OK, so this one is a little lame, admittedly, perhaps even corny - to which I say, “Why don’t any of you send me anything really funny anymore?”

Man, you folks are really screwed back there.  This is one recurring nightmare I’m glad to miss.  That’s right, I’d rather get shot at, smile!  And since you all are still digesting yesterday’s feasts and probably aren’t moving too fast, then perhaps you’re catching up on “email” and avoiding the inevitable shopping journey.  It turns out, BTW, the Black Friday is NOT the busiest shopping day of the year - who knew? - actually, the Saturday before Chrsitmas holds the record in recent years!

OK, for those of you reading instead of shopping, here’s a bit of history: 

Black Friday, September 24 1869, also known as the Fisk-Gould Scandal, was a financial panic in the United States caused by two speculators’ efforts to corner the gold market on the New York Gold Exchange. It was one of several scandals that rocked the presidency of Ulysses S. Grant.  During the Civil War, the U.S. government issued a large amount of money that was backed by nothing but credit.  After the war ended, people commonly believed that the “greenbacks” would be bought back with gold.  In 1869, a group of speculators, headed by James Fisk and Jay Gould, sought to profit off this by cornering the gold market. Gould and Fisk first recruited Grant’s brother-in-law, a financier named Abel Corbin.  They used Corbin to get close to Grant in social situations, where they would argue against government sale of gold, and Corbin would support their arguments.  Corbin convinced Grant to appoint General Daniel Butterfield as assistant Treasurer of the United States.  Butterfield agreed to tip the men off when the government intended to sell gold.

In the late summer of 1869, Gould began buying large amounts of gold.  This caused prices to rise and stocks to plummet.  After Grant realized what had happened, the federal government sold $4 million in gold.  Then in September, Gould and Fisk started hoarding gold, driving the price higher.  A few days later the premium was 30 percent higher than when Grant took office.  But when the government gold hit the market, the premium plummeted within minutes.  Investors scrambled to sell their holdings, and many of them, including Corbin, were ruined.  Fisk and Gould escaped significant financial harm.

Subsequent Congressional investigation into the scandal was limited because Virginia Corbin and First Lady Julia Grant were not permitted to testify.  However, Butterfield resigned from the Treasury.  Henry Adams, who believed that the President had tolerated, encouraged and perhaps even participated in corruption and swindles, attacked Grant in an 1870 article entitled The New York Gold Conspiracy.

Hell, who need Paul Harvey?

               

The Pilgrims set ground at Plymouth Rock on December 11, 1620.  Their first winter was devastating.  At the beginning of the following fall, they had lost 46 of the original 102 who sailed on the Mayflower.  But the harvest of 1621 was a bountiful one.  And the remaining colonists decided to celebrate with a feast — including 91 Indians who had helped the Pilgrims survive their first year.  It is believed that the Pilgrims would not have made it through the year without the help of the natives.  

The first American Thanksgiving was celebrated to commemorate that harvest reaped by the Plymouth Colony after their harsh winter.  In that year Governor William Bradford proclaimed a day of thanksgiving.  The colonists celebrated it as a traditional English harvest feast, along with the local Wampanoag Indians.  The celebration lasted three days.  It was several years before the next Thanksgiving.

Days of thanksgiving were sporadically celebrated throughout the colonies after fall harvests.  All thirteen colonies did not, however, celebrate Thanksgiving at the same time until October 1777.  George Washington was the first president to declare the holiday, in 1789.

A New National Holiday

By the mid–1800s, many states observed a Thanksgiving holiday. Meanwhile, the poet and editor Sarah J. Hale had begun lobbying for a national Thanksgiving holiday.   During the Civil War,  President Abraham Lincoln, looking for ways to unite the nation, discussed the subject with Hale.  In 1863 he gave his Thanksgiving Proclamation, declaring the last Thursday in November a day of thanksgiving.

In 1939, 1940 and 1941, Franklin D. Roosevelt, seeking to lengthen the Christmas shopping season, proclaimed Thanksgiving the third Thursday in November.  Controversy followed, and Congress passed a joint resolution in 1941 decreeing that Thanksgiving should fall on the fourth Thursday of November, where it remains.

THE BICENTENNIAL WAGON TRAIN

It probably wasn’t a tough decision for my parents - letting me go on the wagon train, at age 15, for months on end - although my mom did cry when I left.  In fact, my dad was the one who cooked up the whole scheme when he got involved in the Michigan Bicentennial Committee.  And I was eager to jump on board, and get the @#$% out of Dodge.  The only catch was, I had to raise $1800 dollars - what we calculated I would need for food and expenses - in just a couple of months. 

