I Would Be A Democrat If . . .

A friend recently sent me this piece about our past President Harry Truman. He was one of the greatest president’s America ever had. If our current day politicians had the same morals and character as Harry our country would be greater than ever and we wouldn’t have to make it great again. Please watch this video, read the vignette, and think about it.  Harry & Bess Harry Truman was a different kind of President. He probably made as many, or more important decisions regarding our nation’s history as any of the other 42 Presidents preceding him. However, a measure of his greatness may rest on what he did after he left the White House. The only asset he had when he died was the house he lived in, which was in Independence Missouri . His wife had inherited the house from her mother and father and other than their years in the White House, they lived their entire lives there. When he retired from office in 1952 his income was a U.S. Army pension reported to have been $13,507.72 a year. Congress, noting that he was paying for his stamps and personally licking them, granted him an ‘allowance’ and, later, a retroactive pension of $25,000 per year. After President Eisenhower was inaugurated, Harry and Bess drove home to Missouri by themselves. There was no Secret Service following them. When offered corporate positions at large salaries, he declined, stating, “You don’t want me. You want the office of the President, and that doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the American people and it’s not for sale.” Even later, on May 6, 1971, when Congress was preparing to award him the Medal of Honor on his 87th birthday, he refused to accept it, writing, “I don’t consider that I have done anything which should be the reason for any award, Congressional or otherwise.” As president he paid for all of his own travel expenses and food. Modern politicians have found a new level of success in cashing in on the Presidency, resulting in untold wealth. Today, many in Congress also have found a way to become quite wealthy while enjoying the fruits of their offices. Political offices are now for sale (cf. Illinois ). Good old Harry Truman was correct when he observed, “My choices in life were either to be a piano player in a whore house or a politician. And to tell the truth, there’s hardly any difference!” I say dig him up and clone him! If you agree, forward it. If you don’t, delete it. I don’t want to know one way or the other. By me forwarding it, you know how I feel.

Women???

pantyraid

1950’s Panty Raid

Panty-Raid-2

A Very Large Panty-Raid

In the nineteen fifties when I went to college things were a bit different between the sexes. Men lived in male dorms on one side of campus and women in ladies dorms on the opposite side. Fraternities and sororities were pretty much the same. We spent our time going to bars to meet girls; clubs were another avenue. Study time at libraries was also a popular venue, as was our student center with the coffee shop. My classes in engineering were void of women. They just didn’t want to become engineers yet. If they did they faced a very biased male teaching staff that believed a women’s place belonged in home economics rather than in thermodynamics.

When spring finally came, and everyone was suffering with cabin fever the hormonal juices increased with the level of sunshine. Both testosterone and estrogen began doing the job intended by our Creator. One evening I sat at my desk when I heard a noise in the distance. Not knowing what it was I ran outside to discover that a panty-raid was in process about six blocks away. Not wanting to get into trouble near the end of the year I stayed away, but listened to all the stories with relish after is was over. Our student newspaper also recorded the event with photos.

During a panty-raid the men marched en masse cheering and chanting from the west side of campus to the east   to raid the girls dorms to steal panties. With all the noise the men made, the proctors in the ladies’ dorms had enough warning to lock all the doors to keep men out. The girls knew beforehand what was happening and flocked to the windows to the delight of the men. Of course the boys would begin to crawl through the lower level windows to gain entry. Girls in the upper floors began to dangle their panties out to tempt the guys. Mayhem ensued when the girls began tossing their undies out to the crowd, and the guys who made it into the rooms had quite a story to tell about how they acquired underwear. Without being the room with them I could never know exactly what ensued. I am sure that by the time the stories were told they were embellished and expanded beyond what actually happened.

Today’s students may read this and think how lame. Yes, compared to today’s coed dorms, and free sex on demand are quite something. Our kids probably believe a panty-raid is something you do at Sunday school. The moral of this story is to tell the story some sixty-two years after the fact. I participated in my own style of sexual experimentation with the opposite sex, but it too was tame by today’s standards. But what if I were being considered for a big job in government and one of my college dates decided to write to her Congressman about how traumatized she was by my crude and unsuccessful advances. Could she really remember that time accurately? I told you a story above about panty-raids to the best of my ability, but I’m sure if you were to research panty-raids you might learn they were much different from my tale. Would our youthful experiments in sexuality really matter to anyone or to anything? I am also certain that each of us has their own story to tell about a youthful adventure in sex education.

