I have spent the past three Saturdays working at
the Farmer's Market on the Capitol Square in
downtown Madison WI. I'm not selling fruits
and vegetables; I am selling an idea. I am standing
behind a card table covered with bumper stickers,
campaign buttons, and information sheets about a
candidate I really believe in. There is a donation
jar there also, as everything that is on that table
was bought and paid for by the people behind the
table. No national campaign money here.
Next to the table is a life-size cardboard cutout
of the candidate, suitable for posing with, and
a number of people do. Not twenty-feet to our
right is a table filled the same way as our table
and a cutout of another candidate. And across
the square are more of the same. Surprisingly
they people manning these tables are in their
mid-twenties. I am the grandma of the bunch.
I stand out in the blazing sun with my sign held
high for hours on end, and call out to anyone
who will listen, I answer questions until I am
near hoarse.
Now, I have been doing this for nigh on forty
years or more. I am, admittedly, a political
animal, it is hereditary. My dad worked for
years for the 'Machine' in Chicago, he was also
a union steward and was always the first man on
the picket line. He made me promise that I would stay
out of the fray, and with fingers crossed, I agreed.
But I am my daddy's daughter, I remember going
with him to wait out the results of an election at
campaign headquarters. When I was younger, I
didn't always understand the machinations, but
I could sense the euphoria of the crowd as the numbers
were posted on the large blackboard, it seemed
our side always won.
How can you not become addicted to the excitement,
the crowds, the confetti, and the balloons? As I grew
older, I got a glimpse behind the façade, to the
everyday workings of a machine that made a great
city run. It wasn't always pretty. The machine was
relentless, it was constantly moving and evolving,
and if you didn't move with it you were crushed under
its wheels. It needed to be fed and its live force was
money, always money. In time, I became disillusioned.
My dad's only sibling, his sister, was married to a staunch
Republican, a very influential Republican. Uncle Ed was
not just my favorite uncle, he was my godfather. He and
his wife never had children so he doted on his godchild.
He filled my head with the ideals of the Republican
Party, and back then there were many, and I agreed
with most of them. To say the least, our holiday dinners
were tense, the head of the family, my grandfather, would
bellow when the discussions got out of control, and voices
were raised. "No more", was the cry from the head of the
table. And an uneasy truce would be called. (I'll bet that
goes on yet today in many households.)
And so it was, I joined the Young Republicans, and I
worked for Barry Goldwater. I worked my heart out
and then, like my dad said, my heart was broken. The
Republican moved on without me. Gone was the party
of small government, fiscal responsibility, and personal
non-interference, suddenly the government was everywhere,
looking into your church and your bedroom. And I found
myself voting for John Anderson.
I met and married a man who, like my father, had a job
that depended on the politics of the day. The administration
at that time was Democratic hence so was he. I loved him
and I loved my father, but that love stopped at the polling
place and my independence won out at the ballot box.
It's been a long and strange journey, but all along I have
followed not just my heart but also my head. My dad
voted a straight ticket his whole life, he would never think
of leaving the party. My uncle worked his whole life for
the Republicans, he never understood my defection. My
husband remained a Democratic till the day he died. I
cannot and will not compromise my beliefs.
In 2016 I voted for the most qualified candidate to ever
run for president, I had met her and spoken with her on
several occasions and she never failed to amaze me with
her grasp of Washington and the world. And once again
my heart was broken, I was sure this time a woman. a
strong and capable woman would break through. But I
am still out there. And the thing that gives me hope are
the young folks who are there with me, and the number
of young people who stop at the table and sign up to
receive more information and volunteer to work, and
take a button. I tell them to wear it proudly. I make
them promise that they will vote, that it is their future
on the line. And those people who don't stop, they give
me a smile and a thumbs up, and I give them a smile
because I know what am doing makes a difference,
not just in my life, but for the country I love.
It matters not who I am supporting, what matters is
that you go out and vote, because your vote does matter.
And, if like me, you believe in something and someone
who you feel will make a difference in the country, work
for them. They need your help, no one gets elected without
help. The Russians are working hard to get the candidate
of their choice elected, you can be sure of that.
