From the Winter War to Berkeley’s Finn Hall, an Immigrant’s Story

My father in 1945.

Below is the speech I made earlier today at The Finnish Hall in Berkeley as part of the commemoration for Finnish Independence Day.

Anteeksi, isä. (Excuse me, father.) Being a typical Finn, my father would not be pleased with me for talking about him so much, especially as I’m going to say so many nice things. But I’m not here to today to brag about my old man. No, today I’m using his story as an example of the type of Finn who in the first half of the 20th century came to the Bay Area and other parts of the U.S. and made a better life for themselves and their progeny.

In settling in the U.S. my father never forgot where he came from. Like other Finns, he clung to his roots, his culture and his language while enjoying the fruits of prosperity in America.

Typical of Finns who immigrated to the U.S., he deeply loved two countries and lived comfortably in two worlds.

Aimo Johannes Hourula was the first of eight children born to Saimi and Otto in Nivala in the north of Finland. He was born in the dead of winter — and I suppose it would be redundant to call it a cold Finnish winter as if to suggest there’s any other kind. We’ve all heard the old saw of parents and grandparents claiming to have trudged miles to school in the snow. Aimo literally did.

Not surprisingly Aimo could not continue schooling beyond his teen years. Going to a university would have seemed a wild fantasy. Instead he worked in saw mills. His family had enough of everything. No one ever went to bed hungry. But Aimo knew there was a better life out there somewhere for anyone willing to look for it. Though he lived and had grown up a long drive from the coast he also dreamed of taking to the sea.

By the time he entered his twenties, big trips for him had been going to Kemi and Oulu. He was content with life but dreamed of more. All such dreams were put on hold when the Soviet Union invaded Finland in the Winter of 1939. There was no question about his enlisting.

Later in life Aimo would begrudgingly talk about fighting the Russians. My father told of sleeping outside in thirty below zero weather. Of taking Russian prisoners and how scared they were and underdressed for the occasion and even giving one his dinner. He told of watching comrades die in battle, and the white snow covered with red blood. He talked of not knowing whether he had killed anyone. Yet despite all the horrors of war he claimed never to have been scared. Aimo insisted that he was simply doing a job. Typical Finn.

As history tells us the Finns fought bravely with roughly four Russian soldiers dying for every Finn killed. But the sheer numbers of the enemy were overwhelming and defeat was inevitable.

Disheartened, my father returned home. But not for long. It was time for him to actualize the dreams he’d had. He went to Petsamo and got on a merchant marine ship. He was going to see the world.

He picked one heckuva time to do it. World War II was raging and the seas were not safe. Twice he was on ships that were strafed by German planes, Later he was on a ship that was torpedoed. More on that in a minute.

One of his first stops was New York. Imagine coming to New York City after living in small town Finland all your life. He was mesmerized and fascinated. At age 24 he saw people of color for the first time. He sampled many foods for the first time, including certain fruits. Aimo remembered buying a grapefruit thinking it a large orange. Years later he could laugh at the memory of taking his first big bite of grapefruit. 

Among the things he found in New York was other Finns. At the time there was something of a Finntown near Harlem. He remembered an African American grocer who greeted him by saying: “mitä poika haluaa.” It blew his mind.

Aimo made New York his home base but continued to sail seeing the world. He had long stops in Australia and Argentina. When I was a child he told me that he stayed in those cities because he liked them. I got the R rated version when I was older, in both cities he’d met a woman. And in both cases he fled when the conversation turned towards marriage. He was decidedly not interested in settling down, he had more to see. 

On a Sunday morning in January 1944 in the Arabian Sea he was at the helm of a Liberty ship when he saw plenty in the form of a periscope from a Japanese submarine. He called the first mate to have a look see but the mate told him not to worry, that they weren’t looking at a periscope. Seconds later they were very much looking at a torpedo heading their way. The ship’s cargo included TNT. Needless to say the missile missed the TNT but it did enough damage to sink the ship. My dad and crew were soon picked up by a Norwegian tanker and taken to Iran. Undaunted by the experience, Aimo quickly got on another ship and continued his travels. Typical Finn.