I finished college with a degree, and so did all my dates. I have never seen any of them since that time to know if I traumatized them. I pray they all had happy lives and found faithful partners. I did.

I met the girl of my dreams on a blind date. I was a perfect gentleman throughout our courtship and can very proudly state that we were both virgins when we married, although I tried like heck to not be one.

no-longer-does-panty-raids-girls-come-to-his-dorm-2555614

2018 Version of a Panty-Raid

The Mob vs Gangs

This morning after mass I stepped into our parish hall for hospitality. I sat and had coffee with another “old guy” who is just a year younger than me. Bill lives in a community outside of Frankfort named Gateway. It is an over 55 community. He started discussing how he loves it there, and how he has suddenly become allergic to mowing the lawn. Age triggers many allergies you know. He took to hiring a sixteen year old grandson of a resident. The kid cuts a hundred lawns a month at $20 a cut. That is amazing money for a teen ager 20 x 100 = $2000. Our conversation drifted to where we grew up. Bill in the Bridgeport neighborhood, and me in Burnside. We both attended Catholic high schools, Gordon Tech and Mendel. Our sports teams competed against each other.

Our conversation drifted to how the mafia dominated his neighborhood. He told of being in a neighborhood restaurant with his parents when two men dressed in long black overcoats and black fedoras came in. One stood at the door to prevent anyone from coming or going. The other walked through into the kitchen looked at everyone there then moved into the lady’s room to do the same. Finally the guy went into the men’s room to search it. Evidently he didn’t find who he was looking for so the two of them left. “There is no doubt in my mind that the guy they were looking for would have died on the spot,” said Bill. I couldn’t top that story, but it brought to mind that even though we don’t hear about mob killings anymore like when we were kids, we hear about gang killings daily. They are so common we don’t even get upset about them anymore. Then the idea that killing people on the streets is a long time Chicago tradition came to mind. Shooting people on the street has been part of our culture, and has been for almost a hundred years.

The next time I read the shooting count, like this morning, six wounded, one dead, it will just pass like the mob killings of my youth. It isn’t about gun control it is about eliminating bad people within the community. I have to admit, however, that the mob limited killing to their enemies while the gangs will kill anyone in the way. Therefore, they are not the same and I shouldn’t compare the mob to gangs. Gang killing is not just the result of rivalries, it is often a rite of passage. In some cases killing is necessary to prove you are man enough to join a gang.

I also remember that if I had any ideas of joining a street gang to cause trouble, the trouble would have been mine. My Dad would have punished me in a way that hurt long and hard, killing would have been too easy on me.  I truly believe that the current gang problem is the result of kids being raised in fatherless families. There is one thing fathers are good at like dispensing punishment, deprivation, banishment, or some other form of misery to their kids who err. The problem is that mother’s never wait for the father to come home, and they dispense justice immediately. If the job was too big for Mom she relied on the famous standby  “wait until your father gets home.” That wait was enough to make me change my ways.

“Ah, the good old days!”

Remember When?


Children of the greatest generation

Born in the 1930's to the early 1940's, we exist as a very special age group.

We are the smallest group of children born since the early 1900's.

We are the last generation, climbing out of the depression, who can remember the winds of war and the impact of a world at war which rattled the structure of our daily lives for years.

We are the last to remember ration books for everything from gas to sugar to shoes to stoves.

We saved tin foil and poured fat into tin cans.

We saw cars up on blocks because tires weren't available.

We can remember milk being delivered to our house early in the morning and placed in the “milk box” on the porch.

We are the last to see the gold stars in the front windows of our grieving neighbors whose sons died in the War.

We saw the 'boys' home from the war, build their little houses - Jones Park?

We are the last generation who spent childhood without television; instead, we imagined what we heard on the radio.

As we all like to brag, with no TV, we spent our childhood "playing outside”.
There was no city playground for kids. Soccer was unheard of.

The lack of television in our early years meant, for most of us, that we had little real understanding of what the world was like.

On Saturday afternoons, the movies gave us newsreels sandwiched in between westerns and cartoons that were at least a week old.
Telephones were one to a house, often shared (party Lines) and hung on the wall in the kitchen (no cares about privacy).

Computers were called calculators, they were hand cranked; typewriters were driven by pounding fingers, throwing the carriage, and changing the ribbon.

The 'INTERNET’ and ‘GOOGLE’ were words that did not exist.

Newspapers and magazines were written for adults and the news was broadcast on our radio in the evening by Paul Harvey.

As we grew up, the country was exploding with growth.

The G.I. Bill gave returning veterans the means to get an education and spurred colleges to grow.

