New UT-Dallas grad: Congratulations, Kenny!

December 22, 2009

Cue the show tune, “Sunrise, Sunset.”  Quickly go the years indeed.

For the second time in our lives, elder son Kenny and I experienced a university graduation ceremony together.  This time he wore the gown, and I was the one who didn’t cry and disturb the audience.

Kenny got his diploma in neuroscience from the University of Texas at Dallas Saturday.

Here’s an almost-decent photo I got as he flew across the stage:

Kenny Darrell, Graduation at UT-Dallas 12-19-2009

Kenny Darrell speeds to get his diploma, UT-Dallas, December 19, 2009; photo copyright Ed Darrell

At the bottom of the photo you can see a fellow in a UT-D green t-shirt — the official photographer of the day.  Kenny’s elation showed so well, the photo that guy got turned up on UT-D’s website (photo #11 in the series).

[Update] Here’s the “official” photo of Kenny with UT-D’s President David Daniel.

UT-Dallas photo of 12-2009 graduation - Kenny Darrell pictured

UT-D President David Daniel shakes the hand of 2009 graduate Kenny Darrell

Some time in his high school days Kenny got the idea that he’s responsible for his own education.  At UT-D he took control of his time and learning.  His graduation is his own doing.

Congratulations, Kenny.  I have it on good authority your parents are beaming.

Nice cap to the year.

Kenny Darrell at graduation from UT-D, 12-19-2009

Kenny Darrell, graduate from UT-Dallas, December 19, 2009


Who invented Santa Claus? Who really wrote the “Night Before Christmas?”

December 7, 2009

An encore post from 2007

Thomas Nast invented Santa Claus? Clement C. Moore didn’t write the famous poem that starts out, “‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house . . . ?”

The murky waters of history from Millard Fillmore’s Bathtub soak even our most cherished ideas and traditions.

But isn’t that part of the fun of history?

Santa Claus delivers to Union soldiers, "Santa Claus in Camp" - Thomas Nast, Harper's Weekly, Jan 3, 1863
Thomas Nast’s first published drawing featuring Santa Claus; for Harper’s Weekly, “A Journal of Civilization,” January 3, 1863 Nast portrayed the elf distributing packages to Union troops: “Santa Claus in camp.” Nast (1840-1904) was 23 when he drew this image.

Yes, Virginia (and California, too)! Thomas Nast created the image of Santa Claus most of us in the U.S. know today. Perhaps even more significant than his campaign against the graft of Boss Tweed, Nast’s popularization of a fat, jolly elf who delivers good things to people for Christmas makes one of the great stories in commercial illustration. Nast’s cartoons, mostly for the popular news publication Harper’s Weekly, created many of the conventions of modern political cartooning and modeled the way in which an illustrator could campaign for good, with his campaign against the graft of Tammany Hall and Tweed. But Nast’s popular vision of Santa Claus can be said to be the foundation for the modern mercantile flurry around Christmas.

Nast is probably ensconced in a cartoonists’ hall of fame. Perhaps he should be in a business or sales hall of fame, too.  [See also Bill Casselman’s page, “The Man Who Designed Santa Claus.]

Nast’s drawings probably drew some inspiration from the poem, “Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas,” traditionally attributed to Clement C. Moore, a New York City lawyer, published in 1822. The poem is among the earliest to describe the elf dressed in fur, and magically coming down a chimney to leave toys for children; the poem invented the reindeer-pulled sleigh.

Modern analysis suggests the poem was not the work of Moore, and many critics and historians now attribute it to Major Henry Livingston, Jr. (1748-1828) following sleuthing by Vassar College Prof. Don Foster in 2000. Fortunately for us, we do not need to be partisans in such a query to enjoy the poem (a complete copy of which is below the fold).

The Library of Congress still gives Moore the credit. When disputes arise over who wrote about the night before Christmas, is it any wonder more controversial topics produce bigger and louder disputes among historians?

Moore was not known for being a poet. The popular story is that he wrote it on the spur of the moment:

Moore is thought to have composed the tale, now popularly known as “The Night Before Christmas,” on December 24, 1822, while traveling home from Greenwich Village, where he had bought a turkey for his family’s Christmas dinner.

Inspired by the plump, bearded Dutchman who took him by sleigh on his errand through the snow-covered streets of New York City, Moore penned A Visit from St. Nicholas for the amusement of his six children, with whom he shared the poem that evening. His vision of St. Nicholas draws upon Dutch-American and Norwegian traditions of a magical, gift-giving figure who appears at Christmas time, as well as the German legend of a visitor who enters homes through chimneys.

Again from the Library of Congress, we get information that suggests that Moore was a minor celebrity from a well-known family with historical ties that would make a good “connections” exercise in a high school history class, perhaps (”the link from Aaron Burr’s treason to Santa Claus?”): (read more, below the fold)

Clement Moore was born in 1779 into a prominent New York family. His father, Benjamin Moore, president of Columbia University, in his role as Episcopal Bishop of New York participated in the inauguration of George Washington as the nation’s first president. The elder Moore also administered last rites to Alexander Hamilton after he was mortally wounded in a tragic duel with Aaron Burr.

A graduate of Columbia, Clement Moore was a scholar of Hebrew and a professor of Oriental and Greek literature at the General Theological Seminary in Manhattan. [See comment from Pam Bumsted below for more on Moore.] He is said to have been embarrassed by the light-hearted verse, which was made public without his knowledge in December 1823. Moore did not publish it under his name until 1844.

Tonight, American children will be tucked in under their blankets and quilts and read this beloved poem as a last “sugarplum” before slipping into dreamland. Before they drift off, treat them to a message from Santa, recorded by the Thomas Edison Company in 1922.

Santa Claus Hides in Your Phonograph
By Arthur A. Penn, Performed by Harry E. Humphrey.
Edison, 1922.
Coupling date: 6/20/1922. Cutout date: 10/31/1929.
Inventing Entertainment: The Motion Pictures and Sound Recordings of the Edison Companies

Listen to this recording (RealAudio Format)

Listen to this recording (wav Format, 8,471 Kb)

But Henry Livingston was no less noble or historic. He hailed from the Livingtons of the Hudson Valley (one of whose farms is now occupied by Camp Rising Sun of the Louis August Jonas Foundation, a place where I spent four amazing summers teaching swimming and lifesaving). Livingston’s biography at the University of Toronto site offers another path for a connections exercise (”What connects the Declaration of Independence, the American invasion of Canada, the famous poem about a visit from St. Nick, and George W. Bush?”):

Henry Livingston Jr. was born in Poughkeepsie, New York, on Oct. 13, 1748. The Livingston family was one of the important colonial and revolutionary families of New York. The Poughkeepsie branch, descended from Gilbert, the youngest son of Robert Livingston, 1st Lord of Livingston Manor, was not as well off as the more well-known branches, descended from sons Robert and Philip. Two other descendants of Gilbert Livingston, President George Walker Herbert Bush and his son, President-Elect George W. Bush, though, have done their share to bring attention to this line. Henry’s brother, Rev. John Henry Livingston, entered Yale at the age of 12, and was able to unite the Dutch and American branches of the Dutch Reformed Church. At the time of his death, Rev. Livingston was president of Rutgers University. Henry’s father and brother Gilbert were involved in New York politics, and Henry’s granduncle was New York’s first Lt. Governor. But the law was the natural home for many of Henry’s family. His brother-in-law, Judge Jonas Platt, was an unsuccessful candidate for governor, as was his daughter Elizabeth’s husband, U.S. Supreme Court Justice Smith Thompson. Henry’s grandson, Sidney Breese, was Chief Justice of the Illinois Supreme Court.

