Boffing bunnies

     It's summer, and I'm about to take a little time off. It seems my brain got a jump on things, so if you're looking for a significant topic deftly handled, well, check back tomorrow. Maybe you'll have better luck.
     Otherwise, when I was growing up, there was a shop in my hometown of Berea, Ohio called, aptly enough, "The Shoppe." It started off as what we called a "head shop," a small store where you could buy pot pipes and rolling papers and records and such. But soon it grew, and began offering clothes, and hip housewares. It's where, about 1979 I bought this pair of mugs to prepare the Quaker Apples and Cinnamon Instant Oatmeal I lived on as an undergraduate.
     This was the '70s, people were less tightly-wound about such things, and if you notice, not only is the bull anatomically correct, but the rabbits in the background are, well, doing what rabbits are famous for doing. A leporine Kama Sutra. I can't recall if I noticed this before or after buying the mugs. My guess is after. I came to think of it as the "boffing bunnies" mug, and appreciated both for the wide expanse of cobalt blue making up each creature, and particularly for the large size mugs. Perfect for tea.
       I looked closely at the steer mug and saw it's signed "1978 Win Ng-Taylor." In 1965, Spaulding Taylor and Win Ng formed a company called "Environmental Ceramics" in San Francisco, and came to be a quite popular purveyor of chic kitchen supplies, mugs and aprons, pot holders and dishtowels, in the 1970s and 1980s under the name Taylor & Ng. The company had a generally asian aesthetic, and also sold woks, if I recall, an exotic item at the time.
     The Shoppe is still in Berea and—why does this surprise me?—Taylor & Ng still operates online, where you can buy the exact same mugs, at the company's web site here, for $9.75.
      Of course you can. Though my mugs were made in Japan,and my guess is the new ones come from China. Still, they sell 'em. We live in a time where nothing, absolutely nothing, goes away. Whether that is a good or bad thing, well, you can discuss. So maybe a little significance after all, despite ourselves.

Girls too can be trustworthy, loyal, helpful ...

Felicia Pace, center, of Troop 64, marches in Northbrook’s Fourth of July parade. At left is Drew Sheedy.

     Victor Hugo never wrote, “Nothing is more powerful than an idea whose time has come.”
     What the author of “Les Miserables” and “Hunchback of Notre Dame” actually wrote, in French, was, “On résiste a l’invasion des armées; on ne résiste pas a l’invasion des idées.”
     Or, translated into English: “One can resist the invasion of armies but not the invasion of ideas.”
     Which not only doesn’t sound as good; it isn’t even true. One can resist ideas whose time has come. And millions do, for years, as they are dragged screaming and tweeting into the modern world.
     In fact, that might be handy shorthand for grasping what is going on today around the globe: some embrace ideas whose time has come. And some resist with all their might.
     Until change occurs, as change must, and most people ... shrug and move on.
     My wife and I took our folding chairs to Northbrook’s Fourth of July Parade last Thursday. A low-key affair. Cops on bikes. Fire trucks. Veterans marching as the crowd stood and clapped. The high school band. A division of the Shannon Rovers and the Jesse White Tumblers. Youth sports teams.
     And the Boy Scouts, whoops, Scouts BSA, which this year began permitting girls to make lanyards, learn how to pass axes safely and march in small town parades.

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If I call this a "blogburger," will I go to jail in Mississippi?

  

     Open your refrigerator. Take out the margarine. Look at the stick, or open the tub. What color is it? Yellow? Good, that means you're living in the year 2019.
     Because if you were living in 1919, your margarine might be white. By law. The powerful dairy industry having made it a crime to dye margarine yellow, under the strained notion that doing so perpetrated a fraud upon the American public who, perhaps unable to read the word "butter," might be confused by a product that looks like butter yet calls itself margarine. 