Later he enlisted in the U.S. Army. He wasn’t keen to leave the merchant marines but wanted to serve his new country and being in the army was a quick route to U.S. citizenship. Soon after the war ended my father met a graduate student at Columbia University named Kerttu Kurki who was born of Finnish parents in San Francisco and had grown up in Berkeley. In fact her father, my grandfather, Emile Kurki, was one of the men who helped build this hall.

My parents had a whirlwind romance, marrying a few months after meeting. A year later they moved to Berkeley. Shortly after that Aimo joined the Finnish Brotherhood and was a regular at this hall for various functions for the next 60 years. We celebrated his 90th birthday here and later held his memorial service here.

Aimo had started work as a carpenter in New York. Moving to the post war Bay Area was fortuitous. A building boom was just beginning. There was plenty of work. It was said in those days that if you wanted to find a Finn in Berkeley all you had to do was visit a construction site. On a lot of jobs my dad worked on the entire crew were Finns.

Aimo had it made. Relative to his upbringing, he was rich. He owned his own home, along with a car and truck. His wife didn’t have to work. He had health insurance, a strong union to protect his rights as a worker. He had money enough in the bank to invest. His home boasted a dishwasher, a refrigerator, a washer and dryer and a television set. Unimagined luxuries in Finland at the time. He even had a sauna, a little bit of Finland in the home. To my father it was a life of luxury. He had two sons — I was the second — who would have all the advantages he didn’t and would go on to achieve advanced university degrees. He took great pride in my brother and I and at the same time we revered him. He was, incidentally, a terrific father.

Being a typical Finn he was a hard worker who didn’t take days off and seemed to never get sick. At least not sick enough to stay home. He got up early on cold mornings and worked. He worked on hot afternoons. He didn’t complain. Typical Finn.

But it most certainly wasn’t all hard work. There were regularly functions at this Finn Hall. There was the Ski Lodge which he was member of. There were picnics, barbecues, parties, holiday and birthday celebrations. There were football and baseball games, track meets, boxing matches, there was fishing and hunting frequent trips to Tahoe to gamble and take in shows and ski. It seemed to be a constant whirl of gatherings and celebrations. Life was grand. And the weather here was something he and other Finns bragged to the people back home about.

My father always credited himself with leading a mini migration to the Bay Area. He wasn’t exaggerating. He coaxed his younger brother Unto to move here and reap the benefits of this land of plenty. He also inspired his cousins, Reijo and Laura Mehtela to move here. His sister-in-law Elsa, Unto’s wife, encouraged her sister Sylvi to come here with her husband. His cousins brought others too. There were good-paying jobs for everyone. Like most Finns my father had relatives here now to go along with his many friends and co-workers who were Americans of all stripes.

He loved his country all right and he also loved the Finnish Hall and the Finnish community it represented. Though being a typical male Finn of his generation he wouldn’t have said so, certainly not in those words. I recall when he met a girlfriend of mine who is today my wife of 37 years — hi Kathryn, how am I doin? — I asked my father what he thought of her. “Yeah, she seems all right.” He said. “Wow, I thought he really likes her.” He was always understated. Typical Finn.

The times were great for Aimo and other Finns, but life has a way of giving us an occasional slap in the face. My mother developed serious mental health problems. This was the kind of thing people didn’t talk about at the time, certainly not taciturn Finns. My father hadn’t a clue how to handle the situation. He was shattered.

But life isn’t so much about what happens to us as it is how we respond to it.

A typical Finn, Aimo was a tough guy, resilient. The type of person who gets right back up after being knocked down. I learned some valuable life lessons from him: no matter what you keep moving forward. You don’t stop and feel sorry for yourself. You’ve got things to do, you take the next step. This is nothing he ever said, his actions said it. He was not much for philosophizing, he was a doer. In other words, a typical Finn.

Eventually my father re-married and got on with his life. He never recovered from the shock of what happened to my mother but he didn’t let tragedy define him. The presence of  the Finnish community was integral to his finding joy in life again.

Aimo had a fulfilling and happy retirement, highlighted by six grandchildren a few of whom are here today. He lived to the seemingly ripe old age of 92 but in truth a freak fall cost him many more years that he’d seemed destined to live. Before the fall no one would have bet against him reaching 100.