Democracy is not a spectator sport! I'm just sayin'.
the ballot
Friday, August 30, 2019
Monday, August 26, 2019
R. E. S. P. E. C. T.
Chicago, like most major cities in the 1940's and 50's, was
strictly divided into neighborhoods, mostly along ethnic
lines. And so it was when I was growing up there. Our
neighborhood on the near west side, was predominantly
Polish. It was the language of choice by most of the older
mothers and fathers, those in their 30's and 40's, (when
you are 10, thirty is old). They had immigrated to
America as adults or came with their families when
they were older children. Either way, Polish or 'pigeon
English' was their language of choice, and by virtue
of speaking and hearing it at home, so also was it our
choice as children. And many of us went to the Catholic
school where classes were taught in Polish.
On our street, South Troy Street, there was a small group
kids all around the same age, Think Our Gang, but not
as cute. There was Mike, Richie, Ellen, Stash, Mickey,
and me. We were all close in age and size, except for Mickey,
he was a full head shorter than the rest of us. Because of
that, or perhaps in spite of it, he was a real scrapper.
When his nose wasn't running it was bloody, and he
wore his bruises and various scabs as badges of honor.
Our street, like most of those in the area, was comprised
of the good ol' Chicago two-flat. Your family either
owned one, or you lived in one, except for Mickey. His
pa owned the tavern on the corner and they lived 'above
the store'. My folks owned our two-flat, well them and
my grandpa who held the mortgage. Ellen's family
rented the second floor right next door to our house.
Stash lived across the street; his family owned their
building also. When Stash's pa came home from the
war he was blind. Talk was, the Salvation Army paid
off the mortgage, and the family collected disability
from the government. Still the neighborhood women
clucked their tongues and shook their heads when Stash's
ma came outside - "poor Helen they would say. Richie's
family rented the second floor next to the El tracks. You
got used to the noise after a while...a long while. Mike's
family lived next door to my grandpa and across and
down the street from our house. You could just about
swing a cat and hit all our houses.
We were thick as thieves, the six of us. We met up to
walk to school together, and walked home the same way.
And come summer, we spent the long days playing in
the street. Troy Street was our playground, even though
just two blocks to the east was Douglas park, with open
green spaces, a lagoon, and a playground with swings,
jungle gym, monkey bars and such. I think our mamas
wanted to be able to look out the window and see their
brood. It's not that there was so much crime around then,
but the park was a breeding ground for perverts of all
kinds, and I guess mama felt it would be better I should
get hit by a car, than have some weirdo 'wave his winkie'
at me. I'm only speculating.
The game of choice most days was Bounce or Fly, a
game played with a softball and a bat. If you are not
familiar with a Chicago softball, it is a 16-inch ball, not
the 12-inch softball used elsewhere, and you play it
without a glove. Folks in Wisconsin laughingly call
it a 'pillow fight', but I digress. Between the six of us,
we had one bat and one ball. I had the bat; it was several
years older than I and at one time it had been blue. The
business end had a few chunks missing and so did the
handle, there was one big chunk out of the no-slip ring at
the end. Mike had the ball, it was even older than my bat.
It had long ago lost its shinny whiteness and now was a
soft shade of gray suede. The seam had split more than
once and Mike's ma had sewn it together with black darning
thread. It wasn't quite regulation baseball stitching, but it
held the stuffing in. The ball had a perpetual flat side that
gave it a weird bounce and made the game more interesting.
When all six of us played we chose up sides. three on three,
the last team to pick got Mickey. First ups were chosen by
having one team toss the bat to the other side. They caught
it with one hand and from then on it was hand over hand to
the top. Last hand was first up. If you could hold on to the
ring while the other side kicked the bat - an impossible fete
with the chunk out of the ring - you were first up. The game
was played in innings like regular softball. Three outs and
your team took the field. An out was either a strike-out or
a hit that was caught on the fly or on one bounce, hence
the name. If the ball wasn't caught you scored a run. There
was no pitcher, the batter threw the ball up into the air and
swung for the fences as it came down, three misses and you
struck out. The rules were sacrosanct, and were handed down
to you by your older sibs. They were agreed upon by each and
all of us. I'm not saying there weren't squabbles, of course
there were, but they never lasted the day.
Then one day into the mix, came Donnie*. His folks had
bought a house across from Douglas Park on the Boulevard.
That area was known as 'the park district', the homes were
mostly single-family and were on larger lots than the standard
Chicago 25'x125' city lot. Donnie's pa was my pa's boss, I
should say he was management to my pa's union stewardship.
