Best of Intentions, Chapter 6

Ben is slowly, clumsily, hesitatingly walking through a dense, wooded area, like a forest or a jungle, finding it difficult to maintain his balance.  He's searching for someone or something.  His eyes dart rapidly all over while examining the terrain.  He's dressed as a hunter, but he has no gun.  He shouts "Frank...Frank...Frank," but there is no response. 

Ben wakes up startled.  It's his recurring dream again.  

Ben, Bob and Billy are drinking beer after work at Sereno's Bar.  

"Mexico City?  It ain't safe for an American," said Billy.

"You can't believe everything you hear," responded Ben.  "There're a lot of nice people there.  Besides, this project I'm working on with a Mexican professor is important to me."

"Yeah, and you can look up that Latin doll you met in New York," chuckled Bob.

"I'll never see her again.  I don't even know how to find her."

"So find another.  They're all just as sexy."

Miguel and his colleague and friend, Eduardo, meet in their well-decorated law office.

Eduardo asks, "How is your sister?"

"Very happy.  Lately, she's been writing some American she met on our last trip to New York.  Now she wants to invite him here for Christmas."

"You're joking.  You can't let her do that.  It can only lead to trouble.  These Americans!  I don't know why she won't see me again?  It would be good if you could make her understand what's best for her."

"I don't interfere with her life.  She's her own woman.  What she wants, I support.  I can do nothing to help you.  I agree this American is a mistake, but she'll learn, perhaps the hard way."

On December 23, 1939, Rita and Miguel wait nervously for their guests to arrive at the passenger terminal at Balbuena Military Airport, near Mexico City.  Finally, Betty Sobel, Miguel's American girlfriend, comes through the gate.  She's young, gorgeous, overdressed and wears too much perfume and makeup.  Upon seeing Miguel, she rushes up and kisses him passionately.

"Easy, baby.  We've plenty of time," Miguel admonishes.  "Rita, I'd like you to meet Miss Betty Sobel.  Betty, this is my sister, Senora Rita Chavez Ramirez."

"Welcome to Mexico City, Betty.  It is a pleasure to meet you.  Did you see my friend, Ben Johnson, on the flight?"

"Who?"

Just then Ben appears at the gate on his way to spending a Merry Christmas with Rita in Mexico City. 

   

Fear of Death

Woody Allen once said, “I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”  I think both my parents enjoyed such an avoidance.  They were both victims of dementia, so when they died, they didn’t realize they were dying.  In a sense, they weren’t there when it happened.

The actress, Valerie Harper, said “We’re all terminal.”  From the moment we're conceived, we're doomed.  We as human beings are no different than any other life form.  All plants and animals die.  Would we prefer being rocks that just sit there for a million years?  I think not.

In the 1967 Western movie, Hombre, Paul Newman's character, John Russell, says, "We all die.  Only a question of when."

In the 1992 Western movie Unforgiven, Clint Eastwood’s character, Will Munny, says, “Hell of a thing, killing a man.  You take away all he’s got and all he’s ever going to have.”  Life is all we really have.  It defines us.  You don’t want to lose it.

In the 1962 film, Birdman of Alcatraz, Burt Lancaster's character, Robert Stroud, says, "Life is too precious a gift to waste it."  So, let's not.  

I remember as a child realizing for the first time that one day I would die.  It sent a chill up my spine.  Then I realized most probably that would only happen at some very far off unimaginable time.  I could relax.  Old people died.  I wasn’t an old person.  I was very young.  Then a friend from high school was killed in an industrial accident the summer after graduation.  Young people die, too.

For some period during my early life I maintained an irrational belief that special people, like me, could avoid the inevitable.  However, on June 11, 1979, I became convinced that everyone dies.  That was the day John Wayne succumbed to cancer. 

Some fear the pain of dying.  Some fear the great unknown of what will happen to us after we die.  To me, this is one of the reasons for religion, to provide us with answers for this great unknown.  However, what I fear is the end of a life that I am enjoying so much.  I want to keep going, for as long as possible.  I fear missing the day after I die, and the day after that.

I have always enjoyed the study of history.  It is fascinating to learn about what had been going on before I was born.  Take Abraham Lincoln.  Born in his family’s log cabin in Kentucky and died in a stranger’s house in Washington, D.C. fifty-six years later after taking a bullet to the brain from an assassin’s gun.  His life was over.  Eighty years later, I am born.  I study Lincoln's life. 

Now history includes the study of things that have transpired during my lifetime.  I remember where I was when John F. Kennedy died.  But, where was I when Lincoln died?  No, I didn’t exist.  That is a strange concept, not existing.  How could I, who has inhabited my body for over seventy-one years and have had thousands of experiences during that time, not exist at some point prior to my birth.  Not only at some point, but for millions of years before according to some. 

