Today, the deeply sad news arrived via email that my lasting living uncle, and the last living member of an entire generation of blood relatives older than my own has passed away. George Anderson died last night at the age of 83, with his family at his side, at his home in Ohio.
I last spoke with him on Christmas Day, now two and a half months back, and I was frankly shocked at how vital and alert he sounded over the phone, even though we both knew, and acknowledged to each other, that he was lying on his deathbed, the place from which he would never rise again, except, perhaps, on a supersonic flight to heaven, which is truly where his soul deserves to land.
Our conversation was so energizing to me that I urged him to fight on, and believe in the possibility of a miracle, and to never give up. As if he needed me to give him advice! He confided to me his deepest worry about his two surviving sons and his wife of over six decades, "I only hope I am not a burden to them, Dave."
"I know that you are not, Uncle George." And, I am quite sure I was right.
Demographers, who earn their money working for marketing firms, like to classify us by generations. Here is what they consider those of us older folks, as opposed to the younger Generations X, Y, etc.:
Baby Boomers (1946-1964)
Silent Generation (1925-1945)
G.I. Generation (1901-1924)
Uncle George was a leader of the "Silent Generation," by this account, much as his son Dan and I are leaders of the "Baby Boomers," all by virtue of when we happened to be born.
Tonight, in mourning for my uncle, I want to reprint two of my posts from last year, in their entirety:
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
AN AMERICAN HERO
Many people don't bother to read the "comments" that readers may post to this and other blogs, so I want to re-post my cousin Dan's description of the astonishing corruption his Dad encountered inside the Chrysler Corporation in the late '50s. Of course, I was clueless about all this at the time. As a son of Motown, I followed everything the auto companies did, which is to say I drank their public propaganda like Kool-Aid.
Uncle George, meanwhile, was clearly a thoroughly good man. Through my child's eyes, I observed a patient, unassuming, kind man, who worked hard and loved his family, Aunt Reta, George, Jr., Dan, and Gordon.
As his parents' only son and youngest child, George moved his family to Florida to be close to my grandparents as they approached the last years of their lives. I knew about that, but I didn't know the following, though I do now, courtesy of Dan:
"If it is higher level collusion and intrigue that interests you, exploring Dad's early experience at Chrysler Corporation might fascinate. The same qualities that propelled his early automotive career at Fisher Body came squarely against the corruption at Chrysler in the late 50s.
"As the youngest General Superintendent at Chrysler, heading up skilled trades at the then new Twinsburg Stamping Plant, he uncovered a scheme involving a corporate vice president who was getting kickbacks from a sham business operated in his wife's name. In spite of attempts to threaten and bribe him, (Dad) exposed what he knew, leading to a corporation wide shake up in 1959 and 1960.
"A well known Detroit based attorney, Sol Dan, moved legal action which eventually blew the lid off and ultimately changed the Chrysler board. At one point, Dad threw a corporate rep out of his office when the rep told him it would be a shame if anything were to happen to his young family.
"On another occasion, Mother called him at the plant to say there was a strange man attempting to leave an expensive shop tool at our home. He had her put the man on the phone and told him that if he and the tool did not leave immediately, he would call the police to have him arrested."
***
There are lots of people who've done fine things and become quite famous as a result. They are the ones who run for President, or hawk brands, and have PR and marketing agents to repackage their stories.
Real heroes, to me, are like my Uncle George Anderson. He did the things he did out of a personal sense of honor and principle.
I'll be his PR man any day of the week.
***
Oct. 22, 2008
Entering the Night Kitchen
I woke up this morning to the sight of a distinctly unsightly purple blotch beneath my right eye. Damn! A capillary had burst, disfiguring my already aged face, turning me not only old but ugly.
At times like those, all I can perceive are the shadows of life, not the active forms that make up its essence. Maybe this is a sign of a more serious health problem? Maybe the bell finally is starting its toll for me?
Alas, any such thoughts or fears of "stopping by the woods on a snowy evening," as the poet would put it, were erased by the comforting voice of my long-time doctor's trusty assistant, Cassie.
"It's a random event. There's nothing to worry about."
Good, now where did I put my makeup?
***
My family is dispersed across the continent. Tonight my hopes and thoughts are with my Uncle George Anderson, who is gravely ill back home in the Midwest of my youth. He is the sole remaining living blood relative from my parents' generation.
Previously, on this blog, I've shared stories about Uncle George, courtesy of my cousin Dan, whom I know is at his side as I write these words.
All I can do is wish and hope that my uncle is resting peacefully, secure in the knowledge that he is a good man, one deeply loved by his family, respected by his peers, and emblematic of what a truly decent American can aspire to be.
I do not know how much longer he will be here with us, but I do know that I, and many others, are far better people for having been touched by his presence in our lives. Rest easily, Uncle George. We love you and we will never forget you.
***
Amen, Uncle George. Rest in Peace. I love you.
-30-
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query uncle george. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query uncle george. Sort by date Show all posts
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Remembering my cousin
Gordon Anderson died today of lung cancer in Michigan. I think he was in his mid-50s.
Gordie was the youngest of my three Anderson boy cousins -- George, Jr., and Dan were his big brothers. George was a few years older than me, Dan was my age, Gordie a few years younger.
An oddity in my extended family when we were all growing up in the '50s was a severe gender imbalance. On my Dad's side, his two brothers and three sisters produced seven boys, but no girls.
On my Mom's side, her two sisters and one brother (Uncle George) produced six boys and two girls. So, of the 15 cousins we got to know, 13 were boys.
By contrast, in our nuclear family, there were three girls and me.
A statistician would have fun with this. Whereas overall boys constituted about three-quarters of the offspring, in my own family, boys accounted for 25% (me).
Outside of my family, 86.7% of all 15 births in my generation were male. The odds of this can be computed, according to various formulas, but for me the salient facts are these:
*My father's birth family produced three boys and three girls. So did I.
*My mother's birth family consisted of three girls and one boy, which is exactly the household I grew up in.
Which brings me back to the one boy in my mother's birth family, Uncle George. I know he is hurting tonight, back home in Michigan, having lost his youngest son. He is in very poor health himself, and he is the last surviving member of my parents' generation in either of their families.
He is also the only one who was born in America. The other nine (6 females and 3 males) were born in foreign lands. Uncle George is the lone native son, but when he was a little boy, he used to talk about what it was like "back in Scotland," a place he'd never visited but which hung over the household like a dark storm cloud of unresolved memories, particularly for his parents, my grandparents.
The Scots are a strange people, endearing and imposing at the same time. My grandfather, Uncle George's father, was an especially intimidating man (to me). He was a master tool-and-dyesman, exactly the type Henry Ford was looking for when he sent his earliest sound trucks around Scottish cities in the 1920's.
My grandfather answered the call, and moved his young family over here, to the place where (they were told) the streets were painted with gold.
Immigrant experiences have been richly chronicled by many writers more skilled than I. Let me simply say that I felt my grandparents' sense of sadness at a culture lost. Whenever I glimpsed them with their other old friends from Scotland, I was amazed by their strange accents and their animated discussions.
I acquired a lifelong love of Scottish meat pies at this stage; a thirst that remains unquenched to this day.
***
There’s so much more I could write, or try to write, but tonight my heart is heavy with sadness. I miss Gordie even though I haven't seen him in, what, 30 years? I had heard he was ill, but I had no idea how very ill he in fact was. His big brother George took him in and cared for him until the end.
Of all of my male cousins, many of whom tended to gross me out, Gordie was one of the sweetest and the strangest of all. He was such a picky eater! If I remember correctly, Aunt Reta could only convince him to eat peanut butter.
Of course, memories are suspect, and perhaps there was another type of food he would eat, but I don't think so.
Also, in the '50s and early '60s, when most of my other cousins were cultivating their machismo, Gordie just stayed himself, not particularly athletic or aggressive or ambitious for glory.
