The Year of the Tweet

I conducted my own impromptu poll of those described by me as “The Thumbers” – those people who successfully communicate through electronic devices by the use of one thumb on each hand, used singularly or in tandem, with reckless abandon.
 

As a casting director, what I do for a living is called profiling. My question posed to all who are part of the “thumbing society” is, what do you derive as being so pleasurable about what you call “tweeting?”

• Why is it called a tweet?

• Why not call it a burp, or a slurp; or what about stealing a baseball term and call your tweet a bunt?

•  Is a bad tweet a possible foul ball? You might call it a charm. In that way, when some person not in your “thumbing crowd” inquires about what you’re up to, you could reply by saying, “I’m charming.”

There was a time period when the term “Thumbing” had to do with hitchhiking, or hitching a ride with somebody.

Carrying on, whether some like it or not, in my era of baseball an umpire who threw a player out of the game was described as having given him the thumb.

As a soldier going off to battle, his friends and relatives might have offered him thumbs up. By and large, thumbs have always been a congenial digit. If a buffoon gives another buffoon a digital expletive it will usually be a finger other than a thumb.

And…speaking of thumbs, during this latest industrial travel gamut of mine, I familiarized myself with the art of the tweet. My first discovery was that a tweet must never be confused with anything remotely considered an art form. If Rembrandt were alive today, I doubt if he would ever consider doing a tweet. 

For sure, he used his full strong right arm, as opposed to his thumbs when he created his masterpieces. The same would definitely apply to George Gershwin. You be the judge, ten talented fingers compared to two thumbs usually being supported in one’s lap as they perform their tweeting.

According to reports, everyone in the world is a tweeter.  Come to think of it, tweet must be international because there is no such word in most of the languages of the world. So where in the name of you-know-what did the name tweet come from? 

Well, I looked it up, and now I feel really dumb about the whole thing.

It did come from a bird chirping. The logo for the company running this worldwide event actually has a bird designating what they do. The number of tweets being sent each and every day of the week totals in the millions, and they predict it will be billions in short order.

I wonder if it would be a polite gesture to walk up unannounced to a stranger, and enquire if they tweet? Would they indignantly offer, “Go tweet yourself?”

Kim Choo: Lost and Never Found

The northern outreaches of Korea were an abstraction on my own and very personal, daily canvas. They were almost all surreal days for me. 

At age nineteen, my only self-recognizable skills were those that had been God-gifted to me as an athlete. It had never occurred to me that reading and seeing were all part of the form that would ultimately play the leading role for all my life. I guess at age nineteen, the number of items on my personal lists of life, though not yet discernable, would have read and resembled the girth of a telephone book of a fairly large town.

You don’t have to be a boy of nineteen in order for wars of any kind to not make sense. Not liking war was the single strongest bonding point for American troops – without exception. Age had nothing to do with it. Boys of eighteen as well as the oldest of the seasoned veterans of many worldwide encounters had the same chapter and verse in common; to a man, we hated it.

Moms and Dads, whose dream was to send their boys and girls into harm’s way, were nonexistent. It was a given; fear was the order of the day. Every element of life for a soldier, young or old, was a constant retort that reached to new heights requiring more than any preparations allowed for.         

And, with fear came an ever-present enjoinment and numbness along with simultaneous exaggerations of my senses. Alterations to sight and sound often inexplicably distorted. The heat and humidity of July were an unforeseen luxury when compared to the grotesqueness of everything else surrounding us.

I remember how we stood around one day, soaked to the skin though it hadn’t been raining. It was before the days of heat or cold weather indexes. Our motor pool humidity thermometer registered 100 percent humidity along with a 108-degree temperature reading. Just when a guy is as scared as he thinks it’s possible to get, along comes an incident blunting out fear and replacing it with a new distraction. This time we rebounded, becoming one, as a conversation of how miserable we were took the place of fear, if only for a momentary respite. 

Big Joe, from “The Windy” (that would be Chicago), came upon a small detachment of us as we desperately involved ourselves with digging in to get as far beneath the earth’s surface as quickly as we could. For those of you who don’t understand the term “digging in,” simply stated it means attempting to save our asses from being blown off.

Big Joe stuck that Chicago-smiling head down into our hole and said, “This fucking stinks, don’t it?”

We all began laughing hysterically.

I guess it was one of those times when in order to understand the humor of the moment you would’ve had to have been there. Laughing beats crying for sure; it certainly beats the hell out of fear, if only as a small diversion.

