“Extravagant … Excitable … Lazy”

Clare_island1For several years, anyway, I’ve had an alert on file at a site called Abebooks, formerly the Advanced Book Exchange. The alert (or want, in book-searching parlance) is for anything having to do with Clare Island, off the coast of County Mayo in the west of Ireland. It’s significant because my mother’s mother’s family were Clare Islanders who emigrated to Chicago in the 1890s.

So, not to go into all the details, recently a Clare Island item popped up through Abebooks. It’s the first volume of a sweeping scientific and cultural study of the island started in the 1990s, titled plainly "New Survey of Clare Island." I’ve known it was out there, and also have read a little bit about the history of the project. It was undertaken partly because of modern residents who are working to uncover and preserve the island’s heritage and partly because Clare Island was the site of one of the first exhaustive multidisciplinary scientific studies of a single locale anywhere in the world, back at the beginning of the last century. The results of that first Clare Island survey were published by the Royal Irish Academy from 1911 through 1915; the first summer I was in Berkeley, in 1976, I found the survey volumes at the Doe Library on campus and wasted many afternoons poring over them (and not understanding a lot of what I read, because much of the matter was rather serious biology and geology and such).

I ordered the first volume from an East Coast bookseller a couple weeks ago, and it came in the mail today. It deals with the island’s "history and cultural landscape," subjects that I might have a chance of understanding. I leafed through the book this evening, and happened across a couple of passages written within a few years of when first Martin O’Malley (in about 1895) and then his wife, Anne Moran, and children (in 1897) left their home for the city in the middle of America.

The first was written in 1892 by a kind of government inspector sent to look into conditions on the island — conditions had been deteriorating for decades, since even before famine struck in 1845 — and what might be done to improve them. Number 30 in a list of points of information sought was this: "Character of the people for industry, etc., etc." The inspector was brief and to the point:

"The inhabitants … have lost almost all habits of industry and self-reliance. They have good holdings of land as a rule, and the mountains adjacent, on which their stock graze, are celebrated for their feeding qualities; but they live very extravagantly, and in good years make no effort to lay by anything to meet adverse circumstances."

As for improvements, the inspector suggested better livestock husbandry, encouragement of fishing, abolishing traditional landholding customs, and "perhaps most important of all: Discouraging gratuitous relief being given under any circumstances. …"

The second brief account comes from an ethnographer who visited the island in 1896. As quoted in the survey:

"To the casual visitor the people are decidedly attractive. Like all dwellers in out-of-the-way places, they are somewhat shy of and suspicious of strangers at first; but after the crust is broken they are kind, obliging, and communicative. With each other they are rather social, and given to joking and laughing, and they seem to have a rather keen sense of the ludicrous. They are very excitable, and said to be somewhat quarrelsome at times. The island used formerly [to] have rather a name for outrages, but none of these seem to have been very serious, and they were most likely largely the outcome of this excitable disposition, and to the nature of the social surroundings of the time. They are decidedly talkative, especially among themselves. Drunkenness may be said to be unknown. They are very kindly to one another in times of trouble or distress. The charge of laziness has been brought against them, and with some degree of justification; but the manner in which they worked when organised by the Congested Districts Board, and when they had some real inducement to do so, leads one to think that they did not work on account of having no real interest in doing so."

It all sounds so familiar: Excitable, extravagant, lazy. Keen sense of the ludicrous. Quarrelsome. Shy and suspicious. Kind and obliging. Decidedly talkative.

Chocolate Hall of Fame Guy

A reader in Chicago who attended his first game at Wrigley Field in the early 1930s asks: Now that Ryne Sandberg is headed to the Hall of Fame, what do you think my commemorative Ryne Sandberg chocolate bar is worth? In a bygone era, before there were lights at Wrigley Field or a World Wide Web, that would have been an idle question. But now they play in the dark at Addison and Clark, and you can go online to find out the going price for any old keepsake, even a chocolate bar from a lapsed century.

I looked for the Ryne Sandberg bar on eBay, and I found three listings. One’s up for auction with an opening price of $7.99 (or $14.99 if you just want to skip the bidding and buy it right now) and has collected zero bids. Another, described as “melted a little,” asks an opening bid of $3.99 (no interest so far). The last one’s going for a buck and has failed to draw a bid even from immortal Cubs fan Steve Bartman. Maybe because the picture of the merchandise (above) is a little blurry.

My advice to the Chicago reader; Contact Christie’s.

