The government we deserve

I watched both political conventions on CNN.

The Republican Convention was out-and-out bizarre. It seemed to have no point, other than to provide a forum for speakers to express their contempt for the Democratic candidate. There was scant praise for Trump from anyone other than family members – and hardly any from leaders of his party. Ted Cruz, who finished second, basically told delegates not to vote for him. The lack of enthusiasm for the candidate, whom everyone in the hall knew is probably going to crash and burn like the Hindenburg and most didn’t care because they resent that he shoved them aside, was palpable. Whenever the camera panned over the audience, many looked bored or as if they were trying to resist the urge to vomit. Delegates, for the most part, appeared to have been air-lifted into Cleveland from the same whites-only country club. The candidate’s acceptance speech was delivered under a gold-plated sign spelling out T-R-U-M-P; it looked like it belonged over the entrance to one of his high-rises rather than above the stage of a major party’s convention. The speech gave me nightmares. It was his delivery as much as the message: “This country is broken and I’m gonna fix it with force if necessary and if you don’t like it, fuck you.” The idea of this megalomaniacal narcissist in the White House scares me shitless.

The Democratic Convention, on the other hand, was the most carefully orchestrated convention I’ve ever seen. It came off without a hitch. The speeches had been edited by the same team of writers, so viewers would know the party stands for E Pluribus Unum unless, of course, you’re a white male in which case you’re screwed but you deserve it, you pig. Hillary was portrayed as a wiser and more compassionate female version of Jesus Christ. Her acceptance speech struck just the right tone and actually made her seem likable. I went to bed thinking I could vote for her. I woke up realizing I and the rest of the country had been spoon-fed bullshit that, for an hour or so and because I desperately wanted to, I had fallen for. Hillary Clinton’s compassion is for herself, not the country, and she is no unifier, she’s one of the most divisive political figures in American history who will say or do anything to get elected. America isn’t a monarchy yet, for the second time this century, we’re being served up a candidate who has something to prove to a relative she feels entitled to succeed as president. It didn’t end well when Bush II succeeded Bush I. It won’t end well again.

It has been said that people get the government they deserve. And so it has come to pass. By selfishly focusing only on issues like abortion or gay rights or guns or any of 100 other hot buttons that are important to us as individuals because of our religious and/or personal beliefs, rather than on what’s the right thing to do for our country, we the people must now choose between two truly awful candidates, one of whom, come January 20, will be sworn in as our next president.

Buckle up. Hold on. Stuff cash under your mattress and try to remember that 2020 is just four years away. Our nation has gotten through worse times. Hopefully we’ll muddle through the next four years without too much damage.

WWII Posters: "Back Home For Keeps"

There’s a scene in Sideways, a 2004 movie about two forty-something guys (Paul Giamatti and Thomas Haden Church) who head off for a week in California wine country that I think about every time I open a bottle of wine. Giamatti’s character meets a winemaker, played by Virginia Madsen, who, when he asks, explains why she is infatuated with wine.

“I like to think about the life of wine,” she tells him. “How it’s a living thing. I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing; how the sun was shining; if it rained. I like to think about all the people who tended and picked the grapes. And if it’s an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now.”

I feel much the same way about vintage advertising posters. As my regular readers know, I have at least 200 of them (maybe more—I’ve been cataloging them for the last week and still have a large stack to cull through). I like to think about the times in which they were issued and how those times differ from today. As an advertising man, I like to think about the objective the marketer who commissioned the poster explained to the artist and copywriter; whether the words inspired the art (as a writer, I always hope that’s the case) or vice versa; where it was printed and by whom; the printing process that was used; where it was displayed; how a fragile piece of paper somehow managed to survive for anywhere from 60 to 125 years; why someone thought it was important enough to preserve; where it has been kept, and how many hands it has passed through to get from where it was printed to where it is today.

My collection is, to put it mildly, eclectic. It includes posters promoting airlines, railroads, travel destinations, wine, beer, chocolate, circus acts, fashion, sporting events, sporting goods, automobile and aircraft manufacturers, and oil companies, among others.

I have a number of posters from both World Wars encouraging Americans, Brits and Canadians to purchase bonds to support the war effort, to keep their lips zipped about troop movements lest they be overhead by enemy spies, to conserve resources, and to enlist.

