Tuesday, December 31, 2019

My Best of '19

Sarajevo

Djakovo -- Who'd ever heard of this Cathedral?

Sun Valley

Roger

Postojna Caverns, Slovenia

Bosnia: one of hundreds of "Sarajevo Roses" --
the impact splatter pattern commemorating
sudden deaths of three or more citizens
from random mortar fire,
1992 - 1996
Sun Valley

Barton, Vt. -- On watch


My B-i-L, The Seer

Ketchum

Ljubljana


Seattle Green and Glass

Zagreb

Sarajevo

Split

Mostar

Saturday, December 21, 2019

And Now We Are Four


Joseph Edward Crandall, Jr.
1932--2019

Joe is gone.
\
ELHEDO, on Lake Moraine,
near Hamilton, NY,1940s

We were Seven,
we Williams, Crandall and Waller kids,
convening summers at ELHEDO Lodge
to swim and play, laugh and laze about.
‘Twas not Algonquin for “place of peace”,
as C.E. invented,
but the initials of our mothers,
his beloved “Taylor Girls”:
Eleanor,
Helen,
Dorothy.
Last time all seven were together, 1999.
Carol and Adrien teasing Lloyd,
Bruce, Joe, Fletch and Allen enjoying
him getting his.

We seven, in time, grew
and went separate ways.

Lloyd was first to pass, the eldest,
leader of the tribe.
In later years he liked to joke that
I was older, I who lived afar
and was too rarely seen;
his way of denying age
in an easy tease.

Carol was next, shockingly
Carol's, painted from a photo of me
in Maine in 1939,
the year she was born.
out of nature's order.
Loving Carol, 
who would enchant wild chickadees
to eat from her hand;
the actress who leaped in fully-clothed
to rescue the clumsy puppy
that plopped into my pool. 
She, who so loved the world
and painted it so charmingly.

How cruelly, how unconscionably 
Lloyd and I picked on
that soft-hearted ten-year-old.
She forgave us, and grew
to take no guff from anyone.

And now Joe turns and goes.

Fletch and Joe
Florida Military Academy, 1948
Stable, solid Joe, so likable;
grantor of unconditional liking in return.
The first responder, 
the fire dispatcher,
the bandsman of crystalline tone. 
His last years spent in a perpetual present,
ELHEDO memories Alzheimer erased.

He passed as peacefully as he had lived,
leaving in his wake 
a huge and loving tribe
(twenty-one great-grands.)

It's true: Joe is gone.

On these short, dark days, Fletch, 
does it ache, to know 
you are an elder -- 

-- and now we are Four?

Wednesday, December 18, 2019

Immigration and Grandfather Tales


Last Monday, Ann and I went to Town Hall to hear Erika Lee, author of America For Americans, not as the title might suggest a Trumpian screed, but a clear-eyed look at the distressing history of American xenophobia.  Lee, a Professor of American History at the Univ. of Minnesota, says “America does not have an immigration problem but a xenophobia problem.” Her presentation brought to a head my ruminations on immigration: my family’s in the 17thC and 18thC, Ann’s in the 19thC, those around us today.

Grandfather Halley Templeton Waller was held up to my sisters and me as an exemplary civic leader and public servant, a fighter for civil rights and, especially, immigrants’ rights. After all, the KKK burned a cross on his front yard, an image seared into the memory of his twelve-year-old son, Fletcher Waller, our dad and my namesake.
Halley Waller and His Son Fletcher

  But as so often the case, when one digs into family lore, the simple, one-dimensional myths give way to the complexity of human beings’ contradictions and inconsistencies.

In 1880, Grandfather Waller, age three, was orphaned along with his three brothers. Their father died of measles; his mother, they said, of a broken heart 120 days later.  The four brothers, ranging from 18 months to 7 years, were parceled out in rural Vermont to various aunts and uncles. All became well educated; three went on to medical school. But Halley, an inspired, young Christian teacher, left in his third year of medical school to take a position in the YMCA system. 

In the first decade of the 20thC, having risen to Secretary (equivalent to an Executive Director) of the Cambridge, Mass Y, he developed a uniquely successful Americanization and Naturalization program to teach and develop citizens out of the wave of Eastern European immigrants flooding our shores.  In 1912, the Seiberlings, Goodrichs, and Firestones of Akron, Ohio called Halley Waller to Akron, where Charles Goodyear’s development of vulcanized rubber coupled with explosive growth of Detroit and Midwest auto manufacturing had created a booming industry with an insatiable need for labor; those new, immigrant citizens would be just the thing.  In the second decade of the 20thC, Akron – “The Rubber Capital of the World -- was the fastest growing American city, blossoming from 69,000 in 1910 to 208,000 by 1920.   Most of those newcomers were native-born whites from Appalachia – almost universally Protestant, mostly fundamentalist; 30,000 of new arrivals were European-born. 