So, I did what any junior achiever would do when faced with such a predicament - I developed a plan for success, committing to walking the entire route to Pennsylvania and gathering pledge money up front for anticipated miles walked.  I even vowed to return the dough if I failed to deliver on my promise.

When you’re estimating walking 20-30 miles a day, that kind of money racks up quickly.  Once I had collected the money, it was too late for anyone to say “no”, least of all my folks.  And, given that my parents were such good friends with my new high school principal and his wife, getting all that time off from school was relatively easy.  [I did, however, discover a few years later (when it came time to graduate) that the state had an attendance standard and I was well below the minimum, requiring later negotiations on my behalf.  But why skip ahead?]

The first wagons headed east from Blaine, Washington, in June, 1975.  By fall, wagons from 9 northwestern states were on the Oregon, Bozeman, Mormon, and Lewis and Clark Trails, headed for winter layovers in Wyoming and South Dakota.  During the winter, wagons from the southern states began rolling and, by spring, wagons from all 50 states were moving in 5 caravans toward a July 4th rendezvous at Valley Forge, PA, the hallowed encampment of Washington’s troops during the long winter of 1777-78.

Local wagon and carriage buffs, pleasure riders - even entire horse clubs - eagerly joined the train as it crossed their county or state.  At most encampments, a troupe of performers (some would say gypsies) travelling with the train put on festive, stirring musical performances each night.  Thousands of people in quiet hamlets and bustling suburbs visited the wagon train encampments just for a look at a Conestoga wagon, a Prairie Schooner or, perhaps, a chuck wagon. 

And they came to see the horses - Morgans, Arabians, thoroughbreds, Appaloosas, quarter horses.  They came to talk with the teamsters and outriders, to share stories of the train and of the history of their own locale.  Each day, spectators lined the streets and entered the encampments, signing the Rededication Scrolls (for the time capsule) and affirming their commitment to the principles of freedom that formed the foundation of America’s growth and prosperity, The Declaration of Independence.  These parchment scrolls were turned over to the wagonmaster at each night’s encampment for delivery to Valley Forge.

All of this hoopla was part of our effort that monumental year to recall an exciting chapter in America’s history with a Wagon Train Pilgrimage East, back over the storied routes of the pioneers.  The Bicentennial Wagon Train Pilgrimage covered the well-known American trails (Sante Fe, Oregon, Appalachian, etc.) of our ancestors, followed by a convergence at the Valley Forge National Historic Park to celebrate July 4th, 1976. 

The state of Pennsylvania underwrote the project, providing an official wagon to each state.  Private wagons were welcome to join as well, and many did, by the hundreds.  The aforementioned scrolls were produced by Encyclopedia Britannica.  Well-planned and scheduled routes with stops at predetermined destinations were taken, and we were welcomed with (and provided) entertainment and parades by the host cities and towns.

As we moved through each state along our path, more wagons (including the official state wagons)  joined.  Several babies were born along the way and 3 deaths were recorded.  I even heard that one wayward teenager even lost his virginity.  On the 183rd day of the journey, the wagons united at Valley Forge, PA, and prepared for a celebration the following day, which included a visit from President Gerald Ford.  As I was (a walker) hosted by the state of Michigan wagon, I got to personally meet the president.  In fact, I put my hair in a ponytail that day just for the occasion.

*(Description: President Ford boards the Michigan wagon at the Bicentennial Wagon Train Pilgrimage encampment at Valley Forge State Park, Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, July 4, 1976.) 

Alas, the fate of the famous time capsules remains a mystery.  The International Time Capsule Society, formed with the mission to record the burial of all time capsules, is still in search of nine “lost” time capsules.  The society was formed in 1990 at Oglethorpe University in Atlanta, where a world record time capsule is located.  Its purpose is to maintain a registry of time capsules, study them and provide information on the subject.  In 1991, the ITCS released a list of the “10 Most Wanted Time Capsules.”  To date, only one, the Kingsley Dam Time Capsule, has been found.

Number 1 on their list is the Bicentennial Wagon Train Time Capsule.  This capsule was supposed to hold the signatures of 22 million Americans.  But on July 4, 1976, when President Gerald Ford arrived for the sealing ceremony in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, someone stole the capsule from an unattended van.  The capsule’s maker, the Reynolds Company, had broken the mold.  The thief’s identity and the whereabouts of the capsule are still unknown.  If any of you can help me to figure how to return this capsule without getting into trouble, please let me know.