I believe that I was created accidentally, as we all are.  One day, most likely in November of 1944, my parents, those same people who died long ago, were engaged in a mutual (I hope) act of passion.  And then, it was like I won the mother of all lotteries.  I was conceived, one sperm beat out millions of others for the chance to invade a single egg and create my life.  I am so happy to have been created, but where was I the day before and the day before that?  The answer is nowhere.  And where will I be the day after my death?  The same place, nowhere.

Reading about history and really about books and movies of any kind has taught me that they all have a beginning, a middle, and an end.  That’s kind of like life.  It has a beginning, a middle, and end.  But does life have a final, final end?  Can we leave anything behind after our body dies to continue our life in some respect?  I love reading the books of Charles Dickens, whom I think is the greatest writer of the English language.  Who can forget, “It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times.”  When I read his books, it’s as if he is talking directly to me, even though he died one hundred forty-six years ago.  Perhaps future generations will read what I have written in this blog.

Another way that life goes on is through progênie.  I have, to date, two children and two grandchildren.  I hope they will carry my memory forward to future generations with personal anecdotes, vídeos, and photos.  I knew my mother’s parents, who emigrated from the Russian Empire to the United States of America around 1904.  Subsequently, my mother’s mother’s father, a man named Gamsey Elkin, who was born around 1860, came, too.  I didn’t know him very well.  His English was not good and he suffered memory loss.  Who were his parents?  I don't know.  It’s as if they have disappeared.  It’s as if they never existed.  Nobody alive today remembers them.  I hope that doesn’t happen to me.

Perhaps of more importance than our memory is that our progênie pass forward our genes to future generations of descendants.  In that way, a part of you continues after your body dies.  Unfortunately, Abraham Lincoln has no descendants still living today.  However, his memory will live forever in the history of our nation.  I would prefer that both my memory and my genes get past forward in perpetuity.  

The bottom line is to forget about death and live our life each day, each moment, as if death doesn’t exist.  That is basically how we live our lives.  That is the only sane way we can live our lives.  We don’t know when death will come.  We only know that it will.  There are no guarantees of future tomorrows.  So live today.  Carpe Diem!  Seize the Day!  Aproveite o Dia!              

 

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

My wife, Cristina, and I were lying on my parent's bed in their  house on West Seneca Street in Oswego.  I heard the front door bell ring.  I wanted to ignore it hoping whomever it was would go away.  It kept ringing.  I did not respond.  Eventually, I noticed someone standing in the foyer just inside the front door.  It was a man wearing glasses.  At first, I was stunned.  Then, he started walking towards us.  I was in shock.  I couldn't budge.  As he got closer, I saw he had a gun which he was pointing at me.  I was very frightened.  I started shouting, "Who are you?  Who are you?"

Then Cristina woke me up.  She said I was shouting in my sleep.  It was just a dream.  It reminded me of another dream I had years ago when I was living in North Carolina.  I was lying alone on my bed at night trying to fall asleep when I noticed a dark, forbidding figure approaching me very slowly.  I was frozen with fear, not able to move or shout for help.  Finally, I woke up from this awful dream, almost as a defense mechanism.  Who needs these types of dreams?

I dream a lot, or I should say I remember a lot of my dreams.  And I believe that most of them are negative.  For years, I dreamed of being in school and having some kind of a problem: I can't find the exam site, I arrive late for the exam, I didn't study for the exam, I won't be able to graduate, etc. 

Then there are the Frank Ruggio (see blog post 12/29/2014 - A Weekend in New York) dreams.  He was my best friend from seventh grade through high school.  After graduation, I turned my back on Frank while finding new friends in a new life far from Oswego.  When I returned for our 25th high school reunion in 1988, I wanted so much to talk to him and rekindle our friendship.  Too late.  Frank died of cancer six months before.  I was full of regrets.  I have had many dreams since then when I talk to Frank only to wake up to the realization that he is really dead.  Bummer!  (I've also had dreams talking to my deceased parents and brother, Ted.)

Besides the Frank Ruggio dreams, I have had an inordinate number of dreams where I am in Oswego, my home town, a place I left almost fifty years ago and have unfortunately been back relatively few times since, outside of my dreams.

Not all my dreams are negative, only most of them.  In a recent one, I told a friend that a movie I wrote won an Academy Award, as if I were Dalton Trumbo with Spartacus (see last week's post).

Near the end of the 1941 film, The Maltese Falcon, the actor, Ward Bond, asks, "What is that?" referring to a statuette of a bird.  Humphrey Bogart responds, "The stuff that dreams are made of."  Really? 

Near the end of the 1971 film, Big Jake, the actor, Richard Boone, asks the same question referring to a trunk full of a ransom for the grandson of a rich man who had been kidnapped.  I couldn't believe that John Wayne's reply was an exact copy of Bogart's.  Is nothing sacred?

