The effects of war are immediate, personal and direct. But there are long term consequences that extend to areas not directly touched by conflict; they do so for decades–lifetimes–beyond any cease fire. Technically, I was born during World War II, four months prior to victory in Europe; seven before the last shots in the Pacific theater. So the majority of my memories about WWII have to do with rebuilding efforts at home and abroad.

Next to my childhood bed there was a bookshelf–my mother’s probably–filled with mysteries and Westerns; Zane Grey comes to mind. But there was also a pile of magazines that may have been the first things I read–a monthly titled Your Victory Garden. This small-format periodical held a wealth of knowledge about all aspects of gardening (planting, fertilizing, weed and pest control), about canning and drying, and nutrition. Howard Tabor (almost my exact contemporary, by the way) wrote a piece about his community’s garden plots for the war effort (which I can share, if anyone is interested). This will have to be the way I cope with War and weave it into Agincourt’s history.

Agincourt would have been touched by war in many ways. Certainly there was the human toll: soldiers and non-combatants who didn’t come home. It is an error to say that their lives were lost; that hackneyed phrase misses on two counts. First, its verb is passive rather than active. And second those lives were given for a cause far beyond any individual. Yes, there are stupid losses, like Pat Tillman. His life was neither given nor lost; it was taken.

Another tragedy of war is its effect on civilians. I recall in second or third grade when a girl joined our class. She was English, I think, but different from most of us in another way. Actually, she hadn’t crossed my mind until last night and the intervening fifty-plus years haven’t improved my memory. So “skittish, shy and suspicious” is the best I can do at this distance. We were told that she was one of the smaller casualties of war, a displaced person born into the very conflict I didn’t know. I later learned that many British children had been sent to live in Canada and the States during the war itself, to avoid the stress of bomb shelters and wartime deprivations. You have to wonder if the cure was more stressful than the disease.

Displaced persons–uncharitably termed DPs (“deepees”)–were common in Chicago, probably because we already had large populations of Poles, Lithuanians, Hungarians and others displaced by Soviet occupation of their former homelands. “DP” was also shorthand for “dumb Polack,” a phrase I heard often but refused to claim, as a person of Polish ancestry. How many of these refugees–adults and children–might have found their way to Agincourt’s quiet calm? Howard will probably tell me when he’s ready.

“The Child is Father of the Man” –from “The Rainbow” by William Wordsworth

 Woodcut by artist Donald Axelrod

I have never fought in war.

During 1963-1965 I participated in ROTC (mandatory at the University of Oklahoma), which did require regular Tuesday afternoon drill, with uniform and gun, but there can be few able-bodied men less capable for military service than I.

Neither my father nor grandfather had been in the military; Roy L. was too old for WWI and Roy C. had lost a leg at the age of nine, so military exploits or mementos were outside my experience. Also, neither of them were sportsmen, so guns didn’t exist, as far as I knew. I can count on two hands the number of times that I’ve shot a gun. (After his death, I did find a handgun at my dad’s gas station–a defense against the robbery that never happened.)  

I am neither proud nor ashamed of these facts. They do not account for any significant deficiencies in my character–though other factors may. I only mention these things because they probably affect my ability to understand War. So it shouldn’t surprise that, of all the various elements of Agincourt that I have designed or tried to, one has consistently evaded me: the court house square.

Two blocks anchor the heart of Agincourt’s civic life. The eastern block is called The Commons, an informal space devoted to bandstand, carousel and puppet theatre–the stuff of Saturday afternoons and summer evenings. The western block–The Square–faces the court house and recollects the community’s sacrifice in various military actions (Civil, Spanish, WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Gulf, Afghan, Iraq and other wars). Each of my several designs for The Square has been more dismal than the last. It has defeated me.

What is it about me and stained glass windows? Among the artifacts in the 2011 exhibit, there will be at least three of them: one from Miss Rose Kavanaugh’s 1908 home near the Darwin School; another, the actual door from Anson Tennant’s architectural office of 1912 in the Wasserman Block; and the third will come from a Kindergarten run by several ladies at the Episcopal church.

More than forty years ago while still an undergraduate at the University of Oklahoma, I browsed the Architecture Library’s copies of The Studio, a British fine and decorative arts periodical that began publication in 1893. It was instrumental in promoting the careers of several designers such as Charles Rennie Mackintosh. One of the many images that remained with me was a design by Margaret Lloyd that would have lent itself to reproduction in stained glass, though it’s likely to be a window of inordinate complexity. I finally managed to acquire a scan of Lloyd’s design for “Punch & Judy,” a traditional bit of British puppet theatre, hoping to find someone who could translate it into glass. Wish me luck.

