A Hobby Isn't Something You Can Whip Up Overnight

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE

of the Minneapolis Tribune editorial page staff

Published by the StarTribune

March 12, 1955

   THEY ARE having a state conference on education in May and the committee planning the affair wants the views of us parents on how to improve the schools.

   This is too good a chance to pass up and I am getting in my two-bits worth here and now as I am in the middle of an intolerable situation brought on by present educational shenanigans.

   Instead of sticking to the three R's as they did in my day they are ringing in a hobby show at Robert Fulton school next week. I want to go on record in opposition to hobby shows, especially shows in which my young one is supposed to fetch an exhibit.

   Six-year-olds seldom have hobbies when they are sons of hobbyless papas and my first impulse was to throw up my hands and let him goof the assignment. But my wife says I am duty-bound to go to work with him on a hobby. It was a week ago that we got the glad tidings about the show and we haven't yet turned a wheel. We don't know where to begin.

   Our boy has plenty of interests, such as television cartoons and space men and rockets and cap pistols and books but nothing that's adequate for exhibition purposes. And the hour is a bit late for stamp collecting. It is late, too, for gathering rocks and arrow heads, and out of season besides.

   I SUGGESTED that we color a batch of Easter eggs for the child to display, having noted egg dyes on sale in the shops, but my wife said this would be an obvious phony--and premature to boot. A hobby is something you indulge in the year 'round in your spare time, she said, and you only color eggs once a year.

   She asked why we didn't assemble some of those airplanes that were still in their original containers from birthdays and Christmases past. I asked her how she figured that as a hobby. Was it something the boy did in his spare time all year?  No, she admitted, but there would be a ring of authenticity to it, whereas If we sent him to school with a sack of eggs they'd think we were cracked.

   But the airplane deal repels me. I recall some frustrating attempts at plane assembly undertaken years ago on behalf of our other son. The materials included a bundle of balsa wood shaved into flimsy sheets and toothpick-size sticks. Included also was a tube of glue--and elaborate directions to compound the befuddlement.

   I wasn't up to the job then and am not up to it now, and my wife's assurances that modern planes go together easy leave me cold. They do not go together easy enough.

   I AM NOT out to knock hobbies, however, even though I've been spared most of them. Wood carving, leather work, bead stringing and boat building must be fun for those who care for that sort of thing. I simply do not.

   I can readily spot the robin and the crow, but bird-watching bores me. Carpentry mystifies me, and  photography, requiring light meters, flash guns, dark rooms and the like, seems too complicated.

   I raised a few rabbits as a lad and played ball until they started throwing curves at me. I also did some hunting and fishing but had small aptitude for either and was a fifth wheel on every expedition. My older brother would include me in the party only under stern parental duress. Golf somehow passed me by, also.

   I am no good at gardening, either, owning a withering thumb and an inability to distinguish plantain from petunia. I willingly do the things I'm able, such as lawn mowing and leaf raking, but leave planting and weeding to my betters.

   Anyway I regard gardening, golfing, fishing and hunting more as ways of life than hobbies.  A hobbyist is a fellow who collects Ming China or cigar bands or who refurbishes old furniture or putters around in a basement workshop.

   MY BOY'S no-hobby father is a cross he will have to bear. I am not up to helping him work in clay, collect first editions or dabble in oils.

   But all this reflection is beside the point. The nub of the matter is that due to modern educational methods we must hit on a hobby--and quickly, even if it's no more than putting together a ball of tinfoil or collecting some bottle caps.

   Right now I have a mad impulse to go to work on a bird house with him. We could build a bird house, I think--a bird house that was strictly for the birds.

Copyright 2016 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further  republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Code Won't Stop Political Insults

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE

Of the editorial page staff
Published by the StarTribune

September 9, 1962

   A FAIR campaign practices code has been subscribed to by the national chairmen of both parties. This is supposed to insure high level politics from now until the November election, with all insults being on a lofty moral plane.

   The code is not new nor is it likely to be completely effective, judging by past campaigns. This is as much the fault of the voter as the candidate. Emotional thrusts get more cheers than dispassionate discussion of the issues. Appeals to prejudice are more moving than delineations of our national destiny and responsibility.

