Report from Idaho

Ann and I had to get away from soggy Seattle; I was beginning to sprout moss on my north side.  Since Dec 1st, we had suffered through over 18 inches of rain and a nine-inch snowfall and couldn’t remember the name of that hazy light that appears in the southeastern sky. A long weekend of X-country skate skiing in January, in the Methow, confirmed that our creaky legs still worked, though I discovered that while the legs worked, I had only one ski boot -- what the hell!?  I searched high and low, compulsively looking in the same places time after time (expecting a different outcome, the definition of delusional?) I must have left a boot car-side when packing up in Ketchum, February of last year: had to rent.

Anyway, the rugged beauty of Ketchum called us again.  Tough year to find a condo, with everyone who normally flies off to ski Europe or Canada staying Stateside. We left Feb 22^nd in rain, not your typical Seattle sprinkle but true rain.  All the passes through the surrounding Cascades were closed for avalanche control, meaning we had to drive south on the coastal plain to Portland, then southeast through Oregon to southern Idaho. How it rained! The Columbia Gorge was moodily beautiful with waterfalls cascading down all along the river; the Blue Mountains wreathed in fog. The next day, after a night at the restoration money-pit of the Geiser Grand in Oregon Trail-Baker City, we broke into sunshine. So welcome.

The weird Elkhorn condo worked.  Over-stuffed with hand-me-down furnishings from the ‘30’s and 40’s, It felt more like a Grandmother’s home in Rye than a western, outdoor-oriented vacation refuge. We made it work by banishing to the utility room extraneous, hand-me-down tables, hassocks, embroidered cushions and the like; hiding away a horrid, life-sized, fuzzy dog; and re-arranging furniture, swapping out lights from unused guest room and so on. We made it work for reading or backgammon battles and listening to Spotify in front of a great fireplace and for super dinners Ann prepared in the fully equipped kitchen and served in the spacious dining room.  A dining room! Whoever heard of a real dining room in a holiday condo?  What made it all the more weird were incongruous, expensive, 21stC surrealist paintings on the walls overlooking the tacky furnishings, and 19thC table-top Western-themed bronzes, also expensive, scattered about.

Ketchum felt safe: near everyone was masked.  We didn’t gallery hop as we normally do, nor dine out except for apres-ski lunches at Galena, nor prowl the consignment shops where hedge fund wives drop this season’s ruck to make room for new next season. Afterwards, Ann usually took her 4 ½ mile walks around Elkhorn, luxuriating in the ever-changing light and views. We simply like being there.

Ketchum and Sun Valley Village

Ski conditions were ideal: fresh snow sprinkles on the trails, daily grooming, no wind, cloudless skies, trails uncrowded. A couple of days, when my a-fib acted up, Ann skied alone while I retreated to the car.  We snowshoed two days at Billy’s bridge – stunningly beautiful at 7,000’ along glacial moraines beneath the craggy Boulder Mtns.

At Billy's Bridge, going north to Prairie Creek

After eight days, headed north toward home and into a very different Idaho.  Ketchum is a liberal island in a sea of maskless COVID-scoffers, their beautiful countryside dotted with Trump signs. Over 8,700’ Galena Pass one enters the Salmon Valley set aside by Frank Church, Idaho’s last liberal Senator, as the River of No Return Wilderness area. We had gone this way last September and wanted to see the Sawtooths again in winter. Breathtaking beauty in both seasons. From Stanley, headed into the basalt breaks country of deep canyons, rushing streams, lava dikes, columnar basalt cliffs, and huge glacial erratics. 25mph limits in towns, population 317. Blackened slopes from last fall’s wildfires scarred the land. Saw lots of deer and elk west of Lowman along the Payette. Ann had studied up on the upthrust and eroded lava lakes through which we were passing by watching Nick on the Rocks, a delightfully entertaining lecture linked here.

