Some Thoughts About Gratitude

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
May 31, 1958

Stan Musial

   RECENTLY Stan Musial, star of the St. Louis Cardinals, gained immortality by making his 3000th major league hit.  The feat had been accomplished by only seven other players before him.
   Close on the heels of this accomplishment came the story of another deed by the same person.  It caused less fanfare and splash of printer's ink--and it didn't come from the modest Musial.  But it sheds additional light on why he's known as "Stan, the Man," and it redounds even more to his credit than did that pinch-hit double against the Chicago Cubs that put him in the select circle.

   FOR IT showed him as a man of character and generosity and great gift of appreciation.  He remembered his debt to Dickie Kerr, the little stout-hearted White Sox pitcher who beat Cincinnati twice in the scandal-scarred 1919 World Series.

Dickie Kerr

   Years later Kerr became manager of the Daytona Beach farm club for the Cardinals.  Among his charges was a skinny youth who aspired to be a pitcher but he showed small talent for it.  This was Stanley Musial, a mediocre southpaw whom Kerr recognized as a natural with a bat.
   Kerr took the sore-armed and discouraged youngster into his home, fed and befriended him and told him he could become a great hitter.
   Great hitter Musial proved to be.  He went on to fame and fortune but he didn't forget Kerr.  And because he didn't forget, the Kerrs now have a new home in Houston, Texas, a white bungalow provided by Musial.

   THE INCIDENT prompts some observations about gratitude.  Some harsh and cynical things have been said of it.  Robert Louis Stevenson termed it "but a lame sentiment," adding that "thanks, when they are expressed, are often more embarrassing than welcome."
   H.L. Mencken, never given to moderate expression, was harsher.  He wrote that to look for gratitude in this world was asinine.  "The truth is," he said, "that the sentiment itself is not human but doggish and the man who demands it in payment for his doings is precisely the sort of man who feels noble and distinguished when a dog licks his hand."
   Maybe Mencken meant it and maybe he was just being funny.  The sage of Baltimore was as much humorist as critic and philosopher and I suspect that Mencken, the humorist, was in command when these caustic lines were penned.

H.L. Mencken

   At least I prefer to go along with Samuel Johnson, who wrote a couple of hundred years ago that "gratitude is a fruit of great cultivation; you do not find it among gross people."  And Aesop, who termed gratitude the sign of noble souls.

   THEY TELL US that all actions and urges are motivated by selfishness--love, kindness, generosity and bravery as well as greed, envy, hate, lust, ambition and cowardice.  Selfishness is the driving force.
   I suspect that this is true, but even though it be, I see no reason why this in any way tarnishes humanitarian actions, blights valor or makes a mockery of generosity.  If one makes a sacrifice for a friend, rival, benefactor or maiden aunt he should not stand condemned for experiencing an inner glow.  That is his
 reward, and one rightly earned.

C.M. Guthrie

   Anyway, when I do anyone a favor I expect him to show gratitude.  If he doesn't I feel deprived and outraged.  I may be petty and even doggish.  If so, I'm sure I have company.  The dog, I figure, is the recipient of good deeds who takes them for granted.
   You do not win friends unfailingly by doing favors.  Favors can bring resentment and an unwanted sense of obligation as well as gratitude.  As good a way as any to win a friend is to maneuver someone into doing a favor for you.
   But I refuse to downgrade gratitude.  I'm sure that Dick Kerr is grateful to Musial and that Musial appreciates the fact.  I agree with the New York Times, which said that while the St. Louis star declared that that 3000th hit gave him the greatest thrill of his life, he'd get an even bigger one when he visited the Kerrs in that home he gave them.


Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.


  

Little Girls Are Quite Special

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
May 17, 1964


   THERE'S THIS to be said about girl friends--the younger they are the easier it is to impress them.  A little girl distributes admiring glances generously.
   Take Ann and Katy.  Both think I'm quite a character.  Both are pre-kindergarten and both are neighbors. We see a good deal of each other, particularly on Saturday when I'm out in the yard and available.
   The sobering fact is, however, that I won't rate high with them permanently--two or three years at the outside.  As they grow older, little girls find my witticisms less hilarious and take me for granted.  By the time a girl I've known all her life is 16, any illusions she ever had about me are gone.  I'm just an over-the-hill yard raker and window washer.

   SMALL BOYS get wise to me , too.  When the brothers of Katy and Ann were moppets, they were faithful weekend helpers, eager to mow my lawn and wash my car.  Now their time is for better things.  They are courteous and pleasant, but the old relaxed camaraderie is gone and the horseplay fading into memory.  That's how it must be.  They are growing up.  Children can be children only a little while, not nearly long enough.