I never have dreams where I receive a valuable work of art or millions of dollars.  There seems to be a divide between my experiences with bad dreams and a cultural belief that people dream of something wonderful.  For example, "My dream is to have a million dollars."  Perhaps the word "wish," as in "I wish I had a million dollars" would be preferable to the word "dream."  That would make more sense.  It's the stuff that wishes are made of. 

But, why do I have such terrible dreams while I am sleeping?   Sigmund Freud "believed dreams are a window into our subconscious.  He believed they reveal a person's unconscious desires, thoughts, motivations.  Freud thought dreams were a way for people to satisfy urges and desires that were unacceptable to society." 

However, there are a lot of various theories about dreams that are still being researched.  One such is that our mind is simply trying to entertain us while we sleep.  I wish mine would stop trying.     

 

 

I'm Spartacus

This coming Friday, December 9, 2016, will be the 100th birthday of Kirk Douglas, the last of the old time movie stars I grew up watching.  I think the first of his films I remember seeing at the Oswego Theater was the 1954 Disney film, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea with James Mason.  Three years later, it was Gunfight at the O.K. Corral with Burt Lancaster.  Then in 1960, Kirk made the epic film, Spartacus, with Laurence Olivier, Jean Simmons, Charles Laughton, Peter Ustinov (won Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor), and Tony Curtis.

Kirk's given name was Issur Danielovitch.  He was born into an immigrant (from present day Belarus) Jewish family in Amsterdam, New York, a couple of hours by car from Oswego.  Kirk had six older sisters, some of whom my Aunt Frances told me she befriended when she worked there as a teacher.

 

After graduating from St. Lawrence University in upstate New York, Kirk moved to New York City to study acting at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts.  While he was aiming to be a stage actor, his actress-friend, Lauren Bacall, recommended Kirk to Hal Wallis, a movie director, who cast Douglas in his first film, The Strange Loves of Martha Ivers (1946), with Barbara Stanwyck, which I saw on TV. 

Among other of Kirk's hit movies I saw on the little screen were Out of the Past (1947), A Letter to Three Wives (1949), Champion (1949 - nominated for Academy Award for Best Actor, but lost to Broderick Crawford in All The King's Men), Young Man with a Horn (1950), Ace in the Hole (1951), Detective Story (1951), The Bad and the Beautiful (1952 - nominated for Academy Award for Best Actor, but lost to Gary Cooper in High Noon), Lust for Life (1956 - Nominated for Academy Award for Best Actor, but lost to Yul Brynner in The King and I), Paths of Glory (1957), Lonely are the Brave (1962), and The War Wagon (1967).  I also remember seeing him in Seven Days in May (1964) at a movie theater in Philadelphia.

Spartacus was made by Kirk's company, Bryna Productions, named after his mother.  Besides the above-mentioned Academy Award, it won three others: Best Art Direction-Set Decoration, Color, Best Cinematography, Color, and Best Costume Design, Color. 

Spartacus is the story of a slave forced to train to be a gladiator (Spartacus played by Kirk) who led a revolt against the Roman Empire in the 1st Century BC.  The screenplay was written by Dalton Trumbo, a writer who had been blacklisted by Hollywood ten years before because he refused to testify before the House of Representatives Un-American Activities Committee, which was investigating a possible communist infiltration of Hollywood.  Douglas broke the blacklist by putting Trumbo's actual name (instead of pseudonym) in the movie's credits.

 

In 1991, Spartacus was re-released into movie theaters and I took my daughter, Rachel, to see it.  There is a very dramatic scene after the revolt is defeated and those captured are offered to have their lives spared (they will be returned to slavery) if they identify their leader, Spartacus.  Just as he is about to identify himself, all of those around him stand up and each of them say, "I'm Spartacus."  Sitting a row behind us in the theater was the actor, Matt Dillon (The Flamingo Kid, 1984) who also called out, like the actors in the movie, "I'm Spartacus."

Some years later, but before his stroke in 1996, Kirk made a tour of the USA doing a one-man show, talking about his life and career.  I attended one of his performances at The Town Hall in New York City.  I remember Kirk doing a scene from the Broadway play he previously did, "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."  I regret not taking advantage of the opportunity to talk to him after the show at his book signing (The Ragman's Son which I read).  Let's all wish Kirk a very happy 100th birthday.

 

               

Best of Intentions, Chapter 5

Ben leaves his school late one rainy afternoon near dusk.  He opens his umbrella.  Behind him a figure approaches with a familiar voice.  Marilyn, a math teacher, slim, not unattractive, single, wears glasses. 

"Ben, wait up." 

He turns, stops and waits for her.  Instead of an umbrella, she's wearing a scarf to protect her long brown hair.