That last part is not true, but the rest is.  I logged over 2500 miles and went through 3 pairs of shoes over the course of my journey.  I also met some of the most amazing people I’ve ever encountered, but that was a long time ago now.

Yeah, in Michigan in the early to mid 70’s, Meijer Thrifty Acres was considered the new Kmart (oh, this was way before Target and Walmart).  And it was a big deal.  Lots of eye candy for a teen who desired to be a fashionable “Mod Squad” sort. 

Man, who doesn’t remember the Mod Squad?  White dude, black dude, hot chick….all undercover cops….. it’s a wonder that show isn’t still in heavy, syndicated, rerun rotation like Gilligan’s Island and Leave it to Beaver.  Link was always the coolest.  I’ve never figured out why we didn’t have a whole bunch of other boys named “Link” born in that era.  He was groovy.  In fact, if I ever have a boy……

Where was i?  Anyway, you remember the whole farm socialism “work for credit” standard my dad developed, right?  Well, it was way better in theory than practice, although I’m pretty sure it was working out just fine for pops.  And I guess (I’ll admit this now), that there are some different considerations for girls than boys, especially when a family has many boys but one girl (like all those years of not getting my own bedroom). 

But I distinctly remember the day (circa 1974) when my sister went to my mom for clothes money and reeled in 40 bucks; then she hit up my old man and got another 20 bucks (that went a long way back then).  Of course, I hit ‘em both at once (numbskull) and got $5 for a new pair of jeans, which (believe it or not) was sufficient back then.  Of course, then, we went shopping at Meijer Thifty Acres.

And it wasn’t long before I spied this fat-collared, multi-patterned shirt that absolutely needed to be in my wardrobe, amid the flannels and paisley prints.  Suddenly, I was on amission.  I didn’t really need the jeans so bad.  Besides, the frayed bottoms and holes in the knees were all the rage then.  You didn’t need no $100 namebrand tennis shoes, sideways ballcap, pre-washed denim, or pants hanging half off your ass to fit in back then.  You just needed a couple of nifty shirts.

Man, that shirt was just calling to me, “Greg, Greg, I’m here on the rack…take me now…”.  But that fucker was $7.29, and do you think my sister was going to give me 3 dollars?  The shirt continued to beckon me, louder and louder, then together we went into the changing room for a more intimate meeting.  And when I emerged from the fitting room, new shirt tucked neatly into my jeans, I knew I had crossed over to the dark side with my impulsive maneuver. 

I must have stood out like a debutant at a cockfight as I made a beeline for the exit door, shirt sleeve now dangling from the knee hole in my left pant leg.  Geez, I was some department store detectives lucky quota that day.  They nabbed me before I even hit the parking lot.  And when they called my old man, he said something along the lines of “book him”.   It was a long time before I stopped blaming my parents for that one and took responsibility for my own actions….. actions that got more and more daring.        

 But first, there was that epic teenage journey my dad garnered my interest in, the Bicentennial Wagon Train!

 Wow, segment 10 already - we made it!  Did you think I was going to stop at some point?  Shoot, I’ve got a lifetime full of this sort of self-indulgent dribble I can continue to spew!  This is way better than therapy.  So, where were we?  Oh yeah, back on the farm, and we had just finished that mid-Winter’s afternoon toboggan ride, trailing behind old Sam, the Appaloosa. 

I’m not sure if it’s related or not, but after that long, painful ride, my pops never again spanked me.  I mean, he punched me once or twice, but he never pulled out that vintage strap or his hand-made paddle after that.  But, then, I was probably 13 at that point, so maybe it was time to let me figure out a few things on my own.  Of course, alcohol was near and dear and very readily available, as were a multitude of other concoctions we and our assorted house guests developed in the basement.  But I discovered later that most of that stuff was not only illegal but highly addictive. 

Let’s not even go there.  Learning to drive was a lot more fun.  See, on the farm, you start pretty young, mostly on tractors and other such machinery.  And before too long, you’re taking the stationwagon out on the back roads just to “see what she’ll do”.  Now, my dad encouraged driving at an early age; in fact, he enabled and help develop the skills needed.  Little did I know he had an alterior motive.  And, at that point, who gave a shit?

