Horseracing around in California

I'm not all that big on horseracing, but I have been to the track a couple of times. To (the long closed) Suffolk Downs outside Boston. To (the long closed) Naragansett Race Track in Rhode Island. And when I was at the track, I did place a few $2 bets, my horses chosen based on a combination of the horse's name and the color of the jockey's silks. 

Other equine engagement: I did enjoy the Seabiscuit movie. And, of course, I was a fan of Mr. Ed. 

Other than that, I may or may not pay any attention to the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness Stakes, the Belmont Space. Maybe I'll pick up on it if the horse has the possibility of sweeping through the Triple Crown races. But if I were a betting woman, I'd bet the (horse) farm that never will I ever step hoof in Churchill Downs, Pimlico, or the Belmont Race Track. Or even Saratoga, even though I've been to the town of Saratoga Springs. 

Let alone to one of the big glam California tracks at Del Mar or Santa Anita, which were often the location used in movies of yore that involved horseracing movies like the Marx Brothers A Day at the Races or Sea Biscuit. 

And if horseracing was the Sport of Kings, in its heyday it was also the Sport of Celebrities, and news reels and pop magazines like Photoplay often showed actors, athletes, mobsters, and J. Edgar Hoover enjoying the sun and the ponies at Del Mar and Santa Anita. 

Del Mar, in fact, was built in the 1930s by Bing Crosby, and he used to hang around there with his Hollywood pals. There's still some Hurray for Hollywood attached to the Breeders' Cup, which runs at Del Mar. This year's edition attracted Elizabeth Banks and Bo Derek, among others. And offered $34M, which seems to me like a pretty fat purse. 

But all isn't well with horseracing in California. 

The state that has given one of America’s oldest sports iconic horses like Seabiscuit, Swaps and American Pharoah is rapidly falling behind Kentucky, New York and even Arkansas in purse money, which is vital to attract owners and trainers to race in California.

Last year, the state offered $165 million in purse money, for an average of more than $418,000 per racing day, according to Equibase, which keeps information and statistics for American racing. The available daily purse is more than $972,000 in Kentucky and $648,000 in New York, but those states’ purses are supplemented by money that each collects from legalized gaming. California has nothing comparable. (Source: NY Times)

Seems as if, rather than going for broke, Califorania horse racing is going broke.  

One reason is that, unlike some racetracks elsewhere, California's tracks aren't able to offer most other forms of gambling, which are the exclusive property of Native American tribes. California may be introducing a variant of the slot machine that combines a sort of slot-ish gambling tied to the results of historic races. This, the California race folks believe, will provide the tracks the means to up their purses and compete with Kentucky and New York and (huh?) Arkansas. 

Will the increase in purses halt or even reverse the downward spiral that California reacing has been on? 

Who knows?

And that downward spiral has been pretty downward spiral-ly. One example: between 2002 to 2022, breeding radically decreased. In 2002, over 400 stallions sired nearly 4,000 foals. In 2022, the studs were more productive on a per capita - or whatever you call it - basis, with a bit over 100 stallions producing 1,315 foals. (Way to go, fellas. I guess.) But do the math: one quarter the number of stallions, one third the number of foals.

Not to mention that, in 2019, Santa Anita had a really bad six month stretch in which 30 horses died. 

In response, state regulators and racing officials strengthened rules regarding the use of riding crops, medications for horses, education for trainers and jockeys, track safety and recuperation policies for injured horses.

These changes have resulted in a considerable reduction in the fatality rate. (And Del Mar has the best fatlity metric in the country.)

Horseracing may not be what it once was there, but it remains a big business in California. Betting, horse sales. 

Still, it's not clear that California horse racing will ever return to its glory days when Bing sported a boater and hung out at his track with Dorothy Lamour. 

Those were the days!

Latter day speakeasy

Given that yesterday's post was about a couple of numbskull/miscreant Boston Public School principals who scarfed up some Hamilton tickets donated to their school so that they and their kids (not Boston Publich School students, by the way) could attend, it may be that there is no dearth of numbskulls/miscreants among our fair city's public servants.