Known for his encyclopedic knowledge and his love of literature, Henry Livingston was a farmer, surveyor and Justice of the Peace, a judicial position dealing with financially limited criminal and civil cases. One of the first New Yorkers to enlist in the Revolutionary Army in 1775, Major Henry Livingston accompanied his cousin’s husband, General Montgomery, in his campaign up the Hudson River to invade Canada, leaving behind his new wife, Sarah Welles, and their week-old baby, on his Poughkeepsie property, Locust Grove. Baby Catherine was the subject of the first poem currently known by Major Livingston. Following this campaign, Livingston was involved in the War as a Commissioner of Sequestration, appropriating lands owned by British loyalists and selling them for the revolutionary cause. It was in the period following Sarah’s early death in 1783, that Major Livingston published most of his poems and prose, anonymously or under the pseudonym of R. Ten years after the death of Sarah, Henry married Jane Patterson, the daughter of a Dutchess County politician and sister of his next-door neighbor. Between both wives, Henry fathered twelve children. He published his good-natured, often occasional verse from 1787 in many journals, including Political Barometer, Poughkeepsie Journal, and New-York Magazine. His most famous poem, “Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas,” was until 2000 thought to have been the work of Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863), who published it with his collected poems in 1844. Livingston died Feb. 29, 1828.

More on Henry Livingston and his authorship of the Christmas poem here.

Thomas Nast, Merry Old Santa Claus, Harper's Weekly, Jan 1, 1881

Our views of Santa Claus owe a great deal also to the Coca-Cola advertising campaign. Coca-Cola first noted Santa’s use of the drink in a 1922 campaign to suggest Coke was a year-round drink (100 years after the publication of Livingston’s poem). The company’s on-line archives gives details:

In 1930, artist Fred Mizen painted a department store Santa in a crowd drinking a bottle of Coke. The ad featured the world’s largest soda fountain, which was located in the department store of Famous Barr Co. in St. Louis, Mo. Mizen’s painting was used in print ads that Christmas season, appearing in The Saturday Evening Post in December 1930.

1936 Coca-Cola Santa cardboard store display

  • 1936 Coca-Cola Santa cardboard store display

Archie Lee, the D’Arcy Advertising Agency executive working with The Coca-Cola Company, wanted the next campaign to show a wholesome Santa as both realistic and symbolic. In 1931, The Coca-Cola Company commissioned Michigan-born illustrator Haddon Sundblom to develop advertising images using Santa Claus — showing Santa himself, not a man dressed as Santa, as Mizen’s work had portrayed him.
1942 original oil painting - 'They Remembered Me'

  • 1942 original oil painting – ‘They Remembered Me’

For inspiration, Sundblom turned to Clement Clark Moore’s 1822 poem “A Visit From St. Nicholas” (commonly called “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas”). Moore’s description of St. Nick led to an image of Santa that was warm, friendly, pleasantly plump and human. For the next 33 years, Sundblom painted portraits of Santa that helped to create the modern image of Santa — an interpretation that today lives on in the minds of people of all ages, all over the world.

Santa Claus is a controversial figure. Debates still rage among parents about the wisdom of allowing the elf into the family’s home, and under what conditions. Theologians worry that the celebration of Christmas is diluted by the imagery. Other faiths worry that the secular, cultural impact of Santa Claus damages their own faiths (few other faiths have such a popular figure, and even atheists generally give gifts and participate in Christmas rituals such as putting up a decorated tree).

For over 100 years, Santa Claus has been a popular part of commercial, cultural and religious life in America. Has any other icon endured so long, or so well?

________________________
Below:
From the University of Toronto Library’s Representative Poetry Online

Major Henry Livingston, Jr. (1748-1828)

Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas

1 ‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the house,
2 Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
3 The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
4 In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
5 The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
6 While visions of sugar plums danc’d in their heads,
7 And Mama in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
8 Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap –
9 When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
10 I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
11 Away to the window I flew like a flash,
12 Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
13 The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
14 Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below;
15 When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
16 But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,
17 With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
18 I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
19 More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
20 And he whistled, and shouted, and call’d them by name:
21 “Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer, and Vixen,
22 “On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixem;
23 “To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
24 “Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
25 As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,
26 When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
27 So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
28 With the sleigh full of Toys — and St. Nicholas too:
29 And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
30 The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
31 As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
32 Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound:
33 He was dress’d all in fur, from his head to his foot,
34 And his clothes were all tarnish’d with ashes and soot;
35 A bundle of toys was flung on his back,
36 And he look’d like a peddler just opening his pack:
37 His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry,
38 His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
39 His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow.
40 And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
41 The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
42 And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
43 He had a broad face, and a little round belly
44 That shook when he laugh’d, like a bowl full of jelly:
45 He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
46 And I laugh’d when I saw him in spite of myself;
47 A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
48 Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
49 He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
50 And fill’d all the stockings; then turn’d with a jerk,
51 And laying his finger aside of his nose
52 And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
53 He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
54 And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:
55 But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight –
56 Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Online text copyright © 2005, Ian Lancashire for the Department of English, University of Toronto. Published by the Web Development Group, Information Technology Services, University of Toronto Libraries. Be sure to visit this site for more information on this poem, on Maj. Livingston, and on poetry in general.


2009 winners of the Rachel Carson “Sense of Wonder” arts contest

October 30, 2009

You can view, and read, the winners of the 2009 Rachel Carson Sense of Wonder contest at the website of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA).

Bee on a passion vine flower - 2nd place photo, Rachel Carson Sense of Wonder contest, 2009 - by Patricia, age 70, Peggy, age 47, Maggi, age 16 - via EPA

Bee on a passion vine flower – 2nd place photo, Rachel Carson Sense of Wonder contest, 2009 – by Patricia, age 70, Peggy, age 47, Maggi, age 16

Rachel Carson Sense of Wonder 2009 contest winners

EPA’s Aging Initiative, Generations United, the Rachel Carson Council, Inc. and the Dance Exchange, Inc. are pleased to present the winners for the

Rachel Carson Sense of Wonder project logo, EPA

Rachel Carson Sense of Wonder project logo, EPA

third annual intergenerational photo, dance, essay and poetry Sense of Wonder contest. All entries were created by an intergenerational team.

