FAST TIMES IN NOLA

Dear George, 

 It felt like ages since we’d been to New Orleans to visit our family (i.e., before the pandemic), so our recent trip was very special. Here are some photos that capture the highlights. 

Love, 

Dave

J and K recently bought a spacious new house in Uptown, close to Tulane University, Audubon Park, the kids’ school, and an excellent restaurant strip on Freret St. All our family members are overjoyed with their new home.

Katja and I enjoyed eating at Dat Dog on Freret St. which has the best frankfurters, bratwursts, and alligator sausages we’ve ever tasted. We went once, and then Katja treated the whole family there for a second visit.

We went to see the Queen Nefertari’s Egypt exhibit at the New Orleans Art Museum in City Park. A trip to ancient times. In front: L, A, J, Katja. In back: Ted, K’s dad.

Then we went next door and visited the Bischoff Sculpture Garden, our favorite outdoor place in New Orleans. The Sculpture Garden has recently doubled in size.

Getting beignets at Cafe du Monde in City Park is a lot easier than in the tourist-crowded French Quarter location.

We missed Iko a lot, but his little brother Lil Paws was just as much fun.

Here is our group enjoying dinner at the chic Israeli restaurant, Saba. I had Harissa roasted chicken, and Katja had lamb kofta. From the left: Katja, A, K, L, J.

On Sunday we picnicked at Audubon Park, famed for its live oaks. J and L practiced distance running, in preparation for the upcoming Crescent City race.

Monday J took us on a trip to Biloxi and to Ocean Springs, Mississippi, where we visited the wonderful Walter Anderson Museum and the Shearwater Pottery.

Dickie Brennan’s Bourbon House on Bourbon Street in the French Quarter is one of our favorite oyster places.

Katja and I went to the Historic Orleans Collection in the French Quarter where they were featuring a “Streetcar Named Desire” exhibition.

We lunched at Pesch in the Arts District, A stranger asked Katja if she could take her picture because she looked so pretty in her outfit.

We loved the paintings of Luis Cruz Azaceta at the Ogden Museum of Southern Art.

J and K took us to the concert by Louisiana Philharmonic cellists and dancers at the Marigny Opera House.  Eight cellists, no less.

On Thursday St. Andrews Episcopal School had Grandparents Day. These are the seventh graders, including A and L, performing a song with the bells. We were very impressed with the school and our grandkids’ accomplishments.

Katja and I enjoyed our annual oyster lunch at Desire in the Royal Sonesta on Bourbon Street.

On our last day we had a family brunch at the Ruby Slipper in the Marigny. That’s J, L, and Jayme, K’s sister who arrived from California. J’s artwork is on the rear wall at the right.

Our last big outing was to the Audubon Aquarium. A very attractive facility with many interesting fishies.

It looks like we needed a nap by the end of the trip.

OLDIES ON THE ROAD

 

Dear George, 

Katja and I are just back from a memorable family visit in New Orleans. We hadn’t been on an airplane since before the the pandemic began, so it was more eventful than usual. I think our traveling skills have gotten rusty since we had a rocky journey. We left for the airport about 30 minutes later than I’d planned, and I was annoyed to find that the daily charge for long-term parking had increased from $7 to $11. We took the shuttle bus to the airport terminal and got in the TSA security line. I’d printed out our boarding passes at home so I gave Katja hers. The line was pretty long, and, when we’d gotten about halfway through, I suggested that we get our driver’s licenses out. Much to her consternation, Katja couldn’t find hers. She looked through her purse, her wallet, and her pockets. It was baffling because she had checked in the car to make sure she had it. I looked through her purse and wallet too, but with no luck. Deciding that she must have left it in the car, we got out of the security line and began to head back to the shuttle bus — a perilous choice since we didn’t have surplus time. However, an airport employee was standing nearby, and I explained our dilemma to him. He said that we could get through security with credit cards or similar I.D. with Katja’s name on it and advised us to go back into the line. 

The security line was a bit longer the second time around. When we got halfway through I suggested that we get out our boarding passes. Katja looked in her purse, but she couldn’t find her boarding pass there, and it wasn’t in her pockets either. I looked in her purse too. No luck. This was crazy — she had just had the boarding pass in her hand ten minutes before. We knew that they could print out boarding passes at the ticket counter for a $5 fee, so I suggested that Katja go back there while I stayed in the line. She said she would call me on her cell phone when she got the new boarding pass. 

