Journal

Manna is one of those words that is too frequently bandied about in everyday conversation without regard to its actual semantic origin.

I once heard it at a cocktail party: “Oh, dahling…it was absolute manna.” I’m not sure what the peroxided blonde was referring to, but I don’t think it had much to do with food.

At least my dry cleaner had more of a clue when I inquired about his plans for Thanksgiving. “The usual. The relatives. Politics. Each dish manna. Too much wine.”

Milton is a very good dry cleaner. But who really knows about these things? Maybe I continue to go to him just because he’s the only one in town. He’s also the only man I’ve ever met who can communicate effectively without the use of verbs, which I find amusing when I go to pick up my shirts on Wednesday afternoons.

Although manna has come to describe an event or food as being something heaven-sent, historically manna is actually a white seed about the size of a peppercorn that sparkles in the morning dew. It’s been said to taste like a cross between quinoa and dried squid powder. For forty years, Israelites wandered the vast desert, stopping at various points to grind the dried seeds, add a little oil and bake at 350° for an hour-and-a-half or until a soft-brown crust appeared.

This cake, which I’ve yet to try (not even Whole Foods carries real-deal manna), isn’t high on my list of foods I’d like to serve to guests. Neither is the gruel-like version which, when wet, looks like oatmeal with silver sparkles.

Moses, who was known as “Sarge” by his band of wandering Jews, led a more interesting life than most of us.

Though Talmudic scholars have been arguing about his birth date since the early 1950s, suffice it to say that he lived long ago in a place faraway. Apparently, his birth tablet was either lost or misfiled. He was hidden from an Egyptian Pharaoh who ordered his death; set afloat down the Nile in a Crate and Barrel wicker basket, he was found and adopted by an Egyptian princess, whose slave master he killed because he was smiting Jewish slaves.

On the lam from Smiting-in-the-second-degree charges, he ran into the Angel of the Lord who spoke to him from within a burning bush on Mount Horeb, aka Mount Sinai, which today is one of the Middle East’s most popular tourist attractions, with a bush burning scheduled every hour.

Moses’s life only grew more complicated. He crossed the Red Sea several times just to disprove the doubters, and spent much of his time explaining to the Hebrews why, after nearly 40 years of eating manna, nobody had even once defecated on the desert trail. (This is true, by the way.)

It is said that Moses died young—at the age of 120, shortly after climbing Mount Nebo to have a glimpse of Israel, aka the Promised Land once known as Canaan, and to see if there might be any good Chinese restaurants downtown. Needless to say, he died before hearing about Jumbo Kingdom, known for its pork and shrimp dishes and conveniently located just off the lobby of the Baal Inn.

WE WERE GOING FOR SOMETHING heaven-sent this Thanksgiving. We thought a change of tradition might offer solace and provide some respite from recent events. I even suggested that Geri cook our dinner. My suggestion was not welcomed as even a viable alternative.

Everybody remembers the last time Geri cooked a turkey. None of us knew her then, but the story lives on.

Charged with cooking the Big Dinner, Geri bought a frozen turkey and stuck it in the freezer. One of her friends showed up that morning to help out and inquired about the turkey. It was still in the freezer. The guests were due in six hours.

Geri, ever the pragmatist, removed the turkey from its plastic sheath, loosened that plastic gizmo that keeps the turkey modest, and slipped it over the shower head. She turned on the hot water and within a couple of hours the turkey’s flesh had softened enough from the cavity and out, that Geri felt confident that it could be cooked at 500° in the remaining time.

She claims it was fine; delicious, even. I’m glad I wasn’t there. But I have always wondered about who was and why I’ve never met any of them. Sounds like a Hallmark Holiday on Elm Street Special if ever there was one.

I was the ringleader in suggesting that this year’s Thanksgiving take on a few Southern notes: ham, green bean casserole (yeah, that one) sweet potatoes, scalloped potatoes, sautéed collard greens, cornbread stuffing, biscuits, macaroni-and-cheese, pecan pie. I suggested that if somebody would take care of the ham and the green beans, I’d cover the rest of the menu.

As luck would have it, I was in the hospital for much of last week and unable to contribute—let alone partake—of the holiday feast. Although I did manage to make the mac & cheese, Geri did the rest and she did a fantastic job. So superb were her efforts, in fact, that I suggested she take on a larger role in the kitchen, a room in our house that I didn’t think she even knew about.

My suggestion was not well received.

For Christmas this year we will be in Denver. We don’t really know anybody in Denver and I’m looking forward to our Christmas dinner. After 40 years of marriage, I will, for the first time in all those years, be eating Chinese food like most Jews do on Christmas.

Latkes

On the Jewish calendar, Chanukah is a minor holiday that focuses its attention on little children by teaching them Hebrew songs and providing each with a dreidel, a little wooden spinning top that is about as captivating as watching grass grow. In this Festival of Lights, the food served is mostly fried. The exception being the smoked salmon.

Latkes are potato pancakes and may be served with sour cream, caviar or applesauce. Here is the recipe from my Grandmother (bubbe).

2 cups grated russet potatoes, squeezed dry
2 eggs, well beaten
2 Tbs. flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. Kosher salt
½ small onion, grated

Mix well and form into 2” to 3” pancakes. Fry in vegetable shortening until brown and crisp. Drain on paper towels and serve warm.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Even if I had a “bucket list” I don’t believe that the Arctic would be on it. While its various seas, glaciers and ice floes, as well as the dwarf shrubs and lichens, must be quite a sight to behold, I am just no longer attracted to windy places that can reach -68°. Not that I ever was, actually.

But I do enjoy viewing wildlife and there is something appealing about seeing caribou, muskox, polar bears and other animals in their natural habitat. Part of that appeal is akin to going to somebody’s home and snooping around just a bit to find out a little about the host…the books that line the shelves, the artwork on the walls, the contents of the medicine cabinet.

However, the fact that in all likelihood I’ll never have the opportunity view native Arctic species and discover their reading habits isn’t diminishing the quality of my life.

