The Wrong Side of 31^st Street

We lived on the "right side," of 31st Street. And didn't cross 31^st Street very often.

The Street runs east to west, in the '50s dividing two distinct neighborhoods and urban Kansas City,  like a long, ragged scar.

Our address was 3140 Coleman Road, south of 31^st..

Oak tree boulevards and streets of handsome middle class, stone homes....Redemptorist Parish.

Below 31^st, , small wood framed houses crammed on small lots with Hispanics and poor whites.

The two parish teams competed in basketball; but rarely went  into the other’s church, school or  neighborhood, unless invited.

Much, I can’t remember from the early '50s.   Good thing my twin brother recalls everything:

* Obscure kids who lived and went to school with us for a couple years. 

* Particulars about the hot girls in junior high.

"Tell him Linda Cole is on the phone,"  I hear my Bro' say to his secretary with a laugh,  calling to chat before the Christmas holidays.

* Details on the two distinct routes we traveled to and from School each day. 

One we labeled "The Campbell Soup Trail," and the other, "The Rainbow Trail." Neither was a trail...but a 1.3 mile walk  through urban streets..... We covered the "trails" up to 4 times a day.... to serve Mass at 6 a.m…..to School …..home for lunch ….and home at night. 

Always tussling, pushing, shadow boxing with each other ... exploring alleyways and trash bins..... Stopping along Southwest Trafficway at  Stack’s Drugs for a cherry Coke...the Candy Store for jugeabees...or to knock on the glass and startle Red the Barber, asleep in his chair.

A large hill, rock quarry and dump separated the two neighborhoods.  

We'd roam the quarry and woods;  a bit uneasy over who or what we'd find.

* Lots of summer afternoons spent in the rock quarry  ….tadpoles….. exploring the holes and caves, where dynamite had been used for mining….not so long ago.

It was inner city, but not inner city.  Urban life but not urban life.

And…in the quarry…. the two came together unpredictably and sometimes dangerously.

There would be the sudden appearance of kids from ‘the other side,” wild deer and rabbits, old men looking for empty bottles or the chance to bluff kids out of their Ice Cream Truck  money....

and  then the hot afternoon, when we were twelve or so….

A group of kids, stumbling over the body of Sister J.B.'s (our Catholic Grade School principal) old Irish immigrant father. Who had suffered from dementia, lost his way, fallen and died in the quarry.  

Large black flies swirled around his head, maggots crawled from his distended mouth.

After that, I thought Sister J.B. looked at us with an edge and different attitude, in 7th grade class.  Did we remind her of her father and what happened? 

Or, more likely, something else, like our poor grades. :-)

Sister is gone, of course.

But some days -- while thousands of miles and light years  away from 3140 Coleman Road -- I have a hard time leaving the neighborhood.

At least in my mind.

-----

For a very different slant on these years, read my blog, "Growing Up Catholic" at

http://ragstorichmond.blogspirit.com/archive/2006/04/04/growing-up-catholic.html

BATTLE CREEK, Michigan. -- Thank you, Mr. Kellogg, for your foresight in establishing your charitable foundation with much of your personal wealth 76 years ago.  So, so many good things have been accomplished worldwide because you cared -- and cared especially about Battle Creek.

We read with thankfulness about the continued, quite remarkable record of recent Foundation grantmaking, coverered in yesterday's Battle Creek Enquirer.  And while its portfolio is diversifed today, God Bless Kellogg Company's values, drive and creativity ---all your own personal qualities -- which have sustained and grown the Company and its stock value, and thus much of the Foundation's work. 

Mr. Kellogg, I  suspect -- if you were alive today -- you'd have a few questions about the Foundation that bears your name.

The Good Lord knows it’s a REAL struggle dealing wholistically  with social problems in any community.  So messy.  So unpredictable.  Involving so many people who'se ideas and lives don't match each other.

In its new printed annual report, The Kellogg Foundation announces its focusing future grantmaking around an exclusive  effort to address problems of “vulnerable children” – in select areas worldwide – through hundreds of millions of grant money each year. 

There are lots of “vulnerable children” in Calhoun County – they are poor, they are black, they are white, they come from broken homes where alcoholic parents beat their spouses, have forced sex with their 10-year old daughters, where there are single parents with no jobs and no futures.  Where teenage pregnancy is rampant.

At the risk of you going 'thumbs down' on the next grant application, would it be alright to suggest, after reading your annual report, that the Kellogg Foundation might take a look at its own grantmaking in Battle Creek?

So many good projects -- over those decades: Kellogg Auditorium, Kellogg Arena, Kellogg Community College programs and facilities, The Linear Park, Binder Park Zoo, Math and Science Center. North Pointe Woods,  The Rink, Alano Club facility and services, "Yes, We Can"  initiative, Battle Creek Health System, downtown revitalization, Urban League programs, Neighborhoods, Inc.

But with your "new" focus on vulnerable children, perhaps it would be helpful to "turn the clock back" in terms of both Foundation programming and geographic focus.

 Nearly 70 years ago, you and your new foundation funded the "Michigan Community Health Project," that comprehensive effort to bring together citizens, educators, doctors and physicians TO WORK together -- at the community level -- to change the lives and health of children......all children, in select Michigan towns.

Not too a bad place for your Foundation people to "start again" with vulnerable children, do you think, Mr. Kellogg? Getting the community involved in helping to shape and deliver Foundation strategies and services that relate to children.