The kindergarten itself will be easy enough and fit nicely into the story told by Carol and Vince Hatlen of a subsequent Montessori School established about 1950. Together, they’ll allow a fuller telling of early childhood education during those years.

Not incidentally, the window–if it can happen–will be both stunning and evocative.

PS[2022.12.03]: Twelve years have improved my chances of finding more information on the elusive Margaret Lloyd. Ms Lloyd shows up in an exhibition catalogue of 1905, living at #31 Falkner Street, Liverpool. Oddly enough, Mr Johnson and I walked within half a block of that address on the way from one Liverpool cathedral to the other Liverpool cathedral (one Anglican, the other R.C.). More important, her catalogue entry lists several works, two of which were illustrated: two circular designs in what must have been a series under the general title of “The Village Fair”. Besides the “Punch & Judy” design used for our window, there were two others: “Richardson’s Show” and “Cakes and Ale”. I’d give a lot to see those in colour — forgive the British affectation.

Chicago remains among America’s most ethnically diverse urban areas. Until proven otherwise I continue to claim it publishes more weekly foreign-language newspapers than any other city in the U.S.; Toronto claims more diversity but may not match Chicago’s publication record.

I grew up in a decidedly blue collar area amid large clusters of Poles, Ukranians, Czechs, Greeks and Lithuanians. There were also many Puerto Ricans, as well as a substantial Black community of first- or second-generation emigrants from the South who had come north for opportunity in the factories. By the time I got to high school, my repertoire of vulgarity was expansive.

The Jewish presence in Argo-Summit was small and may not even have been resident; the nearest synagogue was a few miles away. There were two local department stores, however, owned by Jews: Stone’s in the 6200 block of Archer Avenue and Kabaker’s where Archer turned east to become 55th Street. Stone’s had a 50s-Modernist facade, but I suspect the interior dated to the 30s. Kabaker’s was more obviously of 1900 vintage; the kind of store where pneumatic tubes whooshed your payment to an unseen clerk. Each maintained a broad range of stock, from housewares to clothing. My first “big boy” shoes probably came from Stone’s.

I grew up in this environment and came to think of it as normal. In the many, many years since, I have learned a bit about historical patterns of migration in the 19th and 20th centuries, enough to intelligently anticipate what those waves may have washed upon the shores of northwest Iowa. I suspected Agincourt’s earliest Hebrews might have been Central European, urban people likely to settle here as merchants in our cities and towns of various size. It is remarkable how may haberdashers came from Germany. I wondered about that knee-jerk choice, however; wondered if I was guilty of “racial profiling.”

Statistically, two of Europe’s most anti-Semitic countries in recent history have been Austria and France. So it may have been French panache that encouraged me to conjure Moise Cohen (rather than Moshe Kahn) as perhaps Agincourt’s earliest resident Jew. If nothing else, it was an opportunity to get reacquainted with l’Affaire Dreyfus, the 1890s scandal that politicized France and encouraged many Jews to relocate.

So I am dutifully researching the history of Jews in Iowa. There is an astounding supply of information on google.com which I hope will yield an authenticity to the Cohens and their family-owned business. Their home will also set a foundation for the temple (already designated for 1953 as an excuse to study the architecture of Erich Mendelssohn) and add another facet to community history.

Feel free to opine whether my fascination with race and ethnicity itself borders on racism.

Several years ago the review of fifth-year NDSU theses in architecture drew upon the skills of three faculty: 1) a primary critic connected with the project from its inception; 2) a secondary critic involved as often as the student found useful (perhaps two or three times a month); and 3) someone appointed immediately prior to the final presentation, someone presumably unacquainted with the project’s substance. We called them “the deaf, dumb and blind.” The least comfortable thesis review during those years was one where I was blind as a bat.

The project type was baffling, but apparently only to me: it was a Catholic center for abortion. Don’t ask how it negotiated the approval process. That horse had long since left the barn, and I had become the third rider, clinging to its ass for dear life.

The student was male; the primary critic female. I sat motionless, totally absorbed in the project’s unfolding rationale and its evolving physical form. My difficulties as a commentator relate to the current political rhetoric, with its gay Republicans and Black Supreme Court justices on the wrong side of social justice. After an hour of discussion involving everyone in the room but me, I cautioned an observation: “I can imagine this project as readily as I can a kosher pork chop.” I then went on to speak toward the psychological issues involved with the termination of a pregnancy and how I believed the circulation within the design could be improved to minimize the patient’s exposure in public spaces; that this reinforce the intimacy of an ultimately intimate procedure.

Parenthetically, I should say the primary critic took considerable umbrage that a person with my genetic equipment could have an opinion on reproduction, let alone the cojones to express it. I was comfortable; she was furious. My point here, however, is simple: regarding Agincourt’s story, I am careful to accommodate the contradictions I cannot conceive; to entertain the gay Republican and the Black social conservative–if not the kosher pork chop.

