For those who love travel, maps, baseball, fall foliage, and the city of Boston, Bostonography is a cool website. I particularly like the Red Sox/Yankees Radio Map
which shows where across the Northeast one can listen to either a Red Sox or Yankees radio broadcast on a lazy summer evening.
The Ito World website is also great for maps. It includes this fascinating, but rather grim Map of Traffic Fatalities.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Rust Belt Blues?
I read an interesting article in The Atlantic, "Stuck, Or Content?", by Julie Irwin Zimmerman. She responds to writer Richard Florida's post, "The Geography of Stuck", in which he claims that in certain parts of the country, namely the Midwest and most parts of the South, residents are unable to move to more "mobile" places, such as the East and West Coasts, and the Rocky Mountain region, leaving them stuck in hapless, run-down, areas without a future. The implication from Florida is that these people, if given the opportunity, would happily abandon their homes in Ohio, Kentucky, and Wisconsin, for greener pastures in Las Vegas, New York, or Miami.
Zimmerman, who grew up in Silicon Valley, a "mobile" place on the West Coast, has now lived in Cincinnati (land of the Stuck) for fifteen years and has no plans of leaving. She mentions her beautiful, historic, large, yet affordable house, her easy drives around town, and the close-knit, long-lasting relationships that exist in abundance in these places as reasons why she feels many people are not stuck here, but content.
This struck me because I have returned to a "stuck" location, my hometown of Anderson, Indiana, after living for seven years in a "mobile" locale - Phoenix, Arizona, and I agree with her. I didn't leave Arizona because I had to. I also didn't leave because I wasn't happy. My time in Arizona was amazing and I wouldn't trade it for anything. But there are special characteristics about places like Anderson, Indianapolis, Cincinnati. And despite the weather, the mountains, the palm trees, the pools, the new neighborhoods, the shopping, the Mexican food, and the resorts, eventually it came time to leave the Valley of the Sun and come home.
The responses from friends in Phoenix were funny when they found out I was leaving for Indiana. At first came the expected, "Why would you do that? It's so cold there! So grey, so old, so blah!" But then, from those who had come from places like Illinois, Wisconsin, Ohio - "Man, but I sure do miss the leaves changing. I miss Wrigley Field. I miss my high school buddies. I miss my favorite ma and pa restaurant that makes the greatest barbecued ribs, beef tenderloin, cheeseburger, chili dogs, milkshake. I miss my parents. The lake. Summer - you know, real summer, when it's not 110 degrees and there are cookouts and county fairs and family reunions."
There are few hometown loyalties that run deeper than most people's love for their region's sports teams. So go to a sports bar in Los Angeles on any fall Sunday. You'll see them there every time. The guys in the corner from Pennsylvania wearing Steelers jerseys. The folks at the bar from Ohio clad in Browns gear. The men in the back dressed in navy and orange from Illinois. It is their weekly connection to their true identities. (Bob may live in Marina del Rey, but he is a Pittsburgher.) Seeing all those residents of Southern California decked out in apparel from a city thousands of miles away makes me wonder if each of those people who has left their longtime home in the Midwest for some place newer, warmer, or more trendy, still wonders if that was the way it was "supposed" to be, and, if eventually they should maybe get back home.
I know that's how I felt. It was almost like my time in Arizona was hitting the pause button on my "real" life in Indiana. "Just let me get away for a while," I thought, "because I'd like to explore for a while, but don't worry, I'll be back and we can pick up where we left off." And that is exactly what happened.
In Anderson, I have moved back into my old neighborhood of Edgewood. In many ways it is the antithesis to a Phoenix neighborhood. Each house looks different. The yards are spacious. The trees are huge. The ugly concrete block walls separating each house are...non-existent. This is the type of fantastic neighborhood that really doesn't even exist in many large cities on the coasts. Or if it does exist, each house costs hundreds of thousands of dollars. The windy, hilly roads are all but void of traffic. I see more dogs than cars on the road on my daily run through the giant Oaks and Sycamores.
I used to try to describe to my friends in Phoenix the taste of Gene's Root Beer, an Onion Burger from The Lemon Drop, a slice of Around the World at Art's Pizza, or a square of Pizza King's Royal Feast with Barbecue Sauce. No description necessary now as I can just smile with my mouth full at the friend across from me in the booth.
So I am content here, not stuck. When I see old friends around town, those who have never left Anderson to live anywhere else, they ask, "Why in the world did you come back here?" I say, "I missed it. I love it. I am so happy to be home." They can't believe it. I tell them if they just left for a while, maybe they would understand.
I don't think one place is greater than another. Rather, I feel that a person can be content living in any place in this country. And it saddens me that so many people feel it necessary to trash places like Anderson because they have bought into the idea that one must live in an exclusive place in order to be happy. After a year of reuniting with old friends, family, restaurants, and stadiums, I've found that it's just not the case.
Zimmerman, who grew up in Silicon Valley, a "mobile" place on the West Coast, has now lived in Cincinnati (land of the Stuck) for fifteen years and has no plans of leaving. She mentions her beautiful, historic, large, yet affordable house, her easy drives around town, and the close-knit, long-lasting relationships that exist in abundance in these places as reasons why she feels many people are not stuck here, but content.