Today I ran across 10 altogether different types of World War II posters stashed away at the back of a closet. All were issued by Oneida Ltd., a manufacturer of silver service and silver-plated flatware, to address a specific and unusual marketing problem the company was facing.

Shortly after Pearl Harbor, the U.S. government ordered manufacturers of silver and silver-plate to cease production – the raw materials were needed for the war effort.  As one of the country’s biggest manufacturers, Oneida found itself in a quandary: How best to keep its brand name alive to capitalize on what would surely be a marriage boom once GI’s, airmen and sailors returned home. Though it couldn’t manufacture its products during the war, Oneida wanted to make sure that, once it was over and brides were in the market to choose silver and flatware, they’d choose Oneida. I'd have to guess that if you're a Boomer whose parents lived through WWII, you probably grew up with Oneida products in your home as a direct result of the campaign I'm about to describe.

The company’s advertising agency came up with a novel and patriotic series of ads that pictured the fondest dreams of millions of young women – the moment, sometime in the future, they would be reunited with their boyfriends. The campaign, conceived by copywriter Jean Wade Ridlaub and illustrated by Jon Whitcomb (hooray – the writer was credited with the idea) was called “Back Home for Keeps.” From 1942 through 1945, a series of 26 “Back Home for Keeps” ads ran in leading women’s magazines, becoming instant classics.

As reported in a 2012 article in the Oneida (NY) Daily Dispatch, “Oneida became buried under an avalanche of letters from women and soldiers moved emotionally by the ads. A woman from Philadelphia wrote, ‘I’m engaged to a Marine I haven’t seen for two years. Your picture shows me what he’s fighting for.’ A WAC stationed in Halifax, Nova Scotia, commented, ‘As a morale booster, it tops any lectures or speeches we’ve had to listen to. So many have boyfriends thousands of miles away and we’re hoping that ‘There’ll Come a Day,’ (a popular song of the era), while a soldier stationed in England wrote, ‘The pictures to a lot of fellows over here symbolize a hope and dream that we soon may be able to realize.’

“The impact of the campaign was so profound that it was featured in the May 14, 1945 ‘Speaking of Pictures’ segment of LIFE magazine. The sentimental advertisements had started a new kind of pin-up craze. At Oneida Ltd., a staff of 15 women was required to mail more than 500,000 requests for reprints of the advertisement's beautiful illustrations, which were being hung on the walls of girl's dormitories in high schools and colleges.”

As I was photographing and researching my 10 posters, the reprints mentioned above, it occurred to me that if the campaign was running today, Oneida would most certainly be taken to task for what the posters didn’t include – African-Americans, Asians, Hispanics and same-sex couples. All the posters – at least the ones I have – feature Caucasians. Nor did any feature a woman returning home but many women did serve proudly and with distinction, including my mother-in-law, a WAVE.

Who saved the 10 posters I was lucky enough to buy years ago? A young woman whose boyfriend made it home so they could marry and live happily ever after? A woman whose man was killed and who never married ... or who married someone else but never forgot the love of her life? I'll never know.

Below for your viewing pleasure are my  “Back Home for Keeps” posters. Notice how the illustrator captured a moment that perfectly expressed the hopes and dreams of not only millions of women who were terrified they would never see their boyfriends, husbands, sons and brothers again, but of every American who wanted nothing more than for their boy to come home safe and sound … and for keeps.

Posters from the Great Depression

I’ve spent most of the week photographing and cataloguing the collection of advertising posters I’ve amassed over the last 35 years. It’s a big job because I have lots (and lots) of them – I’m up to 200 and still have at least 100 more to go. The ostensible purpose of this project is to sell the ones I don’t want. 

The problem is, I want them all – that’s why I bought them in the first place. We have more than 40 posters – mostly European travel posters from the thirties and forties -- framed and hanging in every room of the house. There are easily that many more stashed in tubes in guest room closets that I wish we had space on our walls for. 