Today's proof point? A BPD officer and a fellow who works for the Boston Public Health Commission are up on charges that they were running "an illegal nightclub in a Jamaica Plain basement that offered bottle service, hookahs, and a DJ, according to court records and officials."

Bottles, and DJ's, and hookahs, oh my. Surprised that there weren't a few hookers on scene as well.

Anyway, a few years back, Richard McDermott (BPD) and Luigi D'Addieco (BPHC) rented out some space in JP, planning to run an HVAC company out of it. Now cops and other public servants moonlighting is nothing new, although in Boston it's hard to believe that a police officer with any werewithal at all couldn't pad his salary by taking advantage of the opportunities available to cops to "manage the traffic" at construction sites. (Based on my observations, these assignments involve cops standing around talking with construction guys or looking at their phones.) But maybe these guys just had the entrepreneurial urge and wanted to run their very own business. 

Anyway, the HVAC business was apparently a non-starter, so the enterprising duo set up an after-hours joint.

“The club had bouncers with magnetometers to screen patrons for weapons, a cover charge, bottle service where patrons paid over $100 for full bottles of liquor, Hookah service, a DJ to provide music and promoters who advertised the club on social media,” prosecutors wrote. Authorities said McDermott and D’Addieco were not licensed to serve alcohol. (Source: Boston Globe)

The illegal scheme was uncovered after a July 2021 shooting - outside the "club," where the magnetometers could do no good - a shooting which injured a bouncer. And here Mc Dermott and D'Addieco are, three years after the fact, at last being indicted. Justice delayed is, I guess, better than no  justice at all. And while I don't know a whole hell of a lot about criming, the charges they face seem at least a step or two up from trivial. 

McDermott was charged with witness intimidation, maintaining a gambling nuisance, and using criminal record information under false pretenses. D’Addieco was charged with withholding evidence from a criminal proceeding and maintaining a gambling nuisance, according to the district attorney’s office.

These charges don't seem to account for the fact that they were operating with a liquor license. Given how much liquor licenses cost, this has got to be a big no-no, but maybe it's "just" a civil deal and not criminal. As noted, I have blessedly limited knowledge of criming. Most of what I know I learned from watching Law and Order, Perry Mason, and Car 54, Where Are You. And reading Michael Connolly novels.

Anyway, after the 2021 shooting, when actual on-duty BPD officers showed up, they encountered McDermott - who was armed - who told the cops - who recognized him - that he had stopped into his brother-in-law's party and hadn't a clue what was going on. Which was misleading to say the least. During the investigation, D'Addieco is also alleged to have made false statements to detectives.

McDermott's certification to act as a police office was suspended once the indictment came down; the Health Commission has put D'Addieco on paid leave. 

The court date for the two is January 7th. 

Enjoy your holidays! 

Shouldn't principals have a few principles?

I may be the only person in America who hasn't seen Hamilton, but I know it's supposed to be a wonderful experience. And I'm sure I would enjoy seeing it. I like history. I like musicals. Especially if someone gave me a free ticket. 

So who could blame those two Boston Public Schools principals for grabbing a few when someone donated 14 tickets (12 for students, 2 for chaperones) to the Tobin School?

Actually, much as I might have liked being given a freebie to Hamilton, I'm going to put it right out there and say I blame then.

Here's what happened:

Back in 2023, the assistant principal at the Maurice Tobin School in Roxbury got an email from the Boston Education Development Fund, a non-profit that works doing good things for the Boston Public Schools, informing her that some group had donated the tickets. Would the Tobin like them? Why yes, yes, they would.

The assistant principal couldn't hit the send button fast enough before she was letting her boss, the school's principal (and the assistant principal's after-work buddy), know that she was appointing herself chaperone, and taking two of the tickets for her own kids. Would the principal like to be a co-chaperone. Why yes, yes she would.

And more the luck, when showtime rolled around and one of the Tobin students who'd been handpicked for the honor wasn't able to go, that "extra" ticket went to the principal's son.

Now, by 2023, Hamilton was no longer the "it" show it had been in 2015 when it opened, when Lin Manuel Miranda was strutting his stuff on stage, and when tickets were impossible to get and wicked pricey. (The seats donated to the Tobin were face-valued at $149.) But I suspect it still would have been a treat for some lucky kiddos at the Tobin School, and for a couple of teachers who would have leapt at the chance to chaperone.

