Culture, Thanks

They Earned Remembrance

Nearly two years ago I was invited to get involved in a writing project focused on my hometown. More specifically, about a generation of kids who lived in Norfolk County and died in World War II. The task looked academic in nature, and I was drawn to it, as much for the opportunity to write as well as to learn about the sacrifices these young adults made.

I did not realize what I had signed up for. The penny did not drop until I cracked open my first case.

Norfolk County is a picturesque spread of land that rests on the northern shore of Lake Erie. From the air, its most distinguishing characteristic is the long spit of land that creeps eastward into the center of the Great Lake. That’s Long Point. The next recognizable feature is Big Creek which is fed by countless streams and brooks, and runs from north to south through the heart of Norfolk, and spills into the bay created by Long Point.

The land is primarily agricultural and its sandy loam has been the productive real estate for a century’s worth of tobacco, fruit and vegetables. By 1939, Norfolk had a population of more than 35,000. Most lived in the countryside. Some 6,000 of these residents took it upon themselves to join the million-plus Canadians who went to war in support of Great Britain and its allies.

159 soldiers, sailors and aircrew never came home.

In the greater scheme of things, the casualty rate doesn’t seem shaking. Less than three percent. Covid-19 has been just as lethal. Joseph Stalin was once quoted as saying, “when one person is killed it’s a tragedy. When a million die, it’s just a statistic.”

A small group of Norfolk citizens decided to push back on this detachment. Why? The names of the 159 are engraved on a brass plaque in Simcoe, the county seat. Once a year there’s a ceremony to celebrate and honour the dead, but beyond that, those youthful volunteers are lost in the fog of time and current events.

To that end, this motivated group decided to write the short life stories of the young fighters. They enlisted researchers, including secondary school students, retirees and part-timers. The Norfolk County Public Library gave structure to the project, and a generous benefactor provided seed money to deliver an astounding book about this lost generation of kids.

The source of detail on the men, their families and service record was retrieved from Ancestry.Ca, local newspapers, as well as from personal accounts provided by living family members.

What was not well understood at the outset of this project would be the effect it had on us doing the research and writing. As a seasoned Baby Boomer, I have taken a lot for granted in my upbringing, and I bet most of my peers, their children, and grandchildren have not a clue about the grave developments that gave us 1933-1945. Sure, we’ve seen the movies, and read a few books. A tiny fraction, a scintilla of us, may ever have seen a military cemetery up close. And the raw, territorial aggression of three malevolent dictatorships that spawned the war is unfathomable by today’s standards.

Eighty years ago the scene was different, and Norfolk’s young adults, mostly in their late teens or early twenties–college-aged by today’s measure– safely protected by the Atlantic Ocean, left their homes, and committed to fight a fight three thousand miles away.

I was lucky to receive thirty boys to write up. We wanted the stories to bring to life their upbringing, their family background, their hobbies, schooling, girlfriends, wives, and in some cases, children. In the telling we found family photos, portraits, service records, military journals and diaries, medical reports, post mortems, letters from home, letters from defense departments, character references, heartfelt pleas from parents, and yes, burial details. As one worker commented, “I had to stop every once in a while, just to process it.”

The end result of this revealing expedition is the publishing of an incredible book ‘Norfolk Remembers World War II’ that gives an honourable recognition of just who these 159 kids were. And in many cases, what they could have been had they not been struck down in the cause of freedom.

As Remembrance Day occurs, I will give more heed to what these heroes did for us, and as the book wished, I will remember them throughout the year.

Thanks for reading and sharing. I hope you will keep a lookout for Norfolk Remembers World War II which will be available later this year.

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.

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, Media, Thank You, Thanks, USPS

Will You Write Me?

Back in Delhi, my home town, everyone got their mail at the post office. Built in the 40s, this was the largest civic building in a small tobacco town of 3,000. We climbed, what seemed at the time, a grand set of concrete steps, and entered by a glass and steel door into the lobby which held a vault of perhaps a thousand burnished steel postal boxes, secured by brass key locks. The vault had a permanent pungent fragrance of paper, and marble floor cleaner.

I took those steps two at a time for several years through my early teens, hopefully opening our PO box #580 in search of letters for me. The trick was to get them before the folks got there, because these letters were my first tentative steps into romance, and I couldn’t stand the investigatory barrage I would endure, had someone else seen them before me. Worst of all, my brother, who might be on a letter quest of his own.