On my deathbed you’ll not hear reports of my having said, “Damn. I missed my chance to freeze my ass off hoping to see giant white bears who would gladly eat me for lunch.”

I once saw a polar bear in captivity and I must say that it was one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen.

The kids were quite young then and I forget exactly what it was that possessed Geri and me to subject them to an August day at the Los Angeles Zoo in Griffith Park. Maybe we thought that an afternoon of their incessant squirming, fussing and crying against a different backdrop would somehow be enjoyable for all of us. We were wrong. It was hotter than hell, as I recall quite vividly, as we slogged our way through the maze of reptile houses, displays of pathetically unhappy looking lions and tigers pacing in their cages, tethered elephants and camels, and cage after cage of monkeys, apes and gorillas.

I find it interesting to note that currently the L.A. Zoo’s website offers a list of its most “notable animals” by name: Tina, Kelly, Billy, Alfred and Rapunzel, among many others—who may or may not have their stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame—without regard to species. It is anthropomorphism taken to a whole new level.

For all of the reasons suggested above, I’ve never much cared for zoos. I’ve always thought that if we were the ones in cages and wild animals wandered around looking at us things might be more interesting.

We came across a harsh, mini-landscape of concrete tundra surrounded by a moat of algae-tainted water. A giant polar bear sat on his haunches at the moat’s edge, his front paws crossed in his lap as if trying to maintain a sense of modesty. He looked wistfully at the handful of spectators gathered along the railing of the display. He looked lonely, uncomfortable and miserably hot. He reminded me of Burl Ives in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

We left. It was my last visit to a zoo.

WHEN WE WERE DATING, Geri and I would occasionally go to the Fox Inn Rathskeller on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. Since it was on street level, it wasn’t really a rathskeller. Bill “The Fox” Foster, the club’s owner and star, wasn’t really a pianist. He played a funky upright piano in a style reminiscent of nobody I’d ever heard. Suffice it to say his style showed more muscle than artistry. He also couldn’t sing. That didn’t stop him, however, from singing a repertoire of bawdy songs that were funny and endearing, but mostly sexist. Nobody really seemed to mind.

The real talent of The Fox was his consumption of beer, which he did with alarming speed. It took him a mere 3.5 seconds to down a pitcher of beer. He could empty a 12-ounce glass with a flick of his wrist or, for comparison’s sake, faster than I can take 10 ml of Robitussin from an oral syringe. Each exhibition of his unique talent was abetted by the audience cheering “Zicke Zacke Zicke Zache, hoi hoi hoi!” The phrase is a German challenge to drink.

He performed his beer tricks multiple times nightly. Nothing in his barrel house songbook could start without a pitcher; they each ended with a pitcher; the glasses of beer seemed to be just part of the middle of each song.
The audience participated on many levels—from trying to emulate the beer-drinking prowess, which explains why the floor of the joint was always awash in an inch or two of cheap lager, to the call-and-response singing.

“Have you heard the one about the blue-balled orangutan?” he’d shout.

“No, we haven’t heard the one about the blue-balled orangutan,” we’d shout back.

“Well, let me tell you the one about the blue-balled orangutan,” he’d promise.

“Please tell us the one about the blue-balled orangutan.”

In the latter half of the 1970s, this was funny stuff.

On a not-quite-rainy afternoon, Geri and I happened to be walking around the London Zoo. I don’t know why. Perhaps the pubs were closed. Anyway, we observed the exhibits with great disinterest until we came upon a cage full of blue-balled orangutans, though that wasn’t the name used on the plaque describing what we were seeing. It was in Latin, but who cared? We had discovered the blue-balled orangutan—the only name we needed to know—and so we sang the song we had learned from The Fox as we made our way through Regent’s Park.

MY BEST FRIEND IN FIRST GRADE WAS Michael Derwin. Our mothers accompanied us, along with 20 or so classmates, to the Brookfield Zoo on a Spring field trip. Michael and I hated that our mothers had volunteered to be room mothers because, well…it’s kind of obvious, right?

We decided to show our independence by climbing under some fencing to go play with the giraffes that wandered around docilly in what seemed a large pasture. We got in the appropriate amount of trouble for our antics and I became inexplicably enamored with giraffes—for life.

Giraffes are beyond goofy looking. They are by any standards oafish and awkward. They are blanketed in a poorly designed quilt, their eyelashes remind one of Tammy Faye Bakker. They seem ill-designed—a genetic mistake that has persisted.

To me, giraffes are to the wild kingdom what bassoons are to the symphony. Ridiculous, yet necessary, their positions are essential to what is around them.

And people are killing them for sport (giraffes, not bassoonists).

Even in the wild, these magnificent mammals tend to be docile and curious. They are ungulates and therefore prey for their carnivorous stalkers. Their numbers are dwindling and yet the internet has almost-daily displays of their sprawled carcasses with some wealthy trophy hunter posed victoriously, a high-powered rifle thrust into the air.

While certainly not opposed to hunting, I have my limits. I believe that a hunter’s family table should come before his/her wall. I don’t believe it is right to kill something you won’t or can’t eat. I knew a man once who told me that the thrill of killing of a giraffe was to watch its 20-foot neck cascade to the ground.

It struck me that this guy might also cheer lead at motor vehicle accidents.

If I had a bucket list, Africa, with climate much to my liking, would certainly be on it as I would truly enjoy seeing all those magnificent animals wandering about the jungles, river bottoms and deserts.

In all probability I’ll not get to Africa and will have to settle for National Geographic specials.

But I hope my kids, their spouses and the grandkids all get there someday and that there are lions, tigers and giraffes left to be seen. Maybe even a blue-balled orangutan or two.

Photo-illustration by Courtney A. Liska

As big a political junkie as I am, there is great relief in knowing that the elections are over. Finally.

Although the morning after begins with the airwaves and newspapers being filled with in-depth analyses of each and every election from every corner of the country, they’re easily ignored. That’s because what’s done is done and nothing will undo, for instance, Greg “Galoot” Gianforte’s re-election to the House of Representatives or Peter “Putz” Pence’s to the office of dogcatcher in Columbus, Indiana.