A typical Finn my father never regarded himself as anything special. His kids, his grandchildren, sure they were special, but he saw himself as an ordinary guy.  It used to be that on this day in this place veterans of the Winter War were asked to stand. They received a hearty round of applause. I was sitting next to him the last time he was thus recognized. He sat down quickly, before the clapping had even ceased. “I don’t like this,” he grumbled. He didn’t want to be singled out for doing his duty. He was a Finn and Finns do what they need to do whether it’s build a house, attend a party, wash their clothes or fight in war. What’s the big deal? For my dad it was like being applauded for going to work.

I’ll close with this: a few months before the fall that ultimately claimed his life, an Italian filmmaker who’s played a role in our family, made a short movie about Aimo Hourula. In it my dad talked about his life, especially his various adventures. But what struck me was at the very end when he was asked for a general philosophy of life. It’s something I’d never thought to ask him. In response all he said was to be nice to people.

Of course he said that, because all his life he WAS nice to people. You know, a typical Finn.

Kiitos ja hyvää itsenäisyyspäivää. (Thank you and Happy Independence Day.)

Writers Block, Musings on Death, Two Films and Loved Ones Gone

His Three Daughters

My latest struggles with writing cause me to wonder if it’s all over. Is my mind starting to fade? Is this the beginning of the end? I used to be able to put a thousand words on paper with ease. I could conjure a piece of fiction upon request. I could sit down for hours and write only stopping occasionally to stretch. Is that gone? Forever?

Here I search for a topic. Many flit through my brain through the course of a normal day. But they don’t alight and I can’t grasp them. 

Grasp.

Why do people say, exempli gratia, I’m going to grab lunch instead of I’m going to grasp lunch? It makes as much sense.

(There has been — unnoticeable to the reader — a long pause sense the preceding sentence. The writer again is unable to find the next line, or any line, the next thought, or any thought.)

Finally…..

I am preoccupied with death, specifically my own. (This, by the way, is no way to go through life, better to enjoy each day, one day at a time and all that.) In any event the last four movies I've seen have dealt with death to one degree or another, in fact two of them were specifically about coping with the death(s) of others. These two films were All of Us Strangers (Haigh)and His Three Daughters (Jacobs). Strangers I saw initially in January during its theatrical run and again Saturday via Hulu. Daughters is a brand spanking new release now on Netflix. Strangers is a difficult film to capsulize but suffice it to say it is the story of a man dealing with the death of his parents which occurred many years before when he was twelve. There’s another critical element to the story but discussing that would be a major spoiler. Mourning periods can last a few days, months, years or a lifetime. People process the deaths of loved ones in myriad ways. All of Us Strangers explores one person’s delayed means of coping and gaining a sense of closure. It's an unusual film in the best possible sense and is highlighted by a great performance by the brilliant Andrew Scott.

His Three Daughters is about a father at home in hospice surrounded by his three grown daughters who are ostensibly there to aid in his transition from the living. While Dad is the raison d'etre for their presence there is much more to the story than that. The sisters are not terribly close, there are old wounds, resentments and misunderstandings — a dying parent adds another layer of stress. The film has been -- aptly -- called a chamber piece. Most of it is set in a New York apartment and most of the screen time is occupied by the three daughters wonderfully realized by Carrie Coon, Elizabeth Olsen and Natasha Lyonne. None of them are acting, they are embodying characters in such a powerful way as to make a potentially depressing story enthralling.

When my mother died I was nonplussed. I’d had very little contact with her for the previous twenty-five years. She was a paranoid schizophrenic who’d made my childhood….not perfect. I shed no tears upon her passing.In the years that followed  I posthumously forgave her and grieved not her death but her life. God how I wish fate had been kinder to her and thus to me.

My father’s death was a different matter. It was slow and we had plenty of time to prepare. Sixteen years later I’m still processing it and dealing with feelings about him. I’ve written a lot about him and he will be the topic of a talk I’m giving at a Finnish Independence Day celebration in December. He is something of a hero to me though I recognize his flaws all too well. 

I’ve had to suffer the premature losses of most of my close friends, two of whom died within a few months of each other, both unexpectedly. It was not long after my only brother had died too.

I miss them all and it’s interesting to note how frequently they and my father appear in my dreams, always alive and well. It’s impossible to accept the permanence of the death of a loved one. It’s natural that we talk and hope of seeing them on the other side.