Perhaps that is being done today.

Thanks so much for listening, Mr. Kellogg.

-- Jim Richmond

Errata:  several observations about the Kellogg Foundation today:

• Mr. Kellogg would probably be surprised at how few of the Foundations's senior staff actually LIVE in Battle Creek. From cross referencing an old staff listing over “Google,” it appeared several years ago about 65 percent or so of Foundation program and executive  staff live(d) not in Battle Creek – but in Chicago, Washington, Ann Arbor, Aida, San Francisco, Atlanta, Grand Rapids, Lansing, Kalamazoo, Portage, Mexico City, South Africa, etc.   The Kalamazoo airport probably loves these folks. 
• Mr. Kellogg might wonder why only one of his Foundation’s current Board Members/Trustees lives in Battle Creek.   
• And why so few of the Kellogg Foundation employees seem visibly engaged in volunteer leadership positions with Battle Creek organizations. 

All of these relative changes of the past 10 years seem different from the philosophy, commitment and actions of prior Kellogg Foundation leaders -- when there was an expectation and a commitment that Foundation staff give back personal and job-release time to the community – this community that Mr. Kellogg loved. 

Life moves on.  People and organizations change.  So do needs.

But, the Foundation might be a bit different today…if Mr. Kellogg was alive….and actually sitting at his old desk…..now just on historic display in the Foundation lobby.

"I want mine."

Looks like President Obama's 'economic salvation' package of some $800 billion and change is going to be approved by both House and Senate.

Not long after Bush and his Band of Brothers dropped $750 billion on the banks without telling them: 1) they had to use it to make l-o-a-n-s; and 2) no, it would not be allright to use the federal dollars for the banks' "performance" bonuses to top management.

But, most of us are already lining up to get our piece of the new pie.

The government has announced new restrictions on direct lobbying for the money. That won't work. For long.

Congressman Mark Schauer is surely getting a deluge of project ideas; and his phone ringing off the wall or desk.

After all, if we're gonna give out cash like drunken sailors payin their bar bill, why not some for me?

Why Benton Harbor and not Battle Creek?

Be fair. Be square.

Gimmme mine.

We got ourselves into this financial mess over the past 20 or so years. It was all of us; and none of us. Banks. Wall Street. Real Estate people.  Consumers. All of us living beyond our means or with no means....and thinking the piper would never call.

And while it's not a popular view, or grounded in the reality of the moment, the 'economic salvation' or bailout is a terrible idea...at least as I read and try to understand the problem.

The real problem is no one understands the financial problem, or has much of an idea about a solution.

If you know anything about 12-step recovery programs (yes, dopers and druggers), one of the first steps toward sustained recovery is taking personal inventory and responsibility for one's actions.

I've come to believe in that...the hard way.

What we need not do is spend more money we don't have; lets suck it in and suck it up, individually and collectively, and reorient, recreate our lives and reorder our civic priorities in the United States.

About as much chance as me fitting in my '68 Navy uniform again.

My concern is not so much a personal one. I'll probably get by; eat at least a meal or 2 a day; likely have a roof over my head somewhere and somehow until I die.

But I worry about our children and grandchildren....and the baggage and the nation we leave for them.

It's all about money; and nothing about money.

Scarey as h*ll for most of us. Isn't it?

Here's an interesting perspective: http://www.cato-at-liberty.org/2009/01/12/making-work-destroying-wealth

First Impressions

I swear to God it’s a lot easier to misread people’s looks, gestures, comments and emails…than it is to get them correct.

Researchers say most people make up their minds about someone NEW within the first five seconds they see or hear the person speak.

And that first impressions are lasting.

One of my problems is that I fall in love with most every woman I meet – within the first five seconds.   If you got an Olympic Gold Medal for every failed marriage or relationship, I’d be on the cover of Wheaties, instead of Bruce Jenner, Mark Spitz or that new swimmer-guy from Ann Arbor.

Anyway, first impressions may be lasting, but they are usually dead W-R-O-N-G.

For years, I wrote a weekly newspaper column about people – and before and after that, held jobs requiring the ability to listen to people, synthesize their views, their skills and potential – and then make judgments about giving away money or hiring them.

No wonder I had trouble holding a job.

 I’d been better off – have a better track record today – from a career reading tarot cards, performing brain surgery blind, or running the Federal Reserve System.

First impressions suck. 

The smartest, most charitable person I've known in my life walks around in old clothes, and likes to muck out horse stalls.

I’ve learned that people are almost ALWAYS much deeper, much more interesting in their views, much better human beings than I first think….

Which says more about what I think of myself, perhaps, than of them.

Or as my Dad would say, looking over at the decked-out, pious dude in the pew across from us at Sunday Mass many years ago, “Jimmy, don’t judge the book by its cover.”

You got that right, Dad.

“My Cold, Dead Hand"

“Hello, this is the Compaq Service Center.”

“Yah, see, I bought this Compaq laptop from Office Max six weeks ago.  Along with a four-year extended warranty.  Last night, the hard drive on the computer failed.”

“Did you call Office Max?”

“Yes, three times.  They told me to call you. This 800 number.”

“OK, please give me the computer’s serial number and……”

PHONE goes dead.Dialing. Redialing.  Busy signals.  Redials.

