The Stories that Come with Used Stuff

Buying used stuff... The discount is great. But what I'm learning... the stories gathered from sellers are even richer. Basketball is the sport of choice at Rory's school. The kid wanted a hoop, and Craigslist is full of em. $300 new, I found one with the factory plastic wrap still on the glass for $150. Would ya take $125?... A "yeah, I'll take $125" had me rolling the 45 minutes up Lake Michigan to Sheboygan. 

To a century-and-a-half old neighborhood sitting on a picturesque slope overlooking the lake, where two blocks inland, a sturdy black basketball hoop sat in the driveway of a very large and dusty white Victorian home, its worn paint contrasting with the freshly poured cement of new walkways and a stone sculpture by the front door. As I backed the Durango up its drive, a tall and fit guy, who looked about my age, ambled up from an 80s pick-up parked on the street. Are you John? A meticulous voice in an earth-toned knit sweater responded, "Yes. Nice to meet you, Ross." as we shook hands. "Well, this it..." My son really wants to get his basketball skills up to snuff with his school buddies. I'd like to buy it. "Sounds good. I'll help you break it down and load it up." 

Disassembling a high quality free standing basketball hoop requires the draining of hundreds of pounds of water from a weighted bottom and a lot of heavy metal pins, nuts, and bolts. Clear that neither of us had any expertise in this realm, we took turns chipping in our tools, while the other wrestled with the weight of ten foot steel. There were a lot of three minute spaces.

So... You from Sheboygan?... "I grew up here. Yes. But originally, I'm from Greece." Really?... How did you get from Greece to Sheboygan, Wisconsin? "Well, Sheboygan actually has the largest Greek population in Wisconsin. We were the first city in the state to have an Orthodox church." The history teacher within me flickered to life and we both took a break from our tools as he continued his story. 

"So you may be aware of Europe's history after World War II?... Well, the United States was really worried that the Communist party might take over the Greek government, so they intervened. Those put in charge declared martial law. There was no freedom in the streets like there is here. At the time, the Greek Navy often sailed the Great Lakes on good will tours. My uncle was in the Greek Navy. He'd had enough of martial law back in Greece, so when his boat docked in Green Bay, he went AWOL and jumped ship. He found his way to the Greek community here in Sheboygan and they helped him hide out. He established himself and eventually got citizenship. A few decades later, he called my mom in Greece and invited us to join him."

Intrigued with history's intersection with today, I asked John, as a member of the Greek Orthodox Church... What are local feelings about the Russia-Ukraine war?... Given that both of them have their own branches of the Orthodox faith?... "None of this would have happened if it weren't for the United States' meddling in Ukrainian affairs. Do you remember the protests in Ukraine of about two decades ago? The Orange Revolution?" My nod was greeted with a "Yes! You have studied your history. Again, the United States interfered with locals' sentiments on their government and installed their own leader. If they hadn't done that, none of this would be happening today."

Seventy pounds of resting steel pole on my shoulder, I let John's history lessons sink in. In the late 1940s, it was the communist Soviet Union that the United States was trying to repel from Greece. That threat sparked the passage of the Marshall Plan by Congress, which poured billions of dollars into Post-War Western Europe to encourage its people to embrace capitalism and democracy. Nowhere in my high school history books was there mention of martial law alongside the Marshall Plan in Greece.

In 2004, in Ukraine... Well, communism seemed long dead. The Soviet Union replaced by a Russian oligarchy that placed great wealth in a few people's hands and allowed a fledgling democracy to be crushed by a rising dictator. Did Putin tamper with the Ukrainian elections of the new millenium?... Did America use its weight to back its own candidate? That I have not studied. What I do remember are photos of large Ukrainian crowds waving orange scarves. An election they thought rigged was redone. And their candidate then won. Then a few years later... His opponent once again claimed victory. Then... after another mass protest, that opponent was beaten again.

Having no clear opinion on any of this, I resigned to the seventy pounds of steel still on my shoulder, and changed the subject. This is a beautful old house. It's yours?... "Yes. It was a long-term rental and I am turning it into an AirB&B." An AirBnB eh?... Two blocks from the lake. A beautiful old Victorian. I bet you'll make good money. "Yes! The house has six units and I'm updating them all." No need for a hoop, eh? "This hoop belonged to one of my long-term tenates. I've asked him several times to come get it and other stuff he left in the garage. He hasn't. The other day I saw him in the supermarket and he walked the other way." 

Satisfied enough that the hoop was a just buy, we loaded it into the Durango, the backboard sticking out of the tailgate. I took off my buffalo plaid hoody and zipped it around the basket to serve as my caution flag for tailgating motorists. On my mention of being a teacher, John made the oft cited comment of older people since maybe forever. "Teacher, eh? Students today... That must be hard. Kids don't engage like they used to." This was followed with a recommendation that I read Confessions of an Economic Hit Man and follow the politics of Tulsi Gabbard. "It's all about the moneyed interests, Ross. They control the media and muck up the true news."

