Fargo - Go Far - They're synonymous
Right now, the entire nation should be watching Fargo, North Dakota. Fargo is a city of about 100,000 of the most-American of all American people. It is situated on the west side of The Red River (just one of several U.S. rivers by that name), a stream that marks the North Dakota/Minnesota State Line. On the east side of the river, another 75,000 people call their town Moorhead, MN.
The area is part of the American Great Plains, where the terrain is pretty flat. It is also among the coldest spots in the "lower 48". The average low temp in January is 2º below zero, F.
It snows in Fargo, and when the average high temp is only 16º F. (as it is in January) the snow and ice just sit there on the ground, patiently waiting for spring - which comes late.
When spring does start to melt the accumulated snow and ice, there are no canyons and valleys to rapidly carry away the water. It just lazily starts to meander away from the fields - and the yards. Which, depending on the speed of the melt, always poses the danger of flooding. This year has been a doozy!
Which brings me back to the point. The good people of Fargo are not whining about their plight. They are, in the most-American American spirit, just reacting. In the few TV shots we see, the people turned out by the thousands to contain the rising Red River. You expect to see the big and the strong tossing sand bags. But in Fargo, you see the young and the old, men and women - some pretty small of frame - struggling to keep passing the heavy sand bags along.
If you've ever passed a sand bag, you are aware of the fact that sand bags defy natural law. Bags of sand of the exact same dimensions, get progressively heavier with time. The first one is not too bad. The 100th one is a killer. At 19º F., it takes considerably less than 100 to make muscles scream.
Well, it now seems that the immediate danger is receding. It appears that the Red River has crested for the moment, and the good people of Fargo are in the "watch and react" mode as they allow their aching muscles a respite.
We all hope the weather cooperates and allows some of the excess water to drain away before serious melting resumes. Whether or not that is the case, you can be assured that the people of the Fargo-Moorhead area will be quick to respond and slow to complain.
Are you listening, New Orleans?
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Put my Dad in charge of the money!
My father died forty one years ago. I wish he were still alive and could be put in charge of supervising the use of the bailout money.
For many years, Dad drove a tank truck for Sinclair Refining Company, in Kansas City, Kansas. For the most part, his job was delivering gasoline to Sinclair service stations. Dad was short on formal education, long on common sense and extraordinarily high on integrity. He was very conscientious about his job and always aware of the danger inherent in a truckload of highly flammable gasoline.
When he was off-loading gasoline into the underground tanks at a service station, he always stood with his hand on the valve, ready to cut off the flow of gasoline in the event of a spill. One day, as he stood by his truck dumping gasoline, a man approached him and asked for a dime. He said he had a day's work promised him, if he could get to the job. Street car fare was 25¢ and he had 15¢. If dad would give him a dime, he could get to the job.
Dad admired people who tried to make it on their own, and quickly reached into his pocket for a dime. "But," he told the man, "this is for street car fare. Promise me you are not going to spend it on booze." The man promised, took the dime, and walked away. Dad watched him walk away but immediately became suspicious.
As the man disappeared around the building and headed for the corner street car stop, dad closed the valves to stop the flow of gasoline and went to watch the man. Not surprisingly, the man walked right past the street car stop and entered a bar in the next block.
Dad followed the man into the bar and spotted him perched on a bar stool. The 25¢ lay on the bar in front of him as the bartender proceeded to draw the beer the man had ordered. Dad walked up beside the man and said, "Give me back my dime. You promised you would not spend it on booze." He picked up his dime from the bar, put it in his pocket, turned and left.
I have always wondered what had happened next, when the bartender served the beer - for which the man could not pay.
Why can't they find a man like my father to supervise the spending of the people's money?
My father died forty one years ago. I wish he were still alive and could be put in charge of supervising the use of the bailout money.
For many years, Dad drove a tank truck for Sinclair Refining Company, in Kansas City, Kansas. For the most part, his job was delivering gasoline to Sinclair service stations. Dad was short on formal education, long on common sense and extraordinarily high on integrity. He was very conscientious about his job and always aware of the danger inherent in a truckload of highly flammable gasoline.
When he was off-loading gasoline into the underground tanks at a service station, he always stood with his hand on the valve, ready to cut off the flow of gasoline in the event of a spill. One day, as he stood by his truck dumping gasoline, a man approached him and asked for a dime. He said he had a day's work promised him, if he could get to the job. Street car fare was 25¢ and he had 15¢. If dad would give him a dime, he could get to the job.
Dad admired people who tried to make it on their own, and quickly reached into his pocket for a dime. "But," he told the man, "this is for street car fare. Promise me you are not going to spend it on booze." The man promised, took the dime, and walked away. Dad watched him walk away but immediately became suspicious.
As the man disappeared around the building and headed for the corner street car stop, dad closed the valves to stop the flow of gasoline and went to watch the man. Not surprisingly, the man walked right past the street car stop and entered a bar in the next block.
Dad followed the man into the bar and spotted him perched on a bar stool. The 25¢ lay on the bar in front of him as the bartender proceeded to draw the beer the man had ordered. Dad walked up beside the man and said, "Give me back my dime. You promised you would not spend it on booze." He picked up his dime from the bar, put it in his pocket, turned and left.
I have always wondered what had happened next, when the bartender served the beer - for which the man could not pay.
Why can't they find a man like my father to supervise the spending of the people's money?