A former student of mine, who I see from time to time because he’s best friends with one of my nephews, suffered the death of his son last Christmas Day. The day before the boy was to turn six-years-old. That’s an unimaginable type of pain, probably the worst there is. Life is so cruel that the internal question why most constantly be asked, if never answered. 

But we the living owe it to ourselves to cherish everyday as best we can. That’s quite simple in principle but for someone such as myself who suffers from occasional bouts of horrid depression it’s not manageable. I guess one has to do the best they can.

Well I’ve at least given lie to the notion that my writing is dead. I’ve completed this later in the day after starting in the morning but it still constitutes a decent bit of writing, particularly given that I taught a class, graded papers and planned a lesson in the interim. I’ve also been wracked by depression. Completing this helps. Thanks to anyone who read this far.

As a Landmark Birthday Approaches, I Ponder Life and Ask Questions

On Wednesday I’ll be celebrating my 70th birthday. Goodness me, I’m old now. 

I have accepted with grace all previous birthdays. I took bows for my 60th and even wrote a countdown to that day on this blog. Hell, 60 wasn’t even retirement age, I wasn’t even a  senior citizen yet. Now I’m a goddamned old man. Worse than that I’ve crept — run? galloped? hopped? — a lot closer to the end of my time here. How much longer do I have? Given that I live in the United States I could be gunned down tomorrow, if not later tonight (thanks NRA). Cars careen onto sidewalks, trees fall on pedestrians, sudden earthquakes send buildings tumbling down on passersby, alien invaders zap civilians with killer rays (okay that last one is a bit of a long shot). The point is there are zero guarantees as to how long we’re going to stick around. I had two of my healthier friends die of pancreatic cancer, not to mention a couple of students who weren’t even 21 when they died from other forms of cancer. On the plus side I’m healthy. I work out regularly, walk a lot in between and maintain a healthy diet. I’ve had nicks and bruises and colds and the flu but nothing serious in my first seven decades. My father lived a healthy 91 years before the toll of a freak fall claimed him a year later. My mother was 81 when she died which is remarkable given that she was mentally ill, smoked and had a mostly poor diet. My grandmothers stuck around for long lives but I’ve already far outlived both grandfathers. For that matter I’ve outlived one helluva lot of famous people. Just for starters: Jack Kerouac, John and Robert Kennedy, Malcolm X and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Adolph Hitler and Franklin D. Roosevelt, Abraham Lincoln, Michael Jackson, James Dean, Amelia Earhardt (presumably), Marilyn Monroe, John Lennon, Billie Holliday,  Napoleon and Sylvia Plath. The list, as they say, goes on.

I just googled “what percent of people live to be 70” and the first answer I saw was 43 which is a ten point increase over the beginning of this century. So I’m in the minority (if I make it to Wednesday). Nice accomplishment but let’s shoot for more. 

Seventy years. Do you realize how many times I’ve urinated? (Speaking of which, try counting the number of different places that you’ve peed, it’s impossible, there’s a lot). I guess no one really wants to contemplate how many times anyone else has taken a whizz. Jesus, how many tacos have I eaten? How many apples? How many gallons of water have I drank? Why aren’t there statistics on these kind of things that are readily available to us? Maybe in the future. What was the coldest day I’ve ever experienced? What was the hottest? How many different students have I taught? How many teachers have I had? How many sports events have I been to? Dear god that would be a very large number indeed. Basketball games alone. How about movies? How many have I seen? Which have I seen the most? I could name a score or more that I’ve watched over a dozen times like It’s A Wonderful Life, Duck Soup, Manhattan, Goodfellas, Christmas in Connecticut, Casablanca and more. How many hours have I spent staring at the TV (while it was on)? How many of those hours were wasted like when I watched Hogan’s Heroes re-runs when I was 18 years old and how many of those hours were well-spent like when I’ve watched Breaking Bad or Monty Python’s Flying Circus?  How many books have I read? (I’ve written five.) How many books have I started but never finished? How much time have I spent “on” a computer and how much of that time has been wasted and how much productive? How many miles have I walked? How many women have I — maybe I won’t go there in this post, besides I know that number. How many times have I stubbed my toe? How many airline miles have I flown? How many colds have I had? How much snot have I blown out of my nose? (Sorry about that one.) What’s the closet I came to dying? What famous person did I walk by but not notice? What famous person did I walk by before they were famous? What’s the closest I’ve been to a murder? How many children do I have? Wait, I know that one…two. I also know that I’ve only been married once and since I got it right that number can be etched in stone. How many hours of music have I listened to? How many different pairs of shoes have I owned? How much money have I spent? And how about a breakdown of how that money was spent. I can’t imagine how much I’ve spent on housing, clothes, restaurant tabs, booze when I was drinking, books, movies, sports events, high end call girls (the answer that one is zero). How many people (women, generally, I presume) have secretly loved me? How many people have hated me? (Besides school administrators.) How many of my former students remember me fondly?