The categories are Photography, Essay, Poetry, Mixed (Photo, Essay and Poetry) and Dance.

Drop over to EPA’s site and look, and read.

2010 contest rules are already up.  You can get the entry form there, too.  Links to the 2008 and 2007 winners and finalists also reside there.

This photo caught me a bit off guard, bringing back wonderful memories.

Gina, age 36, Bill, age 64, Christian, age 1 - 3rd place photo, 2009 Rachel Carson Sense of Wonder art contest - EPA

Bill and Christian explore outdoors, photographed by Gina – Gina, age 36, Bill, age 64, Christian, age 1 – 3rd place photo, 2009 Rachel Carson Sense of Wonder art contest – EPA

Gina, the photographer, described the photo:

My father has been a good role model to me as I grew up with plenty of time outdoors. The red plaid shirt became a sort of symbol, and it was an honor to get a matching shirt myself when I was in college. Now, at just one year old, my son is continuing the tradition of wearing the red and black shirt outdoors. It was fun to photograph the two together in our rural wooded backyard, and helped illustrate that my father can continue to pass along his sense of wonder and love of the outdoors to my son, his first grandchild.

My father, Paul Darrell, wore an old jacket for my entire life — a once-fuzzy buffalo plaid red-and-black woolen jacket.  No one in the family can remember a time he didn’t have it.  The jacket was probably at least 30 years old when I was born.  He wore it when it was bitter cold — one story was that when it was well below zero one wintry morning in Burley, Idaho, it was the only coat he wore to walk to his furniture and appliance store to make sure the pipes hadn’t frozen, a walk of about a mile each way.  It was too cold to start the car.

After he moved to Utah it was his usual gardening and yard-work coat on cold mornings.  I know he took it on a few campouts with my Scout troop, and I’ll wager it went along on camping trips with my older brothers and sister 20 years before that.  I remember my father sitting warm in that jacket on cold mornings around the campfire.

We had a peach tree in the back yard in Pleasant Grove, Utah.  Frosts would come on those mountain slopes when the peaches were just ripened.  I have memories of my father picking peaches in the jacket.  He’d slice the peaches for our breakfast.  No peach has ever been sweeter or more flavorful (but I keep searching).  I remember my father in his buffalo plaid jacket, his arms full of ripe, cold peaches, coming through the kitchen door, and the smile on his face.

The red buffalo plaid coat was so much a symbol of my father that, at his death in 1988, it was one of those objects we nearly fought over.  My niece Tamara ended up with it.

I have one, now.  It’s a good L. L. Bean version, with the wool much thicker than my father’s well-worn version.  After 20 years it still looks new, compared to his.  I suspect it always will.  It could never be warmer than his.

Special tip of the old scrub brush to Dr. Pamela Bumsted.


When is a kid “grown up?”

October 14, 2009

Sometime commenter “Cassie” asks poignantly on her blog, Relaxed Politics: How do you know when  you’re grown up?

. . . I am asking because I will be 18 in a few weeks and everything in my life is changing. It seems like graduating from high school is the least of the changes, and the one I am most ready for.

The biggest change may be that I will be allowed to use my last name and my real photo on facebook, if I want, instead of the silly silhouettes I’ve been using for three years.

No, that’s just the change I am enjoying considering, even though I hate my senior portrait and will probably have it re-done.

There’s more at Cassie’s blog — click over there, you will be grateful.  I have more than 150 students this semester who ask the same question.  Got advice?

Cassie has more reason than most kids to ask, but I’ll wager that the answers are similar regardless the kid’s situation.


Best burger in the nation

September 6, 2009

Sophia Dembling wrote about it in today’s Dallas Morning News:  The Owl Burger, from the Owl Café — this one in San Antonio, New Mexico.

It’s the best burger in the world, I think.  It reminds me, and it’s a painful memory.

Back in better younger days, before I’d left American Airlines, Kathryn and I made one last run to Salt Lake City to retrieve the last of the stuff in storage.  It was a motley combination of stuff, mostly hers, that we couldn’t fit into our apartments on Capitol Hill in Washington, and then that we just didn’t need during law school.  The monthly storage bill finally got to be a burr after we’d settled in Dallas, and we had room for the stuff in the house.

We gave the kids a vacation with Grandma and Grandpa, flew to Salt Lake, rented a much-too-large truck (the smaller one we reserved wasn’t in), loaded up and headed out.

A drive from Salt Lake to Dallas can be dull as dishwater, but we worked to add some spice.  “Adventure in Moving,” the old U-Haul slogan ran — and one usually works to avoid such adventures at all costs.  But this was different.  This was planned adventure.  We took the Xtreme Scenic Route™, through Southwestern landscapes that squeeze the creationism out of the most fundamentalist Christians.

The first night we camped in Torrey, Utah, at the edge of Capitol Reef National Park.  Someone recommended a local Mexican restaurant in an old farmhouse, a place that was really top notch, as demonstrated by the autographed photo in thanks from Robert Redford behind the cash register.  Redford knows almost all of the great places to eat, and stop and look, in Utah and much of the Four Corners area (ask me about Redford and Dick Cavett in Farmington, New Mexico, sometime).  Great dinner in a great place.

(Can I remember the name of the restaurant more than 20 years later?  Not at all.  I could drive to it . . . if it’s still there.  Perhaps this is its successor.  If so, it’s gotten a lot fancier, and to me, less charming.  You don’t expect such fine dining in such a small town.)

Coyotes started to howl about 2:00 a.m.  We hadn’t bothered to pitch a tent, the weather being what it almost always is in Utah in the summer.  I don’t know how long I sat up, looked at the stars and listened to the coyotes all around the canyon, next to Kathryn as she slept.  It was one of those nights you remember for the rest of your life.

Coyotes sang til dawn.

Capitol Reef N.P. demands more than one night’s stay — we had both been there before, though, and our task was moving furniture.   From Torrey we drove through Capitol Reef and on to the Moqui Dugway, about an 1,100-foot drop down off the Mogollon Rim, on the way to Monument Valley.

Moqui Dugway, from the rim -- see the road at the bottom, in the middle of the picture

Moqui Dugway, from the rim — see the road at the bottom, in the middle of the picture.  The sign reads “Mokee Dugway Elev. 6,425 Ft. – 1,100 Ft Drop Next 3 Miles”

Remember, this was a big truck.  It was over 20 feet long, but just how much over I don’t remember.  I do remember that when we stopped at the overlook at the top, some guy on a Harley came over to ask if we were going to “try to drive down,” and when we said yes, he said he was betting we would make it, and he had some good money riding on it.  He wished us luck.

A note in the visitor center at Natural Bridges National Monument explains, now:

MOKEE (MOKI, MOQUI) DUGWAY

SAN JUAN COUNTY, UT.