Going through the security check I failed to take my cell phone out of my pocket and set off the alarm bells, so the guy had to give me a full-body putdown. Then I got confused and left my carry-on bag on the conveyor belt until a TSA lady pointed out that the purple bag was mine. At first I thought it wasn’t but the tag had my name on it. In the meantime I hadn’t heard from Katja, and I was getting worried about the time. It was a long walk to our departure gate, the very last one in the terminal. I explained to the airline representative at the check-in counter that my wife had had to go back and get a new boarding pass and that I was worried about her getting back in time. He said that the airplane door would close in exactly twenty minutes and there were no exceptions. If she didn’t make it back by then, we would have to reschedule. Their next flight to New Orleans was in three days. 

I got more anxious by the minute, but Katja did finally make it with seven minutes to spare. All the other patrons had boarded at least fifteen minutes earlier. We breathed a sigh of relief and took our seats. Katja said she had intended to call me, but she hadn’t been able to find her cell phone. Apparently she had left it in the car. A few minutes later she opened up the paperback book she had brought along to read. Much to our surprise, there was the original boarding pass that she’d lost. 

Our New Orleans visit was thoroughly enjoyable and proceeded without incident. We worried a bit about our return flight since Katja still lacked a photo I.D. However, since they’d accepted other forms of I.D. in Cincinnati, it seemed sensible that they’d do the same in New Orleans. That wasn’t exactly true. We went through the security line in the New Orleans airport, and Katja explained to the TSA official that she had left her driver’s license in our car in Cincinnati and only had other forms of I.D. She gave the man her Medicare card, her covid vaccination card, her American Express card, and her Macy’s credit card. The man, however, said these weren’t adequate because none of them listed her home address. Katja carries dozens of cards in her purse. She started going through them, and the TSA official started looking through her wallet too. None of the cards had a home address. Then, suddenly, the TSA man said, “Well, here’s a surprise.” He held up Katja’s driver’s license which he’d found in one of the deeper pockets of her wallet. Problem solved. 

Our 8:37 p.m.flight to Cincinnati was delayed 45 minutes for unknown reasons. Then, once we boarded the plane, we sat on the ground for another two hours, waiting for a worker to replace a filter in the rear lavatory sink. We arrived in Cincinnati about 3 a.m. I had some trouble with the automated checkout system at the long-term parking lot, but a human voice eventually came on an intercom and guided us through it. A thirty minute drive to home. We slept till noon the next day. Our air travel had its ups and downs, but I have nothing but happy memories of being in New Orleans. 

Love, 

Dave

ANXIETIES

Dear George, 

 Between the volatile international situation, the ups and downs of the pandemic, and daily Republican atrocities, the world is becoming increasingly unpredictable and dangerous, and my sense is that these macroscopic tensions are filtering down to the nitty gritty details of our personal lives. In my own case, I’ve come to feel more and more that the entire world around me is disintegrating. Here are a few examples. 

The End of Musical Parking. When we go to the symphony, there are two main parking garages. One, directly across from Music Hall costs $15, and the second, behind Music Hall on Central Parkway is $10. Needless to say, we always park at the latter. On our last visit we were shocked to find that, despite being an hour early, the sign at our parking garage entrance said FULL. We pulled in anyway, and the attendant explained that it was opening night for the professional soccer team down the street, and their patrons had taken up all the spaces. Dismayed, we went to the more expensive garage, but they too were FULL. Though against my principles, I decided to use Valet Parking for $20. No luck, the valet guy said; they were restricted to a total of 10 spaces for pre-paid customers because of the soccer game. Likewise, all of the open-air parking lots in the vicinity were full. After some cogitation, I dropped Katja off to go to the symphony by herself, returned home, and came back two hours later to pick her up. Not only did my $90 ticket go to waste, but I anticipate this being a regular problem in the future. 