His brothers and I used to sit around and talk about how we would wish to die, if it turned out to be up to us. The rest of us agreed we'd rather die as heroes for our country than in any other way. But again, unless, my memory is faulty, Gordie didn't express much enthusiasm for warfare.
When Uncle George moved his family to the Tampa area to be closer to his parents in their declining years, he opened a soft ice cream shop, which, when we visited, was one of the true highlights of my youth. We worked there, alongside our cousins, and we were paid in ice cream -- all we wanted!
That's about as close to nirvana as I have ever been.
The Anderson boys also introduced me to Mad Magazine somewhere during this period, and that had more influence on my evolving sensibilities than anything going on back home in school.
On another occasion, Uncle George and the boys got a pet monkey. I think this is when they were living in Ohio, and I think the monkey's name was Tommy. Of course, today, having monkeys as pets is illegal, I'm quite sure, but Tommy (if that indeed was his name) had quite an exciting life with the Anderson boys.
Some of my most special memories date back to the years when Uncle George and family lived in Wisconsin, just across the magnificently vast Lake Michigan. They would take the ferry in summer and meet our family at Ludington State Park, nestled next to Lake Hamlin and the sand dunes of the northwestern coast of the Lower Peninsula.
At Ludington, we had many adventures. Gordie, Dan, George and I roamed the woods and the riverbanks, the lakeshore and the swamps where delicious Michigan blueberries grew.
It is all so long ago now. My mind becomes hazy as I try to bring up the memories. Tears fill my eyes as I remember my younger cousin Gordie, a gentle soul if ever there was one in my generation of males.
He never married, and he suffered ill health for some years as he aged. I wish I could have seen him one more time. In the end, he was where he always wanted to be, with his family.
I mourn for him tonight. And I am so very sad for my uncle and my aunt, a woman who always had a plate of cookies waiting whenever we came to visit. Uncle George is the guy, who, when carrying my Dad's ashes down to Mud Lake at Rolling Hills for my mother and I to spread in the lake where he loved to fish, joked: "I came down this hill many times with Tom (my Dad) but this is the first time I could say whatever I wanted to him, without him talking back."
Maybe it's time for me to say this to my sole surviving Uncle and his family: "I love you. May Gordon rest in peace. I am proud to say I was his cousin."
-30-
Gordie was the youngest of my three Anderson boy cousins -- George, Jr., and Dan were his big brothers. George was a few years older than me, Dan was my age, Gordie a few years younger.
An oddity in my extended family when we were all growing up in the '50s was a severe gender imbalance. On my Dad's side, his two brothers and three sisters produced seven boys, but no girls.
On my Mom's side, her two sisters and one brother (Uncle George) produced six boys and two girls. So, of the 15 cousins we got to know, 13 were boys.
By contrast, in our nuclear family, there were three girls and me.
A statistician would have fun with this. Whereas overall boys constituted about three-quarters of the offspring, in my own family, boys accounted for 25% (me).
Outside of my family, 86.7% of all 15 births in my generation were male. The odds of this can be computed, according to various formulas, but for me the salient facts are these:
*My father's birth family produced three boys and three girls. So did I.
*My mother's birth family consisted of three girls and one boy, which is exactly the household I grew up in.
Which brings me back to the one boy in my mother's birth family, Uncle George. I know he is hurting tonight, back home in Michigan, having lost his youngest son. He is in very poor health himself, and he is the last surviving member of my parents' generation in either of their families.
He is also the only one who was born in America. The other nine (6 females and 3 males) were born in foreign lands. Uncle George is the lone native son, but when he was a little boy, he used to talk about what it was like "back in Scotland," a place he'd never visited but which hung over the household like a dark storm cloud of unresolved memories, particularly for his parents, my grandparents.
The Scots are a strange people, endearing and imposing at the same time. My grandfather, Uncle George's father, was an especially intimidating man (to me). He was a master tool-and-dyesman, exactly the type Henry Ford was looking for when he sent his earliest sound trucks around Scottish cities in the 1920's.
My grandfather answered the call, and moved his young family over here, to the place where (they were told) the streets were painted with gold.
Immigrant experiences have been richly chronicled by many writers more skilled than I. Let me simply say that I felt my grandparents' sense of sadness at a culture lost. Whenever I glimpsed them with their other old friends from Scotland, I was amazed by their strange accents and their animated discussions.
I acquired a lifelong love of Scottish meat pies at this stage; a thirst that remains unquenched to this day.
***
There’s so much more I could write, or try to write, but tonight my heart is heavy with sadness. I miss Gordie even though I haven't seen him in, what, 30 years? I had heard he was ill, but I had no idea how very ill he in fact was. His big brother George took him in and cared for him until the end.
Of all of my male cousins, many of whom tended to gross me out, Gordie was one of the sweetest and the strangest of all. He was such a picky eater! If I remember correctly, Aunt Reta could only convince him to eat peanut butter.
Of course, memories are suspect, and perhaps there was another type of food he would eat, but I don't think so.
Also, in the '50s and early '60s, when most of my other cousins were cultivating their machismo, Gordie just stayed himself, not particularly athletic or aggressive or ambitious for glory.
His brothers and I used to sit around and talk about how we would wish to die, if it turned out to be up to us. The rest of us agreed we'd rather die as heroes for our country than in any other way. But again, unless, my memory is faulty, Gordie didn't express much enthusiasm for warfare.
When Uncle George moved his family to the Tampa area to be closer to his parents in their declining years, he opened a soft ice cream shop, which, when we visited, was one of the true highlights of my youth. We worked there, alongside our cousins, and we were paid in ice cream -- all we wanted!
That's about as close to nirvana as I have ever been.
The Anderson boys also introduced me to Mad Magazine somewhere during this period, and that had more influence on my evolving sensibilities than anything going on back home in school.
On another occasion, Uncle George and the boys got a pet monkey. I think this is when they were living in Ohio, and I think the monkey's name was Tommy. Of course, today, having monkeys as pets is illegal, I'm quite sure, but Tommy (if that indeed was his name) had quite an exciting life with the Anderson boys.
Some of my most special memories date back to the years when Uncle George and family lived in Wisconsin, just across the magnificently vast Lake Michigan. They would take the ferry in summer and meet our family at Ludington State Park, nestled next to Lake Hamlin and the sand dunes of the northwestern coast of the Lower Peninsula.
At Ludington, we had many adventures. Gordie, Dan, George and I roamed the woods and the riverbanks, the lakeshore and the swamps where delicious Michigan blueberries grew.
It is all so long ago now. My mind becomes hazy as I try to bring up the memories. Tears fill my eyes as I remember my younger cousin Gordie, a gentle soul if ever there was one in my generation of males.
He never married, and he suffered ill health for some years as he aged. I wish I could have seen him one more time. In the end, he was where he always wanted to be, with his family.
I mourn for him tonight. And I am so very sad for my uncle and my aunt, a woman who always had a plate of cookies waiting whenever we came to visit. Uncle George is the guy, who, when carrying my Dad's ashes down to Mud Lake at Rolling Hills for my mother and I to spread in the lake where he loved to fish, joked: "I came down this hill many times with Tom (my Dad) but this is the first time I could say whatever I wanted to him, without him talking back."
Maybe it's time for me to say this to my sole surviving Uncle and his family: "I love you. May Gordon rest in peace. I am proud to say I was his cousin."
-30-
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Entering the Night Kitchen
Let's forget politics for a while. The polls are telling the story. The outcome becomes more certain every day. But it is no time for the winners to gloat or for the losers to pout.
Life is about much, much more than politics. At its core, to me, it is about love, family, and friendship.
I woke up this morning to the sight of a distinctly unsightly purple blotch beneath my right eye. Damn! A capillary had burst, disfiguring my already aged face, turning me not only old but ugly.
At times like those, all I can perceive are the shadows of life, not the active forms that make up its essence. Maybe this is a sign of a more serious health problem? Maybe the bell finally is starting its toll for me?
