The Yaqui of ... O'Brian

Having lived in Arizona for some time now, I've been surprised to discover it has a rich Irish history.

Tucson was founded by an Irish general serving the Spanish government, Hugo Oconor. He built the fort to close the Mexico border and keep out the Apaches.

Phoenix owes its existence in great part to William John Murphy who came to Arizona after fighting under Sherman in the Atlanta campaign during the Civil War. He organized the company that built the Arizona canals that irrigate Phoenix and later became a developer who brought the citrus industry to Arizona.

The Brophys are famous for their work in mining and ranching and their role in trying to recover the Irish orphans kidnapped back in 1904 at Clifton-Morenci, Arizona, when New York nuns tried to place the children with Mexican miners' families. I gave my son the option to go to Brophy College Prep run by the Jesuits, but he chose public school instead.

Irish nuns built the pioneering hospitals in Phoenix and Tucson and eventually drew my wife and I into their orbit where the planets collided and we ran off to Yaqui point at the Grand Canyon and got married (don't tell Father Boroughs). The famous Barrow Institute at St. Joseph's Hospital has a pavilion named for a very famous Irishman, Muhammad Ali.

Over the years my wife made many trips to the Yaqui outside of Tucson to review management of their health care needs. Didn't think to much about it. Then one day while I was fixing up the Little League field for fall ball, a guy walks up and says: 

"Hi, I'm Cisco, I have a team from Clarendon [just south of our league boundary]. Can my kids play with you guys?" 

"Sure," Says I, "The more the merrier."

Over the years this worked out well for both sides with Cisco calling us whenever his travel team, the Yaqui, needed a player. Turns out Cisco's from Sonora and a big fan of the Yaqui de Obregon baseball team. Now I'm curious about the Yaqui de Obregon who turn out to be the Yaqui of O'Brian, carrying the name of a Mexican president who was the scion of Irish immigrants.

I wonder if Cisco sleeps with his socks on?

Jim McManus
Proud sponsor, Yaqui de Phoenix

PS:  I have been trying convince my wife unsuccessfully for some years now that she is Irish, since as all good classic scholars should know ... Hispanic is the identity resulting from the marriage of the Italians (aka Romans) and Irish (aka Spain's Celts).   I ask her,  "Can I call you Irish?  No!   Can I call you Italian?  No!  Can I call you Hispanic?  No!   Can I call you my Latin love?   Yes!!!! 




Jimmy Mac, top row, second from your left.

Louie the Greek

There was a knocking at the front door of my grandmother's Long Beach house.   When my mother answered it, it sprung open and a body flew through it,  did a paratrooper combat roll and a man sprung to his feet, threw open arms and with a big smile and an exaggerated wink shouted:
"Hi!  I'm Louie!"

Louis Sarantopolis, or as my father called him, in the tradition of gritty, street wise New Yorkers:
"Louie the Greek."

One summer long ago, my dad met Louie at Long Beach.   Louie got sent down from Connecticut to live with his uncle, play and help out a little, enjoy the summer, and stay out of trouble.  Louie's uncle ran a little snack bar down by the beach on the board walk.  The trouble part mostly didn't work.

My father's family spent the summers at Long Beach, then a destination for New York's privileged, which his mother was with her three story beach house.   She was married to a man who some called "The Priest", but not to his face, a street wise, gritty Irish kid.   He and grandma were an unlikely couple,  united by a nearly fanatical devotion to the Holy Roman Catholic Church and the public school children of the city of New York.  

"Father Joe down at St. Mary's of the Isle taught your dad how to box, Marques of Queensberry rules", Louie like do say, with a smile and a wink.  
"Jimmy,  your dad and I fought like cats and dogs all summer long."
"I was Orthodox Greek and never knew who the hell the Marques of Queensberry was and cared less."
The smile bigger and the wink harder, as he leaned his head closer to mine for emphasis.

Louie joined the Nassau County police force and my dad became a lawyer and with my mother started a small travel agency.   The travel business was a struggle, but after years of fighting the airlines for the privilege of making them richer,  mom and dad were finally making money.   Then one night catastrophe stuck.  The big office building on Hempstead Turnpike in Levittown burned down where they had the travel agency.  My father was frantic.   He raced over to the the building and forced his way pasted the police and climbed into the burned out hulk.   The safe where they stored hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of airlines tickets and the ticket validator were gone.   This meant total bankruptcy and maybe worse.

My father's frantic attempts to locate the safe went for naught.   At his wits end he called up the Nassau County police chief,  an acquaintance from his Long Beach days.  
"Sorry, Jim, there's nothing we can do.  That safe's at the bottom of the Great South Bay by now."

My father turned to Louie, who was now a detective.
"Please, Louie, I'm really desperate.   Find the janitor."
"Ok, Jimmy, I'll do what I can."

A day later Louie called.
"Meet me down at this bar in Hempstead [the Long Island ghetto].
When my father arrive Louie was outside.
"Wait here, Jimmy.   I'll be back in a second."
And it wasn't long before he was.
"Ok, come with me tomorrow.   I have an address where we can pick up the safe at 10 am."

The next day there was the safe exactly where it was promised, unopened, tickets intact,  just a little bit worse for wear.

Native American Healing Conference

Interesting times.   Because of a health care connection my wife and I got invited to the Native American Healing Conference in Tucson some years ago.  Except for a few people from the federal Indian Health Services, we were the only non-native ... and it was a big gathering of people from all over the country.   There were some speeches and then one of the local elders said a few words:

This is our earth we are sprung from it.