I don't know much about the Boston Public Schools, other than knowing that the system is majorly majority minority. While the white population of Boston is in the low 40%'s, the school system is about 80% minority. And Roxbury, where the Tobin school is located, is not exactly an affluent part of the city. 

I'm sure there were plenty of kiddos in the Tobin school whose parents don't pull down the salary of the principal ($165+) or assistant principal ($140-ish). I realize that those salaries aren't astronomical, especially if you live in a high-cost city like Boston. It's still more than the average parent of a Tobin school student earns. 

A couple of things are really galling about this, and one is that none of the three children of the principal and assistant principal goes to the Tobin School. Hell, the three of them aren't students in the Boston Public Schools at all. Sheesh! (I also saw that a couple of these kids had already seen Hamilton a few weeks before and were thrilled to go again. The reason I'm not using names in this post is that I couldn't find the article that said these kids had seen the show.) 

Another weirdly galling thing is that the assistant principal apparently asked a senior person in the Boston Education Development Fund whether it was okey-dokey for her to take a couple of tickets for her sons and was told sure, no problem. So, she had some sense that taking the tickets might be a problem, and the numbskill at the Fund shrugged it off.

Not to mention that the principal, who maybe should have steered their colleague in a direction away from self-dealing, had no issue taking tickets. 

A real leader would have made sure those chaperone tickets went to teachers, and that those student tickets went to Tobin students.  

I get that you'd do anything for your children, and that charity begins at home, but this seems pretty shoddy, pretty unprincipled. 

And the Massachusetts State Ethics Commission agrees. Both the principal (who coincidentally/non-coincidentally is no longer at the Tobin School) and the assistant principal had to pay a $4,000 fine. Pretty hefty when held up besides a couple of $149 tickets. 

Hope they enjoyed the show!

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

Info source for this post: Boston Globe

People of the Stuff

My cousin Barbara and her husband have spent the last several months downsizing and preparing to move into senior living. Which has meant going through an awful lot of stuff: the accumulation of nearly sixty years of marriage, plus some of the accumulated stuff of her mother (my Aunt Margaret), our grandmother (Nanny), and our great-grandmother (Bridget Trainor). Then there's the extra-added attraction of the accumulated stuff of her mother-in-law (Eva).

Twenty years ago, when Barbara and Dick moved out of the the single-family home where they'd raised their kids and went into a townhouse community, we were all delighted that the storage space in their new digs was so capacious. I swear that the storage room off of the finished part of the townhouse basement is at least half the size of my full condo. So lots of room to hang on to all sorts of stuff.

And then, all of a sudden, the day of reckoning was nigh.

Their new place is lovely. But it's a lot smaller than what they're used to, and there's a lot less space for stuff.

So, along with their sons, daughters-in-law, eldest granddaughter, and another cousin, I've been helping them go through things to figure out what to take, what to give to someone in the family, what to donate, and what to trash. If it takes a village to raise a child, let me tell you it takes an equally sized village to help empty out a house - even if it's a townhouse.

When I say I have been helping "them," I really mean my cousin Barbara. Dick's aesthetic has always inclined more towards Zen monatery. He's been packing up and schlepping off to the Salvation Army with a vim and vigor that belies his age (87). But Barbara wants to go through her things - most of which, by the way, are lovely, interesting, and/or have sentimental meaning. Reverse curation, I guess. 

As I have explained to Dick (i.e., yelled at him) each time he's about to grab some teacups, vases, whatnots that Barbara hasn't yet gone through, so he can make yet another run to the Sally: Back off! This is in Barbara's DNA! She comes from a long line of People of the Stuff!

Nanny, our grandmother, was the OG stuff person in our family. 

Every available bit of space - tabletop, desktop, bookcase, dresser - was crammed with stuff: curios, knicknacks, whatnots. I have plenty of it, including Nanny's cookie jar, which takes center stage on my living room mantel. (Among the stuff flanking it, you can see one of my father's anchor bookends, a souvenir from his Navy days during WWII. And next to that, you can see a bit of a very pretty green and blue glass vase that Barbara gave me for my birthday a few years back - when we were still both in accumulation mode.)