It didn’t last long.

I felt the sick eerie feeling return in short order, once again being announced by the merciless man-made tirades of inhumanity.

Three days later, Monday, July 27, 1953 at 9 PM, restoration of somewhat normal bodily functions began to return; the Korean War had been suspended. Some called it a police action. Who cares what they called it. Pain and suffering will always be pain and suffering, not a laughing matter.

480,000 U.S. troops fought in the Korean War: 36,940 killed, 103,000 wounded, 8,142 MIA, and 3,746 POW.

Today, I choose to remember other things. Things that do fall into the category of what American boys and girls are trained for. What I recall are the happenings, the product of pride and pure-to-the-core Americanism.

Let’s get to my personal admissions before scribing a further retrospective of a little boy and the country, which along with him has raised itself from the ashes of a war-torn society.

Following one of the coldest winters on record, we celebrated the 1954 New Year in traditional Army outpost fashion. The Army airlifted everything imaginable to make our New Year’s dinner far more than merely palatable. It was one of those famous all-you-can-eat affairs. 

By now, I had been moved from 38 miles north of the 38^th parallel to the capital city of South Korea – Seoul. I was assigned to an engineer company, spending days and often nights repairing the Korean infrastructure.

One marvelous spring morning I was excited over a new directive, which was summarily read to us by our rather nasty company commander. It was official word from Eighth Army Headquarters.

“To all personnel serving in the Far East Command, we will be forming baseball teams from the officers and men of the Korean Theater of operations. Teams will be chosen from those serving any and all battalions and at Division levels.”

Our company commander immediately made his personal announcement stating that no one under his command would be allowed to try out for the group baseball team. In my mind, I instantly uttered the words, “eat me,” along with a few other gems I had gleaned during my life’s travels to date.

At the time, my daily work assignment was that of a 10-ton bridge truck driver. If you don’t know anything about trucks, just trust me. It’s one big truck.

I knew if I showed up for the tryouts, I’d most likely run into a few other Southern Californians. I wasn’t disappointed. Service sports teams were a form of professional sports. At the time, our South Korean teams were the equivalent of a class “A” or “AA” league.

I was able to pull my huge truck onto the parade grounds where the tryouts were being held and, in short order some really good feelings once again stirred my emotions. There were more than a few guys from Los Angeles taking part. At first glance I recognized this was a formidable group to deal with.

The tryouts lasted about two weeks. The soldier picked to be the team’s starting catcher was a kid I had played ball against in high school. He made it a point to fill our team manager in with regards to my exploits as a baseball player and, low and behold, the next thing you know I was being called into our despicable company commander’s office.

I stood there at attention as he read me the riot act for disobeying his orders by trying out for the baseball team. He made it very clear he would be dealing with me when the season was over and I was ordered to come back to his company command. It was difficult for me to stand before him and not laugh in his face. I don’t know how I kept from doing so.

Now, it was really like the old days. When a guy makes any service team, preferential treatment is the order of the day. The bottom line was the government was paying me to play baseball.

I loved every minute of it.

***

The Army engineers made constructing baseball diamonds a top priority. It was the order of the day from Eighth Army Headquarters. Our team was assigned to an empty dormitory at one of the campuses of the University Of Seoul – South Korea’s finest educational facility. Life became quite pleasant.

When we played our games there seemed to be hordes of children hanging out. In our own limited way, we were rock stars. Koreans in general were great baseball fans. They knew and understood the game.

Exactly how 8 year-old Kim Choo came to us escapes my memory. He appeared one day out of nowhere. He was this unbelievable, cute little boy. Ragtag would be putting it mildly. His clothing barely covered his little body.

Kim Choo looked at us as if we were Gods. I’ll always remember his first day with us. We were on our way back from our second workout of the day. It was early spring and the team was doing two-a-days, in an attempt to round into shape for our season opener that was just around the corner. When we arrived back at the dorm, there he was, waiting for us huddled up against the side of the building.

My friend Bob was an instant ringleader. In nothing flat, the little boy was being taken care of by his own personal team of 20 guys not that much older than he was.

That night, Kim Choo slept in his own cot at the end of the dorm. The next morning, he joined his new adopted family being served in an Army mess hall. The little guy was a human beam of ecstatic light. Every one of us to the man enjoyed the sight of this little boy’s newfound welfare. What we were up to was against all rules and regulations. That is not to say the higher ups didn’t know about our adoptee.  Our officers in charge, along with our lead sergeants, were all in on playing the game. The fact is our group commander, a full colonel, had been a baseball player at West Point. It was the colonel’s doing which got all of us into such fine digs at the University dorm.