Several years ago I started going through the collection and sold 100 or so through eBay but I ran out of steam. This week I've learned few poster collectors apparently buy though eBay any more. I've listed 30 since Sunday and have only received four or five bids so I guess I'll have to find some other way to sell them. I sold some of my better ones through Christie's but they've just shut down their poster department so that's no longer a possibility. I guess I could rent booths at poster shows and dispose of them that way but I don't know how I'd get them to New York, Amsterdam and the other cities where such shows are typically held. Realistically, I will wind up leaving the majority for my kids and grandkids to deal with some day. At least they’ll now have a list of what’s what and what’s stored where.

I started this post because I want to share with you five long forgotten posters I ran across this morning. These are silk-screened and, for all I know, are one-of-a-kinds. They are from the Great Depression and the dealer who sold them to me said he thought (but wasn’t sure) they were created for a Midwestern bank. All have a tear or two, some rough edges, and one in is out-and-out poor condition, but a poster restorer could, for a couple of hundred bucks, make that one look as good as new.

I love everything about this series -- the motivational messages, the graphics, the colors, the art-deco typefaces that were used to encourage Americans weathering the greatest economic storm in history to keep their sights focused in hopes of better days ahead. My mother's father ran a small town bank that folded in the Depression. Mom's family lost everything they had including their house and wound up living in the bank's basement. Awful, but they weren't alone -- the Depression decimated millions of families.

Aren’t these posters great?  I've listed them as a set on eBay and noted that, if they don’t sell this week (and I'm asking a small fortune in the hopes they don't), I’m going to pull the listing and do what I intended to do when I bought them – have them framed for display in my house.  Don’t know where we’ll put them but I’m sure we’ll find room – we always do.

The astonishing (and 100% true) story of my mother and the Nazi war criminal

1943: Speer receives an award for his service
as Reich Minister of Armaments and War Production from Adolf Hitler

She was a 63-year-old widow from a Missouri farm town. He was Adolf Hitler’s principal architect, Reich Minister for Armaments and War Production, and, by the time World War II ended, the second most powerful man in Nazi Germany. The odds were slim to none their paths would ever cross but not only did they cross, he invited her to his home for coffee and a chat. And amazingly, she went.

She was my mother, Ruby, who died last year at the age of 102. Ruby was a Methodist Sunday School teacher, a DAR and FDR Democrat who, at the time, had never lived in a town of more than 700 people.

He was Albert Speer whom, in the 1930s, Hitler personally picked to design a 400,000 seat stadium in Nuremberg, the Nazi party headquarters in Munich, and the reich chancellery in Berlin. In 1942, Hitler put him in charge of keeping the Nazi war machine well-supplied and running at full capacity, a position he held until he was arrested by the Allies in April, 1945, at the end of the war.

Thirty-one years later, in 1976, mom was visiting my brother, Jerry, an Army officer stationed in Heidelberg where he was living with his wife, Nancy, and their children. Jerry’s youngest daughter was a fifth grader at the base school.

His daughter's teacher, an American, told her class that her husband's grandfather had served as a judge during the Nuremberg Trials in which leading Nazis were tried for war crimes. Many of them, including Goring, von Ribbentrop and Streicher, were sentenced to death. Speer, the only defendant to admit his guilt, escaped the hangman's noose by claiming he knew nothing about Hitler’s final solution, a claim that, after his death, was disproven. He was sentenced to 20 years in Spandau prison, from which he was released in 1966.

Three years later, he published "Inside the Third Reich," a memoir in which he related his years as Hitler’s BFF and cabinet member. Speer hadn’t been allowed to have a writing pad in prison; he wrote the book based on notes he had penned in micro-handwriting on sheets of toilet paper a sympathetic guard smuggled out for him.

In 1975, he published his second book, "Spandau," detailing his 20 years in prison where, he estimated, his walks in the prison yard collectively covered the distance between Berlin and Guadalajara, Mexico.

My niece’s teacher told her class that she and her husband had actually met Speer, whose address they had looked up in the Heidelberg phone book. When they introduced themselves as the relatives of one of his judges, Speer told them he remembered the judge.

At the time of Mom's visit with Jerry and Nancy, "Spandau" was still atop the best-seller list. They told mom about the teacher and her husband who had met Speer. Never dreaming it was within the realm of possibility, mom, an avid reader, history buff and book collector, announced, “I’d like to have him autograph a copy of his book.”