Donnie's pa wanted Donnie to meet friends in the area, so he
asked my pa if Donnie could play with us. You know the old
saying: To have a friend, you must be a friend? Yeah, well
Donnie never heard it. He was an obnoxious little creep,
but he had one thing going for him, Donnie had a new soft-
ball and not just one bat but two. One for softball and one
for league. However, we were not allowed to play hardball
in the street for obvious reasons. We were allowed to play
if we used the innocuous pink rubber ball. The one we used
to play stoop ball with. I digress again.
And so it was, Donnie was allowed to play with us, if he
brought the ball and bat. But Donnie didn't like our rules,
and now that we were an odd number, it meant that one
guy didn't get to play all the time. Donnie said that Ellen
shouldn't play because she was a girl and she struck out too
much, - he didn't dare say that to me, or I would have
socked him one. We told him we all play or no one plays,
Donnie went home. Next day we compromised, Ellen
would be the pitcher. Ellen had thick glasses, and poor eye-
to-eye coordination, but she had an arm. Maybe she struck out
a lot but she could throw a ball, even underhanded she could
put some English on it. It appeared Donnie wasn't that great
of a hitter either, Ellen caught him swinging every time, and
you didn't do that to Donnie. We gave him chatter every
time he came up to bat and called him names in Polish,
Donnie didn't speak Polish. No one wanted him on their team,
which was good for Mickey as now he didn't get picked
last all the time.
Well that didn't last the day, Donnie took his bat and ball and
went home again, he told his pa we were a bunch of rag-a-
muffins. Back we went to our beat up bat and ball. It lasted
a week, and Donnie was back. This time he said we could
have his ball for keeps if we let him play again. Sure, we
said, you can play. We told Ellen to lob him nothing but
softballs, we gave him long counts, we played his hits
on the second hop, Donnie was having a great time but
he was the only one, Finally, we had enough, when Donnie
came to play again, we said 'no thanks', and gave him back
his ball. Donnie sulked home, he told his pa we were just
plain mean to him. We went back to having a great time
with our old bat and ball.
Donnie's pa had a little talk with my pa. I don't know what
he told my pa about us kids, but my pa said if Donnie wanted
respect, he had to earn it himself.
They say the child is the precursor of the man, who knows,
maybe they are right'
I'm just sayin'.
* the name was changed to protect the guilty.
strictly divided into neighborhoods, mostly along ethnic
lines. And so it was when I was growing up there. Our
neighborhood on the near west side, was predominantly
Polish. It was the language of choice by most of the older
mothers and fathers, those in their 30's and 40's, (when
you are 10, thirty is old). They had immigrated to
America as adults or came with their families when
they were older children. Either way, Polish or 'pigeon
English' was their language of choice, and by virtue
of speaking and hearing it at home, so also was it our
choice as children. And many of us went to the Catholic
school where classes were taught in Polish.
On our street, South Troy Street, there was a small group
kids all around the same age, Think Our Gang, but not
as cute. There was Mike, Richie, Ellen, Stash, Mickey,
and me. We were all close in age and size, except for Mickey,
he was a full head shorter than the rest of us. Because of
that, or perhaps in spite of it, he was a real scrapper.
When his nose wasn't running it was bloody, and he
wore his bruises and various scabs as badges of honor.
Our street, like most of those in the area, was comprised
of the good ol' Chicago two-flat. Your family either
owned one, or you lived in one, except for Mickey. His
pa owned the tavern on the corner and they lived 'above
the store'. My folks owned our two-flat, well them and
my grandpa who held the mortgage. Ellen's family
rented the second floor right next door to our house.
Stash lived across the street; his family owned their
building also. When Stash's pa came home from the
war he was blind. Talk was, the Salvation Army paid
off the mortgage, and the family collected disability
from the government. Still the neighborhood women
clucked their tongues and shook their heads when Stash's
ma came outside - "poor Helen they would say. Richie's
family rented the second floor next to the El tracks. You
got used to the noise after a while...a long while. Mike's
family lived next door to my grandpa and across and
down the street from our house. You could just about
swing a cat and hit all our houses.
We were thick as thieves, the six of us. We met up to
walk to school together, and walked home the same way.
And come summer, we spent the long days playing in
the street. Troy Street was our playground, even though
just two blocks to the east was Douglas park, with open
green spaces, a lagoon, and a playground with swings,
jungle gym, monkey bars and such. I think our mamas
wanted to be able to look out the window and see their
brood. It's not that there was so much crime around then,
but the park was a breeding ground for perverts of all
kinds, and I guess mama felt it would be better I should
get hit by a car, than have some weirdo 'wave his winkie'
at me. I'm only speculating.