Alas, any such thoughts or fears of "stopping by the woods on a snowy evening," as the poet would put it, were erased by the comforting voice of my long-time doctor's trusty assistant, Cassie.
"It's a random event. There's nothing to worry about."
Good, now where did I put my makeup?
***
My family is dispersed across the continent. Tonight my hopes and thoughts are with my Uncle George Anderson, who is gravely ill back home in the Midwest of my youth. He is the sole remaining living blood relative from my parents' generation.
Previously, on this blog, I've shared stories about Uncle George, courtesy of my cousin Dan, whom I know is at his side as I write these words.
All I can do is wish and hope that my uncle is resting peacefully, secure in the knowledge that he is a good man, one deeply loved by his family, respected by his peers, and emblematic of what a truly decent American can aspire to be.
I do not know how much longer he will be here with us, but I do know that I, and many others, are far better people for having been touched by his presence in our lives. Rest easily, Uncle George. We love you and we will never forget you.
-30-
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
An American Hero
Many people don't bother to read the "comments" that readers may post to this and other blogs, so I want to re-post my cousin Dan's description of the astonishing corruption his Dad encountered inside the Chrysler Corporation in the late '50s. Of course, I was clueless about all this at the time. As a son of Motown, I followed everything the auto companies did, which is to say I drank their public propaganda like Kool-Aid.
Uncle George, meanwhile, was clearly a thoroughly good man. Through my child's eyes, I observed a patient, unassuming, kind man, who worked hard and loved his family, Aunt Reta, George, Jr., Dan, and Gordon.
As his parents' only son and youngest child, George moved his family to Florida to be close to my grandparents as they approached the last years of their lives. I knew about that, but I didn't know the following, though I do now, courtesy of Dan:
"If it is higher level collusion and intrigue that interests you, exploring Dad's early experience at Chrysler Corporation might fascinate. The same qualities that propelled his early automotive career at Fisher Body came squarely against the corruption at Chrysler in the late 50s.
"As the youngest General Superintendent at Chrysler, heading up skilled trades at the then new Twinsburg Stamping Plant, he uncovered a scheme involving a corporate vice president who was getting kickbacks from a sham business operated in his wife's name. In spite of attempts to threaten and bribe him, (Dad) exposed what he knew, leading to a corporation wide shake up in 1959 and 1960.
"A well known Detroit based attorney, Sol Dan, moved legal action which eventually blew the lid off and ultimately changed the Chrysler board. At one point, Dad threw a corporate rep out of his office when the rep told him it would be a shame if anything were to happen to his young family.
"On another occasion, Mother called him at the plant to say there was a strange man attempting to leave an expensive shop tool at our home. He had her put the man on the phone and told him that if he and the tool did not leave immediately, he would call the police to have him arrested."
***
There are lots of people who've done fine things and become quite famous as a result. They are the ones who run for President, or hawk brands, and have PR and marketing agents to repackage their stories.
Real heroes, to me, are like my Uncle George Anderson. He did the things he did out of a personal sense of honor and principle.
I'll be his PR man any day of the week.
-30-
Uncle George, meanwhile, was clearly a thoroughly good man. Through my child's eyes, I observed a patient, unassuming, kind man, who worked hard and loved his family, Aunt Reta, George, Jr., Dan, and Gordon.
As his parents' only son and youngest child, George moved his family to Florida to be close to my grandparents as they approached the last years of their lives. I knew about that, but I didn't know the following, though I do now, courtesy of Dan:
"If it is higher level collusion and intrigue that interests you, exploring Dad's early experience at Chrysler Corporation might fascinate. The same qualities that propelled his early automotive career at Fisher Body came squarely against the corruption at Chrysler in the late 50s.
"As the youngest General Superintendent at Chrysler, heading up skilled trades at the then new Twinsburg Stamping Plant, he uncovered a scheme involving a corporate vice president who was getting kickbacks from a sham business operated in his wife's name. In spite of attempts to threaten and bribe him, (Dad) exposed what he knew, leading to a corporation wide shake up in 1959 and 1960.
"A well known Detroit based attorney, Sol Dan, moved legal action which eventually blew the lid off and ultimately changed the Chrysler board. At one point, Dad threw a corporate rep out of his office when the rep told him it would be a shame if anything were to happen to his young family.
"On another occasion, Mother called him at the plant to say there was a strange man attempting to leave an expensive shop tool at our home. He had her put the man on the phone and told him that if he and the tool did not leave immediately, he would call the police to have him arrested."
***
There are lots of people who've done fine things and become quite famous as a result. They are the ones who run for President, or hawk brands, and have PR and marketing agents to repackage their stories.
Real heroes, to me, are like my Uncle George Anderson. He did the things he did out of a personal sense of honor and principle.
I'll be his PR man any day of the week.
-30-
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
One Prayer
"Hey, Dad, why doesn't our family name follow the i-before-e rule?" asked wily Dylan, aged 11.
"I don't really know," I stumbled.
"Because we are awesome!" interjected Dylan. "We break the rules."
My own Dad used to enjoy pointing out that a "weir" is a dam in old English, as well as modern British English (we never use the term over here in the colonies.) Dad loved to say that it was fine for people to say "those damn Weirs," because they were just being descriptive (or more precisely, redundant.)
I'm thinking of my father tonight for a number of reasons. None more immediate than the fact that my sole surviving blood relative from my parents' generation, Uncle George Anderson, underwent a risky surgery today, and I'm thinking about him, Aunt Reta, Dan, George and Betty, especially because they all are still recovering from losing the youngest boy in the family, Gordie, earlier this year.
If I could pray without being a hypocrite, I'd pray for Uncle George to have a safe recovery, and remain in the world with us. As it is, I'll just say that. You are in my mind tonight. May you recover, and have a healthier future than otherwise would have been likely.
I respect my uncle -- a lot. I know he had to travel across state lines to get this operation, which is not necessarily recommended for a person of his age and in his shape. But his quest is to live more fully, or not to live at all.
My mother, his sister, made the same choice four and a half years ago. In her case, technology did not present an acceptable (to her) option. In her little brother's case, technology, albeit risky, does.
So he's going for it. I love my extended family, with so many courageous people, each in his or her own way. They've all fed my spirit these 60 years; if I can give anything of value back, may it be this: Us Andersons and Weirs are first-generation immigrants in this strange world. We are tough; we know how to survive.
Let's continue to do so, and show others that the only hope you need to have is your own. Stay hopeful; there's so much to live for, at any age.
***
Meanwhile, I got the invitation at the top of this post from my youngest today. Her animal? A Siberian Tiger. I'll be there.
-30-
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Boys, Girls and Cars
Though she's off to Japan for a while, often as not lately when I get home and she is here, Junko's been reading something or another about automobiles. Such is the obsession of the new driver, even at middle age (44.5), who's still amazed at how well she can maneuver cars of various sizes in this, one of the strangest driving environments on the planet.
After all, we don't just have hills in San Francisco, we have mountains. Plus a confusing array of one-way streets that only occasionally continue to be one-way streets as they bifurcate the city. No, that would be far too easy. Our streets like to tease drivers: Now I'm one-way that way; now I'm two-way; oh oh, now I'm one-way the other way!
If this sounds like our population, sobeit, but hey, I'm not complaining here. The sexual orientation of those around me only make this place more interesting. I see, I sense, I appreciate. Sometimes, I admit, I feel even older than I am biologically, because I am so boring, i.e., single-minded as far as my sexual proclivities are concerned.
My only consolation is that I love women SO much that I hope that counts for something somewhere for somebody. And I do. My eyes still wander; Junko makes fun of me for it. "You love Asian women so much, you really should move to Daly City," she says sincerely. But no, I protest, I also love white, black, Latina, Indian, Filipina, and Indigenous women -- do they live there too?