Nancy, who has always had more moxie than anyone else in our family, went to the phone book and, sure enough, there was his number. She called and was surprised when Speer himself answered, “Speer hier” (“Speer here”). When Nancy explained her mother-in-law was visiting and would like to have him autograph his book, Speer, who had learned perfect English from his British and American prison guards, invited them to come to his home at 11 a.m. the following Saturday.

When it came time to leave for Speer's house, Nancy couldn’t go – their six-year-old son, as six-year-olds sometimes do, was having a meltdown. Since Emily Post says it’s considered bad form to take an out-of-sorts child when calling upon Nazi war criminals, Jerry drove mom in his green Buick station wagon to Speer’s villa in the hills above Heidelberg Castle.

And that ... was about all I knew of the tale other than that mom always said she had committed a faux pas by asking Speer if he had ever visited her country. He said no. She later found out that American officials wouldn't allow him to set foot in the U.S.

Last night my wife and I were watching a documentary about how the Nazis looted Europe’s great art treasures during the war, and, naturally, Speer was mentioned. That got me to thinking that I should write this story down. So this morning I called my brother to get more details about his and mom’s visit.

Jerry said that when they arrived, Speer’s grandson, a boy about his son’s age, was in the yard with a large dog. Speer answered the door and showed them around his villa, a grand home that had fallen into disrepair – wallpaper was peeling off the walls and ceilings. The floor and furniture in one room were completely covered with scraps of toilet paper, the smuggled notes that became the basis for Speer’s books.

Speer served coffee in his parlor and they talked for a half hour or forty-five minutes. Understandably nervous, Jerry doesn’t recall specifics of what they discussed other than mom asking Speer if he had ever visited America. Speer autographed mom’s book, “To Ruby Dryden with best wishes.”

Jerry said mom took the book back to the states, gave it to him a few years later, then asked for it back. As we were going through mom’s collection of 700 plus books in 2012 after she had moved to an assisted living facility, Jerry pulled it off the shelf and took it home with him.

I’d have to guess the book is one of the few autographed copies in existence. Unlike most best-selling authors, Speer didn’t go on a book tour and certainly wasn’t invited to sign his book in any bookstores – none in Germany would allow him to promote it lest they appear to sanction his behavior. He remained by and large a recluse until his death in 1981.

So why, you ask, am I telling you this bizarre story?

I’m not telling it for you. I’m posting it for members of my family born in the last 40 years who have no clue their grandmother, great-grandmother, grandfather, uncle and great-uncle not only came face to face with one of the most notorious men of the twentieth century, they actually sipped coffee with him in his parlor. Many of my readers knew mom and know Jerry, two of the most unlikely Nazi sympathizers on earth, and will have trouble imagining them sitting in Albert Speer’s parlor making small talk, but it happened and, by God, I'm a storyteller and this is one story that needs to be told if for no other reason than to allow me to write the headline above.

I don’t know if mom would want me to tell it -- she probably wouldn't -- but Jerry, when I asked him, said to go ahead.

And I just did.

How to lose 6 lbs. in 6 days

Want to lose six pounds in six days without dieting or exercising?

Do as my wife and I did – go on the Salmonella Diet. Yesterday was the first day since last Tuesday we’ve felt vaguely normal thanks to carryout chicken salad we ate for dinner that night. Chicken, mayo and a careless cook proved to be a near-lethal combination for us. Though all of the symptoms have pretty much subsided, I'm still feeling like, well, you know.

I never want to see, smell or taste chicken salad again. Heck, I may never even eat chicken again. The clip below, one of my favorite movie scenes from Five Easy Pieces, expresses my sentiments perfectly.

Eat safe. Be well.

Ask Madam Secretary

An FBI insider who participated in Saturday’s meeting with Hillary Clinton slipped me some startling information just minutes after today’s statement from the FBI director in which he announced he won’t be recommending the Justice Department indict her.

Turns out Mrs. Clinton insisted on maintaining her own server during her years as Secretary of State for a simple reason: she had a second job she didn’t want anyone in the administration to know about as, of all things, an advice columnist.  

Here are a few emails the FBI was able to recover that the insider shared exclusively with tomdryden.com.