“Hello, this is the Compaq Service Center.”

“OK, someone there just hung up on me.  (Repeats story.)”

“Let’s see how we can help you.  Now from what you say, your Compaq laptop  is on warranty.”

“Warranty?  The thing’s six weeks old!  I have a four-year service agreement.  I HOPE it’s on warranty!”

“Well, just give me those computer serial numbers again, Sir, and your credit card number. It’s simply and easy: You take out the defective hard drive.  Send to us.  And we’ll send you a new hard drive in the mail.

How’s that?”

“What da ya want my credit card number for?”

“For the ‘hold.’”

“’Hold? You wanna put a ‘hold’ on my credit card?  For what?  How much?”

“Just to be sure you send us that old hard drive.”

“How much is the hold?”

“Hmmmmm.  I’d don’t know.  Can you hold two minutes?  Thank you.”

(18 MINUTES LATER, cell phone against my ear; probably getting ear and brain cancer from the radiation.”

“Hello?  Hello?  Yes, sir, that hold on your credit card will be for $299.95.”

“Compaq man.   That’s almost more than I PAID for the laptop.  You’ll have to pry that credit card out of my cold, dead hand.”

"Well, we wouldn't want to haf ta' do that, ha. ha, now would we, Sir?  Didn't work for Charlton Heston."

WanderWoman and ‘Starting Over’

I write another blog...on a newspaper site.

And the site "posts" a photo that runs with all your entries. 

I started using the following photo as I.D. awhile back.  Not sure why.  It's nearly 40 years old....found in a box of photographs, rummaging through the closet recently. 

Bloggers started asking me questions about the photo.  Who’s the woman?  When was the photo taken? Am I wearing a Navy uniform? Why do we look so sad?, one asked. 

(Photo, San  Francisco airport. June of 1969. )

       Anne (woman in the photo) and I had been college sweethearts.  And I got leave from the Navy – before heading for Vietnam – to go back home to Kansas City for a few days, so Anne and I could get married.

Which we did.

Through Anne’s brother, who lived in the San Francisco Bay area, we’d arranged to rent an apartment in an old hillside house not far from Twin Peaks…and half a block up the street from where Janis Joplin lived and caroused.  (Which is another story).

Having almost no money, Anne and I could not afford a U-Haul type rental truck to drive and move from Kansas  City to San Francisco. 

So we gave furniture to relatives and most of our clothes, and packed up the remainder in about 8 large boxes; shipping them cheap as “excess baggage” on our flight to the West Coast.

This photo was taken by a passerby in the SF airport.  Shortly after the plane landed and we’d collected our 8 boxes of clothes, books, records, dishes, pots and pans.

If I look upset (which bloggers tell me I do), and we both look tired…for good reason.

For starters, the San Francisco airport was not a very "friendly" place for people wearing military uniforms in 1969.  Everyone under 30 who walked by made a point of giving us The Peace Sign. 

And here we were: in the airport.  

With all the boxes. 

Moving into an apartment. 

Only 5 days before I would leave for Vietnam. 

And the Car Rental Agency at the airport would not rent us a car because I did not possess “a major gas company credit card.”  (Other ones.  But not a major one.)

So we were wondering what in the hell to do, when this photo was taken.

After about 4 hours, one of the Car Rental Agency people, who got tired of us sitting in the nearby baggage claim area, took pity on us.  And rented us the car to transport all the stuff.

We made it to the apartment. I made it to my ship. 

Anne soon got a job in a medical laboratory.  And we had many good times over the next three years, in Japan, Hawaii and San Francisco,  when I was home on leave.

Returning to San Francisco from a final Tonkin Gulf deployment,  Anne meet me at the Naval Air Station Alameda pier when the aircraft carrier came in.

I got off the carrier.  Hugged her.  And she broke the news.

"Jim, we need to talk.  I want you to meet the love of my life," Anne said, gesturing to the young woman standing next to her.

All in all, a rather strange homecoming from the military service.

Anne and I soon divorced. 

She eventually moved back to Kansas City. 

And my career took me many places, eventually to Battle Creek.

But we would see each other for coffee, when I came to Kansas City to visit my parents.

In 2003,  I was in Kansas City to attend my Mom's funeral.  After the service and cemetery, I sat in my car on a bitterly cold morning; waiting for my car to warm and the drive back to Michigan.

Suddenly, Anne tapped my driver's side window.  And asked if we could talk for a few minutes.

We sat in the car and she explained that she'd "changed lifestyles" and that "perhaps we could start all over."

We had a nice chat.  But, I said it seemed a little late for starting over.....

In 2005, I tried to call Anne in Kansas City.  Her sister, Deborah, answered the phone. 

"Sorry, Jim. Anne died two days ago of breast cancer," Deborah said.

Playing for Change: 'Stand By Me'

Turn your speakers up, and enjoy. 

And the lyrics are true, aren't they?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Us-TVg40ExM

Merry Christmas everyone.

-- Jim

Ok.  All this doom and gloom stuff sucks.  

 Washington sucks.

Wall Street sucks.

 My last hair cut sucked.

 My bank account sucks. 

So, why not take a deep breath about Detroit's Big Three,  have a laugh, and move forward, I say?