We love our black, yellow and white brothers.

But they need go back to the earth they came from.

The blacks need to go back to Africa.

The whites need to go back to Europe.

And the yellow men need to go back to Asia.

Not a particularly comfortable moment as my wife and I looked around, but everyone remained cordial before and after the speech.

Billy Boy

Will you go to the war, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Will you go to the war, charmin' Billy?
It's a long ways away, they are dying every day.
He's a young boy and cannot leave his mother.
Can you use a bayonet, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Can you use a bayonet, charming Billy?
No, I haven't got the skill to murder and to kill...
Don't you want a silver medal, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Don't you want a silver medal, charlin' [sic] Billy?
No desire do I feel to defend Republic Steel...
Don't you want to see the world, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Don't you want to see the world, charmin' Billy?
No, it wouldn't be much thrill to die for Dupont in Brazil...
Girls would like your uniform, Billy boy, Billy boy.
Girls would like your uniform, charlin' [sic] Billy.
They wouldn't get much chance to love me with six feet of earth above me...
Are you afraid to fight, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Are you afraid to fight, charling [sic] Billy?
You can come around to me when England's a democracy...
Will they take you from my side, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Will they take you from my side, charming Billy?
Don't you worry, mother dear, I'm a-stayin' over here...
---------------
A left wing anti-war song composed by Millard Lampell for Pete Seeger and the Almanac Singers in 1941 during the period when the Soviet Union was allied with Hitler to invade and divide Poland between them.

Dinner Table Conversation

Mommy:  They're doing a big expansion at the fancy AJ's grocery store.
Daddy:  Oh.
Mommy:  They're still open while the construction's going on.
Dad:  Hmmmm....how are they doing it.
Mommy:  They're expanding into the stores to the left of the store.
Daddy:  Did the restaurant close?
Mommy:  There's no restaurant on the left.
Daddy:  There's been one for years.
Mommy:  No! No! No!  On the left!  Not the right!
Daddy:   The restaurant's on the left side of the store.
Mommy:  No! No! No!
Daddy:   I identify as a grocery store.   The restaurant is on my left.
Daughter:    (Giggles ........ belly laughs........)
Mommy:  Wha.............!
Daddy:   (Laughter... tears)
Mommy:  Stop! You two!
Daddy:  I identify as a car.  I just parked in front of the grocery.   The empty stores are on my left.
Daughter:  What kind of car?
Daddy:  A Maserati.
Mommy:  Excuse me.
Daddy:  You're excused.

On the waterfront -- The Feast of San Gennaro

Back in the early days of World War 2,  dad was assigned to guard the Brooklyn docks.   When he graduated from OCS and they handed out the assignments, some got sent off to the war in the Pacific, some to the North Atlantic and some to guard the docks.   The Brooklyn docks was not a difficult job. March the troops out to their posts, then check up on them occasionally to see that they were awake and then march them back to the barracks after they were relieved from duty.

When the Queen Mary was in town, if you were careful, you could enjoy its amenities.   One evening while lounging on a bed in a luxurious cabin, dad was interrupted when one of the crew discovered him and appalled said:  "Sir, get up.  Don't your realize that's Winston Churchill's bed."   To which dad replied, "If it's good enough for Churchill, it's good enough for me."   Dad was never invited back aboard the Queen Mary.

On the other side of Brooklyn's planet, one day, a couple of cops made the mistake of driving onto the docks and trying to break up the lunchtime craps game.   The Italian dock workers did not take kindly to this and instead of breaking up the game they decided they'd teach the cops a lesson.  The cops retreated to their patrol car, but were surrounded by the Italian dock workers.   Then the crowd picked up the patrol car like it was the massive statue of San Gennaro, then,  shaking the uplifted patrol car, the procession started for the water... instead of the Church of the Most Precious Blood in Little Italy   It was about this time my dad arrived with a fresh detachment of armed troops ready to be dropped off at their posts guarding the docks.   Seeing that the police were in trouble, he ordered the troops to fix bayonets, port arms and advance on the crowd.   The Italians dropped the patrol car, scurried off back to work and the police collected themselves and drove off never to return.

Mt Holyoke - Class of 1970 - Almost Famous

It's fascinating to read the thoughts of Mt Holyoke's class of 1970... the glory days when classes were cancelled for the mountain climb where the school president served ice cream at the top of the trail ... weekend socials where young suitors looking for "smart women"  outnumbered the Holyoke gals by six to one... mini-reunions at the Cosmos Club to relive the glory days ... nostalgia for the glory days and sisterhood a drug to numb away life's disappointments ...  job offers that didn't materialize ... embittered siblings ... failed real estate investments ... being left at the alter after waiting years to find the perfect man.

Instead of nostalgia, my own class of 1970 sends letters asking for money and notifying us that the college's students are smarter than ever... the wisdom of this is puzzling ... if they're so darn smart now, they must all be multi-millionaires... why are they asking me for money.   I get it though ... our glory days consisted of the social club organizing off-campus events where we drank a lot of beer and then bought tickets for the privilege of smashing an old jalopy with sledge hammers.  Not exactly something you want to bring up a in college's entreaty for moola.

There aren't many drawbacks to being married to a beautiful and smart woman... too much junk mail from Berkeley and Yale asking for money ... a wife who doesn't quite understand lapses into silence at the dinner table ... trying to outdo each other with our war stories ... starting with the clinic in the Bridgeport ghetto and working her way through the ranks to run Arizona's biggest Medicaid health plan ... but when she gets too carried away with her triumphs over adversity, I drop the hammer: no one ever shot at you ... that's about it as far as drawbacks go.