What’s the power manifested in these testaments of our youth? To clutch the page that had been in the hands of someone special, reading over the words they had written bravely, carefully, giddily, for our entertainment and contentment. I treasured every one. And I wrote back in kind.

I just reviewed the latest report from the United States Postal Service wherein it reports that ‘single-piece first-class letter mail’ is down 7.3% from a year ago and 48% since 2009. Now granted, the category includes small business invoices, bill payments and volumes of responses to direct mail. But among that steadily disappearing tide of mail, swept out to the depths of a dark, unforgiving and wordless ocean, there is a loss too profound to ignore, and that is the personal letter.

The post office reported that post cards are down 11.4% from a year ago. 67% since 2009. What clearer evidence can there be that we no longer send picture post cards from a remote station at the edge of Grand Canyon, or outside a cabana in Puerto Vallarta? Maybe off a log boom in Vancouver? Now, it’s Facebook, Instagram, IMs and Twitter all the way.

The reality we are ignoring is that hard copy has staying power. Despite the pervasiveness of social media imagery, if we want to leave a trail for others to study years from now, we will have to rely upon the impulsive selfies we posted as the core sample of our achievements. There will be no words to explain.

Wise beyond his ten years, my grandson cautioned me not to commit stories to email. “That’s technology. It’s gonna disappear. You need to write it out, so that it’s saved.”

Smart kid. Long live the printed book.

But more than the written word is lost. We received a letter from a long-missed friend a few weeks ago. In it, she recounted the routine of her days, the status of her children, and their families, her health, the current politics of their village, and what to wear to a party.

While the news touched many levels of importance and substance–both high and low– it was the actual writing of these items that made the impact. Putting it all down on paper was a commitment to her personal history. Had she merely emailed, the missive would be digested and eliminated. Instead, her letter is saved, rubber-banded with others.

All our parents wrote, and frequently. Last summer I took the time to read and absorb about 100 letters that my mother wrote to her dad in New York City. From 1943-1945, she was a newly married war bride, making a home in England while the war continued. By 1948 she had moved to Delhi, and to a new world. Her tale is all on paper.

Thank goodness she hadn’t emailed her stories, or they would not exist. I learned more from those letters than I would have otherwise, even if she had told me face to face.

Letter writing isn’t difficult. Once you start, it just flows. The challenge is getting paper, stamps and envelope, and time.

Time is the premium resource. It takes time to sit and consider what to say. Why? Because you know that your written word will be received, read, re-read and pondered upon. Unlike a text, a two-line email, a photographic burst on Instagram or a re-post of someone’s pithy life motto, your written letter is a physical fact, and it will be read carefully.

It’s a shame really we squander our thoughts on slippery social media choices, only to find they are misinterpreted at the receiver’s end. ‘Would to God I never wrote that!’ is a common remorseful statement following a late-night email that really did not come out right.

If you do consider taking up the pen, a good place to start is with a simple thanks. We keep an inventory of greeting cards–blank inside– which we use simply to thank people. Thanks for the gift, the visit, the letter, the phone call, the gesture. Thanks for just being there.

Some would call this just good etiquette. And old fashioned. But that again shows how much we have fallen when even ‘thanks’ is relegated to a text.

Meanwhile I still recall the adrenalin, the blush, the quiet excitement of opening that mailbox and seeing an envelope for me. Irreplaceable, even today.

I hope you find the time to write!

“Well I got my mail, late last night, a letter from my girl who found the time to write…”

~Gord Lightfoot, “Big Steel Rail Blues”

“I read again between the lines upon the page, the words of love you sent me,”

~Gord Lightfoot, “Song For A Winter’s Night”

Culture, Thank You, Thanks

Really, thanks!

A time of civility…

What is it about people today that writing to say “thanks” is too much work? It seems the least one can do in return for a gift, a dinner, a night out, a sales order, or a visit. Here is the story of one thank you worth noting.

My frustration is really a hat tip and compliment to NBC’s Today Show host Matt Lauer. You may have seen his visit to the blooming Shinola factory in Detroit.

There, dedicated folks are building a little industry in journals, greeting cards, thank you notes, day planners and personal calendars.

Mr. Lauer’s interest in Shinola is twofold. First he is supporting entrepreneurial growth in one of the toughest and long abandoned districts of Detroit.