   BUT I thank heaven for little girls.  I'm a pushover for little girls.  So is my wife.  We haven't yet had a granddaughter but once had a little daughter of our own.  When she was small the depression was big and inescapable, but she was gay and unworried.  Her blythe spirit kept life in perspective.
   Now I'm making the best possible use of Katy and Ann and will bask in their favor as long as they let me.  I hope the summer will see more Saturdays like a recent one.  After Ann and Katy had dropped over three or four times to discuss neighborhood affairs and to ask why I was squirting water on the screens, they made a final call at 6 p.m., when we were sitting down to dinner.  They wondered if I could come out and play some more.  This pleased me even more than it amused me.  It was as nice a compliment as I've had in months.  It convinced me that I'd won their acceptance and made the club.
   A couple of weeks ago while raking up some litter, I uncovered an old ball that had molded through the winter in an iris bed.  I tossed it to Ann and told her she could have it.  You'd have thought I'd given her a new doll.  She thanked me not once but repeatedly, and not casually but profusely.

   KATY HAS an dog named Dusty, a nondescript, long-haired little pooch that looks much the same front and rear.  When Katy comes to see me the dog is usually with her.  Why, I don't know, since she pulls his ears, sits on him and makes him miserable.  Dusty has no time for me when Katy isn't around.  To him I'm blood brother of the mailman--a bum and a scoundrel.
   Ann and Katy aren't the only little folks in the neighborhood.  The block is jumping with them, but they happen to be the two I know best.
   As for little boys, there's Danny, who lives next door on the north.  Danny is a comparative newcomer but it won't be long before he's a pal.  He is crazy to do chores and last Saturday gave my son a hand.  If he likes to mow lawns and wash cars as well as Jimmy and Mike used to, I'll be in luck.


Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Tomorrow Is Father's Day- -If That Means Anything

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the Minneapolis Tribune editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
June 19, 1954

Grandpa (Alfred Bertram Guthrie), Mom and Dad

   FATHER'S DAY is a bush league occasion, as holidays go, and save for the stimulus it gives the shirt and necktie trade there seems small excuse for it.
   The first Father's day, my encyclopedia tells me, was observed in Spokane, Wash., in 1910.  Mother's day predates it by three years.  I suppose that mother then figured it was time the old man had some sort of recognition, too, and tossed him this sop to ease her conscience.
   But Father's day never has worked up more than a tired head of steam and if it weren't for the ads in the papers it probably would blush unseen,.  It lacks the hearts-and-flowers appeal of Mother's day and all efforts to build it up to comparable stature have foundered on the shoals of indifference.
   Fathers are great people and many of them have a streak of sentiment as wide as a barn door but in the popular concept they cannot compare in the tenderness department with mothers.  One does not conjure up pictures of pop tucking the little ones into bed or kissing their tears away.

   MOTHER, bless her heart, already knows that tomorrow is Father's day and has planned accordingly.  Her gift to her soul mate--charged to his account--has been wrapped with pretty ribbon and secreted in the closet.
   But if the kids have gone unbriefed, they will not think about dad until an hour before the stores close, when it is too late to shop with anything but abandon and very little of that.  I have known teenage sons, enmeshed in this web of circumstance, to resort to the dodge of pawning off on pater the horrendous Christmas necktie, received from Aunt Hortense, which they never had the courage to wear.

   WHEN YOU pause to think about it, though, wise shopping for father is well nigh impossible and the catch-as-catch-can procedure is about as good as any.  He never knows what he wants--and he usually wants little.  Mom buys his shirts, socks and cravats.  He even likes to have her with him when he buys a suit, list he fetch home something that would delight a sideshow barker.

Chuck, Mom (Florence), Dad, Tom, Carol 

   And even when a fellow does have a definite desire his progeny is disinclined to believe him.  I once told my daughter that I'd like one of those little two-wheeled contraptions used for spreading grass seed and fertilizer.  She burst into laughter.  That wasn't a gift!  I could buy one of those things myself.  So I am still without a grass seed fertilizer cart, though I want one passing sore.
   I once dropped the hint that some new garden hose would delight father on his day.  My wife bought it, but with reluctance.  She said it was like my buying her a mop.

   THE FATHER'S day gift problem grows tougher by the year because the older pop gets the less he wants.  The youthful sire is far easier to honor than he who is in middle age.  The young dad is clothes conscious and active.  He swims, golfs and plays tennis and fancies himself as a delight to womanhood.  Gay apparel pleases him.  So does anything in the sporting goods line.
   The oldster, mayhap with nostalgic sigh, has put aside his illusions about being a charmer.  He has a spare chin.  His chest has slipped down to his middle, and moulting is well along.  New duds can do little for him.  The only sports he goes in for, save fishing and watching the televised fights and ball games, involve little more than lifting a stack of poker chips and holding a cigar in his jaws.