Nostalgia's a dangerous  narcotic.  It let's me travel back and watch my daughter perform in her first play or sit with her and watch a cartoon show, The Rugrats, with a theme song I still treasure.   Remembering slips into dangerous territory too often though ... searching for lost boys, too often in vain ... hunting for other boys, the enemy, in the darkness ... battles with steel monsters firing artillery shells, the explosions growing louder as the shells land closer and closer.

When the visions interrupt dinner, humming the cartoon show tune seems to help ... but it leaves the wife puzzled at table ... and she asks:  anybody home?   Sorry, dear, I was just thinking about our Rugrats.

In the here and now we care deeply about our children ... there are lessons to be learned and we try to pass them on ... sometimes when I talk about the lessons, their eyes glaze over and I wonder what tune they're humming.

According to the Census

These girls, who all have the same grandma,  are .... Black?  Hispanic?  White?

The War Between the Birds

The sidewalk between my house and the school bus stop looks like the bird equivalent of the Civil War's Antietam battlefield... bodies strewn everywhere.   My 14-year-old daughter walking beside me doesn't notice, even after I tell her to look at what the hawks have done.

Tuesday there was a loud crash when a bird slammed into the floor-to-ceiling glass windows at the back of our house.  Dumb bird, again?   Since a couple of summers ago, I'd figured out the birds weren't so dumb, just panicked.  After one such window slam,  I discovered a big old hawk standing in the middle of the backyard eyeing its prey, which was lying dazed too close to the house for the  hawk to finish the job.   Tuesday I looked around and the hawk was sitting on the wall at the edge of our yard, pondering her next move.   She could see me in the window and after we eyed each other for a few minutes, the hawk flew off.  Maybe I should have let nature take it's course, but instead I went outside and moved a lawn chair to a spot near the dove to give it cover if the hawk returned.   Ordinarily  the doves fly off when I go into the backyard.  This dove was still too dazed or panicked to move.  It just watched while I  positioned the chair.   The dove was gone when I returned from walking through the bird battlefield to meet my daughter at the bus stop after school.

This spring I've helped intensify the war between the birds... not deliberately.   I like having the doves and finches around and put out a feeder, a very clever one that defeats squirrels and roof rats, and only lets small song birds like house finches and lark sparrows feed.   It's a good size feeder and I thought I could fill it up and not have to mess with it again for a couple of weeks.   The house finches tore through the bird seed in two days.  They don't just eat.   They poke, pick, dig, shake their heads like crazy and the bird seed flies everywhere.  This makes the doves happy since they eat the seed that ends up on the  ground ... and the doves bring the hawks. 

So now I have a moral dilemma.   How do I deescalate the war between the birds.   If I stop feeding the house finches,  there won't be as many doves around for the hawks to kill.   I could buy myself a .22 rifle and shoot the hawks -- which would make the Phoenix PD and my neighbors really, really unhappy.   The neighbors and the PD aside, I have of too much experience defending "doves" in days gone by and I know that unless you're totally committed to hawk genocide,  even artillery far more powerful than a .22 won't stop the hawks.   Besides I like the hawks... they're beautiful in a fearsome way ... I just wish they'd take it easy on the doves.

Then there are the grackles.   With the hawks around there aren't any.   The grackles rough up the doves in their own way.   A couple of grackles will corner a dove and start pecking its shoulders.  If the dove doesn't get away immediately, the grackles keeping pecking until the doves head comes off.   What's the point?   The grackles don't eat the doves.  They just kill them.   The hawks are hunting for food.  The grackles are just thugs and the hawks keep the thugs out of the neighborhood.

Bottom line:   good luck trying to save the world.   After years and years of trying, I still haven't figured out how to save the doves.

I am African

My son's an awesome kid... and that's a little hard to fathom sometimes... because from his earliest years he'd bring to mind Grandma Honoragh saying:  Ta an diabhal i agat  (the devil is in you).

One day he came home and asked:  "Dad, can Joscia live with us this summer.  His mom's lost her home and he has no place to live."   Sure, if you don't mind a roommate.

After he started high school, he began coming home late. 
"What ya doin, son."
"Just doin' homework at study hall with my new friends."
"Great [miracle of miracle ... he's studying without being told]"

Later he matter of fact reveals his new friends are from Sudan, Eritrea and Cameroon, and the study hall is where they get help with their homework.   My son's doing his homework and helping the African kids with theirs ... which ended up giving him an insight into how African kids view America.

"You don't like your president?   He's better than the one we have in Sudan."

"Why'd we come to America.   You have lots of food.   There is no food in Eritrea."

"Zukifi, look!  Those two girls are kissing!   Don't they kill them when they do that in America?"

"Why do you Americans sleep with the dogs?"

One day a Black Lives Matters activist showed up at an African restaurant where one of the kids worked.

"Will you donate to Black Lives Matter."
"No."
"Why not?  We have to defend our Black brothers and sisters."
"No... No ... No ...  I am not Black.   I am African."

The Dragon Meets the Karate Nun

The folklore about Catholic nuns and brothers beating the children was just that in my experience.    From my earliest years through Catholic school and college,  I never saw a nun or brother hit anyone... except once... which was remarkable given the hellions I went grew up with.

