left a small tin inside the case which held a tiny oil cloth, soaked in paraffin and Packers Pine Tar Soap. I don’t know why, but perhaps he cleaned the works with it. In any event, I open the case and wind this clock once a week, never above the line, and breathe in the pine tar bouquet.

It is a warm reminder once again of the person who gave it to us. I think he did that on purpose.

Thanks for reading! I hope you will share your own experiences with inheriting precious items from your folks! Here’s another story, too.

Cars, childhood, Culture, Thank You

Gus’s Coffee Shop

Mobs of students crossed Hwy #3 every day to Gus’s.

Gus Vander Elst was a genius. He was a father, uncle, pump jockey, counter clerk, cop, teacher and short order cook. But most of all, he was a genius who bought the Cities Service gas station directly across from Delhi District Secondary School.

Can one grow wealthy selling burgers and 10-cent coffee? Yes.

My first memorable experience with a diner hamburger was Gus’s, and like 800 other high schoolers, I reveled in the unshakeable aromas of grilled hamburgers served up under chopped raw onions, and spiced with the intoxicating clouds of cigarette smoke that floated across the tables of this busy, bustling hangout.

Gus’s was our off-property school cafeteria. Like the M*A*S*H Rosie’s Bar, Gus’s attracted a majority of kids, just for its noise, warmth, foggy windows, forbidden foods, back room and unstoppable traffic. The coffee shop was a magnet, a cash cow, and Gus was king.

So it was that every lunch hour we exited the school driveway to the eastern curb of highway #3 and strode across to the center line in crowds, intimidating the stream of drivers going to and from town. With a break in the oncoming, our hungry mob would cross over the second lane to the white, two-story concrete block building, occasionally pounding on the bell wire by the pumps, and enter ground zero, our family teen haunt.

Lunch counter, or teen haunt, prepared for the daily rush at noon time.

Inside Gus’s was a lunch counter with six red, swivel stools. Diners could face the cook’s window, or turn to the two large picture windows that looked out onto the gas pumps. But more likely they faced two banquettes separated by a Wurlitzer juke box. The banquettes were perennial turf of the seniors–that’s high school seniors– and pretty much filled with bubbling squads of girls who laughed, screamed, rolled their eyes, primped, gushed and stared dismissively at the guys shuffling in front of them, the guys who studiously ignored their looks as if the table was circled by bags of oats.

At the south side of the small diner were two more tables where a junior or soph may get lucky to be invited to sit, but space was limited, so most visitors took their lunch standing up, the whole time, bumping shoulders and elbows while they downed their burger.

Gus managed the crowd like the Music Man. He was loud, smiling and all business, hustling orders to the cook’s window, spinning burgers onto buns, and dressing the patties as they appeared, “what’ll you have, mustard, relish? Onions with that? Cheese?” He bantered with his young eaters flipping on the extras. He knew everyone’s name. When an order was built he’d smack a bun top onto the mountain of condiments with a cupped hand like he was slapping down a set of dice on a sponge. We took our food happily, while his wife Jeanie took our coins in payment.

Wurlitzer: the heart beat of Gus’s Coffee Shop

The jukebox was a powerhouse. It was always in motion, pounding a super bass speaker that shook around our ankles. Sounds of Freddy Cannon, Little Eva, Gene Chandler, Chubby Checker, and Dion moved pairs of girls to dance in the crowd. The guys would swagger and slouch as Dion would tell his story of The Wanderer.

The back room was where Gus stored the empty pop cases: stacks of large worn wooden crates that nested four 6-packs of empty Coke, Canada Dry and Wishing Well bottles. These were lined along the walls, and leaning up against them was a cadre of guys, staring at each other through the haze, smoking, and telling impossible, implausible, and richly impressive stories about girls, cars and teachers.

Out front were the cars. Old Fords and Chevys mostly, but always with doors and windows open for more conversation and music. These were driven by seniors, all in grade 13, ready and restless to escape, off to university, off to work, back to the farm, off to the lake. One drove a beautiful plum-coloured Volkswagen, and with help from four of his buddies, would rev up the engine, spinning the wheels while they lifted the rear of the Beetle a foot off the ground. As the engine whined its loudest, they would let go of the bumper, and the car came down on those tires that screamed as he scooted across the pavement.

When Gus couldn’t reach the pumps in time, the guys would get their own gas.

Jeanie and Gus fed us from 1951-1969.

Gus looked after his customers like a parent. On a wintry January day, a silly joke nearly turned violent until Gus walked out to settle the score. It was cold, and the frozen, Brylcremed hair of a young student looked like it might repel water. Experimenting with a bottle of Coke, a second student poured a couple drops on his head, and indeed, the Coke did bead up and roll off. Moments later, a third student decided to pour a whole bottle of Coke down the neck of the second in retaliation. That was enough to enrage student #2 who then smashed his bottle against #3’s bottle. The tense exchange was viewed through those picture windows as the two kids faced each other with broken Coke bottles raised towards each other. Gus suddenly appeared between the two, and with a few words took their weapons and shut them down. I was thankful he showed up when he did.

Everyone who went to DDSS has a story about Gus, and the student body loved him and Jeanie for the place they took in our youth: steady, reliable, hard-working, dependable and non-judgmental, they were the older couple who parented us for an hour every day as we journeyed through our high school career. He watched over us for nearly 20 years.

The last time I saw Gus, he was a much older man. He lived in the Delrose Retirement home at the south end of town. Always the spark plug in a crowd, Gus led a daily exercise and work out routine for the residents who lived with him there. They loved him too. He was wealthy in the best way.

Thanks for reading and sharing! You can add your Gus memories below, too!