“There is a certain sense of loss, a sense of abandonment, a sense of emptiness,” offered my shrink, Dr. Günter Klaus von Grubersteingruber, who works days as a diesel mechanic. I was lying on a folding chaise lounge in the crowded backroom of his shop. The room was decorated with out-of-date nudie calendars and it smelled of cigarettes, burnt motor oil and sauerkraut. The space heater heaved from power surges. There was the occasional spark.

“You just need to return to your pre-erection routines,” Dr. Grubersteingruber said.

“Don’t you mean pre-election?” I asked.

“Vatever. Our time ist up for today. That vill be $185. See you next veek. Haff a nice day.”

Back at my desk, I powered up the computer, offered a silent blessing to Bill Gates, and discovered that the very nature of the Internet had changed overnight. No pop-up ads touting the ranching prowess of Matt Rosendale. No evidence of dark money. No ads from the NRA suggesting that they care about the Second Amendment (they don’t). No loops of Trump lying to the hundreds of red-hatted morons who cheered from red-state tarmacs, Air Force One looming impressively in the background.

While there was no shortage of sour grapes or of people lamenting and/or cheering the outcomes of Tuesday’s election, Facebook seemed oddly void of argument. Even the most bold and outlandish predictions of who might challenge Trump in 2020 were being met with collective shrugs of great indifference. You could almost hear the entire nation yawning.

Facebook had returned to its once-normal, pre-election self. I wondered aloud if I had.

Videos of cute kittens doing cute kitten things were again in plentiful supply. There were litter after litter of adorable puppies tumbling down carpeted stairs, knocking over garbage pails and eating whole couches—their irresistible little tails wagging in desperate pleas of innocence, their big brown eyes all bright and shiny, their little pink tongues lapping hungrily at their little dewy-wet noses.

I noticed a pronounced propensity for the sudden inclusion of videos of reptiles, none of whom do anything remotely cute but whose very images are enough to cause cold sweats hours after viewing. There were also ferrets and other weasel-like rodents representing the targets of the #MeToo movement.

There were absurd car wrecks, motorcycle tricks gone bad, air-borne skateboarders landing uncomfortably on metal railings, plaid-shirted Appalachians demonstrating the dangers of animal traps with their forearms.

Religion in the form of sweet phrases printed on floral backgrounds and intended to offer uplifting hope for today, tomorrow and all eternity were once again profuse. One woman on my feed posted 30 consecutive such messages. It was annoying. I politely asked that she limit herself to five such postings per day. Her response was on the low end of the polite scale. I then suggested that I would consider burning her house down if she failed to honor my request.

Ahh, Facebook. It can bring out the best in all of us.

Among the nearly 3,000 friends I have—but few of whom I actually know—there were signs of them returning to familiar businesses. FB offers untold opportunities to create Ponzi schemes and elaborate pyramid models for selling any number of products—most of them involving makeup, skin care products to repair the damage makeup does, vitamin supplements, dietary supplements for people who find eating to be something of an inconvenience, snake oil, and exercise programs that seem mostly to have their origins in either the Far East or in the upper reaches of Norway. Inquire about an exercise program and the algorithms magically kick in. Suddenly you have your choice of scores of places to buy $70 yoga mats and clothing that sheds an entirely unattractive light on fashion.

There are also any number of books for sale that offer advice on how to stop eating food that once had a mother. Really? Wean Yourself from Wienerschnitzel was one such title. Learn How to Love Kale, Quinoa, and Other Disgusting Foods was another. The Vegan Culinary Guide to Sawdust  was my favorite.

There are also educational opportunities, many of them Trump University-like in design and effectiveness. Does anybody believe for even a minute that for a mere $750 one can learn to direct an Oscar-winning movie in just eight weeks of staring at a computer screen and listening to a director whose last cinematic effort starred Stormy Daniels? Similar opportunities are available in areas of art photography, novel writing, painting, sculpting, astral physics, modern musical composition, play writing, wine making, interior design and gourmet cooking. (I made up the astral physics thing.)

By the way, my instructional sports video, “How to Line Up Your Seventh Putt,” is scheduled for an early Spring release.

Like mine, the instructional videos that make no real promises of success at anything dominate YouTube. For the most part they are free, poorly made and significantly lacking in meaningful content. However, they are generally quite entertaining and typically feature serious injuries. And yet I’ve heard that many people have built entire houses from what they learned watching videos enticingly titled “How to Build a House,” “Finding a Stud” and “Roofing for Acrophobics.”

Personally, I watched three videos about how to put gasoline in my lawn mower and achieved great success just this past summer. Conversely, I watched a dozen videos about installing a fuel pump on a 1992 Dodge Dakota pickup truck, the very make and model of vehicle I drive. I learned that installing a fuel pump is not for the faint-hearted or for people who value their fingers. Such activities are also not for people who can afford new vehicles.

Failing that, I turned my attention to the many how-to videos about performing appendectomies. Those gave me both the knowledge and confidence I will need should such an opportunity ever present itself, which I’m sure it will.

One video that still has me intrigued, if not deeply disturbed, is the “new-this-year-for-Chistmas” DIY rhinoplasty kit from Black & Decker. The simple procedure is performed at home without anesthesia and guarantees a transformation that will subtly remind your family, friends and neighbors of Karl Malden.

Currently, however, my favorite YouTube offering is a culinary program that for reasons I can’t quite fathom didn’t make the cut at any of the Food Network’s 33 spinoff channels. Titled “Cooking with Power Tools,” Chef Bruno, a classically trained chef with his own chain of roadside waffle houses in Tennessee, is from an unnamed village in Nepal by way of El Paso, Texas. He demonstrates such handy tricks as peeling apples on a lathe, tenderizing cheap cuts of meat with a jackhammer, whipping fresh cream with a power drill, and buttering toast with a palm sander.