Mike Lacopo came close once.  Mike was a lay instructor at our high school.  His glasses made him look like Clark Kent.  Under his sports coat we were sure he wore a superman uniform.  He was a former Marine, had made a perfect score on the challenging Marine physical fitness test, and was the JV football coach.  Mike was pretty mild mannered and liked to read us poetry in English class.  But one day Andy Vaughn one of the most hellacious hellions finally got under his skin.  Andy made a wisecrack.   Mike turned red, dropped the chalk he was using to write on the blackboard, turned and leaped at Andy.   Chairs and students flew in every direction as Mike flew at the terrified Andy who was sitting in the middle of class.  Mike grabbed Andy by the throat, cocked his free arm back to strike... and just before he delivered the coup de grace ... regained control ... gently placed Andy back in his seat ... straightened his own tie and said:   "Andrew please see me after class and I will write you a grey slip for detention."   Most of us didn't like Andy and were disappointed by the outcome.

We didn't like Dennis Dunn, either.   And were not at all disappointed the day in 7th grade when he decided to punch Sister Mary Angelica.   Dunn never knew what hit him.   There was a flash of whirling robes like a black tornado ... the cheering spectators jumped to their feet ... and a barrage of hand strikes left Dunn lying on the floor.  Out for the count.   Who knew they taught nuns karate in basic training.

Dome of the Rock... and the Catholic Women

It was just a picture.

My wife dropped in to say "hi" to the new hire.  The new hire worked for the Medical Director, not my wife, but it was part of the culture... the welcoming health plan run by women dedicated to the sick and the poor.

"What a pretty picture."
"Yes, it's of my homeland, Palestine."

Though she's a devout Catholic, this meant nothing to my wife and what followed was a lot of small talk about children and family.

I'd never call my wife clueless.  She'd tell you she was just too serious to have time for politics and world affairs.  She was a nurse practitioner who'd worked in the Bridgeport ghetto and the Native American reservations and was now Chief Operating Officer of the second largest Medicaid health plan in Arizona.  Her spare time was spent going to meetings with the governor's wife to figure out how they could improve immunization rates for Arizona's children. And though she had graduate degrees from Berkeley and Yale and could lecture long and loud about how clinical significance trumped statistical significance, she had no idea how much money she had in her retirement savings accounts. If it didn't have something to do with maternal-child health care or making a dying AIDS patient comfortable, it wasn't on her radar. 

Time passed and administrations changed.  The Medical Director who hired the Palestinian woman left my wife's company to become the State of Arizona's medical director.   The Palestinian woman's new boss walked into her office, said "hi", introduced himself, said a few pleasantries and then stared at the picture on the wall for several minutes and left the room without saying anything except "goodbye."   The Palestinian woman came running into my wife's office:  "Julie, Julie... how can I work for a Jew."

At this point I might have said "You could start by taking down your picture of the "Dome of the Rock", the shrine built on top of Judaism's most holy place by a triumphant Muslim army."

Instead my wife said "Oh, don't worry.  We've known the doctor for many years. He's a wonderful, kind man.  You'll get along just fine."  She didn't feel she needed to add that if there was a problem that she and the CEO, another devout Catholic woman, would deal with it. Many years have passed and they are all still friends.





  

The Bonfire of the Vanities

In the 15th-century,  Girolamo Savonarola appeared as prophet and reformer to purify Renaissance Florence and expel its patrons the "licentious" Medici.  The hallmark of Savonarola's campaign were the Frateschi, Savanrola's religious police drawn from the zealots among the Florentine youth.   The Frateschi drove the immoral from the streets and organized the Bonfire of the Vanities: the burning of objects condemned by Savonarola as occasions of sin, including the works of Renaissance humanist Giavonni Boccaccio like his X-rated Decameron.

In the 21st-century, we're experiencing a new wave of purification, which aims to rid of us of cultural sin and gender oppression.
At Holy Cross College in Massachusetts, it's led by the head of the biology department who wants to purge the college's Christian Crusader mascot, which might frighten non-Christians.   The head of the biology department?   An odd choice for Savonarola, and purging a mascot is a pathetic exercise  compared to exiling the Medici and burning Boccaccio. 

Jesuit Creighton and Bob Gibson

“From the projects to today,” he said. “The steppingstone was the opportunity to go to Creighton. I was trying to get into Indiana and they had their quota (he signaled with quote signs), which was one, and they got the wrong one, but Creighton gave me a scholarship. And after four years of baseball and basketball, they taught me to be a decent human being and hopefully I am one.”
-- Bob Gibson, Baseball Hall of Fame