   I HAVE made an agonizing appraisal of my Father's day wants.  They narrow down to one of those gizmos used for stemming the lawn's invasion of the sidewalk.  This is called an edger, my hardware man tells me.
   But if the shirt and socks fit I will rest content.  And if it should come to pass that the necktie is rerouted to me from Aunt Hortense I shall got grieve.  It's nice to be a father and it's nice to be remembered.  And come Christmas I can give the tie to an in-law.


Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Of Weeds, Docks and Fatigue

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial/ opinion page staff
published by the StarTribune
June 12, 1966


   SOME DAY THE MOON may be a tourist attraction.  Some day they may even find a solution to the farm problem..  But the day will never come when the normal mortal, working weekends and in his spare time, catches up with his house and yard work.  He is lucky to get the grass cut, a few weeds pulled, and the dead rosebushes replaced.  Unless the fellow has the energy of an ox, the putty will stay in the can, the screens won't get painted, and the garage door will continue to bind.
   Then, if he has a lake cabin, all talk of ever getting on top of the situation is nonsense.  To get any return for his investment, he must spend a couple of summer weekends a month at the lake.  And he simply must install the dock, rake the leaves and brush, and cut firewood.  It is none of the neighbors' business if he lets the place go to pot, but he doesn't want them speculating about his character or wondering if he is a leper.

   WHEN WE HEADED toward our retreat for the Memorial Day weekend, we didn't depart with light hearts.  We had guilt feelings.  "I should stay home and sand the floors and paint the south bedroom."
   "I know!  I know!" my wife responded.  "And I should clean out those drawers and get rid of a lot of junk.  But if we don't go to the cabin now we won't go for three weeks.  Why own a place if you never see it?"
   Reassured by this logic, I settled back and went to sleep.  Not the least of our rewards, though the insurance company won't believe it, is a 17-year-old who drives better than his parents do.
   There was more work at the lake than anticipated, as I might have expected.  It was no problem to remove the boat from the front bedroom, turn on the water heater, put food in the refrigerator, make up the beds and plug in the blankets.

   BUT THE DOCK was a challenge.  All but two end sections had wintered in the lake and they hadn't wintered particularly well.  The water had risen half a foot and the dock was not only awash but 15 feet out from shore.
   After acute suffering, my son and I got it disjointed and on dry land.  The water was cold, the wind brisk, and tempers short.  My wife sauntered shoreward, looked at the pile of poles and planks, and said, "I assume you'll be putting the dock back in this afternoon."
   "You assume wrong," I said.  "I am sick of docks.  It's going to sit right there until the next time we come up."
   "But why?  Other people have their docks in."
   "A couple of sections need repair.  And it should dry out before we put it back.  The fact that others have their docks in doesn't impress me.  We are here primarily to rest and relax--not to keep up with the Joneses."

   WHEN NOT OCCUPIED with the dock or pitching horseshoes, we pulled weeds.  The lake along our beach is quite heavily infested.  My son pulled as few as possible.  "It's a waste of time, Pop," he protested.  "Nature works 24 hours a day growing 'em and you can't get rid of 'em in a couple of afternoons."
   My wife, the loudest complainer about the weeds, agreed.  "You have to hire a man with one of those cutting machines."
   "As I recall," I said, "we hired a man with a machine five years ago to plow up the beach.  A year later the weeds were as thick as ever.  Maybe it's useless for me to pull weeds out of the lake but it doesn't cost anything."
   "Wouldn't the results be the same, though," asked out philosophical son, "if you just loafed or pitched horseshoes?"
   "Maybe," I said, "but I can't run the risk of indolence.  I might find it enjoyable and wouldn't dare acquire the habit.  I'd never get my work done."


Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

There's a Sadness About Commencement

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the Minneapolis Tribune editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
June 11, 1955



   THE MELANCHOLY season, for me, comes at commencement time.  I then have mixed feelings of sadness and deep humiliation,.  The time stirs a couple of memories I'd like to forget.  It also evokes sympathy for the kids who are graduating.
   It is a tough time, really, for those high school seniors who know so much less than they think they do and for the college grads who wish they knew as much as they thought they did in high school.  Both will find, as they always have, that they know too little.