This struck me because I have returned to a "stuck" location, my hometown of Anderson, Indiana, after living for seven years in a "mobile" locale - Phoenix, Arizona, and I agree with her. I didn't leave Arizona because I had to. I also didn't leave because I wasn't happy. My time in Arizona was amazing and I wouldn't trade it for anything. But there are special characteristics about places like Anderson, Indianapolis, Cincinnati. And despite the weather, the mountains, the palm trees, the pools, the new neighborhoods, the shopping, the Mexican food, and the resorts, eventually it came time to leave the Valley of the Sun and come home.
The responses from friends in Phoenix were funny when they found out I was leaving for Indiana. At first came the expected, "Why would you do that? It's so cold there! So grey, so old, so blah!" But then, from those who had come from places like Illinois, Wisconsin, Ohio - "Man, but I sure do miss the leaves changing. I miss Wrigley Field. I miss my high school buddies. I miss my favorite ma and pa restaurant that makes the greatest barbecued ribs, beef tenderloin, cheeseburger, chili dogs, milkshake. I miss my parents. The lake. Summer - you know, real summer, when it's not 110 degrees and there are cookouts and county fairs and family reunions."
There are few hometown loyalties that run deeper than most people's love for their region's sports teams. So go to a sports bar in Los Angeles on any fall Sunday. You'll see them there every time. The guys in the corner from Pennsylvania wearing Steelers jerseys. The folks at the bar from Ohio clad in Browns gear. The men in the back dressed in navy and orange from Illinois. It is their weekly connection to their true identities. (Bob may live in Marina del Rey, but he is a Pittsburgher.) Seeing all those residents of Southern California decked out in apparel from a city thousands of miles away makes me wonder if each of those people who has left their longtime home in the Midwest for some place newer, warmer, or more trendy, still wonders if that was the way it was "supposed" to be, and, if eventually they should maybe get back home.
I know that's how I felt. It was almost like my time in Arizona was hitting the pause button on my "real" life in Indiana. "Just let me get away for a while," I thought, "because I'd like to explore for a while, but don't worry, I'll be back and we can pick up where we left off." And that is exactly what happened.
In Anderson, I have moved back into my old neighborhood of Edgewood. In many ways it is the antithesis to a Phoenix neighborhood. Each house looks different. The yards are spacious. The trees are huge. The ugly concrete block walls separating each house are...non-existent. This is the type of fantastic neighborhood that really doesn't even exist in many large cities on the coasts. Or if it does exist, each house costs hundreds of thousands of dollars. The windy, hilly roads are all but void of traffic. I see more dogs than cars on the road on my daily run through the giant Oaks and Sycamores.
I used to try to describe to my friends in Phoenix the taste of Gene's Root Beer, an Onion Burger from The Lemon Drop, a slice of Around the World at Art's Pizza, or a square of Pizza King's Royal Feast with Barbecue Sauce. No description necessary now as I can just smile with my mouth full at the friend across from me in the booth.
So I am content here, not stuck. When I see old friends around town, those who have never left Anderson to live anywhere else, they ask, "Why in the world did you come back here?" I say, "I missed it. I love it. I am so happy to be home." They can't believe it. I tell them if they just left for a while, maybe they would understand.
I don't think one place is greater than another. Rather, I feel that a person can be content living in any place in this country. And it saddens me that so many people feel it necessary to trash places like Anderson because they have bought into the idea that one must live in an exclusive place in order to be happy. After a year of reuniting with old friends, family, restaurants, and stadiums, I've found that it's just not the case.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Dallas - JFK
By far the most fascinating aspect of my trip to Dallas was visiting the site of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. I had been there once before, but only for around ten stress-filled minutes. You see, typically when one wants to visit the site of the JFK assassination, one should not be driving a giant Penske moving truck. Unfortunately, though, this was the case as my father and I were driving a truck with all of my family's possessions as we moved from Phoenix to Indianapolis. Try to find a parking space behind the Texas School Book Depository in the middle of the day with a twenty-six foot truck. Our efforts were thwarted then, which left me even more hungry to see what I already considered a must-see location in my lifetime.
For whatever reason, of all the stories my dad, a history teacher, told me as a kid about everything from the American Revolution to the Battle of Iwo Jima, the JFK story was always my favorite. The aura of the Kennedys. The turmoil of the sixties. The controversy. The conspiracy theories. The morbid curiosity of seeing someone's head explode in front of hundreds of people. My heart starts pounding just writing about it.
Another amazing aspect of the site is how unchanged it is from that fateful day in November, 1963. Dealey Plaza was already a memorial park! What if the assassination would've happened on a city street lined with businesses? What business would willingly give up its building to construct a museum and memorial? And, even knowing that eventually a museum would emerge, surely all of the surrounding buildings would be remodeled or reconstructed in ways that would make the site look nothing like it did in 1963. All of this is moot, however, at Dealey Plaza, because the park was created way back in the 1930s to essentially stay the same for generations to come. Additionally, most of the buildings east of the park are government occupied - the courthouse, the county jail, the county service building. So those buildings are easily able to stay the same, too. Ironically, the only building that faced even a threat of demolition was the Texas School Book Depository. The company moved to a modern facility outside downtown in the late 1970s, leaving the building vacant. Finally, Dallas County bought the building and installed county offices and, eventually, the Sixth Floor Museum.
I sat on the Grassy Knoll for about a half hour as the sun went down one evening. I first thought about how calm and serene the location was on this lazy summer evening, and how much different it must have been in the chaos of November 22, 1963, as people dove for cover, screamed in horror, and ran up this very hill in search of a gunman as the shots echoed off the buildings.