It started with the occasional trip up to the “party” store (that’s what they call 7/11’s and the like in Michigan); me behind the wheel of our blue Ford Torino and my dad in the back seat with his martini shaker (or was it manhattans?) and a tumbler containing tinkling ice cubes and his drink of choice.  Man, I was king of the road.  Every once in a while, I’d get a “turn here” or a “go about another mile”, but otherwise it was all me.  Hell, he was just relaxing in the back and, as long as I didn’t cause him to spill his drink, it was all cool.

I figured everybody learned to drive like this - those classic bonding moments.  And I still consider it a valuable experience.  Those driving lessons were very instructional, and an incredible confidence builder for a pubescent teenage lad.  And that damn car was pretty indestructable.  I loved the cars back then - big engines, easily hitting 120 mph (no governor), an 8-track player with some Bob Seger playing.  Yep. 

One time, my dad hustled me (like it was a challenge to get me to drive at 13 or 14!) into driving him over to some house in Concord (the next town over).  He was pretty loaded at the time (I guess), and when we got there, he asked me to wait in the car.  No big deal - I was a mere underaged teenager, sitting there with the engine running and the tunes cranking, feeling all cool and shit.  But after the local police arrived - inevitably because of the noise - and then gave me that trout-like stare that said, “let’s eye-fuck this punk kid and see if he breaks down ’cause we know he aint old enough to drive,” I was ready to split. 

What happened next is embarrassing to this day.  So there I was, you see…….   I got a little impatient, and decided to go and check on my old man.  When I got up to the front door, it was slightly ajar and I made a weak attempt at knocking.  The truth is, I was scared shitless (for some reason).  I pushed open the door just a bit and squeezed my head in, uttering a feeble call to my dad.  All of a sudden, this midget in a tutu comes running at me.  Naw, just kidding, I made that part up….just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.

Anyway, as I entered the house, I had this feeling of pure dread (the old twitching gut syndrome).  I’m sure my dad and his lady friend were way more surprised than I was, but for me it was one of those “coming of age” moments that you would really have rather missed.  It gets worse.  The woman was my principal’s wife.  That was not a fun secret to carry around, and school was never quite the same after that lesson.  It wasn’t long after that that I left for a long, long time on the Bicentennial Wagon Train (true story).  

But not before that fateful day of my shoplifting excursion at Thrify Acres, the Target of it’s day!

MAN OF THE YEAR AWARDS (2006) - 1st, 2nd AND 3rd PLACE!

TOP TEN THINGS YOU’D LOVE TO SAY OUT LOUD AT WORK!

1.  I can see your point, but I still think you’re full of shit.

2.  I don’t know what your problem is, but I’ll bet it’s hard to pronounce.

3.  I see you’ve set aside this special time to humiliate yourself in public.

4.  I’ll try being nicer if you’ll try being smarter.

5.  It sounds like English, but I can’t understand a damn word you’re saying.

6.  I will always cherish the initial misconceptions I had about you.

7.  Thank you.  We’re all refreshed and challenged by your unique point of view.

8.  The fact that no one understands you doesn’t mean you’re an artist.

9.  It’s a thankless job, but I’ve got a lot of Karma to burn off.

10.  Whatever kind of look you were going for, you missed.

Bonus Comment #1:  Can I trade this job for what’s behind door #2?

Bonus Comment #2:  Nice perfume. Must you marinate in it?

Bonus Comment #3:  I thought I wanted a career; turns out I just wanted a salary.

Contributed by my friend, Miss (Mrs, actually) AMERICA ANNE HENRY!

Man, where did we leave off?  Can you believe the last post in this saga was on October 4th?  What - you thought it was over?  Hell, I only got to about 1973…. there’s plenty more! 

Let’s see, in our last exciting episode, we were bounding about merrily on the farm out on Moscow Road (Horton, Michigan).  We had long since left behind the archery set and the “mixed” neighborhood across the freeway from Marvin Gardens (”mixed” was a relative term back then - it would be more appropriate to say “close proximity”.  And BTW, it’s worth noting that those kids who beat us up for pocket change and took our mittens were white!).

Anyway, we were way past all that and well into the Foxfire series.  My dad’s grand delusional period had begun in earnest (he’s dead, so I can say whatever I want), my mom killed a snake with a shovel, and my Uncle Bob took out a flying attic bat (that’s a North American species) with a tennis racket and later exposed his ballsack.  Now you’re all caught up, and we can talk about chopping the heads off of chickens and turkeys. 