The Mokee Dugway is located on Utah Route 261 just north of Mexican Hat, UT. It was constructed in 1958 by Texas Zinc, a mining company, to transport uranium ore from the “Happy Jack” mine in Fry Canyon, UT. to the processing mill in Mexican Hat. The three miles of unpaved, but well graded, switchbacks descend 1100 feet from the top of Cedar Mesa (on which you are now standing). The State of Utah recommends that only vehicles less than 28 feet in length and 10,000 pounds in weight attempt to negotiate this steep (10% grade), narrow and winding road.

Here’s the Moqui Dugway (or Moki, depending on how much paint the sign maker has):

The Moqui Dugway -- no place for too-big trucks, or trailers - photo from Craig Holl at Midwestroads.com

The Moqui Dugway — no place for too-big trucks, or trailers – photo from Craig Holl at Midwestroads.com

We waited until there was no traffic coming from the bottom for several miles, and started down.  About six switchbacks down we encountered a long, crew-cabbed duelly pickup towing about a 30-foot cabin cruiser boat.  Fortunately we found a wide spot so he could get by, though it took him what seemed like a half-hour to make one turn in the road, and I swear he had wheels spinning in air at one point.

If the motorcycleman did indeed wager on us, he won.

The Mittens, sandstone formations in Monument Valley, Navajoland - Wikipedia image

The Mittens, sandstone formations in Monument Valley, Navajoland – Wikipedia image

We camped again at the Monument Valley Tribal Park, on the Navajo Nation.  The Mittens dominated the skyline; I remember the frustration at being unable to capture the beauty of the place through the lens of a 35-mm SLR on any film.  Images could not be big enough, exposures could not do justice to the color and natural beauty of the place.  In some SUVs and RVs in the campground, people retired to watch television in their vehicles.  They were probably the same ones who pulled out at 6:00 a.m., unable to wait to watch the sunrise complete its glorious stretch across the desert.

The third day we planned to stop and see my widowed Aunt Fay in Farmington, New Mexico.  For a couple of years in college I had the pleasure of doing air pollution research in and around Farmington after the Four Corners Power Plant was in operation, and before the San Juan Power Station came on line.   Uncle Harry Stewart, my mother’s brother, lived there and worked with El Paso Natural Gas.  Weekends I spent with Harry and Fay and their friends the Woodburys.  Harry died a few years earlier — I hadn’t seen Fay in 15 years at least.

But first, I got us stuck in the sand about 50 miles west of Farmington.  We pulled off the road to check the map — off the road meant “into the sand,” though it looked firm from the highway.  Tow trucks were 80 miles away.  A passing woman drove me 40 miles to the home of a Navajo Tribal Policeman, and back; by the time we got back a passing couple from Tucson, Arizona, and a couple of local guys with shovels had dug away feet of sand to hard soil and stone; we gunned it out of the barrow and onto the road.  (How it works today, with cell phones and satellite phones — I hope it works better.)

We had a nice visit with Aunt Fay.

Owl Cafe at night, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Owl Cafe image (?) TripAdvisor

Owl Cafe at night, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Owl Cafe image

There is no way to avoid scenery between Farmington and Albuquerque.  We pulled into the intersection of Interstates 25 and 40 in Albuquerque near 8:00 p.m., found a hotel, and were happy to find a decent-looking café nearby, with an odd, 50-foot owl at one end.  The Owl Cafe.

Who possibly could have guessed?

We seemed to be among the last people there.  It was not crowded.  I probably had a beer.  And I ordered a burger.  “Owl burger?” the waitress asked.  “Made from owls?” I asked back.

She explained it had a touch of a green chile sauce on it.  Sounded good.

She came back.  “I mean, it’s hot.  You’re not from New Mexico, right?”  I stuck with it.

Wow.

I mean, WOW!  It’s made from sirloin — moist and tender, not overcooked.  The bun is fresh, heavy and yeasty.  And I think it was the green chile stuff — heaven!  I told Kathryn I thought it might be the best burger anywhere.

Now, I’ve had some good burgers at roadhouses and fancy restaurants.  I’ve had burgers in the burger outlets near the stockyards of Greeley, Colorado, Fort Worth, Kansas City and Chicago.  I’ve had aged and marinated burgers at little joints around the Saranac Lakes of New York.  I’ve had burgers at restaurants overlooking the cities of Phoenix, San Francisco, Seattle, Indianapolis, New York and Denver.

And if I’ve eaten one Big H from Hires Drive-in in Salt Lake City, I’ve had a hundred (and would like a hundred more).  I used to argue that the Big H was the El Supremo of burgers.

The Owl Burger topped them all.

When I finished the Owl Burger, I ordered apple pie, and I wondered out loud if I should just have another burger instead.

In the morning, we found the place open for breakfast.  I joked about having another Owl Burger for breakfast — and it was on the menu.  But I didn’t.  I had some great egg dish.

Before we got out of Albuquerque, I regretted not having another Owl Burger.  All day long as we drove to Dallas I thought about that burger I didn’t have.

I’ve thought about that burger now for the better part of two decades.  The closest I’ve come to the Owl Café is a couple of passes through Albuquerque’s airport on the way to other places.

I opened the paper this morning, and there was that burger!

Owl Burger, from the Owl Cafe in San Antonio, New Mexico (photo from ABQStyle.com -- not from the online DMN)

Owl Burger, from the Owl Cafe in San Antonio, New Mexico (photo from ABQStyle.com — not from the online DMN)

Alas, according to Dembling in the DMN, management of the Albuquerque Owl Café differs now from the San Antonio Owl Café — can the burger recipes be the same?  Do we now have to make the drive to San Antonio (New Mexico)?

•Owl Bar & Café, State Highway 1 and U.S. Highway 380, San Antonio, N.M.; 575-835-9946. There’s an Owl Café in Albuquerque, but it isn’t under the same management.

The San Antonio site has some history related to development of the atomic bomb and the nearby Trinity bomb site.  One could study history, and have an historic burger at the same time.  I’ve wondered:  If the Germans had had Owl Burgers, would they have gotten the A-bomb first?  It’s that good.

[I did get excited three years ago to read that another Owl was open in San Antonio, Texas — but reading the article, I discerned that the author was unaware of a San Antonio in the Land of Enchantment.  Geographical error, gustatory disappointment.  If any of my students are reading this, that’s why you have to know geography — so you don’t drive to San Antonio, Texas, and find yourself 542 miles off target (thanks to Geobytes for the distance calculation).]

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Bathtub reading, health care and almost-back-to-school soak

August 10, 2009

Part-time blogging has its problems.  There’s a good post to be done on the trouble with superintendents in the Dallas area, but it requires more digging for links than I’ve had time to do.  There’s a post on test results that isn’t done.  There are a number of posts on teacher resources.

Health care needs  about 20 posts on specific facets, I figure.  Most of them will never get done.

Much of the weekend found our family at Baylor Medical Center in Dallas, doing an unintentional and surprise study on health care delivery in emergent situations.  This was prelude to a longer unintentional study on the delivery of rehabilitation following stroke.

