2016 / 2017
As a boy of ten or twelve, the world looked pretty good. Ours was an aspiring Lower Middle Class family: dad owned a service station (when gas stations still provided actual service); he got custody when my parents divorced; grandmother was a widow, soon to be diagnosed with breast cancer, which she did survive; I was in the fifth or sixth grade. The Korean Conflict had achieved a cease fire; Ike was our President. We read the American newspaper, one of four Chicago dailies and solidly Republican.
A postage stamp was 3¢. A loaf of bread, about 20¢. I shopped for my grandmother and could barely carry a $10 bag of groceries — I was small and the bags were big. I don’t recall who my Fourth Grade teachers were, but I have vivid memories of Fifth Grade math class with Miss Veronica Piper, who much earlier in her career had taught my father, so for an hour each day I answered to the name Roy. I didn’t know it at the time but Miss Piper was to me what Moses Woolson* was to Louis Sullivan.
All of this was sixty years ago when the world — or at least my sheltered portion of it — was a far, far simpler place, when New Year’s Eve didn’t amount to much [remember, I couldn’t drink]. An old guy in a white robe and carrying a scythe passed the hourglass of Time to a kid in a diaper; the imagery of my elders didn’t always make a lot of sense. Oh, and there were fireworks we sometime went to see at a disused drive-in theater.
I liked Ike. He was an elderly man, round-faced and with a soft reassuring voice. His wife Mamie looked like most of the ladies at the Congregational church in Argo, which I attended with our neighbors the Millers — my father being a vehement agnostic. By today’s standards, Ike would have been a Democrat, I suspect. He certainly wouldn’t be his party’s standard-bearer any more than Richard Nixon or Ronald Reagan could be. Because the Party Platform in 1956 was downright liberal, supporting stuff like:
1. Provide federal assistance to low-income communities;
2. Protect Social Security;
3. Provide asylum for refugees;
4. Extend minimum wage;
5. Improve unemployment benefit system so it covers more people;
6. Strengthen labor laws so workers can more easily join a union;
7. Assure equal pay for equal work regardless of sex.
Sign me the fuck up!
New Year’s Eve this year will find us comfortably at home, probably sharing some nachos and shrimp cocktail (courtesy of Crazy Richard) and getting to bed early. Hoards of revelers; excessive amounts of booze and noise hold no thrill, and most of the company we might want to keep are either hundreds of miles away or dead. So I’ll simply share a few of my hopes for 2017 with you here and now:
- That you enjoy good health and a modicum of happiness, especially those with a pre-existing condition. You’re going to need it.
- That humankind eventually learn to share this fragile ball in space with Peace and Good Will. What’s it going to take to achieve that, I wonder.
- That we realize “this blessed plot, this earth, this realm,” to borrow from Shakespeare, is the only home we’re likely to have for some time and that we’d better begin caring for it and everything else that’s along for the ride.
- That whatever Creation Myth you accept — I’m fond of the Iroquois story of a muskrat who brings soil from the bottom of the primordial sea to build an island for humankind — that we find the common thread in those stories and knit the goddam human family back together again in a spirit of mutual coöperation.
- That my gain cannot be had at your expense and vice versa. Despite all his bad press, Karl Marx was on to something; too bad the Commies got it wrong.
- That the accomplishments of the last eight years not be thrown away because they happened on the watch of a guy with the wrong skin color. “Race” is a social construct anyway and has very little if anything to do with biology.
If we can address just two or three of these with conviction, I’ll consider 2017 well spent and hope to see you same time next year for a review of our progress.
* Woolson taught at Boston’s English High School while Sullivan was a student there. The architect credits Woolson with teaching to seek rules incapable of exception. I credit Miss Piper, likewise, with teaching me how to think logically.
A few figs from thistles…
by Howard A. Tabor
The Common Sense
As a seventy-one-year-old White American male, the media tell me there is a way I ought to feel and behave: disenfranchised and angry. I am neither—and I wonder in these contentious times why I’m not. Hindsight enables me satisfy that curiosity.
Chris Mooney has written a book with a title that will put you off, so I won’t mention it. But his thesis is interesting: Mooney cites chapter and verse from scientific (i.e., objective) research that, as our species evolves, we are becoming two distinct subspecies: one actively engaged with the World, prepared for and welcoming change; the other resistant to change, favoring the known over novelty. I am personally on the fence here, preferring the comfort of the campfire and the security of the cave on most days. But when shoved outside its shelter, I’ll respond to new and strange conditions with as much creativity as the next guy, maybe more. But if Mooney’s thesis is true, was there ever a time before the bifurcation; a time when there was a common sense, a shared vision of the World and our purpose within it? Having written this column for more than thirty years [has it really been that long?], I’ve looked at a lot of Agincourt’s history and tried to tell its stories with accuracy and enthusiasm. And I think there may have been a time in our community’s past, when our small world was new, that we shared a vision. Then, again, it may only be my hope.