BTW, we had the chickens for a few years before we stumbled into the lucrative, yet seasonal, market for turkeys.  Yes, I remember well my dad showing us how to “prepare” a chicken.  Of course, the killing part was way more fun than the de-feathering stage.  Now remember, we relied on chickens for our eggs and we raised our own chicks.  You didn’t want too many roosters around, but you had to let them “mature” before they could be eaten. 

Anyway, when that time came, it was a mere matter of tying a little noose around the neck, pulling it tautly over the chopping block, and then giving the chicken one good hachet whack.  (I’m not trying to be morose - this is going somewhere.)  The best part was watching them fly and flop around for a couple minutes. 

Now, the turkeys, that was a whole different ball game.  You’d get a good 5 or 6 minutes out of them, and they’re big.  The last thing you need, though, is a headless 35 pound turkey flying into you.  I was only about 120 pounds myself back then (true story).  Anyway, it was best to start preparing the turkeys just before Thanksgiving (half then and half at Christmas) - we’d freeze them, but they were still very fresh.  

Our best year, we had about 50 of ‘em - a lot of work, especially before we learned to dip them in wax and remove the feathers  that way.  It was a very lucrative seasonal endeavor, though, even if our (the kids) profit margin was doled out in terms of credit (although there was extra bonus money $$$ for gutting the turkeys).  Well, that’s about it for the turkeys.  I really just needed a way to include that damn Bush photo.  

Anyways, back to the farm (as if we ever left) and other animals.  We all had our own horse.  And my dad had this big old Appaloosa named Sam, that I later acquired.  One time, my old man, drunk as a skunk (why do people say that?), rode Sam right up the porch steps and into the dining room after my mother had called us for dinner.  

And here, of course, I’d love to insert the story about this old barn cat named Charlie who impregnated all of the female barn cats and how my dad finally finished him off, or perhaps the one about my sister’s lamb that she named and suddenly discovered during dinner one night that her friend was our meal, but these stories merely paint an ugly picture of my father and….. oh wait, he’s dead.  But then, my sister would probably start to cry all over again.  And it’s taken her years of therapy to erase those unpleasantries.  

So, back to Sam then, eh?  A great thrill in the winter was getting pulled around the empty crop fields by Sam on an old toboggan; rope tied to the saddlehorn, my old man with his big stetson on, flask in one hand, reins in the other.  We’d swerve this way and that, bumping across the plowed furrows, over rocks, perhaps a stream, around trees, with my dad getting a big thrill out of losing us kids, one at a time, along the way. 

And, of course, there was always a twist with my old man.  Like when we drove to the lake in the summer in our old Rambler stationwagon - pops would have all the windows up (power windows and doorlocks had just come into vogue) and the heater cranking - dripping with sweat in Michigan’s July humidity.  People must have thought we were nuts as we all piled out and dashed for the lake once the doorlocks were released, my dad laughing hysterically. 

Yeah, so, back to Sam the horse and the toboggan… the twist was (and dad got us every time), he would guide Sam down the lane between fields on the way out, a casual lope along a relatively smooth surface covered with snow to warm the horse up a bit.  And then he’d pick up speed and veer off into the fields and woods with Sam just galloping along.  The trick was to stay on as long as possible - no easy task - because once you fell off, it could be a long, damn, cold-ass walk home, especially in January or February. 

None of us had ever beat the old man at this one before.  So the day I finally stayed on until the bitter end was momentous for my brothers and very bittersweet for me.  It was a good 10 years before I told them what had really happened - they couldn’t believe it.  But that day, when they finally came running up from the field, yelling, “He did it!  He did it!” - my dad just looking wore out atop old Sam - well, I couldn’t cede the truth at that moment of victory, regardless of how much pain I was in, as I limped around the barn with my jeans all torn up and my jacket shreaded from stones hidden beneath the snow. 

Hell, I stayed on because I had no choice!  The toboggan rope was all twisted around my wrist and hand - you couldn’t see it from the other side of the curved toboggan front - and my dad tried like all hell to cut me loose.  It was all I could do just to try and keep my body on the damn toboggan.  So, I was bruised and bloody - my mom was none too happy about the clothes (it came out of my turkey money) - but I had finally beaten my old man at something!  And it was a hell of a lot more painful than that electric fence fiasco.  But, it was done.  The tide turned after that, and puberty was a bitch.

Tune in for more….. my first driving lessons, concocting potions in the basement, an early encounter with the law….. very soon!