   I GET the shudders every June recalling two experiences that darkened my high school exit.  It all happened in the long ago,
but time has not assuaged the hurt.
   By the sheer accident of sex I was president of my senior class.  The only other male in the group joined the class after the election.  The girls ganged up on me.  The big moment for the poor wretch who headed the class came during commencement week when he spoke at the alumni banquet.
   It was no big moment for me.  A trip through a meat grinder would have been a joy by comparison.  For two weeks prior to the ordeal I was beset by cold sweats--and, it turned out, with good reason.  My worst fears were realized.  The affair was a fiasco.  It branded me for life.

   MANY a speaker is able to stand before an audience and say nothing.  But he avoids embarrassment by talking.  This is a gift enjoyed particularly by politicians.  But a fellow who has nothing to say and can't even say that drinks humiliation to the dregs.
   That was my predicament.  After squeezing out "ladies and gentlemen" I went dumb.  Why I didn't pull the speech out of my pocket and read it I'll never know.  It may have been in my other pants.  So I stood there for two or three days amid salvos of silence and sat down.

   THIS harrowing experience came but a week after I had been taken over the jumps in the senior class play.  The Thespian ordeal was not as tragic as the speech because there were others to share it, but it was bad enough.
   Our director was a mathematics professor, a fellow steeped in dramatics about as deeply as the janitor.  He figured that if you knew the lines in a general sort of way you had the situation in hand.  Each character was allowed to interpret his role about as he conceived it and, with the loose direction and general horsing around at rehearsals, show-night found us ill-prepared to go on.
   But go on we did, piling snafu upon snafu.  The saddest happening came in act one.  A fellow who had been present during the opening scene failed to reappear at the appointed time, leaving me on stage with my aunt and cousin, the three of us trying desperately to make small talk while awaiting the departed guest.  The fellow rushed in five minutes late with his shoes untied.  The script had called for a change of clothes but he was either a slow dresser or had insufficient time.  Our director had failed to take account of this contingency during dress rehearsal, if any.

   IN ACT THREE, while saying sweet nothings to the heroine, I forgot my lines and glanced toward the wings for help.  Whereupon the prompter, none other than the good professor, laid another egg.  All he could give me was a sickly grin.  He had mislaid his copy of the play.  A couple of pages of dialog went overboard as a result but by this time nobody cared but me and my lady love.
   Such blights do not brush off lightly when you're young.  They sear the soul permanently.  Suffering is lasting in the green years.  When you're older you can shrug such trifles off.  You're resigned.

   BUT THE FOND memories of youth linger, too, just as the bad ones do.  Commencement time for most kids is the end of a happy journey, the severance of pleasant associations.  School friends may not prove to be your best ones, but they are friends apart.  First real pals are found in school  First love is found there, too, and first heartache and self-doubt and first fear of the future.
   And when you leave the halls of ivy the doubts and fears ride with you--while the friends go elsewhere.  You're on your own and that's how it should be.  Ahead is challenge and a new life.  But unless you're a fortunate extrovert there's a sickish emptiness in you and you wish you could have back those academic days.
   That's why I tend to sadness at commencement time.  I remember the empty feeling, too, along with that alumni banquet speech.


Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

  

One Fan's Beef About Baseball

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
June 3, 1961


   I'VE ALWAYS thought well of Abner Doubleday for inventing baseball but confess that it doesn't fire me up as it once did.  It takes too long to play and it's become too refined.  Go to a night game that runs into extra innings and you get home about the time the milk man is making his rounds.
   Even allowing a fellow time to shave between innings, a regulation game should be wrapped up in a couple of hours.  It once was, but now such a game is an oddity.

   BASEBALL, paradoxically, has been hobbled by steps designed to give it more appeal.  The rules have been changed to insure more hitting and more runs.  Consequently more pitchers have to be used--and more time consumed.

Herb Score

   The spitter is long gone.  The emery ball was banned even earlier.  The pitcher now works with an unblemished ball.  If it's scuffed or roughed up it's tossed out.  It also is a far cry from the unlively sphere of old.  A well-hit ball comes off the bat like a bullet and pitchers work in an atmosphere of peril.
   Four years ago, Herb Score, one of the finest young lefties in the majors, was hit in the eye by a drive off the bat of Gil McDougald and never recovered his effectiveness.  The other day the White Sox sent him to San Diego.

   THE HOME RUN, once rare, dramatic and honest, has been made cheap and plethoric.  Half a dozen often are hit in one game, some by undersized runts who could barely have hit the dead ball Cobb and Wagner swung on into the outfield.

