If you’re a tennis fan like me, you were probably heartened by the tremendous achievment of Belgian Kim Clijsters at the U.S. Open this week. Clijsters, a former number-one ranked player, retired at her peak to become a mother, then came back this summer after more than two years of inactivity. The U.S. Open was only her third tournament since her return, and her win was the first Grand Slam victory by a mother since 1981, when Evonne Goolagong Cawley came out of retirement much the same way to win Wimbledon. Cawley’s joyous response to her successor: “Go moms!”
Closer to home, another mother is making a comeback: mine. Grace Duggleby recently celebrated her 80th birthday, and her wish for the past year has been to take a celebratory trip with my dad, sister and me, and our spouses. Mom’s wanderlust rivals, well, mine. It has carried her all over the world, but health issues grounded her since 2001. Good news: she’s fought back, and we’re leaving tomorrow on a New England/Canadian cruise. We’re all thrilled, and I’m proud that my mother, in her own way, has shown the same irrepressible determination that Clijsters did with a tennis racquet. Go Moms!
You probably won’t see it on You Tube anytime soon, but a new video I created for BP and adapted for Union Tank Car Company is up and running on Union’s web site, www.utlx.com. The subject, the proper documenting of information such as last contents when a tank car is sent to a repair shop. When cars carry hazardous-classified contents, the consequences of opening a car expecting one commodity and encountering another can, can be harmful to the environment and, in the worst cases, fatal to workers. Not that most of you will need this information, but for a sample of my recent video work click http://www.utlx.com/video_car_shop.html . Thanks to Bill Hansen at Union Tank Car for hanging our project out in cyberspace.
Much appreciation to my newest clients: Tim Schwister and 44,655 other people, the population of Glenview, Illinois. Tim is the Facilities Supervisor of this Chicago suburb, and I will be helping him draft a Strategic Plan for managing the comunity’s public properties in the years ahead. Another grateful grin goes to Tim Revord and Sandy Nordahl, my clients at Jones Lang LaSalle who referred me with a good word or two.
Beyond Chicagoland, military veterans around the U.S. remember Glenview for time they logged at its former Naval Air Station, one of the nation ’s largest in its heyday. About 10 years ago the 1,100-acre facility was reborn as The Glen, an elegant blend of housing, shopping, cultural areas and woodlands. Nature walkers frequently spot whitetail deer, but the redoubtable bear on Glenview’s village seal is, presumably, a nod to the past.
At this time 25 years ago I left a “real” job in Chicago– and a pretty good one at that– to try what many deemed “sefl uemployment.” I had a concept for a children’s story brimming with multi-media tentacles, and a nest egg of $10,000 in 1984 cash. I’d swim until I became the next Walt Disney or until the money ran out, one or the other.
Neither happened. The childrens book never found a publisher, though eight others eventually did. I passed much of that first summer in my mobile office at Wrigley Field, three blocks from my condo. It was the golden era of pre-lights Cubs baseball, when $2 on game day conferred status as a Bleacher Bum, a subculture 355 feet and a societal universe from the hoi polloi behind home plate in reserved boxes. Barking comments to a left fielder known as The Sarge (he actually shouted back) and catnapping in the afternoon sun mollified the recjection letters piling up back home, and my manuscript always read much better after a beer or two.
Just as the Cubs were bounced from the playoffs in October, I got a call from my former employer seeking writing help. Then another inquiry, and yet another. To my mild amazement, freelance work was working. Within a year I had replenished my savings, and the rest is my version of history. The road has taken all sorts of unexpected professional and personal turns, including a journey north to sink roots behind the Cheddar Curtain in Wisconsin, from where I scribble today. It’s been a ton of fun, and to those who have smoothed the path with an assignment, even an encouraging word, I’m eternally grateful.
And say, might you be interested in a book on a talking Victrola?
As we approach the Memorial Day holiday, I have two performances in the coming week of my musical program, “Sentimental Journey.” Through song and radio clips, the show revisits the World War II era when men and women, pushed to the brink of economic ruin during the Great Depression, were slammed headlong into a fight for physical survival. Their willingness to sacrifice and work together to get the job done– no excuses– is a stark contrast to the hedonistic greed that led to our current economic stew. I like to tell people at senior centers, far out of the pop mainstream, that they’re becoming suddenly hip. As a rebellious Baby Boomer who largely discounted them in my youth, I’ve belatedly come to realize that my elders are the reason that my progeny and I can regard a land of plenty as the norm.