I offered to pay John with Venmo, Paypal, Zelle, or a personal check. On my drive up, UW Credit Union's two drive thru ATMs were exhausted by the weekend's end. "I don't do any digital banking. A check is fine. Do you have the money in your account right now? If not, I'm happy to wait. Someone did that for me when I bought that truck last month, and I'd like to pay forward the favor." I gave John a heartfelt thanks and assured him he could cash the check today.

As I slowly pulled through that neighborhood back toward I-43, my hoody flapping in the Durango's tailwind, the grey breeze rippled the waters of Lake Michigan at the bottom of that gentle hill. Neighbors with a variety of skin tones were on the sidewalks, navigating their Sunday through the lake's sharp air. In another month, Lake Michigan will turn back to her Mediterranean blue. The AirBNBs, their fresh paint glistening among the well-worn blocks, will bring in more profit over four months than the landlord next door will see in a year. 

I reflect on John's statement about well-moneyed interests. On the fact we both drive used vehicles and also both converted our long-term rental to an AirBnB... On how the working people I passed might look different from the tourists who will soon flock to their week's stay in a grand old house by a sunny great lake. On communists. On fascists... On a local church community making sense of war between its cousins... On the idea that freedom on US soil might not afford the same freedom abroad.

No clear answers. Just more questions.

And a pretty sweet hoop for a very excited kid. Make that two happy kids. Anna loves it too.

Finding that next Subaru - a true Chicago tale

75 hours after our last Subaru literally combusted in my high school's parking lot, I picked up this beauty, with 22,000 miles for 15K. It's purchase is a true Chicago Story. Friday night, I responded to a Craigslist ad. A guy named Mario, with a thick Slavic accent said, "Ya. You come to Chicago. We meet tomorrow night." How about 9:00AM? "Ya. 9, 10, 11. Whatever." At 9:25 Saturday morning I find myself rolling over the copious speedbumps of a cozy 1930s brick bungalow neighborhood. And there she is. A 2016 Impreza with very low mileage, sitting in the driveway of a modest but handsome home. A middle aged guy that looks like he could be a truck driver stands bundled up against the cold, smoking on the stoop by which the car sits. Are you Mario? "No. But I call him. He be here in 10 minutes." Mario, who looks like he could also be a truck driver - both guys appear about my age - rolls up in a black Lexus. He gets out, nods, walks toward my car of interest, starts her up, opens the hood, and speaks his first words. "Have a look. I have Carfax here. One minor accident, Very clean." Indeed she appears to be. We take her for a test drive. I remark that the neighborhood looks very Eastern European. "I am Polish." Really? I used to take high school kids to Krakow. I've been there three times. His eyebrows raise and there is a smile. "I live 60 kilometers from Krakow." I comment on how beautiful that part of Poland is. A pause. "I don't speak much English. All my business is with Polish people speaking Polish." Indeed, Chicago can do that. So many cultures, who can keep this new city their old. "Yes, many cultures... too many." I change the subject. This is a nice car. Would you take $15,000?... If so, I'll buy it today. The asking price is $16K, in a market where I am seeing these for 20. "Ya. If you pay in cash. You have cash? No check." A yellow light starts to flash in my head. Cause, you know, I roll with thousands of dollar bills on the daily. Is this guy in the mafia?... As if reading my mind, he says, "Follow me. I have friend. He car dealer. He move money from your bank to mine." With no other words I climb into my rental, he climbs into the Impreza, and I follow him for several blocks. I call my credit union, give them the car's VIN, and share my story. "Well," says my bank agent, "the title appears clean and just one minor accident. Keep us posted..." As the community rolls by my windows, Free Ukraine signs in sky blue and wheat gold begin to blend with the jalepeño green and tomato red of Mexican taquerias. Deeper and deeper into the bowles of Chicago we go, turning down an ally lined with the back doors of a cacophony of family owned businesses, threading around busy trucks that are the markers of a buzzing economy. Then a tight turn through a razor wire gate into a sea of parked black and white luxury Audis, Acuras, and BMWs. Up to an auto dealer office that is the size of a shoebox. Out pops a young Mexican American guy in pegged jeans, leather designer boots, and hipster shave cut. "I'm Carlos. My friend here says you need to move money electronically to buy his car. We're a car dealer, so we can do that, working with your bank, for a fee - 300 bucks." Again, that yellow light starts flashing. Have I just stepped deep inside an episode of the Sopranoes?... I call my credit union agent again, and hand the phone over to Carlos so they can speak. My agent then tells me, "Yup. This guys a legit dealer. The title's clean. Go buy yourself a car." First, I ask Carlos if I can use a restroom. It's been two hours since I left Milwaukee. "Sure" he says as he guides me outside, across the lot, through a tear in the barbed wire fence, through the backdoor of an auto garage, to an industrial hued bathroom, where from within, I can hear hearty exchanges of Polish and banging metal tools through the walls beyond. There is a firm knock on the door. I respond, occupied, but when I step out a minute later there is no one to be seen between the bathroom and the back door. Well, save for the smiling blonde on a wall poster, scantily clad in a tool company's 80s era logo, wrench in hand. I thread my way back through that fence to the shoebox. Inside is a Vietnamese family, two cute kids, chatting with a Polish salesman. Carlos hands me the paperwork. "You are good to go Ross. Your taxes and fees will be paid to Wisconsin. Here are the keys to your car." I inquire about a nearby Enterprise lot to drop off my rental. "There's one a hundred yards that way." Seriously, Universe, what are you telling me? I return the rental then ask Carlos, como se dice gracias en polaco? Without missing a beat he says, "dziekuje." I step outside with Mario and thank him in his native tongue. He very methodically helps me back out of the tightly knit lot. I roll down the window and leave him with a hearty "nostrovia!" as I pull away in my shiny new steed. 