Faith versus science: No real contest:  Science shines out, at every turn when the chips are down.  No one involved is a creationist, but of the six people in our family there including the kids, we’re talking three elders, a moderator, a patriarch.  Prayers form an adjunct to the medicine, and don’t get in the way of delivery of the medicine.  During one operation I mused on how the near-nanomachines that did the work were developed using the evolutionary paradigm.

Without evolution theory, almost all of modern medicine would be impossible, or haphazard at best.  On the day P. Z. Myers and the secular club investigated the Creationism Museum in Kentucky, I kept thinking “thank God for evolution.”  I don’t regard Ken Ham as the epitome of evil, but his work to spread false ideas about how the world works detracts from better health care in three ways:  First, it sucks money from the fight against disease and degeneration; second, it discourages good students from pursuing careers in healing people by leaving them wholly unprepared or unwilling to pursue knowledge; and third, it throws up  hurdles for research, by slandering the reputations and intentions of scientists who need our support to build the necessary instititions and do the required research, and discouraging contributors and other funding.

All of our prayers were directed to the benefit of science, contrary to Ken Ham’s evil hopes.

Stand up for good science in your schools. One of the kids in that class may invent a new clot busting, or artery-healing drug that will save your life, or the life and faculties of someone you love.

No kid who avoids evolution and hard science in school will invent life-saving devices or practices.

There were other lessons, too.

  • Speed counts in a stroke situation.  In an odd coincidence, my wife and I were by the fire station when the ambulance roared out.  It was good to see cars get out of the way and stop so the ambulance could pass.  Seconds save lives — pull over and get out of the way when an emergency vehicle comes up behind you.
  • All the talk of miracle drugs is just talk if there are medical reasons a particular miracle drug cannot be used.
  • It’s a lifesaver to have at hand a list of the pharmaceuticals one is prescribed.  Different kinds of strokes require different treatments; same with a variety of other afflictions.
  • Take a book to the hospital.  They are called “waiting rooms” for a very good reason.  There is no guarantee the program on the television will not be a brain-sucking intellectual vacuum.  No guarantee of a television.
  • Do you have emergency numbers on your cell-phone, as well as on a wall at home?  You should.  It makes things much, much easier.  Why don’t you add them right now?
  • Whiners who complain about the provisions in the health insurance reform bill that provide training for more doctors and nurses, think about what you would do on Saturday afternoon if you needed a crack neuro-radiologist/surgeon and a machine to give real-time images of blood-flow in a brain.
  • Fancy machines are expensive.  When the surgeon lays out the dangers and potential benefits of a procedure, you don’t want to have to think “will this cost more than $100?”  It will cost much more.  It’s unfair to your loved ones to have their life’s span or quality determined by how many Ben Franklins you have in your wallet at that moment.
  • Family are important.  Call yours today and let them know you care.

Update – more on stroke: You may want to view earlier posts on the remarkable story, TEDS lecture, book and writings of Jill Bolte Taylor, a brain researcher who herself experienced and much recovered from a devastating stroke.  Lecture here, more information here.

Other readings before the pages get too limp:

My fingers are all pruney now.  Enough reading for one soak.

Help your friends see things more cleanly, too:

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Maggie rose

July 22, 2009

Exquisite blooms of the "Maggie" rose (bourbon class) - in Kathryn Knowles' garden, summer 2009

Exquisite blooms of the "Maggie" rose (bourbon class) - in Kathryn Knowles' garden, summer 2009

Yes, I intended to leave the spent blossom there.  This is a real garden, where the flowers grow and fade.

Maggie is a “found” rose, robust in much of Texas, and a favorite of my wife’s.  The blossoms tend to glow, even at mid-day.  It will blossom all summer when it’s happy.  Maggie’s fragrance earns it a spot in Kathryn’s garden.

Maggie was one of five roses designated by Texas A&M’s horticulturists in 2005 for testing as one of a handful of roses easy to grow (read:  “difficult to kill, really”) in Texas.  Many rose varieties do not do well in southern heat and humidity — Maggie is one exception.

Maggie is a “found” Bourbon rose. It was collected in Louisiana by Dr. William Welch, Extension horticulturist from College Station. Maggie reaches 8 feet in height and 4 feet in width. Its flowers are medium red, very double, very fragrant, and it is a repeat bloomer. Researchers have found Maggie does best when trained on a pillar or fence. It is designated for zones 6-9.

“Arethusa, Jaune Desprez and Maggie are winter hardy throughout the entire state,” George said. “Bon Silene and Comtesse du Cayla, however, are winter hardy across most of the state except for Amarillo and the northern Panhandle area.”


Happy birthday, Kathryn!

July 4, 2009

Fireworks in Texas - supposedly in Addison, but I cant figure where

Fireworks in Texas - supposedly in Addison, but I can't figure where

I used to tell the kids their mother was so beloved that the town set off fireworks every year on her birthday.  They probably didn’t believe the cause, but the town did, indeed, set off fireworks on her birthday.  I don’t always do the best planning, but at least I don’t ever forget Kathryn’s birthday — I cannot forget it.

We saw a lot of great displays on the Fourth of July in Washington, D.C., and a fantastic show one year out on the water in Baltimore’s harbor, right over Fort McHenry where Francis Scott Key was inspired to write his now-famous poem.  One year with brother Wes and his wife, Momie, we watched bluebirds all day, and then stayed for the fireworks at the Yorktown Battlefield, where Cornwallis was cut off by George Washington and the Continental Army with a grand assist from the French fleet.

We’ve seen great shows in Dallas, a bunch of shows in Duncanville, Texas, and Ogden, Utah, and we saw a part of a show in Addison, Texas, before the rain and wind shut it down (no, I can’t figure out where that photo came from, either) — and that doesn’t count all those shows before we met.  New York City, Hyde Park, from the parking lot of the Veterans Administration Hospital in Salt Lake City, overlooking Liberty Park, Derks Field, and a dozen other displays across the valley; from Wahkara Ridge, high up in Payson Canyon, catching the displays from Payson, Springville, Spanish Fork and Provo, Utah; and right there in Cougar Stadium in Provo.  Ohio, Michigan, Idaho, upper New York State, and probably a few other places we’ve forgotten about.  Great fireworks displays every one.

Last year we camped at the Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park in Utah on the Fourth of July — no gunpowder fireworks, just the Milky Way and the most spectacular stars you can imagine, perched on 80-foot sand dunes where voices carried 150 yards with no shouting.  The decision not to drive back into Kanab for their show was a good idea.

This year?  Heck, we’ve already had some fireworks — Kathryn’s mother made a quick trip to an emergency room Friday, and we’ve had to rejuggle the dinner arrangements just a bit for tomorrow.  But the knockwursts and bratwursts from Kuby’s are in the refrigerator; the potato salad’s halfway done.  The beans will cook up most of the morning.  The flags will wave from their new poles.

The kids are home.  Buddy the border setter has his sedatives, so maybe the illegal fireworks around the neighborhood won’t make him a total wreck; and we can choose between a Grucci show at the Cotton Bowl or the local fireworks two miles away — or maybe the fireworks at the U.S. Capitol again, this time on PBS, with a glass of champagne.