The next morning Bob began collecting money for the Kim Choo Fund. In short order, word got out that our division baseball team had adopted a Korean orphan. The money began to pour in. Nothing travels faster than word of mouth spread by American soldiers. Overnight Kim Choo went from ragtag to well dressed, including a tailored, matching baseball uniform. He traveled with us as our very proud batboy.

Quickly, Kim Choo was able to communicate with us in his own version of broken English. A Korean professor at the University recommended we get Kim Choo into the grade school the faculty had set up for their own children. It was a private school and had to be paid for. It was no problem a kid with all those Fathers taking care of him. At first, Kim Choo resisted going to school but after a while, he enjoyed how the other kids loved having a real live batboy as a fellow student.

The last time I saw Kim Choo was in the winter of 1954. He had come to visit with me at my new assignment as the head of an engineer supply point. My ex-company commander never did get to get even with me. The West Point Colonel found out (from me) what the mean company commander was planning and saw to it that I had as good a job as the Army had to offer.

As for Kim Choo, I never saw his face again. We had all continued to look in on his welfare for quite some time. The excess money turned out to be enough to get him all the way through high school and well into college.

That was 58 years ago. Today, the then little Kim Choo would be 67 years of age. It was a proud moment for all of us. I’m sure somewhere out there other soldiers have given some thought from time to time about our little batboy. But you know what… if it wasn’t us and a little boy named Kim Choo, it was many other American men and women who would have proved representatives of our country and what we’re really all about.

It is reported the South Korean people have prospered as a capitalistic society. Their hospitals, factories, schools, and yes, even their baseball teams are something to behold. I somehow think a mature man named Kim Choo has had a great deal to do with it.

 

 Kim Choo, circa 1954 

 

Seoul City Stadium: That’s da harv, circa 1953. 

There were 30,000 Korean baseball enthusiasts in attendance.

A day I will always cherish.

Rarely an Epilogue

And now a secret: rarely do I write an epilogue. Choosing to look at what has actually transpired isn’t particularly difficult for me. Like in accounting as a business practice – it is what it is – no more, no less. But when it comes to the unknown, that’s a different mindset requirement as far as I’m concerned.

The little boy known to me only as Kim Choo was an integral performer in my life, as my life transformed itself. From boy to man, from fear to happiness, from uncertainty to at least a modicum of belief in the future, this little boy helped to dissuade cynicism from taking hold.

While I do have great curiosity regarding how he turned out as a man, I take solace in the fact we few American soldiers offered this little guy a helping hand for one reason only: joy. Complete and unabridged.

To a man, none of us had an ultimate goal or the slightest thrust of self-service. There wasn’t a politician amongst us when it came to Kim Choo. I doubt if many of us knew what an ulterior motive was. The bottom line quite simply was a little kid looking up to some bigger kids.

If I were able to write what I pray happened for Kim Choo, the epilogue would be short and meaningful, and with my personal ulterior motive.

Perhaps, he turned out to be the man and contributing citizen I know he was capable of becoming.  

The Bullshit Brigade

Membership is free just about anywhere in the free, or not so free, world.

There they be, gathered together: nonsectarian, sectarian, agrarian, religious, persuasions of every imaginable ilk; cut evenly or torn in unmistakably boorish fashion; clear-skinned yet unmercifully pocked by every imaginable disease of deceitful presentation devised by their fellow man.

The colors of the rainbow outdone by an equally assertive arbiter of life unexplained.

In no predetermined order: black, not really black, brown, not really brown, white, well not really white unless you’re a house (like in Washington D.C.). Of course, all the devised colors of the rainbow actually do nothing as a helping hand when trying to glean the inspirational depth of a man’s heart or mind. Like all the vast majority of words relayed to us through the centuries, describing a man’s intellectual worth by the mere use of a color exemplifies the true meaning of non sequitur.

Men and women, boys and girls, aunts and uncles, mothers and fathers, grandparents, and those without parents, assembled by their own free will. Friends and enemies blended together worldwide in what has become known to all. Injected uncommonly by buttons, so soft and soundless but still unconsciously able to notify the world by the simple use of the ugliest of fingers. Without the benefit of Herald Angels singing, our society has become accustomed to a new form of athleticism: Dexterous Thumbs. Dexterous Thumbs are the odorless conductor of our latest blemish: the text or texting.