Next, I thought about how quickly things can change in life. In the museum, audio of a local announcer plays on the speaker. The announcer goes on about how the threats to the president here in Dallas were obviously nothing to be worried about. The wife of Governor Connally, who was riding along in the car apparently leaned in and said to JFK, the moment before he was shot, "Mr. President, you can't say that Dallas doesn't love you!"
Forget that he's the president. There was a man, sitting in a car on a beautiful day, next to his wife, the mother of his two little children, and as they had a pleasant conversation, a bullet pierced his neck, causing him to clutch his throat. His wife, horrified, tried to help him while figuring out what had happened, and as she attempted to calm him, his head exploded from the second shot, pieces of his brain fell on her beautiful pink coat, and she, in shock, climbed onto the back of the car, not knowing what else to do.
Life changes that quickly. Changed by someone the Kennedys had never met.
It bothers me that other people, people you don't know at all, have the ability to end your life. Anyone, at any time, can completely alter your life forever. And there's not a whole lot we can do about it. So I thought about how that has happened so many times to the Kennedy family, and thought about how that has happened, to a lesser extent, in my own life. I wondered what JFK thought about when he woke up that morning, and if he had any sense at all of finality or reflection on his life that day.
The picture in the museum that stood out most to me was that of Lyndon Johnson taking the oath aboard Air Force One to become the next president. I wasn't looking at him, however - I was fixated on Jackie. The expression on her face in that picture is possibly the most profound, intriguing look of anyone in a picture that I've seen. All at one time, she is trying to reconcile in her mind what has just happened, what she could have done to change the outcome, how the death of her husband will affect her life, her children's lives, her family and friend, her nation. All the while, she is trying to look composed, knowing that she is being filmed and photographed for posterity as Vice President Johnson ascends to the position held by her husband only hours before.
On Elm Street, there are two white "Xs" painted in the center lane where two of the shots hit the president. I watched hundreds of cars pass by, and almost every one in the center lane moved over to avoid going directly over the Xs. I searched the internet to see if there was any documentation of this. Is it a superstition? Do Dallasites discuss how none of them should drive over the Xs out of reverence for JFK? I found nothing. But I know what I saw. Hardly anyone drove over the X. I have no idea why. But it adds to my already overflowing intrigue.
For whatever reason, of all the stories my dad, a history teacher, told me as a kid about everything from the American Revolution to the Battle of Iwo Jima, the JFK story was always my favorite. The aura of the Kennedys. The turmoil of the sixties. The controversy. The conspiracy theories. The morbid curiosity of seeing someone's head explode in front of hundreds of people. My heart starts pounding just writing about it.
Another amazing aspect of the site is how unchanged it is from that fateful day in November, 1963. Dealey Plaza was already a memorial park! What if the assassination would've happened on a city street lined with businesses? What business would willingly give up its building to construct a museum and memorial? And, even knowing that eventually a museum would emerge, surely all of the surrounding buildings would be remodeled or reconstructed in ways that would make the site look nothing like it did in 1963. All of this is moot, however, at Dealey Plaza, because the park was created way back in the 1930s to essentially stay the same for generations to come. Additionally, most of the buildings east of the park are government occupied - the courthouse, the county jail, the county service building. So those buildings are easily able to stay the same, too. Ironically, the only building that faced even a threat of demolition was the Texas School Book Depository. The company moved to a modern facility outside downtown in the late 1970s, leaving the building vacant. Finally, Dallas County bought the building and installed county offices and, eventually, the Sixth Floor Museum.
I sat on the Grassy Knoll for about a half hour as the sun went down one evening. I first thought about how calm and serene the location was on this lazy summer evening, and how much different it must have been in the chaos of November 22, 1963, as people dove for cover, screamed in horror, and ran up this very hill in search of a gunman as the shots echoed off the buildings.
Next, I thought about how quickly things can change in life. In the museum, audio of a local announcer plays on the speaker. The announcer goes on about how the threats to the president here in Dallas were obviously nothing to be worried about. The wife of Governor Connally, who was riding along in the car apparently leaned in and said to JFK, the moment before he was shot, "Mr. President, you can't say that Dallas doesn't love you!"
Forget that he's the president. There was a man, sitting in a car on a beautiful day, next to his wife, the mother of his two little children, and as they had a pleasant conversation, a bullet pierced his neck, causing him to clutch his throat. His wife, horrified, tried to help him while figuring out what had happened, and as she attempted to calm him, his head exploded from the second shot, pieces of his brain fell on her beautiful pink coat, and she, in shock, climbed onto the back of the car, not knowing what else to do.
Life changes that quickly. Changed by someone the Kennedys had never met.
It bothers me that other people, people you don't know at all, have the ability to end your life. Anyone, at any time, can completely alter your life forever. And there's not a whole lot we can do about it. So I thought about how that has happened so many times to the Kennedy family, and thought about how that has happened, to a lesser extent, in my own life. I wondered what JFK thought about when he woke up that morning, and if he had any sense at all of finality or reflection on his life that day.
The picture in the museum that stood out most to me was that of Lyndon Johnson taking the oath aboard Air Force One to become the next president. I wasn't looking at him, however - I was fixated on Jackie. The expression on her face in that picture is possibly the most profound, intriguing look of anyone in a picture that I've seen. All at one time, she is trying to reconcile in her mind what has just happened, what she could have done to change the outcome, how the death of her husband will affect her life, her children's lives, her family and friend, her nation. All the while, she is trying to look composed, knowing that she is being filmed and photographed for posterity as Vice President Johnson ascends to the position held by her husband only hours before.