"Could you escort a damsel in distress to her home?"

"Sure."

Marilyn pulls up close to Ben, takes his arm and gets under his umbrella.  They head to the east side of Oswego where they both live.  After walking together across the Bridge Street Bridge and through the East Side Park, they arrive at Marilyn's modest two story house.  She unlocks the kitchen door. 

"Why don't you come in?  I've leftover meatloaf...plenty for two.  I owe you for being such a gentleman.  And I won't take no for an answer."

Ben thought for a second or two.  This would not be the first time he had been in Marilyn's house.  He was hungry and he would have to prepare dinner for himself at home if he refused her hospitality.

"All right."

Ben and Marilyn enter the kitchen, remove their coats, and shake off the rain. 

"Ben, why don't you make yourself comfortable in the living room.  We can eat while listening to some music on the radio."

After she warms up the food in the oven, the two of them eat from trays sitting side by side on the sofa.  After finishing, Ben puts his tray on the nearby coffee table and starts to rise.

"Thanks a lot, Marilyn.  That was great.  I've got to go.  Tests to grade.  You understand."

She removes her glasses and pulls him back.  "Not yet."

Marilyn puts her arms around him and plants a hard kiss on his mouth.  He responds in kind.  After some seconds, they separate.

"I'm going upstairs to get more comfortable.  Give me a couple of minutes and then join me."

Marilyn gets up from the sofa without taking her eyes off Ben.  She walks up the stairs, still maintaining eye contact with him.  Ben waits for some minutes, all the while thinking of a choice he's about to make.  Finally, he follows Marilyn up the stairs.  He then walks to the doorway of her bedroom, a place not unfamiliar to him.  She is lying in her bed wearing nothing but a light blue transparent negligee.  The covers are open to receive him.  He stays by the open door.

"I can't, Marilyn.  I'm not in love with you.  I need that."

"We both deserve some warmth and affection, Ben.  I can make you happy.  I need that."

"I'm sorry.  Good night."

Ben turns around and walks back down the stairs.  He continues through the living room, the kitchen and out the door he entered.  All the while, Marilyn remains frozen on her bed. 

When Ben arrives at his house, he sees an envelope lying on the floor in front of the mail chute by the front door.  By the return address, he sees it is from Rita, which brings a smile to his face.

That same night, Jon, from U.S. Army Intelligence, is meeting with his superior, General Wharton, at the Pentagon, just outside of Washington, D.C.

"General, I believe that someone in the president's inner circle should know about Karchevsky.  Let them decide what to do about it."

"Let me review your report, Jon.  I'll figure out who and when.  I'll let you know.  Good job."

 

 

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving, which will be this coming Thursday, the 24th.  It is not religious (Christmas) nor patriotic (Independence Day).  Its essence is friends and family coming together to share a turkey dinner and appreciate the good things in their lives.

Thanksgiving has become a holiday in which more Americans travel to get home or to wherever they are celebrating than any other time of the year.  As it falls on a Thursday (the fourth in November as mandated by President Abraham Lincoln in 1863), it has lately been expanding from a four-day holiday to a five-plus-day celebration.

As a child, Thanksgiving represented days off from school, having to eat my mother's very dry turkey at our dining room table (instead of in the kitchen where we normally ate), topped off with three different kinds of pies (apple, pumpkin and lemon meringue) for dessert, and the Lions-Packers annual pro football game on our black-and-white TV.

As an adult, I discovered that turkey can be moist and delicious.  Plus, cranberry sauce can be freshly made instead of spooned out of a can.  Bonita and I took our children to Broadway in front of the Ed Sullivan Theater to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving parade in person.  There were trips to our friend Donna's house in rural Connecticut for gourmet food.  I cooked my first turkey when my son, Bret, came to visit me in Chapel Hill.  When I was going to be alone my last Thanksgiving before moving to Brazil, I remember the kindness of my OSR colleague, Karen Mansfield, who invited me to her home. Now I cook a 1 kg. boneless turkey breast, pre-seasoned, in order to celebrate Thankgiving in Sao Paulo.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles, written, produced, and directed by John Hughes in 1987, is my favorite Thanksgiving movie.  It starred my "friend" Steve Martin (see blog post of 10/4/2015-Parenthood) and the late John Candy as two strangers who meet while trying to get home to Chicago for Thanksgiving.  Everything that could possibly go wrong, goes wrong.  But it's a comedy.

Neal (Martin), an advertising executive, is finishing a business trip to New York and is struggling to get home for Thanksgiving on time.  He pays a man on the street to give up his taxi, but Del (Candy), a salesman, unknowingly takes the taxi away from him and heads to the airport.  As such, Neal is peeved.  What a coincidence when they sit next to each other on the same plane flying to Chicago.  Neal's first impression carries over, while Del tries to make amends. 