In David Mitchell’s novel Cloud Atlas, his character Sonmi-451 is asked for her version of the Truth. Her reply, “Truth is singular. Its ‘versions’ are mistruths.” By Sonmi’s understanding, I have not been entirely truthful. Yet my “Truth” is all that I have to offer in these columns. If it resonates with yours, so much the better. When, on the other hand, it has struck a sour note, a hollow chord, I have been grateful for your kind and gentle upbraiding.
The renowned American architect Frank Lloyd Wright was a member of the Lloyd-Jones clan of southwestern Wisconsin, a band of 19th century Welsh Unitarians whose family motto was “Y Gwir Yn Erbyn Y Byd” (“Truth Against the World”), which pervaded Wright’s architecture as well as his personal life. That note of counter-conventionality has sounded in Agincourt, as well, and it has been at those times that I believe our Truth has a common sense about it. I’ve written here about a few of those moments.
There was the case of Sheriff Joe Pyne [the antithesis of Arizona sheriff Joe Arpaio?] who performed his duties with due diligence in 1933 yet spared the Rifini Brothers Circus from what may have been unjust prosecution. Pyne served six consecutive terms as Fennimore County’s sheriff principally because he understood the difference between that binary pair, Justice and the Law.
We were civilly disobedient a second time when in 1942 the community rallied ’round Tadao Ito, a Nisei in our midst when President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066 and authorized the interment of all Japanese in the United States for the duration of World War II. Chance had marooned Ted Ito here and a group of citizens spared him that ignominy, hid him in plain sight as staff at the Blenheim Hotel and explained his appearance as “Native American.” This occurred during Sheriff Pyne’s last term of office, one of his last opportunities to “look the other way.”
Other examples include the tenure of Father Francis Manning, priest at St Ahab’s, who everyone knew was a woman but preferred “his” familiar services to those of an over-zealous priest fresh from seminary and eager to please his bishop. Long before the Ecumenical Movement of the 1960s, Fathers Manning (RC) and Grimaldi (Episcopal) shared pulpits and administered sacraments without prejudice—unknown to their respective bishops.
Or the triumvirate of women Annabelle Miller, Sissy Beddowes, and Martha Tennant (my great-grandmother), who sheltered the lives of “fallen women” and engineered their transition back into polite society when others would savagely cast them aside, and were added in this conspiracy by Dr Rudyard “Ruddy” Fahnstock.
Or the creation in 1909 of the Muskrat Valley Building Association, a coöperative venture in providing low-interest loans for families of modest means. Or the creation of “Common Ground” a few years later to thanks those who sacrificed so much for the Great War.
All things considered, Agincourt has been a kind and nurturing community throughout much of its history. It’s even reasonable to think of it as the “Mayberry” of 20th century civil disobedience. But I’m beginning to suspect those days have passed.
Max Pusch’s butcher shop might be in any American city. If I could have afforded this postcard, Max would have been an Agincourt resident.
You might be surprised to hear how easy it can be—sometimes—to discover who someone was. Ancestry-dot-com is a good place to start (make sure you’ve subscribed to some of the add-ons) and, sure enough, Max was there: a butcher shop in Chicago on the near North Side.
In the 1910 US Census, he was thirty-three and lived at 1229 Cornelia [I think that was after the Chicago street addresses were renumbered] with wife Alvina and an unnamed adopted daughter. This is two blocks from the Southport station on the Brown Line. He had emigrated from Germany in 1891 and been naturalized. His home was mortgaged but his; he had employees. The 1911 city directory puts his shop at 1444 Wells Street, a long block south of North Avenue in what would have been an upscale neighborhood.
The 1920 census information is slightly different. But—thanks be to Google!—a further search reveals Max had clout. He was, for example, president of the United Master Butchers of Chicago and a frequent contributor to the American Meat Trade and Retail Butchers Journal. And according to The National Provisioner Pusch had been a member of the local organizing committee for the 1914 convention of the “National Master Butchers Association.” No slouch, our Max. One wonders his “Germanity” became a problem during WWI.
Might it have been possible for Pusch to have begun his career in a smaller venue—Agincourt, say—and then have moved to greater glory in the big city? If I owned this card, the answer would be simpler. I could see this as a shop front on North Broad Street.