Sawtooths west of Stanley
Blackened trees from last fall's fires 

North of White Bird, we climbed out of the Salmon drainage complex that separates southern from northern Idaho and up onto the deep loess farmlands of the plateau.  Here were golden stubble fields, contoured to follow the rolling land, bisected with bright bands of green winter wheat sprouts.  Stunning.  Ann with her new painterly eye was awed by the colors and shapes. All dotted with tiny towns bedecked with churches, American flags, Trump signs and empty centers.

Up along the Lewis and Clark Trail to the twin cities of Lewiston, ID/Clarkston, WA where the Clearwater meets the Snake.  We stayed overnight in the larger Lewiston. Dinner out for the first time since early last year. First choice: Zany’s, a mid-range place reputed for a wide variety of good chow.  OMG! A masked young greeter took us to a table amidst diners packed shoulder to shoulder with nary a mask in sight.  All clamoring away to be heard over the TVs; if one could have seen the aerosols carrying their little viri, it would have looked as thick as the steam pouring forth from the smelly paper and pulp mills down riverside. We fled.  

Next stop: Ernie’s Steakhouse.  Good red meat and wine, but here a capacity unmasked crowd (the waiter admitted he wore a mask everywhere else but here because the clientele would find it off-putting) were at least seated with space between booths and tables.  Emboldened by our 2^nd Moderna, we acceded and enjoyed a good meal. Our lively conversation, settling arguments about whether this was central or northern Idaho by showing each other Google maps, drinking wine and mentally replicating the NYT mini-crossword attracted another table’s attention; as she left, the young woman stopped to interrupt us and pronounce “you two are adorable!” How about that for a night-cap?

Gregarious, outdoorsy, gun-toting, welcoming, over-churched, white-supremacist, stunning, well-militiaed, clear-skied, COVID-scoffing, flag-waving, Trumpian Idaho: 

what’s not to love and to deplore all at once?

 

 

PS: as we crossed the Cascades from eastern Washington, it clouded over; as we drove onto our island, it started to rain.  Welcome home. 

Thursday, Jan 7^th, I was scheduled to speak at the Olympic Club.  I had been working on a blog essay on Political Violence and Recoveries, from which I planned to excerpt an eight-minute talk about the caning of Sen. Sumner, but after the shocking January 6^th insurrection, I shied away and sought something soothing, apolitical, something escapist. I turned to my coin collecting; over the years, my coin collections often had provided me an escape from harsh realities (just as had his stamp collection for FDR?)  I  took out a pad and began listing my recollections, from ELHEDO Lodge to Steven's birth to a courthouse in Reno to Soviet Moscow to the purchase of Ann’s business, quickly generating enough material for an entertaining half hour! The hurried eight-minute excerpt was not very satisfying. So, here in a more-than-eight-minute essay version is

Coin-heads, Coin Tales, and a Bad Penny 

When did I became a coin-head? It must have been the summer of 1943 or ’44, age eight or nine, at ELHEDO Lodge, my Grandparents’ picnic grounds on Lake Moraine in upstate New York. The older three of we seven cousins (I just made the cut) collected entrance fees of fifty cents per car. A driver handed me a Columbian Exposition commemorative half-dollar, dated 1893; I'd never seen such a coin. Grandma allowed me to keep it. 

Or perhaps it was when I got an Indian head penny in change, around 1946 or so; Mom gave me a Whitman Penny date folder and I was hooked. 

Why do we collect coins? There are coin-heads even older than I. The old Romans collected coins -- of Greece, Corinth, Lydia. Why? Because coins have value, have history, and have artistry. One can't ignore a coin. Maybe, as I, you even reflexively stoop to pick up a penny. No? Certainly a dime. 

The earliest  metallic coinage system was Lydian, around 650 BCE. Their coins were of electrum, a naturally occurring amalgam of silver and gold that was the basis of Croesus’ fabled riches. 

Ancient coins show us a societies’ values, what gods or rulers mattered to them, even what their rulers looked like. We would not know how ugly Leopold of Hapsburg was were it not for the need for his coins to have authenticity if Austrians and their trading partners were to trust the coinage. Leopold’s portrait painters flattered him  and minimized his “hogmouth.” But not his coin designers. 