Because of a blizzard, the plane is diverted to Wichita, Kansas.  That night, Neal (grudgingly) and Del are forced to share a room and a bed in a cheap motel.  While they are sleeping, a burglar steals all their money.  Thinking the worst, Neal is sure that Del was the thief, but is finally convinced otherwise.  The next day, Neal and Del board a train bound for Chicago.  More bad luck as the engine breaks down stranding all the passengers in the middle of a field in rural Missouri. 

Neal and Del walk to nearby Jefferson City where they buy (after Del sells all his samples) bus tickets to St. Louis whereupon Neal happily (for him) parts company with Del.  At the St. Louis airport, Neal rents a car, but when he is dropped off at his designated location, there is no car waiting for him.  However, always amenable Del rescues Neal with his own rented car. 

While driving the wrong way on the freeway, Del almost gets them killed.  Later, the car catches fire.  All their credit cards having been burned, Neal has to sell his designer watch to pay for a motel room for himself, while Del tries to sleep in his burnt-out car parked in the motel parking lot.  Finally feeling compassion for Del, Neal invites him into his room for the night.  The next day, their car is impounded by the police because of the fire damage, but the two are able to finally get to Chicago in the back of a refrigerator truck (thanks to Del). 

Neal and Del part company at a train station in the city.  While Neal is happily heading home, he comes to the realization that Del may be alone for the holiday.  Neal returns to the station and finds Del still there.  Del admits that his wife died eight years before and he has no where to go.  Understanding the essence of this holiday (see above), Neal invites his new friend, Del, to his home where he will share Thanksgiving dinner with his family.  It is a fitting end to an otherwise funny story. 

  

Electoral College

In November of the year 2000, Vice President Al Gore (Democrat) received 543,892 more popular votes than did Texas Governor George W. Bush (Republican), thus winning the U. S. presidential election.  Gore was inaugurated the following January 20th to become the 43rd president of the United States of America. 

Part of the above is not true.  Gore was not inaugurated as president.  Bush was.  Gore did not win the election even though he did receive more votes than Bush, popular votes that is.   Unfortunately for Gore, Bush received the majority of the electoral votes, 271 to 266.  Why this mismatch between popular votes and electoral votes?  What is the Electoral College, where the electoral votes are cast, all about?   

In Brazil, there is no Electoral College.  The candidate with a majority of the popular vote becomes the president of the Brazilian Republic.  If there is initially no candidate with a majority, there is a second round of voting with only the two top candidates from the first round, thus insuring that one will receive a majority.  So why is the USA different?

Under the Twelfth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America, "The Electors shall meet in their respective states, and vote by ballot for President...and transmit (list of votes) sealed to the seat of government of the United States...The person having the greatest Number of votes for President, shall be President, if such number be a majority of the whole number of Electors appointed." 

The way the U. S. system works, which ever candidate for President receives the most popular votes in each of the fifty states (even if not a majority), the Electors pledged (but not legally bound) to vote for that candidate will cast their electoral vote in the Electoral College where the actual election takes place.  Thus, there is not a national election in the United States, but fifty state (plus the District of Columbia) elections.

Those who wrote the Constitution in the 1780s were worried about giving the people the power to directly choose their president.  Perhaps they could be too easily duped by the promises of a candidate.  President Lincoln allegedly said that "You can fool all the people some of the time and some of the people all the time." Thus, the Electoral College system was intended to act as a safeguard.  It was also intended to give smaller, more rural states more influence in the election process.  

There are 100 Senators and 435 Representatives in the U. S. Congress.  As such, there are a total of 535 Electoral Votes allocated among the 50 States.  The District of Columbia (Washington, D.C.) does not have any Senators, nor does it have a voting member in the House of Representatives.  However, under the Twenty-Third Amendment to the U. S. Constitution, the District of Columbia is allocated 3 Electoral votes, making it equal to the number allocated to the smallest state in the USA.  Thus, there are 538 electoral votes; a majority would be 270, the number necessary to elect a president of the United States of America.

It is fair to say that 103 (100 for the Senators and 3 for D.C.) out of the 538 Electoral votes (about 19%) are unrelated to the relative size of the population of the fifty states.  Furthermore, the winner take all system in each of the states (except Maine and Nebraska) also diminishes the significance of receiving the most popular votes nationally.   

And what if there is a tie, 269-269?  And what if a third-party candidate wins some electoral votes, thus preventing either of the major party candidates from winning a majority?  That is the subject of another blog post. 

As a result of the election this past Tuesday, the 8th of November, Donald Trump received 306 (including Michigan) electoral votes (a majority) and will be inaugurated on January 20, 2017 as the 45th president of the United States of America. 