A typical fall day — ektachrome® blue sky (for those who recall film-based photography; anyone under forty won’t have a clue), crispness in the air like the first bite of a golden delicious, an excavated wardrobe of warmer wear stratified since the last spring thaw — Andy loped into the coffeehouse, joined the shortish line, placed an order for latté (without the affectations of “skim-goat’s-milk-decaf-no-foam” in a voice for others to acknowledge his discernment, thank you very much), left his credit card — “I’m waiting for someone, so add their order to my check, please” — and spied a table in the back left corner as the shop remained busy with a late lunch crowd.
Andy’s fashion statement today was neither average nor even median (remember he is a mathematician by vocation); his style, if you could name it, is casual neglect, which only reinforces his job’s geeky stereotype. Crouched at the table, chilly fingers wrapped about the cup (but more as a place to put them), his hands always seemed to belong nowhere or to someone else.
Parties of two, three, or four chatted, the casual conversations of those who do this at least once a week. Andy was alone but not even remotely lonely, though it may have looked otherwise to anyone who noticed — which no one did. For this was a date, a border-line tryst (he hoped) with someone new at the office. After ten minutes passed, then twenty, hope began to fade.
Then, at his shoulder, there was someone, cup in hand, looking for a place to sit. “Please,” Andy found himself saying, “Sit here. I feel guilty hogging a table for four.” The guy sat down.
“Someone was supposed to meet me. Guess I’ve been stood up.”
“I’m Chuck, by the way. Do you mind if I take off my jacket?” he said, standing. “It’s stuffy in here.”
He was about six feet tall; chest somewhere between pecs and not-pecs, though you couldn’t tell which way they were tending. As he put the jacket on the back of the chair, Andy gaped. A pair of translucent wings unfolded from Chuck’s back, mosaics of iridescent brown and grey; more moth than butterfly. They emerged from parallel slits on the back of Chuck’s T-shirt and, now fully unfurled, extended above his head and below the buttocks. A barista calling out an order broke Andy’s concentration; his eyes darted from side to side, wondering why he was the only person in a crowded restaurant surprised at the presence of a fairy. Yes, a stout six-foot male with late-in-the-day stubble, resembling a middle-aged biker, but nonetheless a fairy.
“Don’t worry. No one but you can see my wings. To them I’m just another guy or they don’t notice at all. You know, that bothers me sometimes,” Chuck admitted. “I’m an S.E.P.: Somebody Else’s Problem,” explaining a bit of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, where anything inexplicable gets that kind of response. “I could literally hover two feet off the floor and be ignored. You see me because I’m your case worker. Think of me as a fairy-god-brother.”
After an astonished “You’re my wha—?” the rest of the sentence lodged in Andy’s throat. “So do I get three wishes or something?”
“Hey! I’m not some damned genie. Besides, that m.o. was epic failure,” Chuck explained. “Nearly everyone blows the first two on the way to Number Three anyway. They generate a lot of bling but little long-term value. We’ll work together toward something lasting.”
By now Chuck was sitting. His wings straddled the chair seat and reached well above his shoulders, glowing like Chartres as late afternoon sun reached the restaurant’s corner tables. Andy had a tough time not staring. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he apologized, “I haven’t seen a fairy since ‘Maleficent’ and you’re no Flora!” Then he studied Chuck’s steel grey eyes and the wings took second place.
In the following weeks, Andy didn’t see very much of Chuck but he heard plenty. Throughout the day, at work, the market, in social settings of every sort, Chuck became a disembodied voice perched in the vicinity of Andy’s right ear—guiding, reminding, instructing, cajoling, exhorting, inquiring, sometimes laughing, but always limited to a short phrase or even a single word: Listen to his voice; he wants something.—She cares about you.—Why’d he say that? —Ask her advice. —Trust your instinct. —Smile! “It’s in the eyes,” he said later over coffee at what had become their table. Andy had to agree.
Progress wasn’t a straight-line graph, but gradually Andy learned to listen; to hear the discrepancy between what and how something is said. Body language, too. In time he gained confidence, read situations and exercised better judgment. Then one afternoon, back at the coffee shop where it all began, it was Graduation Day.
“I don’t expect any kind of diploma or certificate but there is one thing I’d like to ask, if it’s not too personal.” “Sure,” Chuck smiled. “What’s that?” Andy was suddenly attentive to his coffee. “Could I kiss you once before you go?”
If you’ve never seen a fairy’s blush, it pales the Northern Lights; tangerine-pink washed across his cheeks and Chuck’s eyes surveyed the room for help. There was nothing in the instruction manual about a farewell kiss. But his panic, like snow on water, dissolved as they moved closer.