On Elm Street, there are two white "Xs" painted in the center lane where two of the shots hit the president. I watched hundreds of cars pass by, and almost every one in the center lane moved over to avoid going directly over the Xs. I searched the internet to see if there was any documentation of this. Is it a superstition? Do Dallasites discuss how none of them should drive over the Xs out of reverence for JFK? I found nothing. But I know what I saw. Hardly anyone drove over the X. I have no idea why. But it adds to my already overflowing intrigue.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Dallas, Part 2
I walked a lot while in Dallas. I did so in attempt to save my employer the cost of a rental car because all of the work I needed to do was within relative walking distance. I know, what a guy, right? In the afternoons when my work for the day was complete, however, I wanted to see the city, so I relied on the new DART light rail system that recently opened. It was great, as I got to see Fair Park and the Cotton Bowl (am I the only one who desperately seeks out all stadiums and arenas whenever I'm in a new place? Yes? Okay.), Southern Methodist University (um, and their football stadium, too), NorthPark Mall for a movie, and the Deep Ellum neighborhood for a Twisted Root bleu cheese and jalapeno burger with a homemade root beer (not as good as Gene's).
One problem with taking the DART trains, though, is that after you arrive, these sites aren't exactly right next to the station. I am also an idiot, which, in part, meant that I wore my flip flops instead of tennis shoes. So, at the end of each night, my feet were killing me and I was exhausted. It was also a little disconcerting to be riding a train at night in a place where I know no one and was pretty far away from my hotel. So at the end of each day I had gone from adventurous explorer to "let's just get back to the room and watch SportsCenter" guy.
On Saturday night, around 11:30, my trip to Dallas was basically over, and I was walking back to the hotel for the final time, weary and tired, my feet killing me again. I was only one block away and thinking about how wonderful it would be to take a shower and lie in bed, watching baseball highlights and blasting the air conditioner. It was at that moment that I began to take the shortcut through the parking garage next to my hotel, a shortcut that I had discovered a couple days before. Just as I turned to cut through, I saw the back of a large Black man, too tall for the five foot bench he was lying on, sound asleep. His pants were worn and dirty, his t-shirt with some holes, his hair long and filled with dust. He clutched one bag, his only possession, in his arms as he slept.
Sadness swept over me. I never know what I'm supposed to do in that situation. My heart said to wake him and bring him to my room so he could enjoy a shower and hop in a comfortable bed. I could sleep on the floor. But would that just make him mad? Pissed that I awakened him, patronized him, or gave him a taste of luxury only to tell him goodbye and good luck ten hours later? Was there a homeless shelter? Or would he rather not be there anyway? But most of all, what is his story? How did he end up there and how could it have been prevented?
This situation was an appropriate example of why I am sometimes frustrated with the structure of life. There are so many joys yet there is so much unbearable pain. I ache so badly for that guy yet feel like there's nothing I can do about it as a long term solution. There is so much luxury here that is surrounded by so much suffering, most of which could be prevented if we cared just a little bit more about the plight of others instead of ourselves, and I know I'm as guilty as the next guy.
How do some of us have it so good and others have it so bad, and we all just let it be?
One problem with taking the DART trains, though, is that after you arrive, these sites aren't exactly right next to the station. I am also an idiot, which, in part, meant that I wore my flip flops instead of tennis shoes. So, at the end of each night, my feet were killing me and I was exhausted. It was also a little disconcerting to be riding a train at night in a place where I know no one and was pretty far away from my hotel. So at the end of each day I had gone from adventurous explorer to "let's just get back to the room and watch SportsCenter" guy.
On Saturday night, around 11:30, my trip to Dallas was basically over, and I was walking back to the hotel for the final time, weary and tired, my feet killing me again. I was only one block away and thinking about how wonderful it would be to take a shower and lie in bed, watching baseball highlights and blasting the air conditioner. It was at that moment that I began to take the shortcut through the parking garage next to my hotel, a shortcut that I had discovered a couple days before. Just as I turned to cut through, I saw the back of a large Black man, too tall for the five foot bench he was lying on, sound asleep. His pants were worn and dirty, his t-shirt with some holes, his hair long and filled with dust. He clutched one bag, his only possession, in his arms as he slept.
Sadness swept over me. I never know what I'm supposed to do in that situation. My heart said to wake him and bring him to my room so he could enjoy a shower and hop in a comfortable bed. I could sleep on the floor. But would that just make him mad? Pissed that I awakened him, patronized him, or gave him a taste of luxury only to tell him goodbye and good luck ten hours later? Was there a homeless shelter? Or would he rather not be there anyway? But most of all, what is his story? How did he end up there and how could it have been prevented?
This situation was an appropriate example of why I am sometimes frustrated with the structure of life. There are so many joys yet there is so much unbearable pain. I ache so badly for that guy yet feel like there's nothing I can do about it as a long term solution. There is so much luxury here that is surrounded by so much suffering, most of which could be prevented if we cared just a little bit more about the plight of others instead of ourselves, and I know I'm as guilty as the next guy.
How do some of us have it so good and others have it so bad, and we all just let it be?