Nobody cares about us

Hi, dad.
whosh...whosh... My son was making his morning call while walking to class at the U of Arizona.  Whosh... whosh ... his iPhone was picking up wind noise...whosh, whosh.
Hi, son.  I can barely hear you.  Hold the phone closer.
Ok.
Where you going?
To class.
Did you have breakfast?
Yes.
What'd you have?
A brioche with egg and cheese.  It sucked.  I threw away the brioche and just ate the egg.
Best to stick with plain bacon and eggs at Denny's, son, ... or pancakes.
The pancakes suck.  They hardly give you any syrup.
Buy some more... we can afford it.
The syrup's cold... yuck.
Then go to the Bear Down Cafe.
All the big football players go there.  They intimidate me.
Those guys will be figuring out how to lose weight soon, son.  You're actually just the right size for an Navy SEAL or Army Ranger:  6 foot, 170 pounds.  That's a good life weight.  Football players are weenies compared to SEAL and Rangers.  I doubt most of the guys in the NFL could pass the BUDS qualifier test without dropping a lot of weight and doing LSD training.
LSD?
Yeah,  long slow distances.  Swimming and running.
BUDS?  Do you have to pass a drinking test to be a SEAL?
Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL "school."
Marines become SEALS.
Not often, son, the Marines special ops troops are Force Recon... like your teacher.
Who?
Your middle school teacher.
Oh, yeah. I remember the day he told us "Why can't you people do this! My five-year-old son can do this!"  A black girl shouted:  "Your son goes to a private school where they care about him. Nobody cares about us."
That was awful for her to say that, son.  The teachers really do care about you... even if they are the Few .. But Proud.
I know that, dad.   She was just jerking his chain.  She comes from a happy family and her dad works at the school, too.  He jerked our chain first.
Really... son.  I know you and most of the kids at your school.  You people can do any work he asks you to... when you want to.
Whosh... whosh.

Fuego

I was mulling the newspaper's recent police shootings story in the context of Bayesian comparisons, when my Latin Love popped into the room, said "I'm off to the store," and kissed me on the cheek.

Bang:  my ears started ringing.

What's your diagnosis?

1.  Combat induced PTSD

2.  Tinnitis

3. True love

All the Fuss about Guns

All the fuss about guns.  If Tucson, AZ, isn't battling the Republican legislature, it's something else.  I haven't held a gun since I turned in my captured SKS assault rifle at the end of the Vietnam War (for me).   But I get it.  My friend from Kentucky likes to go hunting.  The Latino guy who gave up most of his guns says he kept a .45 and keeps it by the bed at night.  His old neighborhood's changed and not for the good.  What I don't get is people who think they need to strap on a pistol to go to In-N-Out Burger.   Personally,  I doubt there's a real need for a gun in every household... although if Phoenix doesn't hire some more cops soon we may all need to be armed ... I'm not planning on replacing the SKS... yet.

The Matter with Medicare: Grandma and the Faith Healer

As if passing out in church and being diagnosed with a horrible disease weren't enough,  the hospice provider sent a spiritual caregiver to look in on our devout, little old Italian grandmother.  Our still fiery Grandma.   The visit started out just fine, just another pleasant person for Grandma to talk to.   Then Grandma asked why the woman came to visit... this is where the woman got into trouble ... she was there to give Grandma spiritual comfort.  Grandma said: "I'm a Catholic, the priest already comes to see me and take care of my spiritual comfort (shit for brains)."   The woman replied, "Oh, don't worry,  I can pray over you and give you communion."  Grandma was outraged, but kept her cool on the outside ... the spiritual caregiver left, never to return.   And the next time the priest came to visit, Grandma had something to talk about when he heard her confession.

And you wonder why Medicare is going broke.

My Observant Little League Team

For a long time we'd had trouble rounding up kids to play in the local Little League.  Best we could do was two teams for my son's age group.   Just too much going on these days and for the boys who wanted to play ball, the best players wantrd to play on competitive club teams that cost a lot, and I mean a lot, to join.  The hotshots weren't interested in Little League where the "weak" players were allowed to participate.

Two teams playing each other all season isn't much fun and it's not much fun to travel across town all the time to find more competition.   My neighbor had an idea.   His brother belonged to an Ultra-Orthodox Jewish congregation and he thought they might might have some kids who wanted to play.  It turned out that they did... on the condition that there'd be no games on the Sabbath... Friday night and Saturday.  I volunteered to coach the Observant team, which had a mix of the Observant and other.   The youngsters actually got along very well. The non-Jewish, especially the Mexican kids, were miffed by boys with long curls hanging down next to their ears, yarmulkes instead of baseball hats, and tzitnit tassels (knotted ritual strings) hanging down from the waist.   But the boys liked each other... even when the Orthodox said no thanks to yummy snacks.

Everything was going fine until Passover.   Some of the Orthodox said they couldn't play.  Problem.   We didn't have enough players to play without them and Little League, in its infinite wisdom, doesn't allow you to play without nine players and you're not allowed to borrow players from another team.  Worse.  If we wanted to field a team for the Little League All-Star tournament,  our players were required to play a minimum number of games during the regular season.  Little League is really too complicated.

Solution.  Consult the team rabbi.  Thank God one of the parents stepped up.  We talked it over and the rabbi gave me a ruling that the observant players would only have to miss one game.  Season saved.

Why Didn't Castro Speak Gaeilge

Did it ever occur to you that a younger Fidel Castro looks a lot like Irish actor Liam Neeson?

Might have something to do with Castro's dad being from Galicia in the north of Spain.   Castro is the Roman word for a Celtic hill fort.  There's bunches of hill fort ruins in the Spain.

Italians need to remember [Ed like to write the Irish need to remember columns] that when Hannibal of Carthage had the Roman Republic on the ropes, Scipio Africanus saved the day by defeating the Carthaginians in Spain and then invading African where Scipio defeated Hannibal at Zama.   The key to Scipio's victory was an alliance with Spain's Celts.  Years later after Scipio was gone, his descendants turned on their allies and, in a very rough way (remember Numantia),  took over running things in Spain and made everyone speak Latin.  

Even more years later Marcus Aurelius, a Spaniard, became one of Rome's greatest emperors.  We commemorate the day of his death every March 17.

The Great Wall of Trump

My teenage son is brilliant.  He asked why no one "get's butt hurt" about the Great Wall of China... as in everybody's butt hurt about Trump's wall, but China's wall is a tourist attraction.