To: AskMadamSecretary

From: HA

I'm beside myself. Just learned that A. texted yet another dick pic to some chick. I told him last time that if it happened again I was going to do something drastic. Knowing you have experience in handling horndog hubbies, what do you recommend I do?

To: HA

From: AskMadamSecretary

Run for an office. Trust me when I say the sympathy votes will put you over the top.

To: AskMadamSecetary

From: CCM

We are thinking of trying to get pregnant. What would you and dad prefer -- a boy or girl?

To: CCM

From: AskMadamSecretary

Girl. Females make up 51% of the population, which means the majority of people of voting age who are parents have daughters and/or granddaughters, so they’ll identify with our family. That two percent edge could mean the difference in '16.

To: AskMadamSecretary

From: AM

My name is Abdul. I am 8 years old and admire you very much. Would you please send me an autographed photo? Also, my father wants to know if you can introduce him to someone who can sell him some uranium. Can you?

To: AM

From: AskMadamSecetary

Of course, darling, I’m happy to accommodate your request. You'll find my autographed photo in the attached PDF file. As for your father, tell him to contact the Clinton Foundation. The routing number is 52626673 and the account number is 10058205702850206660. (Your dad will understand what I am talking about here.) Once he has established contact, the bank will let him know about a private phone number he can call.

To: AskMadamSecretary

From: DJT

The more I think about about it, the more I agree with you. It’s clear that the idiot Republicans won’t be able to field a single electable candidate in ‘16. Isn't it grueling to be on the campaign trail for months at a time?

To: DJT

From: AskMadamSecretary

Not if you have your own 757 and your expenses are being covered by my campaign. Though you will, as we discussed, lose in a landslide, just think how much value you can add to your brand name by running against me. Instead of being known just in America, your brand will become famous globally, which means you'll be selling more condos, vodka, golf memberships and neckties than ever!

More gobbledegook from the Fed

I recently finished reading The Courage to Act by former Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke who wrote that one of his primary goals as chairman was to preside over a Fed that was more transparent than it had been under his predecessors.  

He then spent several hundred pages detailing meetings in which he and his staff agonized over the wording of statements that were intentionally vague in order not to send the stock and bond markets careening up or down crazily because the Fed had said something markets might possibly interpret as positive or negative about the economy.

The Fed under his successor, Janet Yellin, is, if anything, even less transparent. The markets are chomping at the bit to find out if and when the Fed is going to announce its next prime rate hike. Every statement – every speech, press release, verb and conjunction – is analyzed in the hopes it will provide some sense of where the Fed’s head is at. I can’t begin to imagine how much time the Fed spends crafting communiqués that basically say it is as clueless about the economy as the average Wendy’s counter person.

To enable officials to avoid angst over the wording of such statements, I’ve taken the liberty of creating a “mix-and-match template” the Fed can follow in the future. It gives them hundreds of ways to, in a few short seconds, wordsmith non-committal statements nobody will be able to figure out. With all the extra time they will save, Yellin and her governors will actually be able to get out of their ivory towers and mingle with the hoi polloi to get a sense of what is going on in the America world whose economy they control.

Today’s statement from the Fed

A rate hike is

( ) neither on nor off the table at this point in time provided

( ) something we may or may not consider should

( ) within the realm of possibility in the event

( ) not inconceivable with the caveat that

inflationary pressures

( ) do not exert untoward upward or downward momentum on

( ) remain low to moderate in that they affect

( ) are containable within the context of

( ) neither negatively nor positively impact

employment in

( ) both the public and private sectors.

( ) small, medium and large businesses.

( ) the broader economy.

( ) certain sectors.

A determination may be made at such a time as

( ) indicators show signs of weakness, moderation or growth.

( ) Goldman signals they have completed shorting every sector that would be negatively impacted by such an event.

( ) Haley’s Comet appears between Labor Day and Halloween in a year that ends with 7.

( ) the global economy appears sustainable.

Further information may be forthcoming subsequent to our next monthly meeting provided

( ) such a statement is deemed prudent for the sake of transparency to which we have signed a pledge signaling our collective commitment.

( ) headwinds and tailwinds neither subside nor increase to the extent such a statement is warranted.

( ) the Richmond Fed, which hosts our next meeting, serves Virginia ham on those delightful little cheese biscuits for which its private dining room is famous.