It's a familiar joke, because she knows I could never live in Daly City. Malvina Reynolds sealed that deal a long time ago when she wrote "Little Boxes," and enshrined the term "ticky-tacky" in our language eternally.
In any event, the title of this post contains a promise, so I best deliver on it. The image of a car above is a 1956 Ford, blue and white. As the new cars were being promoted in late summer/early fall 1955, I was 8, and I got my hands on the photos of what was soon to be coming down the line.
I fell in love with this particular car with this particular color scheme.
But it was forbidden love, naturally the most exciting kind. I already knew that NOBODY in my family would buy a Ford. Why? Because, according to family legend as it was related to me, Ford stole my Grandpa's tool and die tool designs and patented them, never compensating him a dime.
I do not know the truth of this family story, but I'm thinking my cousin Dan might. The way I heard the tale, Grandpa quit Ford when he found out that he had been ripped off. It may have been during the Depression or maybe in WW2. But, so I recall being told, he went over to GM, and from then on, we all only bought GM or Chrysler cars.
I know my Uncle George went to work not for Ford or GM but for Chrysler. Was this related to the insult to our immigrant clan? Again, I just don't know. Probably my big sister Nancy or Dan's big brother George know many more facts than I, in this regard.
When I reached age 16, I'd been working summer and after-school jobs for around four years. I'd delivered newspapers, picked tomatoes (learning a bit of Spanish in the process), managed a Hobby Shop, walked dogs, babysat, and done odd jobs in the neighborhood.
This lovely colored Oldsmobile, or rather one that could be its twin, came on the market near where we lived at the time, just outside of Bay City, Michigan. The asking price was $40. Despite my work habits and my inherited (from my Scottish Grandpa) ability to save pennies, I still didn't have that much, and my parents were in no position to help me buy it.
So I lost it. Somebody else claimed the car I lusted after, as much as any girl I lusted after at that age. Instead my first car came into my possession a few years later. We called her "Alison's Restaurant," but that's another old story, one to be told some other time...
-30-
Friday, March 20, 2009
Service for My Last Uncle
GEORGE A. ANDERSON, Sr.
George A. Anderson, Sr., age 83, died March 10, 2009 at his home in Roseville. He was born August 2, 1925 to Alexander and Elsie Anderson in Detroit, Michigan. He was a veteran of WWII, a life member of Roseville Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 2358, and retired from Chrysler Corporation as a Manufacturing Engineering Manager. He is survived by his wife of 66 years, Reta; sons George, Jr. (Betty) and Daniel (Faye); 3 grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren.
Following service in the Army in Europe, George returned to Detroit to begin work for General Motors Fisher Body division, eventually completing an apprenticeship in tool and die making. He was transferred to the then new Willow Springs, Illinois plant where he was promoted to general foreman. In 1957 he accepted a position with Chrysler Corporation as Superintendent of Tool and Die at the Twinsburg, Ohio stamping plant. He resigned from Chrysler in 1960 and moved to Tampa, Florida where he successfully operated a family business for 5 years. Returning to Chrysler Corporation at the Nine Mile Road Stamping Plant in Warren, Michigan in 1965, he helped move that facility to a top ranking in the corporation. Promoted a number of times over the next 15 years, he retired in 1980.
A memorial will be held on Sunday, March 29, 2009, from 2 PM to 6 PM, at the Roseville VFW Post 2358. His remains will be interred at the Great Lakes National Cemetery in Holly, Michigan on Tuesday, March 31, 2009. The family requests no flowers. Donations may be directed to VFW Post #2358, 25671 Gratiot Avenue, Roseville, MI 48066.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Thinking Home From Afar
Photo By Doris Bachert
A little over four months ago, I first published this photo taken by my cousin, Doris. It may not look like much, just a young tree on a hill in a rural part of Michigan, but for me, it is probably the sweetest spot on earth.
This coming weekend, dozens of my relatives are converging on the spot for the first big family reunion we've organized in years, no doubt since we buried my mother's ashes among the roots of this little tree six summers ago.
Since then we've lost relatives, including Uncle George. It had been one of my fiercest hopes in this year of multiple disappointments that I would be able to attend this family gathering, partly to honor those who have passed, but even more so to connect again with my Michigan family, few of whom ever venture west of the Mississippi more often than once every half century or so.
I may be a grizzled, old lefty journalist, a long-time radical activist from the 60s, a stereotype in many of their eyes; but if so, they don't really know the man I have become. Yes, I have strong opinions on any number of topics, but I defy anyone to accurately classify me politically, spiritually, or intellectually. I just do not fit into anyone else's projection; never have; never will.
None of that matters, of course. Such matters are trivial compared to the bond of common blood. Blood is blood; family is family. I would do anything for a relative of mine, except something morally or ethically wrong, like harming someone else at their request. (No Godfather-type gathering for us!)
I've always loved my family. But I wouldn't be the family person I am if I squandered our dwindling resources to allow a horrible monopoly (Northwest/Delta Air) steal hundreds of dollars from me for a three-day RT visit. This is the Scottish side of my family that is gathering, after all. They understand how important it is to live within your means, and to first take care of your children.
But I admit to being very, very depressed that I will not be there. I feel very much a failure in this regard. I've checked every airfare deal for weeks. There has been nothing. Thus, I'm reduced to sending my greetings from afar.
They will miss me, of course, but they have no idea how much I will miss them. Saturday night, I am going to attend a different kind of ceremony, in the spirit of my family, or at least my version of my family. I will post that in honor of the gathering at Rolling Hills.
Love from San Francisco. Enjoy those meat pies! And if you follow the treeline from camp southward, you'll find a good patch of blackberry bushes. Don't know if they're ripe yet. Check out the apple trees. Catch a fat blue gill or sunfish for me. Better yet, a small mouth bass. I'm sure my dad still holds the all-time record for pulling delicious bass out of Mud Lake.
-30-
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Spring Preview
It's still cold at night. Though I'm generally content with my solitary life, there is a time in the middle of the night, around 3 a.m., that I always wake up and wish I had a girlfriend next to me. Somehow in the past year I seem to have lost some body heat. It wasn't that long ago, just two winters back, that I used to warm up the left side of this bed, so when my partner came to bed, I could move over to the right and her side would be warm. I think I had an excess of heat back then.
This long, dreary winter has been cold, and at times, wet. Storms come and go, and some days there is enough heat that the blossoms are out on the fruit trees, and herbs are flowering in our garden. But then the sun goes down and the near-freeze revisits this city. The actual temperature may be 40 but given the lack of insulation or proper heat in these old buildings, it feels colder than that.
Or, maybe after 36+ years here, my blood has thinned. In any event, sleeping alone six of every seven nights, I cannot ever seem to get warm. Put on another blanket, you say! Wear a robe! Well, I do these things, but the inner chill remains.
Maybe it's part of the aging process? At the moment of death, we still are warm, but very rapidly the world sucks the last bits of heat out of our bodies until we lie there, stone-cold. I watched my parents die and felt the heat leaving their bodies. And I think I know why people often have the sense that a loved one's essence suddenly flies through the room as they die.
My grandmother, for example, on the night my grandfather died, was in a separate room in their house. My Uncle George was there, with other family members. As I remember the story, Grandma woke up and suddenly said, "Alex is here! Alex?" This happened just as he passed away.
My explanation, admittedly unreligious and therefore unsatisfying to most, is that the heat leaving the body of one who dies rises much like a mirage in the desert. The air becomes momentarily shaken as if it's plasma. Our beings evaporate before our witnesses' eyes.
Thus we leave this world.
So, perhaps, not being able to stay as warm as we once could is our body's signal to us that we, too, are not immune to death's steady advance. He who just yesterday was his girlfriend's furnace will tomorrow be still as an ice block.
***
Not to get too heavy here, or depressing, today was actually a very nice day for my small children and me. We had all of the usual distractions last night and today -- play dates, movies, pizzas, sports games, art projects, photographs, walks to the coffee shop, Progressive Grounds, music, dancing, Runescape, and the disruptions of a quasi-teenager in the house.