Confusing in Mississippi

     Margarine, a spread derived from beef fat and vegetable oil, is white—its name is from the Greek, margarite, for "pearl" ("Butter," a product dating to the start of history, also traces back to ancient Greek, from bous and turos, or "cow cheese.")
     Trying to get around the law, margarine was sometimes sold with a yellow dye. The consumer, the true victim here, was invited to mix them together. To avoid that, states passed laws requiring margarine be dyed pink. Or brown. Or black.
     This near-century long charade came to mind this week, as Mississippi tries claw the words "burger" and "hot dog" back from the grip of vegetarians, who would dupe easily-confused Mississippians with their veggie burgers and vegan hot dogs and such. Thus new laws, piling fines and jail time upon the soy fiends trying to pass their unwholesome discs of ordure off as "burgers." 
     Margarine was invented in France at the end of the 1860s and by the 1870s had come to the United States. Frightened dairy farmers did what fiercely proud capitalists often do when facing the challenge of a new, category-creating product—they went howling to law to forbid this unnatural spawn of the "ingenuity of depraved human genius." In 1886, Congress passed the Margarine Act, placing ruinous taxes and licensing fees on margarine. That was not enough for cow-happy Wisconsin, Ohio, Michigan, Minnesota and Pennsylvania—their state legislatures banned margarine completely.  For the protection of the consumer.
     It didn't matter that butter was also dyed yellow. "This practice, however, butter makers argued, was simply a cosmetic tweak" according to the National Geographic, whose informative article on "The Butter Wars," is the source of many of the facts trotted out here.
     A total of 32 states passed laws banning yellow-dyed margarine. These lingered for decades; the last state to repeal theirs, Wisconsin of course, did not give up the fight until 1967.
     Lawmakers in Mississippi are no doubt ignorant of this history, as were those in Missouri, which passed a similar law, now thrashing through the courts. Nor do they realize that "burger" has no more traditionally been wed to "beef" than "pole" can only be used to describe a device used in fishing. 
     The non-meat meaning of "burger" goes back at least 80 years. Arnold Williams writes in American Speech, in April, 1939:

     To the proprietors and clientele of thousands of roadside inns, diners and eat-and-run lunch-counters, -burger has come to mean almost any meat or meat-substitute ground or chopped and, fried or grilled, made into sandwiches.

    He goes on to list chickenburger, clamburger, rabbitburger and nutburger among others. H.L Mencken's Supplement One of The American Language preserves pickleburger, tomatoburger and fishburger.
      My Wentworth and Flexner Dictionary of American Slang was published in 1975 contains such heresy as "shrimpburger," and "catfishburger." It says that the "-burger" suffix "means any hot sandwich served on a bun, often toasted, with many condiments." 

     It doesn't mention vegetarian burgers, but then such products were not as hot in the 1970s as they are now, which is why cattle farmers are trying to pass laws to undercut their sales. But Wentworth and Flexner leave the door open for their inclusion:

      "Special ingredients will affect the choice of a root word (Chineseburger, containing rice; Mexicanburger, containing chile)."

     Except where prohibited by law. 

The Saturday Snapshot: Marquette, Michigan

Photo by Tom Peters

     Today's Saturday Snapshot is from our old friend, Tom Peters, who took this at sunset on Lake Superior in Marquette, Michigan, about 100 miles east of my regular UP spot, Ontonagon. The home of Northern Michigan University, Marquette is an area rich in iron, and one iron ore mine still operates, the Tilden Mine, in a nearby town aptly named National Mine.
     The area's mining legacy is also reflected in the name of its daily newspaper, The Mining Journal, a handsome publication whose managing editor is Bud Sargent. I phoned him up and we talked about Marquette.
     "The greater Marquette area is known as a superior location," he said. "We've got the best beaches, the best hunting, the best fishing, the best waterfalls, the best downtown area, the best shopping district."
     I considered asking whether "superior location" was a pun, a wink at the lake—I don't think it was—but thought better of it and didn't. Instead conversation shifted into winter. Sargent did concede that they "get more than our share of snow"—250 inches this past winter. Though that wasn't a record, and some places have it worse: 400 inches or more.     
      We talked about the possibility that the Empire Mine, shuttered two years ago, might reopen. 
     "That would be good news for the area—some several hundred jobs," he said. "Real jobs, not party store jobs."
     Good jobs that pay well, jobs with benefits, I said, to make sure I understood the meaning of "party store jobs."  That's what he meant.
     Not that Marquette is pinning its hopes on mining. The university, started as a teachers' college, the Northern Michigan Normal School, has diversified, and in 2017 announced it would be offering a degree in medicinal plant chemistry.
     "NMU’s program offers an entrepreneurial track with accounting, finance and marketing courses to prepare students for a business related to medicinal plants," the school explained, pointing out that everything they do would comply with all federal and state laws. "The alternative bio-analytical track provides advanced scientific understanding beyond the core courses in chemistry and plant biology. There is also a cohort component designed to strengthen connections among freshmen and facilitate mentoring by advanced students"
     The program, considered the first in the country, has drawn 300 students from 48 staes, who endure jokes about getting a "degree in weed" for a chance to get in on the ground floor. 
     “We’re providing a fast track to get into the industry,” said Brandon Canfield, a chemistry professor who proposed the major after hearing experts talk about the need for analytical chemists at a conference. 
     That's enough for a Saturday. Thanks to Tom for inspiring our visit, and to Bud Sargent for talking to me about an area he loves.
   "We think this is the absolute place to be," he said. "We can't imagine being anyplace else."