The nation may not be setting off all those fireworks just for you, Kathryn, but they should be — and the coincidence can’t be explained except by divine intervention, eh?  Happy birthday, sweetie!


Congratulations, Judge Davidian

April 28, 2009

Ben Davidian, Jr., will be sworn in as a judge for the Superior Court for Sacramento County this afternoon.  Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger appointed him to the post about a month ago.

Texas is testing, so I won’t be traveling.

We wish Ben well in his new post.  We are also redoubling our efforts to archive the Ben Davidian stories we have collected over these last 30+ years, for the retirement ceremony.  Alan Ingersoll, Evelyn Earl Jeffries, Patty Hulce and I will hold the Davidian archives open for contributions.  We’ve already got the files from Bae Gardner and J. D. Williams, from the University of Utah’s Hinckley Institute of Politics, both of whom will be at the ceremony in Sacramento this afternoon.

Congratulations, Ben!


Happy Birthday, too

April 1, 2009

Still.


Duncanville kids at the inauguration

January 20, 2009

At least two kids from Duncanville were at the inauguration in official capacities today.  We’re hoping to hear from them.  (Send the blog some photos, Michael!)

Michael Rivera, doing graduate journalism studies at Western Kentucky University, got press  credentials to cover the events as a photographer.  The Riveras live across the street from us, and Michael and his older brother Jonathan dropped in over the Christmas holidays to let us marvel at how tall and handsome they’ve grown.

Daniel Brady is the bass trombone player with the U.S. Marine Band.  He graduated with our older son, Kenny, and played in the trombone section with our younger son, James.  We saw him 11 months ago as he sat in at a Dallas Symphony rehearsal, but he was pretty busy over the holidays, out of Texas I hear.  Some time in the past year he answered the call for a national audition for the Marine Band, and he won the slot.  The big question now is how he finishes his degree, I suppose.

Brady is famous among Duncanville’s champion, all-star trombones (and there are a goodly number of them) for sneaking away to get a job for a summer to buy a good bass trombone.  The day after he got enough to purchase the horn, he quit the job.  To the surprise of his parents, and to the grinning chagrin of the band directors who had hoped he’d stick it out as first chair tenor trombone, he insisted on playing the lower-pitched one.  Judging by his success, he made the right choice.

Michael took up photography early in high school, and shot thousands of pictures before he graduated.  He’s stuck with it through undergrad, and now seems to be well on his way at one of the nation’s better journalism schools.  I haven’t had the heart to tell him it pays so little, monetarily.  It’s a great job, other than the pay.

An inauguration is a good event to see, I suppose, though I walked out of the only one I ever attended.  Another story for another time.

Good luck, Brady.  Good luck, Michael.  Let us know what you saw and heard, will you?


Meow Meow, 19

December 27, 2008

Meow, reminding her humans that paying attention to the cat is always more important than reading Dilbert - June 24, 2008

Meow, reminding her humans that paying attention to the cat is always more important than reading Dilbert - June 24, 2008 (photo copyright 2008, Ed Darrell)

It was a dark and stormy night.  A meow rang out.

That’s how she came to adopt us.  Kay Lawrence was out walking, before the storm blew in.  The wind was picking up.  50 yards from home, she found a sad scene:  A kitten dead on the pavement.  Kay got a bag to hold the body.  As she was scooping it off the road, she heard a loud meowing from the bushes.

It was the sister of the dead kitten, probably.  Alone in any case.  Kay knew that Kathryn had studied how to save kittens, and having a large golden retriever, she thought better of taking the kitten to her own home.

With the first flashes of lightning, before the rain, there was Kay Lawrence at our door holding a remarkably flea-ridden kitten, wide-eyed and making enough noise for a litter of 12.

“We’ll find a good home for her,” Kathryn said as Kay dashed back home before the rain.  I suspected the kitten had already found that home, though Kathryn was still at least mildly allergic to cats.*

That was more than 19 years ago.

We learned from Meow that cats show joy with their tails, express love by blinking, and that each one has a different personality.  Some cats can ignore catnip, for example.   She liked to join us in reading newspapers — or perhaps more accurately, she liked to prevent us from reading newspapers, telling us that paying attention to a cat was a better use of time.

Meow would occasionally become seriously agitated when a peanut butter jar was opened, making a ruckus until she got a half-teaspoonful of the stuff for herself.  She wasn’t concerned at how silly a cat looks trying to get peanut butter off the roof of her mouth.

Meow left us this morning. For the past couple of weeks her eyesight was failing much faster — she had cataracts.  For a week she bravely tried to learn how to navigate the house blind, mastering a lot very quickly.

Something else happened, though.  One veterinarian said it was brain — stroke?  Tumor?  We don’t know.  For much of the last week she was walking circles through the house, sometimes bumping into things, sometimes walking over things she shouldn’t.  And in the last couple of days, the circles she walked grew smaller.  She’d circle until she couldn’t, then collapse in the middle of the floor and sleep.

On the way to the vet this morning, the clouds rolled in.  It grew dark.  Lightning flashed, and the rain came furiously.  It was a dark and stormy morning, very similar to the night she found us.  Meow passed very quickly.  The clouds disappeared, and the sun shines.

Down at the end of the path past the big live oak, Meow now rests with others in our departed menagerie, Maggie and Rufus the dogs, Sweetie the rat, and Katie, the other brave, one-eyed road kitten (from a different, later rescue).

We miss her. We started the year with two dogs and three cats.  Now we’re down to one cat, with the two dogs.  It’s a lot quieter.

Meow, winking for the camera, 2008 - photo copyright 2008, Ed Darrell

Meow, winking for the camera, 2008 - photo copyright 2008, Ed Darrell

*  A book we had Natural Cat, had a recipe for a food supplement for cats which, the author claimed, would alter the cat dander so it would not trigger allergic reactions.  What can I say?  It worked like a charm.  We stopped feeding the supplement to the cats 15 years ago.  Kathryn’s allergic  reaction, to our cats, has not returned.


Who invented Santa Claus, and the Night Before Christmas?

December 24, 2008

An encore post from 2007

Thomas Nast invented Santa Claus? Clement C. Moore didn’t write the famous poem that starts out, “‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house . . . ?”

The murky waters of history from Millard Fillmore’s Bathtub soak even our most cherished ideas and traditions.

But isn’t that part of the fun of history?

Santa Claus delivers to Union soldiers, "Santa Claus in Camp" - Thomas Nast, Harper's Weekly, Jan 3, 1863

Thomas Nast’s first published drawing featuring Santa Claus; for Harper’s Weekly, “A Journal of Civilization,” January 3, 1863 Nast portrayed the elf distributing packages to Union troops: “Santa Claus in camp.” Nast (1840-1904) was 23 when he drew this image.