Demented Driving. I was backing our of our driveway a few weeks ago when I heard a loud thud and my car came to an abrupt stop. I looked in the mirror and discovered I’d backed into a pickup truck that was waiting for the traffic light to change. I couldn’t believe it. I’ve backed out of that driveway a thousand times without incident. I suspect I was looking right and left but not behind me. The pickup driver was miffed and unpleasant. He said he’d paid $50 thousand dollars for his truck, and he planned to keep it in mint condition. We discovered a small scratch at the bottom of his front door which he said was my fault. He asked for my insurance info, but I said I preferred to pay out of pocket. He was on his way to Northside and said he would go to the body shop and get an estimate. He didn’t call back that day, nor did he call the next. In my mind, I imagined he was searching around for an estimate that would involve replacing his entire door at a cost of several thousand dollars. Weeks later he still hasn’t called. My rational mind tells me that he won’t ever be calling for a minor scratch that probably wasn’t even my fault. However, my lizard mind still goes into a state of panic whenever the phone rings. 

Insane Driving. While my fender bender involved a speed of 2 or 3 miles per hour, the drivers on the major street in front of our house, Ludlow Avenue, have gone insane during the pandemic, regularly reaching speeds of 50 to 60. There are at least six places on our block where tire tracks on the lawn indicate that cars have careened off the roadway, sometimes knocking over lamp posts, fire hydrants, or sections of front porches. Wary that our sidewalk is now a battlefield, I’ve taken to walking our dog Iko on the back streets. 

Uninvited Guests. I was annoyed a couple of years ago when our insurance company insisted that we trim the oak tree next to our house to keep animals from climbing up and getting into the house. We did have some trimming done, but apparently not enough since we’ve started hearing loud thumping noises from our attic. These are large animals — not squirrels or chipmunks. In my mind I envision small black bears, but raccoons or opossums are a more likely possibility. Following a suggestion from the Internet, I started playing WLW talk radio loudly in the attic. This seemed to help for a few days, but now the thumping has resumed. As an Upper Peninsula guy, I’m mildly comfortable with sharing our house with wildlife, but I remain nervous about the potential destruction. 

Miscellany. There are so many other sources of anxiety in my life that it’s hard to list them all. All our services have become unreliable. Many days we get no mail, newspaper delivery is haphazard, and sometimes we get no trash pickup. My spouse forgets to lock the car door and the patio door, leaving us vulnerable to the many burglars who are roaming about our neighborhood. We lost HBO MAX for a week for no reason, our bedroom TV has stopped showing any programs, and my word-processing program on the computer is acting up so that I’ve decided to never close it. Gas and food prices have shot up. Perhaps because of the food shortages hordes of little crawling bugs visit our kitchen counter and sink late at night. Our gardener billed us a thousand dollars for raking leaves in the autumn and winter. My triglycerides are much too high. The dog sporadically gets diarrhea. On top of all this, because of my advanced age my doctor won’t give me the tranquilizer I’ve relied on for years. I am hopeful that we can just come to accept that the world is crumbling around us and manage to carry on despite it all.

Love, 

Dave

A YOOPER ADRIFT IN THE BIG APPLE

Dear George, 

My second Antioch coop job was at Popular Science Magazine in New York City. As a homegrown Upper Peninsula kid, I’d never been on my own in any big city, much less the biggest, and the prospect of living in Manhattan filled me with a mix of excitement and terror. I had taken the sixteen-hour overnight train from Springfield, Ohio, arriving at Grand Central Station on a mid-April morning. The crowd in the great hall of Grand Central was the biggest I’d seen in my life. I had brought most of my worldly possessions in my uncle Kent’s World War Two army trunk, and it was a chore to lug around — 70 or 80 pounds worth. Before leaving from college I’d arranged to stay temporarily with two acquaintances, Jim S. and Jim H., who were also starting coop jobs. They’d given me their new address — 243 W. 166th Street in Washington Heights.  Uncertain how to use the subway, I took a taxi to meet up with them. 

The taxi ride was an experience in its own right. I was amazed by the street scenes, crowds, and tall buildings, and the driver drove like a maniac. Most of all I became more and more nervous about the rapidly escalating charge on the taxi meter. I’d brought about 25 dollars in cash to tide me over till my first paycheck, and the meter was steadily eating into my reserves. It was a horrendous bill by the time we got to 166th Street, and I knew I was supposed to tip the driver as well. The building was about 20 stories high, and tenants’ names were listed next to buzzers at the front door. I scoured the list, but I couldn’t find either Jim S. nor Jim H. That wasn’t altogether surprising since they were arriving about the same time as me, and there probably hadn’t been time yet to add their names. I did find the apartment of the building super — M. Gonzalez — and I pushed his buzzer. 