Agriculture, childhood, Culture, Thanks

History Lessons

A swing bridge over Big Creek, long ago.

My hometown of Delhi has a Facebook group site exclusively purposed to recall the days of our youth. Growing up in Canada’s most unique farming community, the premier source of flue-cured virginia tobacco for nearly a hundred years, the Facebook members post daily about their early experiences. They also remind us of what our parents and grandparents did to get us here in the first place. A couple world wars and a hostile political environment in Europe pushed our ancestors to Canada’s open doors, and Delhi was where they landed.

It struck me this past June, as I read the many stories emerging from the 75th anniversary of D-Day that we, as its beneficiaries, have an awakened reverence for what our parents did for us.

RCAF’s finest, off to Europe.

Is it just a function of getting older that we spend more time remembering, or is there a sense of responsibility to our predecessors of not letting them be forgotten?

Lest We Forget

But to my point: we now look back with respect. There is a lady in Delhi who is daily researching and compiling a history and narrative to describe the little town and its inhabitants from decades ago.

Kilnwork: our main stock in trade.

Another gentleman posts documents, clippings, ads, pictures, bills of sale and civic events, clearly from materials he has sought after and kept for posterity.

When my parents passed, we inherited a library of photography and letters, some dating back to the 1890’s. The pictures are eloquent, in their black and white motif, depicting the youth of a different time. Vacations, school, romance, marriage, kids.

1914: Canadian Expeditionary Force

They also include military poses: those ‘before’ shots, getting ready to ship off to some unknown and dangerous place, dressed in perfect uniforms, spotless, neat fitting and inspiring.

The hand-written letters dig below the pictures though, and reveal what’s really going on. I photo-scanned them all for sharing with our family. Unlike Facebook, where our lives are generally perfect, the letters from 50, 75, 90 years ago talk of privations and scarcities. Life in its rawest forms was much more daunting back then, than we would know it today: lining up for rations…looking for materials to sew a dress… finding a place to live… battling an illness…waiting for news of a loved one.

A 16th birthday.

Yet there was a confidence, a resilience and persistence like moss stuck to a wave-washed rock in the shoreline that these ancestors of ours would grin and bear it, and get through it.

We have a neighbor who is writing a book about her father’s service during the war. Her source is the collection of papers and manuscripts which he had written 50 years ago. Within these letters are the details which are news to us today. Who knew? It may be half a century ago, but the revelations are still mind boggling.

My conclusion is that for the Baby Boomers, who are now enjoying retirement, or looking forward to it shortly, we have an obligation to use our spare time to dig up the past.

An expressive lesson in lighting a coal fire.

Our kids need to know the table that was set for us and for them. In today’s digital environment, where every piece of history is accessible, it’s really only there for background, a general context of the times, and only if you have a user-name and a password to see it. What we find in our attics and closet shelves is much more telling. We owe that to our parents, now long gone.

The Diary

My young grandson reinforced in me once of the value of writing it down: “Don’t put it in an email. That’s technology, and it will just disappear. You’ll never find it again.” Out of the mouths of babes…

As an experiment, I started a small diary. This is a 2-1/2 x 4″ moleskin which I keep in my pocket, with pen. Originally I used the book to write down things I didn’t want to forget: passwords, shopping lists, names of bartenders, song titles, movies, plumbing fixtures–you name it. But starting in July, I wrote about my day. Not long windy stuff, but a factual account of my travels. At first it seemed a self-praising pastime. But about six weeks later, I paused to read what was in the diary. The surprise was that I had forgotten most of what I had done, and there it was, in print. Multiply that awakening by 12 months, and you start to realize how much we experience in a year, and then forget forever. It’s like a beige mush of time spent, and little retained.

As a business manager, I regularly advised my staff to write down their accomplishments for the month. “You are going to need this one day. I won’t always be here. Someone will come to you, and ask what you are contributing, and your mind will go blank. Your job security is in the balance. So make a list!”

Thankfully, they did this, and their accomplishments rolled into mine, and we always had a resource to explain our worth to the company.

So I am keeping the diary going, not to explain my worth, but at least as a hard copy reminder for me, or for whomever follows, that this is how life was today.

Thanks for reading and sharing, and thanks too, to Dave Rusnak Sr. and Doug Foster for the images!

Culture

Saving The Malek Adhel

3.5 Power Specs To Do The Job

Five years ago I wrote about the coming surge of property transfers as the Baby Boomer generation haltingly succumbed to the problem of having too much stuff. As The Greatest Generation leaves us, we have inherited not only our parents’ things, and their legacy of accomplishment, but also their survival instinct for saving.

My post of December 2014 “What’s Coming Next” was prescient, and we are living it daily.

We have personally taken ownership of art, photography, china, silverware, correspondence and numerous pieces of furniture. A few of these items have passed immediately to our children, but some pieces are beyond their desires, or capacities. In our case, we are the latest owners of three antique clocks and a ship model that defies the march of time.

The Malek Adhel

Grandad and Mom at the beach, 1937.

My grandfather, Dr. James Harrar, lived in New York for many years where he was an obstetrician. Sometime in his early 50s, around 1937, he started building ship models. These were works of discipline: intricate, incredibly complex recreations of planking, masts, yards and rigging. We had two of his creations.

The Malek Adhel was in my childhood home in Delhi, placed on the piano well above my head as I practiced in vain below. Still, I marveled at the wooden ship model, and visualized tiny crew members scurrying across the decks, securing fly away halyards or rolling miniature cannons into position.

Popular Science Magazine, 1937.