For that laugh, watch this classic, "Loafing" by Abbott and Costello:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_TGQ7rGL-Q

And Listen to The Parodox of Choice, why our phone number has seven digits, and a reminder that having too much can sometimes be, too much. 

http://www.wnyc.org/shows/radiolab/episodes/2008/11/14/segments/113274

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

The past few weeks, I've been driving a friend's ancient Ford F-150 truck.

Its speedometer has rolled over the max mileage at least once; because if this four-wheel banger and belcher has only 16,000 miles on it, well, I'm Donald Trump's best buddy and heir apparent.

My friend is an Ironworker.  He's about 6'7....and you wouldn't want to fool with him.  Nice guy, or no nice guy.

His talents as an Ironworker, and all round handyman, are also evident with the truck.  He's welded patches, here and there, like a quilt across the truck's body -- giving it an electic, but also, 'don't screw with me' look.

So, here I am.... 5'6" on a good day, driving this big, semibad a*s truck.

Now the wife or girlfriend might pat you on the head or rub your shoulder, as you sit on the edge of the bed in the morning, and reflect "Oh, sweetie.  If it was good for you, it was good for me.  You know SIZE doesn't matter."

But let me tell you.

Truck size matters on the road.

And I like the feeling.

All the AngerManagement Class flunkees STAY out of the way, far away from F-150 BlackTruck. 

No turning in front of it or me. 

No honking when I sit thru a yellow light.

No tail gating when I go 35 in a 35 zone.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

I may be a truck guy, after all.

I’ve been lookin for a girlfriend….it’s been about five years.  So I was laying awake this morning and wondering about my situation. 

While it's been a pretty rocky time in my life,  today, I was thinking attributes,  positive.

I’m getting older, right?  Yes.   But I still have some hair.  Yes.  Not ugly. No. Not fat.  No. Enjoy life.  Yes. Like books, people, conversation. Yes.

Some would tell you I’m not exactly The Bachelor; and that my track record at The Altar has been…well nothing for the Kentucky Derby bookmakers

But this BCE blogpost isn’t about my girlfriend problem....well sort of.

It’s about my British cousin.  And about Warren Buffet’s sex life.

Bet you know the type of cousin I mean.  A bit stuffy.  Self satisfied.  Dislikes most things about your lifestyle.  Self assured. Well read, thorough and with a wicked sense of humor.

My British cousin is BBC World Radio Service.  We visit every night and all night (no girlfriend, remember?  J) from his Bush House home in London.

And this morning, as I lay awake at 4 a.m., he was rattling on about EVERYTHING and nothing…..as usual.

·         Science story about the possibilities of reversing genes to not only make us live longer; but actually be younger.  So, I’d still be 64, but have a body of a 32 year old…if I wanted one?   Hmmm…, I think, while they're at it,  could they adjust my younger body parts for me?  Make some bigger, some smaller?  "Ok, Doc., while you're adjusting my youth genes. I'd like four inches more there; and four inches less there.  And while you're at it, give me Kirk Douglas' chin."

·         Hard news coverage about how the “normal” financial relationships and contracting of capitalism are, permanently, broken.  No $700 billion bailout will do.  And we’re in store for a new social and economic paradigm.

·         Feature interview with a little girl in Nigeria who sold herself into prostitution in order to feed her parents and seven siblings.  Now that’s a thanksgiving story for America.

·         Long feature on the social impact of Narcoeconomics in Mexico

·         Story on legalization of heroin in Switzerland and its positive impact on crime.

·         Review of the Warren Buffett biography.  Buffett who is curious about everything and everyone, with concern about the human condition, reserved with his trust of others, who tells his kids to “go get a loan at a bank” when they want to borrow money from him; emotionally needy, and who has lived two separate distinct, simultaneous private lives with two women, in different cities.

I’m getting up.  Turning my cousin off.

Going to McDonald’s for coffee and a sausage biscuit. 

Want to come along?

I was driving near downtown after lunch yesterday, when I noticed St. Phil Catholic High School students putting out signs reading something like: "The Best Things In Life Aren't Things" Day.

Boy, if that isn't true.

The best things in life are family, friends, faith, community, commitment, loyalty, love, passing 'things' along and forward.

Yesterday, cereal maker Kellogg Company also announced it was going to spend $86 million (or so) to expand its corporate headquarters in our small town of Battle Creek, Michigan, USA; and to help with educational and downtown redevelopment needs.

The announcement brought out a legion of bloggers on our local newspaper’s website.

The same old tired suspects, with the same old tired complaints about corporate influence and control; loss of union jobs; small town Battle Creek generally.

It's hard for me to imagine how ANYONE could not be thankful and excited for Kellogg's decision.

It's not about corporate benefit.  Not even about downtown.

It's about a corporation STAYING in small town America; and making a commitment to the community's future.

The best things in life aren't things.

The best things in life are those that no one can take away from you, when life and times get rough.

So, right on, St. Phil students.

And, thank you, Kellogg.

Sometimes you get an early warning things

aren't gonna go so well.

Like the time I knew somehow that my twin brother

had fallen through a store's plate glass front window,

and was in serious condition in a far away hospital,

even though no one had told me yet.

I had that feeling when I woke up yesterday.

It was mostly a feeling about my favorite baseball

and college football teams.

On Friday, I'd tried to be positive, chatty with my son

and my friends, about the MSU Spartans,

Mizzo Tigers and Tampa Bay Rays.



But it didn't feel right.

And then Saturday morning, the nude fat lady shows up.

