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31
May 24

The 1934 Glomerata, part three

We once again turn our attention 90 years into the past, because we’ve been spending the last few Fridays looking at my alma mater via the 1934 yearbook. (Part one is here. You can find part two here.) This is about the people living their young lives during the Great Depression.

This is not a complete study, of course, but just the interesting images and names that jump out. And what starts to jump out, at least a bit in 1934, is that there’s was a different, but familiar world.

Let’s take a quick look at just a few more photos about what is inside.

We’re just wrapping up the sports section today, and so we’ll start with this quick look at the 1934 basketball team. They were only 2-11.

It seems that the one interesting note is that the coach of the freshman football team was named the head coach. Sam McAllister had been the coach of the basketball and baseball teams for three years. It was his second job. He was 24-18 on the court, which the yearbook considers a success. “Silent Sam” left the plains, and turned up in Florida a few years later, spending 15 years with the Gators. But that wasn’t immediately useful to this team.

Just two returning players came to the first practice, so the squad was filled out with reserves and newcomers. One of the returning stars was David Ariail, first on the left on the back row. He was from Birmingham, was an All-Southern end on the football team, and was voted an All-American by his peers in that sport. Here, we learn he functioned nobly in every game.

He was drafted by the Cincinnati Reds, the NFL Reds, and played one game for them, and two for the Brooklyn Dodgers, also the football version. He also played a game for the AFL’s Louisville Bourbons, which is a team all but forgotten by everyone. Ariail became a colonel in the army, serving as a company commander in the 846th and the 656th tank destroyer battalions.

Tank Destroyer tells me:

David entered the Army sometime in the mid 30’s and after serving in various units, was assigned to the 846th Tank Destroyer Battalion. The unit was made up of black servicemen with most officers being white. He held the rank of 1st Lieutenant and served as Company C Commander. On December 9, 1942, documents identify that he was now a Captain and became the unit’s Adjutant.

When the 656th Tank Destroyer Battalion was activated on April 3, 1943, Cpt. Ariail was assigned to Headquarters Company, functioning as the unit’s S-4 or Logistics Officer. By February of 1944, he had been promoted to the rank of Major and served as the Executive Officer of the unit, occasionally leading the unit when the Commander was absent.

The 656th shipped out from the New York port on December 16, 1944, and arrived in England on the 28th. After a month of additional training and preparations they boarded ships and sailed for Le Havre, France, disembarking on February 6, 1945. They were equipped with M18 tank destroyers and entered the line near Friesenrath, Germany, on the 28th.

Pushing toward the Rhine River at Remagen, Germany, they crossed into the bridgehead beginning on March 7th. The unit converted to the M36 tank destroyer late that month and supported the 9th Armored Division’s sweep to help encircle the Ruhr River in early April. They then dashed eastward to the Mulde River and turned south, entering Czechoslovakia near St. Sedlo on May 6th.

David was awarded the Bronze Star and also received the EAME ribbon with two campaign stars signifying the unit’s two campaigns of Rhineland and Central Europe. He also received the American Defense, the American Campaign, and WWII Victory Medal.

David stayed in the military for 30 years before his retirement. David Sr. served during the Korean War and at a number of posts including Frankfurt, Germany, and Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

He and his wife and two daughters and a son. He died in North Carolina, in 2001.

The other returning player was Frank Sindler, a junior architecture major, from Islip, New York. He’s second from the right on the back row, and was considered “an excellent floor man.” I’m not sure what becomes of him, so we’ll leave that alone for now.

Oh, the new basketball coach? Some guy named Ralph Jordan.

There was a new sport on campus in the mid-1930s. Some 37 people turned out to learn and practice the sport of kings. Most of their opponents weren’t schools, because not a lot of schools ran polo programs, I guess. And it was an open question, into the springtime, if the scheduled contests with LSU, Georgia and Florida would take place — if those institutions could find enough students who knew how to sit a horse. With all of that in mind, bright things were expected for Auburn polo, which had apparently earned some sort of championship the year before.