The Malek Adhel, named after a Turkish sultan, was a brig that sailed the Caribbean around 1840. The ‘Molly Coddle’ as we called it, had some history attached to it, being the subject of a piracy charge, under the direction of its Captain Nunez. It was notorious enough that in 1937 Popular Science Magazine published the building plans over 5 issues. Apparently in those pre-war years, ship modeling was a popular pastime.

Hull blueprints of the Malek Adhel

My grandfather wrote for the detailed blue prints. He went to work and recreated the ship. He wasn’t alone. If you Google the ship’s name with ‘model’, you will find numerous images.

This is a treasured and obscure art object. When we emptied our parents’ house, it was kept under wrap until a brief display in my brother’s home for a few years. But he too was looking for downsizing, and the Malek Adhel was shunted from one resting place to another before finally repatriating to the U.S. in the back of our car.

Everything I touched disintegrated.

The journey, and exposure and time have not been kind. The spars were dislodged. The rigging made of 80-year-old cotton thread had disintegrated. The joints which were once glued, freely dissembled with every bump in the road. Its sorry condition reminded us of the sunken ghost ship from Pirates of the Caribbean.

The task of re-rigging, 80 years later.

Still, there was an obligation to restore the Malek Adhel. On my workshop bench I uncovered a little box of tools that my mother had given to me thirty years ago. “Here, keep these,” she instructed, “these are the tools your grandfather used to make his models.” I opened it up to look at small tweezers, drills, snips and a spool of golden thread.

Nearly microscopic turnbuckle and belaying pin.

I placed these on the bench beside the ship. On close inspection, I concluded that pretty much all of the rigging would need to be replaced. Not only did that include 50-60 halyards arcing from the gunwales to the masts, but also a host of little coils carefully wrapped around microscopically small belaying pins. Oh, the care grandad had taken.

Intricate web of rigging.

My first reaction was to order a pair of magnifying spectacles. These are what stamp dealers, jewelers and dentists use. After fitting them I ventured into the works, and owing to my clumsiness, broke every halyard my fingers approached. While the glasses were 3.5 strong, I was more than 10 strong, and thrashed through the rigging like a banshee. So I struggled with every re-do, sans spectacles.

A month later, I performed the final act of hanging a new stars and stripes on the rear gaff. It has 26 stars, which totaled the history of our nation in 1837, 182 years ago.

The finished product, with 26-Star Spangled Banner

Today, the Malek Adhel resides inside a glass case in my office. It is at nose level for small people.

Thanks for reading and sharing! I’ll tell you next what we did with a grandfather clock from the early 1800s.

Environment

Bring It On!

Is this winter over yet? I hope not. We just bought a new snow blower.

Born to shovel by hand.

I admit to being a shovel-Luddite. Maybe even a snoglodyte. Since our first sidewalk and driveway, I have happily moved a near-biblical glacier of ice, snow, salt and sludge with an aluminum spade or a plastic pusher in my cold, gloved hands.

Meanwhile, in the last two decades, snow blowers have roared along our street like stock cars. Every garage has given up a place for the machines to park, and drip a puddle of oil and slush, from December to March. And while my neighbors festooned the street with animated, white plumes of snow, I continued to pump away at the shovel like John Henry, determined to beat the machine.

The neighbors take to the streets.

My late adopter attitude has been a source of discomfort for my snow blowing friends. With every winter blast, they individually had to debate helping me, or not. And if they did run their 16-hp chain-driven, double-augured tank up my sidewalk, were they committed to follow up with each new dusting?

Then last June, our kind neighbor Angela gave me her snowblower. Not out of charity mind you, no. But because the family was moving to southern California where they were more likely to need a dump truck equipped with a fire hose and back hoe. I fell for their ’97 Toro CCR 2000 like a ton of salt. This cute little red machine had snorted and gobbled up snow under Angela’s operation for years.

This was a gateway moment. The Toro had a new, loving home. And I had a new toy.

The little Toro kept up the pace.

As you are now much aware, we have had a spectacular winter so far, and my adopted Toro has trimmed, cleaned, and swept sidewalks far beyond our borders– great fun! What’s more, the neighbors are now settled down. They are at ease because I have joined the 21st century with internal combustion. They no longer worry about me embarrassing them with a heart attack. They start their engines, and I start mine.

Until last night. Threatened with another polar vortex, I brought out the Toro for a quick clean-up. This is a gratuitous testimonial for the little engine– it eats snow like a Zamboni on Jet-A fuel. So with another blow-out on the way, I primed the machine and pulled on the starter cord.

Like all good plans, they change.

The cord ripped right off its mount with a loud sproing. I held in my hand, 12 inches of frayed nylon string. The machine lay still, like death.

Meanwhile, snow was blowing across the street a la Zhivago.

Without a minute to spare, I hustled the Toro into the back of our car and rushed over to Ray’s Small Engine Repair and Lawnmowers. Ray runs a tidy, bright shop. Out front he has a display of snow blowers– bright red machines, shiny, ready and eager. In the back, he runs a repair shop.

In a separate room he has a collection of old, used machines. They looked like a gang of bar-fighters, waking up in jail after a long bumptious night. Not a good sign.

I came in to get mine repaired. But after what now seems a very brief discussion Ray convinced me that the shiny, new black 22-inch, 8hp Murray was the way to go, complete with electric start. It turned out that my little machine was 17 years old, and as Ray summed it up, its time had come, “just like the cicadas.”

Bring on the snow!

I pointed out that the Toro was only “5” in snowblower years. “Maybe so but look on the bright side, you won’t be back for another 17 years, by which time this new baby will cost $3,000. And there may not be any snow… so take it now and get your licks in!”

And here I am, standing in the driveway, staring at the sky, hoping for snow. The east coast is buried under another 100-year blizzard. In Chicago, the forecast is maybe 1-2 inches. Hardly enough to crank up the new Murray.