I was sitting at my computer terminal about 10 a.m,

bored, struggling to do Internet research for a client,

and spending more time just looking out

the window to the front yard.

When, about 3 feet before my eyes, this

Amazonian woman, about 6 ft, 300 pounds,

blocks out the sunlight from the window.

She is outside.

She knocks on my window.

She is nude.

I pick up my cell phone, dial 911 as

I open the front door, walk out, trying

to move us as far away from the door as possible.

(And I'm thinking to myself, 'Glad those

jelly rolls hide the merchandise.")

"Are you OK?," I ask the woman.

She mumbles something.

Turns, lumbers across Druid Street, and

into a house.

Two cop cars show up. Go in the house.

Leave 10 minutes later.

I think: "What did they do to help the lady?"

I go back to the computer

and the Internet research.

Thirty minutes later, the sun

disappears again.

SHE IS BACK at my window.

So, to shorten this story,

let me say this time 3 police cars;

two ambulances and a set of clothing

show up for the lady.

Which brings me to the subject of sports teams.

As strange as this may seem, I believe

the nude fat lady was trying to give

me some bad news about the Spartans,

Tigers and Rays' yesterday.

Because when she left, gloom set in.

I knew they were going to lose.

Just hope she doesn't come back this morning.

Tonight is game 7.

In 1961, my twin brother and I were attending a rich-kids Jesuit High School in Kansas City. (Not that we were rich.)

One of my brother’s buddies had been given a bright red Chevy Corvair by his parents.  I got to ride in it on occasion. 

A rather strange car, I later found out, with an engine in back, along with the spare tire – and a propensity to catch fire and kill passengers – profiled in Ralph Nader’s 1965 book: Unsafe At Any Speed.

Fast forward to about 1971....I was fresh out of the Navy...had a new p.r. job for a Kansas City community college.

And my boss told me to pick up Raph Nader at a downtown hotel for an evening campus speech on "Consumer Advocacy."

And rather oblivious to lots of things back then, I picked him up in a borrowed Chevy CORVAIR.

Two friends  --  students in the University of Missouri-Kansas City’s law school --  had successfully begged to ride along in the back seat – so they could meet and soak up a bit of Nader. (Not a word of warning from them.)

I remember pulling up to the downtown hotel entrance....Nader standing outside…waiting  for us.

And the  uncomfortable exchange.

  “I can’t ride in that car,” Nader yelled at me. “If the news media sees me, I’m crucified.”

I didn’t tell him he wasn’t Jesus. 

Just it was getting dark; raining, no cabs; no one would see him;  he’d travelled all this way; the campus crowd was waiting; and,  of course, that his speaking fee meant showing up.

So Nader swallowed his corvair foibles….and got in.

I think about Nader and that encounter.... almost every time I take the apartment trash out these days.

Next to the apt. trash dumpster, in Barney’s Brake Service's backyard, is this silent witness:

The end of the road for an old Corvair....weeds growing like a hothouse in the back seat – where the law school students were sitting in 1971. 

And the old, rusted Covair with broken windows seems to be  sinking into the mud and  ground ….like a casket  slowly lowered into the grave.

To think Ralph Nader is still making a run for the White House 37 years later.

At least now we all know he's not Jesus. 

For the past two evenings, PBS’s Travis Smiley has interviewed Sidney Poitier on a late night TV show.

What a wakeup.  What a brain treat.

Poitier continues to consciously defy racial stereotyping.

He's the first Black man to win the best actor Oscar and, in a 50-year-plus career, has starred in over 40 films, directed nine and written four. He's also a best-selling author of three autobiographies, including Life Beyond Measure.

Poitier came to the U.S. at age 15, from the Bahamas, and began his acting career with the American Negro Theatre. An activist and humanitarian, he has appointments as the Bahamas' ambassador to Japan and UNESCO.

Poitier is now 81.  His hair has thinned and grayed.  But his wonderful smile and hand mannerisms remain.  And his serious, thoughtful stare can still melt butter, or racists as Poitier did in “In The Heat of The Night” 41 years ago.

For a  balanced and revealing perspective on many topics, check out the transcript of the Poitier interviews at: http://www.pbs.org/kcet/tavissmiley/archive/200806/20080610_poitier.html

PostScript:  Volunteer Essex was right.  Yesterday (6/27) people wanting the food were lined up 90 minutes ahead of time.  Many had brought along plastic wash tubs -- several pulled out wire framed grocery carts from their car trunks -- to get their Food Bank items.  Watching the activity from my second-floor window, I also noticed that about 75 percent of the people were obese.  Poor people may get enough food, but it's the type that leads to overweight, diabetes, heart problems, high blood pressure. 

 --------

Looking  out my second-floor  window and  across W. Michigan Avenue this morning, I saw this gathering crowd in the Seventh-day Adventist Tabernacle parking lot.

As 10 a.m. approached , the crowd seemed to surge.  So I walked across the street.

Turns out the Tabernacle lot is one of 5 or 6 Food Bank distribution sites every Friday morning in summer months, scattered at locations across our little  city of Battle Creek, here in the American Midwest.

Tabernacle Volunteer Phyllis Essex predicted that future Fridays would see  more people, there to pick up perishable items, including fresh produce.

 "Oh, next Friday, people will be here waiting for us,  early in the morning," she predicted, "once folks know or remember about the sites and the food availability."