Hadrian's Wall

The Theodosian Walls.

Hundreds of years from now people from all over the world may come to Arizona to see the Great Wall of Trump. It might even become a world heritage site.  Imagine Mexicans shouting "We paid for it!  The tourists belong to us!" Conservationists demanding that the approaches to the Great Wall of Trump be declared a national monument. Yaqui and Tohono O'Odham fighting over the casino rights.

It's times like these that fill me with great sorrow and regret... that The NY Times satirist Russell Baker has retired.

Gigante Gorda Senora

My wife's boss was an unpretentious Irish-Catholic woman of great height and girth.  Devout, she had dedicated her life to her faith and the well being of poor children and their mothers.   With complete indifference to personal gain,  she built a small organization into one of Arizona's largest health care plans. 

On a site visit to a clinic in Tucson some years ago, she arrived early for the meeting and the receptionists asked her to take a seat until the director could see her.  She sat down and patiently began to wait.   The young receptions started to speak to each other in Spanish.  Forgot to mention that my wife's boss grew up in Chile and was a fluent Spanish speaker.  The receptionists were commenting on the fat lady's height and immense waistline.  Instead of being offended,  my wife's boss sat and listened.  Never said a word... until she got back to Phoenix and told her staff what she thought was an amusing story about the young women who thought Spanish was a secret code.

Adrian Fontes: Rock Star

Adrian Fontes, ROCK STAR.  

What dads will do for the love of their daughters.   I took my 14-year-old to the Hillary-Bernie rally at Central High on Sunday.  Hillary couldn't make it so Adrian filled in and warmed up the crowd.   He did a hell of a job.  He's what Elizabeth Warren would be if she spent four years in the Marines.

What I don't get is why a bomb thrower is running for county recorder.  Maybe he'll dress up the poll workers in pink coveralls?  

Bernie!  Bernie!  My daughter was thrilled.  I was less thrilled cause I really had to pee by the time Adrian stopped talking and Bernie started.

To add to the excitement my daughter even got to see real live placard carrying communists as we marched out the Central High exit.   I haven't seen any of those, dead or alive, since the Vietnam War... Arizona continues to amaze and surprise.

The Bear

This is what the grizzly bear looked like when it hopped on the hood of my car at the entrance to Yellowstone Park,  looked me in the eye and started drooling on the windshield.   My friend Larry and I were on an adventure to work on a farm in Oregon when the bear waylaid us.   After the bear started drooling in my face, I stepped on the gas and the bear rolled off the car.   We left him in the dust and headed to see the Old Faithful geyser... where we made sure to keep our distance from the animals and other dangerous attractions.

Thursday's Mystery

Here's what I did last week.  Life is pretty quiet around here for the retired.

After some guy in LA, an alleged Marine, asked me two days in a row for five bucks to get back to Camp Pendleton, I usually ignore beggars.  But last week I stopped for a pair.

There's two guys on the corner of 20th and Camelback in Phoenix.   One guy's begging and the other's sprawled in the dirt.  The guy sprawled the dirt got my attention.  Krap.  What if the guy's dead.  I can't drive by and leave a dead body lying in the street.

So I stop and roll down the window.   When the live guy walks over, I ask:

"What's up.  Do you guys need help?  You got water?"  

"Waaataah!"

"OK, I'll get you some."  

So I drive off and stop at Danny's at 20th and Highland for two big bottles of water.   You remember Danny's.  It was Danny's for years when the Phoenix PD used to take their patrol cars down from the Squaw Peak Precinct to have the illegals wash them on Saturday morning.  All very mellow.

Ever wonder why Sheriff Joe never raided Danny's?   Probably one of the Joyful Mysteries?   Maybe Ed Montini of the Arizona Republic has the inside dope on that?  Now Danny's is Jackson's and still has full employment,  Squaw Peak is the Mountain View Precinct, and 20th and Camelback, which was headed for the Bonfire of the Vanities (the South Bronx), has a Whole Foods, Trader Joe's, LA Fitness and limited parking. 

I get back from Danny's, which is now Jackson's, found an empty spot in the Bank of America parking lot and walked over to the possibly dead guy and the guy begging on the corner.   The guy on the corner is having a bad day.  People are stopping their cars to talk to him and he's waving get lost and shouting Fuck You at them... for who knows why. 

The live guy walks over, takes the water and shakes my hand.   I look down at the possibly dead guy and shout.

"Hey, buddy, how ya doin'.   Do you need help?"

A guy with a neatly trimmed beard and a slick one-piece black bicycle suit and white helmet that matches his beard -- a college professor type -- cruises by me on an expensive bicycle -- probably on the way for a snack at Whole Foods -- says:  "Leave him alone he's sleeping."

The possibly dead guy stirs, rolls over, opens his eyes, raises up on his elbow and pulls a small black Bible out of his pocket.  Still mostly sprawled in the dirt, he waves the Bible in the air with his free hand.

"I have all the help I need!"

I look at the live beggar and ask him if I should call 911.  The live guy manages to slur out.

"Call 911.  I can't take care of him anymore."

So I called 911.   I was reluctant to do it, but it's 10 am and already 100 degrees in the high Sonora desert.  If the possibly dead guy stays sprawled in the dirt, he'll be a for real dead guy by noon.   You just can't drive off and leave a guy to die next to a Bank of America parking lot across from Whole Foods.