Just in time for Thanksgiving, next week’s installment of “Cooking with Power Tools” features Chef Bruno demonstrating how to carve a turkey with a Sawzall.

When does the next political season start?

Bagels with Lox

No sooner had the elections been decided—Florida and Georgia notwithstanding—than a discussion with one of my friends about bagels arose. Within minutes, people were weighing in on bagels they’ve had in places like Des Moines, Houston and Salt Lake City. Oy! It’s no wonder Trump is president.

Instructions for enjoying the perfect Jewish breakfast are as follows:

Fly to New York. Uber to Manhattan. Pick up a Sunday Times. Go to the first kosher deli you see. Order a plain bagel, toasted, with lox and a schmear. Sliced red onion and capers are acceptable, but by no means necessary. Enjoy some coffee, the paper, and your breakfast.

Do not try this anywhere else. Really. I’m serious.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

While there may not be much on which we all might agree during this most contentious of political seasons, perhaps we might agree to heed the wise advice being bandied about by all sides: VOTE!

In most societies, voting is a hard-won right and a distinct privilege for which dozens of the world’s peoples would gladly give their lives to exercise. And yet many Americans shirk their responsibilities as citizens and find any number of excuses to avoid the voting booth as if it might be some kind of inconvenience to do something to help maintain our democracy.

I, for one, have yet to hear a valid excuse for not voting—voter suppression attempts notwithstanding.

In the 2016 presidential election, a record 139 million Americans cast their votes. While that was the largest number of actual voters, the statistic is but a reflection of the country’s population growth. The number represented barely 60 percent of eligible voters. It stands in stark contrast to the 80 percent voter turnout between 1836 and 1900.

In Montana, we’re well ahead of the national average. In 2016, 74.4 percent of the state’s 679,333 registered voters trudged to the polls to cast their ballots. In Park County, where I live, the voter turnout was 77 percent, rivaling the national numbers from the 19th Century.

I was 20 when the 26th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution granting 18-year-olds the right to vote passed in 1971. The year before, I had been selected in the second lottery draft (#125) and I remember wondering at the time why I could be conscripted to defend a nation in whose governance I had no say.

I voted for the first time in 1972. I was living in the 12th Congressional District of New York, which included Manhattan’s Lower East Side, and I remember casting a ballot for Shirley Chisholm. I don’t remember the names of other officials I might have voted for, but my Presidential pick was George McGovern, who lost in a monumental landslide to Richard M. Nixon.

By 1976 I was working as a reporter in Los Angeles and cast my presidential vote for President Gerald Ford, who, of course, lost to Jimmy Carter. I also voted for incumbent Senator John Tunney, who lost his re-election bid to the Republican S.I. Hayakawa.

It was becoming clear that I was a jinx to both parties, although two years later, in 1978, I voted for Governor Jerry Brown who handily won re-election.

Although we wouldn’t readily admit it at the time, the press liked Gov. Brown. He was accessible, seemingly sincere and as straight a shooter as is perhaps possible in the business of politics. When he was in L.A., he liked to hang out at Lucy’s El Adobe Café, a mediocre Mexican restaurant on Melrose Avenue across the street from Paramount Studios. It had a great bar and reporters liked to hang out there, as did too many celebrities to mention. Frank Casado, the owner of the restaurant that bore his wife’s name, had a great sense of humor.

One night, he had scrawled a “Jerry Brown Special” as the evening’s featured entrée. What is it? inquiring minds wanted to know.

“A chicken taco made out of left wings and assholes,” Frank dead-panned.

See how much fun politics can be?

EVERY THREE WEEKS OR SO I MEET up with a friend for coffee and an hour or so of solving most of the world’s myriad problems. For the most part, we have a shared world view and so we move on to talking about other things in pretty short order. We talk about kids and grandkids, health issues, and people we know in common. We gossip a bit, tell a few jokes. We speak of the changes we’ve seen in our little town and offer our assessments of their value in our lives. And, because we both have newspaper backgrounds, we tell each other some outrageous stories of the stories we’ve covered on our respective beats.

Election seasons are exciting times for reporters and editors. They are times we take seriously because there is always so much at stake.

“This [our town] is the perfect place to vote,” he said, setting his 14-oz. mug of coffee, vanilla cream, cinnamon and chocolate on the table between us.

It seemed an odd statement, especially coming from a guy whose mid-morning coffee seems more like a dessert than the triple-espresso I drink in three swift gulps.

“How so?”

He didn’t have to answer. A short nod of his head, a sustained shrug of his shoulders, the opening of his hands like a pastor during the benediction… I knew what he meant.

Our town (pop. 7,500) has one polling place. It’s at the County Fairgrounds, nestled between St. Mary’s Catholic Church and the Country Club on the edge of town. There’s plenty of parking in the gravel lot, and the facility is fully accessible for the handicapped. Besides the annual County Fair, where this building plays host to displays of canned vegetables, quilts and various attempts at art, the brightly lit room with tiled floors and painted cinder block walls hosts dances and Pioneer Days dinners, gun shows and health fairs.

But it is on election day that the room really comes to life.

I absolutely love going there to vote. And although this year I voted by mail because there was a chance I might have been out of town, I might run down there just to hang out for a while on Tuesday.

There is a table right inside a vestibule whose two sets of doors offer refuge from the blowing cold and wet snow that is somehow synonymous with Montana elections—even those held in June. Nobody much remembers from election to election which precinct they might live in—despite there being only four—and so we tell our street addresses to the people with big ledger books spread across the folding banquet tables. Of course, we visit with the volunteer election workers because they are our friends and neighbors. We’re reminded of our precinct number and off we trundle to the appropriate tables to show some ID, sign a line in yet another ledger book, receive our paper ballots and listen to some instructions.

We visit with more of our friends and neighbors as we make our way to the free-standing plastic-and-aluminum privacy booths to perform our civic duty.