Halley Waller took over the Akron Y, expanding its facilities and programs with the fulsome support of the industrialists of Akron.  Halley became increasingly prominent in the community.  He was elected chair of the Akron School board and was active on Chamber and other civic organizations.  In both Akron’s schools and the Y’s programs, he promoted celebration of ethnic traditions and an openness to “otherness” in religion and culture.  From his school board post, he established five night schools to “teach Akron’s Aliens” as the Akron Times put it.  This was the Halley Waller of family lore.

But digging into my aunt Sis’s store of clippings, scrap books and his journals and researching Akron’s history, unearths a more nuanced story.

World War I shut off the immigration faucet.  Agents from industrial north fanned out into the Southern States, offering rail passage, signing bounties and jobs in the North: an escape from Jim Crow. The Great Migration had begun. Akron was just as promising a destination as Chicago, Kansas City, Detroit, Cleveland, Pittsburgh or New York.  By 1920, Akron had 5,000 American Negros – term of the time – among its citizens, looking for jobs, housing and education.  The Akron Y helped raise funds and train staff to open – yes – "The Colored Branch" of the Akron YMCA, a separate and by implication, segregated facility.  Ouch. 

With The Great Migration came a re-birth of the Klu Klux Klan, this time in the north, railing against both African Americans seeking opportunities and the “problem” with Catholic and Jewish immigrants from Eastern and Southern Europe: America for white Protestants, thank you very much.

By 1920, the Summit County Klavern boasted the largest membership in the nation, with local “dens” in every important town.  The county sheriff was a Klansman, as were the mayors of Toledo, Akron and many local union officials and business leaders.

In Akron, the issue wasn’t so much African-Americans as Catholic and Jewish immigrants. What easier targets to attack than the YMCA and the School Board. The Klan focused on public schools – mandatory reading of the Bible, segregating black students from others, even trying (unsuccessfully) to remove Catholic teachers.  Their campaign for school board seats in 1924 – that was when the Klan burned a cross on Granddad’s front lawn -- paid off, and in 1925 wielded their majority on the board to appoint a rabid Klansman from Southern Ohio to School Superintendent; Halley and three other board members resigned in protest; their appointed replacements were all Klan members.

In the same way, the Klan attacked the “West Akron Establishment”, the business and civic leadership community, alleging that the Catholic neighborhoods were receiving too much attention, the older but still recently arrived families from Appalachia and Southern Ohio too little, and that naturalization programs at the Y were just anti-unionism in disguise.  The Klan infiltrated the rubber companies, with many members among managers and employees, and became increasingly active in the unions.  All this took its toll; the industrial donor base found the Y too hot a potato to handle and began to withdraw its support.

Halley T. Waller, YMCA Secretary and School Board Chair, had become prime target #1, a symbol of all the Klan and Super-patriot isolationists and immigration opponents resented.  In 1924, he gave a speech before the Akron C of C in opposition to the 1921 immigration quota restrictions and the even tougher Johnson-Reed immigration act of 1924: admirable opposition.  But – to my amazement when I read the speech -- his reasoning was that reducing immigration and basing quotas on population patterns of 1890 would skew US population toward higher-birth-rate peoples of color and non-Christians already here, steadily diluting the European Christian values that he felt were the core of American culture: Double Ouch.   

I was stunned to unearth that bias – the second and a major crack in the picture of a fighter for immigration and civil rights. I had no clue that color or non-Christians might have been his blind spot.  He was not, I know, an explicit racist but, apparently, was a believer in the superiority of northern European, Christian values and culture.  A man of his times perhaps.  But of ours?

Under reactionary pressure, Halley Waller resigned from the Y in 1924; in protest, from the school board in 1925.  (Dad was pulled out of the public school system to matriculate from Case Western Reserve Academy.)  Halley’s friend and ally, fellow Akronite Wendell Willkie, took up the battle against the Klan.

As the Klan tide receded, Halley Waller again earned esteem as a civic leader.  But the culture wars had taken a toll. By the mid-1930s, he had lost his zeal for Christian sectarianism.  His journal entry for Feb 26,1936, for example,  reads in part:
All the deeply religious views expressed in my early journal entries are just so much inherited misconceptions to put it mildly.  Baldly, I would call it “Bunk.”  Yet somehow, my estimate of my forebears’ beliefs and the evident importance to them of these “beliefs” calls for a certain respect for which {sic] evidently had great bearing upon the routine of their lives and the quality of their character.”
Later on in that same entry he writes:
I rather find to  be true what I formerly considered almost blasphemy, i.e., that men are wont to use religion as a cloak to gain their own selfish ends at the expense of an all too credulous mass who look forward to the future life for their reward of their patient suffering here.”

But that did not dim his drive to serve his community.  In the ‘30s, he headed a housing equity effort; served on the local WPA board during the depression; chaired the Defense Bond Drive in May of 1941; and during the war, served as regional director of the Office of Price Administration. He died in the spring of ’45 without seeing the victory over fascism he so ardently wished.

~~~~~~

The lessons, I guess, if any: no paragon goes unblemished.  Family lore burnishes simplistic images; dig behind them to find the human, the strengths and weaknesses, the admirable and the not-so. 

On balance, I revere Halley Templeton Waller for his opposition to xenophobes and hold him up to my grand-children as an admirable example of public service and dedication to civic involvement, one well worthy of emulation. 

And of his son, Fletcher Waller? Yes, him too, but that is an even longer story to be told another time.

Where Went My Republicans?


I was dismayed in 1963 when Lyndon Johnson became President.  In 1964, I was drawn into local Republican politics, mainly to support Minnesota State legislator Bill Frenzel, a very decent guy who later became our Congressman in Minnesota’s 3rd.  Bill served in Congress for 20 years, becoming ranking member of House Budget, a powerful voice on Ways and Means, and the Congressional representative to GATT.  Socially liberal, fiscally cautious and responsible; my kind of Republican.

Back to ’64: I was sent to the Hennepin County convention as a delegate to support Gov. Nelson Rockefeller, a model socially liberal/fiscally conservative Republican committed to public service despite his elitist upbringing and wealth. Goldwaterites took the Minnesota delegation to the National Convention.  My Democratic friends warned me that if I voted for Goldwater we’d be committing troops to an Asian War within a year and ropping bombs on Cambodia and North Vietnam.  It turned out they were right, but I was torn between these new true-believer Republicans and Lyndon J; I wound up voting for neither.

My Grandfathers were Republican, one a friend and ally of fellow Akron, Ohioan Wendell Wilkie.  Wilkie was berated by classic Conservative Republicans as too internationalist, too moderate. My Dad, in turn, was a Republican who worked under FDR and Truman.  But under the sledgehammers of Sen. Hickenlooper, Sen. McCarthy, and Rep. Richard Nixon, then of the HUAC, Dad began to waver.  The persecution of Robert Oppenheimer drove a wedge between him and Eisenhower. Stevenson appeared more like the Republicans he was comfortable with, and that I was attracted to.

Nixon acted out his amorality, to no surprise in our family.  Ford, a decent guy, brought into the picture a new sort of Republican: Cheney and Rumsfeld, hints of what was to come.  Reagan lacked that thoughtful moderation I admired in Rockefeller Republicans.  He enabled in Iran-Contra the most egregious attack on our Constitution and got away with it.  By the time “W” arrived, Republican meant that good’ol boy, BBQ and beer, Southern bigot (Bush was no bigot, but his supporters throughout the South?) along with the win-at-all costs Cheney and Rumsfeld, then in their full colors.
 
And now it’s He-who-shall-not-be-named who has taken Republicanism as I knew it--socially liberal, fiscally moderate, internationally engaged--to a new, all-time low.  The GOP ain’t so grand anymore.  Gone are the social libertarians; gone are the fiscally moderate; gone are the Republicans like G.H.W. Bush and Bill Frenzel who believed in multi-lateral trade rules aimed at reducing barriers and international collaboration to address problems. Gone are men and women whose allegiance was to their principles and conscience and to our Constitution. 

Now “Republican” means selfishness, goodies for us, pandering to the resentful, preaching America First and Alone, pandering to social reactionaries who promote government intervention into marriage, child bearing, and the teaching of science and history. And looking the other way. These are not my Republicans and haven’t been for a couple of decades now.  Where did my Republicans go? 

The GOP was born in the 1850s as a third party in protest of the Know Nothings; is it again time for a new third party of principle and common sense, of outreach to the world?  I hope to see it.

Thursday, November 21, 2019

Mark Zuckerberg, Hasan Yeniocak, and I -- a tale of curious convergences


About this time last year, I had become so fed up with the amoral arrogance of Marc Zuckerberg and Sheryl Sandberg and their facile defenses of how Facebook monetizes user information that I decided to leave – all to no avail.  I spent several hours trying to cancel my account.  Mark and Sheryl and their orcs have built a closed loop system to frustrate such leavings: one uses one’s password to get into the cancellation process, then is asked for your password to confirm your intent to leave, but, then, the very same password accepted for entry is denied for exit.  You can get in but you can’t get out.  I read that others have cancelled successfully and even mastered the process of freezing use of their data and foiling Facebook's money machine.  It takes a digital-era Theseus to master that Labyrinth, and I am not such.  Perhaps my 11 yr old grandson could help.

I gave up; in January I posted here on NWRuminations “Please Unfriend Me.”  From January 10th to this week I successfully resisted opening Facebook in spite of every day receiving e-mails calling out that so-and-so has a message for me; my disuse of the site drove their computer programs crazy. The people “having a message for me” became increasingly remote, which only demonstrated Facebook's insidious ability to trace and navigate networks of personal connections or interactions.  Also, to my distress, I regularly received and regretfully ignored messages from family and friends that news and photos were posted on their Facebook pages. 

 I knew it was meaningless; just a silly, Quixotic gesture of defiance in this age of digital rape of privacy.  And I tired of peeking over Ann’s shoulder to see pictures of grandchildren and their adventures.  So, yesterday I capitulated.

But it wasn’t family that broke my resolve; it was curiosity.  Let me back-cast to spring of 2015.

Ann and I spent three weeks in Turkey – a wonderful trip.  We were in the capable hands of Hasan Yeniocak, a charming, knowledgeable, capable guide who skillfully herded us along while sharing his views and love of Turkey.  This was at the time of Erdogan’s first try at amending the Constitution to concentrate power in the hands of the President.  Hasan, an Alewite, was concerned but not alarmed by Erdogan’s drive to marginalize Kurds, Alewites, and secular Kemalists.  In discussing their Constitution and ours, Hasan demonstrated a misunderstanding of the roles of our Supreme Court and Senate.  So, on our return, along with pictures from the trip, I sent Hasan a copy of our Constitution and commentary on separation of church and state.  I had to fill out an international mail customs form as I recall.
 Hasan Then 

I didn’t hear a word.  Was the package intercepted?  E-mail after e-mail went unanswered.  I began to worry that I might have gotten Hasan in trouble, especially when in 2016, Erdogan was given a freer hand to impose his fundamentalist views and pressure minorities.  Inquiries to his Connecticut employer brought assurance that Hasan was OK, still guiding, and all appearing well.  Still no rise from attempts to reach him.

I thought little about it until later that year, 2016, when access to my Instagram account, which I rarely used but went to stir up again, was suddenly blocked.  fletchw@comcast.net was invalid said Instagram.  Some other person had taken that as their user ID.  By tracing and invoking lost password service, I uncovered this new fletchw.  Lo and behold, a Turk, not Hasan, a young Turk who posted his data and messages in Arabic.  I complained to Instagram who simply shrugged and advised me to take out a new account.  (They are, after all, owned by Sheryl and little Mark, not notable defenders of privacy.)
    
No great loss; I let Instagram lie -- until last month.  More and more, Pratt artists had been showing our work on Instagram.  And since September, granddaughter Ella has left a trail of European cities on her Instagram site. 
Granddaughter Ella in Chioggia
So, time to fire it up again; a new account it was to be.  I had to be devious -- using a phony username, ID, etc. etc., but now I have seen snippet videos from her travels.  I will post some of my work on Pratt's site.

~~~~~~~~

Hasan Now


Now we come to yesterday: Facebook finally intrigued me with a link to -- of all missing persons -- Hasan Yenociak! HOW IN HELL DID THEY CONNECT US!  

But I couldn’t resist; I succumbed and there he is, five years older, proud father, a little fleshy from being well fed, but undeniably a happy Hasan.













So now what?  Am I to become a bot in thrall to Facebook?  An Instagram habitué? Or just a flaneur, watching what streams by and leaving as little sign of having been there as possible?  


Meanwhile, what do I do about that Turkish Intelligence Officer that is opening Hasan’s mail and trolling me? 

Oh come now – really?

Yeah, really: Erdogan's orcs are no joke. And that little billionaire bastard with the bad haircut is still out there, you know.  One cannot be too paranoid these days.  

A little paranoia is a healthy thing.  


Tuesday, October 8, 2019

Fall

Today, fall announced itself in such an un-Northwesterly way.  Not soft drizzles and slowly turning leaves; instead, driving rain and hail, explosive bursts of yellow and red, chill winds.  What little summer we've had, and no real Indian Summer, all gone.  Grey days ahead.

I wandered in woods last weekend.  Foraged mushrooms (I love that word "foraged.")  Fried them up with butter, lemon and garlic; Ann served them (hesitantly) in an autumn casserole.  Foraged -- like getting away with something on Mother Nature -- a guilty pleasure.

Here's a poor haiku for October on Mercer Island.  (Very poor haiku my poet sister will likely find.)

      Yellow leaves drift down
      to blanket slumbering roots
      now dreaming of spring

A good friend, an expert on things Japanese, announced bad news on this blustery day; grey days ahead for him, too.  But I hold fast to that promise of spring for both of us.

We lit a fire tonight. 
Ann just entered the room and announced -- not knowing what I was writing -- "I love wearing wool and heavy shoes." 
One has to be a bit melancholic to love fall and winter in cozy Pacific Northwest.

Sunday, October 6, 2019

I Am a Loser . . . and So Are You


We are all losers, about to become more so, and it’s all self-inflicted.

If articles of impeachment are brought against He-who-shall-not-be-named, either of two outcomes make losers of us all.
1)  Were he to be acquitted in the Senate, after a wrenching and divisive trial, his “base” (which is not a homogeneous whole) would be emboldened and triumphalist, having “proved” the he is the greatest.  His defeated detractors would be embittered, might lose the election, might find even scarcer any ground for compromise and pragmatic problem solving. Congress would be even more gridlocked.
               2) Were he found guilty by the Senate, after bitter and destructive debate, the Republican Party would be torn asunder; the white, traditionalist, anti-immigrant portion of his base more embittered, convinced that they have been disenfranchise by those elitists, all the more easily to be radicalized against knowledgeable experts, newly arrived citizens, and the arrogant establishment.  The “what’s in it for me” part of his base all the more ready to use its money and influence to lever government to their selfish ends, all the more eager to find another less toxic politician/tool to be used to advance their self-interest – even among Democrats.  And the winners of a guilty verdict in disarray between triumphalists and rootless Republican turncoats now without a home in either party.  In primaries, those turncoat Republican senators could be replaced by even more distrustful, vengeful radicals, further polarizing us.

Meanwhile, whichever way it goes, the trust and respect of our foreign friends is undercut and eroded while our foreign adversaries gloat over this evidence that democracy is in the end self-destructive and that only oligarchic, homogenized autocracies and can bring focus and stability to a nation.

Whatever the outcome, we all become losers.

A slightly less damaging pathway, as unfeasible as it may be in these fevered times, is to eschew seeking articles of impeachment.  Rather, hold the hearings, air the evidence, and then stand back and rely on election to settle the matter.  Let we the people decide.

The 1850’s and 60’s were more viciously polarized than now.  But in the 20thC and 21stC, is this the most dangerous of times?  My family, like all American families, have been through crises.  The resurgence of the KKK in the early ‘20’s derailed my grandfather’s career, but he recovered and gave my father good civic values. Though born in it, I don’t recall much of the Great Depression though I saw its mark on my frugal mother; it took a World War to recover the nation’s mojo.  As a teen, I saw first-hand the effect of the McCarthyite and HUAC tempests on families of public service patriots.  I lived through and wrestled with the generationally divided 1960’s and 70’s.  But those were episodic crises, serious ones to be sure.  This is different -- more fundamental, a structural attack on what America expects its leaders to stand for and how its Democracy is to work.  

In these times, we are all losers no matter who “wins.”

What can one do? Support hearings but argue against impeachment.  Let we the people vote. I have written my Representative Adam Smith and my Governor Jay Inslee, chair of the Democratic Governors Association, urging them to support full investigation but stop short of articles of impeachment.  More voices raised always help: speak up; don’t let the daily craziness wear us down.  And don't assume that this will just pass and America be the same again.  This is different; we are all losers.

Sunday, September 15, 2019

Relax, Unwind, Renew – and Rewind



Busy, busy, busy –
·        Sept 7th: Pratt open house, then a joyful surprise birthday party with people in from all over – and me totally clueless.
·        9th: committee meeting at Pratt;
·        10th: appointment at anti-coagulant clinic, meeting with lawyer to update wills and trusts;
·        11th: two committee meetings at Pratt, birthday dinner with Ann. 
12th: thank God, off to the Methow.

The bucolic Methow: unplug and renew in this valley of peace.  We based ourselves at the Mazama Country Inn – no TV, no radio, no nothing except fresh air and good food. 

Sept. 12th, my day one embarkation on this 86th year: Ann and I hiked Maple Loop, the most beautiful hike we’ve ever done – notwithstanding the Kleine Schetigg and the Grundewald, the Dolomites and Sud Tyrol, Montana’s Glacier and BC’s Waterton Park, Yosemite and Yellowstone, Lake Louise and the Ice Fields, Mts Rainier and Adams and the rest.  The Maple Pass Loop, a glacial cirque above Rainy Pass in the North Cascades.
Half-way up the north rim; Lake Ann down below.

The north rim takes one up 2,100’ in 4 miles and then curls around the lip and back down the south rim, with Ann Lake on one side and Rainy Lake on the other. We’ve done the seven and a half miles in mist and cloud; this week, in crisp, bright air. . . simply stunning either way.
 
From the lip @6,995', looking northeast into the Cirque 














From the lip, looking southwest toward Glacier Peak (left)


A panorama from the twelve-foot wide south rim; Lake Ann on the left, Rainy Lake on the right; path down the middle. 

Why did the hoary marmot cross the path?  Because he decided Ann was benign.
Friday morning, out on a northern section of the Pacific Crest Trail between Hart’s Pass and the Canadian border.  Despite its glamorous reputation, the trail itself but an unassuming track across Alpine meadow and tundra – just one foot ahead of the other.  One might hope to meet one PCT-er, but we met nine!  Four Kentuckians, 4 months and eleven days from the Mexican border and 31 miles to go; they planned to finish yesterday.  A North Dakota lad, lean and blonde, who finished Thursday, five months and 23 days, who has now walked back south to Hart’s Pass, looking for a ride down to Mazama.  A cold and wet Missouri girl, chilled through and through, calling a halt just 31 miles from her goal; she probably ran out of her food supply – they need 3,000 calories a day.  She planned to warm up a few days in Seattle and then come back and finish.  An Oregon couple, married 34 years, whom we met above Hart’s Pass, adding 31 miles to their completed 2,756; we ran into them at breakfast in town today. 
The Pacific Crest Trail north of Hart's Pass

The border crossing is just a set of post markers and a welcome to Canada sign; no guns, no badges, no questions.  Don't tell Trump.

Finally, Debra, a New Zealander, also finished and coming south. She blew by us at a pace we couldn't match. Debra caught the walking bug back home when for a charity fund-raiser, she did a sponsored walk of the 1700-some miles from south end of South Island to north end of North.  She never went back to her office job in water management civil engineering .  She has walked the Allegheny, on which she acquired a Ohioan boyfriend. Her PCT was interrupted last year in Stevens Pass by a pulmonary embolism that hospitalized her in Wenatchee for two weeks, so she came back this year to finish the last bit in 13 days.  Next: a job in Toronto and then the Continental Divide Trail from Canada to New Mexico.  We gave Debra a lift down to Mazama from where she intended to hitch to Everett and reconnect with trail pals. These free spirits are infectious – but, no, I am not about the tackle the PCT even in small increments.  Seven to ten miles are challenge enough for this lad.

The trail to Blue Lake
Today, a weekend finish on the short, simple Blue Lake Trail between Rainy and Washington Passes.  The huckleberries and blueberries have been hoovered up by the bears; larches turning yellow; small cutthroat hitting at flies in the lake; the rock spires calling for Taylor and Corriell to come and climb.   All is ancient and peaceful and the “real world” far away.  But which is that real world?

These magical 31 years with Ann; we are so lucky to have each other and to share our love of outdoor air, of views, of ascendant challenges.  Onward and upward to renew, recharge, rewind and to keep life in perspective.
















PS.  On the way out, we made reservations at the Freestone for MLK Jr weekend in January.  Our winter Methow-fix.

14Sept’19

Tuesday, September 3, 2019

To Jamie Dimon: Long Over-due But Still Insufficient


Jamie Dimon and The Business Roundtable recently made headlines re “shareholder value” and the “purpose” of corporations.  Long overdue, but still insufficient. 

In 1976, on becoming an officer of General Mills, I began to be invited to management retreats.  I regularly had appeared before the board and top management as part of the “venture teams” that were indulging in (runaway?) mergers and acquisitions, taking us into toys and games, specialty retailing, restaurants and fashion.  (GMI has subsequently divested itself of all of these – but that’s a different story.)  The point is that despite being a new and very junior officer I was confident and comfortable with top brass and unrestrained in speaking up.

At that time of increasing rates of inflation, how to set GMI’s annual goals was a lively issue.  Henry Porter, whom I had in a minor way helped Bo Polk recruit to General Mills, was our brilliant, hard-charging Treasurer. (It’s an interesting feeling watching someone younger attain high position before you; in my case, more bemusement rather than resentment for I acknowledged Henry’s brilliance.) Henry was a crusader for “shareholder value” as the prime measure of success and the metric of our corporate goals. “Shareholder value” is a just fancy way of saying stock price. 

I along with Bernie Loomis of Kenner and a couple of others argued, year after year, against this simplistic goal of increasing “shareholder value” because translated into action it meant focus on quarter-over-quarter gains in earnings per share at a rate higher than the inflating CPI, and catering to investment analyst lemmings.  I was a member of a squad who regularly met with industry investment analysts; my beat was the Toy and Amusement Industry gurus, who really didn’t know much more than what they were fed by me and other company spokespersons as I.

My beef with shareholder value was and is that it rewards short-term thinking and penalizes investment of energy and capital in long-term opportunity.  I always lost those debates with Henry; he was the more articulate, had more at stake than did I, and had the backing of stock-option motivated top management.  One evening at such a retreat at a flossy golf club, Bob Kinney, then President of GMI, and I were relaxing and amusing ourselves on the putting green.  I not only lost money to Bob but he gently but firmly shut me down as I reprised my concerns about focus on stock price and market esteem.  “Fletch, just put one quarter ahead of the last and everything else will take care of itself.”   Two corporate moves later, at UAL/Westin, CEO Dick Ferris won my respect when he refused to allow release of quarterly estimates to the market for the same reason of not indulging short-term focus.  His reward was the financial markets turning on him and on our creation of an integrated airline/ hotel/ rental car/ reservation travel company and helping corporate raiders -- Icahn, Trump, the Basses and finally the Coniston Partners -- to break up UAL.

Now, forty-some years later, comes Jamie Dimon and The Business Roundtable pronouncing on August 19th that shareholder value is not enough, that a corporation should adopt as its purpose “to deliver value to its customers, . . . to invest in its employees, . . . to deal fairly and ethically with its suppliers, . . . to support the communities in which it works, . . . and to generate long term value for its shareholders.”  The 181 CEOs who signed on were not motivated by my concern about short-term focus. They were more concerned about the Elizabeth Warrens and Bernie Sanders of the world who are challenging the very foundations of corporate rights and structure.  And they are right to be concerned and right to adopt these self-evident and self-servicing “purposes” (for what sensible business leader other than the con-artist-who-shall-not-be-named would expect to succeed by delivering shoddy value, screwing his employees, screwing his suppliers, and weakening his community?)

As laudable as is this statement of “stakeholder capitalism” signed off on by Tim Cook of Apple, Jeff Bezos, Jamie Dimon, Ben and Jerry, Muilenberg of Boeing and Barra of GM and their 174 compatriots -- it is insufficient.  It won’t help return long-term thinking to the forefront or encourage investment and opportunity seeking.  And the immediate push-back from the editors of The Economist and The Council of Institutional Investors demonstrates that more must change than just anodyne statements of purpose.  Corporate goals and management incentives must change. Society’s tolerance of privatization and mergers must change.

Re goals: long-term objectives, strategies, tactics and annual goals must be set for each “stakeholder” and management held accountable for performance on each one.
 
Re management incentives: managers should not be rewarded in stock.  Yes, not; pay management in cash.  The old saw about “aligning management goals with shareholder interests” is crap, a glib rationalization for management taking excess rewards.  Shareholders, most of whom are fund managers, have no loyalty to companies or to its long-term goals.  Their rewards and penalties are today’s price rises and falls and the fees they can collect. Remove management’s near-sighted dependence on stock awards and options and you will free them to look up and outward and to become better business developers and stewards of your investment.  Pay them in cash and you will steadily reduce the compensation gap between them and their employees.  Pay them in cash and you will deter stock-buybacks and encourage new investment and search for new opportunities to use capital.

Re privatizations and mergers: we need more corporations, not fewer.  In 1998 there were some 7,300 corporate equites listed on US market exchanges.  Today there are around 3,600.  Imagine that! In but two decades, at a time when low yields on bonds drive investors toward equities, your choice of what to buy has been halved. Little wonder that the bull market continues despite worries and risks ever more evident; more investors are chasing fewer things to buy.  The FTC and DOJ must change their permissive stance on mergers and acquisitions.  Privatizations must be constrained. (I have no idea how to do that but smarter guys than I, young Henry Porter types, ought to be put to work on how to reduce private equity tale-overs through tax and regulatory constraints.)  I repeat: we need more corporations, not fewer.

Corporations must change themselves or be changed.  The fault is not narrow purpose or lack of recognizing stakeholders.  The fault is management rewards and incentives and inadequate regulation of stock buy-backs, mergers, acquisitions and privatizations. Stakeholder capitalism is and always has been the foundation of a healthy, growing, equitable economy, but the way to realize it is to change management’s goals, rewards and attentions and the rules of the game they play.       






Wednesday, July 24, 2019

The Balkans: Lands of Honey & Blood


Northwest Ruminations has been silent not for lack of rumination but to edit photos and produce our latest trip book, The Balkans: Lands of Honey & Blood. (In addition to four-days, eight hours a day, learning from a Hawaiian master to carve stone pendants and weave Polynesian-style cords and lashings for them; plus fishing far off the web in northern British Columbia for a week; plus working as Pratt's board president on our retreat, reflections and re-direction.  To boot, I am drafting this en-route to and from Piedmont for grandson Peter Waller’s wonderful wedding to Mary Garner, a perfect Roo to Peter’s Eeyore. The Dr.s Mary and Peter are newly minted PhDs from Cal Berkeley.)

But about the Balkans: bal in Turkish means honey; kans, blood: an apt metaphor for these lands of the South Slavs where West has conflicted with East for 1,500 years. These verdant, beautiful lands. These fraught and violent lands. The first European war of the bloody 20thC took place here; the last European war of the 20thC took place here along with medieval massacres and cruelties. The first European war of the 21stC, God forbid? It could likely start here.

These handsome, lovely people, so hospitable and gracious to us — each of their three religions teach to welcome the stranger — but they so distrust and detest their neighbors.  Croat, Montenegrin, Albanian, Bosniak, Kosovar, Serb, Slovene, Macedonian — one's ethno-religious background labels you no matter what passport you carry, no matter how secular or religious you are. After the “Yugoslav Civil War” as Serbs call it, “The Homeland Wars” to Croats and Bosniaks, these countries now have self-segregated, becoming more and more homogeneous and rigidly jingoistic. One Dalmatian Croat living close to “our enemy”, i.e., Montenegro, growled in explanation to me “Today, neighbor; never friend.” I asked a young, educated, secular Croat “is there a Balkan Desmond Tutu; what religious leaders are working on reconciliation?” “None,” he answered, “they are all preaching superiority and separation.”

Holbrook’s West-imposed Dayton accords ended the fighting but at a price of establishing an unstable structure of shared power that emasculates governance and totally blocks economic re-development. Every former Yugoslav country has lost population since 1999 — a debilitating brain drain. Bosnia is especially ungovernable, with everyone hankering back to days of Tito.  A Sarajevo actress told us she is longing for “the right strong man” to come along and sweep all this away.  Milorad Dodik, leader of the federated Republika Srpska, a Dayton-creation, last month announced formation of an independent Srpska militia and his desire (with Putin egging him on) to secede from Bosnia and be annexed by Serbia. Last year, Oliver Ivanovo, Deputy State Minister of Kosovo, was killed in a drive-by assassination, just another in a long string — one might say “as Balkan as assassination.” The Serbian prime minister last month charged Kosovo and Albania with plotting to unite. 

Here in these former Yugoslavian countries, for all the world to see, is identity politics taken to its logical/illogical extreme with a strong undertow of violence mixed in.  Yearning, vulnerable, anxious people surrounded by rising retro-autocrats, populist nationalists like Orban of Hungary, Salvini of Italy, Hofer of Austria, Erdogan of Turkey., LePen of France: the Balkans are kindling awaiting a match.

This OAT* trip revealed to me how little I knew of this amazing, confounding history. (Churchill quipped “the Balkans produce more history than they can consume.”) Also, I have learned to revere Rebecca West; her Black Lamb, Grey Falcon (1940), the most marvelous travelogue/history/incisive commentary I have ever read, all 1200 pages of it.

Do not let me dissuade you. Go explore the Balkans. Enjoy sun in the Dalmatian islands. Wonder at Roman emperor Diocletian’s retirement Palace in Split, at the mountains of Montenegro, at the Ottoman bridge of Mostar, at the caves of Postojna and more — and learn. Learn how little we know of this 1500 year conflict zone between east and west and how it colors our times. Learn what lack of diversity can yield in paranoiac chauvinism. Learn what ancient injury can do to scar national psyche if not healed with vision and leadership and education. And learn to be a stranger on the receiving end of warm, eager and welcoming hospitality.

We on the upper wall around the old town of
Dubrovnik, Croatia
Motovun, in the Istrian region of Croatia


Hunting truffles with an Istrian
hunter and her trained sniffer-dog

Karanac (kah-RAHN-ass), Croatia: making new cheese
 for tomorrow's breakfast

In the Gulf of Kotor in Montenegro

Lake Bled, Slovenia

Early morning along the esplanade in
Ljubljana, Slovenia

Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina: the original 16thC Ottoman
bridge destroyed by Croat insurgents in the war, 1993, and
re-built in 2003-'04  

One of the many caverns in Postonja Caves.
(Note the walkway for scale.)

A "Sarajevo Rose": several hundred mortar shell
holes where at least three persons were killed during the three-year siege are memorialized
with red resin fillings. 

Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina: a display in the
Srebrenica Exhibit of mass graves created by Serb and Croat
 militias and the Yugoslav army during the Bosnian War, 1992- '95

Split: an early-morning fashion
shoot in one of the plazas of
Diocletian's retirement palace.

Split, Croatia: Mestrovic's statue of Bishop Gregory
of Nin, who performed the mass in Serbo-Croation
and was banished for his transgression --
500 years before Luther! 

Zagreb, Croatia: Cardinal Stepanic.  Saint or War Criminal?

The Austro-Hungarian skyline of old Zagreb


















































And that BC fishing trip?  An insufferably satisfied
Roger W, a fishing pal who consistently out-fishes me,
with a nice kamloops rainbow.
*OAT: Overseas Adventure Travel, of Boston. Ann and I went to Croatia on our own, then joined an OAT group in Dubrovnik. We were very pleased with their staff, their planning and also their flexibility to seize opportunities, with their attention to detail, with their local guides and opportunities to mix and dine with locals in their homes. And with our compatible and interested fellow travelers, several of whom are repeat OAT loyalists. We’d recommend OAT.