On the other hand, similar to the year 2000, Secretary Hillary Clinton, his Democratic Party opponent, received 2,654,370 more popular votes than Trump (on election night 2012, Trump tweeted that the Electoral College was a "disaster for a democracy"), but lost the election.  It is interesting, but perhaps meaningless, to note that in six out of the last seven presidential elections the Democratic Party candidate received more popular votes.  The exception being 2004.  However, as we have seen, twice during this period a Republican overcame that disadvantage to win the presidency in the Electoral College.    

I hope for the best for my country over the next four years under President Trump.     

       

Donald Trump

From September of 1966 until May of 1967, I was in my senior year as a student at the Wharton School of Finance and Commerce, part of the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia.  Eliminating my health concerns and worries about how the Vietnam War would affect my post-graduation prospects (see my blog post of May 8, 2016 - Fifty Years), I would say that my senior year was blissful in comparison to my first three years at Penn.
 

As I had taken four courses during Summer School in 1964, I only had to take the minimum four courses per semester my senior year.  As such, my work load was reduced.  Because I had gotten good grades my junior year, I was no longer stressed about the possibility of not graduating on time.

 

My only other unfulfilled graduation requirement was passing a swimming test (swimming across a 50 meter pool).  As I was not much of a swimmer at the time, I went to see the Director of Physical Education, George Munger, who, without my even asking, gave me a waiver for the swimming requirement.  Munger had been Penn's most successful football coach up to that time winning 65% of his teams' games from 1938 to 1953.

Unfortunately, I was still living in a dormitory thanks to my father's lack of encouragement and my own cowardice.  After our sophomore year, my friend, Scott Kahn, and I agreed to room together in an off campus apartment for our final two years at Penn.  While I was at home that summer of 1965, Scott stayed in Philadelphia looking for an apartment.

 

When Scott found one, he sent me a copy of the lease for me to sign.  When I showed it to my father, who needed to pay my share of the rent, he told me that the landlord was a crook who would take advantage of me.  I learned that my father was speaking from ignorance, never having seen a lease like that.  He told me he would pay the rent, but if anything else happened, I was on my own.  I failed to be brave and take a chance.  Scott lived at the apartment for two years without any serious problems.  When my children were in the same situation years later, I was supportive of them as I wished my father would have been with me.

I think my favorite course that senior year was an introductory one in real estate.  I learned its three rules:  location, location, and location.  Our professor had us study an actual neighborhood in West Philadelphia, not far from the campus.  Each student was given an address of a house in the neighborhood and had to do various research related to the house.  One was to go to Philadelphia City Hall (intersection of Broad and Market Streets) and look up the last three times the house had been sold (using old fashioned microfilm) to certify that each owner had signed on the subsequent sales document.  This is what title insurance is about.

Some time during that senior year, a colleague mentioned that one of our fellow students was Donald Trump, the son of a wealthy New York City real estate developer.  He was a junior transfer from Fordham University in New York City.  Trump was at Penn because of the real estate program that the Wharton School offered.  He graduated 12 months after I did in May of 1968.

Donald Trump was born June 14, 1946 in Jamaica Estates, Queens, into a family of five children (three boys and two girls).  He attended the Kew-Forest School, a local private school, until age thirteen.  In 1959, his parents sent Trump to the New York Military Academy, a private boarding school in the rural village of Cornwall-on-Hudson, New York, about 60 miles north of New York City.  (My mother threatened to send me to a similar school, the Manlius Military School in DeWitt, New York.)  Trump graduated from the New York Military Academy in 1964.  Then came Fordham and Penn.  As we both took a course or courses in Penn's Real Estate Department, our paths may have crossed, but if they did, I wouldn't have known who he was by sight.

I need to put the kibosh on one rumor that was attributed to both Candice Bergen, the actress who entered Penn with my freshman class in 1963, and Trump.  They dated while they were both students at  Penn?  Not possible!  [I saw a video interview with her and she stated that at the time of their date, he was not a student at Penn] She left in the spring of 1965 because a lack of good grades (too busy with a modeling career) and he did not arrive until the fall of the following year, 1966.

It is little known, but two years after his Penn graduation, Trump invested $70,000 in a Broadway show called Paris is Out, becoming one of its producers.  The comedy closed after 96 performances (about 12 weeks).  A year later, he took over his father's real estate business.  

In June of 2015, Trump announced that he was a candidate for president of the United States.  In July of this year, he received the nomination of the Republican Party.  The presidential election will be this coming Tuesday, the 8th of November.  What ever happens, I hope for the best for my country.   

  

     

Best of Intentions, Chapter 4

Ben Johnson runs up the stairs and enters the U. S. Post Office on West Oneida Street in Oswego.  He spots a postal clerk waiting for his next customer.

"What can I do for ya, Mr. Johnson?"

"How much is a stamp for a letter to Mexico?"