Detroit Edison Academy students

The streets are bordered by broken homes and derelict factory buildings. Homeless denizens still occupy the corners of doorways.

Despite that, there is The Detroit Edison Academy, an elementary school nearby where uniformed children are taking on the challenges of learning and self reliance with optimism.

Matt Lauer cheers on the D-E kids.

Lauer’s gift to the school are the profits derived from Shinola’s sale of his personalized product line.

All part of the comeback process for urban Detroit.

Lauer’s other pursuit is the rebirth of the hand written note.

Technician building the Shinola watch

“Everything today is digital. I like to live in an analog world, which takes one back to a time of civility when people took out a piece of paper and a pen to say “thank you.”

Matt and the Today Show crew viewing his personal line of Shinola journals. Profits go to Detroit Edison Academy.

Shinola’s Detroit product line extends beyond leather and linen covered booklets to precision watches. The combination of the two products appeals to an array of sophisticated and enlightened consumers.

The production lines are the breeding ground for devoted, and motivated workers clad in smocks and dust free head covers.

The D-E students present Matt with their hand written cards of thanks.

Lauer is hooked on the booklets and journals. Clutching one he testifies, “There is the joy of hanging onto something that doesn’t ring, beep, or send you a tone.”

Detroit Edison Academy looks like an oasis in the middle of an urban desert. Its hallways are clean and bright, and teeming with good looking, tidy kids on their way to a better future.

“Let’s never forget the personal touch! Thanks for helping,”

They cheer Matt later for his support, and in a presentation, thank him with a bounty of hand written cards.

Lauer is overcome. “Thank you. This means so much to me. I am one of those believers who still write someone a little note… when was the last time you went to a mail box and found a letter that was addressed to you? Isn’t it a special feeling?

Thanks for sharing! You can watch this really cool video of Matt’s visit here.

Culture, Entertainment, Music, Thanks

Tom Rush, Master

A Charles Giuliano Photos image of Tom Rush at work.

Occasionally a simple action sets a need in motion.

A couple years ago a college friend sent me a CD of folksinger Tom Rush. This entertainer’s music first broke into our lives back in 1966, hung in there until graduation, and then evaporated as we moved on.

Competition with job, kids and new directions pretty much locked Tom Rush out of our daily routines.

But fifty years later, the brand new CD woke me up. Not only was our musical hero from university days still alive, but he was also, still, at the the top of his game.

We decided to go see him again.

On stage, Rush is a quiet conversationalist. He talks to the audience, and snares them into the context of his next song with the finesse of a master salesman. His modesty hides his greatness in the genre.

Launching his career along with icons like Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, James Taylor, Eric Von Schmidt, Jim Kweskin, Richie Havens, Fred Neil today his body of work reaches across decades of accomplishment, from early blues to contemporary ballads.

If “ballads” sounds corny, think stories, worries and wishes put to music and rhyme, about things and events on our plates every day.

Isis Restaurant & Music Hall occupies a renovated theater from 1937 in the heart of West Asheville.

Last Sunday Tom Rush performed at the Isis Restaurant & Music Hall in Asheville, NC. Contrary to the those of many small cities across America, Asheville’s downtown is booming.

In the west end, also known as the West Village, the Isis theatre is a fixture built in the 1930s, and renovated to its current appealing look with bar, restaurant and stage. Outside, the original marquee showcases the night’s act. Across the street is a guitar shop, with nearby pawn shop, grocery, village market, cafe’s and gas stations.

The street is filled with cyclists and people enjoying their particular pursuits. While there was plenty of curb parking we chose to park in the grocery lot. There was a sign pointing to a steel box into which I folded eight dollar bills to keep my place.

Across Haywood Road a guitar store stands ready to fulfill the next musician’s dream.

Seated at our table up front, we looked at our hopeful neighbors, ordering dinner. The Isis is delightfully small. It seats about 50 diners and another 100 or so listeners on the main floor and in an upper gallery. It is a cool place, good food, with a restaurant out front which was packed when we arrived, 90 minutes before the show. Louise, the show scheduler came by our table to welcome us– a nice touch.

Up on the stage, a young fellow is tuning instruments: pianos and guitar. He looks like a stage hand but in fact is Matt Nakoa who opens for Rush. I shake his hand, and ask him to pass a note to his partner, requesting a song.

I can’t believe I am doing this but the opportunity can’t be lost to communicate with this giant.