I’ll get out my shovel.

Thanks for reading! If you have ever been in the same position waiting to take on Mother Nature, now you know how I feel, or how Lieutenant Dan felt sitting on the mast of Forest Gump’s shrimp boat. Please share the story, and feel free to “follow” Riper Conditions !

Government

Moving The Needle

Yesterday the United States Supreme Court ruled 6-3 that the current tariff situation is unconstitutional. Essentially, the Executive Branch, ie, President Trump, does not have the authority to change or charge taxes without congressional approval, ie, without a passed law. Canadians for one will be ordering up seconds in rye-infused poutine at this announcement.

This is encouraging news, but not just for what you might think. While many will cheer with vindictive satisfaction at the defrocking of the tariffs, I find the real lesson is that the legal structures of the Constitution are still in effect. “You can’t get away with it, just because you say so.”

This has shone brightly for several years during the appearance of President Trump. For every charge, there is a Grand Jury which can approve or cancel a trial. For every acquittal or conviction, there is an appeals route, which ultimately can land in the laps of 9 appointed judges. When they rule, the case is closed.

So three cheers for the legal system. While it may be convoluted, there are currently 1,374,720 lawyers (according to the American Bar Association) who participate in exercising their clients’ rights under the law. They have been busy this year and for several years back.

The fall out from this decision will take some time. How will refunds be made? To whom? Meanwhile, the prime concern in the tariff/negotiation debate, is, does it work? Has the tariff carrot and stick moved the needle?

First, how has US trade changed since April 2025? According to census figures published by the Bureau of Economic Analysis the US trade balance has only improved by $2.1 billion. A paltry 0.15% improvement. This translates to the US having clawed back $2 billion dollars that it won’t have to borrow from other countries. Still, the overall trade deficit remains at an inconceivable, unimaginable and eye-watering $4.3 trillion dollars. That is, US consumers sent that amount out of country, in excess of what they brought in.

Chalk it up to a strong economy, and an insatiable demand for imports, supported by a strong US dollar which impedes other nations from buying more US stuff.

Still, a deficit leads to a shortage in money over time, so that the US has to borrow money from its trading partners to purchase their goods. Long term, this is unsustainable. Today the US national debt is $38.4 trillion. $8 trillion of that debt is held by Japan, Great Brittain, China and other countries.

Closer to home, how is the US/Canada trade balance faring? In 2025, the US deficit shrank by 25%– $15billion dollars. Put another way, the financial relationship has improved itself by $15billion dollars in US terms.

But what about in Canadian terms?

The imposition of tariffs, coupled by bombastic and unfriendly, accusatory rhetoric has torn a huge hole in what used to be the most friendly relationship in modern geo-political history. I have repeatedly said that the tariffs on Canadian goods and services were more than a slap in the face; they were a stab in the back. Is the unanimous rancor and animosity of 40 million close neighbours worth $15billion in savings?

It is clear that the President’s use of the tariff stick has something to do with trade deficits, but more often, that stick is swung or carrots are dangled to get something else. The ostensible purpose of tariffs on Canada was to reduce illegal immigration and fentanyl trafficking. Despite impressive Canadian efforts to respond, the tariffs remain. An arbitrary pivot!

Looking at the BEA report, (table 19) it is interesting to see how Canada ranks as a trading partner. Canadians spent $337 billion on US goods and services. Americans spent $383 billion on Canada. An impressive $720 billion compact in 2025. Canada is the #3 trading partner with the US, exceeded only by Mexico ($873B) and the European Union ($1,047B).

It is a fair bet that the US tariff has been used to reduce conflicts, to wit, Israel and Iran, Egypt and Ethiopia, India and Pakistan, Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda, Kosovo and Serbia, Armenia and Azerbaijan, Cambodia and Thailand. No doubt, the tariff has motivated other nations to cooperate in other ways.

But the end financial result of the tariff gambit, globally, is that the US has reduced its deficit by only $2.1billion. Canada contributed $15 billion to support that effort. Right neighbourly.

Science

The Rescue Clock

During a mid-summer road trip through Ontario we picked up a hitch hiker. Much against my wife Jane’s admonishments, I retrieved a broken, rusted and chipped clock from a roadside park waste bin.

The piece was part of a pile of junk that someone had stuffed into the garbage can where I was also placing our left over picnic lunch.

As I stared into the bin, I could see a dirty clock face and hands. Its cream and gold inlaid appearance distracted me from the other detritus and garbage it lay in. Reaching in, I pulled out a strange assembly: the clock face, some obvious brass works, and a dingy, corroded stand. It stood about 12 inches high, and was clearly abused by water, dirt and rough handling. While I couldn’t recognize the contraption as a time piece, it was easy to conclude that it wasn’t all there– less than whole.

I stuffed the thing into the car trunk, and we left the park.

Finally returning home, I placed the clock on the workshop bench, and prodded at its parts and works, turning it over, inspecting the wheels and gears. They were filthy dirty, and stuck in place. An unloved gadget that was no longer wanted by its owner. But on the face I found the brand name “Solar”. Scrolling through pages of Google listings, I found an image which looked like this clock.

*A anniversary clock cousin listed on Etsy.*

It was on Etsy, and showed a sparkling, clean assembly encased in a glass dome. The piece was called an ‘anniversary clock’. The seller would part with the item for $215 bucks.

Intrigued, I researched ‘anniversary clock’, and learned that these clocks were historic, vintage works of machine art. They originated in America, invented by one Aaron Crane, and patented in 1841. The peculiarity of this antique is that it could run for over a year with only one winding of its mainspring, hence the anniversary.

What was also remarkable about the anniversary clock was its pendulum. Rather than using the familiar swinging ‘bob’ to parcel out the energy of the main spring, it instead periodically twisted a fine wire, back and forth, that suspended four globes beneath the works. They rotate slowly, also back and forth. The wire is almost invisible, thinner than a human hair. This technology is drily called, a torsion pendulum.

I was fascinated by the anniversary concept. I have three other ancient clocks in our home that are all heirlooms, and each requires a bit of love and winding every week. So to wind a clock only once a year… what a feat!

On the clockworks’ back brass plate I found a brand stamped into the metal. ‘FHS’ with tiny clock hands indicating twenty-two after seven, or 7:22 for you digerati. More internet digging, and I confirmed that I had the partial works of a Franz Hermle & Sons clock. It was built in Germany, sometime between 1950 to 1970.

Excited by this discovery, I decided to bring the piece back to life. Knowing next to nothing about clockworks, I approached the big decision: take it apart, or leave it alone?

Go for it!

As I loosened every bolt, I waited for the piece to either explode from a runaway mainspring, or disintegrate into a jumbled paella of gears, nuts and bolts, with no handy instruction manual. I took a lot of pictures to record the disassembly of this foreign object.

During this time I started conversations with clockworks people across the globe, watched Youtube demonstrations, and spent a few dollars obtaining the missing parts. There are thousands of these clocks, sought after, and coveted by collectors. My pursuit included complete disassembly, special cleaning, more research on parts, locating pieces, re-assembly and literally days upon days of testing, which turned into months. I interrupted trips anywhere in the house with a quick visit to the workshop to see if just maybe this time, finally, the clock would still be running.

Occasionally it was, but never for long.

Along the way, I became so familiar with the many wheels, I counted how many teeth each had, which pinions they fit into, and how many turns one wheel would generate on its mated pinion.

The most remarkable find was the power of the 18″ mainspring that was wound tightly inside a brass drum.

*The drum housed an 18″ steel spring: massive energy under restraint.*

The 1-1/2″ diameter drum would complete only one whole revolution in 80 days. One rotation– less than 5 inches. But as the irresistible force drives through four sets of wheels and pinions later, that glacial movement telescopes to over 1,900 rotations of the hour hand. Five rotations of the mainspring: 400 days.

Finally, I have revived the clock. It has a complete assembly of working geared wheels and pinions, bright sparkling components, ultra-sonically washed at a local clock repair shop. Vlad, the technician, shook his head grimly at the possibility that the clock would ever work. He correctly identified a wheel with bent shaft. I ended up buying a new wheel, and put in place, the clock purred its assent.

The Franz Hermle now rests quietly on the work bench. I bought it a brand new shiny glass dome.

I come down to visit it, gaining more confidence that it continues to run without pause. Rescued, serendipitously, from a nasty fate, it silently spins its globes, eight beats to a minute, and subtley pushes its hands past the numerals on its face.

I will wind it up again, next December.

childhood, Culture, Sports

Up Against The Wall, Tantalized

Scanning the shelves of our walk-in closet on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, I stumbled on an old, forgotten box of hockey cards.

*Rocket Richard, the cornerstone card in any young boy’s collection.*

I bought these over three decades earlier, and it was a moment of extravagant impulse, paying out a wallet of bills for a small carton of one hundred un-opened wax paper packages. They exuded a sour, sweet smell of aged bubblegum. And teased the prospect of hidden gold.

I don’t make purchases for the sake of locking them away. Not for weeks, let alone years. But there it was, a testament to the impression that ‘trading cards’ made upon me as a child.

In my primary school years, nearing the age of ten, or eleven, every kid had a wad of cards in their pocket: frayed, colorful, bent cardboards held tight by rubber bands. They fit well into back pockets, but best in front to avoid permanent warping.

*Ernie Banks, dauntless short stop for the hapless Cubs.*

According to the season, we could be collecting hockey cards, football cards, TV show cards, and notably World War 2 collections like “Operation Overlord”. The importance of these collectibles was ownership. As kids, we didn’t own much: bike, hockey stick, puck, baseball glove, pellet gun, jacknife, comics, and a box of special junk which we had filched, found, foraged for, or occasionally bought. The cards, like marbles, were the special treasure in our possession.

Trading cards entered us into an economy. We had collateral, something worth trading, or in most cases, gambling for. Wealth was easily defined by the thickness and heft of your wad of cards. We bought them in nickel and dime packages, and after chewing the accompanying bubble gum, we sorted through the ten or fifteen numbered cards which were randomly included in the purchase.

The sortation was essentially to find ‘keepers’. For instance, Maurice ‘Rocket’ Richard was a natural keeper hockey card. Angelo Mosca, the carnivorous Hamilton Tiger Cat football player, too. But if you had more than one, you had a ‘trader’: one to parlay into other missing cards you wanted, held by other kids at school.

The east side of Delhi Public School’s yard had a sizable square of pavement for playing hopscotch, skip-rope, wall-tennis and occasionally hockey. In the fair weather days of early fall and late spring however, the main sport was cards. Numerous pairs of boys were lined up around ten feet from the wall of the red brick school building, making outlandish bets with their cards. The game: closest to the wall wins.

Unlike the Vegas-style, raucous and loudly cheered alley pits to the north side, the cards pitch was quieter, more like a tense game of Texas Hold’em. But the crowds were still present.

Our playing field was the ancient school’s foundation, a three-foot-high wall of dimpled, weathered concrete block, punctuated by large wire-screened basement windows. Essentially, the trick was to spin the 2-1/2″ by 3-1/2″card like a frisbee towards the wall, avoiding the rusted wire screen. Gingerly gripping the piece between two fingers, and flicking the wrist for the right trajectory, the player took aim, and launched the small piece of illustrated sports history. It floated through the air, arcing slightly before descending to slide into place, close to the wall. The competing player, and perhaps more than one, would likewise fire off their respective card.

The closest to the wall won the cards. While the pot was the cards on the pavement, side bets among the players could include additional cards. In this way, fortunes of changed hands– simple objects blown about by errant winds, tripped up on rough asphalt, or flubbed by nervous fingers.

*Tim Horton, whose indelible legacy was unknown to him.*

A less challenging and extremely fickle game was ‘odds and evens’. Two opposing players would simultaneously drop a card to their feet, watching it tumble, heads and tails to the ground. During the descent one player would call for an odd, or an even match. This game required no skill and relied entirely upon the immutable laws of physics and binary logic, subject to wind direction.

Fortunes were won and lost in these simple contests, and that formed our values and memories for the coming decades. Ironically, the numbered cards held no value except as collections. Few of us really knew the subjects on the colored faces of the cards, let alone the significance of the player statistics quoted on their backs.

Narratives for military cards and TV show cards were context at best, but few told the whole story.

So here I am now, seated in the closet, poring over the sealed collection of card memorabilia. I bought these sets years ago, purely for future value. A 1990 Bowman set of NHL cards– who knows what’s inside? 150 mint-condition images of Hall of Famers? Each one stained with 30-year-old gum? A 2016 set of Topps baseball cards celebrating the beloved Chicago Cubs, returned from 100 years of World Series drought?

*The closet discovery: what could be hiding here?*

Agonized with the thought of thumbing through these pristine, untouched treasures, I return them to their places up on the shelf. Some day, someone else will cross the river, and open the packages. I wish them well.

Cars, Culture, Economics, Government

Dear President Trump:

I voted for you. I understand your strategy of America first. But your decision to tariff Canadian auto exports to the United States makes no sense. As you know, the automotive trade between Canada and the United States is virtually balanced. While Canada’s exports of cars to the U.S. may create a U.S. deficit, the United States exports an excess of automotive parts to Canada, balancing the automotive trade between the two countries.

This is clearly stated by the Toronto Dominion Bank’s economics team, January 28, 2025: “Potential Hazards Ahead” by Andrew Foran.

So why tariff Canadian exports of automotive products?

Your position to re-patriate the automotive industry to the United States is supposed to “bring back” jobs lost to overseas countries. The truth is that in Canada, many of those jobs were created over a hundred years ago, long before you and I were born. Look at these Canadian subsidiaries, and their starting dates in Canada:

The Ford Motor Company of Canada, founded 1904

General Motors Company of Canada 1918

The Chrysler Corporation of Canada 1925

Kaiser Willys Jeep 1954

American Motors Corporation (Nash & Hudson) 1954

Honda Canada Inc 1986

Toyota Manufacturing Inc 1988

The Big Three were building and shipping cars in Canada for Canadians long before WWII. Four, and five generations of Canadian families have worked in the factories, the shops, accessories and parts businesses feeding these successful companies. It’s in their DNA. They have taken loans to buy cars, mortgages to build homes, grow towns, and slogged to work for their families. The profits were returned to head office.

Sir, why are these companies in Canada? Market opportunity. This expansion wasn’t about finding cheap labor. This was about mining Canadian dollars.

Now you suggest that Canada is “ripping off” the United States by building cars and trucks. I think it’s a fair bet that every automotive trade investment that has been made on Canadian soil in the last seventy-five years has been supported by Canadian loans and a motivated labor force.

These industries existed decades before NAFTA. The 1965 US/Canada Auto Pact designed this relationship, which is balanced, and has been a cornerstone in supplying both countries equally.

I must remind you, Mr. President, that Canada is not just a neighbor. It is our friend and ally. Canadians have pitched in whenever the need arose: Dieppe, Vimy Ridge, Juno Beach, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iranian hostages, emergency 911-housing. Canadian first responders have convoyed to floods and tornados in the US heartland, quakes, hurricanes in the south, and to forest fires in the west.

These tariffs are worse than a slap in the face, they are a stab in the back.

Please explain why this balanced relationship is being burdened by tariffs which will harm citizens on both sides of the border. Better yet, Mr. President, please stop the tariffs on the automotive trade.

Yours truly,

Phil Brown

Libertyville, IL

Cars, Culture, Government, Politics

Shuttering A Family Business

The US administration’s current tariff policy is gutting a family business. Not that most Americans would think about it. The push to re-patriate the automotive industry to the United States is supposed to “bring back” jobs lost to overseas countries. The truth is that in Canada, many of those jobs were created over a hundred years ago.

The Ford Motor Company of Canada, founded 1904

General Motors Company of Canada 1918

The Chrysler Corporation of Canada 1925

Kaiser Willys Jeep 1954

American Motors Corporation (Nash & Hudson) 1954

Honda Canada Inc 1986

Toyota Manufacturing Inc 1988

The Big Three were building and shipping cars to Canadians before WWII. Four, and five generations of Canadian families have worked in the factories, the shops, accessories and parts businesses feeding these successful companies. It’s in their DNA. They have taken loans to buy cars, mortgages to build homes, grow towns, and slogged to work for their families.

And why are these companies in Canada? Market opportunity. Historically, Canada had no native manufacturers to serve its consumers, and the automakers in Detroit and Japan saw the potential of exploiting this virgin market. This expansion wasn’t about finding cheap labor. This was about mining Canadian dollars.