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
My Mom and Macy’s
My mother, and Macy’s Department stores were both born in New York. Mom left shortly after the end of World War One (in 1919, I think) when she married a soldier who carried her off to Kansas City. Some year’s later, when Macy’s decided to expand beyond New York, one of the first cities they chose to open a store was Kansas City.
My parents raised five children. When the youngest was seventeen or eighteen, Mom decided to take a job outside the home. I was living in a different city at that time, so I don’t remember the exact year, why she decided to go to work or why she chose Macy’s. Maybe she needed the money. Maybe Macy’s was advertising "Help Wanted" that week. Maybe it was the New York connection - mother always had a fond recollection of anything connected to New York.
In any event, she went to work as a sales clerk in the men’s furnishings department at Macy’s, Kansas City, in around 1950. She sold stuff like shaving needs, colognes, etc. Like almost everyone who had suffered through the depression, Mom considered a job a valuable asset to be treated as such. She didn’t think of her job as an obligation to show up, put in the hours and receive a pay check. To her the job meant becoming a part of the company, with an obligation to enhance the company’s interests.
Many times I heard my Dad say, "If you work for a man - if he is putting a roof over your head, a shirt on your back and food on your table - for God’s sake work for him!" Mom shared that opinion. In addition, she liked people and thought it perfectly acceptable to intrude on their personal lives if she felt she could benefit them.
If a male customer came to her counter and mentioned that a certain shaving device caused his skin to burn, she would touch his hand and say something like, "Oh, my goodness, you don’t have to suffer that! We have this lotion which will stop that burning and keep your skin soft and supple, too." As a result, her sales figures soared over those of younger sales clerks who worked different shifts in her department.
The manager of that Macy’s store was also from New York, and he frequently stopped my Mom’s counter to reminisce with her about the old days in Brooklyn or Flatbush, or "Green-pernt", as she called Greenpoint.
Eventually Macy’s decided to bring that executive back to New York. Before leaving Kansas City, he stopped by Mom’s department to say goodbye. He told her, if she ever came back to New York, to come see him at Macy’s.
Well, Mom did eventually go back to New York to visit family there. Naturally she insisted on a trip to Macy’s to see her friend. One can only imagine the surprise the secretary experienced when this 50-ish farm type lady from Missouri came into the executive offices and wanted to see "The Man"! She asked Mom the purpose of the visit. Mom said to just tell him that Dorothy Bradley from Kansas City is in town and stopped by to say hello.
Upon receiving this news, the Macy’s executive bolted from his office, gave Mom a big hug, and they sat down for a nice chat about the old days in Kansas City, before she went on her way.
Later, at home, when Mom told the story, she only told us how happy she had been to have seen her old friend. This is not an unusual story. It is the way things were before labor unions turned employer-employee dealings into an adversarial relationship.
My mother, and Macy’s Department stores were both born in New York. Mom left shortly after the end of World War One (in 1919, I think) when she married a soldier who carried her off to Kansas City. Some year’s later, when Macy’s decided to expand beyond New York, one of the first cities they chose to open a store was Kansas City.
My parents raised five children. When the youngest was seventeen or eighteen, Mom decided to take a job outside the home. I was living in a different city at that time, so I don’t remember the exact year, why she decided to go to work or why she chose Macy’s. Maybe she needed the money. Maybe Macy’s was advertising "Help Wanted" that week. Maybe it was the New York connection - mother always had a fond recollection of anything connected to New York.
In any event, she went to work as a sales clerk in the men’s furnishings department at Macy’s, Kansas City, in around 1950. She sold stuff like shaving needs, colognes, etc. Like almost everyone who had suffered through the depression, Mom considered a job a valuable asset to be treated as such. She didn’t think of her job as an obligation to show up, put in the hours and receive a pay check. To her the job meant becoming a part of the company, with an obligation to enhance the company’s interests.
Many times I heard my Dad say, "If you work for a man - if he is putting a roof over your head, a shirt on your back and food on your table - for God’s sake work for him!" Mom shared that opinion. In addition, she liked people and thought it perfectly acceptable to intrude on their personal lives if she felt she could benefit them.
If a male customer came to her counter and mentioned that a certain shaving device caused his skin to burn, she would touch his hand and say something like, "Oh, my goodness, you don’t have to suffer that! We have this lotion which will stop that burning and keep your skin soft and supple, too." As a result, her sales figures soared over those of younger sales clerks who worked different shifts in her department.
The manager of that Macy’s store was also from New York, and he frequently stopped my Mom’s counter to reminisce with her about the old days in Brooklyn or Flatbush, or "Green-pernt", as she called Greenpoint.
Eventually Macy’s decided to bring that executive back to New York. Before leaving Kansas City, he stopped by Mom’s department to say goodbye. He told her, if she ever came back to New York, to come see him at Macy’s.
Well, Mom did eventually go back to New York to visit family there. Naturally she insisted on a trip to Macy’s to see her friend. One can only imagine the surprise the secretary experienced when this 50-ish farm type lady from Missouri came into the executive offices and wanted to see "The Man"! She asked Mom the purpose of the visit. Mom said to just tell him that Dorothy Bradley from Kansas City is in town and stopped by to say hello.
Upon receiving this news, the Macy’s executive bolted from his office, gave Mom a big hug, and they sat down for a nice chat about the old days in Kansas City, before she went on her way.
Later, at home, when Mom told the story, she only told us how happy she had been to have seen her old friend. This is not an unusual story. It is the way things were before labor unions turned employer-employee dealings into an adversarial relationship.
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