Caption: Three church volunteers help pass out perishable food in the Seventh-day Adventist parking lot this morning.  Back row, left to right, Phyllis Essex, William Minear, Rudy Hall.

People fill out a simple  form; list the number in their family.  No screening for income or need.  The presumption is those who show  have need for the food.

Why do Essex and the other Tabernacle volunteers spend  mornings handing out food to poor people, under the summer sun?

“Because if Jesus was on Earth today, he’d be right  here in the parking lot, handing out food with us,” Essex said.

If the world had only 100 people:

57 would be Asian.
21 would be European.
14 would be from the Western Hemisphere.
8 would be African.
52 would be female.
48 would be male.
70 would be nonwhite.
30 would be white.
70 would be non-Christian.
30 would be Christian.
89 would be heterosexual.
11 would be homosexual.
6 people would possess 59 percent of the entire world's wealth, and all
6 would be from the United States.
80 would live in substandard housing.
70 would be unable to read.
50 would suffer from malnutrition.
1 would be near death.
1 would be pregnant.
1 would have a college education.
1 would own a computer

The New Year has arrived in China. 

And from Shenzhen to Dalian, and all points in-between, the Chinese are taking a couple of weeks off; many journeying by train  and bus to their home towns, pockets filled with Yuan from their construction jobs in Shanghai or Beijing, and their arms, backs and pull carts burdened down with everything from bottles of antibiotics (not available in rural areas) to flat screen TVs and  packages of mooncakes.

This is the year of “The Pig.”

But during these two weeks of New Year celebration, the Big Shots in Beijing have banned  pig photos or illustrations on the national CCT-TV network, newspapers, and displays by Starbucks, McDonalds and Wal-Mart.

Seems the Chinese – rather suddenly – have become politically correct and sensitive to religious diversity.

There are about 20 million Muslim Chinese  – about 3 percent of China’s population.  And – here’s the punch line – Muslims consider pigs unclean.  They're not alone in that religious view; but much more -- shall I use the operative word -- f-a-n-a-t-i-cal -- about it.

They detest pigs. They don’t eat pigs.  The only good pig is no pig.

Of course, don’t tell that to most Chinese.  800 million or so rural Chinese consider pigs part of the family – they live right outside the front door of the family home.  The smell and sounds of pig life are an everpresent and reassuring part of the family dinner menu and atmosphere. China slaughters more than 400 million pigs a year --it's the biggest pork producer in the world. (Pigs represent honesty and virility to most Chinese.  To bear a child in The Year of the Pig is considered good fortune.)

What’s a bit perplexing about all this is that the Beijing bureaucrats right up through the 1990s, persecuted Chinese Muslims – fearing their religious and separatist tendencies.

While living in China for three years, I also heard stories about how Chinese would kill their sick pigs and then stuff them down the water wells of their Muslim Chinese neighbors.  And how Chinese restaurants would be sure to put pork in Muslim Chinese’s food.

All of this, of course, has nothing to do with China’s voracious appetite for another staple – OIL.

Believe that?

In a pig’s eye.

Yesterday, C-Span televised dedication of the new U.S. Marine Corps Musuem in Quantico, VA.

The highlight was what PBS Newsman Jim Lehrer had to say.

Lehrer is a Marine.

And he shared what he'd learned from service in ‘The Corps’ during the 1950s.

About honor.

About courage.

And that we are only as strong as the person on our left; and on our right.

The mortality rate in Iraq is twice that for Marines as other soldiers.

And it’s been that way since founding of the Corps 231 years ago.

To read Lehrer’s Marine Corps Museum comments, go to: http://www.pbs.org/newshour/

Scroll down.  His comments are on the left side of the page.

Did you catch Michigan Governor Jennifer Granholm and her challenger Dick DeVos debate on TV the other night?

Two dedicated, civic-minded people.  Going for a job that can only bring them a lot of sleepless nights and grief in this troubled Midwestern state of ours over the next four years.

I watched them and thought: ‘Boy, couldn’t get me up in the TV lights like that!’

The cameras peeled back their veneer.  Showed whether they were comfortable, confidant and quick witted.

We soon ignored DeVos’ corporate image.  The French cufflinks. Starched white shirt, dark tie.

Granholm’s  modelish, personable style frayed a bit at times.

At the end, I  wondered if DeVos was smart -- and humane--  enough for the job.

And why Granholm hadn’t gotten more done in the past four years.

Not a great debate.  Not a clear winner.  Or loser.

They'll be together before the lights one more time.

Let’s see who has the best ideas for Michigan’s future.

Autumn is my favorite time. Bright color of the leaves. Chill in the air. The innocent enthusiasm of college football. Halloween fun.

But it’s also a bittersweet season.
 
Each year, as red leaves turn to yellow, fade and fall, I’m reminded of the story about the little girl, losing her Mother to a rapidly advancing and incurable disease.
 
The doctor, and the little girl’s father, try to prepare the child for the loss.
 
“When will my Mommy die?” the child asks the doctor, who replies: “When the leaves begin to fall.”
 
Six months later, in mid-October, the father looks out the window of their home. 

There, in the front yard, is the little girl, trying to paste fallen leaves back on the Maple tree.
 
Of course, we can’t paste leaves back on a tree. Any more than avoid death of those we love.
 
Still, at the end, we have our memories to cherish.
 