Bigger question: has it been worth it? Simple answer: God yes. Despite suffering from occasional depression being alive has been great fun. I had a marvelous time throughout my twenties and loved being a new father and for that matter an old one. Teaching has not been without its horrors but for the most part it’s great fun and I’m told I’m good enough at it. I’ve seen great athletes, great games, great teams, great moments. I’ve written some insightful, entertaining pieces and at least one book that a lot of people have enjoyed. I’ve enjoyed spending the last 39 years with the love of my life. Talk about luck! My children have made me enormously proud. I got to play sports and coach. I had some unforgettable moments in both roles including scoring the winning goal in my soccer team’s California state championship victory when I was 16. I’ve also met some truly interesting, funny, thoughtful, brilliant, unique people. It’s been a great ride. This despite the fact that I’ve made some horrible blunders and terrible decisions and done some incredibly stupid things. I have a lot to regret but so much more to celebrate.

I constantly fret about the inevitability and finality of death but know that it’s better to enjoy the one thing we have for sure: now. 

Now is okay. I’m doing fine. No need to rue the past nor worry about about the future. Not when there’s the present to enjoy. Not an original idea, I know, but worth remembering. Think I’ll do that.

It's Better to be Lucky Than Good

That's me with the ball after my team won the Noir Cal championship

If knowledge hangs around your neck like

pearls instead of chains - You are a lucky man!

Takers and fakers and talkers won't tell you.

Teachers and preachers will just buy and sell you.

When no one can tempt you with heaven or hell-

You'll be a lucky man! -- From O Lucky Man by Alan Price

I can’t believe I once shook hands with Muhammad Ali.

I can’t believe that I stood in the North Bank in the Seventies at London’s Highbury Park and watched Arsenal play.

I can’t believe I scored the winning goal in overtime of my sixteen and under soccer team’s state cup championship victory.

I can’t believe that my father sent me to Finland when I was sixteen to visit relatives and I spent a third of the time traveling alone around the country.

I can’t believe I saw a helicopter tear gas me and thousands of others in Sproul Plaza on the UC Berkeley campus.

I can’t believe I was a founding member of the Chico News and Review, a paper that is still a going concern over 45 years later.

I can’t believe I have two such intelligent, beautiful, loving and professionally successful daughters.

I can’t believe that I had the privilege of being a public school teacher for twenty years.

I can’t believe that I completed a two year master’s program in one year and graduated with distinction.

I can’t believe that I was at one of the most iconic college football games ever played watching Cal improbably defeat their arch rivals on a four-lateral kick off return through a marching band as time expired.

I can’t believe that I’ve been clean and sober for over 35 years.

I can’t believe that I’ve survived PTSD, drug and alcohol addiction, severe depression, devastating panic and anxiety attacks and yet managed a successful teaching career and been a good father and husband in the bargain.

I can’t believe that I saw Willie Mays play baseball, Joe Montana play football, Jason Kidd play basketball, Bobby Orr play hockey, Thierry Henry play soccer and Bjorn Borg play tennis.

I can’t believe that such an incredible man as Aimo Hourula was my father.

I can’t believe that as a child I saw Present John F. Kennedy speak.

I can’t believe that I’ve been married to the same incredible woman for 36 years and that we love one another more today than ever.

I can’t believe that for the last twelve years I’v been teaching English to people from all over the world.

I can’t believe that I’ve spoken to Liv Ullman, Ethan Coen, Jerry Brown, Willie McCovey, Jane Fonda, Joe Kapp and Pete Rose.

I can’t believe some of the incredible friends I’ve had such as Rick Grizzly Brown (aka Saad Muhammad), Paul Tjogas, Kevin Lindsey, Keith Bray, Carnell Broom, Ed Burns, Mark Norman and Phil Rosenzweig — to name but a few.