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Dallas Is Hot
Dallas is hot.
I spent the last five days in the sweltering city of Dallas and returned today, happy to see the pouring rain and 68 degree temperatures of the Hoosier state. However, I was able to take away many things from my visit to North Texas.
First, I got to experience the passion and emotion of the Dallas Mavericks and their fans after winning their first ever NBA championship. I, along with most of the rest of the nation, had been fiercely rooting for the Mavs, or perhaps a more accurate description would be that I, along with the rest of the nation, had been fiercely rooting against the Heat and LeBron James. Either way, I was excited by the coincidental timing of their celebratory parade and my stay.
Of course, being at the parade was somewhat bittersweet because I was reminded how very far my team, the Pacers, is from this type of day. But I tried to focus on the happiness I had for guys like Rick Carlisle, Dirk Nowitzki, Brian Cardinal, and Jason Kidd for finally winning titles.
Since I am removed a bit from the hysteria as an outsider, I couldn't help but wonder how strange it is that 200,000 people, most of whom could not survive one quarter of even a high school basketball game, care so much about "their" pro basketball team winning. I mean, it's not like most of those guys on the team are even from Texas. In fact, they held the parade on Thursday instead of Saturday because owner Mark Cuban had a meeting in New York and the players were "ready to get out of town". It made me stop and think about why I pour so much of my own time into "my" teams. It's like a drug, really.
Following teams sounds so illogical when you ponder it for a while, but when you step into Notre Dame Stadium on a brisk fall afternoon, or Fenway Park on a bright summer day, it hits you in the face and draws you right back in. We're addicted to sports because very few things match the thrill of thousands of people cheering together for one cause, no matter how insignificant that "cause" may be.
I spent the last five days in the sweltering city of Dallas and returned today, happy to see the pouring rain and 68 degree temperatures of the Hoosier state. However, I was able to take away many things from my visit to North Texas.
First, I got to experience the passion and emotion of the Dallas Mavericks and their fans after winning their first ever NBA championship. I, along with most of the rest of the nation, had been fiercely rooting for the Mavs, or perhaps a more accurate description would be that I, along with the rest of the nation, had been fiercely rooting against the Heat and LeBron James. Either way, I was excited by the coincidental timing of their celebratory parade and my stay.
Of course, being at the parade was somewhat bittersweet because I was reminded how very far my team, the Pacers, is from this type of day. But I tried to focus on the happiness I had for guys like Rick Carlisle, Dirk Nowitzki, Brian Cardinal, and Jason Kidd for finally winning titles.
Since I am removed a bit from the hysteria as an outsider, I couldn't help but wonder how strange it is that 200,000 people, most of whom could not survive one quarter of even a high school basketball game, care so much about "their" pro basketball team winning. I mean, it's not like most of those guys on the team are even from Texas. In fact, they held the parade on Thursday instead of Saturday because owner Mark Cuban had a meeting in New York and the players were "ready to get out of town". It made me stop and think about why I pour so much of my own time into "my" teams. It's like a drug, really.
Following teams sounds so illogical when you ponder it for a while, but when you step into Notre Dame Stadium on a brisk fall afternoon, or Fenway Park on a bright summer day, it hits you in the face and draws you right back in. We're addicted to sports because very few things match the thrill of thousands of people cheering together for one cause, no matter how insignificant that "cause" may be.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Little Break There
I have a book that I read to my daughter when I put her to bed. This is a book that is sold in every bookstore in America, and is always in the children's section. Society encourages me to read this to my daughter. It has a series of short poems and songs. The following is the content of each poem or song:
1. A nonsensical poem in which children form a circle around a rose, each with some other flowers in their pockets, followed by the mentioning of remnants of something that has been burned, followed by the children all collapsing to the ground.
2. A large egg has gained human characteristics, including a face, arms, and legs, and he is sitting on a wall. He falls off the wall and smashes the ground so hard that his entire body is ripped apart into pieces, killing him instantly. The king of the nation in which this took place sent his soldiers on horseback to attempt to resurrect the dead human egg, but to no avail.
3. An irresponsible little girl, who was charged with the duty of keeping track of her family's sheep, has lost every one of them. She has no idea where to look, so she decides the best thing to do would be to go to her house and relax because she is pretty sure they'll figure out how to get back home. And the sheep won't just come back, but when they do, they will be so happy that they will be wagging their tails.
4. A mouse found himself in the precarious position of being stuck inside a grandfather clock. He ran up near the top of the clock, but then the clock struck one o'clock, so the loud bell scared the daylights out of him and he sprinted back down to the bottom.
5. While we sing a tune about a British coin with 1/40th the value of a pound of sterling silver and a pocket full of a grain, twenty-four blackbirds somehow get put in a pie crust, then baked in an oven. This pie full of presumably dead birds is then served to the king of a nation, and upon cutting it open the birds, who just survived being baked alive, begin to sing and fly away.
6. A cat travels to London to visit the Queen and all he ends up doing is scaring a mouse under her chair. That's it. That's what he did.
7. We count to two and then buckle a shoe. Then, for no apparent reason, we count to four and shut a door. Apparently there was a draft. After that we count to six, and pick up some sticks that are lying on the floor. We count to eight and put the sticks back down on the floor but this time we lay them straight, parallel to each other. Finally, we count to ten, and say the phrase, "A big fat hen," but aren't sure why.