Following is a tribute I recently penned for them, which I’m introducing into my show. Imagine if you will, a Glenn Miller-type mild swing accompanying the lyrics, and stretch your cognition even further to picture me trying to nurse it like one of those buttery40s crooners. As they say, it’s the thought that counts.
I’m looking forward to traveling to Iowa this weekend to visit my favorite war-era bobby soxers, my parents. My mom was a jitterbug champion and my dad still plays Gene Krupa drum solos on his stomach; it doesn’t get any better than that. Have a safe and happy Memorial Day, and if you see anyone from the Greatest Generation, give them a big hug and heartfelt thanks– from you and me.
The Greatest Generation
By John Duggleby ©4/2009
You’re the Greatest Generation, you stepped up and saved our nation
From depression, from aggression and war
Jeepers Creepers, how’d you do it? Can’t believe you pulled us through it
Downing Zeros, launching heroes galore.
On the front or back at home, hovered over the radio
Up with the sun, you got it done, Rosie the Riveter and GI Joe
You’re the Greatest Generation, can’t hide my admiration,
With adulation, here’s an ovation for you
You’re the Greatest Generation, you learned to sacrifice and ration
Through each setback, you could get back in gear
No excuses, no complaining, when the dark clouds kept on raining
You were a model, not to wobble in fear
Honest work for honest pay, separating right from wrong,
Clung to joy and boy-oh-boy, did you ever leave us with some songs
You’re the Greatest Generation, please accept my demonstration
Of jubilation, a celebration of you
No calculation can total what we owe you
One of my one-man musical programs is “Americas Greatest Hits,” a stroll through our nation ’s history through the voice of some of its songs. I wanted something that updated the state of our Union to our not-so-rosy present, so I wrote one. The auto industry debacle with its burning question of whether we should lose a fundamental industry prompted me to ask one of my own: Exactly what is made entirely in the U.S.A. these days? The short answer: precious little.
Instead of ranting about “American” goods that quietly source their production across the globe, I took the high road with a tribute to some of the firms that still make their products on our shores. It wasn’t easy finding name brands that can honestly attach a “Made in the USA” label across their lines. If I’ve missed any of your favorites, let me know– while you still can!
Made in America
By john Duggleby © 2009
Worker welds injection jets on a Chevrolet Corvette
He cannot afford one yet, but it’s made in America
In the heart of Tennessee, Jack Daniel’s distillery
Whiskey from a dry county that’s made in America
Chorus
Made in America, and not some foreign shore
Made in America, who hears that any more?
Now that things are getting tough, don’t you think we’ve had enough?
Time to celebrate the stuff that’s made in America
Chill a beverage, cook a fish, nuke your soup or wash a dish
Whirlpool’s very kitchen-ish, and it’s made in America
Out in Sturgis bikers throng, Harleys half a million strong
Throttled engines roar a song that’s made in America
Chorus
This guitar with me today, came from cal-i-for-ni-ay
Taylor made for me to play, it’s made in America
Singing so my wife will hear, she’s the one I hold most dear
And when she smiles, it’s crystal clear she’s made in America
Chorus
(to the tune of Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire”)
Gibson Guitars, Beer Nuts, Pyrex Jars,
Lennox China, Franklin Clocks, Spam and Texas Jeans
U.S. Playing Cards, Snapper Mowers for the yard
Moon Pies, Tabasco sauce, Jelly Belly beans
Sees Suckers at the mall, Titleist golf and Whiffle balls
Nautilus fishing reels and Knex building sets
Cushy Fox River Socks, Pawneys Island Hammocks
Briggs and Stratton Engines, Lear and Boeing Jets
Shop Vac, Speed Queen, Sub-Zero, Viking
All Clad kitchenware and Old Town Canoes
Oreck Vacuums, Lane Chests, gone are almost all the rest
Bring ‘em, back, whaddya say, make ‘em in the USA!
The Windy City, where I called home for several years, has to be one of the best places west of Dublin to spend St. Patrick’s Day. The parade jigs through the Loop for a few hours, the Chicago River is dyed the shade of a lime popsicle, and merrymakers of all nationalities hoist green beer and bellow blarney. Everybody’s ”Irish,” and all are friends.
I won’t be in the Windy City this year, but I’ll be having just as much fun performing as Paddy O’Chair at not one, but two Wisconsin senior centers today. Among other things, I’ll be singing a song I wrote recently recalling March 17 Madness, Chicago style, and how nice it would be if such a diverse group could get along so well every day. I can dream, can’t I? Following are the lyrics, along with my sincere Irish invocation that as you slide down that grand banister of life, all the splinters will be pointing the right direction.