So did that pair of wings. Andy looked down to see if he was still standing on the floor, fully expecting to find them hovering two feet above it. What he saw, instead, was the pile of silvery dust that had been silky wings only moments before. And this time, other people did notice: strangers in their vicinity approved with smiles.
Later that night, Andy discovered an enormous tattoo on Chuck’s back where the fairy wings had been.
* “Hard Fairy” is a title borrowed from British composer Graham Fitkin, from a work for soprano saxophone and two pianos (which should be played at my memorial service, if there is one).
“A few figs from thistles…”
by Howard A. Tabor
Long before the railroad, long before steam power or cheap reliable electricity, Agincourt made things. It was waterpower — the default approach to generating energy that came west with settlers from New England and New York — that drove the earliest engines of industry. Our low-lying southwest quarter, wedged between the Muskrat and Crisping Creek, was a natural for milling of the New England type.
By the end of the Civil War, the first Muskrat dam created eight to ten feet of drop — enough to warrant the city’s first Industrial District. Phase One of the Syndicate Mills could have been mistaken for one on the Merrimack or the Brandywine; with four “side shot” water wheels and a complex system of axles, gears and belts distributing power to three floors of enterprise, its heavy timber construction is indistinguishable from its Eastern cousins. Phase Two was complete just before the Panic of 1875.
The Syndicate’s earliest tenants milled lumber and manufactured windows; they ground local wheat into flour. But there was also a maker of wool felt (one of the earliest employers of women) used in clothing and especially for hats. The oddest product from the mill was a type of “engineered wood” made from compressed wheat straw, a process patented by local farmer Hiram Baecher—who made more reputation than money, but I shows the creativity of 19th century seat-of-the-pants engineering.
The strip of land between the original townsite and the river attracted enough industry to warrant a railway siding when the Milwaukee Road arrived. Anton Kraus and his sons relocated their blacksmithing and evolved into an iron foundry, but the scale of manufacturing in the 1880s was cramped; the West Bank offered a solution. Expansion beyond the river also removed a growing fire hazard that had begun to concern the city.
Hearthstone Manufacturing was a pioneer in that new part of Agincourt called “Industry” on the west bank of the Muskrat. David Parmelee, a businessman from Rockford, Illinois, had visited the area about 1905 and chose to expand here. Hearthstone manufactured enamel cookware and other utensils in a plant managed by his son-in-law Aidan Archer.
The Archer family relocated here for business purposes and, like many Capitalists of that time—profiting from the labor of others in an age of organized labor—they became participants in many aspects of the larger community: serving on the school board and church building committees; giving to social causes; perhaps even taking a public position on America’s entry in the First World War. Most noteworthy, perhaps, Archer was an incorporator of the Muskrat Valley Homebuilding Association, a non-profit provider of low cost loans for home construction. Families, stable thriving families, eventually require pots and pans.
In light of recent expressions by hedge fund operators and venture capitalists a century later, the notion of “Capital” has evolved considerably.
Crispin Creek, named for the Saints Day of the Battle of Agincourt (October 25th), ends near the southwest corner of Agincourt’s original townsite where it joins the Mighty Muskrat. I’d like to think that this view represents some portion of the creek upstream, but the only village out that way—in the northeastern part of Fennimore County—is Grou, but that community doesn’t appear anything like this in my mind’s eye. What’s a body to do?
Perhaps it’s time for Grou (a Dutch settlement) to be re-imagined.
The question of “class” in America today is contentious. My own view has been shaped by having grown up in the 1950s, when Ozzie and Harriet slept in separate beds and father knew best. Our family were definitely middle class, aspirational, upwardly mobile. I was the first member to attend college; and there was no question that I would: my father wanted for me a better life than even he had enjoyed, and his (all things considered) had been better than his father’s.
So “Class” in Agincourt would have expressed itself in several ways: in housing stock and neighborhood; in the school you would have attended; and most certainly in the source of family income. There were capitalists in Agincourt, to be sure — Aidan Archer, for example, owner of a cookware manufactory, who employed many but did no actual “work” himself — but there were many more who worked with there hands, who labored for themselves or for an hourly wage — Nina Köpman, for example, the housekeeper and cook who worked for the Archers. You may be able to detect where my sympathies lie.
These two postcard images will present (for the time being) the range of the middle class: Boone’s Hardware and a yet-to-be-named balcksmith at the southwest corner of town. Each I’m certain has an interesting, even poignant, story to tell, and in time I will. What the images share, it seems to me, is manifest pride in their respective roles in the community; roles compounded by gender, church or lodge membership, public service and political activity, all those things that weave us into a culture.
[Both of these postcards, I should add, are far too expensive for my budget, so the image itself will have to do.]