Polo first came to Auburn in 1932, via the the ROTC program and, specifically, Major G. H. Franke, mounted on the left, who led the ROTC program and was a star on the West Point team in his day. Also, the War Department thought polo promoted “skill in horsemanship and daring.” It stayed on campus until 1939. Tanks and war were presumably the reasons it disappeared, despite being a fan favorite.

Gustav Henry Franke was a lifer, an artillery man. Previously, Franke commanded the first US unit to fire on German forces in World War I. When World War II came he found himself commanding the Field Artillery Replacement Center at Fort Bragg in 1941, and then Artillery for the whole 6th Infantry Division. He also led the 81st Infantry Division at Fort Rucker (the modern Fort Novosel) and was largely responsible for the buildup of that installation. He would retire a major general in 1944. Both his son and grandson would later serve as army officers.

Sadly, the book doesn’t tell us who the rest of the ramblers are. Ramblers was never an official name for anything, but it feels like it should have been.

Speaking of names, I included this mostly for the title.

This was just the second year of swimming and diving on campus. They swam in a basement pool and wired their times to other schools, since the facilities were too small for competitions. From humble beginnings. Men’s swimming and diving have eight national championships, women’s swimming and diving counts five. There are 23 conference championships and 30 Olympians among the list of achievements as well, and to think, it all started with tank teams like these.

Marcus McGriff, a junior industrial engineer major from Livingston, Alabama, was captain of the team. He would later serve in the army, as an officer in Africa, where he received a legion of merit award.

It seems he left the army a lieutenant colonel. He died in 1972, just shy of 60.

Senior Lynwood Poole, a commercial art major from Montgomery, was the alternate captain. Probably just because of his name, and he brought his own swim trunks.

Poole, a diver, had to leave the team, a contemporary news account tells us, because of eye trouble. Whatever the problem was must have been minor, or solved, because Poole would also join the army. There’s nothing online about his service, but I know he also retired a lieutenant colonel. He died in 1979, at 68, in Florida, survived by his wife and two children. He and his wife are buried in Hawai’i. Their children are now in their 70s and 80s.

But the real star of the tank men was Howard Morris, a Montgomery junior studying electrical engineering. He was the captain, and the coach. Here, they list him as a conference champion, and I won’t even try to guess how they arrived at that. But was fast at the 440-free. He won all but one of his races that year. He was apparently a diver, as well.

He went into business, banking specifically. He got married in 1943, was showing horses a few years later. By 1950 he was a civic leader, a lieutenant colonel and nationally regarded as a dressage rider and horse trainer.

He became an official in the state banker’s association. At one point he was teaching artillery to Chiang Kai-Shek’s army. (So you can never say nothing interesting happened in the 1950s.) Tall, smiling, balding, he was also a long serving member of a prominent insurance firm. But all of those newspaper mentions about the banking organization end in 1963. He started Pinchona, a horse farm, near Montgomery in 1969. It’s still active today. Also in the 1960s, he served as president of The United States Pony Clubs, which teaches riding and the proper care of horses to children. If I have the right man, he died in 2002, at the age of 89.

The full collection will live in the Glomerata section, of course. You can see others, here. Or, to just see the beautiful covers, go here.


30
May 24

A double miss!

Completely whiffed on the Wednesday feature yesterday. Whoops. This just a day after I skipped a planned Tuesday feature. It seems that, in my haste to be hasty, I’ve been too hasty. That’s the problem with speeding up, or taking one’s time, or both. Anyway, apologies for missing out on the markers. I’ll return to them next Wednesday. We’ll talk music below. But first … today was a peaceful, relaxing, “What was I supposed to be doing again? Oh, that’s right, nothing.” sort of day.

And then, breaking news via email. Isn’t that something? Wasn’t that something?