My 12-year-old disclosed his dilemma last night.” Dad, three girls all seem to like me and they all want me to go to the dance with them."
"What do you want?"
"I just want to be their friend, that's it, but two of them hate each other, so I'm caught in the middle of it."
Sure enough, this afternoon, all three girls, whose identities I will not reveal, called him, one after the other. The two that "hate" each other managed to take offense that he had spoken with both of them.
I heard him say "I don't know" in all three instances. Afterwards, he explained he said he was answering them about whom he was going to take to the dance.
"We're not even supposed to be taking people to the dances yet," he said, exasperated.
So, this is what it is like to be a 12-year-old boy in our over-sexualized, over stimulated society, circa 2007. I feel powerless. What I want to scream to these girls, and their parents, is "Leave my son alone!" He's way too young to have to navigate his way around female hysteria.
I hope this does not sound sexist to anyone, because I don't mean it to be. I just wish I could undo the damage TV, movies, advertising, and insecure parents have done to girls in our culture.
They all deserve to be children a lot longer! Twelve! Give me a break. At that age no one harassed me, and I was free to roam the cornfields with my dog and my shotgun, spinning my own fantasies, none of which yet involved females.
Everything's speeded up. It's not good and it's not fair. There will be many years of heat, before the cold sets in. Each child will be a better partner if they first figure out how to be alone.
-30-
Monday, June 10, 2013
Life on a Monday
Later I took them to a movie.
In between, they served as my "research assistants" at an ice cream startup I profiled in my role as a blogger for 7x7.
Their smiles at the ice cream shop made the entire day worthwhile. And reminded of my Uncle George's ice cream shop when I was young a long time ago.
-30-
Friday, March 13, 2009
For Uncle George
May he rest in peace, finally, secure in our love, not only for him but for our country.
Sunday, November 10, 2024
The Waiting Room
“This is how elected autocrats subvert democracy—packing and “weaponizing” the courts and other neutral agencies, buying off the media and the private sector (or bullying them into silence), and rewriting the rules of politics to tilt the playing field against opponents. The tragic paradox of the electoral route to authoritarianism is that democracy’s assassins use the very institutions of democracy—gradually, subtly, and even legally—to kill it.”
― Steven Levitsky, How Democracies Die
***
So it feels like we’re all gathered in an emergency room following a terrible accident and we’re awaiting word on the fate of the victim, who was badly injured and may not survive.
They call him Uncle Sam.
He’s semi-conscious but the internal bleeding may not be able to be stopped. The options for doctors to intervene and save him are limited. We all are aware that a priest is hovering nearby.
Our uncle was elderly, it’s true, but we thought he was in good health and that he would live forever. After all, he survived a brutal assault four years ago in January that left him bruised and battered but more or less intact. Now that his death appears to be imminent, we realize several things:
For too long, we took him for granted.
We grew accustomed to criticizing him for his imperfections, never thinking we might so easily lose him.
We never told him enough that we loved him.
But as a reporter I must insist that there is one detail wrong in this story. What happened to Uncle Sam was not an accident.
Once he passes on, it will be classified as a murder.
HEADLINES:
Israelis Fear For Hostages As Qatar Says Gaza Mediation On Hold (AFP)
Our Commitment in This Moment — It Can Happen Here (New Yorker)
With Trump Tariffs Looming, Businesses Try to ‘Run From a Moving Target’ (NYT)
Silicon Valley protested Trump in 2016. Now it wants to work with him. (WP)
Biden to host Trump at the White House on Wednesday (NBC)
Burdened by what had been: Kamala Harris couldn’t convince voters (USA Today)
China throws a twist into COP29 climate-talk agenda (Reuters)
Dangerous air quality hits New York as brush fires erupt in Northeast (ABC)
How ChatGPT Brought Down an Online Education Giant (WSJ)
Meet the AI robot whose artwork sold for over $1m (BBC)
The Death of Search — AI is transforming how billions navigate the web. A lot will be lost in the process. (Atlantic)
Man Wearing ‘I Vorted’ Sticker Beginning To Worry That Wasn’t Legitimate Polling Place (The Onion)
LYRICS:
“Murder on Music Row” by George Strait
Nobody saw him running from sixteenth avenue.
They never found the fingerprint or the weapon that was used.
But someone killed country music, cut out its heart and soul.
They got away with murder down on music row.
The almighty dollar and the lust for worldwide fame
Slowly killed tradition and for that someone should hang
(oh, you tell them Alan).
They all say not guilty, but the evidence will show
That murder was committed down on music row.
For the steel guitars no longer cry and fiddles barely play,
But drums and rock 'n roll guitars are mixed up in your face.
Old Hank wouldn't have a chance on today's radio
Since they committed murder down on music row.
They thought no one would miss it, once it was dead and gone
They said no one would buy them old drinking and cheating songs (I'll still buy'em)
Well there ain't no justice in it and the hard facts are cold
Murder's been committed down on music row.
Oh, the steel guitars no longer cry and you can't hear fiddles play
With drums and rock 'n roll guitars mixed right up in your face
Why, the Hag, he wouldn't have a chance on today's radio
Since they committed murder down on music row
Why, they even tell the Possum to pack up and go back home
There's been an awful murder down on music row.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Ken Kelley, 1949-2008
(Detail of painting by Wilma Parker, June '08)
***
A small group of us gathered yesterday at Wilma's loft in Soma -- the same space that Ken shared with her for a year decades ago. We shared stories and memories of our friend, Ken, who passed away in January. George Csicsery put together a beautiful slide show of his photos of Ken. Many more people wanted to be there than could make it, of course. Here are just a few of the notes they offered from afar.
David, Got an urge this morning to check up on the latest with Ken Kelley, last time I checked was probably a year ago, when I learned of his legal trouble. So, his death was news to me, and now I see that I have almost missed his memorial service. I am writing this in sunny Michigan while it is still early morning in California - so perhaps you will read this before the service. I was the photography person at the Ann Arbor Argus, Ken's paper in Ann Arbor in the late 1960s. Person in this case means: photo technician, photo layout editor, and photographer. In Ken's case, journalism person meant everything: reporter, editor, ad salesman, layout editor (dictator?), printer (at least driving the page negatives to the printer, and then picking up the issue), and finally newspaper boy - hawking copies on the street - the paper lived on almost no money, I certainly never saw any actual cash : )Ken was bigger than life. He was one of those people with charisma that could carry him through just about anything. I remember his amazing ability at interviews - getting people to talk, the endless tapes to transcribe, and seeing the interviews with significant people printed in the paper. I last saw him probably 35 years ago, but still remember him. What would he like? Probably to be remembered. He had something that I can only describe as an alienation that compelled him in many ways. But he had a powerful urge to create - write, interview, edit, publish. He was similar to John Sinclair in his desire and ability to work even when "under the influence" of whatever state. When we came back from the March on Washington against the Vietnam war in the fall of 1969, he was most interested in photographs of the giant head puppets that were walking around the mall area - an example of the outlandish. Perhaps he would be happy for us to celebrate the outlandish, accept and even value the outsider.
Kip Mercure
***
There will be many wild and crazy stories today about our wild and crazy Ken. I would like to talk about a quieter, more domestic Ken. During the gloomy winter of 1967-1968, Ken and I would spend long hours drinking coffee in South University coffee shops polishing our high school French--he a lonely freshman, I a lonely senior. We were united by a love of good journalism, bad gossip and evocative French verbs.
We reconnected here in San Francisco in the early '70s. He would phone me--"Hi, Kenny," I'd answer. "Hi, Honey," he'd reply. My daughters knew him as Uncle Kenny. He was my older daughter's godfather. For a wild and crazy guy Ken had a supreme talent for friendship. Once we were at Douglass Playground here in San Francisco. He was pushing Mica on a swing while I, pregnant, sat on a bench with a crushing headache. In one of his patented multitasking moments he managed to push Mica while rubbing my head for the 1/2 hour it took to make the headache go away.