"Mexico?"

"Yeah, I'm writing a professor there for a project I'm working on."

After searching for stamps, the postal clerk hands him two.  "This'll do ya, Mr. Johnson."

After paying for the stamps, Ben walks to a nearby counter where he places them on an envelope addressed to Rita.  He drops it into the mail chute.

Days later, Patricia, Rita's live-in maid, hands the envelope to Rita as she is sitting in her favorite chair reading the newspaper in the living room of her house in Mexico City. 

"Rita, here's a letter for you."

Rita puts the newspaper down as she curiously examines the envelope.  Her face shows surprise as she sees it is from Ben. 

"Thank you, Patricia.  I'm going to read it in my room."

Rita's bedroom is large and well decorated with hints of Mexican art and culture.  She lies on her bed reading Ben's letter.  Her expression turns to one of joy.

A couple of weeks later, Rita is sitting alone at a table for two in a busy, elegant restaurant, waiting for her brother, Miguel.  She's drinking a cocktail, trying to calm her nerves.  After some moments, Miguel arrives and joins her, kissing her cheek.

"How are you, my darling sister?"

"I'm well, and you?"

"Couldn't be better.  You're already drinking.  (to the waiter) I'll have what she's having."

Rita takes the final gulp of her drink and puts the glass down.

"(also to the waiter) Another for me as well."

"What's the matter, Rita?  This is not like you."

"I need strength.  I need a favor from you, a big favor."

"Relax.  You know I'd do anything for you."

"I want to invite my American friend, Ben Johnson, for Christmas.  And I need you to be there...with a guest, perhaps your American girlfriend...to insure the proprieties."

"Are you crazy?  If you want a man, there are plenty of suitable ones here I can introduce you to."

"Like Eduardo?  He was the worst."

"OK.  So I've introduced you to some fools, but to choose an American...you know what they think of us."

"Not all.  I think he's different.  And I want to know him better.  Please do this for me."

Miguel hesitates.  "OK, my sister.  I can never say no to you.  I love you very much."

"Thank you, Miguel."

The drinks arrive and the two siblings smile broadly at each other.  They take their drinks in hand and make a toast.  At a nearby table, Jon, from U.S. Army Intelligence, sits with another man, a Mexican.  They speak in muffled tones so as not to be overheard.

"Can you confirm this information about Karchevsky?" asked Jon.

"Yes.  My friend on the inside is very reliable.  I trust him completely.  He's seen a lot."

"You better be right because this is going up the ladder.  Certain people need to know what's going on.  This could be big."

   

Ian McEwan

Ian McEwan, the writer, was born in England in 1948.  As his father was an officer in the British Army, Ian spent his early life in places such as Singapore, Germany, and Libya.  He returned to England when he was twelve years-old.  McEwan earned a Bachelor’s Degree in English Literature from the University of Sussex.  He also earned a Master’s Degree in creative writing. 

Ian McEwan first published a collection of short stories in 1975.  He started writing novels in 1978.  In 2001, I first became acquainted with his work when I read the acclaimed novel, Atonement.  After reading it, I developed a thirst for more of his work as I thoroughly enjoyed his sophisticated style and manner of story-telling.  I have since read other books of his including  On Chesil Beach, Saturday, The Comfort of Strangers, Black Dogs, First Love, Last Rights, Amsterdam and Sweet Tooth.   

While browsing in a book store here in São Paulo earlier this year, I came across McEwan’s recent novel, The Children Act.  After I finished reading it while on vacation in Guaruja, I did something I had never done before.  I immediately re-read it.  It had such an intoxicating effect on me that I almost couldn’t give it up.

It is the story of a middle-aged English woman, Fiona May, a High Court Judge in London who specializes in Family Law.  While continuing to deal with her caseload, which usually involves children’s issues, she is also undergoing a personal crisis, the possible dissolution of her long-term childless marriage. 

Fiona’s latest case concerns a 17 year-old boy who refuses a life-saving blood transfusion for leukemia because of his religious convictions.  How should she decide?  What is in the best interest of the boy?  Does he have freedom of religion?  Can someone refuse medical treatment?  And what will happen to her marriage?  McEwan will keep you turning those pages, spellbound by his marvelous use of the English language in telling a fascinating story.  I highly recommend The Children Act. 

Here’s a quick look at the book’s beginning for a sneak peek of McEwan’s writing style:

“London.  Trinity term one week old.  Implacable June weather.  Fiona May, a High Court judge, at home on Sunday evening, supine on a chaise longue, staring past her stockinged feet towards the end of the room, towards a partial view of recessed bookshelves by the fireplace and, to one side, a tall window, a tiny Renoir lithograph of a bather, bought by her thirty years ago for fifty pounds.  Probably a fake.”