 

And that folks, is Chicago. A hundred immigrant pockets, reaching across the aisle dozens of times a day, to keep commerce humming in a hundred different ways.

Our beloved Segundo - our 2nd Subaru

Our 3rd Subaru - in need of a great Polish name

Two Alabamas

Two Days. Two very different Alabamas. Montgomery with its grand old homes fading behind chipped paint and a shiny new civil rights memorial guarded at each corner by a patrol car. Huntsville with its sparkling new housing developments and gleaming spaceships set behind the upper middleclass strip malls that are the hallmark of a bustling tech economy.

The National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery has hung, in large oxidized blocks, a county by county encyclopedia for every state in the union where lynchings of African Americans occurred. While the South certainly had the lion's share, a mob of 10,000 even stained the Lake Superior city of Duluth, taking the lives of three Black citizens in 1920. Noticably absent was any county from Wisconsin. Its legacy is perhaps the largest racial gap in student achievement and incarceration in the country, a statistic that stubbornly persists today.

Four hours northward through pine, redbuds, and swamp, on the outskirts of Huntsville we passed from the Old South to the New. Gleaming housing developments, restaurants, and business parks were connected by streets with names like Tech Boulevard and Enterprise Way. Anchored in the middle by the rocket ships turned monuments that propelled the United States to the top of the international Space Race. Today, the citizens traversing its sidewalks are a variety of cultures. But, even here, where intellect reigns supreme, Black female mathematicians had to endure Jim Crow era segregation as they proved themselves by crunching the very equations that brought America's first astronauts safely back to Earth. 

My mom has vivid stories about each of these versions of the South. As a teenager, she had soup splashed on her for entering a Tennessee diner with a Black friend. She also fondly remembers the day her brother answered their home phone to hear Dr. von Braun, director of NASA, announce himself and ask for my grandfather. Her dad, an engineer at Battelle, was working with NASA on perfecting rocket fuels. Von Braun was himself a legacy of Hitler's Third Reich, who bought he and his German team a shot at redemption by leading the United States to victory over the Soviets in their competition to master the heavens. 

Alabama - you certainly revealed to us our nation's power - for incredible ill and frontier bending progress. I'm glad we began with a somber reflection on the former and an exciting immersion into the latter.

4/3/2021

Mummies & Saints

Yup. That first picture is a real life mummy. Being carried tenderly by the descendants of an Incan culture that preserved their deceased elders so that they could rejoin their communities to share in holiday celebrations and contribute to important decision making. And this particular mummy, I'm told by my cab driver, is also a saint. A very holy indigenous figure dressed in native garb, partaking in the same procession as the statues of much more European looking saints, also being shuttled by the caring shoulders of Peruvians dressed in a wide array of Spanish and Incan classical and contemporary dress. 

This was the Festival of Corpus Christi - a Catholic celebration in mid-June originally designed to replace the Incan observance of the Winter Solstice. Instead, the two holidays have become one drawn out week, full of roving processions that would make New Orleans proud, both for their robust declaration of life and their proud and vibrant melding of colliding cultures. This is Cusco - the old capitol of the 3,000 mile-long Incan Empire. Where residents proudly speak Quechua and Spanish, point out that the old Incan religion had a figure a lot like Jesus, and will explain to you how the gold in the local Catholic church reflects the Sun God, the silver the Moon Goddess, and the mirrors the waters of Lake Titicaca where legend holds the original Incan people poured forth. Where men might don a slick black-banded fedora or a rainbow colored winter hat, and women can be found in colorful top hats that would give Uncle Sam a run for his money. 

And anyone, including a pale red-head from the United States, can be swept up in a random river of brass horns and drums that meanders its way through the streets of the old city, occasionally swirling around in plazas for a few minute break, while participants belt out shared songs with bravado, couples dance with abandon, and the band gives each group of instruments its turn to flavor the tune. It is Incan. It is European. In the melting pot and salad bowl that is Cusco, Peru.