I lugged my trunk downstairs to the basement and knocked on the super’s door. Mr. Gonzalez opened it in a second. He was a swarthy, middle-aged Puerto Rican man with a three-day growth of beard, wearing dirty blue jeans and a sleeveless white undershirt. His three little girls stood behind him, watching. I explained that my friends, Jim S. and Jim H., had rented an apartment in the building, but their names weren’t on the front door listing yet, so I needed to get their apartment number. Mr. Gonzalez shook his head, indicating that he didn’t recognize the names, but he did go and get his current tenant record. He went through the 50 or 60 names, but neither of the Jims were there. I asked if I could see the list, and he handed it to me. Much to my dismay, no Jim S., no Jim H. Mr. Gonzalez explained that many permanent tenants rent out rooms, and those private room rentals wouldn’t appear on his records. I asked him who might have rented rooms to my friends, and he said he had no idea. Confused and uncertain what to do next, I asked Mr. Gonzalez if I could leave my trunk in his apartment. He said no, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t imagine lugging my 80-pound trunk around the city. I explained that to Mr. Gonzalez, but he still said no. I was near tears. I begged him one more time, and he finally relented. I pulled the trunk into his hallway, then headed back out to the street.

I did have one possibility. Jim S.’s girlfriend, Joyce, lived in Fairlawn, New Jersey, about 20 miles south of Manhattan, and she had given more her home phone number. I found a pay phone on Broadway and made a collect call to Joyce. She hadn’t heard from Jim yet but said I could stay at her house until she did. She said she was going out of her mind from boredom at home and suggested that she join me in the city. We arranged to meet at at the New Jersey bus line’s drop-off point near the foot of the George Washington Bridge. 

I walked up to bridge, and Joyce arrived about 90 minutes later. I had no idea what to do in the city, but Joyce said we should go to Greenwich Village, and we took the subway down — the first time I’d ever seen a subway. We hung out for a while in Washington Square, then had tea in a McDougall Street coffee shop, reportedly frequented by luminaries of the Beat generation. For supper we each had a fifteen-cent cent slice of pizza from a sidewalk vendor. Walking along Seventh Avenue we came across a small open-air club with a live band, and we went in and started dancing. I wasn’t much of a dancer, but, even so, it was fun, and we lost track of time. Finally Joyce said we had better catch the bus to Fairlawn, and we took the A-train uptown to 178th Street. 

Much to our dismay, the last bus of the evening for Fairlawn had just departed. The schedule was posted at the nearby White Castle, and the next bus wouldn’t leave until 6:30 a.m. The White Castle appeared to be the gathering spot for the underlife of northern Manhattan. Scary-looking guys, suspicious women with heavy rouge and lipstick, destitute persons in raggedy clothes, a few cool dudes in zoot suits. We were the only so-called normal looking people in the vicinity, and I worried about protecting Joyce during the wee hours of the morning. We found a large tree near the White Castle and staked out spots, leaning back against the tree trunk while we tried to sleep. We did make it through the night without any assaults or murders, slept fitfully, and woke with the rising sun. The bus was waiting, and we eagerly bought our tickets and got on. I felt a great sense of relief, certain I was ready to handle whatever else the city might throw at me. 

 Love, Dave

THE LIMERICK CONTEST

 

Dear George, 

 One of the pleasant things about my checking Google News on the computer is that the website contains a category called “For You”. Presumably based upon my prior searches and stories that I’ve opened to read, it’s remarkably on target: the Bengals, the Packers, tennis, Federer and Djokovic, poetry, HBO and Netflix offerings, Donald Trump (yes, that’s true), Cincinnati, the Bearcats, Menominee, etc. A week ago it steered me toward a story about the Saturday Evening Post Limerick Contest. Held every two months, the Post invites readers to submit limericks about a past Post cover. The current contest is about the 1924 Normal Rockwell illustration shown above. As a limerick admirer I couldn’t pass the opportunity by. One can submit as many limericks as they like, and I submitted the following five. There is a $25 prize for the winner. Please keep your fingers crossed for me. 