Even before Barbara started adding to my Nanny mix, I already had acquired the steerhorns that hung over the bar in Rogers' Brothers Saloon; a mirror; two lamps; a clawfoot table; a rickety desk and chair; what had been my father's childhood dresser; and an ugly-ass grey and blue pitcher that had broken and been crudely patched together by Nanny. But now that Barbara is deaccessioning, I've acquired even more of Nanny's stuff. 

Like this hot chocolate set. From the vintage - early twentieth century - I'm guessing it was a wedding present. I'm sure Nanny got a ton of use out of it, given that within four years of her wedding day, she had three kiddos. Anyway, it's now in my downstairs' bathroom. (I'm not planning on hosting any more hot chocoloate parties than Nanny did.)

I took a few of the serving pieces from Nanny's very pretty China set - 1930-ish handpainted Noritake - but then my niece Molly decided she wanted Nanny's china. I may use that one covered bowl on Thanksgiving, but the full set - where full means that half the coffee cups are missing - is packed and ready for Molly. 

I took the two two-toned little brown vingegar jugs that had been Bridget Trainor's, and gave one each to my nieces Molly and Caroline. 

God help me, I'm eyeing that little ice chest of Nanny's - or maybe it was Bridget Trainors's - and the one side chair on wheels - items I most decidedly don't need and decidedly have no room for. But, hey, I'm a bona fide person of the stuff.

So was my Aunt Margaret. I already had one of her dining room chairs, a few paperweights (which she collected), a very nice tray and two sweet little dishes - one with lillies of the valley, the other with violets - that sit on what had been my father's dresser holding, well, small stuff. But I haven't left Barbara's empty handed of Peg's stuff: I've taken a few trinkets. 

My mother was also a colossal person of the stuff, and I've lost all track of how much of her stuff I have around here: vases, decorative plates, her mixing bowl, the aluminum pan she used for brownies and barmbrack, a side chair, and two lovely water colors her artist friend Ann Curtain gave her as a wedding gift. Her silver. The nice date book from some museum in which she kept track of birthdays. The entry for her birthday, November 8th, just says Me. (Tell me you could part with that.) Some  of her OG Christmas ornaments. (And a couple that were Nanny's. Because why not.)

Anyway, I've got People of the Stuff from both sides. My sisters are both the same way. 

My sister Kath is in the process of preparing to move out of their big place in Brookline, and find a place that's more manageable (i.e., isn't on four floors with steep staircases). Her place is packed with fabulosity - both her own and some family gems. (I am about the inherit the sweet little wood-framed Madonna and Child that was on the wall in our childhood bedroom.) Kath has not, of course, wanted to take anything from Barbara's downsizing, much as she might actually want it. But I did find the one thing I just knew she would cherish: a gold catechism medal that Nanny was awarded in 1894, when she was twelve years old. Kath is thrilled to have it. 

My sister Trish is also the beneficiary of some of Barbara's downsizing: table, chairs, some Roseville pottery.

Fortunately, although their new place will be far smaller than what they're used to, Barbara will be able to take enough of her stuff with her to make the new place feel like home. 

The process of going through all of Barbara's stuff with her has been bittersweet. Every item - and there are plenty of them - has a memory, some meaning, associated with it. We probably took longer to sort through her stuff than we technically needed to take, but there have been so many good stories. That Noritake china set that Molly's taking? (That creamer, btw, shows the pattern. This is the pic I texted to Molly to see if she wanted the set.) Apparently, when Aunt Margaret became engaged, Nanny wanted to invite Uncle Ralph's family over to dinner and didn't feel she had decent enough china. So off she went - I suspect to Coghlin's in downtown Worcester - to buy the Noritake. I don't know who Nanny was so all-fired in need of impressing. It's not like Uncle Ralph's family were some sort of grandees. His mother had died when he and his brothers were still pretty young, and his father was a Worcester cop. 

Anyway Nanny was a notoriously dreadful cook. Perhaps she felt that having nice, new china would detract from the awfulness of the meal. 