When we’re done, we slide the ballot into the black steel box and are presented with an oval sticker that says, “I Voted.” It is a rightfully proud moment and we look around the room to nod and wave at yet more friends and neighbors and engage in some conversation about the weather or the car problems we might be having or the hunting season we’re in the middle of. We might trade a little gossip or offer condolences to people who might recently have lost a loved one.

It is but one shining example of democracy at work; it is this nation’s citizenry at our best. Please vote.

Senate Bean Soup

This delicious, simple soup is served every day in the United States Senate dining room. Election Day just wouldn’t be the same without a bowl of it.

2 pounds dried navy beans
four quarts hot water
1-1/2 pounds smoked ham hocks
1 large onion, chopped
2 tablespoons butter
salt and pepper to taste

Rinse the navy beans and then run hot water through them until they are slightly whitened. Place beans into a large stockpot with hot water. Add ham hocks and simmer approximately three hours, covered, stirring occasionally. Remove ham hocks and set aside to cool. Dice meat and return to soup. Lightly brown the chopped onion in butter. Add to soup. Before serving, bring to a boil and season with salt and pepper. Serves 8.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

[Comments I was so honored to deliver at Tony Gadberry’s service of remembrance yesterday.]

Helen Keller, a woman of great insight, observed: “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.”

That is the task laid out before us today as we grapple with the death of one of us, a young man who holds a special place in each of our hearts in so many different ways.

If there is one thing we know about teen-aged boys, it is that they truly and honestly and earnestly believe that they are invincible. No harm can possibly come to them under any circumstances. They jump from heights we later learn not to scale. They ride their skateboards down steep asphalt slopes, crossing through busy intersections with reckless abandon, only to then find a post-office handrail that will suffice as a half-pipe until it’s time for lunch.

As age advances, we learn to cautiously ride a car’s brake down the slightest of slopes. We use the post-office handrail as it was intended. We carefully look around our feet for hazards that might endanger the very act of standing up from the couch.

“Look, Ma!” we once yelled, “No hands!”

The progression continued with, “Watch this!” And, finally (maybe) with, “Hold my beer!”

These stages of development, depending on countless factors, are usually completed before one becomes a father. (In my early development I got as far as “Look, Ma!” before crashing my bicycle into a very sturdy oak tree. It provided the inspiration for most of my later adventures being realized through reading books. It also provided a scar on my forehead.)

Tony had many adventures through reading books as well. Books entertained him; they taught him things; they augmented the too-few real-life experiences—as well as those on the Internet—that he hadn’t time to amass during a too-short lifetime.

Tony was a talented kid with a musical aptitude that, given more practice and instruction, might have led to virtuosity; he might have thought he was already the 21st Century Vladimir Horowitz.

He was so looking forward to the real-life adventures that awaited him during planned trip to Japan with our town’s Sister City program. He carried his phrasebook with him wherever he went. And there seemed like a little romance might be developing with one of the Japanese girls he had met this past summer.

He was a smart kid and he was the first to let you know that. He was relentless in his defense of whatever argument he proposed, whatever theory he posited—even well after having been proved wrong.

He verily defined precocious; he had attitude in all caps, a certain panache about him; he had moxie and charm, and a smile that won over us all; he had chutzpah; he was countrified urbane, and he actually liked wearing a suit and tie; he was witty with a certain sense of savoir faire (I’m not even sure what that means, but it’s French and Tony would have liked the sound of it, as do I). He had that…ready for some more French?… certain je ne sais quoi.

Tony could be exasperating. He could be a royal pain in the rear and it didn’t matter because we loved him and found him to be full of laughter and promise.

He had a profound love of his morning coffee, as long it was eight parts vanilla cream to one part sugar and a tablespoon of actual coffee. It was his connection to the adult world, a world he wanted so desperately to join. He wanted to grow up on a schedule of his own devising; he had not the patience for childhood, which may have been his biggest fault.

Geri, of course, adored Tony and she would regale him with stories of her childhood in Ireland. He loved her stories of learning Gaelic from priests in the outlawed hedge schools, the bizarre superstitions that make the Irish, well, Irish, and the elfin fairies who lived in the mulberry bushes as much as he loved Geri. Courtney joined in the choruses of Irish praise.

Tony decided that Trinity College Dublin—he had seen pictures of the library and had learned from Courtney that Bram Stoker and Oscar Wilde had studied there—would be where he should go to school. He applied for admittance. He was eleven. Sean intercepted a call from an administrator at Trinity who needed more information to complete Tony’s application.

I’m not sure if the teacher who assigned Tony to interview someone he admired is here today, but if he or she is, I want to let you know I had nothing to do with it, proof being that I knew nothing about this story until yesterday afternoon.

I am flattered to have learned that Tony chose me to be the subject of the assignment, but he didn’t interview me. He figured that he knew everything about me, that I might be too busy being as famous as he thought I was to bother being interviewed, and that if there were any gaps in his story he could just make stuff up.

Apparently, he was an early adherent of fake news. Fox missed its chance at landing some real talent.

Tony had a great laugh—a laugh that pealed through whatever room he might be occupying at any give moment. Since he seemed to have no filter between his brain and his mouth, his screeching howls were frequent and never unexpected.

He didn’t think he screeched. He settled for the descriptive: Squawked.

Tony was a remarkable young man with great promise. He had a gang of great young friends; they skateboarded together, they shared their stories and dreams and fantasies, they fought their little battles, competed at video games, texted without pause, even while sitting across from each other at the same table. I believe Tony would charge you—his fine young friends who are here today—to continue your lives and to continue to chase those dreams that he never got to see reach fruition.

He loved his family and friends and I believe he would want us to keep each other close in every way possible.

Life without Tony will go on. We will somehow endure the loss and cling tightly to the memories we have, while always wondering about what a more complete life would have brought.

And the laughter will return.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Note: These are the moments that those of us who live in small communities are most thankful that we do. We come together with casseroles and covered dishes, jugs of iced tea and lemonade, pots of strong black coffee, hugs and kisses, and we tell our brief stories of relationships and loss. Our differences and our defenses drop to the side and we ask quite sincerely what any of us might do for the other.