Farewell Mad, thanks for the skepticism

     The world was my father and mother, big sister and little brother. The single-level ranch house on Carteret Court, and a few blocks beyond. A mile away, Fairwood School, a couple dozen white suburban kids, led by the teacher—in 6th grade Miss Benson, who lived with school secretary Miss Palmer, an arrangement we kids never thought twice about, but whose significance would strike me about 25 years later in one of those “Ohhh...” moments. 

     Order reigned, and while life in all its messiness certainly roiled places far from Berea, Ohio—wars, protests, moon launches—even those were rational, understandable, delivered

in sensible reports each morning in the Cleveland Plain Dealer and at 5:30 by Walter Cronkite on the CBS Evening News. The little black and white TV was perched next to the dining room table, and we’d all watch, my father mandating silence.
     The first whisper of chaos, the bugle call that the cavalry was on its way to save me, was Mad magazine. The adult world wasn’t the temple of reason and dignity it pretended to be. It was a madhouse, a crazy anthill, seething with idiocy and hypocrisy. Not only could you laugh at it, you had to.
     I remember the first issue of Mad magazine that found its way into my hands. The June 1970 parody of “Easy Rider.” I can see that cover as if it were on the newsstand at Rexall Drug. Mort Drucker’s caricature of Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper—I didn’t know how spot-on it was because, of course, I hadn’t seen the movie; alongside, the magazine’s dimwit mascot, Alfred E. Newman, pedaling his bicycle.

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Flashback 1995: Having a Blast on Fourth of July Should Mean Fun, Not Injuries

      

     Not even 10 p.m., the night before Independence Day, and the leafy suburban paradise sounds like the Battle of the Marne—low percussive booms and staccato pops, cascades of crackles and distance roars. I'm not a fireworks fan, obviously—not only are they dangerous, but they frighten my dog, who is cowering at my feet as I type this, looking up at me accusingly, wondering why I don't make the ruckus stop. If only I could, Kitty. The best I can do is try to remind those who feel compelled to set them off at least remember to stop at a decent hour and try to be as safe as possible until they do. The service piece below isn't the most gruesome fireworks safety piece I've ever written—that would be this—but it serves its purpose. Have a safe and sane 4th. 

     Spread your fingers out in front of you and count them. If you've got all 10 and would like it to stay that way after July 4, then take a moment to think about fireworks safety.
     In the week before and after last year's Fourth of July holiday, 121 Chicagoans went to hospital emergency rooms with injuries from fireworks, according to the Metropolitan Chicago Healthcare Council. Most of the injuries were minor burns. A quarter were eye injuries, many resulting in some blindness. Seven people lost fingers or toes.
     "National data tells us that between 8,000 and 12,000 people are injured every year by fireworks," said Dr. Elizabeth Powell, a pediatric emergency medicine physician at Children's Memorial Hospital. "About half of those are kids. The eyes are most commonly injured, followed by hands and fingers. Not all of them are major injuries, of course, but if we can prevent them, why not do so?"
     Even those who aren't planning to go near fireworks need to think about safety—bystanders suffer 40 percent of fireworks injuries. In 1992, a 37-year-old Chicago woman had her right hand blown off while trying to bat away an illegal firework tossed in her direction. Investigators later determined that the "firecracker" had the power of a half-stick of dynamite.