Usually, I know about the story before the emails come out. Social media, despite it’s many frustrations, is a swift informer. But I hadn’t been on any of the apps in a bit, and then the New York Times wrote.

My lovely bride was swimming laps at the time. When she was finished I told her the news, and we set about wondering what the comedians and the satirists would say.

I also looked back at what I was doing on this day a year ago. We were in Alabama, and it seems I was looking at the ol’ family tree.

Five years ago, I said one of those bike things that sounds like something profound in a waxy wrapper of nothing. Still seems true, though.

Ten years ago, we were in Alaska.

There’s no way in the world that was a decade ago.

Fifteen years ago, we were in Savannah, and Tybee Island.

Twenty years ago, I stopped by the local civic center, on a whim, which was hosting a model train convention.

Now, I’m no train enthusiast, but there are granddads and dads and children all being kids together, so why not?

I walk in and meet some nice people; one man telling me of some very historic parts of his collection — he’d accidentally been given the paperwork that documents J.P. Morgan’s purchase of an entire railroad; three men talking at length about how best to paint a cliff face and so on. But the best part was stumbling onto a booth with college merchandise.

I found this tapestry that I love. I got it for a song.

Now I just need to figure out how to display it, without it being used for cover.

Funny the things you do, and don’t remember.

We return to the Re-Listening project, which is where I pad the page out with music. I’m doing this because I am currently re-listening to all of my old CDs, in the order of their acquisition, in the car. It’s a wonderful trip down memory lane and I’m dragging you along, because the music is good.

Today we’ll do a double entry, since it is back-to-back of the same act. I picked these up in 2004, but the albums are older than that. If we’re going back to my first listen in 2004, we have to hop in the time machine and go back another decade to when Barenaked Ladies released “Maybe You Should Drive.” It was their second studio album, and went double platinum at home in Canada, where it peaked at number three. It was the band’s first visit to the US charts, sneaking in at 175 on the Billboard 200.

The first of two singles, “Jane” was an instant catalog classic for Steven Page.

There’s a lot of great work from Page on this record. Here’s one more fan-favorite, the second single, which just feels like a deep cut at this point.

I picked up this CD after a handful of the later BNL records, and several shows. So many of the songs I knew. (Three of these tracks are on Rock Spectacle, which was my first BNL purchase.) And so I don’t know when I first heard this song from Ed Robertson, but it’s one of those beautiful works that I’d like to be able to hear again for the first time.

The day I bought “Maybe You Should Drive” I also picked up “Born On A Pirate Ship,” and I wish I remember, now, where I got them. But because I got them together, these CDs have always belonged together. The former came out in 1994, the latter was the followup, released in 1996. It was another hit in Canada, peaking at number 12, and captured more American ears. “The Old Apartment” was a breakthrough single and video, and Pirate Ship went to 111 in the American Billboard chart. It was certified gold four years later. Andy Creegan had left the band, Kevin Hearn came in soon after, but this is a four-piece record.

It is peak 1990s Canada pop.

I still think this is a song about a dog, Catholicism and a bunch of other random things. It’s inscrutable.

People that just knew BNL from airplay — well the Americans anyway — will recall this as their first song.

It used to be that “When I Fall” seemed like it had to be a full, live show performance. But then Robertson played it in one of the Bathroom Sessions, and you heard it in a different way entirely.

Page will occasionally remind you he’s working on a different level. This is one of those times. Seeing it live is the preferable way* to take in this song, so go back with me to a time when it’s amazing we had washed-out-color video and you can’t explain the tracking squiggles to the children of the future. But don’t fixate on that, follow the performance.

That song … Steven Page … it just feels like it should be a misdemeanor to not know anything more than their later pop hits.

*I think karaoke would be another ideal way to hear “Break Your Heart,” but that’s just me.

One of two Jim Creeggan songs on Pirate Ship, this one sneaks up on you every time, which isn’t creepy at all. And for four minutes it just gets better and better and better, and bigger and bigger, even when it lulls, which is a lot of fun.