Love, Dave 

 I have a young neighbor named Freddie

 For amour he’s never felt ready 

 Then Cupid whispered rules 

“Buy her chocolates and jewels” 

 And now sweet Alicia’s Fred’s steady 

There was a young lad from Peoria 

Who desperately craved affection from Gloria 

Then Cupid showed up 

Brought some vim to this pup 

And now our young couple’s in euphoria 

There once was a chap from Toledo 

Who suffered a torpid libido 

 Cupid whispered in his ear 

“You can master your fear” 

And amour became his new credo 

There was a young bloke from Deer Creek 

Who was out of his mind for Monique 

This affair had no zing 

Until Cupid did his thing 

And now these two dance cheek to cheek 

There was a young dandy from Raleigh 

Whose love life aroused melancholy 

Cupid gave him advice 

“Add some sugar and spice” 

And now he is sweethearts with Molly

FOOTBALL REVERIES

Dear George, 

        It’s amazing and wonderful that the Bengals have reached the Super Bowl. In recent months I’ve been falling prey to the pandemic, gloomy and listless because of our restricted and uneventful lives. Then, suddenly, the world became filled with magic again, and I have Joe Burrow and teammates to thank for the transformation. All the excitement has reminded me that football is one of the very few things that have been a continual part of my life since middle childhood. I grew up fifty miles north of Green Bay, Wisconsin, and, of course, all my home town residents were and are avid Packer fans. Star receiver Don Hutson was my first athletic hero when I was seven or eight. We kids spent a lot of afternoons playing football at Triangle Park, and my brother Steven and I practiced passing, catching, and kicking in our front yard. My parents bought me a leather football for my eleventh birthday, and, because I was the only kid in sixth grade with his own football, my associates urged me to bring it each day to play at lunch hour. I was more than happy to do so. However, the principal appointed me Captain of the Safety Patrol, charged with arranging for the sixth grade boys to take daily turns as crossing guards. My peers immediately made it clear that, since I got to wear the badge of Safety Patrol Captain, I would have to do their turns as crossing guards while they played ball. They also made it clear that if I disagreed I’d get beaten to a pulp. It was one of my early lessons about the hidden burdens of being in charge of stuff. 

         Being in a small town in a rural environment, high school football was one of the main local attractions. In junior high we raced down the hallways when the bell rang to be first in line at the cafeteria and get out quickly to play ball on the lawn. I think I had my clearest sense of having grown up was when I started going to Friday night football games on my own with my junior high friends. The biggest local event of the year was the annual M&M game in late November between the Menominee Maroons and the Marinette Marines, the high school in our twin city across the river. This was the oldest interstate public school rivalry in the nation. Emotions ran so high that as teens we were cautioned not to drive to Marinette with our Michigan license plates because our cars would be vandalized. 

         When I went to college, phys ed was required of all freshmen, and at the first class the coach asked us to divide ourselves into three groups, based upon football experience: The “Advanced” group was for skilled players who had been on their high school varsity teams; “Intermediate”, those who had played football but were more who average in skill; and “Beginners” who barely knew the rules of football. My non-athletic roommate Bud, a brash New Yorker from the Bronx, assigned himself to the Advanced group, even though he’d never touched a football, confident that he would pick the game up easily and deserved to play with the best. I, on the other hand, not certain whether I knew all of the rules of the game, assigned myself to the Beginners group, despite having played thousands of hours of football. It was an interesting lesson in the vagaries of self-evaluation. 

         My college didn’t have inter-collegiate sports team, but instead had an extensive intramural sports program, and my freshman hall fielded a football team in our first quarter on campus. One of my friends, Arnie Projansky, was captain of the team, and he assigned me to the role of kick returner on punts and kickoffs. I was more than reluctant since several other hallmates were faster runners, but Arnie was insistent, deciding it would be good for me. I wasn’t very successful in gaining yardage, but I felt good about never dropping a kicked ball. 

         After college we went off to graduate school at the University of Michigan. Having gone to a small liberal arts school, I was completely skeptical about going to a large public university, especially a Big Ten school with all the implications of Greek life, partying, and big-time sports hoopla. However, we did get free student tickets to U of M football games, and, out of curiosity, my wife and I went to the first game of the season. Caught up in the crowd of 100,000 crazed fans, cheerleaders, the marching band, etc., we became immediate converts, and we never missed a home Michigan game. During those same years my parents arranged for tickets to Green Bay Packers games when we returned home during Christmas vacations. We got to see several Packers games during the Vince Lombardi Super Bowl era. Bart Starr, Paul Hornung, Jim Taylor, Jerry Kramer, and other legends. We practically froze to death at Lambeau Field, but I still count those Packer games among the highlights of my life. 