At one point Ken lived on Larkin Street, just over the hill from my school in Chinatown. I'd taken to stopping by after work for the snacks Ken would make us. It was a '70s San Francisco version of "Leave it to Beaver" with me as The Beav and Kenny as June.
When people here wonder how I could love an Ann Arbor that they imagine as a homogeneous world of dull, flat mid-westerners I think of Ken. I picture him that bright midsummer day in 1970 as my sister and I drove him to his draft physical at Fort Wayne. Unfolding his long skinny body out of the back seat he leaned against the car, his two-foot halo of blond curls glowing in the sun. Clad in a gold lame suit he stood on the curb and waved as we drove away.
Uncle Kenny, proud son of the great state of Michigan, we are waving back at you.
-- Lissa Matross
***
Tribute to Ken Kelley
Hi David:
I won't be able to be there on the 21st, but am hoping you or Kate can read this for me. Thank you,
Stew Albert and I first met Ken Kelley when he was a young man living at the White Panther commune in Ann Arbor in the late 1960's. Ken's blonde curly afro endeared him immediately to Stew who was also blonde, curly haired and a journalist. I admired Ken's creativity, passion and of course his fabulous use of color in Sundance. Together our movement made an impact on America because we knew how to mix together equal parts of hippie counterculture and new left anti-war politics into a powerful utopian vision of an independent new nation for young people.
And now Ken has joined Stew, Abbie, Anita, Jerry, Bill, Phil, Eldridge, Allen,Tim and Rosemary --- and so many others, all of whom, I'm sure, continue together to plan, plot and publish in whatever world may exist beyond this imperfect one.
Judy Gumbo Albert
***
Wayne Kramer to me
David, Thanks for keeping me in the info flow.
Ken Kelly was a brother in arms for those of us whose arms were art, music, culture and justice. He was the publisher of the infamous "Fuck Hudsons" ad that got the MC5 fired from Elektra Records. I'm proud to have been his friend. He made the most of the short time we all get. He was the real deal in a world of posers.
So long pal.
wayne
***
Hi David,
Thanks for inviting me to the event tonight. I'm sorry but I can't come. I send my best wishes. Ken was a nice man and a fellow writer who helped me with a project. Ken helped out of goodness of heart and didn't ask anything in return. I knew him all too briefly and hope he's found some peace, wherever he is.
Good luck tonight,
Graham Womack
***
Photo by Kip Mercure***
We are all thinking of you, Ken.
Love, David
-30-
Sunday, January 31, 2021
Power to the Players
When I was raising my three youngest kids, one of our regular stops each Saturday was the GameStop store on Mission near 24th Street. Those of you who know San Francisco will recognize this as one of the busiest parts of the city, at least on the weekend.
At least it used to be, pre-Covid.
I lost count of how many video games we bought and sold there, but it equated roughly to the number of dreams I could make come true for my sons as they traveled back and forth between my house and their Mom's.
Their little sister was sometimes along for the ride, but she had a whole separate set of routines to make her weekends special, which usually involved visits with her friends.
Of course, like most parents, I worried that I might be feeding my boys' addiction to video games, but I consoled myself with the thought that at least they were learning a lot about how to navigate the iterative world of software.
So this week as I've tried to comprehend the forces that have sent GameStop's stock soaring from about $4/share to about $150/share, making many Millennials millionaires, I've been suspecting it has something to do with a whole generation of people who learned all too well how to navigate the iterative world of software.
So much so that they have brought the hedge fund overlords of Wall Street to their knees.
It couldn't have happened to a nicer group of guys.
You know, our lives in certain ways resemble software projects, though not necessarily video games. Especially those of us who've remained in the workforce. We've had to reinvent ourselves so many times over the past quarter-century that our original operating systems have become strained under the weight of adding new features.
Just keeping up with the evolving language of the workplace requires a mastery of next year's edition of the urban dictionary long before it's issued. (You know that you are on top of things when it anoints phrases you left behind three developmental cycles ago.)
In my travels through Silicon Valley, many times I was one of the few non-engineers in a company. Some of the coders just ignored me; others befriended me as a curiosity -- a kindly, aging uncle who couldn't code his way out of a paper bag but somehow seemed to be providing something useful to somebody somewhere.
For my part, I loved them -- every last one of those engineers, even the ones who never talked to me. Maybe because they reminded me of my guys back home.
In any event, I've developed the ability to sense when it's time for me to embrace my next iteration. And that time is now.
[Footnote: The sweet 2015 film called "The Intern," starring Robert De Niro and Anne Hathaway, conveys a fraction of what I'm trying to say in this post.]
***
The news:
* Former President Trump's five impeachment defense attorneys have left a little more than a week before his trial is set to begin, according to people familiar with the case, amid a disagreement over his legal strategy. It was a dramatic development in the second impeachment trial for Trump, who has struggled to find lawyers willing to take his case. And now, with legal briefs due next week and a trial set to begin only days later, Trump is clinging to his election fraud charade and suddenly finds himself without legal representation. (CNN)
* Dodger Stadium’s mass COVID-19 vaccination site was temporarily shut down Saturday afternoon when about 50 anti-vaccine protesters gathered at the entrance, frustrating hundreds of motorists who had been waiting in line for hours. (LA Times)
* FBI probe of U.S. Capitol riot finds evidence assault was coordinated -- Agents are probing interactions between on-the-ground instigators and leaders of national extremist groups. (WashPo)
* G.O.P. Quiet as Pressure Mounts to Address Lawmaker’s Conspiracy Claims -- In a newly unearthed video from 2018, Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene suggested that 9/11 was a hoax, President Barack Obama was a Muslim and the Clintons were guilty of murder. (NYT)
* Democrats building emotionally charged case for impeachment (WashPo)
* The World Health Organization-led team investigating the origins of COVID-19 during a mission that has been tightly controlled by its Chinese hosts visited a hospital on Saturday in the central city of Wuhan that treated early coronavirus patients. (Reuters)
* What’s Happening to Our Economy Is Like a Natural Disaster (NYT)
* The Pentagon raised doubts on Thursday that the U.S. military would withdraw from Afghanistan by May 1 — the deadline set in a February 2020 agreement with the Taliban — after accusing the Taliban of failing to uphold its commitments under the deal. (AP)
* Actions by Proud Boy at Capitol show ‘planning, determination, and coordination,’ U.S. alleges (WashPo)
* What’s Driving Everything From a Market Frenzy to an Embrace of U.S. Deficits? Magical Thinking. (WSJ)
* U.S. Airstrike Kills Top ISIS Leader in Iraq (NYT)
* As Biden pushes to reopen schools, Europe is moving in the other direction (WashPo)
* As California virus cases fall, more people than ever dying (AP)
* Legal Pressure on Trump Increases With Judge’s Order in Fraud Inquiry -- The order, answering a demand for documents by New York’s attorney general, rejected a bid to shield the records with attorney-client privilege. (NYT)
* In race against time on virus mutations, U.S. is ‘falling behind’ (WashPo)
* In Biden’s White House, Masks, Closed Doors and Empty Halls (NYT)
* Biden environmental challenge: Filling vacant scientist jobs (AP)
* Exhausted Researchers Inform Public Covid Vaccine Won’t Shrink You Down To Size Of Ant (The Onion)
***
The Grand Tour
Step right up, come on in
If you'd like to take the grand tour
Of a lonely house that once was home sweet home
I have nothing here to sell you,
Just some things that I will tell you
Some things I know will chill you to the bone.
If you'd like to take the grand tour
Of a lonely house that once was home sweet home
I have nothing here to sell you,
Just some things that I will tell you
Some things I know will chill you to the bone.
Over there, sits the chair
Where she'd bring the paper to me
And sit down on my knee
And whisper oh, I love you
But now she's gone forever
And this old house will never
Be the same without the love
That we once knew.