VA loans fanned a housing boom. Pent up demand coupled with new installment payment plans opened many factories for work.

New highways would bring jobs and mobility. New cars averaged $2,000 full price.

The veterans joined civic clubs and became active in politics.

The radio network expanded from 3 stations to thousands.

Our parents were suddenly free from the confines of the depression and the war, and they threw themselves into exploring opportunities they had never imagined.

We weren't neglected, but we weren't today's all-consuming family focus.

They were glad we played by ourselves until the street lights came on or Mom called us for supper - by hollering!

They were busy discovering the post war world.

We entered a world of overflowing plenty and opportunity; a world where we were welcomed, enjoyed ourselves and felt secure in our future.

Although depression poverty was deeply remembered.

Polio was still a crippler.

We came of age in the 50s and 60s.

The Korean War was a dark passage in the early 50s and by mid-decade school children were ducking under desks for Air-Raid training.

Russia built the “Iron Curtain” and China became Red China.

Eisenhower sent the first 'Army Advisers' to Vietnam.

Castro took over in Cuba and Khrushchev came to power in Russia.

We are the last generation to experience an interlude when there were no threats to our homeland. The war was over and the cold war, Muslim terrorism, “global warming”, and perpetual economic insecurity had yet to haunt life with unease.

Only our generation can remember both a time of great war, and a time when our world was secure and full of bright promise and plenty, we lived through both.

We grew up at the best possible time, a time when the world was getting better, not worse."

We are “The Last Ones”.

More than 99 % of us are either retired or deceased, and we feel privileged to have “lived in the best of times”!

A Lovely Afternoon With My Daughter

This afternoon I got to spend time with my daughter. We had lunch in downtown Joliet at the Joliet Junior College Culinary Arts Center. My grandson, (her son) was part of the staff in the kitchen. Joey, is in his final semester in the Culinary Arts curriculum. His station today was sandwiches. The school did an amazing job of designing a kitchen-restaurant for teaching kids to become chefs, and hospitality managers. Thank goodness Jacque made reservations because the place was filled to capacity. The once a week luncheon operates between 11:30 and 1:00 p.m. We arrived at noon, but it took me fifteen minutes to find a parking spot. Like most city centers Joliet is a menage of big buildings, separated by narrow streets which are laden with traffic.

After three circles around the block, I finally found a street spot a block and a half away from the restaurant. I parallel parked like a pro and we disembarked. I failed to notice a sign next to the spot which read “No Parking Special Event, vehicles will be towed,” oops! I told Jacque to wait there for me and I would go to the garage a block further up the street.

The garage was five floors high and had exits on three sides, with only one entrance on the west side. Of course I had to drive around the building to find that one entrance. I turned in to see a sign Hotel Parking. Joliet s a famous casino town and this garage was next to the casino. There was no gate nor a ticket vendor at the entrance. I found a spot of the second floor, and parked. I met Jacque and we walked back to the restaurant.

The lunch menu was great. We had a Thai egg roll for appetizer and she had a tomato, bean soup that resembled chili. There was a bread basket on the table with an assortment of home-made dinner rolls, and a plate of specially flavored butters. I sampled them all. Three of the four butters were very tasty, and one was bland. The rolls were excellent and fresh-baked. For my entre I ordered a bacon, cheese topped packed pork wrap. It was excellent. Jacque ordered a monster hamburger which she could only eat a small part of. A gob of very salty french fries sided each sandwich with a small cup of special catsup.   We brought most of it home. For dessert we ordered a chocolate mouse topped custard pie served with dabs of lemon, lemon sorbet, a dollop of whipped cream, and a small portion of orange marmalade. Wow! We did finish that.

The entire restaurant is a teaching laboratory, Waitresses took orders on a tablet connected wirelessly to the kitchen. Each chef received his work load electronically and the time to table measured as a metric of performance. The wait staff was measured on the time it took them to get to the table, then the time it took to take our order, and finally on the time between what it took the chef to finish an order to the time the order made it to the table. I thought, my God why would a person want to go to college to be a waitress? I quizzed our waitress, she was really attending the school in the curriculum of Hospitality Management, and was required to spend one semester working the restaurant for lunch. She went to school three days a week and worked three different jobs the remaining four days.  She is a typical energetic college kid.

Jacque and I sauntered back to the car crossing a couple of streets which had walk signs. We were waiting for the red hand to turn so we could cross safely.  “You know Jacque, the liberals of our country have overlooked a very racist government controlled feature of our transportation system.”