Yes, Virginia (and California, too)! Thomas Nast created the image of Santa Claus most of us in the U.S. know today. Perhaps even more significant than his campaign against the graft of Boss Tweed, Nast’s popularization of a fat, jolly elf who delivers good things to people for Christmas makes one of the great stories in commercial illustration. Nast’s cartoons, mostly for the popular news publication Harper’s Weekly, created many of the conventions of modern political cartooning and modeled the way in which an illustrator could campaign for good, with his campaign against the graft of Tammany Hall and Tweed. But Nast’s popular vision of Santa Claus can be said to be the foundation for the modern mercantile flurry around Christmas.

Nast is probably ensconced in a cartoonists’ hall of fame. Perhaps he should be in a business or sales hall of fame, too.  [See also Bill Casselman’s page, “The Man Who Designed Santa Claus.]

Nast’s drawings probably drew some inspiration from the poem, “Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas,” traditionally attributed to Clement C. Moore, a New York City lawyer, published in 1822. The poem is among the earliest to describe the elf dressed in fur, and magically coming down a chimney to leave toys for children; the poem invented the reindeer-pulled sleigh.

Modern analysis suggests the poem was not the work of Moore, and many critics and historians now attribute it to Major Henry Livingston, Jr. (1748-1828) following sleuthing by Vassar College Prof. Don Foster in 2000. Fortunately for us, we do not need to be partisans in such a query to enjoy the poem (a complete copy of which is below the fold).

The Library of Congress still gives Moore the credit. When disputes arise over who wrote about the night before Christmas, is it any wonder more controversial topics produce bigger and louder disputes among historians?

Moore was not known for being a poet. The popular story is that he wrote it on the spur of the moment:

Moore is thought to have composed the tale, now popularly known as “The Night Before Christmas,” on December 24, 1822, while traveling home from Greenwich Village, where he had bought a turkey for his family’s Christmas dinner.

Inspired by the plump, bearded Dutchman who took him by sleigh on his errand through the snow-covered streets of New York City, Moore penned A Visit from St. Nicholas for the amusement of his six children, with whom he shared the poem that evening. His vision of St. Nicholas draws upon Dutch-American and Norwegian traditions of a magical, gift-giving figure who appears at Christmas time, as well as the German legend of a visitor who enters homes through chimneys.

Again from the Library of Congress, we get information that suggests that Moore was a minor celebrity from a well-known family with historical ties that would make a good “connections” exercise in a high school history class, perhaps (”the link from Aaron Burr’s treason to Santa Claus?”): (read more, below the fold)

Clement Moore was born in 1779 into a prominent New York family. His father, Benjamin Moore, president of Columbia University, in his role as Episcopal Bishop of New York participated in the inauguration of George Washington as the nation’s first president. The elder Moore also administered last rites to Alexander Hamilton after he was mortally wounded in a tragic duel with Aaron Burr.

A graduate of Columbia, Clement Moore was a scholar of Hebrew and a professor of Oriental and Greek literature at the General Theological Seminary in Manhattan. [See comment from Pam Bumsted below for more on Moore.] He is said to have been embarrassed by the light-hearted verse, which was made public without his knowledge in December 1823. Moore did not publish it under his name until 1844.

Tonight, American children will be tucked in under their blankets and quilts and read this beloved poem as a last “sugarplum” before slipping into dreamland. Before they drift off, treat them to a message from Santa, recorded by the Thomas Edison Company in 1922.

Santa Claus Hides in Your Phonograph
By Arthur A. Penn, Performed by Harry E. Humphrey.
Edison, 1922.
Coupling date: 6/20/1922. Cutout date: 10/31/1929.
Inventing Entertainment: The Motion Pictures and Sound Recordings of the Edison Companies

Listen to this recording (RealAudio Format)

Listen to this recording (wav Format, 8,471 Kb)

But Henry Livingston was no less noble or historic. He hailed from the Livingtons of the Hudson Valley (one of whose farms is now occupied by Camp Rising Sun of the Louis August Jonas Foundation, a place where I spent four amazing summers teaching swimming and lifesaving). Livingston’s biography at the University of Toronto site offers another path for a connections exercise (”What connects the Declaration of Independence, the American invasion of Canada, the famous poem about a visit from St. Nick, and George W. Bush?”):

Henry Livingston Jr. was born in Poughkeepsie, New York, on Oct. 13, 1748. The Livingston family was one of the important colonial and revolutionary families of New York. The Poughkeepsie branch, descended from Gilbert, the youngest son of Robert Livingston, 1st Lord of Livingston Manor, was not as well off as the more well-known branches, descended from sons Robert and Philip. Two other descendants of Gilbert Livingston, President George Walker Herbert Bush and his son, President-Elect George W. Bush, though, have done their share to bring attention to this line. Henry’s brother, Rev. John Henry Livingston, entered Yale at the age of 12, and was able to unite the Dutch and American branches of the Dutch Reformed Church. At the time of his death, Rev. Livingston was president of Rutgers University. Henry’s father and brother Gilbert were involved in New York politics, and Henry’s granduncle was New York’s first Lt. Governor. But the law was the natural home for many of Henry’s family. His brother-in-law, Judge Jonas Platt, was an unsuccessful candidate for governor, as was his daughter Elizabeth’s husband, U.S. Supreme Court Justice Smith Thompson. Henry’s grandson, Sidney Breese, was Chief Justice of the Illinois Supreme Court.

Known for his encyclopedic knowledge and his love of literature, Henry Livingston was a farmer, surveyor and Justice of the Peace, a judicial position dealing with financially limited criminal and civil cases. One of the first New Yorkers to enlist in the Revolutionary Army in 1775, Major Henry Livingston accompanied his cousin’s husband, General Montgomery, in his campaign up the Hudson River to invade Canada, leaving behind his new wife, Sarah Welles, and their week-old baby, on his Poughkeepsie property, Locust Grove. Baby Catherine was the subject of the first poem currently known by Major Livingston. Following this campaign, Livingston was involved in the War as a Commissioner of Sequestration, appropriating lands owned by British loyalists and selling them for the revolutionary cause. It was in the period following Sarah’s early death in 1783, that Major Livingston published most of his poems and prose, anonymously or under the pseudonym of R. Ten years after the death of Sarah, Henry married Jane Patterson, the daughter of a Dutchess County politician and sister of his next-door neighbor. Between both wives, Henry fathered twelve children. He published his good-natured, often occasional verse from 1787 in many journals, including Political Barometer, Poughkeepsie Journal, and New-York Magazine. His most famous poem, “Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas,” was until 2000 thought to have been the work of Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863), who published it with his collected poems in 1844. Livingston died Feb. 29, 1828.

More on Henry Livingston and his authorship of the Christmas poem here.

Thomas Nast, Merry Old Santa Claus, Harper's Weekly, Jan 1, 1881

 

Our views of Santa Claus owe a great deal also to the Coca-Cola advertising campaign. Coca-Cola first noted Santa’s use of the drink in a 1922 campaign to suggest Coke was a year-round drink (100 years after the publication of Livingston’s poem). The company’s on-line archives gives details:

In 1930, artist Fred Mizen painted a department store Santa in a crowd drinking a bottle of Coke. The ad featured the world’s largest soda fountain, which was located in the department store of Famous Barr Co. in St. Louis, Mo. Mizen’s painting was used in print ads that Christmas season, appearing in The Saturday Evening Post in December 1930.