Thusly, comes a new art form of continuous bullshit.

From thumbs to keyboard, to sight or sound, it comes without the necessity of formal research.

Allowable Dictums of Today’s Society

• No real education required

• None desired



• Music of this day

• Lacking candlelight

• Dancing without touching



• Electricity is profound



• No reading, just sound

• Who’s Hemingway anyway?

• Thank goodness he’s not around!



• I love my thumbs

• But give me a break (I don’t mean my thumbs)



• When there’s need to pick up leaves

• Reach for a rake (texting won’t help you!)


Please attempt to understand my salient position points:

• I hate my cell phone.

• I hate my fax machine.

• People in general annoy me.

• Did I mention how I dislike politicians? (Sorry about the redundancy; I do suppose most politicians fall into the people category.)

“In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule.”
Friedrich Nietzsche

So you will please take pity on me, and try to excuse my biased abstract. In other words, “What in the name of hell is da harv ranting about now?” If you think I’m truly ranting, I resent your assertions.

Here’s my point, in a proverbial nutshell…. By the way, too bad they don’t sell proverbial nuts at the local grocers; we’d all be better off. Right now, our lives would be better served if we used terms more succinctly stated. What if everyone in your day-to-day carryings managed total candidness? Supposing you asked an important, or not so important, question of another human being (as opposed to talking to your pet, especially an arrogant cat) and said other human being responded with total truth.

What a concept! No ciphering; no delays. You are able to listen, unencumbered and not distraught over realigns of what you might have had planned for your day, or week, or month, or perhaps even the rest of your life. Now, extrapolate the condition you find yourself in. Permit me to explain the scene I’ve concocted for you. When I speak of people annoying me, my feelings could be translated by me saying, “People waste my time by not being candid and by not listening or showing any degree of concentration concerning what I have to say.”

(Especially where actors are concerned) The non-listener and confirmed fibber is usually a charter member in any number of local, regional, and or national “Bullshit Brigades.”

“What it boils down to is chain pulling. Pulling a person’s chain causes pain.”
HK

During a five-minute brief confab with a supposed close friend or neighbor, that neighbor proceeds to tell you a variety of little white lies. Let’s say you’re loss is no more than five minutes. But here’s what we know for sure: those five minutes are gone forever.

But it’s much more serious than that. What about the neighbor? He or she has also been lost to the world for an equal amount of time. Make that a total of ten minutes between the two of you. Multiply it out. How many folks do you come in contact with each and every day who infringe on your life cycle?

NOTE: The older you become the more credence you will give to the little slice of life I have depicted.

“Boy I wish I could have that to do all over again.”

(You and a lot of other people.)

Backpacks & Kazoos

Often, the sheer brilliance of my staff of colleagues is mind-boggling or, if nothing else, at least hard to fathom. Believing the premise that timing is everything, then consider an office where its players launch into a seemingly obtuse conversation regarding the origin and merits of backpacks and kazoos.

The fact that last night, some 50 million folks were officially glued to their television sets in an earnest attempt to hear and understand every word being uttered by Barack Obama, the President of the United States, and his adversary Governor Mitt Romney, didn’t dissuade an early morning launching of our staff’s latest query…

When did so many people begin donning backpacks and where did the kazoo come from?

Some less than understanding people might think of us as softheaded; others might merely contort their facial expression in a visual display of contempt.  Still others might choose to ignore our research with the ultimate label of foolhardy bestowed as their offering of stipulated contempt.

I would like to point out in defense of my office, my colleagues, and myself, ours is a vital endeavor. Think for a moment what the result would have been last evening if either of the presidential candidates had asked the other about the origin of the kazoo or, how a fad spread from country to country, around the world, became the most recognizable accoutrement since the advent of the black leather jacket or bobby socks.

Of course, I refer to the backpack. Every sniveling little monster on their way to or from school travels with the infamous backpack seemingly loaded with nothing but the best in research and necessary schoolbooks.

Perhaps for those who eventually match up to the scholarly demeanor of my Kalmenson & Kalmenson colleagues, there will be buried at the bottom of each of their backpacks… their very own, personal kazoo.

Pretzel

Noted people reference their Fathers as they answer the question: “What would your Father have said?”