Everybody’s Irish
By John Duggleby © 2009
When the snow melts away in old Chicago
Comes a day the likes you’ve never seen
Black, yellow, white and brown, all colors head downtown
And gather where the river’s flowin’ green
Once a year, it don’t matter where you come from
The parade is stepping off, it’s time to play
The rainbow that our faces hold is shining like a pot of gold
‘Cause everybody’s Irish on Saint Paddy’s Day
Chorus
Pour a dram of Celtic whiskey for Mitzi
For Chang and Juan a frothy Guinness head
Some cabbage and corned beef for every native chief
Here come Bukuru and Ahmet, it’s time to slice the soda bread
Midori wants some four leaf clover honey
Some mussels from the bay for Desiree’
Let every race and nation smile, we’re sailing to the Emerald Isle
‘Cause everybody’s Irish on Saint Paddy’s Day
Lucky day, once a year in old Chicago
In every neighborhood you’ll find a friend
To gobble Irish stew, hoist green beer with you
And wonder why the party has to end
Saints alive, how we thrive when we’re together
Begorrah, end the war, it’s not the way
It’s lots more fun to get along, so raise your glass and join the song
‘Cause everbody’s Irish on St. Paddy’s Day
Chorus
Before we get too far into March, I’d like to send a shout to two new workmates I acquired in February from my largest overall business client, global commercial real estate services leader Jones Lang LaSalle. Shawn Bectol is a Communications Manager newly charged with the daily Today@ JonesLang LaSalle intranet employee news site, which I’ve helped write through others for several years. Howard Futterman is Vice President-Benefits, and I’m writing a monthly employee newsletter for him called Environment of Health. I’m feeling better already; thanks to you both!
Sometimes life throws you unlikely heroes. Such was Paul Harvey, who died over the weekend at age 90. Born in Tulsa, rooted in Chicago, Harvey’s voice was everywhere– or at least on about 1,200 radio stations– during my “Wonder Years” in the late 1960s. He was a radio beacon of conservative Midwestern values in an age where my contemporaries watched turmoil TV and demanded change in many of the institutions he seemed to uphold. What’s more, his five-minute broadcast cut into the groove of my rock station like a needle dropped on a vinyl record. Here was a guy who predicted that Elvis would flop within a year, and changed his opinion little about the Beatles and others who followed. I itched for his segments to end– or did I?
Truth be told, agree or not, I listened to him. How could you resist, the way his delivery included pauses a truck could pass through? Statistics like how many dogs bit people within a year, followed by how many people bit people? His announcements of exactly where he was in his script– “Page Two!”– yet slippery segues into ads that were halfway over before you realized you were being sold. And compared to today’s radio ravers of all stripes, Harvey waxed commonsensical and fair. One of his most famous broadcasts, issued in 1970 when Nixon expanded the Vietnam War, shocked his stalwarts by declaring, “Mr. President, I love you. But you’re wrong.”
A decade later I was a Chicagoan myself, part of a video crew working in a studio rented from WGN, one of the Windy City’s major TV/radio stations. On a facility tour, I was thrilled to enter the sanctum where Harvey recorded his broadcasts to the nation, and hugely disappointed that 1) he wasn’t there and 2) I was not permitted to sit in his director’s chair, emblazoned on the back with his trademark sign-off, “Good day!”
In recent years I stopped listening to Harvey and most radio in general, and heard nothing of him until four years ago when a guy named Don re-sided my house. Don was a one-man show doing a job typically performed by a crew of several, and about my age to boot. As the job stretched into the Wisconsin winter, since I have a home office, I invited him to eat his lunch inside for a respite from temperatures dipping below 20 degrees. He demurred, explaining that if he got too warm and comfortable, it would be harder to venture back into the icebox for the afternoon.
It made sense, but I noticed that, without fail, he was in his truck by precisely noon, pouring coffee and unwrapping his homemade sandwiches. I wandered up one day and booming from his radio was that familiar Midwestern carnival bark: “Good Morning, Americans, this is Paul Harvey. Stand by for news!” Don confessed that he was a daily listener, and soon I tuned in whenever I could as well. When the project finally ended, I pressed a check into Don’s hand with a hearty, “Good day!”
And now you know… the rest of the story.
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