Where she'd bring the paper to me
And sit down on my knee
And whisper oh, I love you
But now she's gone forever
And this old house will never
Be the same without the love
That we once knew.
Straight ahead, that's the bed
Where we'd lay in love together
And Lord knows we had a good thing going here
See her picture on the table
Don't it look like she'd be able
Just to touch me and say good morning dear.
Where we'd lay in love together
And Lord knows we had a good thing going here
See her picture on the table
Don't it look like she'd be able
Just to touch me and say good morning dear.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
McCain's Slave Owner Heritage
In the year 2000, when I was Salon's Washington, D.C., Bureau Chief, we covered all of the major Presidential candidates very closely. Journalists do not like to play favorites, but one of the politicians our correspondents liked the best that year was John McCain. He was the "straight-talker" among those vying for the Presidency. (No one would have accused George W. Bush or Al Gore of doing that; both clearly had mastered the ability to talk out of both sides of their mouths.)
This reprint of what we found out about our fav, John McCain, is published with all due respect, to help establish the proper context for the current decision by the McCain campaign to play the "race card" in 2008 against Obama. I am searching for copies of the original slave rolls that we based our report on, and as soon as I find them, I'll publish them here.
Here is the original report on Salon, which deserves wider circulation, given the current political situation, IMHO:
McCain's ancestors owned slaves
The senator's family history includes a Civil War era plantation in Mississippi.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
By Suzi Parker and Jake Tapper
Arizona Sen. John McCain is learning a lot about his family history in the course of this presidential campaign.
Because of his bestselling family memoir, "Faith of My Fathers," which details the lives and military careers of his father, Adm. John McCain II, and grandfather, Adm. John "Slew" McCain, veterans flock to his campaign appearances and book signings. They trade stories about his heroic forebears and share anecdotes.
The family's storied military history stretches back to Carroll County, Miss., where McCain's great-great grandfather William Alexander McCain owned a plantation, and later died during the Civil War as a soldier for the Mississippi cavalry.
But what McCain didn't know about his family until Tuesday was that William Alexander McCain had owned 52 slaves. The senator seemed surprised after Salon reporters showed him documents gathered from Carroll County Courthouse, the Carrollton Merrill Museum, the Mississippi State Archives and the Greenwood, Miss., Public Library.
"I didn't know that," McCain said in measured tones wearing a stoic expression during a midday interview, as he looked at the documents before Tuesday night's debate. "I knew they had sharecroppers. I did not know that."
This documentation includes slave schedules from Sept. 8, 1860, which list as the slave owner, "W.A. McCain." The schedules list the McCain family's slaves in the customary manner of the day -- including their age, gender and "color," labelling each either "black" or "mulatto." The slaves ranged in age from 6 months to 60 years.
"I knew we fought in the Civil War," McCain went on. "But no, I had no idea. I guess thinking about it, I guess when you really think about it logically, it shouldn't be a surprise. They had a plantation and they fought in the Civil War so I guess that it makes sense."
"It's very impactful," he said of learning the news. "When you think about it, they owned a plantation, why didn't I think about that before? Obviously, I'm going to have to do a little more research."
Then he began to piece together information out loud. "So maybe their sharecroppers that were on the plantation were descendants of those slaves," he said.
Tracing the genealogies of slaves is often easy, because slaves frequently adopted the surnames of their owners. In 1876, for example, a Mary J. McCain married Isham Hurt. The two had a son, blues guitarist "Mississippi" John Hurt, in 1892 on Teoc, the plantation community where the McCains owned 2,000 acres.
"Is that right?" McCain asked, after considering his possible connection to the famous bluesman, who died in 1966. "That's fascinating," he said.
McCain said his interest in his family heritage always had been focused on his military background, not his Southern roots. "I just hadn't thought about it, to tell you the truth, because I really feel that my heritage is the military," he said.
The South -- and its struggle to reconcile its past -- has presented the GOP candidates with a briar patch of issues to deal with during this campaign. Both McCain and Texas Gov. George W. Bush have grappled with South Carolina's fight over whether the Confederate flag should be allowed to fly over the capitol.
In addition, Bush has spoken at a college, Bob Jones University, that maintains a ban on interracial dating.
While McCain denounced Bush's appearance at Bob Jones and the university's dating policy, he has hedged on the flag issue. "As to how I view the flag, I understand both sides," McCain said a few weeks ago. "Some view it as a symbol of slavery. Others view it as a symbol of heritage.
McCain added at that time: "Personally, I see the battle flag as a symbol of heritage. I have ancestors who have fought for the Confederacy, none of whom owned slaves. I believe they fought honorably."
Mark Salter, McCain's Senate chief of staff and co-author of "Faith of My Fathers," said Tuesday that no one in McCain's family had ever told him that his ancestors had owned slaves. Salter said that McCain simply assumed his family would have shared such information.
In "Faith of My Fathers," McCain brushes over much of his Mississippi heritage, dedicating about four pages to it. According to Salter, the family history was based on a haphazard mess of information contained in a box kept by McCain's younger brother, Joe.
Furthermore, in his book, the senator writes that the McCains of Teoc "never lamented the South's fall."
The writer Elizabeth Spencer, a cousin to John McCain, does mention the family's slaves in her family memoir, "Landscapes of the Heart," -- a book McCain and his co-author Slater both say they have read, though they say not closely enough to have caught her glancing references to the family's slaves.
Early in Spencer's book, she refers casually to the issue in a reference to her family's history. "All the descendents of slave-holding families I have ever known believe in the benevolence of their forebears as master," she wrote.
An entire floor in the Carrollton Merrill Museum is devoted to the McCain family's local legacy. Boxes are crammed with McCain family memories: In one small, clear, plastic box, a photo of John McCain in full Navy attire is signed "With Love to Grandmother and Aunt Catherine, Johnny." On the back of the photo is written in fading ink: "John S. McCain III, graduation from Naval Academy. Now a P.O.W. in Vietnam." McCain said he was surprised to learn of the photograph.
Also in the museum is a 1949 letter to Katie Lou McCain, a great aunt to the senator, from family friend Ella Stone, who wrote: "He [William Alexander McCain] bought a plantation on Teoc creek [sic] and named it 'Waverly.' They owned slaves and were happy in their plantation life until that terrible holocaust, the War Between the States."
At the end of the interview, McCain said he was glad to know about his family's history. "At the next opportunity, I'm going to go" visit the Merrill Museum, he said.
Though McCain may have been ignorant of his Mississippi roots, those who live in Carroll County today remember the McCain family well. Residents recall the senator's great-grandfather, John McCain Sr., who served two terms as sheriff. They remember Katie Lou McCain and Sen. John McCain's uncle, Joe, who owned Teoc until his death in 1952.
Simpson Hemphill, a longtime Carroll County resident, lives 4 miles down the road from the old McCain place. "That place was a couple of thousand acres," says Hemphill, 70, in a lyrical drawl. "They raised cotton and corn." Hemphill didn't doubt that the McCains owned slaves, "but back then that was as legal as a loaf of bread."
McCain -- an Arizonan raised all over the country, in true military brat fashion -- might be shocked if he were ever to visit Carroll County, birthplace of Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott. If the proverbial sleepy Southern town ever existed, Carrollton is it. The civil rights movement seemingly hasn't made it down to Carrollton, where blacks and whites still live, literally, on opposite sides of the railroad tracks. Confederate flags wave on front porches. The Arizona senator has never visited rustic Merrill Museum, built in 1834, which sits on historic Carrollton town square where a Confederate flag flies in front of the county's grand Civil War memorial.
McCain dismisses the significance of his Southern roots in the campaign, saying it would be "ridiculous" for him to campaign in South Carolina as "a good ol' boy." He's a military man, he says, and that institution is his real home, not any particular geographical location. When accused of being a carpetbagger in his first run for the House in Arizona in 1982, he noted that the longest he'd ever lived in one place was in Hanoi, when he was a prisoner of war for five-and-a-half years.