Dad shining his shoes Sunday night in preparation for the work week.
 
My tiny, Irish mother doing the family wash by hand – with crooked arms broken in childhood.
 
Yes, I remember.

When autumn leaves begin to fall.

Jim Richmond with his mother at McNamara Family gravesite in Atchison, Kansas, USA,  shortly before her death in 2003.

The University of Michigan has announced plans for a $260 million expansion of the Michigan Football Stadium, affectionately known by alumni and supporters as “The Big House.”

It's Big.  The largest American-style football stadium in the world, seating about 111,000 for Saturday games.

It was built in 1927 at a cost of $950,000 and with footings to handle expansion to 150,000 seats on game day.

But more seats (at least cheaper ones) are not part of the University’s current Stadium  expansion plans.

The University will spend much of that $260 million, according to news reports, to build  private Stadium suites – which will be rented or sold to wealthy football patrons and corporations.

A group of University of Michigan alumni objected; suggesting the money build more and cheaper stadium seats. Too late, the U-M Board of Regents told the alumni group.

The last thing they'd want is 50,000 more screamin' Michigan fans in The Big House on Saturday.

“Hello, Jimmy,” the frail old woman in a bathrobe, said from her wheelchair, reaching out to accept the flowers I’d brought her.

 It was a visiting room at a retirement home for Catholic nuns in St. Louis. About 12 years or so ago.

I’d called ahead to arrange the visit, with my former kindergarten and 4^th grade teacher.

Sister Antonita Maria looked so different.  It had been nearly 40 years since I’d seen her at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School in Kansas City.

In those days, she'd  worn the long black, wool “nun’s habit” with starched collar that hid everything but the face.

Sister Antonita Maria had a  natural smile, a generous attitude, and lovely singing voice.

She must have been fairly young when she taught me, my equally unruly twin brother Johnny, and others in the 4^th grade.

One day during the middle of class, she suddenly got up from her desk, rushed out and slammed the classroom door behind her.

I tipped toed to peek out the door. Sister Antonita Marie was standing in the school hallway – sobbing.

She was usually composed and cheerful. For some reason she did not elicit the moderate fear we had of the nuns’ discipline. Perhaps she didn’t carry the wooden ruler, like others, making the rounds between desk rows at test taking time.

The nuns wore a large crucifix and Rosary beads on their habits. We would listen for the sound of clicking beads approaching from behind us.

It was the 1950s. The St. Joseph order of nuns led a restrictive lifestyle. And they had to travel  in “twos” whenever they went outside the convent, school and church area.

My Mom would call the convent some Saturdays with an invitation.  ‘Would Sisters like to take a Sunday ride and stop for ice cream?’

If the answer was “yes,” my Dad would spend Saturday afternoon washing and waxing our 1948 Plymouth in preparation for the next day’s outing. It was considered an honor to have the Parish Priest or the Sisters in your home -- or your car.

And here, five decades later was Sister Antonita Maria  – perhaps in her late 70s,  and in a retirement home.

She’d had diabetes, with one leg amputated, and sat uncomfortably in the wheelchair.

“How is Johnny? Do you two get along any better?,” she asked with a bit of a smile.

Driving on to Michigan and home after the visit, I wondered if Sister Antonita could have recalled  such details about two little boys,  among the thousands she taught during her career.

There was nothing special  about the Richmond boys..

The “Sisters” were special --  for those of  us growing up Catholic in the 1950s.

 Tom Liston still has his “glory days.”

Not the glory days of high school in 1962, when he was the De La Salle Academy’s star basketball center, baseball pitcher and the tight end who  caught the winning touchdown against  arch rival Rockhurst High School in the waning minutes of the senior-year  game. And could date almost any girl in Kansas City.

 Not his  later glory days of national news media attention and  big money contracts as a professional baseball player with the St. Louis Cardinals and other teams.

.

In 1961, my brother Johnny, and I were kicked out of Rockhurst High School in Kansas City at the end of our junior year.

The Jesuit order of priests ran Rockhurst -- an order admired  and reviled over centuries for its love of the intellect, power, politics and world missionary work.

As with most things, the Jesuits  were matter of fact about our  departure from Rockhurst High School.  We were gone, they told our distraught mother, because of marginal academic performance. ( I still think  we also didn’t quite fit the preppy “Jesuit” persona as two Irish kids from an inner city parish.)

It wasn't  easy changing high schools at the end of the  junior year. But we were accepted at  De La Salle Academy, a Christian Brothers school with a good reputation, and a diverse student body.

We  were welcomed by the Christian Brothers, and by members of the 1962 De La Salle Senior Class as if we’d been there all four years.

And 'class big shot' Tom Liston -- with every reason to ignore us -- did just the opposite. He went out of his way to be friendly and helpful in a low key way.

From C-minus students at Rockhurst, the Richmond brothers graduated with honors at De La Salle Academy in 1962.

Last week, Johnny (now a successful hospital president)  went back to the 44^th reunion of our DeLa Salle graduating class.  There were about eight there  who’d graduated in our class.

Among them was a different Tom Liston – someone my brother did not at first recognize, and who candidly talked about  his life of alcoholism and drug addiction after the glory days of national television and major league baseball  ended in his late 20s.

 Liston had recently moved back to his old St. James Parish home  in Kansas City.