I am happy that I was able to go through all of Barbara's stuff with her. It was a way of remembering, a way of honoring her possessions, a way of recognizing our kinship as People of the Stuff. And of the joy we take in both acquiring new stuff, and hanging on to the stuff of our family members. (I could write another chapter on going through Barbara's wonderful - mostly very arty - costume jewelry, and collection of gorgeous scarves. But that's a story for another day.)

A few years from now, I'll be doing the same thing here. Going through my stuff, reminiscing about where I got it, about whose it once was. I'll be hauling stuff to Goodwill, I'll be tossing stuff in the trash, but there's lot of stuff I'll want to find a good home for. 

There are plenty of People of the Stuff out there that might be delighted to have that hot chocolate set. 

Move over, Harvey Weinstein

In truth, I didn't pay a ton of attention to the Harvey Weinstein saga.

Of course, I knew the story at the highest level, and recognized some of the big names Weinstein, a major movie producer, exploited. And I'm glad he's met his comeuppance, and will likely spend the remainder of his loathsome life in prison. Good riddance!

I've also been aware since, like, forever, that there was such a thing as the casting room couch, and that many young aspiring actresses have slept their way, if not to the top, then at least into a role or two. (I can't be the only one who remembers the jokes about Nancy Reagan that included references to both Grade-B movies and blowjobs.) 

Not that Hollywood was the only industry where young women were pressured to provide sex in exchange for opportunity. I can't say it was exactly prevalent in the places I worked in the boring, unglamorous world of technology. Although I certainly had colleagues who were pressured by senior execs. One woman I was friendly with was hit on by the company president at the annual holiday party. N (very pretty and a fabulous dancer) was on the dance floor with C - widely regarded as a cad and an ahole - when C, presuming on his allure (not!) said to her "if I weren't the president of the company, you'd sleep with me." N reported back to me that her response was, "if you weren't the president of the company, I wouldn't be dancing with you." C was also rumored to have hired a woman who was selling office furniture for our new digs and given her what was a coveted position on the strategy team. Hmmmm.

And I do not know many/any woman who hasn't had a "Me, Too" moment - whether presonal or professional - in her life.

One of the things I admire about the younger women in the workforce is that they will not put up with the casual and not-so-casual sexism and harassment that my generation did. 

And overall, I've mostly thought about harassment and exploitation as being a women's issue. 

Apparently not, as I came to realize when I read about Mike Jeffries, the former CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch, a now 80-year-old scuzzbucket who was recently, alongside his partner Matthew Smith, arrested on sex trafficking and interstate prostitution charges.

A federal indictment alleges Jeffries — along with Smith, his romantic partner, and [JamesJacobson], who was described as a recruiter — operated an "international sex trafficking and prostitution business” from 2008 to 2015.

It alleges that they organized “sex events” in England, France, Italy, Morocco, St. Barts and New York for Jeffries, Smith and “others.” They “employed coercive, fraudulent and deceptive tactics in connection with the recruitment, hiring, transportation, obtaining, maintaining, solicitation and payment of the men to engage in commercial sex.”

The men who attended the events allegedly were led to believe that it could lead to modeling opportunities or help their careers or “that not complying with requests for certain acts during the Sex Events could harm their careers.” (Source: NBC News)

Yuck. Ugh. Disgusting. All these poor young men, hoping to mae it in modeling or fashion, perhaps hoping to meet an older Mr. Right, maybe just hoping to go on a pricey trip to some splosh place, preyed upon by these bastards.

 The men had to sign NDA's. When they got to St. Bart's or wherever, they had to give over their wallets and phones, so they were pretty much trapped. The trio also had a number of staff members whose job was to make sure the sex events - build as "tryouts," by the way - went off without a hitch.

There were, of course, plenty of beautiful young men for Jeffries to pick and choose from. Male models? Young, beautiful, and often gay? Michael Jeffries, like Harvey Weinstein, was an aging, not particularly attractive creep. But an aging, not particularly attractive creep with access to all sorts of gorgeous young men." (Abercrombie's brand, in particular, was known for wanting beautiful people in their ads and working in their stores.)