I can’t believe that I enjoy a loving and wonderful extended family that includes seven darling grand nieces and nephews.

I can’t believe that my second self-published novel found so many readers who enjoyed the book.

I can’t believe that I’ve been lucky enough to travel extensively seeing such places as London, Hawaii, Paris, Mexico, New York, Rome, Oregon, Berlin, Boston and more with a trip to Spain scheduled for next year.

I can’t believe all the great literature I’ve read, all the great music I’ve listened to, all the great films I’ve watched and all the great museums I’ve visited.

I can’t believe how lucky I am.

Remembering My Father on Father's Day

My father, in the middle, with his grandchildren

Father's Day means a lot to me for two reasons: one its a reminder of the wonderful daughters I am father to. My pride and joy in these two young ladies is unbound. The other reason is that it reminds me what a great father I had.

Aimo Johannes Hourula (1916-2008) was the first of eight children (seven of whom survived well into adulthood) born in northern rural Finland to Saimi and Otto Hourula. He had to quit school in his mid teens to help support the family. He worked in a mill. Aimo joined the army in the immediate aftermath of the Soviet invasion of Finland in 1939 in what became known as The Winter War. The Finns fought bravely and did so much damage to the invading army that though overwhelmed by sheer numbers, they gained the satisfaction of denying the Soviets all the land they sought.

After the war my father joined the merchant marines set on seeing the world. His timing wasn't perfect as World War II had begun. Twice he was on ships that were strafed by Nazi planes and he was at the helm of a ship sunk by a Japanese submarine in the Indian Ocean.

He had long stays in Australia and Argentina in both cases because he had found a female companion. Aimo also spent a lot of time in New York where he worked diligently to learn English. Eventually he joined the U.S. Army and was thus granted U.S. Citizenship. 

In 1945 he met Gertrude Kurki, a student at Columbia University. Gertie was born in San Francisco and raised in Berkeley by Finnish parents. The couple had a whirlwind romance that culminated in marriage in late December of '45.

They subsequently switched coasts and settled in Berkeley. By this time my father had taken up carpentry. Here his timing was perfect for a building boom was sweeping the country and the Bay Area was a particular beneficiary. 

My brother, Robert, was born in 1947 and yours truly appeared on the scene seven years later. 

Aimo was a great success as a carpenter, working steadily and highly regarded. He was also a member in good standing of Finnish organizations like the Finnish Brotherhood in Berkeley.  He was an avid outdoorsman, enjoying hunting and fishing and a regular at various sports events. Aimo Hourula liked nothing more than a good party and for that matter social gatherings of any sort. He was a humble man who enjoyed the company of people.

But to me -- and here I am clearly biased -- it was as a father that he excelled. The number one requirement for being a parent is loving your child or children and no sons were ever more loved by their Dad than my brother and I. He took me to pro and college football games, major league baseball, pro and college basketball, ice hockey, boxing and track and field. He also encouraged my sports career. He would take me to a nearby field and hit fly balls to me, he would play basketball with me and once I started doing well in soccer he drove me to all my practices and never missed any of my games.

As a parent Aimo had to negotiate through difficult times. I was a teenager in Berkeley during the Sixties. I was rebellious, wanted to grow my hair long; I experimented with drugs and alcohol and participated in demonstrations on the Cal campus. My father was a Democrat and a touch to the left of center but he wasn't having any of my radicalism. We continued to love one another despite the ongoing cultural wars we were engaged in. I got angry at him at times but never lost an iota of respect for him. It was his belief in me that kept me from going too far with drugs.

There was also the matter of my mother's growing insanity. Dad had been living the American dream and it fell apart around him when Mom's paranoid schizophrenia became too much to bear. Aimo was crushed but responded by being more protective of me and making sure that the damage I suffered was minimized.

Dad was fun. He listened to me. Shared stories. Encouraged me. He was a nice man with a lot of friends who was well-respected, even admired, by co-workers and fellow members of he Finnish-American community. People would come up to me at large Finnish gatherings and tell me they were friends with my Dad and how long they'd known him.