8. An argumentative girl named Mary is asked how her garden grows. Instead of offering the correct answer, which would be sunlight, fertile soil, and water, she says that she has hired several beautiful maids who use silver bells and cockle shells to accomplish this task.
9. Three visually impaired mice run a lot. One time, they chased after the farmer's wife, so she mutilated them by chopping off their tails with a large knife, causing them to bleed profusely, which caused them eventually to die a slow, painful death.
10. Margery Daw is on a see-saw, which has nothing to do with the fact that her friend Jack is an indentured servant who has a new boss. Since he's really lazy, he's only going to get paid a penny a day.
11. A man named Peter loved to eat pumpkins. He and his wife had some marital problems and she threatened to leave him. So he decided to kidnap her and stuff her into a pumpkin shell, which enabled him to keep her in his possession, presumably because in order to stuff her into a pumpkin shell, he would have had to brutally murder her, chop up her body, and place her body parts into the pumpkin shell.
12. Some guy asks a sheep if he has some wool. The sheep, who can talk, says that he does. In fact, he has enough for three bags. He then oversteps his bounds by telling the man how he should use each bag. One, he suggests, should be for his boss. One should be for his woman. And the other should go to the little boy who lives down the street.
13. There is an old king named Cole who was very happy because he has an arrangement in which someone brings him a bowl of weed and his pipe, and then after he gets high he has fiddlers who play music for him.
14. Two kids named Jack and Jill went up to a well, which was located on top of a hill, to fill up their bucket with water. However, on the way, Jack fell down and split his head open, causing a traumatic brain injury. This horrifying sight caused Jill to also fall down the side of the hill, however her injuries are unknown.
15. The Muffets' daughter sat down to eat her curds and whey, apparently because her town doesn't have McDonald's. She was outside, so she probably should have anticipated this, but a small spider crawled up next to her and it completely freaked her out, so she ran away. Hopefully she left her curds and whey there and found a Waffle House.
16. Another girl, also named Mary, had a lamb. She was more successful than her predecessor, Bo Peep, presumably because she only had to take care of one lamb instead of a lot of sheep. Mary made sure to take this lamb everywhere she went. This lamb was very white.
17. During a terrible rainstorm, an old man, who was snoring, slept through the night. However, at some point, the old man bumped his head so hard on something that it rendered him unconscious, or perhaps dead, as he was unable to get up in the morning.
18. Some person has a nut tree. The entire tree produced only one nutmeg and a golden pear. We have no idea why one tree would a) only produce two items, or b) why those two items would be entirely different, i.e., a nutmeg and a pear. The novelty of this tree was so great that it caused the King of Spain's daughter to travel all the way to this tree, just to see it.
19. Three grown men are in a bathtub together naked. One man is employed as a butcher. Another of the men is a baker. The last man is a candlestick maker. All of them are "knaves," meaning that they are shady characters, perhaps immoral, of humble birth, who may be male servants.
20. There is a little boy, possibly a friend or relative of Bo Peep, who is supposed to be watching over a sheep and a cow. He has abandoned his responsibilities and decided to take a nap. He does this underneath a haystack so he won't get caught.
1. A nonsensical poem in which children form a circle around a rose, each with some other flowers in their pockets, followed by the mentioning of remnants of something that has been burned, followed by the children all collapsing to the ground.
2. A large egg has gained human characteristics, including a face, arms, and legs, and he is sitting on a wall. He falls off the wall and smashes the ground so hard that his entire body is ripped apart into pieces, killing him instantly. The king of the nation in which this took place sent his soldiers on horseback to attempt to resurrect the dead human egg, but to no avail.
3. An irresponsible little girl, who was charged with the duty of keeping track of her family's sheep, has lost every one of them. She has no idea where to look, so she decides the best thing to do would be to go to her house and relax because she is pretty sure they'll figure out how to get back home. And the sheep won't just come back, but when they do, they will be so happy that they will be wagging their tails.
4. A mouse found himself in the precarious position of being stuck inside a grandfather clock. He ran up near the top of the clock, but then the clock struck one o'clock, so the loud bell scared the daylights out of him and he sprinted back down to the bottom.
5. While we sing a tune about a British coin with 1/40th the value of a pound of sterling silver and a pocket full of a grain, twenty-four blackbirds somehow get put in a pie crust, then baked in an oven. This pie full of presumably dead birds is then served to the king of a nation, and upon cutting it open the birds, who just survived being baked alive, begin to sing and fly away.
6. A cat travels to London to visit the Queen and all he ends up doing is scaring a mouse under her chair. That's it. That's what he did.
7. We count to two and then buckle a shoe. Then, for no apparent reason, we count to four and shut a door. Apparently there was a draft. After that we count to six, and pick up some sticks that are lying on the floor. We count to eight and put the sticks back down on the floor but this time we lay them straight, parallel to each other. Finally, we count to ten, and say the phrase, "A big fat hen," but aren't sure why.
8. An argumentative girl named Mary is asked how her garden grows. Instead of offering the correct answer, which would be sunlight, fertile soil, and water, she says that she has hired several beautiful maids who use silver bells and cockle shells to accomplish this task.
9. Three visually impaired mice run a lot. One time, they chased after the farmer's wife, so she mutilated them by chopping off their tails with a large knife, causing them to bleed profusely, which caused them eventually to die a slow, painful death.