He laughed a lot, and his laugh was infectious. It sounded something like a cackle with emphatic squawks thrown in for some kind of good measure. The tones changed without warning, each marking the vocal changes a 13-year-old boy must endure as part of growing up.

We’re not laughing this week. Tony, a talented, smart and precocious kid with lofty ambitions that changed from week to week—astral physicist, concert pianist, movie star—left us for reasons we will never know and will never stop wondering about.

He was part of a large family of loving people that my daughter joined about four years ago as friend, lover, soon-to-be-wife, surrogate step-mother. We got invited to the party. He called us Grandma Geri and Papa Jim, and we took on some of the pleasurable duties of attending band concerts and plays. We kept track of his report cards, let him have all the ice cream he wanted, and celebrated birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, the three holidays of summer, and those no-occasion potlucks as any family might.

Life without Tony will, of course, go on. We are charged with enduring the loss, knowing that the void will not be filled and that the numbing pain will persist. We will cling tightly to the memories we have and always wonder about what a more complete life would have brought.

Laughter will return. Just not his.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

[Courtney and I are going to take a week or two off. See you soon. Love each other.]

It had been just one hell of a week and I needed more than a simple do-not-much-of-anything Sunday to recover and rehabilitate. I was desperate for serious napping.

Like many folks, I have very set routines and my Sundays—after espresso and a croissant with jam at seven a.m.—are spent opening the week’s mail. I don’t get enough mail these days to warrant daily attention, so I let it pile up and then spend up to ten or fifteen minutes inspecting what is mostly junk mail, the vast majority of it from people who want to lend me money (but not really).

By 7:30, I am on to other activities such as posting this blog and checking on the state of the world as seen through the millions of eyes of Facebook. The world views as presented on FB tend be rather provincial in scope and understanding, but there are enough cute pet videos to compel me to keep hitting the “refresh” key in hopes of finding yet another video of puppies tumbling down carpeted stairs.

Because it is an election year, I had fourteen mailings from candidates seeking political office. The most local of the office seekers promised to fill our town’s potholes, noting that the fact that we don’t have a Domino’s wouldn’t deter progress on this most significant and sensitive issue. The flyer(s) also explained why we should expect 14% fee increases for garbage disposal, water delivery and whatever it is that happens to sewage. The pamphlets promised that both candidates for this office agreed that the fee hikes were both needed and inevitable and that we citizens should just suck it up.

Those seeking even higher office seemed to promise that a vote for either of them was a vote for never having to work again. One promises voters untold riches from the government’s leasing of our public lands to oil-field development; the opposing side seems to think that untold riches will come by leaving the lands a pristine attraction to tourism.

The way I see it, to win in either of these scenarios the average person has either to be a roughneck or the owner of a roadside curio shop—both of which promise hard work.

“I’m fighting for you so you don’t have to fight at all,” one said. Yeah, I don’t understand that either.

I set the political tracts aside and closed my eyes, trying to envision the battle over a Supreme Court nomination that would soon occur. I opened my eyes and shook my head, trying to rid my mind of such a vision.

The couple of bills in my mail stack I set aside for later viewing. I opened a fat envelope from a credit card company explaining some of the new usury fees and collection procedures that had recently been implemented. Although the mention of 137 percent interest rates seemed reasonable in an odd sort of way, the promise of broken knee caps was disturbing. The letter was signed by “Luigi,” and included some BOGO coupons for pizza in Brooklyn.

And finally there was the mailing from a company asking, “Are All Your Affairs in Order?”

I guffawed and took a few minutes to admire the eight examples of granite headstones that this company was offering. I don’t want a headstone. I don’t want to be buried. In fact, I don’t want to die, which I know is not an option.

But I was impressed with the company’s promise to “exceed our customer’s expectation.” Presumably, I, as the customer, wouldn’t be able to recognize a typo by the time the headstone was put in place. However, in this day of nationalist pride, it was comforting to know that these monuments were “American made,” and that the granite was mined from American granite mines which I’m guessing are politically incorrect.

I’ve been being treated as an old person since AARP mistakenly identified me as one when I turned fifty-four. I was incensed, of course, and sent the organization an angry letter, along with a photograph that showed that my hair had yet to turn grey. They responded by sending me coupons for a variety of adult products.

I THOUGHT I HAD FOUND THE PERFECT ANTIDOTE to my state of being when I noticed that a golf match was being aired. The announcers speak in whispers and the game is only slightly more exciting to watch than an untimed chess match…it provides the perfect backdrop for napping.

In desperate need of such activity, I settled in and let my eyes close. I was awakened to an announcer talking about the “dangerous” situation facing Tiger Woods, who was well on his way to winning the Tour Championship. My eyes sprung wide open to discover that the danger facing Tiger was a 35-foot, downhill putt for birdie. My panic ebbed.

I used to play golf and the only danger I ever sensed was that posed by the three-wheeled carts that were guaranteed to tip over with little prodding. Oh, and there was that sense of danger posed when “FORE!” echoed around the course from some unknown point and you had no idea what to do. As you instinctively take cover under your own arms—frequently accompanied by a nervous shuffle of your feet—you realize that if the errant drive doesn’t actually hit you, your reaction will appear as quite comical to onlookers.

Tiger survived the danger of the 35-foot putt and went on to win the tournament, his eightieth victory in a remarkable career. The fawning announcers spoke of his four-year battle with multiple surgeries, ignoring that perhaps Tiger’s biggest battle might have had less to do with his back than his memory.

He survived the scandal and his life of untold fame and riches continues unabated. All of which led me to think about what we might hear from Brett Kavanaugh and to discover a meaningful context. I’m not sure there is one, other than knowing that in this day and age, the rich and the famous can behave as they damn well please.