The game of choice most days was Bounce or Fly, a
game played with a softball and a bat. If you are not
familiar with a Chicago softball, it is a 16-inch ball, not
the 12-inch softball used elsewhere, and you play it
without a glove. Folks in Wisconsin laughingly call
it a 'pillow fight', but I digress. Between the six of us,
we had one bat and one ball. I had the bat; it was several
years older than I and at one time it had been blue. The
business end had a few chunks missing and so did the
handle, there was one big chunk out of the no-slip ring at
the end. Mike had the ball, it was even older than my bat.
It had long ago lost its shinny whiteness and now was a
soft shade of gray suede. The seam had split more than
once and Mike's ma had sewn it together with black darning
thread. It wasn't quite regulation baseball stitching, but it
held the stuffing in. The ball had a perpetual flat side that
gave it a weird bounce and made the game more interesting.
When all six of us played we chose up sides. three on three,
the last team to pick got Mickey. First ups were chosen by
having one team toss the bat to the other side. They caught
it with one hand and from then on it was hand over hand to
the top. Last hand was first up. If you could hold on to the
ring while the other side kicked the bat - an impossible fete
with the chunk out of the ring - you were first up. The game
was played in innings like regular softball. Three outs and
your team took the field. An out was either a strike-out or
a hit that was caught on the fly or on one bounce, hence
the name. If the ball wasn't caught you scored a run. There
was no pitcher, the batter threw the ball up into the air and
swung for the fences as it came down, three misses and you
struck out. The rules were sacrosanct, and were handed down
to you by your older sibs. They were agreed upon by each and
all of us. I'm not saying there weren't squabbles, of course
there were, but they never lasted the day.
Then one day into the mix, came Donnie*. His folks had
bought a house across from Douglas Park on the Boulevard.
That area was known as 'the park district', the homes were
mostly single-family and were on larger lots than the standard
Chicago 25'x125' city lot. Donnie's pa was my pa's boss, I
should say he was management to my pa's union stewardship.
Donnie's pa wanted Donnie to meet friends in the area, so he
asked my pa if Donnie could play with us. You know the old
saying: To have a friend, you must be a friend? Yeah, well
Donnie never heard it. He was an obnoxious little creep,
but he had one thing going for him, Donnie had a new soft-
ball and not just one bat but two. One for softball and one
for league. However, we were not allowed to play hardball
in the street for obvious reasons. We were allowed to play
if we used the innocuous pink rubber ball. The one we used
to play stoop ball with. I digress again.
And so it was, Donnie was allowed to play with us, if he
brought the ball and bat. But Donnie didn't like our rules,
and now that we were an odd number, it meant that one
guy didn't get to play all the time. Donnie said that Ellen
shouldn't play because she was a girl and she struck out too
much, - he didn't dare say that to me, or I would have
socked him one. We told him we all play or no one plays,
Donnie went home. Next day we compromised, Ellen
would be the pitcher. Ellen had thick glasses, and poor eye-
to-eye coordination, but she had an arm. Maybe she struck out
a lot but she could throw a ball, even underhanded she could
put some English on it. It appeared Donnie wasn't that great
of a hitter either, Ellen caught him swinging every time, and
you didn't do that to Donnie. We gave him chatter every
time he came up to bat and called him names in Polish,
Donnie didn't speak Polish. No one wanted him on their team,
which was good for Mickey as now he didn't get picked
last all the time.
Well that didn't last the day, Donnie took his bat and ball and
went home again, he told his pa we were a bunch of rag-a-
muffins. Back we went to our beat up bat and ball. It lasted
a week, and Donnie was back. This time he said we could
have his ball for keeps if we let him play again. Sure, we
said, you can play. We told Ellen to lob him nothing but
softballs, we gave him long counts, we played his hits
on the second hop, Donnie was having a great time but
he was the only one, Finally, we had enough, when Donnie
came to play again, we said 'no thanks', and gave him back
his ball. Donnie sulked home, he told his pa we were just
plain mean to him. We went back to having a great time
with our old bat and ball.
Donnie's pa had a little talk with my pa. I don't know what
he told my pa about us kids, but my pa said if Donnie wanted
respect, he had to earn it himself.
They say the child is the precursor of the man, who knows,
maybe they are right'
I'm just sayin'.
* the name was changed to protect the guilty.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)