It helps when I add, “We saw you last September in Minneapolis. You guys were just great, thanks!” He got my name and finished his tuning, and left the stage.

A few minutes later after Louise opens the show, Nakoa reappeared and delivered a virtuoso performance. His songs are rich, thoughtful and complex, with a voice that adds a layer of honesty to the words.

At the keyboard, he is incredibly efficient. Not that he uses only one or two notes per bar, but rather that he uses all his fingers every second. I was reminded of the Bruce Hornsby sound: full barreled piano, active and melodic. Matt Nakoa could choose to be a powerful classic concert pianist, but he opted for the folk and jazz club scene, much to our good fortune.

A Neale Eckstein image of Matt Nakoa unwinding a tune.

Nakoa also played guitar, with a light and intriguing touch. He is left handed, playing a left handed guitar, but strung for a right hander.

This forces an inverted chord formation which for most people would be like tying their shoes using a mirror. I am guessing he had to borrow someone else’s guitar in his learning, and the habit stuck. The result is golden: a unique and magical delivery.

He delivered a half dozen songs, each original and lush in melody. You want to hear “Ballad of Jenny Kane”. Just as enchanting however was his patter between numbers. He plays while he speaks, reminiscent of 60s entertainer Mauri Hadyn who also spoke with the audience while she produced a continuous soundtrack of riffs.

Tom Rush walks on after Matt’s introduction, and the crowd cheers for both singers.

Two figures could not look less likely to work together, and that is the magic of this duo. We are faced with mop-headed Gen-x musical prodigy standing beside a crusty, smiling, white haired, git-picking balladeer. Unbelievable combination.

Early on Tom Rush started a following that just won’t quit. His ’72 Columbia Records release.

Our fascination is soon overcome by the quality of their product. Rush commands the room with his good nature and low-key, self deprecating introductions. He opens up his act with the confidence of a master woodworker unwrapping his blades, choosing one to carve a unique keepsake for the audience.

Launching into “It’s Gonna Get Hot Tonight” the crowd responds enthusiastically to Rush, encouraged by his beat and voice, both strong and happy. In the background Nakoa has shelved the concert hall vibes to provide a wood-floor honky tonk sound that fills out the song perfectly.

The audience tonight is a following that has grown organically over 5o years of performances. We drove 750 miles to see him. True to his brand, Tom Rush delivers amusement and satisfaction by way of his story telling, singing and playing.

We know these songs, and they have legs. The lyrics are his, in perfect measure, with stories we want to hear. They are delivered by a voice that is both raucous and contemplative. He can change our mood in line or two, all the while polishing that finished piece of work for presentation.

There is a side to Tom Rush which is remarkable, and it points to his generosity. Yes, Matt Nakoa adds a dimension to his music, but it is the reciprocal nature of Rush’s partnership that is giving a younger generation the benefit of his experience.

He is hardly looking at the final days of his stellar career, with over 25 engagements scheduled in the coming months. Despite that, he has taken on the onus of sharing what he knows with a new, younger talent.

Matt Nakoa has his own music and his own story, but he is following in the footsteps of a legend with full support. In big business, the CEOs always say to hire people smarter than we are, but it’s scary. Rush took that dare on Nakoa. Our kids should all be so lucky.

A look at Tom Rush’s website unveils another gift. While he has the usual display of story, news and events, he also has a page of FAQs . What’s with that? Countless questions from fans about how to play his songs, complete with guitar tunings. In our world, it would be like a master vintner unveiling his secret recipe for a knockout wine.

Which leads to another puzzle in the Tom Rush narrative. Why does a self respecting folk icon tour New England and the west coast playing in small venues for only the price of a good steak? Celebrity has its costs, but modest ticket fees aren’t among them.

I think the answer is that the man loves what he does, and he wants to share it. His audience loves him back. That is remuneration enough.

And by the way, he called me out, and played my request.

Thanks for reading! This show is what coffee house music and jazz clubs are all about. Who needs an auditorium for 20,000? I pass on some websites for your interest, and feel free to share!

Tom Rush Show Schedule

His CD “What I Know”

Matt Nakoa’s Home Page

Culture, Media, Thank You, Thanks

Running Off The Cliff

You know the Wiley Coyote scene where he runs off the cliff in hot pursuit of the Roadrunner. There, hung in blind suspension of disbelief, he looks at the camera before reality sinks in.