“What?”

“Look at us, we are waiting for the little white man to let us know it is safe to cross.”

“Da-ad, what do you expect them to do?”

The libs are always poking us about white privilege and how whites reign supreme over all other colors of people but they overlooked the most racist symbol of control over people, the little white man who allows us to cross a street. It is never a little black man, nor a yellow man, he is always white. He lords over all races, and the libs don’t say a word about it. Instead they demolish hundred year old statues, and confederate flags as racist symbols while completely overlooking the millions of these walk signs around the entire country. She changed the subject and I was glad she did.

Mosey sign on crossing.

 

Pita or Potica?

I challenged my grandson Joey to a bake-off last week and guess what? He beat me. Joey is a student in the school of Culinary Arts at Joliet Junior College. I really thought he could pick up a few pointers from the Old Man (me). He stepped into the kitchen, I handed him an apron which he donned immediately. I thought for sure he would wimp-out and hand it back to me, but he put it on and made me proud. The challenge was to bake a walnut-roll from the recipe found in my mother’s (his great grand mother’s) cook book.

Every year at Christmas and New Year I get a strange yen to eat walnut-roll. Most likely because Mom raised me eating walnut roll, and many other beautiful baked goods. She was an excellent baker. How she became one is a mystery. She came to the USA when she was sixteen, so she didn’t have a lot of time to develop epicurean cooking or baking skills while still in her native Hungary. She married my Dad when she was twenty-three. Until then she worked as a domestic for families in the Chicago area, and might have developed some experience during that period.

My parents lived in a neighborhood called Burnside on the far South side of Chicago. Burnside had a very heavy population of immigrants from many European countries: Hungary, Italy, Poland, Ukraine, Germany, Slovenia, and few I forgot. The name of the Catholic Church in the neighborhood was Our Lady of Hungary, so a lot of Hungarians lived there. My guess is that Mom learned to cook and bake from her girl friends in the neighborhood. If they shared something, or baked something at a bake sale which she liked she would ask them for a recipe, and make it for my Dad. He was a man who never disappointed her because he ate every experiment she put in front of him without a complaint. Being the observant type, she would notice how quickly he devoured her experiments. Being a quick learner she kept making the things that disappeared from the table fast.

My brother, sister and I were also willing test subjects. I can honestly brag that she brought me up on her walnut roll, blackberry and apple pie, poppy-seed or apricot kiflik, and a myriad of other delectable bakery. Her white bread was to die for. She didn’t bother baking small loaves in those wimpy nine by four-inch bread pans, but rather a turkey roasting pan. The image of a giant loaf of white bread still warm from the oven makes my mouth water.

We two Joe’s set out to bake the best walnut roll made by any human on earth. Because Joey was in a strange kitchen, I obeyed his requests for tools, and ingredients. He never looked back and jumped into the process with a vigor I had never seen him have before. Being a good grandfather, and a believer in the benefits of positive reinforcement I became his assistant. I never said anything, but observed as he steadily assembled the ingredients. I merely asked if he finished using the dish, spoon, pot, etc so I could rinse it clean.

When it came to deciding when the dough was ready he became frustrated by the elasticity, and I finally chastised him for his impatience with a “nothing is perfect comment.” He bought my argument and proceeded to work the dough into a beautiful thin sheet ready for spreading the filling and the last roll up. Finally, I was able to teach him my technique of rolling the dough on a sheet of waxed paper which made the last windup easy. We popped two finished rolls on a greased cookie-sheet slid it into the oven and anxiously awaited for it to bake. I set a timer for thirty minutes called for by the recipe. Joey just opened the oven door occasionally and lightly touched the surface of the dough with his fingertip. He pulled the rolls from the oven at twenty-five minutes declaring the rolls done. It seemed an eternity for the them to cool enough for us to cut, and when we finally did it turned out he was right, the rolls were fully baked and ready, and delicious; just like my Ma’s.

I sent Joe home with one of the rolls, and wrapped the other to keep it moist. There was enough filling left over to make another loaf. I decided to make it the next day, but I wanted to try a different recipe. My mother’s recipe did not use yeast in the dough, so I chose a Slovak recipe using the same ingredients plus yeast. To make this loaf totally different I added cinnamon and honey to the filling. This dough was very elastic and would have met Joe’s requirements. The recipe made enough dough for two loaves, but when I spread it out into twelve by sixteen inch rectangle I realized I could have made four loaves by thinning the sheet.