10. Margery Daw is on a see-saw, which has nothing to do with the fact that her friend Jack is an indentured servant who has a new boss. Since he's really lazy, he's only going to get paid a penny a day.
11. A man named Peter loved to eat pumpkins. He and his wife had some marital problems and she threatened to leave him. So he decided to kidnap her and stuff her into a pumpkin shell, which enabled him to keep her in his possession, presumably because in order to stuff her into a pumpkin shell, he would have had to brutally murder her, chop up her body, and place her body parts into the pumpkin shell.
12. Some guy asks a sheep if he has some wool. The sheep, who can talk, says that he does. In fact, he has enough for three bags. He then oversteps his bounds by telling the man how he should use each bag. One, he suggests, should be for his boss. One should be for his woman. And the other should go to the little boy who lives down the street.
13. There is an old king named Cole who was very happy because he has an arrangement in which someone brings him a bowl of weed and his pipe, and then after he gets high he has fiddlers who play music for him.
14. Two kids named Jack and Jill went up to a well, which was located on top of a hill, to fill up their bucket with water. However, on the way, Jack fell down and split his head open, causing a traumatic brain injury. This horrifying sight caused Jill to also fall down the side of the hill, however her injuries are unknown.
15. The Muffets' daughter sat down to eat her curds and whey, apparently because her town doesn't have McDonald's. She was outside, so she probably should have anticipated this, but a small spider crawled up next to her and it completely freaked her out, so she ran away. Hopefully she left her curds and whey there and found a Waffle House.
16. Another girl, also named Mary, had a lamb. She was more successful than her predecessor, Bo Peep, presumably because she only had to take care of one lamb instead of a lot of sheep. Mary made sure to take this lamb everywhere she went. This lamb was very white.
17. During a terrible rainstorm, an old man, who was snoring, slept through the night. However, at some point, the old man bumped his head so hard on something that it rendered him unconscious, or perhaps dead, as he was unable to get up in the morning.
18. Some person has a nut tree. The entire tree produced only one nutmeg and a golden pear. We have no idea why one tree would a) only produce two items, or b) why those two items would be entirely different, i.e., a nutmeg and a pear. The novelty of this tree was so great that it caused the King of Spain's daughter to travel all the way to this tree, just to see it.
19. Three grown men are in a bathtub together naked. One man is employed as a butcher. Another of the men is a baker. The last man is a candlestick maker. All of them are "knaves," meaning that they are shady characters, perhaps immoral, of humble birth, who may be male servants.
20. There is a little boy, possibly a friend or relative of Bo Peep, who is supposed to be watching over a sheep and a cow. He has abandoned his responsibilities and decided to take a nap. He does this underneath a haystack so he won't get caught.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Chief Anderson
"Kikthawenund" is an odd name. It is awkward and choppy. Doesn't sound intimidating or proud. It's no "Geronimo." But Kikthawenund is my guy. For better or worse.
You've heard of him, right? Maybe not. But in my hometown Kikthawenund is its namesake. Well, the Swedish version of that name, at least. Anderson. Chief Anderson. A man who was born of a Swedish father and Delaware Indian mother, who settled his people on the shores of the White River along a trading route that stretched from Cincinnati to Noblesville, Indiana, and beyond. Kikthawenund's father wanted him to have a traditional Swiss name, so he called him William Anderson. From the beginning, this settlement was known as Andersontown.
They say Anderson was a man of few words. A leader by example. One who stayed committed to his beliefs. He and his tribe had been a part of a split between the Delaware. Some Delaware were untrusting of white settlers. Others believed that these new "Americans" would be able to figure out a way to live amongst the Delaware in harmony. Since Kikthawenund was both white and Delaware, he hoped harmony could be achieved. He settled Anderson holding on to this belief.
When the great Indian warrior Tecumseh came to Andersontown to meet with Kikthawenund, hoping to garner support in Tecumseh's plan to fight William Henry Harrison and the U.S. Army in the Indiana Territory, Chief Anderson refused. He still believed in the promise of a new America.
Tecumseh went to battle with the United States at the Battle of Tippecanoe and lost his life. The Indians were soundly defeated. As a result, all Indians were forced to leave Indiana and its surrounding states and go beyond the Mississippi River, including Chief Anderson, who had been an ally to the U.S. the whole time.
Fast forward to March, 1996. I'm standing on floor of The Wigwam, my high school's 8,996-seat basketball arena. I'm wearing a traditional Indian headdress, chest plate, tasseled leather pants, moccasins, and war paint on my face (I was the school mascot). My school's basketball team, the Anderson Indians, has just won a regional playoff game. While the celebration continues on the floor, a loud, bellowing voice is heard over the loud speaker. "The Great Spirit!" someone exclaims. It is the Great Spirit, Chief Anderson, here to greet us from beyond the grave. Actually, it's P.T. Morgan, Health and P.E. teacher - Chief Anderson wasn't available, but the crowd doesn't seem to mind. "The Spirit...LIVES," he proclaims, to a throng of cheers.
Scenes like this one have played out in Anderson since the 1920s, when "Indians" replaced "Ducks" as the high school nickname (the Duck had to be replaced after he was attacked at a game by Lapel's Bulldog - maybe high schools should stick to human mascots). People in Anderson have always taken great pride in "being the Indians." Legend always had it that a Delaware himself taught the high school Indian mascot and Maiden the ritualistic dance performed before every home basketball game. However, I would be willing to wager very few graduates of Anderson High School are aware that Chief Anderson and his Indians, the original Anderson Indians, were kicked out of town forever.