Senate Bean Soup

2 pounds dried navy beans
four quarts hot water
1-1/2 pounds smoked ham hocks
1 onion, chopped
2 tablespoons butter
salt and pepper to taste

Wash the navy beans and run hot water through them until they are slightly whitened. Place beans into pot with hot water. Add ham hocks and simmer approximately three hours in a covered pot, stirring occasionally. Remove ham hocks and set aside to cool. Dice meat and return to soup. Lightly brown the onion in butter. Add to soup. Before serving, bring to a boil and season with salt and pepper. Serves 8.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Just one week out and the commentary has focused not on what was included but what was excluded. I never promised a Top 10 list, but a list of ten musical recordings that had historical significance in the development of our country’s original art form—jazz—a list that I had hoped would bring elation to the new listener…a primer, as it were, to the willing novitiate. But such is the nature of lists.

To this date, I’ve only mentioned three featured artists out of a promised ten. Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington and the duo of Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie seem to me a strong beginning and I was surprised that some readers were eager to ever-so-slightly chastise me for not mentioning their favorites with seven slots still open. Perhaps patience is no longer such a virtue.

Oh, well…

The two-plus decades of fifties and sixties were exciting times in jazz. The bebop of Diz and Bird became hard bop in the hands of pianists Bud Powell, Thelonious Monk and Horace Silver, drummers Art Blakey and Max Roach, bassist Charles Mingus, saxophonists Sonny Rollins, Wayne Shorter and Cannonball Adderley, and trumpeters Clifford Brown, Lee Morgan and Freddie Hubbard.

The laundry list could go on and on, as many of the above stuck around to keep a style alive, while others moved to the next platform to become innovative forces in any number of stylistic changes that jazz would see under its wide evolutionary umbrella well into the seventies, eighties and beyond.

Brilliant Corners (Riverside, 1957), introduced a rhythmic urgency and drive that would come to lend definition to the hard bop movement, or, perhaps better stated, evolution. The recording was released under pianist Thelonious Monk’s leadership and featured such musicians as tenor saxophonist Sonny Rollins, drummer Max Roach and bassist Oscar Pettiford, each of whom would become mainstay players as jazz took various turns to the modern.

One of the great examples of hard bop came from Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers through a 1961 recording, Roots and Herbs (Blue Note) that wasn’t released until 1970. Although there was no shortage of jazz messages from the drummer/bandleader Blakey through the years, this album featured tenor saxophonist Wayne Shorter and trumpeter Lee Morgan, along with pianists Walter Davis, Jr, and Bobby Timmons, and bassist Jymie Merritt.

The recording helped showcase and establish Shorter as one of the most important composers in all of jazz—a stature enhanced by the Newark-born musician as he would go on to help form the ground-breaking fusion band, Weather Report, and the composing and performance schedule he currently maintains in his 85th year.

It can be easily demonstrated that popularity doesn’t necessarily reflect quality, but in Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue (Sony, 1959) there is no doubting that the recording’s impact on jazz would be immediate and lasting.

The biggest-selling jazz record of all time, Kind of Blue, turned the corner on hard bop as Davis abandoned the chord-based constructs of composition, which he found to be limiting, in trade for the modal concepts he had first explored on Milestones (Columbia, 1958) and, with arranger Gil Evans, Porgy and Bess (Columbia, 1959).

Kind of Blue featured Davis’s ensemble sextet consisting of saxophonists John Coltrane and Julian “Cannonball” Adderley, pianist Wynton Kelly, bassist Paul Chambers, and drummer Jimmy Cobb, with former band pianist Bill Evans appearing on most of the tracks in place of Kelly.

While each of Davis’s band mates would go on to be influential participants in various jazz movements, none has had as much an impact as John Coltrane (1926-1967). It didn’t take long for Trane to move from bebop to hard bop to his own concepts of free jazz and the avant garde that would introduce such players as pianist McCoy Tyner and drummer Elvin Jones on such seminal recordings as A Love Supreme (Impulse, 1965) and Ascension (Impulse, 1966).

I can think of no better introduction to Coltrane’s music than Giant Steps (Atlantic, 1960).

The recording was the fifth studio album by the tenor saxophonist and is widely considered to be his first genuinely iconic record. Much of what would define Coltrane’ s music was exhibited with his broad strokes of sound and chordal structures that are still imitated by other musicians.

Beyond the album’s exhibiting Trane’s compositional abilities and his band’s exemplary musicianship, the song selections are relatively short, thereby helping the novice listener to handily absorb the intent and feel of the music.
Coltrane’s band mates for the record include pianists Tommy Flanagan and Wynton Kelly, bassist Paul Chambers and drummer Art Taylor. Pianist Kelly and drummer Cobb, mainstays of Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue (recorded just a couple of weeks before the Coltrane session) were featured on the track “Naima.”

Bill Evans, already mentioned above in several settings, was a pianist and composer whose best setting was a trio of piano, bass and drums. It was there that his impressionistic approach to harmony—contrasted by his block chord voicings—unique vision of the jazz repertoire, and wafting sense of melody gave rise to a pianist whose style continues to influence jazz pianists to this day.

The Complete Village Vanguard Recordings, 1961 (Riverside, 2005) reflects Evans’s commitment to the music. The trio, with bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian, stands as the seminal jazz trio.

Closing out my very personal falling-in-love-with-jazz list will have to include the Dave Brubeck Quartet’s landmark recording, Time Out (Columbia, 1959). At the time of its release, Brubeck (1920-2012), was a well-regarded pianist and composer whose quartet with Paul Desmond (alto sax), Eugene Wright (bass), Joe Morello (drums) had achieved considerable commercial success. Although it seems odd that a tune in 5/4 time (the iconic “Take Five,” composed by Desmond) would rise to the top of the Hit Parade, it did. It furthered the band’s commercial standing and opened more than a few doors to jazz experimentation.

Tenor saxophonist Stan Getz (1927-1991) had a warm and burnished sound that seemed appropriate in almost setting. But it found its truest place in the gentle bossa nova he explored with the Brazilian guitarist João Gilberto and the pianist and composer Antônio Carlos Jobim on the 1964 Getz/Gilberto (Verve). The album features the vocals of Astrud Gilberto on two tracks, “The Girl from Ipanema” and “Corcovado,” and served to introduce American audiences to a unique genre.