I used up all the filling on one loaf and baked it using a timer. My walnut-roll came out browner on the top but still very soft inside.

Another eternity passed as I waited for the loaf to cool enough to cut. To pass time, I cut a slice of Joey’s to make a comparison. The slice almost didn’t make the side by side as I had not yet eaten breakfast and my mouth started watering.

Eventually, I cut the new roll and took side by side photos. It is obvious to see which slice had the yeast. Next came a taste test. Honestly, they were nearly identical. I didn’t taste the honey or the cinnamon. Joey’s roll tasted a bit more of flour than did the yeast dough. Both were good and I look forward to devouring them in the days ahead.

So, which is it Pita or Potica? My mother’s cook book calls it Pita, the Slovenians, and Polish call it Potica.

Damn Toyota Let Me Down

It is the last day of 2017 and what am I doing? Nothing. I’m writing an angry blog piece about a car that let me down. Lately I’ve been bragging about how good my Avalon has been to me, but today that has changed. I’ve written about the lousy experience I had with my 1969 Corolla, and how it kept me from buying another Toyota, or any other piece of Jap-Crap for thirty-six years. Once I calm down I’ll be able to explain rationally how I really feel about my Avalon. Right now the bitter sting of having to fix a car in -5 degree weather still has my shorts in a bunch.

Yesterday, I left the house on my way to my stepdaughter’s sixty-second birthday party. I gingerly placed her gift on the back seat along with a walnut roll wrapped in aluminum foil along with a fresh bottle of Champaign to help with the celebration. The temperature in the garage was low at thirty degrees. Outside it was six below. We haven’t had a winter like this since the nineteen eighties. You know, the Liberals ordered the world to go into warming mode so they could impose exorbitant taxes on us to feed the tyrants of the world, and to enrich themselves by trading carbon credits. I’m here to say the warming trend is over. By next winter the pundits will be crying ice-age once again. I like global warming cycles they keep me comfortable in the winter time. I hate ice-age like winters when I freeze me ass off. Anyway, I pushed the magic button and the Toyota chattered at me. It is that bone chilling noise one gets when a battery dies and the solenoid clicks away.

This morning I mentioned to a friend that since I have owned cars I have had a streak of bad luck with break downs when it is cold. Below zero cold makes stuff break, it makes weak stuff fail, it makes tires split, and it makes car owners very upset. What can I do? I am so dependent on a car to get around that I don’t even think about walking two miles in below zero temps to get to Starbucks. I could spew another thousand words talking about my winter break down experiences but I won’t, I’ll speak of something good instead, like improved battery life. During my life with VWs, Fords, Oldsmobiles, and Mercurys It was not uncommon to have to replace a battery every two years. Since I bought the Avalon batteries have improved, and now last for six years.  My car is  thirteen years old, has 143000 miles on it, and the second battery failed. So even though I blame the Toyota for letting me down it is the battery that is the root-cause. Since the battery is not what I sit in to drive me places I have to blame the car.

I wish all who read this a very Happy New Year without any cold weather trouble.

 

 

I Know I Made You Smile

cartoons/humor/fiction/nonfiction

Attila Ovari

Loving Life and Inspiring Others

Remember The 14 Words

We Must Secure The Existence Of Our People And A Future For White Children

galesmind

Come take a journey through my mind

Nutsrok

The humor and humanity of storytelling.

Henry Game

The Next Testament

Gamintraveler

Digital Nomads on a World Travel

summershaffer

A topnotch WordPress.com site

blogsense-by-barb

at the Re-Birth of America!

The Honking Goose

something to honk about

THE WAKING GIANT

United States Second Amendment Pitbull

Caustic Synergy

United and alone in the world

ELLIOT LAKE News

Political INcorrect Content & Forbidden Knowledge -- Yours To Discover

Aspiring Conservative

Conservative blog with articles about today's politics!

Conservative Kentucky

Reality From my Perspective

Creeping Sharia

Documenting the Islamization of America

Hearing Aid News

HEAR it HERE first! The latest on developments in hearing aids and the hearing industry.

Socialism is not the Answer

Limited Government Is

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry

Just Cruisin 2

Where Intellectuals and Rednecks foregather.

allaboutlemon-All Around, In, And Out Of My Own Universe

Greed is an ugly default... Sharing is Caring

Nhan Fiction

"Hope is my catalyst."

prophetbrahmarishi

Just another WordPress.com site

NuVote Reach

Political Co-Dependency Intervention

The Baggage Handler

I made the impossible easy in both worlds!