And here’s Creegan’s other track, which refuses to fit in any pop music mold.

BNL is touring the US this summer, though we won’t be able to see them. We did catch them last year though, which was the third time we’d seen them in two or three years. Everyone wishes Steven Page was still in the band, most everyone has wished that for 15 years, but aside from the 2018 Juno Awards celebration of the Canadian Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame induction, that may never happen. (Though they haven’t definitively ruled it out, and that’s what hope is aboot.) The band stills put on energetic rock ‘n’ roll shows. They’re very much worth seeing.


29
May 24

Every item achieved — though there were only a few

I did that thing this afternoon where you leave the house in order to accomplish a series of goals. I believe this has a name, but it escapes me. Whatever it may be, I bundled up three items together, because they were more-or-less convenient to the route.

First, I drove a short distance to a place that repairs cameras, for I have one in need of repair. You fill out the form and get a standard reply: mail your camera to the address below. Serendipitously, their office was only a half hour away. Cut out the middleman, I say. So I found myself in a nondescript industrial center, you know the type. The map got me close, and a second try got me a bit closer, still. I asked some guys hanging out around their office about the address and they had no idea what I was talking about. This is an area for work, and not personal investment. And most of the work from the many companies leasing space, you imagine, is done off-site. This is a place for morning meetings, day old donuts and misapplied Tony Robbins quotes. And sales reports. You know the sort.

So I dropped off the camera, and then visited a nearby retail store, a giant place named after an object that is used to test accuracy. Granted, it was the middle of a work day, but that place looked and felt dead. Circuit City dead. Open, but unaware of it’s demise. The only thing that wasn’t there was a scent of musty despair. And some items on shelves. And employees. The last three times I’ve been in one of these stores it felt like that, but it could be a question of timing.

I found the thing I wanted, thanks website, but decide it wasn’t what I wanted, so I left.

And then I went to the grocery store. I needed to get some granola and, of course, once I’ve found one I like they seemed to have stopped carrying it. This is the height of first world problems, hilarious in its predictability. There was also a small list of other things we needed, Ketchup, aluminum foil, corn meal and the like. And this probably says as much about our house as possible, grated cheese was on the list twice.

When we consolidated our houses when we married, we had a lot of extra things. Each of us had a house full of stuff, of course, and in some respects we had more than one copy of things. Somehow, our two houses became stocked like three homes. When it came to consolidating refrigerators we had five or six different canisters of the grated cheese. (She brought most of it.) It took ages to use it all, and we still laugh about it. I’m sure that’s why it was on the shopping list at the top and bottom. I only purchased one container, because we don’t need surplus everything.

I got home in time for a bike ride. My lovely bride was off for a ride with a friend and I decided to ride over to the friend’s house with her. I just needed a recovery ride, anyway after several hours in the saddle yesterday.

The science is still up in the air, but the suggestion is that the benefit is minimal, though people do feel better after the effort, which is meant to be short and low-intensity. They are meant to be almost casual, flat. Zone 1 or Zone 2, with a reasonably high cadence. Easy. You’re not stressing yourself.

It should be so, I’ve read, that you wind up feeling almost guilty about how easy you went.

Let me tell you about trying to stay in Zone 1 or Zone 2 when you’re following someone in Zone Infinity over here.

She gets in her aero bars, puts her nose in the wind and will drop you, or me, in a hurry.

Anyway, they went off one way and I doubled back for home. It was a 15-mile recovery ride, one where I found myself sprinting through intersections because it felt good. I blame her for that, somehow.

And so here is one of the views I saw along the way.

Tomorrow, I’ll just go for a swim.


28
May 24

Medium ride day

Today was the day. I did my first swim of the year. It was just 500 yards, which is not even a warmup. It was simply a test to see what part of me would complain first. And the answer was: everything.