( ) we can agree on what we want to say.

Grandpa's diary: Payback time

Our oldest son, Ben, calls every Sunday, the only time we get to talk with him all week. He works long hours and, on those weekends he doesn’t have to go into the office, is kept busy with his two sons, 26-month old Teddy and two-month old Isaac.

During this morning’s call I asked him how Teddy, who was basically ignoring Isaac when I visited last month – as if he somehow hoped that Isaac, like grandpa, had just stopped by for a visit – is interacting with his new brother.

He said that yesterday he, his wife and the boys went to Costco. En route home, with both boys strapped into their infant seats, Isaac, who apparently likes the motion of the car, started crying whenever the car stopped, prompting Teddy to order him to be quiet. This went on for the entire ride from the suburbs back into the city, with both Isaac and Teddy becoming more agitated and more vocal at each stoplight.

I can’t tell you how happy this news made me. For years, our sons, who were three years apart, made every car trip – whether to the supermarket or cross country – approximately as pleasurable as the Bataan death march. They argued, they hurled accusations, they cried, they whined. The one that never failed to make me pull over, stop the car, jump out of the driver’s seat, yank open the back door and order them to settle down or else: “Make him stop looking at me.” Whenever I'd lose it, my wife would also lose it, yelling at me to act like a grown-up, then we'd all sulk for the remainder of the ride. This went on for years (and years and years) and, even today, now that the boys are 33 and 30, I don’t like to ride in the same car with both of them lest they start up again.

“Better get used to it,” I told Ben, not even trying to disguise my delight. “Payback time.”

Under siege from a crazy-ass Cardinal

The crazed Cardinal rat-a-tat-tatting on the doors
in our darkened den. As you can see, I've lowered the storm
shutters almost to the ground but that doesn't stop him.

We have been under siege for two and a half months from a whacked-out cardinal who is trying to break into our house. 

He appears in the yard every morning with the sun, chirp-chirp-chirping as he maniacally flits from tree to tree, stopping every minute or so to rat-a-tat-tat on the windows and doors. Our dachshunds, who weren't that emotionally stable to begin with, have been driven insane by the nonstop noise. My wife and I aren't far behind them.

From what I’ve been able to learn, Mr. Cardinal sees his reflection in the glass and, thinking he’s face to face with another bird, attacks his own image. But I wouldn’t call what he is doing an “attack.” It’s too gentle. He's not doing damage other than leaving bird poop on our windowsills and porches and beak boogers on the glass.

I placed some ugly coral fish the previous owner left behind in the windows, thinking those would scare him away. He ignored them. I positioned lifesize wooden sculptures of beach people (yes, we have such things) in front of two large windows. They scared our pool guy so badly he said he almost wet his pants. The bird stayed away from those particular windows for a couple of hours then resumed his attacks. Online message boards suggested taping kraft paper over the windows so I did that where I could and lowered the storm shutters over the rest of the windows and doors, a no-no according to our community association which stipulates they are only to be deployed when a hurricane watch has been issued. But they are made from shiny aluminum so he pecks at those too.

Thursday, for the first time in weeks, we heard nothing all morning so I raised the shutters. Within seconds he was back, trying to drill his way inside. It’s almost as if he is trying to get into the house to tell us something or that there is something he wants.

Friends have suggested we buy a BB gun and blast him but we would never do that. He is an exquisitely beautiful creature. And, in a strange way, we have come to admire his exuberance and persistence.

That said, it is tiresome living in a dark house with barking dogs. 

The boy in the oval picture frame

This column was first published in the Wilton (Conn.) Villager the week before Memorial Day, 2000. It was reprinted in the paper twice and this is the second time it has appeared on tomdryden.com. Several people mentioned in the original have died since I wrote it, and I've made a few updates to reflect their passing.

Atop a table in our guest room is a hand-tinted photograph, taken in the summer of 1933.

The photo is of my grandparents, Burton and Judith Tate, and the first four of what would eventually become a brood of 14 grandchildren born over a span of 35 years.

On my grandfather's lap is my cousin Robert, six months old. Robert grew up to be a computer specialist. Grandma is holding another baby, my cousin Nancy. She grew up to be a nurse. Kneeling in front of them is my six-year-old cousin Paul, who, when he grew up, married his childhood sweetheart and became an Army General. Next to Paul is my cousin Jimmy, a boy of four. Jimmy was killed in Korea in 1951. He was 21.