Then he falls with a vviipp or a boink. We chuckle happily at his dusty, bruised remains in the canyon below.

So it is that I now admit to a similar, sad and painful realization.

Last December 6 I advised you that despite the falling volumes of the post office, one thing blossomed like a fresh spring crocus on a sunny hill… our continued, warm-hearted custom of sending greeting cards.

Christmas, Hannukah, Thanksgiving, Halloween were all good reasons to pick up our pens and write.

I detailed in colorful charts how “Single Piece Cards and Letters” sky-rocketed in the last quarter of the year, from October to December. Poring over the figures from the regular USPS reports, I found that the numbers went up, even while general mail volumes went down.

It was, as I said, revealing our brighter side.

Mail may be an antiquity, but by golly, we are sending a card anyway.

Revisiting that article, I discovered to my shock and dismay, that I had reported on revenues, not pieces. Aaarrrggghh!

Yes, patient reader, I misled you, big time.

The truth is, Cards and Letters for Q4, October 1-December 31, remain virtually the same share of the total, for the years 2004 and 2014— 27.5% to 27.7%. Meanwhile the whole category tumbled 55% over ten years.

Do they jump up in the last quarter as our good intentions begin to materialize?

Yes, as always. In 2004, an uptick of 18%, and 2014, up 22%, just in time to make delivery by Christmas.

But who’s going to calibrate a blip…a minor swelling…a mild burp in goodwill based on these numbers? The fact is, we have laid down our pens.

With that, Wiley Coyote looks down into the abyss. In his descent, he contemplates what went wrong.

Yes, email for sure. Good grief, why send a thank you card for a dinner when a two-liner on Gmail will tick that off the list? Want to bang off a birthday greeting fast? Hit “send” and it’s done. And is there any need to spin post card carousels in some tourist trap when you can celebrate your vacation on Facebook? Hardly. And so much for mailing pics of the Grandkids when there’s Instagram.

“Ahhh, to heck with it,” Wiley concludes as the ground rises before him, except… there is one factor to consider…

The physical delivery of the letter made a big, personal-brand impact. When someone took the time to compose, and write, in ink, on a nice card, address and lick an envelope, buy a pretty stamp, and find a mail box, it communicated in ways far beyond digital.

It’s a nice thought.

~Splat.

Thank You, Thanks

What You Do When Disaster Strikes

Last minute arrival.

March 31, at 6:10pm central time a 2006 black Acura sped out of control on Butterfield Road next to our house. Witnesses in front of the car saw it weave across three lanes from their rear view mirror.

Abruptly the car turned hard to the right and side-slipped 75 feet across our lawn hitting the back corner of our bedroom. It did not come to a halt. Rather, the vehicle and occupants continued through the brick wall, spun 90 degrees in the bedroom, and drove through the bathroom, grinding to a stop half way through our living room.

Perfect targeting avoided the fence and the stop sign.

Moments before that we had sat down in the living room to watch the new springtime sun set over the row of budding trees beyond our bay window. It would be the last peaceful scene we would see for weeks.

At the moment of impact, we were stunned by the deafening explosion. Our first thought was a falling plane, or perhaps a meteorite had crushed the house. Then the wall of the living room imploded before us, pushing couch and armoire ahead of it, and blasting a framed picture across the wall to land on our other couch. Glass, plaster, wood and dust everywhere.

Running down the hallway to the bedroom, we looked in, and there was a clear view of the highway. The entire wall was gone.

I could have written about this incident months ago, but decided to hold off until the dust had settled, and not just literally. While I don’t recommend this approach to understanding the role of first responders, I can say we learned a lot about what to do when disaster strikes you, or someone else.

Passengers were extracted by Libertyville’s first responders. The child in the back seat only had a scratch over her eye.

So this is what you do when you are the object of the disaster.

1. Are you okay? Apparently we were, because we both jumped from our seats and looked around. No pain, no numbness, and no bleeding. The fact was, we weren’t touched, but certainly shocked.

2. Anybody else around? Once we saw the rear of the car in our bathroom, it was pretty clear we weren’t alone, but there was no way to get near the car with the tangle of rubble, conduits, joists and furniture blocking the path.

3. Call 911. Did that immediately. First item: name and address. Closest intersection. Phone number. Bring a couple of ambulances, a car crashed through the house. Stay on the line. Literally within two minutes the Libertyville police were knocking at our door, and the fire department appeared moments later. It turned out that an officer had just driven past our house on the highway when he heard an explosion. Looking in his rear view mirror a plume of white smoke blossomed over our yard, and he knew something was up.

