An immigrant in the toy department; a businessman in Wisconsin; the life of Jerry Hall; the character of George C. Marshall; and more
I was in Santa Barbara, Calif., visiting old friends. We were talking about old days in Ann Arbor, Mich. (my hometown). One of my friends was a student there. I was trying to pinpoint a location. I said, “Near the Meijer’s?” He said, “Yes, the Meijer’s at 3825 Carpenter Road. The phone number was 973-1200.”
I blinked. My friend was talking about the 1970s. “I worked there,” he explained. “I will never forget the address and the phone number.”
Geezum. My friend was an immigrant from India. He arrived in Ann Arbor in 1975. His brother was already there, or in nearby Ypsilanti. His brother worked as a pharmacist at the Meijer’s — and got his brother a job in the toy department of the same store.
Have I said that Meijer’s is a chain of “superstores” in my home state? It is.
My friend grew up in Uganda, where there was a big Indian community, and later in India itself. “We didn’t have any toys,” he told me. “And here I was, learning about all these new toys. Assembling BMX bikes, hanging them from the ceiling. It was amazing. I loved it.”
His real love, his real attraction, was photography. He helped out in the photography department from time to time — when a regular employee was on break, for example. Finally, they moved him to the photography department full time. Customers kept asking for “that Indian guy, who knows so much about cameras.”
My friend soon became a successful engineer and entrepreneur.
He has an outstanding memory of the late Frederik Meijer, the chairman of the chain, the chairman of the company. Two memories, actually. When he came to visit the store on Carpenter Road, he parked on the far edges of the parking lot — a vast parking lot, in my memory. The closer places were “for my customers,” he said. Also, he had the habit of picking up litter in the parking lot. “Who’s that guy out there, picking up the litter?” some would ask. It was the chairman of the company.
Fred’s son, Hendrik, or “Hank,” is the chairman today. He is also the author of a (splendid) biography of Arthur Vandenberg. I podcasted with Hank here, and wrote about him here. Hank’s son, Peter, is a member of Congress. I podcasted with him here.
By the way, in reference to the store, some say “Meijer’s,” some say “Meijer.” I will always say “Meijer’s.” I think it’s because I first knew the store as “Meijer’s Thrifty Acres.” I asked Peter, “Which is it? ‘Meijer’ or ‘Meijer’s’?” He replied that friends have called him, late at night, to settle a bet on the question. The Meijers are happy for you to say either.
• In Madison, Wis., I was talking to another friend — of Norwegian stock, as is his wife. He is a very successful businessman. And he was praising the immigrant work ethic, and the immigrant spirit. He sees it all around him. Such striving. Long ago, in great numbers, Norwegians came to America. They were stifled in their homeland, my friend explained. They were bound by rules of primogeniture and all the rest of it. They were locked into a station in life. And here in the New World — they could make their own way, help determine their own destiny.
Thank God.
It was good for them — the immigrants themselves — and good for America.
• I’ve heard people say that Madison is like Ann Arbor. It’s true. University towns — Midwestern university towns — have a lot in common. But Madison has three advantages over us, I’m afraid: two lakes and a capitol dome. One of the most beautiful capitol domes in all of America.
All right. How about this?
A fetching and stately house, in my opinion:
A little “patriotism” — a little school pride — never hurt anyone. It’s hard for a Wolverine like me to highlight such a mailbox, but . . .
Well, here is something to make me sigh. The old-time religion:
• Increasingly, at eateries, you can’t order from a person, or pay him. You have to order from a machine. And pay the machine. I was in an airport and there was a lovely young woman standing right in front of me. An employee at an eatery. I wanted to order a diet Pepsi or something. Smilingly, she told me she could not take my order. I had to use the machine. Thing is, I’m pretty bad at those machines. (My resentment doesn’t make it easier, I admit.)
Though I’m a conservative, I’m not a Luddite, I like to think. Progress, progress. But, honestly, I think I’d pay a little more, to be able to order from a person, and pay her. Kind of like full service and self-service at a gas station?
• Jerry Hall is in the news. She has been in the news my entire life, pretty much. I can’t remember a time when she was not on television, not in the entertainment columns. There are people like that, in our lives. Decade after decade, they are part of the scene. Part of the furniture. I have never met Jerry Hall. But you sort of feel you know her, right?
• I thought this tweet, from Molly Knight, a noted sportswriter, was wicked. Hilarious. Tragi-comic.
Shohei Ohtani hit two (2) three-run home runs last night and the Angels somehow still lost. Every Angel game is like this.
• There is a group called “Ruth Sent Us.” They go to the homes of conservative Supreme Court justices and harass them. That kind of thing. One thought (among many): I’m not sure Ruth Bader Ginsburg would like it, at all. (She was great friends with Antonin Scalia. They were opera buddies, in addition to warm judicial colleagues.) Speaking of posthumous impositions: Don’t get me started on “Buckley Rule” (which I have written about before).
• A friend of mine in Georgia sent me a bumper sticker. A slice of our politics today:
• For a post on a new ballet, Of Love and Rage, go here. As I say in the post, the program booklet for the evening included a note, which read, in part,
There is challenging subject matter depicted in Of Love and Rage: slavery, piracy, and the subjugation of women. The story, set in 400 BCE Greece, is particularly poignant in today’s America, as we are still dealing with the same subjects. American Ballet Theatre would like to acknowledge that this narrative and elements of its subject matter may be difficult for some viewers.
My comment:
Has it come to this? Do people need such a disclaimer, or warning, or apology? Maybe they do. But virtually every work of art has elements that someone, somewhere, will find disturbing — or that we all will. Art is like that. Maybe a certain degree of maturity should be assumed? (Maybe not.)
• Last month, I was interested to read an obituary of Johnnie A. Jones Sr. He died at 102 — having lived an American life. Also a brave one.
He was born in 1919, in northern Louisiana, and grew up on a plantation. When World War II came, he was drafted into the Army. He became the Army’s first black warrant officer ever. He fought on the Normandy beaches and in the Battle of the Bulge. He escaped death on more than one occasion.
When he got home, he was beaten up by a white police officer. He decided to go to law school and become a civil-rights lawyer. He dodged bombs at home, even as he had dodged bombs in Europe. He was the first black member of the Baton Rouge Bar Association.
We owe a lot to such men, and such women. Such Americans. A lot.
• Have a look at George C. Marshall, in Leesburg, Va.:
Another shot of his home there:
And another one:
Marshall was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1953, for the Marshall Plan, or the European Recovery Program, as he was the only one to call it. Allow me to excerpt a paragraph from my history of the Nobel Peace Prize:
It’s not easy to convey, at this remove, how esteemed Marshall was on the continent, and in Britain. Maybe this anecdote will help. In June 1953 — six months before he received the Nobel prize — he attended the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, as the American representative. When he entered Westminster Abbey, unannounced and, as usual, unassuming, the entire congregation rose. Marshall, aware that people were standing, looked around to see who had entered. It was he.
• Okay, from the sublime to the ridiculous: Here is a shot from a lavatory in Leesburg:
And here is a shot from an eating establishment in Summerland, Calif.:
A shot from Santa Barbara. High on a hill, where Marilyn Horne, the great singer, lives:
Finally, I thought this was a pretty sweet house, in lil’ ol’ Ann Arbor:
I’ve kept you long enough. Thanks for joining me today, my friends, and have a good weekend.
If you would like to receive Impromptus by e-mail — links to new columns — write to jnordlinger@nationalreview.com.