   WHAT'S NEEDED, for a campaign code to be effective, is a thoughtful, informed and rational electorate able to distinguish substance from chaff. But people are funny. They are more readily stirred by dog ordinances and daylight saving than by arguments for good government and education.

   Back in our nation's infancy politics was pretty much the monopoly of the aristocrats. It was engaged in, for the most part, by men of culture, wealth and distinction. George Washington set the general tone and the five chief executives who followed after him bore the stamp of gentry.

   THEN the common man began to feel his oats and things changed. Andrew Jackson, that avid protagonist of the spoils system, who would have scorned a fair campaign code as strictly for sissies, got into the White House.

   Jackson was a doughty and forceful president but a rough and tumble scrapper of humble birth and do-it-yourself education. He was impetuous, Ill tempered and unforgiving and carried scars from a couple of duels to prove it. He defeated John Quincy Adams in 1828, gaining revenge for a defeat four years earlier when he thought Adams and Henry Clay had conspired to gyp him out of the big prize.

   He beat Adams by constantly pounding this good man over the head with charges of corruption. This technique was then, and continues to be, quite effective, deplore it though we may as low-down politics.

   Harry Truman, an assiduous student of history, must have picked up a few pointers from Jackson and, though his "give 'em hell" philosophy has grown wearisome, he can hardly be blamed for clinging to it after the miracle of 1948 when he trounced Dewey.

   A CANDIDATE can cut up an opponent quite effectively, however, without coming close to vilification. Franklin D. Roosevelt, who had a feel for politics unequaled
in our time, could demolish a rival with a deft mixture of wit, sarcasm and humor.

   A mere statement of fact can be telling. Edward J. McCormack Jr., candidate for the Democratic senatorial nomination in Massachusetts, fed Teddy Kennedy some harsh medicine in their first debate when he pointed out that his opponent lacked experience and said his candidacy would be a joke if he weren't the President's brother.

   The fair campaign code is highly motivated and perhaps moderating. The general electorate is more refined and less eager for raw meat than in Andy Jackson's time. But under the campaign heat those involved will lapse into occasional billingsgate and it's probably only charitable to dismiss a slip or two. Just so they don't throw the real issues overboard.

Copyright 2016 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Woes of a Yule Correspondent

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
Of the editorial page staff

Published by the StarTribune

December 23, 1962

   THE ONLY MAN I ever heard of who threw himself with complete abandon into Christmas correspondence is me. This year I have been wheeling and dealing on a vaster scale than ever before, squandering time and energy on a binge of Yule verbiage that has pleased my wife and exhausted me.

   I perform under grave handicap, too, being unable to write with a pen at all. What talent I ever had in this direction was crushed by making those crazy loops during grade-school penmanship class in a remote yesterday. An inclination to palsy compounds the difficulty.

   The happy personal thoughts my wife and I consider a necessary adjunct to the out-of-town Christmas card are no problem to her. She can bat them out with assembly line precision. Her pen flies over the cards like lightning--the message neat, legible, precise and meaningful.

   I MUST CRANK CARD into typewriter, an exacting job in itself if the card is not to emerge looking like something snatched from a meat grinder, and give the thing a 10-minute pre-start glare.

   Once under way, I perform with little dispatch. The big reason is that the short but adequate greeting is not in me. I must tell it all, starting with last Jan. 1.

   As I labor I try not to think that I alone among husbands bear this seasonal yoke. After all, it is a burden I carry voluntarily and the task is not barren of reward. I enjoy being a martyr.

   One fellow asked me why in the name of divine providence--if I insisted on telling folks more than they wanted to know--I didn't get the spiel mimeographed. I always think of this practical solution too late but probably wouldn't employ it anyway. I like to send something different to each customer and have done things the hard way for so long it's difficult to break the habit.

   My car pool pal, a fellow with a genius for ducking work, seldom turns a hand at Christmas correspondence. I doubt that he even buys the stamps. Once mowing the lawn and tending the begonias are ruled out, he seldom turns a hand at anything. His wife puts up the storm windows, makes out his income tax return, and does what's necessary to be done pending arrival of the plumber. He boasts that he's never changed a tire. I doubt that his spouse could say as much.