Some weeks ago you might have read the story of “Kropotkin, the Knife Man,” Agincourt’s itinerant sharpener of knives and blades. While no Russian of my acquaintance has ever served in such a capacity, there was a man who did twice each year in Bedford Park, the Chicago suburb of my birth and youth.

The week before his arrival, a card appeared in the mailbox specifying the day when the sharpener’s flat-bed truck would be moored on West 65th Place, often in the middle of the block near my grandmother’s house. For several hours he attended to the neighborhood metal: knives, shears, saws, lawnmowers (of the push variety), ice skates, etc.–cash and carry, no sales tax. We were frequent patrons, with me acting as the family’s agent. But our knifeman wasn’t the only front-door service we enjoyed.

Anyone older than fifty will recall several services that came to your doorstep. The Watkins company brought us spices and liquid flavorings; Fuller sold brushes and household cleaning supplies. And in addition to knife sharpening, there were weekly deliveries of bakery goods and dairy products; I’d been born too late for home delivery of ice. During summer months, there was also the regular appearance of the Good Humor Man. Today’s Schwann truck is the only counterpart I know.

Even our homes were designed to accommodate. Next to the side door and its stair landing (four steps up to the kitchen, eight down to the basement) was the “milk window” with its inner and outer doors; latches on the inside of each kept the house secure. Twice each week the milkman opened the outer door and left what had been requested on a printed order slip (milk, cream, cottage cheese, sour cream, etc), which remained cool in its shallow chamber until brought up to the fridge. 

Besides Kropotkin, I know that other services must have come to Agincourt’s doors. Traveling salesmen, to be sure, and a milkman absolutely. There are stories here and architecture–a bakery and a creamery, at least–yet to be explored. Other nominations are gratefully accepted.

“Humor brings insight and tolerance. Irony brings a deeper and less friendly understanding.” — Agnes Repplier

If Irony were an element in the Periodic Table, it would be toward the bottom among the heavy metals. But unlike its namesake Iron, Irony is unstable. Exposed to air it oxidizes into the more stable compound Coincidence. But when it comes in contact with Sanctimony and Hubris, explosive reactions are likely to occur. Within the boundaries of Fennimore county, large veins of Irony exist below the fertile topsoil and have been known to affect local compass bearings, other electro-magnetic phenomena, and the perception of self-importance.

Two thousand and nine passed with only a marginal note about its connection with Frank Lloyd Wright: it was the fiftieth anniversary of Wright’s death. I had hoped to do a seminar focussed on his long, productive and controversial career, but it didn’t happen.

I was fourteen when Wright died. I saw him interviewed on Public Television (or what passed for it in those days) and still recognize his voice as an old man. Fifty-one years in the grave, he is still alive in my mind, a statement fewer and fewer of us can make. soon he will be just another dead White guy, like Brunelleschi and Mnesikles.

These 51 years of aliveness have permitted me to witness the wondrously shifting patterns of both Wrightian journalism and scholarship, much of it hagiagraphic, which is a shame because he’s more interesting than Wright himself would have led us to believe. Fundamentally, it boils down to a choice between two cosmological systems: those of Ptolemy (Κλαύδιος Πτολεμαῖος) and of Copernicus (Mikołaj Kopernik, in his native Polish).

The Ptolemaic universe is Earth centered. Around the Earth revolve the moon and the planets in tidy concentric circles, all within the enclosing sphere of the Firmament. Ptolemy conceived us as a large cosmic onion.

Fifteen hundred years later, science rattled Rome’s theological cage and proposed an alternate view based upon rational observation and mathematical computation. That revolution courtesy of Galileo and Copernicus gave us the foundation of a modern universal perspective, with the Sun at the center of our system, the planets revolving about it (eventually in eliptical orbits, thank you Tycho Brahe) in an open-ended Universe with no known boundaries. Wright scholarship has been fundamentally Ptolemaic, rather than Copernican, and ought perhaps to be reconsidered.

The problem with Wright is that he is always seen as the center of his own cosmology. Others in that universe are uniformly treated as satellites revolving about him concentrically and dependent upon him for their illumination; they reflect Wright as the primary source of light. Figures like his mistress/consort Mamah Borthwick Cheney (until some recent letters turned up in the Swedish Royal Archive) was a virtual cardboard cutout propped beside Wright among the supporting cast of characters in his personal drama. We have been preoccupied with what Wright said about and claimed for himself and allowed other perspectives fall by the wayside.

In a Copernican universe Wright could be considered as one of many objects in orbit around central ideas, abstractions, points of view. They would illuminate him and those around and about him.