He says he has been touched by South Carolina's patriotism during this campaign. He says he feels a commonality with the residents of this state because of their love of country and their military service. But not, he says, because of his Southern roots.
salon.com | Feb. 15, 2000
- - - - - - - - - - - -
About the writers
Jake Tapper is the lead Washington correspondent for Salon's Politics2000.
Suzi Parker is a Little Rock writer who frequently contributes to Politics2000.
This reprint of what we found out about our fav, John McCain, is published with all due respect, to help establish the proper context for the current decision by the McCain campaign to play the "race card" in 2008 against Obama. I am searching for copies of the original slave rolls that we based our report on, and as soon as I find them, I'll publish them here.
Here is the original report on Salon, which deserves wider circulation, given the current political situation, IMHO:
McCain's ancestors owned slaves
The senator's family history includes a Civil War era plantation in Mississippi.
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By Suzi Parker and Jake Tapper
Arizona Sen. John McCain is learning a lot about his family history in the course of this presidential campaign.
Because of his bestselling family memoir, "Faith of My Fathers," which details the lives and military careers of his father, Adm. John McCain II, and grandfather, Adm. John "Slew" McCain, veterans flock to his campaign appearances and book signings. They trade stories about his heroic forebears and share anecdotes.
The family's storied military history stretches back to Carroll County, Miss., where McCain's great-great grandfather William Alexander McCain owned a plantation, and later died during the Civil War as a soldier for the Mississippi cavalry.
But what McCain didn't know about his family until Tuesday was that William Alexander McCain had owned 52 slaves. The senator seemed surprised after Salon reporters showed him documents gathered from Carroll County Courthouse, the Carrollton Merrill Museum, the Mississippi State Archives and the Greenwood, Miss., Public Library.
"I didn't know that," McCain said in measured tones wearing a stoic expression during a midday interview, as he looked at the documents before Tuesday night's debate. "I knew they had sharecroppers. I did not know that."
This documentation includes slave schedules from Sept. 8, 1860, which list as the slave owner, "W.A. McCain." The schedules list the McCain family's slaves in the customary manner of the day -- including their age, gender and "color," labelling each either "black" or "mulatto." The slaves ranged in age from 6 months to 60 years.
"I knew we fought in the Civil War," McCain went on. "But no, I had no idea. I guess thinking about it, I guess when you really think about it logically, it shouldn't be a surprise. They had a plantation and they fought in the Civil War so I guess that it makes sense."
"It's very impactful," he said of learning the news. "When you think about it, they owned a plantation, why didn't I think about that before? Obviously, I'm going to have to do a little more research."
Then he began to piece together information out loud. "So maybe their sharecroppers that were on the plantation were descendants of those slaves," he said.
Tracing the genealogies of slaves is often easy, because slaves frequently adopted the surnames of their owners. In 1876, for example, a Mary J. McCain married Isham Hurt. The two had a son, blues guitarist "Mississippi" John Hurt, in 1892 on Teoc, the plantation community where the McCains owned 2,000 acres.
"Is that right?" McCain asked, after considering his possible connection to the famous bluesman, who died in 1966. "That's fascinating," he said.
McCain said his interest in his family heritage always had been focused on his military background, not his Southern roots. "I just hadn't thought about it, to tell you the truth, because I really feel that my heritage is the military," he said.
The South -- and its struggle to reconcile its past -- has presented the GOP candidates with a briar patch of issues to deal with during this campaign. Both McCain and Texas Gov. George W. Bush have grappled with South Carolina's fight over whether the Confederate flag should be allowed to fly over the capitol.
In addition, Bush has spoken at a college, Bob Jones University, that maintains a ban on interracial dating.
While McCain denounced Bush's appearance at Bob Jones and the university's dating policy, he has hedged on the flag issue. "As to how I view the flag, I understand both sides," McCain said a few weeks ago. "Some view it as a symbol of slavery. Others view it as a symbol of heritage.
McCain added at that time: "Personally, I see the battle flag as a symbol of heritage. I have ancestors who have fought for the Confederacy, none of whom owned slaves. I believe they fought honorably."
Mark Salter, McCain's Senate chief of staff and co-author of "Faith of My Fathers," said Tuesday that no one in McCain's family had ever told him that his ancestors had owned slaves. Salter said that McCain simply assumed his family would have shared such information.
In "Faith of My Fathers," McCain brushes over much of his Mississippi heritage, dedicating about four pages to it. According to Salter, the family history was based on a haphazard mess of information contained in a box kept by McCain's younger brother, Joe.
Furthermore, in his book, the senator writes that the McCains of Teoc "never lamented the South's fall."
The writer Elizabeth Spencer, a cousin to John McCain, does mention the family's slaves in her family memoir, "Landscapes of the Heart," -- a book McCain and his co-author Slater both say they have read, though they say not closely enough to have caught her glancing references to the family's slaves.
Early in Spencer's book, she refers casually to the issue in a reference to her family's history. "All the descendents of slave-holding families I have ever known believe in the benevolence of their forebears as master," she wrote.
An entire floor in the Carrollton Merrill Museum is devoted to the McCain family's local legacy. Boxes are crammed with McCain family memories: In one small, clear, plastic box, a photo of John McCain in full Navy attire is signed "With Love to Grandmother and Aunt Catherine, Johnny." On the back of the photo is written in fading ink: "John S. McCain III, graduation from Naval Academy. Now a P.O.W. in Vietnam." McCain said he was surprised to learn of the photograph.
Also in the museum is a 1949 letter to Katie Lou McCain, a great aunt to the senator, from family friend Ella Stone, who wrote: "He [William Alexander McCain] bought a plantation on Teoc creek [sic] and named it 'Waverly.' They owned slaves and were happy in their plantation life until that terrible holocaust, the War Between the States."
At the end of the interview, McCain said he was glad to know about his family's history. "At the next opportunity, I'm going to go" visit the Merrill Museum, he said.
Though McCain may have been ignorant of his Mississippi roots, those who live in Carroll County today remember the McCain family well. Residents recall the senator's great-grandfather, John McCain Sr., who served two terms as sheriff. They remember Katie Lou McCain and Sen. John McCain's uncle, Joe, who owned Teoc until his death in 1952.
Simpson Hemphill, a longtime Carroll County resident, lives 4 miles down the road from the old McCain place. "That place was a couple of thousand acres," says Hemphill, 70, in a lyrical drawl. "They raised cotton and corn." Hemphill didn't doubt that the McCains owned slaves, "but back then that was as legal as a loaf of bread."
McCain -- an Arizonan raised all over the country, in true military brat fashion -- might be shocked if he were ever to visit Carroll County, birthplace of Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott. If the proverbial sleepy Southern town ever existed, Carrollton is it. The civil rights movement seemingly hasn't made it down to Carrollton, where blacks and whites still live, literally, on opposite sides of the railroad tracks. Confederate flags wave on front porches. The Arizona senator has never visited rustic Merrill Museum, built in 1834, which sits on historic Carrollton town square where a Confederate flag flies in front of the county's grand Civil War memorial.
McCain dismisses the significance of his Southern roots in the campaign, saying it would be "ridiculous" for him to campaign in South Carolina as "a good ol' boy." He's a military man, he says, and that institution is his real home, not any particular geographical location. When accused of being a carpetbagger in his first run for the House in Arizona in 1982, he noted that the longest he'd ever lived in one place was in Hanoi, when he was a prisoner of war for five-and-a-half years.
He says he has been touched by South Carolina's patriotism during this campaign. He says he feels a commonality with the residents of this state because of their love of country and their military service. But not, he says, because of his Southern roots.
salon.com | Feb. 15, 2000
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About the writers
Jake Tapper is the lead Washington correspondent for Salon's Politics2000.
Suzi Parker is a Little Rock writer who frequently contributes to Politics2000.
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