   I UNDERSTAND HIS reluctance to help with Christmas cards, though, and his wife's willingness to have him keep his mitts out of the job. He is a facile fellow with words but his handwriting would confound a pharmacist. And in all his years of newspapering he never has conquered a typewriter. The machine that does not buck, skip and overline under his touch is yet to be manufactured. Should his wife ever be indisposed during the Yuletide, the most considerate thing he could do would be to send out no Christmas cards at all.

   I had planned to write a nostalgic and sentimental Christmas column but all the sentiment I possess has been lavished on the aforementioned greetings to old friends. I hope they appreciate my effort to add joy to their holiday. I also hope that they, and all readers of these choleric lines, have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

   Now that the Christmas correspondence is finished and I've bought my wife that ironing board, I've caught the spirit of the season, too.

Copyright 2015 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

They'll Feast With Old Folks

M.C. SHOBERG

By MARK SHOBERG

Guest columnist for

Charles M. Guthrie

published by the StarTribune

November 24, 1963

   GRANDPA wrote and asked me to write a colum for him and he would give me one doller. Dad said Grandpa had a lot of nurve to expect a 10 year old kid to do a thing like that and probly he would not use it in the paper after I wrote it but Mom said to give it a whurl anyway and beside getting the doller I might get credit for it in school.

   Mom said she would look at what I wrote before we maled it back to Grandpa and corect the words that were not spelled right and so forth but I knew if she looked at it she would want me to do it over so I said nothing doing and Dad agread with me.

   

For one buk, he said, one try is enough and Grandpa can throw it away if he does not like it or corect the words himself. The trouble is, said Mom, that Grandpa cannot spell very good either but I guess the proof readers are sposed to take care of stuff like that.

   WE ARE GOING to Grandma and Grandpas for Thanksgiving, me and Mom and Dad and three brothers and my uncle, who is Moms brother, will be there with his fore boys and wife. At lease they have been invited. All told we will be 15. Eight of us are grandsons and there are no little girls which makes Grandpa real soar and when my little brother Bobbie was born last April the old gent was fit to be tide.

   We have not all been together at the old folks for a couple of years which is probly just as well as after about fore hours of it everybody is a nervus reck except the kids and all that saves the day is that Grandma and Grandpa have a third flore and the kids can go up there and play with all the old games and toys and stuff in the atic with Uncle Tom keeping an eye on us. He said it would not be so bad if Mike was not on his hands.

ME AND MY CUZINS

   MIKE IS MY cuzin and if you have not seen Mike you have not seen a genuwine rip snorter. As far as that  goes his brother Tod is no angle either and the two of them bring out the worst in my brothers Cary and Paul, which is not hard to do as far as that goes. The fore of them can turn that atic into a rats nest in no time and if Tom was not presant to soupervize they would nock out a wall. The only ones that know how to behaive are me and cozin Dave. We are the oldest and have some branes.

   GRANDMA is a neat cook and we always eat good at her house. Grandpa can realy put it away for one of his age but you have not seen a genuwine eater until you see Uncle Chuck. Grandma says that when he was a high school kid he would come home after school and eat five peanut buter sanwiches and a qt of milk and still be a tiger at super.

   By the time we get to the pumkin pie Grandpa is telling how it was in the olden days before terkeys came in sellofane and you had to chop there heads off in the barn lot and clean them yoreself and it would be enough to turn my stomick. Folks must of been pretty dum in the olden days to live like that. After diner Dad and Uncle Chuck and Grandma take some lowsy pictures of everybody and yell at the kids to hold still.

   Mom says I should not count to heavy on Thganksgiving plans working out. One of us might get sick or one of my cuzins might, in which case we could not all get together. If that hapens Grandma and Grandpa will be real soar. And I will be real soar to.

Copyright 2015 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Constitution Protects the Atheists, Too

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE

of the editorial page staff

published by the StarTribune

March 22, 1964

   THE ATHEIST is pictured by the fervently righteous as a fellow of base instincts who wears a cynical sneer, lurks in dark alleys and is up to no good. He thinks the Golden Rule is for suckers, morality for morons and honesty for boobs.

   WHAT'S MORE, runs the theory, the atheist is a Communist and not entitled to such constitutional rights as freedom of speech and assembly, rights which he is out to destroy.
   All this is nonsense, of course, and the wonder is that so many accept it as fact. It does violence to the very democratic principles we have fought to defend. It is lunatic-fringe thought control. It says that a man cannot believe what he chooses to believe, and that while freedom is a word with a nice ring, nobody should be free to say what he thinks if what he thinks does not jibe with popular and majority opinion.
   The public must be protected against radicals, grandstanders and screwballs. If such characters are allowed to speak, their baleful influence might spread. Better play safe and gag them.
 