Pedestrian, cluttered coin designs are the norm, but there are beautiful coins, too. Among universally admired are the Greek Tetradrachms. Here is Athena, (about 440BCE) Goddess of strategy and wisdom, she in her war helmet as guardian of Athens and in her manifestation as the Owl of Wisdom. As such, she even made it into Winnie the Pooh.

I admire even more this Carthaginian Drachma (330BCE) featuring their goddess of the seas, Tanit, surrounded by her dolphins, wearing pearls, her hair more like seaweed than curly locks. The reverse features the Arabian stallion on which the Carthaginians conquered  northern Africa.

Favorite American coin? Most people choose the $20 gold piece sculpted by St. Gaudens.  But I prefer the more elegant Buffalo Nickels (1913- '38) designed by James Earl Fraser. The nickel unintentionally but cynically “honors” a culture we tried so hard to exterminate while stealing their lands and driving the buffalo to near extinction. It is undeniably beautiful, preaching simply Liberty and E Pluribus Unum (further cynicism?) without the sanctimonious In God We Trust.

So I am a coin-head. In high school, I did a semester-long research project on the founding of the US mint. Paper currency was distrusted and coins were scarce; we used the Spanish “dollar”, the 8-Reales, as legal tender (and still legal tender as late as 1858.) People literally split it into eight “bits” for small change (hence our “2 bits” or 25₵.) Issuing our own coins was essential to our commerce and esteem among nations. Both Jefferson and Hamilton gave it top priority; Washington promised action in his first State of the Union report to Congress in 1790; informally he promised that US coinage would be underway by the end of his first term, fall of 1792. In April of ’92 the Coinage Act was passed. The mint building was competed and equipment installed, but what about the copper or silver? A $10,000 bond was required to get underway and Congress was dragging its feet on appropriation to buy sheet copper. Hamilton, Jefferson and the President wanted something more impressive than just copper cents and half cents. A coin of silver! It would not only impress but also produce a profit: seigniorage it’s called, the difference between the cost of making a coin and its face value, and seigniorage is kept by the mint. (Yes, mints make money making money; the US mint generated a $318mm profit in 2019.)

It’s probably an apocryphal story, but a charming one: Martha and George sent over to the mint one of the many silver tea sets admirers had showered on them.  The silver melted down and minted gave Washington silver half-dismes (pronounced deems) to show, the first coinage of the USA. Newly minted half-dismes were handed out personally by Jefferson to his Republican admirers, by Hamilton to his Federalists, and by President Washington to friends and Senators; the bulk were released into circulation. So if a collector has one, as I did – read on – he may have had a coin that once lay in the palm of one of those three seminal Americans.  A mint condition 1792 Half-disme once owned by first Dir. of the Mint, David Rittenhouse, sold at auction in 2018 for $1,985,000.  Not bad for a 5₵ piece.

What determines collector coin value? Demand, i.e., how many collectors lust after it; rarity, i.e., how many were minted and how many survive; and condition, i.e., is it badly mangled, just worn away, nearly new, or bright as a penny just out of the mint? The price difference between a worn, circulated example and one in mint-condition can be tenfold.         

There are any number of ways a collection can be organized; most common for kids are date and mint sets of a particular design, like my Lincoln Head pennies. My 1909 – 1960 Lincoln date and mint set was complete, in part by having spent one whole Saturday with a friend, son of the President of a small, Maryland bank, going through sacks and sacks of pennies, every penny in that bank. We found several we needed and upgraded worn examples we had, thrilled when we discovered a penny worth $2 or $3 or so. I sold that Lincoln set in 1961 to help pay for birth of our second child, Steve.  It brought $360; it would sell today for about $2,700.

A second sort of collection, the Type Set, contains one example of each design of coin. I set out to build a type set of US copper, silver and base metal coins (no gold.) Before 1999, when the mint went wild honoring states and national parks on the reverses of quarters, new ones every three months, a complete type set would be around 80 coins depending how one defines a distinct type. By the late 1980s, I had acquired 71 of them, including #1, my prize, an extremely fine example of that 1792 Half-disme.  I didn’t complete the set because it would have taken more than $240,000 to do so back then (I had three kids, a large mortgage and college expenses coming; later, divorce intervened.)   

This is the mint-perfect Rittenhouse specimen that sold for near $2mm two years ago. Its hurried design was derided: Ms. Liberty looks a fright and the eagle more like a chicken.  But note its serious motto.  LIB. PAR. OF SCIENCE & INDUSTRY: liberty, parent of science and industry. These were the values our secular, founding-father-Humanists held dear.  

My example, far less valuable of course, still accounted for more than 50% of the proceeds when in 2000 I sold the collection to help Ann buy a retiring Dean Witter broker's business. 

On the other side of the counter: I ventured into serious collecting under the tutelage of two remarkable numismatists, David Bowers and James Ruddy. In 1972, as Director of the US side of General Mills' Craft, Game & Toy Div., I explored and then engineered the extension of our hobby interests into collectables. The coin and stamp businesses were predominately single-proprietorships, former hobbyists who found they could make a living buying and selling. Among the few exceptions we found a mass market stamp, album and accessories firm and a unique coin dealership, Bowers and Ruddy Galleries.  Dave Bowers and Jim Ruddy had become industry leaders by developing widely-adopted standards of grading, creating a high-speed process for accurately photographing and enlarging illustrations of coins, publishing high-quality, quarterly mail order catalogs that were almost textbooks on numismatics, and by earning an impeccable reputation for integrity. 

The Redfield Hoard: In 1974, rumors swirled through the gossipy coin dealer world that a hoard of rare silver dollars had come to light, sort of, and that a sharp Hollywood dealer had connived to get a hold on the secret hoard. In Reno, a local eccentric, LaVere Redfield, had died. Belying his looks -- unshaven, always in jeans and old flannel shirts, always driving a beat up Chevy truck -- he was a shrewd real estate investor in Nevada farm land and a high-roller at the local casinos. Redfield distrusted both government (he had served time for tax evasion in the '50s) and banks. He converted his real estate profits into silver dollars, common currency in Reno because of the casinos, and took his gambling winnings in silver dollars. Bank bags of silver dollars held 1,000 and weighed over 60 pounds.  Redfield  would truck them home and slide them down a coal chute into a coal bin which he walled off inside the basement.  When his heirs broke into the old coal bin they found over 400 bags of silver dollars with instructions: don't tell the IRS about these coins! In all, of the 407,600 silver dollars, more than half were alleged to be uncirculated.

The dealer, Steve Markoff, had convinced the probate court that the hoard would break the market if it were known what numbers, dates, mint marks and condition it held. He petitioned the court to allow the estate to make a private deal under a provision of Nevada law that allowed quick sale of an estate's perishable commodity, like a load of tomatoes or something, avoiding probate delays. Markoff had apparently struck a deal with the estate at around $3mm, grossly undervaluing the hoard. Other dealers protested and the court ordered that an auction be held. But the court played Solomon and cut the baby in half: bidders were told how many coins and of what designs were in the hoard, but not what dates, mints, and conditions. Would-be purchasers, except fpr Markoff, would be bidding nearly blind. 

From the sheer volume and what the trade knew of Markoff's search for capital, they surmised that to bid would take more capital than these sole proprietors could muster; they turned to Bowers and Ruddy because they assumed, correctly, that we had access to the deep pockets of General Mills.  After much hemming and hawing, for coin hoards were certainly different from gunning Cheerios, I wangled authorization for up to $7mm to be gambled on purchasing the hoard. An armed bank dick accompanied the certified check, and me, to the Reno court house.  Only Markoff and we; the bidding rose to $7mm; I went to $7.2; Markoff got it for $7.3mm.  He parceled it out over the next two years through a number of sub-dealers, not including us, of course.  In the meantime, Jim and David were framed as pirates, GMI as an interloper to the tight little clique of coin dealer entrepreneurs. We estimate that over two years the hoard generated more than $13mm in sales, setting up Markoff with a capital nut to eventually enter the film world and become a would-be mover shaker in Hollywood. Jim took his fall from grace particularly hard; for David, the numismatic scholar, it was a bruise soon healed. For me, General Mills soon offed me into a new role. 

The bad penny turns up again: two years later, Markoff  had the chutzpah to sue Jim, David, General Mills and me for $10mm for business interference!  Imagine: we had increased the value of the estate to its heirs (and to the Nevada IRS) by some $4mm! We should have been lauded, not sued.  Anyway, the case was thrown out of court, but only after nasty depositions about who had leaked Markoff''s insider deal.

I was looking forward to the 1980 Moscow Summer Olympic Games especially since Wheaties always featured an American gold medalist. But little did I know what I was in for. In January of '77, David called.  He had received an invitation, almost a summons, to appear two weeks hence in Moscow at the Vneshtorgbank, the Soviet Bank of Foreign Commerce, to present proposals for marketing and distributing in the West the commemorative Russian Olympic coins. Commemorative Coins are a big deal to Olympic organizers, a major source of incremental earnings. And Moscow needed earnings. What should we do asked David; who should I talk to? I huddled with my old mates and we decided that David, a GMI lawyer (another David), and I, since I knew more about coin collecting and marketing than most in Minneapolis and had gotten GMI into this strange coin dealer world, should head off to Moscow and see what was up.  After a scramble in Washington to get visas, after long flights, I found myself walking at midnight in Red Square in a light, February snow fall.  Magical: could Eleanor Waller ever have imagined her son could be here? 

The next day we presented ourselves and closeted with three officials, one the young program manager who spoke good English, the second his boss who had some English, and the third an associate who neither spoke nor understood English and who sat silently at a desk in the corner. It became evident that they were not interested in our advice; the coin denominations and metals were set, the prices were set, the sales goals by country were set.  The only things they wanted to know was how much we'd pay for the contract and what quantities of sets should be packed in each shipping crate -- 24, 36, 48 or what? We went to lunch. Neither David drank so I said I'd handle the toasts and they'd stay sober for the afternoon.  The vodka appeared, the toast proposed, and I manfully tossed off my tumbler of vodka; then became aware that the ten officials hosting us had taken but tiny sips of their glasses. Ah, so. I did not get too soused for the afternoon discussion in which we asked lots of questions about production, packaging, design and so on.  Back at the hotel and over dinner that evening we agreed that this was not for us.  But having come this far and feeling responsible to the hobby and to Soviet/US relations, we decided to give them our best advice. We worked until 3am on our presentation of what we thought a Russian Olympic Commemorative Coin program should be.

The next morning, I explained that we felt we were not the right partner, but we would give them our best assessment of  the market and our best advice.  They politely listened.  We started with product: their plan was to make the largest value coin, the lead item, out of platinum.  David advised against it.  Platinum coins are grayish and collectors less interested in them, preferring gold and silver.  We also suggested a different make-up of sets. The program manager became agitated; his boss seemed to enjoy his discomfort. Next we turned to sales goals, which we felt were way overly ambitious in light of their intention to limit sales and distribution to foreign markets and to deprive Soviet citizens the right to buy the commemorative sets. The program manager protested that North American markets had been very strong for coins of the '76 Montreal games. I responded by pointing out the strength of Canadian sales, i.e., the home market. The Treasury in Ottawa had just released their final report on the Montreal coin program, a report replete with data on sets and individual sales, sales by market, and so on. I reached into my brief case and withdrew the report while asking had they yet seen the report.  Yes, yes the increasingly agitated program manager answered. I'd be happy to leave this with you I said; no, no -- we have it said the program manager, whose brow shone with perspiration.  I started to put it away when the silent third man wheeled his desk chair into the middle of the room, stretched out his hand, and said "I'd like to have that report, please." 

The meeting ended soon after and we took our leave, wondering what damage we had done to the career of that earnest though wishful program manager. The Davids headed home. I took advantage of being in Russia and arranged for a long weekend in Leningrad. That, too, delivered a set of memorable  adventures -- but for another time. My souvenir sample Olympic coin our bank hosts gave each of us was confiscated by Russian Immigration when the night train to Helsinki stopped at the Finnish border.  The officer duly gave me a receipt -- in Russian of course. (Night Train to Helsinki-- that might make a good title for another post about wandering alone one February in Leningrad.) 

The point is . . .

. . . these adventures came my way because I had been a coin-head since childhood and probably always will be -- at least until I get hit by a bus someday, bending over in the street to pick up a penny.

  .   

     

Preferred Pronouns

 Donald J. Trump

Preferred Pronouns: Me, Mine!

Decency

The two candidates have been compared in many ways but values and personality have taken precedence over policy.  The word "decent" has been bandied about.  Decency is a personal quality, albeit somewhat intangible.  Decency can also characterize policies and be very tangible.  Here are my suggestions:

My Vote

Without disclosing names, here's a recent e-mail response to some dear friends.  Ann suggested I share it with you all.  

I’ve been mulling over our short conversation the other night.  I know you’re steadfast in your intentions – you made clear your belief that xxxxxxx jobs are back (despite yyyyyy’s layoffs in December) and that you share his “values”. It would be disrespectful and condescending to argue your points of view. 

Instead, let me tell you why I will vote the other way.  The Democratic Platform holds promise of job growth in both numbers and quality through infrastructure and renewable energy projects, paid for by increasing upper bracket and corporate tax rates; of re-negotiation of Pacific Partnership trade agreements; of incentives for domestic investment and employment; and of expansion of access to health insurance and early education.  The Economist editors, inherently conservative, endorsed Biden’s economic plans this week though they wish him to be even more aggressive. 

The second reason for my vote is the Democrat’s recognition that our existential problems are trans-national and must be addressed with multi-national collaborations; I’m talking about nuclear arms control, climate change, and economically/environmentally-driven migration. 

The third reason is your word “values.”  As it happens, a few months ago I reflected on and wrote down what qualities I value. I posted the list above my desk alongside my mission statement.  The values list reads:

• Truth

• Freedom

• Accountability

• Empathy

• Compassion

• Community

• Equity

• Justice

• Action (when called for)

• Acceptance (when called for)

        (And I should go back and add "the wisdom to know the difference")

I will be voting for the candidate I feel best exemplifies these values. No disrespect for your intentions, just a different intention for me.  Love,

Fletch

Reflections on the DEI Education of an Old, White Guy

 

I am the son of Fletch Waller, Senior, who, as an eleven year old, watched the Klan burn a cross on his front yard in protest of and to intimidate my Grandad who, as YMCA Secretary and Chair of the Akron, Ohio School Board, championed the Americanization and education of immigrants, whether white or black, whether Protestant, Catholic or Jew.  Ever after, the only thing of which my father was intolerant was intolerance.  He oversaw desegregation of War Dept contractors and after the war, AEC contractors. I, Fletch II, grew up believing I obviously was tolerant, was not prejudiced against anybody, was certainly not a racist. Diversity, equity, inclusion – these are all good things, aren’t they? I went to college blithely unconcerned about discrimination that was there if one troubled to look.  I chose to live siloed in a Greek house with people like me, people with what Isabel Wilkerson has called “the visible assumption of centrality.” 

I got a book education; I needed a life education.

The first step on the ladder was when my in-laws told me my visiting Jewish friends from grad school could not join us to dine at Atlanta’s Capital City Club; what was I to do when their daughter, my wife, demanded we go? I went -- and have ever after regretted it and feel shamed when I think of David and Charlotte. Soon after came basic training, the first time I had lived with, worked with, and worked under direction of Blacks and Latinos. Our infantry company had a rich mix of Southies from Boston, Puerto Ricans, African-Americans from Newark and north Jersey, and east coast and mid-Atlantic whites; I was one of two college grads and the only one with a post-grad degree. (The army assigned me an auto mechanic MOS; so much for grad school.) For the first time, I was seeing suppressed prejudice between blacks, browns and whites. I got on OK with all, officers and em’s; of course I got on well: I was unprejudiced, educated, of  leadership quality, fully deserving – wasn’t I?

That bubble of superiority sprang a leak when, at age 29, I served as chairman of the jury on a nasty gang-rape case, in Minneapolis.  I found myself surprised and impressed by the diligence and good judgment of my fellow middle- and lower-class jurors who worked long hours to be thorough and responsible. My surprise made me recognize my unconscious assumption that the judgment and insight of ordinary folk were to be doubted.  Recognition that maybe I wasn’t so special after all: education step number two.      

Into the ‘60s: feminism and black civil rights.  Outspoken women making logical arguments.  Live TV coverage of non-violent, lunch-counter sit-ins; of Freedom Rides and burned busses; of bus boycotts and voter-registration drives (led by my college classmate Bob Moses, field director for SNCC); of the murder of Schwerner, Chaney, and Goodman; of the March on Washington, my still segregated hometown, and MLK on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial; Malcom X and Mohammed Ali giving up his crown and becoming a hero to me. Then '68: worst year in America since 1860. MLK, Wallace, RFK, the Chicago convention at which Bob Moses led the Mississippi Freedom Delegation and state-sponsored violence was unleashed. Should I not be doing something? What? How? Ill wife, three kids, mortgage: what was the responsibility of an anguished, supposed liberal? 

The '70s, back to Minneapolis.  General Mills adopted affirmative action.  Every department had to set numerical goals for blacks and women which were tallied alongside all the other objectives to determine one’s performance-based bonus.  My units were in pretty good shape except for the distribution center, 90% women but no Blacks, and the Betty Crocker Kitchens, all women, some blacks, no men.  We set goals in each of my departments.  VP Mercedes Bates claimed there were no male home economists to recruit to the Betty Crocker Kitchens but did hire a male steward who turned out to be flamingly gay, much to the delight of the girls in the kitchens and to the sophomoric amusement of my fellow execs. The first challenge to my aversion to homosexuals. Several departments met our goals, finding perfectly capable Blacks and women in market research, advertising, promotion, packaging, etc.; even a male nutritionist for that previously all-female dept.  The one exception was the BC Coupon and distribution center. When at year-end I dinged the director’s bonus half a percentage point (of salary) he left my office in a huff, hollering “why didn’t you tell me you were serious? Next year that center is going to look like a watermelon patch.”  I had to haul him back onto the carpet for that one.

In the meantime, our Medial Director asked if he could transfer me to the care of a woman physician he had hired. Sure. After my first exam with her, I proudly proclaimed to my wife that I had been to a woman doctor.  “Big fucking deal” she told me, maybe the first time I had heard her use the word, “I’ve been poked and prodded all my life by doctors of the opposite sex!”  Another unconscious attitude unceremoniously exposed and punctured.

I moved on, to Marriott. I had lots and lots of saleswomen; of a hundred directors of marketing, the females I could count on one hand; no women regional marketing directors; no black marketers at all. Marriott at that time, the early ‘80s, had but one Black and one woman GM but Bill Marriott was determined on change and was supportive of my efforts in marketing, reservations and sales.  We made considerable progress in four short years, particularly with women, less so with people of color, but leaving much still to be done. When I briefed Bill and Fred Malek, head of the hotel division, on my new marketing and reservations organization, I named my director for travel industry.  “Isn’t he” – former Green Beret Fred hesitated – “ah – uh -- a bit effeminate?” “Well” I replied, “he’s gay of course but I don’t find him effeminate”: gasps. To Bill’s credit, he soon would not go to a travel show or event without Ed by his side. Not sure Fred ever got comfortable – with Ed or with me.

Soon after joining Marriott, I got a call from a key woman on our team, our event manager – hotel openings, trade shows and so on, a vital part of the business.  She wanted me to deal with my VP for the insurance market, a pro-football hall of famer, who was hitting on her at many of these openings and events.  My predecessor had chosen to not deal with the issue; she was angry and testing the new boy. Our in-house football hero was a favorite of Bill’s, getting his family down onto the Redskin sidelines every home game, and so on. He emceed every hotel opening event. What was I to do?  Should I blow the whistle on him to HR? To Bill? I was brand new. I chickened out. I confronted the VP, who thought it was funny – he knew he was untouchable.  The events manager continued to do good work for us but had lost respect for me. But he did stop hitting on her.  Others? Never caught him at it. 

At Westin, history repeated: my VP Sales was hitting on his saleswomen, repeatedly. On his first offense after a warning, I moved to fire him but the Chairman would not let me; he and the VP’s father were vacation cabin buddies.  But I made it clear to all that I would no longer tolerate prejudicial, discriminatory, or harassment behavior and it pretty well stuck. 

 The hotel industry, I came to know, was and still is rife with sexual harassers and male chauvinists: too many attractive young men and women, too many available bedrooms, too easy access to booze and receptions. I fired second offender sexual harassers but put up with and worked around anti-gay and racist attitudes so long as they did not affect performance. But what of team? And what did I owe victims? I had climbed some of the rungs of the diversity, equity and inclusion ladder, but what about that “visible expectation of centrality” and what had I learned about the inner lives of Blacks and gays and working women? About how they saw working for Fletch.   

After retirement, as President of Horizon House, a Seattle retirement community, I encountered how difficult is inclusion, to get Blacks and Asians to consider communal living in predominately white community.  As a rowing coach I encountered the reality of impediments that kept black kids from coming and learning to row. As Trustee and later President of Pratt, Seattle’s leading art school, I was confronted full-on by a Black activist with a personal rather than an organizational agenda. He had once proclaimed me an ally but as soon as I was presiding, he became a disruptive challenger. Through that painful episode, I learned to what extent victimhood can be used for personal ends and that sometimes it takes being tough to keep the train on its tracks.  

In seven years of DEI effort at Pratt, in classes for all employees under guidance of expert consultants, in working with Trustees and employees on our Race Equity committee, I’ve come to realize that, as my classmate Professor Al Prettyman puts it, America doesn’t have a Black problem, America has a White problem. Al says, “colored people know all about white people; only those whites that seek to know, know anything about colored people.”

It took the murder of George Floyd to give me a peek into those unknown inner lives.  The anguish and trauma our Black associates felt, their passion, so evident, their brown associates’ empathy so genuine, it gave me a glimpse. The assumption of centrality crumbled as I realized that I was the “other, the stranger” seeking to be included and welcomed.

So, the education of an old white guy must continue.  How do we teach people to value and to seek diversity?  How do we teach people to act in spite of recognizing otherness, a person not of my family or clan or tribe?

To paraphrase Winston Churchill: so much to learn, so little time.

Out and About #3

Monday, I was promoted to Past-President of Pratt. To celebrate, yesterday Ann and I got out of the house for the third time since end of February and headed to Mt Rainier.  Perfect day-- mid-60's, bright sun, gentle breeze.  It was a bit of a test for me to see how well I could still hike what with long lay-off and a hernia awaiting surgery in October.  We chose one of our favorite (and easier) hikes: Sheep Lake and Sourdough Gap.  Trailhead is above Chinook Pass on the Northeast corner of the National Park. 

Sheep Lake

That's how I usually see my younger hiking partner, eating her dust in anti-social distancing. 

We paused for a breather, though it's pretty flat to here.

From Sheep, a mile up to Sourdough Gap, a 15% grade.  That's Mt Adams on the horizon, Sheep Lake below. About half-way up.

Sourdough Gap is @ 6,414'; trailhead a bit over 5,300'.

On the Gap, Ann wanted me to stop, but we went on for one can't see Rainier from here and I wanted again to get out to one of our favorite lunch spots in the Park.  Haven't done this hike in five years or so.

Through the Gap and down into a scree field and junction with Pacific Crest Trail.

Then through a saddle and down into the National Park and my old friend; looking a bit scruffy with lots of dust accumulating on her flanks, awaiting a new coat of snow.

Made it!  Mother hen-ing Ann proud of her old rooster.   (And made it down, too.)