The firemen must have been shopping for provisions at the Fry's across from the Whole Foods.  They arrive in about five minutes, lights flashing, weaving through the heavy traffic on Camelback.   The team gets off the truck, including a medic in green scrubs.  They have no interest in talking to me and head for the possibly dead guy.  Their captain kneels by the possibly dead guy and tells him:  "I'm sorry, but you can't lie down here."

The live beggar slurs to the firemen:   "I can't take care of him anymore."

As I drive off, I can see the firemen kneeling around the possibly dead guy, working through the fire department's protocol for dealing with the homeless.

We too will behold the transfigured Jesus on the Last Day.

The Dragon and Joseph Smith

(Or how I ended up sleeping in Barbara Smith's bed)

I was pretty sad the day the Mormons left town.  Roddy Zurenborg was my best friend, big brother and protector.  When his family moved away I lost my body guard, and the neighborhood became a dangerous place for 10-year-olds.

That was it for the Mormons until many years later when I moved to a western Missouri town just outside Kansas City.  Who'd have thought that the town of Independence was the spot where the Mormons believed Jesus Christ would land when he returned to Earth.  Who knew that there was more than one flavor of the Mormons -- The Reorganized LDS, Temple Lot, Cutlerites and Restoration Branches headquartered at Independence.   The Utah Mormons even had a visitors center there to be close to the action when Christ returned, and were apparently very bent out of shape that the RLDS (now known as the Church of Christ) owned the deed to Christ's landing pad.

In addition to Jesus Christ, Harry Truman was Independence's other famous returnee.  He retired there after being president.  I wish I could have asked Harry Truman what he though of the religious politics of his old hometown, but he died a few years before I arrived.  There was a very nice larger- than-life bronze statue of Harry on the town square.

I got myself a small apartment on the outskirts of town near a new middle school and a cornfield.  The apartments were new. too.  A year before they and the school had been part of the cornfield.   A few years later the city acquired what was left of the cornfield, dug a hole for a pond and turned the land into a nature preserve.  You'd be surprised how fast the trees grow back.

The apartments were like a college dormitory, young and very social.  That's how I met Big Bob, Barbara and her husband one day after work.  Bob was out from New Jersey, doing some specialized construction work on a hospital in Kansas City.   I never caught what Barbara's husband did.  Barbara was a gorgeous, vivacious redhead with short hair and freckles.  One part of an obviously loving couple.  Barbara we learned was the great-great-great-great granddaughter of the Mormon prophet Joseph Smith.

Big Bob provided most of the entertainment: good drinking buddy, nonstop talk.  If someone was giving you the evil eye in a bar, Bob would tap them on the should and they'd think better of it and walk away.   Bob was really big.  Bob was also a babe magnet.  This I never understood.  Maybe it had something to do with animal magnetism and smooth talk.

Paradise lasted awhile until one night over a beer Bob announced that Barbara had run off never to return.  Her husband moved out of their apartment and was soon gone too.  Someone told Bob he could have their furniture and  since Bob didn't need it he gave it to me.  I returned all my rented stuff and took over Barbara's.  That's how I ended up sleeping in Barbara's bed... sans Barbara.

Louie, The Greek

The doorbell rang, my mother opened the door, and a man dove into the room.  He did a paratrooper's somersault, sprang to his feet and shouted:   "Hi, I'm Louie!  Where's Jimmy!"

That was my mother's introduction to my father's lifelong friend Louie, the Greek.  My father (aka The Dragon) met Louie one summer long ago at Long Beach, New York, just outside New York City.  Louie's uncle had a food stand on the boardwalk by the beach and little Louie got to spend summers with his uncle.

"We were best buddies.  Two scrappers.  We fought like cats and dogs.  Father Joe over at St. Mary's taught your father how to box.  Marques of Queensbury Rules.  I didn't know any rules."  Louie said with a wink.

It was the Roaring Twenties and Prohibition.  Long Beach was a destination for the affluent and smart set.  It's political leader was Lorenzo Carlino, Lucky Luciano's lawyer.  One night my grandfather was taking a walk on the beach and a cop stops him.  "Mr. Mac, you need to go home now."  The cop winked and grandpa got the message.  Bootleggers were landing a boatload of booze that night.

In the movies Long Beach was home to the Godfather and, in fact, there was some of Lorenzo Carlino and the local gangsters in the Godfather's Don Corleone.   In real life, though, Long Beach was a demilitarized zone.   Sonny never got gunned down at the toll booth on the Long Beach causeway from New York City.   It was a summer playground for Louie, dad and their friend Eddie Handy, another wild kid.   Eddie didn't survive the war.

After the war, Louie became a Nassau County cop.  My father became a lawyer.  He might have become a cop like Louie or a mechanic -- he liked fixing cars -- but his mother wanted him to be a lawyer. 
"You're going to law school, Jim." 
"I didn't apply, Mother."
"Jim, I talked to Agnes Muldoon and she talked to Felix (Agnes's henpecked husband) and Felix talked to the dean at Fordham.  You've been admitted to start in the fall." 

Imagine Felix Muldoon one of the most connected politicians in New York State, a guy who, in Chicago's smoke-filled room, told Flynn to back Roosevelt, having to go hat in hand to the president of Fordham Law to ask a favor. 
"Father Gannon, it's Felix Muldoon.  Do me a favor.  Agnes is on the war path.  She wants her friend's son Jimmy Mac to go to law school.  He's a good kid.  Regis, Holy Cross.  That's right his father's gone, the one who lectured at the school of Social Work and sent the city's public school lunch trucks to the Catholic schools as well.  Yes, Wagner's friend.  Great.  Call me when you need a favor.  We should do lunch next time you're downtown."