.

  BUT  THOSE who fancy themselves as keepers of public morals and who inveigh the loudest against deviation from "right thinking" are not the kind who lead the search for the brave new world, or who score economic, political or philosophical breakthroughs. Rather than stimulate inquiry, they do their best to stifle it, thus slowing what should be man's eternal and uninterrupted quest for truth, understanding and a better tomorrow.

   Man does progress, but there are occasional regressions. In a time when immorality and crime abound, we are highly moralistic and pious in politics. The man without church affiliation is without political qualification, regardless of character and ability.

   Yet Abraham Lincoln was not a church member and neither was another president, Rutherford Hayes. And Robert G. Ingersol, a lawyer and Illinois attorney general, who established quite a reputation in politics in the post Civil War period, was an avowed agnostic.

   THE ASHBROOK amendment to the civil rights bill passed by the House is a jolting example of regression. It would sanction employment discrimination against atheists, a brash attempt by zealous do-gooders to violate the Constitution.

   The effort to equate atheism with communism is a manifestation of cold war jitters brought on by the Russian bugaboo, and it shows how a threat can be blown out of proportion by fear. The Russians are up to plenty and want to bury us. And one of their main desires must be to induce us to adopt Communist methods to fight communism, in the hysterical conviction that the end justifies the means. If that ever happens we'll be had.

   MY FATHER passed from the scene about the time our struggle with the Russians was taking shape, before communism was such a scare word. He was principal of the high school in our town, taught an adult Bible class for years and gave generously of his time and talents to the church.

   But all the atheists in the county knew him, respected him and considered him a friend. When one of them died the old pards would gather around in Charley Connor's funeral parlor and "Prof' would say a few words. He always found something kind to say, too, something praiseworthy but true.

   For, as is the case with practically everyone, there is good in atheists, too.

Copyright 2015 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

A Layman Looks at Prayer

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE

of the editorial page staff

published by the StarTribune

Feb 18, 1961

   WITH morality at such low ebb despite all the cries of alarm, it might profit us to take a closer look at prayer and our cozy attitude toward it. Our prayers, I think, are too passive, too much an appeal to the Lord to do things we should do for ourselves.

   Church membership is at an all-time high and our prayers are abundant, but crime rises. A store detective estimates in a recent magazine article that 9 out of 10 people are dishonest. We have had rigged TV quiz shows, king-size price fixes and crooked politics. Everyone is out for status and a fast buck, and ethics gets lost in the scramble.

   CHURCHES can't be blamed for this, but neither can they be excused. Too many parishioners figure they've put in their stint of worship for the week when they show up on Sunday, unite in prayer and hear a sermon.

   Perhaps a mere church member--and not one of the best--has no business criticizing organized worship, but I'll criticize it regardless. To be frank, ritualistic prayer does little for me. It frequently nettles me.

   The order of worship has been changed at our church to permit more praying. Some members like it but I don't. We all confess in unison to being a bunch of sinners and technically, I suppose, we are, since none among us is perfect.

   But I fail to see this admission of abasement as the way to uplift or salvation. I think we need to be taken by the scruff of the neck and told that rote prayer is not enough, that church attendance is not enough, that it avails little if we give only lip service to belief and do nothing to implement prayer.

   THE POOR will not be nourished nor the injured made whole unless we take a charitable interest in their needs, unless we become instruments of God by providing understanding and sympathetic help. We do them no good if we pass by on the other side and parrot the beatitudes.

   My wife tells about a lady in her home town who let her 80-year-old mother support her by scrubbing floors while she minced about in prissy piety waiting for the "call" and seeking to impress one and all with her sanctimony. She had no more Christian spirit than a head of cabbage.

   But her tribe remains. I suspect that, though refined and sophisticated, it has increased and that the failure of too many to live their professed faith has much to do with today's travail.

   WE SUFFER from the comforting illusion that churchgoing makes us automatically good. It does nothing of the kind. It can only inspire us to be good and radiate goodness. We can sing hymns and pray, I firmly believe until blue in the face and get little but vocal exercise.