My question, one that will probably never be fully answered, is, "Why did 19th and 20th Century Americans take so much pride in naming its sports teams, schools, and cities after Native Americans while at the same time encouraging the decimation and degradation of the people themselves?" Was it guilt? Reverence? "Sorry we destoryed you, but you really did put up a good fight against our rifles with your bows and arrows, so we're going to call our baseball team the 'Braves.'"
In Anderson, do we really deserve to call ourselves the Anderson Indians? Would the Chief, himself, be okay with this? Recent political pressure suggests that the nickname "Indians" may not last forever. Of course, this will be met with resistance by locals who can't believe how anyone could possibly be offended by this. "What's the big deal," they'll say. Perhaps the "big deal" is that Chief Anderson, the founder of the city, leader of the Indians, was never able to return to the city he started. He had to die in rural Kansas, dreaming of his home on the White River. And now his spirit is portrayed by a P.E. teacher, and only for the reason of pumping up the crowd about a basketball game. We took his home, then minimized his memory by attaching it to high school sports. That's why it's a big deal.
"Indians" will probably survive for the forseeable future. Certainly "Anderson" will remain the city's name, and the state will always be "Indiana - Land of the Indians." Each time I see any of the three of those words, I will remember the Chief, Kikthawenund, and hope that he has forgiven us for moving on without him.
You've heard of him, right? Maybe not. But in my hometown Kikthawenund is its namesake. Well, the Swedish version of that name, at least. Anderson. Chief Anderson. A man who was born of a Swedish father and Delaware Indian mother, who settled his people on the shores of the White River along a trading route that stretched from Cincinnati to Noblesville, Indiana, and beyond. Kikthawenund's father wanted him to have a traditional Swiss name, so he called him William Anderson. From the beginning, this settlement was known as Andersontown.
They say Anderson was a man of few words. A leader by example. One who stayed committed to his beliefs. He and his tribe had been a part of a split between the Delaware. Some Delaware were untrusting of white settlers. Others believed that these new "Americans" would be able to figure out a way to live amongst the Delaware in harmony. Since Kikthawenund was both white and Delaware, he hoped harmony could be achieved. He settled Anderson holding on to this belief.
When the great Indian warrior Tecumseh came to Andersontown to meet with Kikthawenund, hoping to garner support in Tecumseh's plan to fight William Henry Harrison and the U.S. Army in the Indiana Territory, Chief Anderson refused. He still believed in the promise of a new America.
Tecumseh went to battle with the United States at the Battle of Tippecanoe and lost his life. The Indians were soundly defeated. As a result, all Indians were forced to leave Indiana and its surrounding states and go beyond the Mississippi River, including Chief Anderson, who had been an ally to the U.S. the whole time.
Fast forward to March, 1996. I'm standing on floor of The Wigwam, my high school's 8,996-seat basketball arena. I'm wearing a traditional Indian headdress, chest plate, tasseled leather pants, moccasins, and war paint on my face (I was the school mascot). My school's basketball team, the Anderson Indians, has just won a regional playoff game. While the celebration continues on the floor, a loud, bellowing voice is heard over the loud speaker. "The Great Spirit!" someone exclaims. It is the Great Spirit, Chief Anderson, here to greet us from beyond the grave. Actually, it's P.T. Morgan, Health and P.E. teacher - Chief Anderson wasn't available, but the crowd doesn't seem to mind. "The Spirit...LIVES," he proclaims, to a throng of cheers.
Scenes like this one have played out in Anderson since the 1920s, when "Indians" replaced "Ducks" as the high school nickname (the Duck had to be replaced after he was attacked at a game by Lapel's Bulldog - maybe high schools should stick to human mascots). People in Anderson have always taken great pride in "being the Indians." Legend always had it that a Delaware himself taught the high school Indian mascot and Maiden the ritualistic dance performed before every home basketball game. However, I would be willing to wager very few graduates of Anderson High School are aware that Chief Anderson and his Indians, the original Anderson Indians, were kicked out of town forever.
My question, one that will probably never be fully answered, is, "Why did 19th and 20th Century Americans take so much pride in naming its sports teams, schools, and cities after Native Americans while at the same time encouraging the decimation and degradation of the people themselves?" Was it guilt? Reverence? "Sorry we destoryed you, but you really did put up a good fight against our rifles with your bows and arrows, so we're going to call our baseball team the 'Braves.'"
In Anderson, do we really deserve to call ourselves the Anderson Indians? Would the Chief, himself, be okay with this? Recent political pressure suggests that the nickname "Indians" may not last forever. Of course, this will be met with resistance by locals who can't believe how anyone could possibly be offended by this. "What's the big deal," they'll say. Perhaps the "big deal" is that Chief Anderson, the founder of the city, leader of the Indians, was never able to return to the city he started. He had to die in rural Kansas, dreaming of his home on the White River. And now his spirit is portrayed by a P.E. teacher, and only for the reason of pumping up the crowd about a basketball game. We took his home, then minimized his memory by attaching it to high school sports. That's why it's a big deal.
"Indians" will probably survive for the forseeable future. Certainly "Anderson" will remain the city's name, and the state will always be "Indiana - Land of the Indians." Each time I see any of the three of those words, I will remember the Chief, Kikthawenund, and hope that he has forgiven us for moving on without him.
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