Nancy, Paul and Jimmy were the children of my mother's sister, Margaret, a tiny wisp of a woman. In 1923, Margaret married a giant of a man, Pat Timmerberg, who stood six feet three inches tall. Pat's parents had immigrated from Germany and settled on a farm near my grandparents' Missouri home. When America entered World War I, Pat joined up and was shipped off to fight his own people in the fields of France. When he returned, he was a soldier through and through, who loved to sing war songs and tell war stories.

Margaret and Pat's oldest, Paul, joined the army in 1945, the year he graduated from high school, just in time for VJ Day. Like his father, Paul showed a natural aptitude for soldiering. He was selected for Officer Candidate School and, shortly thereafter, was a Second Lieutenant, on his way to earning his stars.

Jimmy, who graduated from high school in 1947, enlisted in the army the next year, when he was 19. After basic training, he was sent to Colorado, where he captained the 21st Engineer's basketball team. He was shipped to the Yukon for eight months, back to Colorado and, in August, 1950, to Korea, where he was a machine gunner with the 21st Infantry Regiment of the 24th Division.

Jimmy was killed in action near Changgong-Ni on April 28, 1951. His tour of duty was almost over.

When they received word of Jimmy's death, the Timmerbergs were preparing for Nancy's high school graduation. She had graduated first in her class, and was looking forward to giving the valedictorian's speech at Montgomery City High School. She went ahead and delivered it, though her heart was broken and the audience knew it.

In those days before jet planes, families often had to wait months for their loved ones to arrive home for burial. Jimmy's flag-draped casket arrived in Montgomery City on a Wabash train on November 20, and he was buried with full military honors. According to his obituary posted on cousin Robert's family web site, a quartet sang "In The Sweet By and By" and "Safe In The Arms of Jesus." A solo, "God Understands," was also performed. My mother couldn't attend. She was in the hospital, having given birth to me three days earlier.

We visited Aunt Margaret and Uncle Pat often when I was growing up. They were always full of news about Paul and Nancy and their growing families. But I was always aware of the presence of a third Timmerberg cousin, a handsome dark-haired boy of 18 or so with a fixed broad smile, who peered from a gold oval frame on the dining room wall. Of him, never a word was spoken.

Pat died in 1963 and Margaret, who lived alone, began spending a lot of time at our house with my mother. They spent hours discussing the family and events of the past. But they would never mention Jimmy. Every Memorial Day, my mother took Margaret, who never learned to drive, to the cemetery, and they would return looking grim.

As a teenager, I used to accuse Aunt Margaret of being a pessimist. She wasn't much fun to be around. She always seemed to look on the dark side, to expect the worst out of life.

I take it all back, Aunt Margaret. Now that I have held my own sons in my arms and have seen them grow into young men with their own hopes and dreams, I understand. And I want to tell you this: You were amazing. I don't know how you were able to go on, but you did.

Margaret died in 1988, and was laid to rest next to Jimmy and Pat, near my grandparents. My mother continued making the trek to the cemetery every Memorial Day until she stopped driving.

Paul died in 2008 and was buried at Arlington in an impressive military ceremony with a 13-cannon salute befitting his rank. He was inducted into the Military Police Hall of Fame and there is a building named for him at Ft. Leonard Wood.

Up to the day before she died last April, Mom talked on the phone at least once a week with the last of my Timmerberg cousins, Nancy, and kept me up to date with what was going on with her and her family.

But nobody in our family ever spoke, or speaks, of Jimmy. I don't think those who knew him can. Though his headstone has faded, the horror of his loss never will, until the last person who loved him is gone. And there aren't many of them left.

Many of my grandparents' 14 grandchildren accomplished great things. One graduated from West Point, as did Paul's son, their great-grandson. The youngest, named for his cousin Jimmy, is president of a major music company. All of us married, most had children and grandchildren, and two are even great-grandparents.

Scattered from Florida to California, the ten of us who are left will celebrate Memorial Day. We'll enjoy sunshine and picnics. And I guarantee that all of us will remember the boy in the oval picture frame on Aunt Margaret's dining room wall, the boy who, unlike the rest of us, never grew old.