Cy Young

   With the fences in convenient range and windblown fly balls dropping out of sight, no pitcher can be sure of finishing what he starts.  Starting pitchers finished only 25 percent of last year's major league games.
   No pitcher has won 30 or more games since Lefty Grove did it 30 years ago.  Few pitchers can win 20, Warren Spahn and Early Wynn are the only hurlers currently operating who stand to win a total of 300 games, but in his 22-year span Cy Young won 511, an average of more than 23 per season.

   MAYBE the game would be less popular than it is if the dead ball were still used, if scores were low and close and the customers could get out of the park in time for dinner.  But a tight game always struck me as better than a loose one and baseball executives might be smart to revert to this view before they have to expand both leagues to 15 teams in order to beef up the gate.
   They might likewise take a leaf from baseball's bawdy past when players put winning ahead of fraternizing, and culture got lost in an occasional fight and the gendarmes had to be called out.
   It may be too bad, but the fact is that the roughneck player has more color than his gentlemanly teammate and is far better box office.  Ty Cobb was a rough one and so were John McGraw, Frank Chance and Johnny Evers.

Ty Cobb

Ty Cobb with spikes

 The best remembered St. Louis team was the Gashouse Gang, made up of such inelegant, unwashed

The Gashouse Gang

characters as Pepper Martin, Frank Frisch and Dizzy Dean.  They were not only fierce competitors but good showmen.  

TODAY, with umpires tossing players out for no more than a disdainful spit or a spot of cussing and arm waving, there isn't much color left.  There's just as much skill but many of today's stars are automatons, graceful and efficient mechanics doing an afternoon's work with little flair or enthusiasm.
   And if the baseball brass will hold still long enough for me to throw another one, I'd suggest that they keep the peanut and hot dog vendors out of sight save between innings so as not to obstruct the view.  At the last game I attended I saw more hucksters than hitters.  I'd rather watch the game than watch someone buy a beer.


Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Spring's a Trial for the Weary

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
May 6, 1961


   THE MELANCHOLY season is generally associated with fall, but for those of us who can take nature or leave it alone spring isn't so ducky, either.  The trouble is that if you leave spring alone you lose standing in the community.  The green-thumb brigade has taken over.
   We who prefer to live casually are trapped.  Anyone who hasn't a mound of black dirt in the yard waiting to be spread hither and yon is an indolent nobody.  To establish yourself as an upstanding citizen these days you have to push a weed, feed and seed cart around.

   I HAVE no black dirt on the place, don't intend to have any, and will get behind a pushcart with dedicated reluctance.  All I've done thus far is remove the winter cover from what I refer to loosely as the perennials.  The non-blooming climber has struggled through again, as I feared it would, but the expensive stuff, iris and roses of exquisite beauty, appear as dead as they'll ever be.
   We have three no-good peony plants that cling to life for no legitimate reason.  They've never produced more than three or four weary blooms, although stoked with black dirt and plant food since 1945.  I threaten each year to root them out but my wife, in whom hope springs eternal, won't have it.

   I DON'T condemn the green-thumb boys out of hand.  Some of them are quite personable chaps and good to their wives and children.  But I'm sick of having them look down their noses at me and my kind simply because they enjoy landscaping and we don't, and are willing to spend hours currying their lawns while we aren't.  Our only sin is an inherent inability to respond to the season's promises, but they write us off as oafs.
   The fellow I pity is my next-door neighbor.  He has given gardening some of the best springs and summers of his life but his back yard resists every effort to produce grass and should be put in the soil bank.  The payoff came last summer when he worked himself to exhaustion sodding the place.  It made my back ache to watch him and I hoped fervently that success would crown his efforts.
   But this spring the area is again barren and he has given up.  "The damned ground won't even support crabgrass," he muttered.  "I'm gonna put the whole works into patio and to hell with nature."
   I've heard variants of this theme from other non-nature boys, but while such an escape has unquestioned merit I've never actually seen it done and was close to it only once myself.  This was after I'd converted my lawn into desert with crabgrass killer--which was all my fault, my wife said, because I ignored the directions.
   I now merely go through the motions of lawn care to maintain my reputation, knowing that failure is inevitable but knowing, too, that custom being what it is one can no longer loaf the weekends away and permit his mind to feast on the eternal values.

   THE TROUBLE with most fellows of my era is that we were not schooled in sophisticated landscaping as boys.  My father never pampered his lawn or fought weeds.  We considered dandelions manna from heaven.  We ate the greens.  Now I'm caught up in this complicated seed and fertilizer frenzy and can't adjust to it.
   When I explained all this to my wife the other day she brought up the name of a man a couple of houses south who could grow grass on a billiard table and whose lawn is an unblemished carpet.  "He's 20 years older than you are and seems to have made the adjustment."
   Any day now I'll be out with the pushcart.


Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.