      In 1993, a 4-year-old Chicago girl watching fireworks being set off died after a rocket struck her in the eye and lodged in her brain.
     Two years before that, a malfunctioning mortar killed a 30-year-old Burnham man. He looked into the tube of the device, trying to determine what was wrong with it, and it ignited, nearly decapitating him.
     The thousands of injuries nationwide, and occasional deaths, are not surprising, considering that most of the $ 300 million in fireworks sold in the United States are ignited by people who are not trained in handling them.
     Most consumer fireworks—mortars, roman candles, bottle rockets and the like—are illegal in Illinois. But the state's proximity to Indiana and Wisconsin, two states where giant fireworks stores line the highways, guarantees an ample fireworks supply to Independence Day revelers.
     In addition to fireworks being legal to sell in neighboring states, there are plenty of illicit fireworks in any state—M-80s, cherry bombs, M-100s and the like, not to mention homemade fireworks that can explode if you drop them.
     Even the devices legal in Illinois—snakes, poppers, smoke bombs and sparklers—can cause injury if not used properly. Sparklers are particularly dangerous, because their tips can reach 1,200 degrees and they are often liberally handed out to children, even young children, who invariably wave them.
     "These are not toys," said Dr. Tom Esposito, a trauma surgeon at Loyola University Medical Center in Maywood.
     Fireworks can cause injury even with minor mishandling.
     "I took care of a 6-year-old child who had a package of firecrackers explode in his pocket and give him second- and third-degree burns," said Powell. "It seemed such a senseless way to be injured. You wouldn't give your 6-year-old a pan of boiling water to carry, but nevertheless he was allowed to stick these things in his pocket."
     Some feel that fireworks are so dangerous the only safe way to use them is to watch professionals present a display.
     Four years ago, the National Society to Prevent Blindness, now called Prevent Blindness America, changed its stance from cautioning people to use fireworks safely to urging them not to use them at all.
     "Most agencies like ours would say, 'They're dangerous, you shouldn't be using them and, oh, by the way, if you've got them here's how to use them safely,' " said Tod Turriff, director of programs for Prevent Blindness America. "Looking at the statistics, people obviously can't use them safely. There's no safe way so why propose one?"
     —Originally published in the Sun-Times, July 1, 1995

On July 4, recall disaster along with the glory

 

      Happy Fourth of July, in advance. On Thursday you’ll be picnicking, parade-watching, ooohing at fireworks, maybe setting off a few, carefully. If I’m going to get a word in, best do it now, so we can all kick back, relax and celebrate our beloved country’s glorious past and bright future.
     Her troubled present, maybe not so much. Independence Day, the third in the Trump administration. The twist this year is the president is hijacking the celebration in our nation’s capital and turning it into — what else? — a glorification of himself.
     And adding his own personal flourish: tanks.
     American tanks, one hopes. The participation of tanks in patriotic spectaculars is really more of a Russian thing — those May Day parades with perfect ranks of goose-stepping troops, plus tanks and missile carriers rumbling past the generals on the reviewing stand.
     Oh, Trump has ordered up generals, too, and commanded them to stand beside him. Maybe next year he’ll include gymnasts twirling ribbons on sticks.
     Grim stuff. But maybe we can find reason for hope instead of despair. But how? I could point out that there might only be one July 4 left n the Trump administration.
     Or five.
     Hard to say.
     It’s a holiday, almost. Let’s be optimistic. One, then. I’ll put out the flag, as a patriotic American. It is still a great country, despite all those determined to make the country “great again” by betraying its every value.
     Remember: We’ve had grimmer Fourths; four when our nation was divided by Civil War. It’s odd, to take comfort in low points of our history, but the present is so very, well, present, it tends to warp our perspective.

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