In 2017, McEwan wrote the screenplay for the movie version of his story.  It starred Emma Thompson (Fiona), Stanley Tucci (her husband) and Fionn Whitehead (the boy).

 

 

John Brown

My first introduction to the historical figure, John Brown, was from the 1940 Hollywood western, Santa Fe Trail, directed by Michael Curtiz, screenplay written by Robert Buckner, and which starred Errol Flynn, Olivia de Havilland, Raymond Massey (as Brown), and Ronald Reagan (yes, the future president of the United States).  John Brown, as portrayed by Massey, as directed by Curtiz, and as written by Buckner, comes across on the silver screen (and on my TV set) as a ruthless lunatic.  I do not recommend doing your historical research by watching a Hollywood movie.  Beware of the statement, “based on a true story.”  Is that 90% true or only 10%.

John Brown (a white man) was born in Connecticut in 1800.  In 1837, as a result of the murder of Elijah Lovejoy, a minister, journalist, and  abolitionist by a pro-slavery mob in Alton, Illinois, Brown vowed, “Here, before God, in the presence of these witnesses, from this time, I consecrate my life to the destruction of slavery.”  In 1846, he moved to Springfield, Massachusetts and became deeply involved in the abolitionist movement there.  In 1847, Brown met with Frederick Douglass, an escaped slave, who became a social reformer, writer, orator, abolitionist and friend of Abraham Lincoln.  In 1850, in response to the federal Fugitive Slave Act (permitted southern slave owners to travel to northern states, where slavery was illegal, to find, capture and return runaway slaves to their southern slave masters), Brown founded a militant group to prevent the capture of runaway slaves in his community. 

In 1854, the US Congress passed the Kansas-Nebraska Act which enacted “popular sovereignty,” mandating the residents of those territories to determine whether they would come into the Union as free or slave states.  This led to violent clashes in Kansas between pro-slavery groups and anti-slavery “free soil” forces.  In 1855, believing that his adult sons in Kansas needed his help, Brown moved there to confront pro-slavery gangs.  In 1856, those who supported slavery “began a campaign to seize Kansas on their own terms.” 

“Sometime after 10:00 PM on May 24, 1856, members of Brown’s militant group took five pro-slavery settlers from their cabins on Pottawatomie Creek, Kansas and hacked them to death with broadswords.”  This was in retaliation for some eight killings attributed to pro-slavery elements in the previous two years.  Later, a Missouri (slave state) group destroyed the Brown homestead and then sacked the city of Lawrence, Kansas.  One of Brown’s son was murdered near Osawatomie.  Also, near there, Brown and his supporters, although outnumbered, engaged in a fierce battle with a Missouri group which earned Brown a positive reputation with Abolitionists.  Events such as these are known today as “Bloody Kansas.”  Eventually, Kansas entered the Union as a free state.

By the end of 1856, Brown headed east and spent the next two years raising funds for his abolitionist cause.  By 1859, Brown started planning for an attack on slave owners.  He collaborated with Harriet Tubman (who will be on the $20 bill in the future), a former slave who assisted others to escape slavery via the “Underground Railroad.”  In order to secure guns and ammunition for the attack, Brown planned to break into the federal armory at Harper’s Ferry, Virginia. 

On October 16, 1859, 157 years ago today, John Brown and 18 of his men easily captured the armory which contained 100,000 muskets and rifles with which he planned to arm local slaves.  The plan was to then head south freeing slaves as they went and arming them for attacks that would hopefully completely destroy slavery.  However, soon after Brown’s attack began, local townspeople pinned his group down with gunfire preventing them from escaping with their loot.  Two days later, a company of United States Marines, commanded by Col. Robert E. Lee, ended the battle, capturing Brown alive. 

Brown was tried in a Virginia state court on charges of treason, murder, and conspiring with slaves to rebel.  He was convicted on all counts and was sentenced to hang.  On the day of his execution, Brown wrote, “I am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood.”  He was correct.

“The raid on Harpers Ferry is generally thought to have done much to set the nation on a course toward civil war.”  Slave owners, fearing more such from Abolitionists, started upgrading their state militias, which eventually became the Confederate Army.  Northern Abolitionists saw Brown as a martyr to their cause.

In regard to the movie, Sante Fe Trail, the producers, Warner Bros. Pictures,

“express(ed) a desire to reconcile the nation's dispute over slavery which brought about the American Civil War and appeal to moviegoers in both the southern and northern United States. The American Civil War and abolition of slavery (were) presented (in the film) as an unnecessary tragedy caused by an anarchic madman (Brown).”

After my initial impression of him from the above movie, I did more research and I now see John Brown as a man who fought for a great cause (the end of slavery), but who sought to take the law into his own hands in support of that cause, which can never be acceptable.  However, he wasn’t mad.  John Brown was angry.