Hall of Fame Guy

A Cubs fan (me) belatedly notes: The baseball writers, discharging their sacred annual duty, have elected Ryne Sandberg, former Cubs second baseman (actually, the first game I saw him play, one of the more memorable games I ever attended because it was called because of darkness after 17 innings, he was at third) to the Hall of Fame. Somehow, the news didn’t stir the wild elation in me that I might at one time have expected (actually, I find former A’s and Twins’ catcher Terry Steinbach getting one vote for the Hall almost as interesting as Sandberg getting elected. I’d love to hear the Steinbach partisan explain the passion that led to that vote).

My subdued reaction is due partly to my ambivalence toward baseball tipping over to estrangement. On one hand there’s the game, which still displays beautiful and subtle moments. On the other hand, there’s the relentless insistence on nonstop entertainment at the ballpark, the wacky player salaries, the prevalence of free agency and constant player movement that makes it hard to figure out just who’s on which team, and the owners and league establishment who treat fans as saps to be milked for as many bucks as possible before they’re hustled out of the park.

And then there’s simple Cubs fatigue. As Steve Goodman asked, “What do you expect when you raise up a young boy’s hopes and then just crush ’em like so many paper beer cups year after year after year after year, after year, after year, after year, after year, ’til those hopes are just so much popcorn for pigeons beneath the El track to eat?”

So, Sandberg was elected to the Hall. My first question was whether he deserved it, because my impression of his career was that he was a very good player, but not one who had the lasting dominance both in the field and at the plate to make him a Hall of Famer. I’m sure that impression is influenced by how the Cubs had a couple of moments of real brilliance during Sandberg’s career (especially winning the National League East in 1984, Sandberg’s MVP year) that ended in disappointment (losing the ’84 playoffs after going up on the Padres two games to none). They reached the playoffs just once more during his career, in 1989, when they lost four out of five to the Giants, who went on to get swept by the A’s and an earthquake.

Beside those two playoff years, the Cubs never had another winning season during his career (they were 73-71 in ’95, the year of his first retirement). That’s a little different from the last few Cubs to make it into the Hall — Ernie Banks, Billy Williams, and Fergie Jenkins — who were all part of a team that put together a decent string of winning seasons and served as the semi-tragic victims of the ’69 Mets.

But I’m not a Hall of Fame voter or a sportswriter, or even that up-close a fan of the game anymore, so maybe I’m just not remembering how good Sandberg was in the midst of all those bad, so-so, and occasionally good teams. Of course, my wet-blanket attitude does not affect Sandberg’s standing, in the opinion of Kate and many other fans of the distaff persuasion, as one of the cutest players ever.

AirBlog: O’Hare

A quick word before getting on my plane to Los Angeles, to connect to another plane to San Francisco, on my way home to what we fondly refer to as B-town in our gangsta way.

I’m in a small food court here in the American Airlines terminal. Its crowded. Lots of laptop computing going on. Starbucks is doing a good business. So’s Cinnabon and the place across the way that’s selling Michelob Ultra. An older (than me) middle-aged couple sits across the table from me with their coffees, unwrapping a couple of sweaty and deflated-looking sandwiches from Subway. “That looks like salami to me,” she says to him. They swap. I’m not letting them in on the fact they’re being quoted, for the record.

Behind them, a bearded young guy in a black hooded sweatshirt, black-and-white do-rag, black roadster cap and a stud in his lower lip sits with ear buds in place, sipping from his Michelob and reading a paperback. He looks focused.

That’s all for this post. Time to get on the plane.

Chicago Snowscape

Luntalley

Chicago got a little snow Saturday night and Sunday morning. Near the lake, more flurries came down late Sunday afternoon. A couple of inches fell at most. This is the alley behind Ann and Dan’s house on Lunt Avenue. Looks wintry, and it was cold (in the lower or mid 20s). But it’s supposed to turn springlike here by the end of the week and this little dusting of snow will be long gone.

St. Stephen’s Day Travel

Late Sunday, at my dad’s place on the far North Side of Chicago. Cold out, though warmer here than it has been recently, and there’s an inch or two of snow on the ground. Basically it’s a quick drop-in to see everyone post-Christmas: my brother John and his family are here from Brooklyn, and of course the rest of the family is rooted here in Chicago. The only thing notable about the flight from San Francisco, other than the fact I misplaced by boarding pass at the security check, was that it was the first time I’ve ever flown first class. That was the result of using frequent-flier miles at the last minute and discovering there were no coach seats available; but there were first-class seats if I was willing to pay for a few thousand extra miles to get one. So I did, and wound up getting a round-trip first-class ticket for a couple hundred bucks. There actually is a difference from coach. Lots and lots of leg room. Identifiable food. Refreshing hot towels. Actual glasses and dishes. Free alcohol, though it was a morning flight and I wasn’t inclined to avail myself of that amenity. I betrayed the fact I was a first-time first-class flier when the meal came and I couldn’t find the tray table. The attendant had to tell me where it was. My seatmate, with whom I exchanged not a word the entire trip, couldn’t find hers either. Maybe another upwardly displaced person from the coach class.