I hope that, whatever else you have planned, you will also take the time to remember Jimmy Timmerberg ... the hundreds of thousands of other young men and women who paid for our freedom with their lives ... and their parents, who buried the best of themselves with them.

Mr. Fixit

I am the unhandiest man on the planet. I don’t understand how to put things together, how things work, how to maintain them, or how to fix them when they break. I don’t understand tools. I can neither comprehend nor follow instructions, especially those that use diagrams instead of words.

What I do understand, fifty years after I learned how, because my father insisted I take Latin rather than Shop, the only other elective offered to freshman males in my high school where my classmates were taught practical manly things about which I shall remain forever clueless, is how to conjugate verbs in Latin, the official language of the Roman Empire which undoubtedly collapsed because it was run by guys who sat around all day conjugating verbs rather than keeping the Colosseum and aqueducts in working order.

Go ahead. Laugh at me. Everyone does. Which makes me all the more determined, whenever something needs to be assembled or repaired, to do it myself.  I’m always convinced, whenever I start a project, that this time I’m not only going to complete it, it will be done right. But it never is and I always have to call someone in to finish the job. 

Right now I’m frustrated because I’ve spent two full days trying to repair an elaborate pool umbrella that collapsed two days ago. The pole that holds the canopy snapped off just above the round thingamajig that’s filled with sand and keeps the whole shebang from toppling over. It looked like a simple fix.

Since then, I’ve been on the phone with the manufacturer three times ordering replacement parts that now total $972.13. I was pissed today, when I visited the store where we originally bought the damned thing to get an idea of how to fit the parts I’ve taken apart back together, to see a floor model identical to ours on sale for $899 including delivery and set-up.

When the parts I've ordered arrive I’ll putz around for a couple of more days trying to figure out how they fit together with the parts I’ve disassembled from the original, and will wind up having to call Tony, the handyman I keep on speed dial, to put them all together. That’s assuming I have ordered the right parts in the first place which I probably haven’t.

Realistically, I don’t want anyone sitting under that umbrella until I’m sure it has been repaired properly because it weighs a ton and they’d be hurt or killed if it collapsed on them. 

And that, as they used to say in ancient Rome, would be a horribilis thing.

Nursery rhymes for today

Rock a Bye Baby

Rock a bye baby,

In the treetop.

When the wind blows,

The cradle will rock.

When the bough breaks,

The cradle will fall.

Then we’ll sue the tree service

For not telling us this could happen.

Jack and Jill

Jack and Jill went up the hill,

To fetch a pail of water.

Now they live in foster homes

Because Social Services says children 

need to live in buildings with running water.

Pop goes the weasel

Round and round the mulberry bush

The monkey chased the weasel.

The monkey thought t’was all in fun

Until the weasel demanded a safe space 

and that the zookeeper resign for failing to provide one.

This old man

This old man,

He played one.

He played knick-knack on what I had always told myself was my thumb but, 

with the help of my therapist, have come to realize was a part 

of me nobody should ever, ever touch without asking

which is why I’m coming forward after all these years.

Pat-A-Cake

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, 

Baker’s man, woman or trans.

Bake me a gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free cake 

As fast as you can.

There was an Old Woman

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,

She had so many children,

She didn't know what to do

Thanks to the Republicans who blocked funding for Planned Parenthood.

Old MacDonald

Old MacDonald

Had a farm

E-I-E-I-O.

And on his farm he had some chicks

But they weren't free range so PETA picketed the nation’s 

leading supermarket and restaurant chains urging them 

not to sell Farmer McDonald’s eggs 

 so now he's a greeter at Wal-mart.

Three blind mice

Three visually impaired mice.

Three visually impaired mice

Were admitted to Harvard, Yale and Princeton respectively 

because slots had been held open by the diversity officers 

in the admissions department at each school 

for applicants like them.

Georgie Porgie

Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie.

Kissed the girls and made them cry.

Now he's on the list of registered sex offenders.

Little Tommy Tucker

Little Tommy Tucker

Sings for his supper.

What shall we give him?

White bread and butter.

How can he cut it

Without a knife?

How will he be married

Without a wife

Or husband?