Road repairs this summer–check the new boulders as our first line of defense.

4. Shut everything down. It became obvious to us pretty quickly that professional first responders know the routine, and we were the lucky beneficiaries of their experience.

In the next ten minutes, the gas was turned off. The power was cut. It took a little longer to get to the water, but that was turned off too.

5. Follow orders. Despite our own assessment, we really were more shook up and addled than we knew. That’s when the police and fire fighters stepped up. They kept us away from the house, pending a careful review of its structure. It could cave in. Or blow up. As things turned out, the building was stable despite missing one corner, and the presence of a 3,600 pound car resting on the main floor. Kudos to the architect who designed this house.

6. Call insurance. Quite amazing… the fire department chief asked for our carrier and he had their speed dial on his phone. We were hooked up with our “good neighbor” State Farm, in seconds. A few moments later, our fire chief also provided a list of company names to manage the board-up of our house. After picking one from a list of ten, a truck of workers arrived 30 minutes later with a load of plywood to board up the missing wall of our house.

The business side of the Acura. Our CDs were found under the dashboard.

7. Take pictures. Thank goodness for digital photography. We took over 100 pictures on our own from every angle. These became invaluable later on for filing claims, identifying lost articles, piecing objects together.

The insurance claims adjusters request a digital picture of everything lost or damaged. My advice to you now is to photograph your entire house and contents, wall by wall, ceiling to floor. It’s easy, and effective.

8. Think big. When it comes to placing a value on that couch you bought 25 years ago, it’s worth a trip to the furniture store first. Our homeowner’s policy provided for replacement value. But something that cost $1,000 in 1990 probably costs $3,000 now. Take your time filing your claims, and get the numbers right first.

Home renos on the horizon. The wall imploded around us.

9. Rationalize. When fate strikes a blow, there is an urge to blame someone, especially when other people are involved. The fact is, the driver had blanked out due to an attack. Nobody’s fault to speak of.

Looked at another way, the car could have left the road ten yards earlier, or later, with no serious consequences to anyone. Let it go. If you have retribution beyond repair compensation on your mind, get your legal gown out, because you will be in court for a long time.

10. Keep notes. We kept a diary of daily developments during the recovery from the crash. Six months of hand written notes recording names of workers, dates, what happened. These can be useful for insurance purposes but just as important, it telegraphs to the hundreds of people who are in your home that you know them, and care about what they are doing.

Masterful repairs by the contractors. We saved and re-used over 1,300 bricks.

11. Be private. Within 30 minutes of the big boom, we had a Channel 5 helicopter hovering over our home. Reporters were lined up across the street interviewing neighbors. That was because the police chief asked if we wanted the media on the property. No thanks, not tonight, actually.

Next day, the newspaper crew came by, and in the light of day, it was easier to tell the story, complete with pictures. The resulting publicity is electric, with news feeds delivering your story to people nationwide.

12. Be gracious. Human nature is that we all like to stand on our own feet. Accepting help is a weakness.

A subtle return to the old look with new bricks.

But the fact is, help is the best medicine for the giver and the recipient alike.

Our neighbors demanded we use their spare bedroom, We took it. Others demanded we come to dinner. We did. Strangers came up to us in town and asked after our well being. Hugs and handshakes.

One very concerned and generous lady–whom we did not know–came by to give us a Panera gift card. The meal was excellent. Another thoughtful neighbor counseled us on insurance claims. We needed it.

Libertyville’s first responders performed flawlessly, and quickly.

The lesson we learned over six months is that people want and need to help. Our job as the injured party is to take it, and treasure it, which we did.

The fact is, every time someone extended a hand, we were flushed with encouragement, and I think they felt better themselves too.

Now, everything is just about back to normal, eight months later. We don’t recommend this experience to anyone, but for all of that, we are thankful for the way things turned out.

Never ignore the opportunity to help someone, or to make the effort to check them out. There’s no downside to it!

Phil Brown

"Like triple cream– rich, pungent, a little barnyardy, and spreads easily. A good cheese."

Category Archives: Thanks

They Earned Remembrance

Where The Time Went

History Lessons

Will You Write Me?

Really, thanks!

Tom Rush, Master

Running Off The Cliff

What You Do When Disaster Strikes

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