Now we are led to believe that Canada is “ripping off” the United States by building cars and trucks in facilities that have been financed by Canadian manufacturers. I think it’s a fair bet that every investment that has been made on Canadian soil in the last seventy-five years has been supported by Canadian loans and a motivated labor force.

These industries existed decades before NAFTA. The current tariff action isn’t a market correction. It’s a government-driven, grand-theft-auto: generations of jobs and livelihoods stolen by Presidential edict.

I have to remind you, gentle reader, that Canada is not just a neighbor. It is a friend and ally. Canadians have pitched in whenever the need arose: Dieppe, Vimy Ridge, Juno Beach, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iranian hostages, emergency 911-housing. Canadian first responders have convoyed to floods and tornados in the US heartland, quakes, hurricanes in the south, and to forest fires in the west.

Worse than a slap in the face, this is a stab in the back.

Yesterday, Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney said it best: “The old relationship we had with the United States… based on deepening integration of our economies and tight security and military cooperation… is over.”

April 2, 2025 will be remembered as the shameful day the U.S. shuttered a family business.

Culture, Economics, Government, Marketing, Politics

Spin City: “Shop Local”

Last week I shared my frustration and shame at President Trump’s brutish and uncaring treatment of Canada, a treasured friend of the United States. My letter was to the Republican National Committee.

The gist of it was that under the pretense of stopping drugs and illegal immigration, Canada was forced into increasing secure borders, or risk tariffs. After complying to the President’s demand, the subject pivoted. It wasn’t about drugs and borders, it was about a $60 billion trade deficit between our two countries, favoring Canada. I called the pivot a “bait and switch”.

But I have finally settled on the ultimate truth of this pivot, and it’s not what we thought at all.

First, to confirm, a trade deficit exists when two bodies don’t equal each other’s bank accounts. To wit, Canada’s tills received $413B from Americans, and America’s tills received $349B. from Canadians. Canadians would be right in saying, “We need a bigger cash register!”

To put this in perspective, the trade deficit has not been $63B in recent history. In fact, from 2017 to 2020, the deficit has averaged $20B per year. So the latest is a jump.

This deficit phenomenon is not unique.

If I was mayor of a small town, and noticed with some gloom that my local residents all went to the neighboring town to buy groceries, because they were cheaper, or more varied, I would expect the grocer in my town to come banging on my desk, with a grievance. “Nobody shops here. I’m going out of business at this rate!” I would apologize, and hoist signs on every lamp standard, “SHOP LOCAL”. I would also tell the grocer to get smart: “Bring in better stuff, and lower your prices.”

This is logical enough, but it doesn’t necessarily work if the out-of-town grocer has better suppliers.

So placing this on an international scale, the USA is taxing imports, with punishing tariffs paid by American importers.

But here’s the real twist. I finally glommed onto this as I ate my last Dad’s Cookie which was baked in Toronto Canada. While the President has charged that “Canada is ripping us off,” what he was really afraid to admit is, “I am going to punish American consumers for purchasing desirable Canadian product. By collecting a tariff on those imports, U.S. consumers will learn to shop local.”

It would be political suicide to come out and just say that, so instead, this “rip off” language targets Canadians, and all other countries as bad actors. The end game however, is to bring offshore jobs home. And while it may seem that Canadians are the bad guys, they aren’t. We are the bad guys because we like our Dad’s Cookies. The President’s hope is that one day, those cookies will be made here.

You can see this happening now in Canada. With new Canadian tariffs on U.S. goods, Canadians are encouraged to buy Canadian: SHOP LOCAL. To which they are proudly responding.

Mean time, the home-wrecking language and bombastic posturing from the White House has had a toxic effect on the USA’s goodwill account. Who knows how long that major faux pas will take to smooth over?

Culture, Economics, Government

An Open Letter to Michael Whatley, RNC Chair

Bait and Switch

Dear Chairman Whatley: I am staring at my Sustaining Member card for the Republican National Committee, and I am debating whether to return it to the RNC.

I am dismayed by President Trump’s transparent attempt to fool his electorate into believing he is imposing tariffs on Canadian exports to the USA just to stem the flow of illegal aliens and to stop the production of fentynyl. He revealed his real goal: to balance trade between our two countries.

You well know he announced his tariff plans were contingent upon Canada bearing down on illegal crossings and drug controls. When he was satisfied, the tariffs would go away. Canada responded and is working with US agencies to comply.

Now President Trump is accusing Canadian exporters of “ripping off” the United States over a $68 billion trade deficit. In a $762 billion trade relationship, this is a 9% differential. Never mind he negotiated this trade pact.

The outcome of this capricious and arbitrary action is that we have lost the best friends we could ever have. Canadians are rightfully angry and scalded by this abusive action and language. You will witness that our flag is lowered from Canadian businesses. The national anthem is booed at sports. Provincial governments are canceling contracts with US vendors. American sales people are refused entry to Canadian offices. One wonders how American tourists will ever be welcomed in Canada.

The numbing question over this infamy is whether Americans are even aware, and if so, do they even care? The tariffs have created 40,000,000 enemies without a single shot fired.

I would remind you of an important test for what we say, think and do. It is the operating rule of the Rotary International, here in Evanston, Illinois: The Four Way Test. Is it the truth? Is it fair to all concerned? Will it build goodwill and better friendships? Will it be beneficial to all concerned?

I believe that the President’s treatment of Canada fails this test abysmally.

I am urging you to communicate my anger and disappointment to the President with respect to this ridiculous and deceitful tariff ruling.

Yours truly, Phil Brown, Libertyville, IL USA.