1936 Coca-Cola Santa cardboard store display

  • 1936 Coca-Cola Santa cardboard store display

Archie Lee, the D’Arcy Advertising Agency executive working with The Coca-Cola Company, wanted the next campaign to show a wholesome Santa as both realistic and symbolic. In 1931, The Coca-Cola Company commissioned Michigan-born illustrator Haddon Sundblom to develop advertising images using Santa Claus — showing Santa himself, not a man dressed as Santa, as Mizen’s work had portrayed him.
1942 original oil painting - 'They Remembered Me'

  • 1942 original oil painting – ‘They Remembered Me’

For inspiration, Sundblom turned to Clement Clark Moore’s 1822 poem “A Visit From St. Nicholas” (commonly called “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas”). Moore’s description of St. Nick led to an image of Santa that was warm, friendly, pleasantly plump and human. For the next 33 years, Sundblom painted portraits of Santa that helped to create the modern image of Santa — an interpretation that today lives on in the minds of people of all ages, all over the world.

Santa Claus is a controversial figure. Debates still rage among parents about the wisdom of allowing the elf into the family’s home, and under what conditions. Theologians worry that the celebration of Christmas is diluted by the imagery. Other faiths worry that the secular, cultural impact of Santa Claus damages their own faiths (few other faiths have such a popular figure, and even atheists generally give gifts and participate in Christmas rituals such as putting up a decorated tree).

For over 100 years, Santa Claus has been a popular part of commercial, cultural and religious life in America. Has any other icon endured so long, or so well?

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________________________
Below:
From the University of Toronto Library’s Representative Poetry Online

Major Henry Livingston, Jr. (1748-1828)

Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas

1 ‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the house,
2 Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
3 The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
4 In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
5 The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
6 While visions of sugar plums danc’d in their heads,
7 And Mama in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
8 Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap –
9 When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
10 I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
11 Away to the window I flew like a flash,
12 Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
13 The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
14 Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below;
15 When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
16 But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,
17 With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
18 I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
19 More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
20 And he whistled, and shouted, and call’d them by name:
21 “Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer, and Vixen,
22 “On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixem;
23 “To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
24 “Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
25 As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,
26 When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
27 So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
28 With the sleigh full of Toys — and St. Nicholas too:
29 And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
30 The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
31 As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
32 Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound:
33 He was dress’d all in fur, from his head to his foot,
34 And his clothes were all tarnish’d with ashes and soot;
35 A bundle of toys was flung on his back,
36 And he look’d like a peddler just opening his pack:
37 His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry,
38 His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
39 His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow.
40 And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
41 The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
42 And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
43 He had a broad face, and a little round belly
44 That shook when he laugh’d, like a bowl full of jelly:
45 He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
46 And I laugh’d when I saw him in spite of myself;
47 A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
48 Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
49 He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
50 And fill’d all the stockings; then turn’d with a jerk,
51 And laying his finger aside of his nose
52 And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
53 He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
54 And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:
55 But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight –
56 Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Fixing personal history

October 22, 2008

You know how you think about things in history, about your view of things, and then come to realize that how you had been thinking about them, it couldn’t have happened that way?

I just came to the realization that my father couldn’t have been working on Liberty Ships during World War II, I don’t think.  He was north of Los Angeles, in the Bay Area during World War II.  His plumbing and pipefitting would have had to have been in the 1930s.

Who is left alive to tell?  Another case of “I wish he’d written it down,” and “I shoulda got the tape recorder and wired myself up to ask those questions.”

(Here’s where we discover my older siblings don’t read this blog, as we’ve suspected all along.)


Dad the Mechanic, vs. Joe the Plumber

October 22, 2008

Ms. Cornelius at A Shrewdness of Apes nails things down again. Tip of the old scrub brush, with extra bubbles, to JD2718.

My father tended to vote Republican, too.  For the first nine years of my life he remained a small business owner, in Burley, Idaho.  When the workers at J. R. Simplot went out on strike one November (1961 as I recall, but I was a child), it doomed several furniture stores in and around Cassia County, and my parents’ was just one.  For the rest of my life my father worked for other people, until he retired.

Still he voted Republican.  He even had a union card, from the old plumbers and pipefitters union in Los Angeles, from when he worked on Liberty Ships during World War II.  I never could figure it.

I do recall the stern lecture I got when I went to the Democrats’ mass meeting my first election, and then when I got elected as a delegate for McGovern and — the only one in my town, as I recall — I put up the McGovern bumpersticker (McGovern finished third in parts of Utah County, behind the American Party candidate).  My father told me that no one in the family had ever voted Democratic before.

It was a great comic scene, somthing right out of Woody Allen.  My father lecturing me about how voting Republican was rather a family duty, with my mother behind him shaking her head “no,” and mouthing “Don’t believe him.  Not true.  No.”

The only president I ever smuggled him in to see was Jimmy Carter.  Carter showed up in Salt Lake City, and spoke in the Latter-day Saints’ Tabernacle on Temple Square, as I recall.  I wangled the tickets, got Dad there and sat with him.  Better than Christmas.  Almost as good as when we watched Henry Mancini from nearly the same seats.

I don’t really know how my father would vote in this election, though.  He was nervous about the civil rights campaigns, about Martin Luther King, Jr.  He’d tell the stories about why he had problems with unions, about how the unions kept him from promoting African Americans he’d hire at United Cigar Stores in Los Angeles (before the Liberty Ship gig).  And he’d say that he wouldn’t have any problem voting for a black man who had a history of accomplishment in areas outside of civil rights, too.   He said he could vote for a black man from Harvard, someone who had the educational background of Kennedy, though he voted for Nixon against Kennedy (and Nixon twice more). Barack Obama might be the guy my father would have voted for.

Life sometimes imitates Thomas Kuhn’s observations about scientific revolutions.  Sometimes the children have to go vote the interests of the parents, especially when the parents don’t, or won’t.

My father voted against Lyndon Johnson, too — twice.  Johnson’s reforms of Social Security, designed to keep American senior citizens out of the county poor houses, kept my father out of poverty after he finally retired (at 75?  77?).  The Republican businessmen he’d put his faith in managed to squander the pension funds he might have had, or cheat him out of the share of the business that would have kept him from having to rely on Social Security.  My father put his faith in Republicans, but Lyndon Johnson rescued him.

I don’t know this “Joe the plumber.”  I knew my father, the former plumber and pipefitter, the erstwhile small business owner, the man who worked from the time he was 14 to help his family get enough education to get out of poverty, first his sisters in college, then his own family.  He never made enough to benefit from tax cuts for the rich.  My father was real, and deserved better.

Go read Mrs. Cornelius’s story.