   If we don't leave the church with a fresh resolve to be kind, charitable, patient and tolerant we have missed the purpose. If we don't realize that there is work for man to do, services to render, sacrifices and contributions to make, we are indeed as tinkling cymbals, the Golden Rule is nothing but 11 words and refuge in prayer avails little.

   I've always felt the most rewarding prayers could be said in solitude, when one took time to ponder life's meaning and his place in human destiny and sought guidance according to his personal beliefs. Anyone who's too busy to take such time, I'm sure, is too busy.

Copyright 2015 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Remembering Charles M. (Chick) Guthrie

Today marks the date of my dad's death 38 years ago (8/22/1977).  Here are a few commentaries on his life and work:

Charles Guthrie

1903 to 1977

Tribune

Retired June 1970

        "I worked with him..."

      Chick Guthrie and I were car pool partners for 17 years, during which time I developed a huge affection for him, a circumstance which probably disqualifies me as an unprejudiced observer of his performance at the Tribune, from 1944 to 1970.

      During those years we exchanged insults continually, and we finally agreed that if one of us were ever asked to write a valedictory for the other, we would title it, "I worked with him (the lazy loafer)."  Well, the insults were all in fun and I can now reveal that Chick was really a gentleman and a scholar, though he would undoubtedly resent my saying so, modest fellow that he was.

      Let us pass over quickly Chick's high competence as an editorial writer and makeup editor who assembled each day's editorial page with unfailing skill.  Let us charitably forget the time he backed his car over a house guest's suitcase as he prepared to drive that now visibly shaken gentleman to the airport.  Let us not recall, either , the three distraught weeks when Guthrie searched for his missing hat and finally found that I had been wearing it all the time, due to a horrendous mixup.

      For Chick's most remarkable talents were as a columnist.  His weekly Tribune pieces were sometimes faked by one of his precocious grandchildren.  He created an acerbic character named Picklewurst whom many persons suspected was Guthrie's alter ego.  In his column, Chick often exposed his family to kindly goldfish-bowl treatment, including his  patient and adoring wife, Florence.  Whether he wrote about peanut butter or his early preference for a straight-edge razor or his boyhood days in Montana, Chick emerged as the homey sort who captivated countless readers, the majority of whom were apparently women.

      What was Guthrie really like, they would ask.  Well, he was man of extraordinary writing talents, as was A.B.Guthrie, his Pulitzer prize winning novelist brother.  Chick's was the human touch, the capacity for making loyal friends, the deep devotion to family.

      "A great guy, Guthrie," I wrote on his retirement.  "The word for him is genuine and genuineness is reflected in every word he ever wrote."  On his death, that judgment still stands.

By Bradley Morison

Tribune retiree

From "To Believe That Spirit Triumphs"

A Memorial Meditation for Charles M. Guthrie

by Richard Mathison, pastor Lake Harriet Methodist Church

August 25, 1977

      Here was a man who could write like Norman Rockwell could paint.  He watched our great moments and our disastrous ones, our hilarious times and our clumsy ones, our presumptuous days and our humble ones-- and then let his typewriter tell the world about us!  Most of all, of course, he also revealed himself.  Among the most comforting revelations for me was the disclosure that he belonged, with me, to the select company of those who do not make their way in the world by trying to be handymen!  When Chick sat at that typewriter, somehow all the glory of the commonplace sang through the keys.

      Even the neighborhood children will miss him: four of them took pencil and paper in hand and scrawled their own note of sympathy this week.  His host of friends join the family in missing a man who saw life straight but with a twinkle of humor; a warm, positive, complimentary guy; one concerned about the world around him but most of all about people.  He lived his principles and earned the description, "genuine."

      

From:

Four Miles From Ear Mountain

by A.B. Guthrie, Jr.

               BROTHER

      You were bossed all your life,

      dear, gentle brother,

      bent to duck strife.

      It was "Do so" and "Do not" and "Hey,"

      and you did and you didn't,

      meek to obey.

      Seeing you, live and dead, I could cry,

      gentle boy into mild man.

      Not in you to ask why.

      You joked with few days remaining.

      When death became boss

      You went uncomplaining.

published by The Kutenai Press

Missoula, Montana

Copyright 1987