CC: KC Crosbie, CoChair; Kathy Salvi, Illinois State Chair; Dean White, Illinois National Committee Man; Rhonda Belford, Illinois National Committee Woman; Daily Herald, Chicago Tribune.

adventure, Culture, Legal, Romance

Rough Water, Tough Drink

In my research for ‘Fish & Whiskey‘ I learned just what a devilish work place Lake Erie could become. It is beset by capricious and powerful gales which rile the waters. Waves can reach ocean-like heights that would topple any small craft like children’s toy boats in a bath tub.

Despite that, fleets of fishing tugs would venture out on to the lake in search of fish, bringing home tons of herring, walleye, whitefish, perch and bass. The men and occasionally women who made those forays into the fog, rains and winds did so to maintain a livelihood that was as stable and familiar as any landlubber’s.

In the 1920s however, two unanticipated events occurred, colliding together to bring the fishing life to a sudden halt. First, the fresh water herring catch disappeared. Not overnight, but within a decade, the catch had plummeted from 40,000,000 pounds in a year to barely a million. Fishing communities all along the shores of Lake Erie reeled under the loss. The capital investment in boats and machinery, nets and equipment was unsustainable. The loss of income deprived family dinner tables of food.

*Photo courtesy Port Dover Harbour Museum*

Second, the governments of Canada and the United States stumbled into a confused tangle of laws that prohibited alcohol from the general populace. While temperance and prohibition were on the radar, no one had foreseen the real menace of alcohol restriction: organized crime.

Within a year of the passage of the laws to prohibit alcohol, many fishermen had transitioned from setting and lifting nets to making cross-lake, night-cruises laden with cases of whiskey, gin and beer. An insatiable demand for booze in America drove the price of a 40-ouncer from $3 up to $15. This profit bailed the fishing industry out. But more importantly, it brought the Mob in. Gangs in Detroit, Hamilton, Toronto, and Buffalo organized impenetrable networks and shipping lanes to deliver an estimated hundred million gallons of illegal booze annually, from 1920 all the way to 1933.

*Lake Erie’s Path To Riches*, *courtesy Ted’s Vintage Art*

One of the principal conduits was from Norfolk County’s shores to Erie Pennsylvania, just over 40 miles away. To get there, Lake Erie had to be calm, free of coast guard, hijackers, and daylight. That was not always the case.

What facilitated this industry was the Canadian federal government’s allowance for Canadian distillers and brewers to continue their work. Ironically, while the local populations were not allowed to possess or purchase alcohol, the factories were encouraged to produce it.

‘Fish & Whiskey‘ is the story of a small town in Norfolk County, and its residents who learned to cope under the new drinking laws, the unruly laws of nature, and the ascent of violent crime. In the midst of this, Joey and Belle are a young couple who navigate the new terrain while they learn more about each other, and themselves.

You can get your copy of Fish & Whiskey on Amazon anywhere the company has a presence. I enclose the Canadian link and the American link for your convenience.

Enjoy!

adventure, Romance

Fish & Whiskey

Sounds like a weird combination? Sort of a Baltic Sea appetizer? I apologize for my absence; I just finished my fifth book, whose curious title is above.

“Fish & Whiskey” came into being as the result of picking up an old book my parents had given me nearly fifty years ago. Harry B. Barrett wrote “Lore & Legends of Long Point”. It is a charming collection of stories and myths about the historic and scenic Long Point peninsula which juts out into the middle of Lake Erie. Ancient communities lived and hunted on this sandy, marsh-laden, mystical spit of land . Along its shores, the fishermen of Norfolk County had netted for their catch for hundreds of years.

Most intriguing however was Barrett’s tales of bootleggers and rum-runners who shipped millions of gallons of illegal liquor from Norfolk to Erie, Pennsylvania for thirteen wild, risky and profitable years. It led me to investigate further, and before long, I had dug into a story about the Prohibition years, and how the fishermen and communities along the Norfolk County shores participated in a trade revolution of mammoth proportions.

Fish & Whiskey is the fictional story of a small harbor town called Riverport. The year is 1925, Prohibition is in effect, and the town is reeling from the collapse of the fresh water herring catch.

The fish nets are coming in empty. The only recourse is to smuggle illegal booze into the U.S. To complicate issues, organized crime on both sides of the border are muscling in to Riverport with deadly ramifications.

Joey and Belle are two young lovers In the middle of this maelstrom of trouble. They wrestle with the circumstances, as best they can, all the while, exploring their mutual attraction.

The story is revealing of the times, and is told to keep the pages turning. Events occur, decisions are made —with consequences— and the tale concludes with a surprise and ironic ending.

You can find Fish & Whiskey on Amazon. I include two links, one for Canada, and one for the U.S.

Enjoy the read, and let me know what you think! I especially appreciate your review on Amazon!

Uncategorized

Disney’s Heavy Hand

September 3, 2024

Mr. Brad Schneider

US Congressional Representative

District 10, Illinois

Re: Disney’s Heavy Hand

Dear Representative Schneider:

It is disturbing and worrisome that the argument between Disney Entertainment Content Group and DirecTV should impact viewers. On Monday morning we were advised by DirecTV that we could not view any TV channel that carried Disney content. These channels include:

ABC including ABC News
ESPN
FX
ABC Family, aka Freeform
National Graphic

There may be others. The DirecTV basic service is now lacking these contents. Chief among these features is ABC News. It is profoundly upsetting that we cannot view the news.

When two corporations are so large that they can arbitrarily withdraw a basic news entitlement, the American public is being abused.

I urge you to voice our displeasure and serious concerns in the House. I also urge you to push the FCC to do its job: “Providing leadership in strengthening the defense of the nation’s communications infrastructure.” The American population is being held hostage by these giant corporations. It’s indecent, and fundamentally wrong.

Yours truly,

(Signature withheld)

Phil Brown

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