Go ahead. Fall in love with jazz. It’s easy to do,

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

A week or so ago, the New York Times printed a story titled “5 Minutes That Will Make You Love Classical Music.” Those participating in this casual survey of vaunted opinion were writers, performers, conductors and composers associated with the world of classical music.

Because I’ve been a lover of classical music for almost as many years as I’ve been alive, I didn’t need to be reminded in five-minute sound bites of the pleasures of listening to Beethoven, Strauss, Stravinsky, Berlioz and Ravel. I’ve been fortunate in that way. I was surprised at the exclusion of Bach, Mozart and Haydn, and oddly disappointed that neither Mahler nor Dvorak made the cut. There were, however, some unexpected, albeit welcome, inclusions of Messiaen, Janacek and Steve Reich.

My only significant, yet oddly pointless argument with the piece was the inclusion of John Cage’s 1952 composition “4’33”,” which is a staged performance piece in three movements that has no specified instrumentation (although for reasons that remain unclear a grand piano is most often used) and no sound, except for the ambient or environmental sounds produced in the theater, i.e., coughing, throat-clearing, flatulence, et cetera. Except to demonstrate that Cage had a sense of humor, the piece has about as much to do with music as a chalked outline of a hopscotch grid on an urban sidewalk has to do with art.

Besides, if we’re going to talk about the sounds of silence, I’m up for Simon and Garfunkel.

Anyway, the Times piece inspired me to find ways to make people fall in love jazz. This is the music that remains closest to my senses—a music that I devoted most of my career promoting.

My aim here is to reach out to Generic Joe, an insurance actuary (odds-maker) in the health-care industry, who would rather the climb the thirty-seven flights of stairs to his windowless office than chance hearing Herbie Mann on the elevator sound-mix.

What I’ve come up with is a list of recordings that are not only pleasant to hear, but important in the development of a 120-year-old music that, despite its obvious derivative elements, happens to be America’s original art form—a delicious and heady gumbo of flavors and spices from Africa, the Caribbean and the south’s cotton fields.

I have endeavored to create not a Top 10 list, although I believe that each of these recordings would be included in the Top 100 of any aficionado’s list, but a listener’s primer to jazz.

Louis Armstrong (1901-1971) was one of the world’s most beloved entertainers whose grasp and performance of the popular song was without precedent. But it was as a trumpeter that his most notable contributions to jazz as an emerging art form were made. In fact, it might have been made in a single recording of “West End Blues,” a tune written by his friend and mentor, King Oliver.

The recording was made in 1928 in Chicago (Earl Hines was the pianist) and Armstrong’s opening cadenza displayed a complexity of phrasing, stirring rhythmic feeling and musicality that served to define those early moments in jazz.

The tune has been re-issued countless times and can be found on most of the “Hot Seven” and “Hot Five” releases, such as Louis Armstrong ‎– The Genius of Louis Armstrong, Volume I: 1923-1933 (CBS ‎– S 66225). My friend and mentor, the jazz critic Leonard Feather, told me that hearing this song in a London record shop changed his life. I don’t doubt it for a minute.

By 1956 the Big Band Era had been relegated to history, though many of the bands continued in defiance of the seismic shifts of the evolving art form. Duke Ellington (1899-1974), formed his first band in 1924. Although a gifted pianist, it was his utilization of his band and its relatively stable personnel that became his instrument. He used that 16-plus instrument to create high musical art that allowed, if not actually demanded the tapping of one’s toes. In a way, this was the people’s music dressed in top hat and tails.

While Ellington’s catalog of recordings is impressive and varied, I’m suggesting that Ellington at Newport 1956 (Sony, 1999) as a most worthy acquisition that satisfies the criteria of being both listenable and as a contributor to the evolution of jazz.

The seismic shift in jazz to which I referred earlier was a little movement called “bebop,” which many saw as a rebellion to the jazz status quo. Its birth is given witness in this iconic live recording Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker, Town Hall, New York City, June 22, 1945 (Uptown Jazz, 2005). The recording, despite is not-too-serious technical flaws, clearly demonstrates the fluidity and spontaneity that came to be and define the “new” jazz, as well as the virtuosity of its musicianship.

Diz and Bird are joined on stage by pianist Al Haig, bassist Curley Russell and drummer Max Roach.

Next week…Miles, Monk, Coltrane and others. In the meantime:

Louisiana Gumbo

1/2 cup safflower oil
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
3 large onions, chopped
3 red bell peppers, seeded, chopped
4 celery stalks, chopped
8 large garlic cloves, chopped
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 cup dry white wine
1/4 cup chopped fresh thyme leaves
3 bay leaves
1 28-ounce can diced tomatoes with juice
2 8-ounce bottles clam juice
2 cups chicken or fish stock
2 pounds andouille sausage, cut into 1/2-inch-thick slices
6 skinless, boneless chicken thighs, cut into 1-inch cubes
1 16-ounce packages sliced frozen okra

2 pounds peeled de-veined medium shrimp
Minced fresh Italian parsley
Steamed rice

Heat oil in a large, heavy-bottomed pot over medium-high heat until very hot. Add flour and stir constantly until a dark roux forms, about 5 minutes. Add chopped onions, bell peppers and celery; cook, stirring frequently, until onions are soft and brown, about 20 minutes. Add garlic and cayenne and stir for 2 minutes. Add wine, thyme, and bay leaves; bring to boil, stirring occasionally. Add tomatoes with juice, clam juice, broth, sausage, and chicken; simmer until chicken is cooked through, about 15 minutes. Add okra and simmer until tender, about 10 minutes.

At this point, you might want to stop, allowing the flavors of the gumbo base to develop in the refrigerator. Bring base to simmer before continuing.

Add shrimp to hot base and cook shrimp until just opaque in center, stirring often, about 5 minutes. Season gumbo to taste with salt and pepper. Garnish with minced parsley and serve over steamed rice. Serves eight.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska