If you read Dave in the Shack by getting this email, you’ve not heard from me since September. Here’s what is going on. I have a new gig. I’ve been writing for the local paper in a program called the Write Team. My article appears every two weeks and is read by people in the Illinois Valley in their local Shaw Media publications; The News Tribune in LaSalle-Peru and the Times of Ottawa and Streator. It has brought me new readers, and I post pictures of their articles on my FaceBook page (to get around Shaw Media’s paywall) but I’ve neglected to post them in Dave in the Shack and distribute them through my email list.
You may already have read these articles. But I slowly realized my error for email-only
folks. I’m trying to correct that today.
One note about these articles is that I am limited by the
newspaper to 550 words (or so) per piece.
That’s been a real challenge. My
blog posts may average nearly 2,000 words, and for years I have written
whatever has popped into my mind. The
paper’s requirements have forced me to choose my words much more
carefully. Oh, and no pictures.
My journalism friends say that less is more, but I’m not
sure I agree. However, it may be good
for me. I think about us as readers and what
is trending these days. Do we read just
as much but in smaller bites? My kids
urge me to shorten my blog pieces. My
daughter would like to listen to my stuff on a podcast while she works. I’m game to try new formats. But a podcast? I have to think about that.
Today I’ve picked some of the short pieces from the newspaper. See what you think. If you want to comment, just reply to this
email and it comes straight to my inbox.
Try these.
Working the Mid-Term Election (sneak preview. Scheduled to be published November 22.)
I arrived at the polls at 5:30 a.m. with snacks, a thermos
of coffee, the Tribune, and my kindle reader which I never found time to
read.
The polls open at 6:00.
We were set up the day before, a row of tables for each precinct,
polling booths against the wall, tabulator stand in place-but there was more to
do. That morning we hooked up the
closed-circuit Wi-Fi, installed and plugged in the tabulator (simply an optical
scanner over a locked steel box), connected the tablet computer to the label
printer and we were ready to go. We ran
the zero tapes from the tabulator and signed them, signed various other forms,
took the oath, and before we knew it the polls were open.
We had five people waiting to vote before 6:00. It stayed like that most of the day. Unusual for a mid-term. Usually, it takes the draw of a presidential
race, like 2020, to bring out the number of voters we saw in 2022. It was hard to eat lunch, tenderloins cooked
and delivered from Ottawa’s American Legion, because of the crush of voters.
We had four election judges at our precinct, as did the
other precinct that shared our voting site.
I was glad to see that. It was
slim during the pandemic. Judges are
balanced as to party affiliation, and no judge has more power than another in
making decisions. Keeping order, confirming the identity of people requesting
ballots, determining they are registered to vote in the precinct, and matching
the number of ballots with the number of persons voting at the end of the day
are the duties of election judges.
We had few if any problems during a very busy election. When questions arose, we agreed on the
answers as a group. People who had to
cast provisional ballots, produce previously mailed ballots to be spoiled
before voting in the booth, or who registered on-site before voting all accepted
our decisions calmly. Our training
prepared us to make those calls. We have
good written manuals for reference, and the county clerk’s office is available
to help if needed. Improved technology,
especially tablet computers, has helped us very much.
I became an election judge after I retired in 2013 and have
worked at every election since. I marvel
at accusations of voting fraud in America. From my experience, the system works
because it is so localized. I work in
the precinct in which I live. I know
many of the voters and am familiar with their addresses because they are my
neighbors. I know my fellow election
judges as well. The checks and balances
are baked in.
I don’t doubt for a second the accuracy and validity of the
vote totals for my precinct. I was there
from start to finish. I held the ballots
in my hands and counted them with my fellow judges after the polls closed. The number of ballots scanned by the
tabulator and the number of ballots we counted as a group matched. I signed the
tapes detailing votes per candidate because I knew they were accurate.
Voter participation was the clear winner in this mid-term
election. It’s the most encouraging
trend yet. We truly have free and fair
elections. Be glad. Accept the outcomes. They’re real.
How Do You Like Your Eggs?
I cook breakfast with Steve Malinsky and Nelson Nussbaum at
the Ottawa PADS shelter once a month.
It’s not your normal operation.
At restaurants like the Hi-Way and the New Chalet, short-order cooks
come and go, but the patrons return to their favorite table for years. Decades if they’re old-timers in town. But at PADS the cooks stay the same, at least for
our breakfast, while the clientele constantly changes.
The three of us volunteered at PADS before it had a kitchen. When it started in the ’90s there were actual
pads-portable mattresses that moved from location to location each night of the
week. You had to be an organized homeless person to keep track of where to
sleep each night. PADS has come a long
way.
Our church, Open Table, provides a monthly dinner Sunday
evening and breakfast Monday morning.
The dinner volunteers tell us how many are at the shelter and what food
is available. They look for eggs and
orange juice, cheese, sliced bread, potatoes and onions, and breakfast
meat. The breakfast crew arrives at about
6:00 a.m. with whatever is missing.
Sometimes we get help.
Gary Reardon asked last month if he could supply us with eggs.
“How does 48 sound?”
“60 would be better,” I said.
Monday morning there were two flats of 30 eggs in the fridge
with my name on them.
I brought a gallon of orange juice and a loaf of bread. Steve brought onions and Nelson brought
sausage. He’s partial to breakfast links, maple-flavored. They’re a hit, and
easy to cook. The shelter had potatoes.
We serve two eggs to order with toast, fried potatoes and
onions, and sausage. Not everyone eats
eggs or breakfast for that matter. We
always put out cold cereal and milk, donuts if they’re around, but eggs to
order are not usually on the menu.
It surprises the residents when Steve asks, “How do you like
your eggs?”
“What? However you
got them” is a common response.
“No. We make them the
way you want.”
Sometimes they’re puzzled.
“Scrambled I guess.”
“You sure? We can
make eggs sunny side up, over easy, over hard, poached, cheese omelet.”
If you’re going to scramble eggs you can just as easily let
them set up and fold them over some cheese.
Some don’t understand the terms for egg choices. Scrambled has become the default egg order of
America. “Not runny” is trending.
We serve them quickly.
Eggs from the stove, sausage from one crock pot, potatoes from another,
and toast served hot and buttered.
Last time I found some strawberries in the fridge, stemmed
and halved them, and put them in a bowl.
“Let’s give them some fruit,” I said. “It’ll look good on the plate.”
A woman who ordered sunny side up and one scrambled for her
baby came back with the toddler in her arms.
The baby’s face, next to hers, was smeared with red and smiling.
“Thanks so much for breakfast. Can I have more strawberries? They were a
first for my daughter. She loved them.”
After the rush, as we cleaned up, I messaged Gary.
“28 breakfasts, 55 eggs.
Thanks.”
PADS residents really appreciate a hot breakfast while
temporarily sheltered. But what they
need, desperately, are homes.
Thanking Milt Snow
Recently I was able to thank a former English teacher for
helping me develop as a person. That’s
not always possible. Take Milt Snow for
example. While swimming laps I see his
name on a plaque when I take a break at the North end of the pool.
Milt was a major donor to Ottawa YMCA’s swimming pool, built
in 1956 along with the rest of the current YMCA building. If Milt was mature and successful, as most
major donors to community projects are, and was say 50 years old at the time,
he would be 116 this year. Not likely
alive. I could only imagine expressing
my personal thanks to Milt Snow. So, I
did.
Conversations like these are best done at a cozy diner. There we are, Milt and I, at the Hi Way
restaurant.
“You must be Milt Snow,” I say to the gentleman sitting
alone in a booth. I slide in across from
him, introduce myself, and shake his hand.
“I could have sworn I was on time.”
“You are. I came
early. What can I do for you, Mr.
McClure?”
“Call me Dave. I want
to thank you for giving money to the YMCA to build their swimming pool. It’s done a lot of good and brought a lot of
joy to people in the Ottawa area.”
“Oh, for gosh sake.
No need to thank me. I wasn’t the
only one you know.”
“I don’t imagine so, but you’re the only one with their name
on the wall.”
“Oh, that plaque. I
was going to donate anonymously, but my family thought I should get some
credit. They supported my idea, so I
agreed to let them make my name public.”
“I’m on the Y board now.
We’re breaking ground for a new YMCA building this week. There will be a whole bunch of new donors to
thank, but we don’t want to forget about the old ones.”
“Do you swim Dave?”
“Gosh yes. I had a
skiing accident when I was young that prevents me from running or walking for
exercise. Swimming laps gives me a good
workout and doesn’t stress my joints.
I’ve been swimming laps in that pool since 1978.”
“Never thought of that.”
“How did your gift come about Mr. Snow?”
“A Y board member asked if I would help. I had the money, and I knew it would do some
good. Heck, when I was a kid, we swam in the river. Every so often someone would drown. Besides the Pirate Puddle at OHS, Ottawa
didn’t have a public indoor pool. I’ve
always been glad I did it.”
“So am I Milt.
Besides swimming laps, I’d give my wife a break and take my kids to
family swim one night a week then stop for dessert at Oogies. Those were great times. These days the Y gives free swim lessons to
grade school kids in the area. The
Ottawa Dolphin Swim Team has developed hundreds of kids into great
swimmers. Seniors use it for water
exercise classes. It’s a busy
place. It’s helped so many people in
these last 66 years. Thanks again Milt,
on behalf of everybody that’s benefitted.”
“You’re welcome.”
Naming rights for the new twenty-five-yard eight-lane pool
scheduled to be built are still available.
JUNE LOVES CHEESE
The words are coming fast to my granddaughter June at twenty
months of age. Who knows how it
happens? Hearing the sound of a word
over and over, finally connecting a word to a thing in the world, learning to
move your mouth to make the sound you hear?
I’m sure there is tons of research.
But I prefer to simply listen to June talk.
This weekend her parents are away from her for the first
time. Her grandmother and I are trying
to fill in as best we can. I won’t say
it’s been easy. The morning she woke to
find her mother and father gone was a tough one, but we all made it through. I tried to console her with food, usually a
go to distraction, with little success at first. She ignored a recent go to, peanut butter on
toast, and wanted little to do with scrambled eggs. Finally, June took matters into her own
hands.
“Cheese?” she was
pointing to the refrigerator.
She said the word perfectly, the consonant blend in the beginning,
the drawn out Z sound at the end, a big double E in the middle.
“Cheese? You want
cheese June?”
“Cheese.” She said, not as a question this time but an
affirmation. A polite request.
As I opened the fridge, found a block of Monterey Jack, and
took out my pocketknife to give her a slice, I was newly grateful for language
and simple communication.
June reached toward the white slab of food as I offered it
and popped it into her mouth.
She smiled broadly.
“Cheese.”
She said it as she chewed, savoring the flavor linked with
this new word she mastered. Another word
under her belt. June knew what cheese
was, how it tasted, and more importantly, how to ask for it.
It was her first smile of the morning. I was so relieved.
“Yeah. Cheese.”
I smiled back as I had a slice myself.
“Want more?”
June nodded, still smiling.
“Cheese.”
This went on and on.
June and I both ate too much cheese.
She forgot about missing her Mom, at least for a short time, and I was
glad to see her happy. Would I have
given her anything she asked for?
Probably. But she simply asked
for cheese.
I coaxed her into adding reheated eggs to her breakfast and
the day was off to a good start. We
followed it up with book reading until her grandma came on the scene and
relieved me.
Things change so fast.
Now June is bringing us favorite books, handing them to us, turning
around so we can lift her onto our laps, and paying attention from start to
finish. She points out favorite things
on the pages, sometimes small details. A
frog. A butterfly.
June anticipates and says words. B is for Baby is a favorite book, a simple
list of words that start with B. Her
favorite page? B is for BANANA! I’m afraid this fix on food runs in the
family.
Where I’m From
Written in response to a prompt at an Ottawa writers’
group:
I’m from upstairs at our farmhouse where my older brothers
knew all the stories and I just listened.
A gun cabinet, made by my brother Denny in high school wood
shop, with standing racks inside and doors that fit tight, stood in an old room
with nursery-themed wallpaper. In it
were the pump shotguns, a bolt action .410, a .22 rifle, and old guns that no
longer fired. Tucked away in built-in
drawers were treasures nearly forgotten. One was a brown glass bottle filled
with seawater and sealed with a rubber stopper.
My brother Darwin held the bottle carefully, took out the
stopper, and held it under my nose.
“It’s all the way from the Gulf of Mexico brought back by
Uncle Eldon who was too sickly to farm.”
The exotic smell of seawater filled my head. A present no doubt to all of us who had never
left Illinois, tethered as we were to Jersey cows who had to be milked twice a
day rain or shine. That included me, who
until age twelve had never been farther from home than Springfield.
I’m from that spot on the wood plank fence where two six-penny nails stuck halfway out at the same height.
Dad taught me to pop the nail heads through the rabbit’s
skin, between a leg bone and tendon and dress them out. The nails were spaced apart to fit the hind
legs of freshly shot cotton tail rabbits, hanging downwards, splayed apart,
their exposed bellies white and fluffy.
After cutting a circle around each leg, and connecting the circles with
a cut in between, you could loosen the skin at the edges of the cut until you
had enough to grab onto. When you pulled
down with both hands the skin peeled away from the meat making a sheath like a
fur-lined mitten.
Our mom cooked the game.
She fried the rabbits slowly in a covered pan with onions and roasted
the pheasants and quail in the oven. She
told us the quail were a waste of time, not enough meat to bother with. We didn’t bring her many. They flew fast and were small, hard to
hit. More times than not they flew away
unharmed.
The pump shotguns were .12 gauge and held just three
shells. A wooden plug, required by
Illinois gaming law then, prevented loading more.
“Why just three shells, Dad?”
“Well, you gotta remember David that hunting is a
sport. We want to give the birds a
chance, don’t we? I mean if we can’t hit
a bird in flight with three shots, we don’t deserve to have them.”
We hunted together for pheasants, spread out in a line,
flushing them into the air from fence rows and waterways. Quail prefer shorter cover, like short-growth
alfalfa or clover in winter hayfields.
We took most of the rabbits from the timber in a corner of our
farm. I’d go by myself after it snowed,
looking for tracks, kicking them out from bushes and woodpiles.
I quit hunting after I left the farm. I think we all did. We ate every animal we killed. And never did we ever imagine shooting a
human being.