The staff provided Jeffries, Smith and the men who attended alcohol, muscle relaxants known as "poppers," lubricant, Viagra, and condoms among other items. Either Jacobson or the staff paid the men for attending the sex events, the indictment said.

All very Jeffrey Epstein, that's for sure.

Look, I may think that modeling is a pretty dumb ass profession. And I may - at least on occasion - have asked myself what did these fellows expect when they jetted off to St. Bart's for a tryout? (As I asked the same question about the young women who willingingly knocked on Harvey Weinstein's door at some fancy Beverly Hills hotel.) 

Sure, maybe they should have known better. But they were all young, ambitious, and wanting to get ahead in an industry where sex sells - and buys. So they got on the plane, knocked on the door, hoping against hope that the guy making it possible was just trying to be a good guy. But ain't none of them signed up to be doped up and violently raped. 

Hope Jeffries and company get what they deserve. And that's not high end booze, poppers, and free-reign sex in luxury venues, with young guys who just wanted to impress the big guy and get a job.

And today's earworm is "Running Bear"

I'm always on the lookout for quirky little stories, and a few weeks ago, I happened upon a doozie.

Oh, the core story was interesting enough:

A woman from Hong Kong pleaded guilty Friday in federal court in Vermont to a charge of smuggling for trying to illegally transfer more than two dozen protected turtles from the United States into Canada. (Source: Boston Globe)

But the real devilish details were what I found most intriguing. 

Wan Yee Ng was arrested June 26 at an Airbnb in Canaan, Vt., as she was about to get into a inflatable kayak on Lake Wallace with a duffle bag, which authorities later found contained 29 live eastern box turtles individually wrapped in socks, according to court records.

Airbnb? Inflatable kayak? Duffle bag full of live box turtles - worth about $40K - wrapped in socks? 

What a story! 

Then it got even more interesting:

Ng was caught holding the goods just before she got into her inflatable kayak to ferry the turtles into Canada, from where they were destined to make their way to Hong Kong. And while US Boarder Patrol was taking Ng into custody, they heard from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police - the Dudley Doright Mounties - that they'd stopped her co-conspirator (presumed to be her husband), who was madly "paddling toward the middle of the lake from the Canadian side." 

One of the reseasons that the co-conspirator is presumed to be Ng's husband is that at the time this was all going down, her husband wrote and posted a review of an Airbnb "directly across the lake from Ng's rental." (Here's hoping that at least he got a good reference from the Airbnb owner.)

Border Patrol and the Mounties keep a close eye on Lake Wallace because it's frequently used for human and narcotic trafficking. And now turtle smuggling. 

Darn the luck for Ng and her co-conspirator (husband), as she's looking at a long prison sentence (up to 10 years) and a steep fine (up to $250K).

But the image that sticks with me from this peculiar little episode is that of Running Bear and Little White Dove, the young lovers who, a la Romeo and Juliet, couldn't be with each other because their tribes were enemies. The saga of Running Bear (young Indian brave) and Little White Dove (his lovely Indian maid) was captured in a song, Running Bear, the Number One tune on the Billboard Hot 100 for three weeks in January 1960, a time when my 10 year old ear was glued to WORC. So I heard a lot of Running Bear. (I can completely, with 100% accuracy, sing along with it to this day.) 

The young lovers were used to mooning at each other across the raging expanse of the river that separated them. Unlike Ng and her co-conspirator (husban), they didn't have access to an inflatable kayak. Or even a birch bark canoe. So: 

Running Bear dove in the water
Little White Dove did the same
And they swam out to each other
Through the swirling stream they came
As their hands touched and their lips met
The raging river pulled them down
Now they'll always be together
In that happy hunting ground

I don't imagine there's going to be any happy hunting ground on earth for Ng and her co-conspirator (husband). 

Meanwhile, Running Bear is my current earworm.

You're welcome!

At the 11th hour, on the 11th day, of the 11th month

It's Veterans' Day, so I'll be thinking in general about those who have served our country by being in the military, and about the many veterans I have known and loved, foremost among them my father, who spent four years in the Navy during World War II.

This day used to be called Armistice Day, after the Armistice that ended the "war to end all wars." It was renamed once World War II made it clear that the bit about ending all wars didn't happen. So the world war that took place between 1914 and 1918 became known as World War I.

I think about both of those wars because they played an instrumental role in making me the me who I became.

My mother was born in 1919 in Romania, in a town called Neue Banat. She was an ethnic German. Everyone in Neue Banat was. My grandparents had also been born in Neue Banat, but the country wasn't Romania at that point. It was the Banat region of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. After the war ended, the Banat region was declared part of Romania.

My grandfather had been a soldier during the war, fighting in the army of whoever it was who succeeded Archduke Franz Ferdinand, whose assissination triggered the war in 1914. A number of his brothers were also in the army. Jacob Wolf came from a large family - 9 or 10 children, almost all boys - and several of those brothers were killed in combat. My grandfather survived, but his war had been hell. To get home, he hitched part of the way riding on the undercarriage of a railroad car, strapped to the struts by the big leather belt that he wore over his greatcoat. I grew up believing that, to survive, at one point he'd eaten rats. My sister Kathleen claims cats. (I'll need to check with my Aunt Kay, the lone surviving Wolf child, but she was only seven when my grandfather died,  so she may not know the story, which I likely heard - or misheard - from my grandmother.)

Anyway, once Jake Wolf got home, he promptly went and married his fellow Neue Banater, Magdalena Folker, who promptly got pregnant with my mother.

The family decided to emigrate, as many members of the Wolf and Folker families chose to do before and after World War I, and after World War II, for that matter. There were relatives who were immigrants in both the US and Canada, but Jake and Lena decided on the US, on Chicago, where my grandfather had a brother. 

Why did they come? An economic decision, to be sure. Even with several brothers killed during the war, there were still plenty of Wolf brothers contending for the small farm. But I also think that they'd seen enough. At least my grandfather had. And he wanted his family to find prosperity and peace in the new world. So off they went. 

They came through Ellis Island, which my mother - then nearing the age of four - had vague memories of. They were there a while, as my grandparents had misunderstood the amount of money their sponsor - my great-uncle Joe Wolf - had to put up for them. They thought it was $25 a family. It was $25 a head. So they had to wait a while for the cash to be raised and wired from Chicago. The family was separated: Jake over to the men's dormitory, Lena and little Lizzie off to the family unit. My mother remembered my no-doubt bewildered grandmother crying. No surprise there. She was all of 23 years old, no English, and still grieving the two-year old who had died shortly before they got on the boat. 

All ended well enough, and they were off to Chicago on the train, where they built a good life. My grandfather was a butcher who ended up opening his own market, and also investing in rental property. The family owned a nice Chicago bungalow, and a summer house on a lake about 50 miles north of the city.

So when I think of World War I on Veterans' Day, I'm not thinking "Over There" or the Fighting 69th. I'm thinking about Jacob Wolf suffering through it and making the wise decision to get out of Europe while the gettin' was good.

The other part of my origin story involves World War II.

As my father always told us, if you were in the service, you went where Uncle Sam sent you. And Uncle Sam sent my father to Norfolk, Virginia. To Trinidad. And to Navy Pier in downtown Chicago.

My parents met on a blind date - one of his Navy friends conspiring with his girlfriend to find a nice Catholic girl for my father. And the rest became history. That first date was in early January, 1945. They became engaged while at a football game at Soldiers Field right after the atomic bombings, when my father figured he wouldn't be sent to the South Pacific - his likely next stop. They married in late November and my father moved into that bungalow on 4455 North Mozart, where my parents lived - along with Jake and Lena, my Aunt Mary (who was 20), Uncle Jack (15), Bob (5), and Kay (2) - until March 1946, when my father and his war bride moved back to my father's home town of Worcester. 

They had to leave Chicago because they couldn't find a place to live, even in one of my grandparents rental units, and there was only so long that my father and pregnant, as of early 1946, mother were going to be able to stay at 4455 North Mozart.

The rest is history...

Happy Veterans Day to all who served, with a special posthumous shout out to Jake Wolf and Al Rogers. Thanks, guys.