Then we pulled up some flowerbed liner and installed some new one. An experiment! A no-going-back experiment!

There’s no going back because I took the old liners to the inconvenience center with a few bags of garbage, a couple of boxes and a giant tub full of recycling. That, somehow, takes about an hour, from start to finish. But it was a warm and beautiful and sunny afternoon.

When I got back home I discovered an iris I didn’t know we had.

It’s flourishing next to this peony.

And not far away from this beautiful little rose bush.

All of which live under the peach tree.

And that looks like another great crop coming later this summer. Which only serves to make me want some peaches, which is good, because we have a lot still in the freezer from last summer!

It is a lot of fun to watch all of these things grow and flourish.

In the early evening I set out for a bike ride, all on familiar roads, but some of them in an unusual order. I love this little tree tunnel.

You only go about three-tenths of a mile under this verdant canopy, but it is a magical stretch of road nonetheless. It is the stuff of childhood fantasy, idle imagination and endless wonder. You just go faster and faster in there.

Also it has to be three or four degrees cooler in there than a stretch of road exposed to the sun. It was a mild 84 today, though, so that wasn’t the biggest concern.

I met some nice horses near the end of my ride.

This pair live nearby, but they were a bit more shy and I had no sugar cubes with which to win them over.

It was intended to be a 40-mile ride, but the map said it’d be 42 miles by the time I got home. In actuality, it was 45 miles when I got back. It was a fine ride.

After dinner, I went out to water some plants, and check on this little light. We have a tiny little structure that holds a few gardening tools next to the greenhouse, and I am enamored with the light fixture on top of it. It feels like a full size miniature, if there’s such a thing.

Plus, it comes in handy for late night summertime projects. So I just need to come up with some late night summertime projects.


27
May 24

This is mostly about books, and I’m good with that

It’s been since roughly early March, but I feel like I’m catching up on things around here. Which means this is the week I will catch up on things. Which mean something important and pressing will come along to distract me. Something will make me realize this is a false feeling, and that I am, in fact, behind on all of the chores and hobbies and other things I’m just behind on. I will find that note on my phone that has the list of things I want to do, and things I should do, and things I need to do, and then I’m instantly behind the eight ball once more. This is the way of things. But, for the next day or two, this is a good feeling.

So, please, no one write anything on the web. If I’m caught up, I don’t need you adding anything to the To Do stack.

Aaaaaaand … there it is, I just realized something I’m behind on. Oh well, I’ll get to it Thursday, maybe.

Besides, these guys demand all of my attention anyway. Demand it.

We’ve created monsters.

I wonder how long we will leave this box on the kitchen island since Phoebe has made it her own.

After an afternoon of box-sitting, she was ready to quietly sit next to us and take a little nap.

What, in the world, is cuter than that?

Not to be outdone, Poseidon would like to show you his sleeping technique.

How is that comfortable? And it’s easy to say “He’s a cat,” as if that explains anything. But that guy is as spoiled as can be. Not, his cat cave is sitting on the ottoman, because the cat cave alone wasn’t good enough.

So the cats are doing just fine, thanks for asking. And, once again, it is self evident why their weekly check-in is the most popular regular feature on the site.

This weekend, I discovered we have berries.

Who knew? Not me.

This, I assure you, is the moon.

The timestamp says I took that at 11:09 p.m. on Friday night.

Also, I had a 35-mile bike ride, but we’re just going to treat that it’s not even a big deal, in an effort to normalize longer bike rides. I’ll just say this, 35 is sort of the mental barrier. Once I get through that, I’m ready to go out on actual longer rides, and that’s the plan. I’ll continue increasing the mileage because the goal, as ever, is to take nice, long, enjoyable, bike rides. Tomorrow’s ride will be longer than Saturday’s, and so on, for a while.