One good thing came out of Jimmy's law degree.  When the City of Long Beach health department tried to shut down Louie's uncle's boardwalk business -- no bathroom -- Jimmy worked a deal with the city to grandfather in the food stand sans bathroom.

Jimmy didn't like being a lawyer.  When he moved the family to Levittown, he started all sorts of little businesses that he and mom ran: an insurance agency, real estate, selling toys at the farmer's market, a travel agency.  He should have been wildly successful on a booming Long Island, but competition was fierce.  The insurance agents teamed up to provide insurance to the local school kids.  Then one year somebody in the consortium secretly submitted a separate, lower bid and got all the business.   Later the car dealer called up and said he loved doing business with my mom, but his bank told him no more loans unless he bought his insurance from the bank's agent.   The travel agency became an obsession.  It wouldn't work unless the agency had airline tickets it could sell and Jimmy literally had to take the case to the Supreme Court to get the tickets.   Then one day the office building where the travel agency was located burned down.  When the smoke cleared, the safe with the tickets was gone.   Jimmy was beside himself.   The tickets and the ticket validator were worth millions of dollars.  If they were lost, he'd be ruined financially.

Desperate, Jimmy called the Nassau County police chief, another old Long Beach friend.  The chief said:  "Sorry, Jimmy.  We've done everything we can.  That safe of yours is at the bottom of the Great South Bay by now."

Jimmy called Louie.  By then Louie was a detective in the county police department.  Louie said he'd help.  The two of them drove over to the ghetto in Hempstead and found the bar where the office building's janitor hung out.   Louis said: "Wait outside, Jimmy."  Louie came back after a few minutes.  "Here's the deal.  No questions asked.  We can pick up the safe in a half an hour around the corner."  A half an hour later, they had the safe... no questions asked.

Louie was a solid guy.  He gave anyone a chance to be reasonable... no questions asked.  One time he got sent on a hunt to bring in a murderer.  He tracked the guy to an apartment in Harlem.   Louie burst through the door, into the apartment.   On the other side of the room stood an angry black man, 6 ft 4, 250 pounds.  He was holding a big axe.  "I'm taking you in,"  says Louie as he pointed his Official Police Colt revolver with it's powerful .38-44 high velocity bullets at the man.  "Put down the axe and lie on the floor, or I'll blow your fucking brains out."  The man glared at Louie, but after a few tense minutes decided to be reasonable and put the axe down... no questions asked.

One day Louie and the other detectives get called into the DA office.  It's a new DA.  "We're taking in all the Mafia over in Long Beach and Point Lookout."  Silence.  Then Louie pipes up.  "Why!?  That's where they live.  All their business is in New York.  There isn't a crime out here in Nassau County we can charge them with."  The DA glares at Louie.  "Just do it."

So Louie and his partner get told to bring in Joey D for questioning.  "Christ!"  says Louie.  "That guy lives down the street from me on Point Lookout.  I've got to arrest my neighbor for nothing."

Louie and his partner drive over to Point Lookout, past the toll booth where the mythical Sonny got assassinated,  over to Joey D's house, and they knocked on the door.   By then the cat is long out of the bag.  Joey D's lawyer answers the door.  Louie tells the lawyer it's the police and the lawyer goes berserk.  F and A and SOB bombs are dropping so hard Louie's starting to have D-Day flashbacks.  Joey D runs to the door and screams: 
"Stop! Leonard! For heaven's sake this is my neighbor.  I'm so sorry.  Louie?  Is that right?  You're Louie from down the street." 

"That's right, sir, I'm Louie Sarantopolis from down the street.  I'm also a Nassau County police detective."
"I know."  Said Joey.
"I'm sorry, Mr. D., we have to bring you in for questioning.  It's not our idea.  There's a new DA."
"I know.  Don't feel bad about it," said Joey.  "I'm sorry for your trouble.  Would you like some coffee.  Can I show you the house?"  

"Sure," says Louie.  His partner is starting to think they've fallen through the rabbit hole and they're in Wonderland... so's Joey D's lawyer, Leonard.   They all have coffee and take a tour of the house.
"You have a very nice house here Mr. D., but we have to go now."
"I understand," said Joey.  Then genuinely contrite, Joey hands Louie and his partner each a $100 dollar bill:  "I am so very sorry for this trouble, Louie."

Louie's partner looks at the $100 bill in shock and says, "Christ! We can't take this, Louie."

Louie looks at his partner and says, "Relax.  It's my neighbor.  He's just trying to be polite." Then Louie whispered, "He wouldn't expect anyone to sell their soul for 100 bucks, especially in Nassau County where he doesn't want any trouble."

After he retired,  Louie got a job as body guard/driver for Senator Alfonse D'Amato, who was raised in Island Park, just across the channel from Long Beach.  It was a decent gig.  D'Amato and Louie seemed to be warming to each other.  One day, D'Amato invites Louie over to a party at D'Amato's house.

"Hey! Stella!  Put on your best dress.  We're going to a party at D'Amato's house."

Louie and Stella show up at D'Amato's, D'Amato greets them at the door, says "Hi, Louie" and then hands him a bartender's jacket.  "I need you to handle the drinks tonight."

The next morning Louie called D'Amato's office and told them to find another driver.