That’s all, except to mention it’s St. Stephen’s Day, the feast of my namesake saint. Beyond the name, I was always taken with St. Stephen: First, because he is said to be the first Christian martyr; stoned to death, though I have no idea who stoned him, exactly, or what he did to start the rocks flying. I also always wondered how he wound up with such a plum calendar spot — the day after Jesus’s birthday, a near guarantee that people are going to remember your day if they care. Who gave Stephen the 26th, and what was the process? The answers are out there.

‘Birthday, Bro

Let’s see. There’s some news about brothers. One hundred and one years ago today — today being December 17, 2004 — Wilbur and Orville Wright made their first halting hops into the air at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. If you have a chance to go down there sometime, the approximate start and end points for the four flights they did that day are marked. Judging by the distance alone, the accomplishment seems so modest. Eventually, they flew again; eventually the skeptics accepted they could actually do it. And the next thing you know, we have people prancing on the moon and stealth bombers flying over Baghdad. But that’s another story.

There’s more December 17th news in my life. Forty-eight years ago today — not that I remember it, but the event was documented by senior family members, doctors, nurses, and Cook County — my brother Chris was born, the third Brekke baby to appear in two years, eight months, and 15 days. Back then, it was just a family; nowadays, it would be a reality show. The Amazing Baby Race or something.

Anyway: Happy birthday, Chris!

The Tribune on Max

The Chicago Tribune is running a nearly heroic-scale obit on Max. Here’s the lead:

“Australian-born Maxwell McCrohon was a journalistic visionary whose innovations in design, story-packaging and feature writing changed the face of the Chicago journalism and had a wide impact throughout the U.S. newspaper industry.”

And a fun detail recounting his early days at the Chicago American:

“He also was a fill-in movie reviewer. A sample lead from one of his reviews: ‘The Frenchmen who produced the film version of Arthur Miller’s “The Crucible” have spread the rather bitter bread of his play with a heavily spiced syrup of sex.’ ”

12/10/04: The Seattle Post-Intelligencer is carrying Hearst’s more workaday version of the obit. The WLS site in Chicago is running the AP’s version at length. And the Washington Times has UPI’s take.

12/11/04: The New York Times has an obit, too, this morning.

Max

One of our family’s oldest and greatest friends, Max McCrohon, died yesterday. He’d been sick a long time with emphysema (I remember him as an unregenerate smoker of unfiltered Camels) and, for the past three or four years, with lung cancer. There’s a lot I could say — that everyone in my family could say — about Max (and about all the McCrohons). For now, just this: He was the one who inspired me to become a journalist and who gave me my first opportunity to work in a newsroom. And he and his wife Nancy somehow were always welcoming to the Brekke kids; their home was always, always open to us. I honestly can’t imagine what my life would have been like without him, and them.

Mom’s Day

So, certain dates come to have a meaning of their own. For me (and for the rest of my family, I think), November 26 is Mom’s birthday. She would have been 75 today. Born in Chicago in 1929, just a month after the stock market crash. Knowing that, and knowing what happened in the world over the first 12 years of her life (the Depression, the New Deal, the rise of the fascists and Nazi Germany, the war in Europe, Pearl Harbor), I’ve always imagined that she was born into a world that must have seemed, to her parents, to be on the verge of chaos or calamity. But it probably just wasn’t that way. I’ve heard that her dad, who worked for the First National Bank in Chicago, was never out of a job. At some point in the ’30s after the last of her six kids was born, her mom went back to work as a grade-school teacher in Chicago. They never lost their home or anything like that, and in fact seemed to have been an anchor for relatives who weren’t doing as well. So all that stuff happening out there in the world someplace probably seemed remote from the day-to-day cares of raising a family. And when tragedy made an indelible mark on their lives, it had nothing to do with the wider world: one of Mom’s brothers and three other relatives drowned in Lake Michigan one summer day in August 1939, her father died on lung cancer in June 1941. By then, of course, the big troubles from outside were starting to squeeze in on everyone, though maybe the family story and the world story never really did twine together; I guess I imagine they did from having a rough outline of what was going on around the family in my head, on one hand, and having heard lots of stories from Mom (and Dad) about those years.

Anyway, Mom, happy birthday. Thanks for — among all the other things — giving us so much to remember and to think about.