This weekend we also returned to our best summer weekend system: reading in the shade on Sunday afternoon. Yesterday I read the great Willie Morris’ Yazoo. Morris was from Yazoo, Mississippi, but while he was working as the editor of Harper’s Magazine he made several trips back to his hometown to follow along with how his unique small town was handling integration.

(Most small towns think they are unique. Some of them are. Yazoo may be. How they handled integration, at least in those early stages, was different from most.)

Morris, being a liberal Southern Democrat, and more so while he was living in the north, was hopeful about those early days, as you might imagine one would be about a place he loved. He became haunted by what happened in the longer term. None of that is an author’s fault, when you expand on a longform article to turn it into a book, the book becomes a bit of amber, and the stuff frozen inside of it can be right, or wrong. What we get, from our modern vantage point, is a glimpse of a particular moment in time, 1970, and just more of Morris, the tremendous reporter and writer.

As I’m sitting there, a little insect flew onto the left margin of the page, sat there for an eyeblink, and then hopped-zipped into the pages. It was eager to be in the book. Perhaps it was eager to be a part of the book. One with the book. Or maybe it wanted to fly to Mississippi, and then thought better of it, because it quickly zipped away.

It’s a musty old book, in that delightful, yellow-paged pulp way. Probably the insect’s impulse had something to do with the paper’s aging process. And, almost as quickly, it thought better of it, and flew away. It was one of those things in life that seemed important, important enough that you wanted to share it, even as you knew, in real time, you had no way to do it, or the feeling, justice. And so here I am.

Anyway, I started it yesterday, I finished it yesterday. I’m pleased to have done so, as part of my quest to read pretty much everything possible that Willie Morris wrote. It isn’t all grand, but if you read Terrains of the Heart, you’ll understand the impulse.

I forgot to mention this entirely, but since we’re on the subject of books, last week I finished Marching Home. The subhead is “Union Veterans and Their Unending Civil War.” Subtitles are a terrible modern publishing necessity, but they hit the nail on the head in terms of the thesis.

It turns out, we’ve never been especially good at supporting veterans. I knew that. It goes back to the Revolutionary War and has been a shame and sometimes downright shameful part of the American condition. These guys had it no different.

One part was physical, and one part was the rest of the north wanted to get on with it. Another part was, psychological therapy just wasn’t a thing yet. That’s seeing a 19th century problem through a 21st century lens. It is a thing we caution people about when reading about historical periods, but it’s easy to do, and easy to return to.

Another one would be: 19th century alcohol might have been less than helpful. The descriptions of some of the people in this book beggars belief. But the whole thing really does seem a shame. And while this is, of course, a book about the Union army, reading it makes the humanist wonder how these same real, gritty, daily problems impacted the soldiers who fought for the Confederacy, too. As lousy as some of the northern infrastructure was for dealing with these problems en masse, it would have necessarily been hard for those guys, too.

After I finished that book, which was well-written and seemingly exhaustively researched — almost 40 percent of it were footnotes and other after matter — I asked the random number generator to pick another book from my Kindle queue, and I started in on Rising Tide. Again, the subtitle, “The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How it Changed America” tells the tale. (Why not just use that as the title?)

Where I am, as of this writing, is still about 50 years prior to the flood, but it has been a fine read, and very digestible. These two pages are the bulk of what has been offered in terms of hydrology.

Even something like the movement of water is written in a lean-in style, to author John Barry‘s immense credit. And if these two pages intrigue you, even a little bit, this is a book for you.

I’m five chapters, I think, in. We’ve met three main players. Two of them were surveyor-engineers. One of them was fast, and the other fastidiously, obsessively thorough. The former died in the Civil War. The later did not, and, thus far, has proven to be something of a megalomaniac who becomes the head of the Army Corps of Engineers. And he’s just about to run, head-first, into the third main character, a captain of industry who Barry has thus far portrayed as an irresistible object.

Speaking of which, I think I’ll go back and continue on. When I last looked in, they were just getting to the problem of the legendary sandbars.