“If you saw him on the street, you’d probably think he was  homeless,” my brother wrote sadly to me in an email today -- Liston's  once impressive 6’-5” frame evidently bent over, his handsome, chiseled good looks of high school no where to be found  in a prematurely aged  face.

Talent, fame and fortune can be wonderful gifts, or difficult  burdens  over  a lifetime.

I choose  to remember the Tom Liston who never let athletics or popularity get in the way of being a thoughtful, nice  human being.

I bet, if you  think about it, there're a few Tom Listons in your own lifetime.

----

* Name Changed

Following shared by a friend.

>What is the difference between a Harley and a Hoover ?

>The position of the dirt bag

>

>Why is divorce so expensive?

>Because it's worth it.

>

>Why is air a lot like sex?

>Because it's no big deal unless you're not getting any

>

>What do you call a smart blonde?

>A golden retriever.

>

>What do attorneys use for birth control?

>Their personalities.

>

>What's the difference between a girlfriend and wife?

>45 lbs

>

>What's the difference between a boyfriend and husband?

>45 minutes

>

>What's the fastest way to a man's heart?

>Through his chest with a sharp knife.

>

>Why do men want to marry virgins?

>They can't stand criticism.

>

>What's the difference between a new husband and a new dog?

>After a year, the dog is still excited to see you

>

>What makes men chase women they have no intention of marrying?

>The same urge that makes dogs chase cars they have no intention of

driving.

>

>What's the difference between a porcupine and BMW?

>A porcupine has the pricks on the outside.

>

>What did the blonde say when she found out she was pregnant?

>"Are you sure it's mine?"

>

>Why does Mike Tyson cry during sex?

>Mace will do that to you.

>

>Why do men find it difficult to make eye contact?

>Breasts don't have eyes.

>

>Why do drivers' education classes in Redneck schools use the car only on Mondays,

Wednesdays and Fridays?

>Because on Tuesday and Thursday, the Sex Ed class uses it.

>

>Where does an Irish family go on vacation?

>A different bar.

>

>What would you call it when an Italian has one arm shorter than the other?

>A speech impediment.

>

>What does it mean when the flag at the Post Office is flying at half-mast?

>They're hiring.

>

>What's the difference between a southern zoo and a northern zoo?

>A southern zoo has a description of the animal on the front of the cage along with... "a recipe."

>

>How do you get a sweet little 80-year-old lady to say the F word?

>Get another sweet little 80-year-old lady to yell *BINGO*!

>

>What's the difference between a northern fairytale and a southern fairytale?

>A northern fairytale begins "Once upon a time..."

>A southern fairytale begins "Y'all ain't gonna believe this s....t"

>

>Why is there no Disneyland in China ?

>No one's tall enough to go on the good rides

It was Thursday, April 15, 1982.  Along with about 250 others, I'd  just finished lunch at the White House. It was the annual Volunteer Action Awards, hosted by President and Mrs. Reagan.

What I've remembered most about the luncheon was not the menu, the Marines marching in The Colors, or even meeting the President.

It was what I overheard as we filed out the front door of the White House after the luncheon. 

This attractive, matronly (even back then) woman with bright white, bouffant-style hair was at the door.  It was the Vice President's wife -- Barbara Bush.

As we walked by, she half-whispered  to a minion:  "Just keep them moving!"

So today, I wasn't too surprised to read what Mrs. Bush had to say on visiting the hurricane refugees in the Houston Astrodome.

"What I'm hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality," Mrs. Bush  said.  "And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them."

*Just keep them moving.

------------

* Complicated problem. Three months later, New Orleans evacutees had been implicated in 19 Houston homicides. 

>

"You little shit. Where've you been the last three days?"

I was always a bit surpised at the colorful language.  My devout Irish Catholic Mother would normally no more curse than miss Sunday Mass. Except when her children did not call or drop by.

Her family was her life  – a stay-at-home mom and wife, the type common to, and under appreciated in the ‘50s and ‘60s.

As she grew older, and my Dad died, she waited by the telephone for her three children – all living across the U.S. – to call.

We did not fully appreciate how much her universe, her life, was shrinking as we moved pell  mell into our own  middle adulthood.

She kept scrapbooks on each child, photographs, newspaper clippings, and  school report cards – some that made The Richmond Twins look like The Class Clowns...or worse..

We would smile and glance at each other when Mom  pulled out this box of memories.

Today, I understand her love and intensity. I feel it for my own grown sons..

Each telephone chat has value..

Yesterday, I visited my oldest son and his family. They’ve bought their first home, and are busy  removing old wallpaper, replacing toilets, and juggling  a two-career family.

We ate sub sandwiches on a card table in the dining room.

Driving home on ice slick highways, I realized my son and I had “connected” most in recalling shared memories and friends.

Time and attention are the greatest  gifts.

.

. 

Harry Chapin captured that in his 1970s lament,

  … My son turned ten just the other day.
He said, "Thanks for the ball, dad, come on let's play.
Can you teach me to throw?" I said, "Not today,
I got a lot to do."

… I've long since retired and my son's moved away.
I called him up just the other day.
I said, "I'd like to see you if you don't mind."
He said, "I'd love to, dad, if I could find the time.
You see, my new job's a hassle, and the kid's got the flu,
But it's sure nice talking to you, dad.
It's been sure nice talking to you."

Grandma Richmond, Josh and Scott, '80s