I was enormously proud of my Dad and throughout his life was convinced that I had the greatest Dad in the world. Mind you, I know better than anyone that he was not perfect. Some of his foibles, some of his stinging comments, some of his biases still rankle today. But they overshadowed by what a kind and loving man he was. I learned a lot from him about being honest, enjoying life, being a responsible, caring father, sharing stories, treating everyone equally and maintaining a positive outlook no matter what. He was not only a good Dad when I was young but continued to be as became a young man, then an adult. He was always proud of me, even over a minor accomplishment.

Not surprisingly he was also a terrific grandfather, well-loved by the next generation.

I still miss him.

Birthdays Of Note Occurring On Three Consecutive Days Are Noted

Ali and King

Today marks the third of hugely significant birthdays in three days. Muhammad Ali was born on this day eighty years ago. Yesterday marked the 106th anniversary of my father’s birth and of course the day before was the actual birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. though it is celebrated today as this is a Monday. (I recall holidays being celebrated on a specific day each year and not shuffled over to the nearest Monday. Memorial Day used to always be on May 30th without regard to day of week. Veteran’s Day still always gets November 11th, largely because of it’s origins as Armistice Day which commemorated the end of World War I.) But I meant to discuss the three aforementioned men and not get lost in a digression on holidays.

Dr. King was someone who I — strange as this might sound — took for granted when he was alive. This can probably be attributed to the fact that I was a mere lad (still only fourteen when he was killed). It was akin to Willie Mays who patrolled centerfield for my beloved Giants. He was already a legend of the game and I didn’t fully appreciate his greatness. I’ve grown to appreciate both Dr. King and Mays much more as an adult. Yes, of course in different ways. Being a baseball champion is not on the same plane as being Civil Rights champion. King is today an icon and sadly, much of his legacy and teachings have been lost to most of the people who "celebrate" his birthday. If he were saying today what he did in the Sixties, he would be reviled by the right, moderates and even some of the left. He was a progressive and would be regarded a such today. He was unequivocal about non-violence and equal justice. He'd have been appalled at today's political scene and shocked at the rightward swing of the Republican Party.

My father in the army

I suppose in some respects I at times also took my father for granted. Much of this is because he was — figuratively speaking — always there. A constant, reliable figure. Kind, thoughtful and so damn much fun. He had the one indispensable quality required of a parent — an unrequited love for his children. That came through in his parenting. Since his death in 2008, I’ve recognized some of his failings. Being human he had his share. But this has created a fuller picture of the man and oddly, has done more to make him a lovable and sympathetic figure. I miss him still and quote him constantly, invariably in his Finnish accent. What a grand soul, beloved by all who knew him.

Ali was not someone who I ever took for granted — that is once I came to truly appreciate his greatness which I did when he bravely stood up to the draft. He had no quarrel with those Viet Cong — nor did, in actuality — any of us. Since he was forced into boxing exile, Ali has been my ultimate hero. He was not only the greatest in the ring, but he was a brave political symbol. Even more that that he was the most colorful and endlessly fascinating of characters. Larger than life is the cliche that comes to mind. The day I met him, told him what he meant to me and shook his hand is one of the most memorable of my life.

I here note that a wonderfully disproportionate number of my heroes are African American. For example: Ali, King, Mays, Malcolm X, Angela Davis, Fred Hampton, James Baldwin, Nikki Giovanni, Richard Pryor, Jimi Hendrix.

Sadly this writing reminds me of the current U.S. Senate’s failure to pass voting rights legislation and to end the filibuster. This at the same time that state legislatures are passing restricting voting strictures that are clearly aimed at Black voters. At the same time there are more attempts at gerrymandering by the same bodies, which again are designed to curb the influence of Black voters. We’ve come so far since Dr. King’s day at the same time we’ve barely moved an inch. 

I urge people to avoid cynicism and try to get others registered and encourage and help them vote. See such organizations as: Rock the Vote, When We All Vote, Election Protection, Brennan Center for Justice and the League of Women Voters.  Fight voter suppression!

I end this post with an extreme rarity, a plug. Ninety-nine per cent of all requests I get to mention this, or write about that or extoll this and that go immediately in the trash. Here is one of the one percent (so to speak). I refer my darling readers to, Support Black-Owned Businesses: 181 Places to Start Online. This article features links to the businesses with many more mentioned in the comment section. Check it out.