         We came to Cincinnati in 1966, and Paul Brown founded the Bengals a year later, so we’ve been Bengals fans from the start. Tight end Bob Trumpy lived in our apartment complex, and he did several question-and-answer sessions with residents which gave us a more personal connection to the team. We moved from Finneytown to Clifton in the early 1970’s, and I started tossing footballs in the back yard to my son J when he turned six. I’d step back one yard with every toss, and he’d never miss, catching the ball at 25 or 30 yards or more. When our backyard got too small we moved across the street to the bank parking lot. After a month or so we came out one day and the bank had erected a steel fence so we couldn’t get in. I thought it was an unnecessarily expensive way to keep fathers and sons from throwing footballs in the parking lot. Now it’s fifty years later, our son is tossing footballs to his own teenage kids, and we’re still following the Bengals. Lots of ups and downs with the home team over the years, but the 2022 Super Bowl is the pinnacle. It’s been worth the wait.

Love,

Dave

WHAT'S ALL THIS FUSS ABOUT THE FILIBUSTER?

 Dear George, 

I’m by no means a political junkie, but I try to keep abreast of the news as best I can. Recently I’ve been confused about all the controversy regarding use of the ilibuster in the Senate. The Democrats are pressing for reform but can’t get consensus in their own ranks. Joe Biden has changed his opinion in recent months. What’s been most confusing to me is how the filibuster is connected to 60 votes being necessary to pass legislation in the 100-member Senate. After some reading I did manage to figure that out. Here’s what I learned about that and other matters. 

Love, 

Dave 

 What is the definition of “filibuster”? The U.S. Senate defines “filibuster” as “the tactic of using long speeches to delay action on legislation.” (11) 

 Where does the word “filibuster” come from? The word derives from the Spanish “filibustero” (“freebooting”), a reference to 16th century pirates who plundered ships and colonies. Its first use in a political sense occurred in the late 1800s when it was an insult directed toward lawmakers who held up legislation by effectively “raiding” the Senate like pirates. (4) 

 When did the filibuster begin in the Senate? The filibuster is not part of the Constitution, nor was it recognized in original Senate rules. The original rules specified that cutting off debate of a motion required a simple majority. The filibuster was accidentally created in 1806 when Vice President Aaron Burr argued that the rarely used majority rule was redundant, and the Senate eliminated it as a housekeeping matter. Though not their intent, the change gave senators the right to unlimited debate, meaning that they could indefinitely delay a bill without ever getting to a vote. The filibuster wasn’t used regularly until the mid-1800s when Southern senators employed the tactic to block debate over abolishing slavery. In order to support the American war effort in World War I, the Senate in 1917 passed the cloture rule which made it possible to end a filibuster with a two-thirds majority. Because a two-thirds majority proved difficult to obtain, the Senate in 1975 reduced this requirement to 60 votes. While a final vote to pass legislation in the Senate requires a simple majority of 51 votes, a supermajority of 60 votes is needed to start or end debate on the bill. Consequently 60 votes has become the minimum needed for most bills to advance to a vote. In a highly partisan, polarized Senate with a 50-50 split between parties, obtaining 60 votes to end a filibuster is often impossible. (1, 3, 16) 

 What’s the difference between “talking” vs.“silent” filibusters? Originally, filibusters involved long speeches in which a senator attempted to block a vote from proceeding by refusing to yield the floor. The longest filibuster ever recorded was by South Carolina Senator Strom Thurmond, whose speech opposing the Civil Rights Act of 1957 lasted for over 24 hours. Since the early 1970s, however, senators have been able to use a “silent” filibuster. Any time a group of 41 or more senators threatens a filibuster, the Senate majority leader, knowing the legislation lacks sufficient support, can refuse to call a vote and instead moves on to other matters. Use of the filibuster escalated dramatically with the availability of the silent filibuster. Of the more than 2000 filibusters in the last century, over half have occurred in the Obama, Trump, and Biden administrations. (3) 

 Are there exceptions to the filibuster rule? Yes, in 2012 Democrats changed Senate rules to enable confirmation of executive branch positions (e.g., Obama’s cabinet) and non-Supreme Court judicial nominees by a simple majority vote. In 2017 Senate Republicans expanded this change to include Supreme Court appointments, enabling President Trump to fill three Supreme Court vacancies over the course of his term. Both changes involve what is known as the “nuclear option”, i.e., changing a Senate rule to pass legislation with a simple majority and overcome obstruction by the minority. (“Nuclear” because both parties saw it as an unthinkable final recourse, much like nuclear war.) “Budget reconciliation” is one such way to get around the filibuster. That is, a bill may be passed with a simple majority if all of its provisions relate to the federal budget. This process was used to pass the Democrats’ $1 trillion spending package to help people struggling during the pandemic (the American Rescue Plan). In addition, the Senate has also exempted certain other types of legislation from the 60-vote requirement, e.g,, certain trade agreements, military base closures, arms sales. (2, 9, 10) 

 What are pros and cons of the filibuster? Pros include the argument that the filibuster makes the Senate more deliberative and prevents hasty legislation from being pushed through without adequate debate. It’s also argued that the filibuster encourages bipartisan compromise, forcing the majority to negotiate a version more acceptable to the minority, thus protecting rights of the minority party. Without the filibuster, the majority party would be able to pass anything for which it could get a simple majority. The major con is that the filibuster has made accomplishing anything in Congress extremely difficult. In effect, it’s argued that the filibuster gives the Senate minority too much power. Additionally use of the filibuster prevents other critical issues from being addressed. In the current congress Republicans have used the filibuster to successfully block legislation on police reform, immigration reform, voting rights, and a host of other measures. Finally, no other part of the government requires a super-majority to pass a law. (7, 15) 

 What are options to reform the filibuster? Six options are evident. First, eliminate the filibuster altogether. (However, ending debate on changing the Senate’s standing rules requires a two-thirds majority, making this change extremely unlikely.) Second, use the nuclear option in which the Senate majority leader would use a nondebatable motion to bring a bill to a simple majority vote. Third, go back to the talking filibuster and require that objectors to a bill be present with one of them speaking at all times. Fourth, shift the burden onto the filibustering Senators to muster the required number of 41 votes to maintain the filibuster (instead of requiring votes from 60 who wish to proceed). Fifth, get rid of the 60-vote hurdle to start debate on a bill but keep it in place for ending debate. Sixth, do not eliminate the procedure altogether, but make an exemption for voting rights legislation and other pro-democracy measures (similar to the existing procedure for budget reconciliation). (3, 5, 14) 

 What is likely to happen with the filibuster? The future is uncertain. Many Democrats see the 60-vote rule as a stranglehold on their agenda, and the pressure to pass at least some party priorities is pushing Democratic leaders to call for filibuster changes. Last week the Democrats brought to the floor a proposal to change Senate rules to force GOP senators to use a talking filibuster in their opposition to voting rights legislation. However Kyrsten Sinema (D-Ariz.) and Joe Manchin (D-W.Va.) opposed the proposed rule change, resulting in its defeat. Nonetheless, there is near-unanimous support for filibuster reform among Democrats, and if they are able to hold the House and add a few Senate seats in 2022, experts suggest that change is likely in the near future. In 2022 the late Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid predicted: “The filibuster is on its way out, It’s not a question of if but when. It may not be tomorrow or six months from now, but the filibuster is doomed for failure. You can’t have a democracy that requires 60 percent of the vote on everything.”  (6, 7, 13) 

 SOURCES: (1) abcnews.go.com, “What is the Senate filibuster?; (2) ballotopedia.org, “Filibuster and reconciliation in the United States Congress”; (3) brennancenter.org, “The Filibuster, Explained”; (4) britannicacom, “filibuster: parliamentary tactic”; (5) brookings.edu, “Filibuster reform is coming — here’s how”; (6) brookings.edu, “What is the senate filibuster, and what would it take to eliminate it?”; (7) cnn.com, “Why Democrats want to change the Senate’s filibuster rules”; (8) filibusterreform.com, “What is a Filibuster and Why Reform is Good”; (9) nbcnews.com, “The Nuclear Option: What It Is and Why It Matters”; (10) nor.org, “Senate Democrats plan a vote to change the filibuster. So what is it?”; (11) senate.gov, “About Filibusters and Cloture: Historical Overview”; (12) theblaze.com, “2 pros and 3 cons of ending the filibuster”; (13) thehill.com, “Democrats say change to filibuster just a matter of time”; (14) thehill.com, “Manchin: ‘Heavy lift’ to change the filibuster through nuclear option”; (15) thinkehevote.com, “Should the Senate Reform the Filibuster?”; (16) usatoday.com, “What is the filibuster?”

ARCHIVE: VIC'S PHOTOS #15

Dear George, 

 Here is another archive of my dad Vic’s family photos, mostly taken between the mid-1930s and the mid-1950s. The source for most of them is my brother Peter’s postcard project in which he printed Vic’s negatives in postcard form and sent them to family members. I’m very grateful to my dad for keeping such a good visual record of our family history and to Peter for keeping them alive. 

 Love, 

Dave

Here’s my dad, Vic L., as a young man from his senior high school yearbook photo.  Vic was born and grew up in Marinette, Wisconsin, across the river from Menominee, with his siblings, Kent, Karl, and Martha.  He graduated from Marinette High and went on to St. Thomas College in St. Paul and the University of Wisconsin where he obtained his law degree.    

 

Here’s our mom, looking like a bathing beauty.  Given the high hills in the background, this was nowhere near Menominee or the U.P., and it looks like California to me, probably taken in the 1930s before any of us were born.  

Here are my mom and myself on the Green Bay shore, perhaps at Henes Park or the Caley’s Northwood Cove beach.  I wonder if I caught something to put in the pail.  In any case, I look quite pleased.  

Here is our family in 1941, posing in from of the Tourist Information Lodge on Ogden Avenue.  Vic, Dave, Doris holding infant Steven.  Vic would be joining the Navy in two years, and Doris would be at home with Steve and myself. 

 

Christmas was a major celebration at our house from early on.  I will guess that Steve was 1 and I was 5 in this photo (if so, it would be 1942).  It looks like we got a bonanza of presents, and we children look pretty happy.  

Here’s my dad, looking trim and fit in his Navy uniform, with Steve (maybe 3) and me (maybe 7).  Vic was sent to the Pacific around this time, and we boys missed our father badly.  He spent time in occupied Japan, then returned home in 1946.

   

These are my parents’ close friends Bill and Florence Caley at their family home on Sheridan Road in Menominee.  Bill was the president of the Signal Electric Company in Menominee, and Florence was a former teacher and homemaker, mom to Bill Jr., Tom, and Bruce.  

The Cedar River is 25 miles north of Menominee along M-35.  We knew it best because Jean Worth’s hunting camp was on the banks of the Cedar, and we took many hikes along the river bank trail on visits.  This was the most beautiful primeval forest that we knew in our youth.   

Jean Worth, one of my parents’ closest friends, was the editor on the Menominee Herald-Leader and a pre-eminent U.P. historian.  Our family had many adventures and good times at Jean’s hunting camp at Cedar River, along with his and his wife Margaret’s three kids, Dooley, Ann, and Jeanne.  

Here is baby Vicki (my sister) and our Irish setter Mike on the window seat in the living room at river house.  Dog and baby seem very compatible, and Vicki loved Mike more and more as she grew up.  

My brother Peter is intently soldering together components of the ham radio set that Vic bought for him to put together.  Though I was away at college at the time, my recollection is that the radio actually wound up working.  Good for kid and father.  

I’m in the background with the bow, and my younger brother Steve is lying dead with an arrow in his chest.  Since, in real life, I was a bully older brother to Steve, I suspect my photographer father was documenting my various travesties.  

Here is an entertaining fire hydrant portrait, probably dolled up for the purposes of this photo.  I don’t know the back story, but I’d have to guess that this is my father’s humorous creation.  

A year older than me, Bill Caley was one of my childhood friends, and our family would visit his  in their Northwood Cove home on Green Bay.  Bill was a star football player for the Menominee Maroons, played football and graduated from Dartmouth in 1958, and established the successful Twin City insurance agency in Menominee and throughout northern Michigan.  An avid sailor, Bill passed away in 2017.

Here is my brother Steve with his motorcycle in the driveway at river house.  As you can tell from his taped up leg and bruised face, he took a nasty spill on his bike and wound up at the hospital.  I was away at college at the time and only heard the gory details afterwards.  

Here are a pair of lovebirds making faces.  Steve and Margie met on spring break during college in the early 1960’s and got married on June 20, 1964, in Margie’s home town, Elmhurst, Illinois.