My Father would have at least asked me what I meant by that. Dad always gave me a chance to explain.  He always felt he had so much more in life to learn, and not enough allotted time to soak it all up. The shame that I carry on my shoulders forever is a simple fact of most men’s lives: we often don’t recognize or acknowledge the gems in our possession until a much later time than those gems were ours to make use of.

***

The era was that of the twisted pretzel.

I mean the really, really twisted pretzel. And boy, oh boy were they large. In those days, a true pretzel had to be authenticated by a connoisseur. Us kids were all connoisseurs. The size of the pretzel was for sure of great significance, as was the correct amount of coarse salt sprinkled on top of it. While I don’t have the exact measurements of the earliest of pretzels, I do remember having a single pretzel as my lunch or dinner on any given day.

In my area of Brooklyn, New York, there were pretzel vendors all over the place. They pushed their two-wheel wagons into busy neighborhoods; some would hawk their wares by shouting out to people as they passed them on the street, while others were content to merely find a spot on a corner and wait for their trade to come by. The strange part about all this was their lack of formal identity. They were the Pretzel Guys. No names, just the Pretzel Guy.

“What does your husband do?”

Her response:

”Oh, he’s the Pretzel Guy,

A dignified man,”

Answering with a sigh.

Catering to his neighborhood’s needs,

Providing for the betterment of society.

His product twisted, so curiously designed;

Taste buds celebrating,

Though shape maligned.

Offering each, a child’s delight

For one thin and single dime.

Epicurean splendor,

Without candlelight, yet sublime.

Our Pretzel Guy was no more unique I guess than the average Pretzel Guy of his time. But he was ours; you heard me right, he was ours. We didn’t have anything handheld like calculators, radios, cell phones; digital things of any kind were non-existent. At night, we all came home and looked at the radio as we listened. I hate to admit to this, but our family didn’t have a refrigerator, a washer or dryer, or vacuum cleaner. 

When we finally made it big time, we celebrated our success as one of the first in the neighborhood to have a telephone. It was a thing called a party line. In most cases, there were three or four families who shared the same line. Each family had their own separate phone number, but if one of the other families happened to be on the line at the time someone was calling us, the person calling in would get a busy signal. 

You might imagine the confrontations that would arise when one of the folks on your party line was making a phone hog of themselves and refused to cut their call short when requested to do so. We all developed our own dialogue used to get the hog off the phone. It got to the point where everyone on a party line knew everyone else, and had a nasty retort or two as a comeback to almost anything being claimed. 

As an example, my older sister, impatient over waiting to make her own call to a friend, picked up the phone and in an impassioned tone pleaded with the party on the line: "My Father is having a seizure. Please get off the line so I can call for help.” 

You had to see the priceless expression on my sister's face when she heard the woman on the other end of the line yell out the tenement window, "Charlie you better run home! You’re having a seizure!” 

What a shame nothing like that can happen today. It’s what I refer to as a “lived-in experience.” Our possessions were our very own treasures, forever to be treasured. They came in many shapes, and forms, people and things not withstanding.

             

Aside from the similarity of one Pretzel Guy to another, there did exist some degree of showmanship and competition amongst these peddlers. There was one guy who played a harmonica and another who entertained the passersby with violin playing. Later on and way after the fact, it was explained to me that many of these street people were accomplished musicians who became Pretzel Guys because it was the only way they could make a living. It opened my eyes to many things that were the way of the world for immigrants of the era.

These men and women had a life’s assignment. They came to our country to prosper. Wow! How simple a phrase -- to prosper, to make it, to become a good American citizen. Family, country, and beliefs in a higher level of spirit were the universal credo of those who selected the United States of America as the destination that would provide an environment in which they could prosper. 

And though he pushed a pretzel wagon, he exuded a prideful nature. This to some may not have been considered a calling, but to our Guy his offerings weren’t merely a twisted piece of dough. He placed your pretzel carefully on a single piece of wax paper and handed it to each customer with a “denk you.”

Somehow, a feeling of mutual respect was on display. At the time, I was too young to understand what I was feeling about these people, human beings who shared my culture, who in their own way deeply influenced my life.

 

Our Guy wore an apron, and dependent on the time of year, followed the dictates of the whether regarding his selection of clothing. You might imagine a similarity of dress between all of the street vendors. One didn’t have to take a trip to Europe in order to get the flavor of their style. By and large, most of the street peddlers had a clean appearance. 

Many of the vendors, with all the different goodies we grew to love, operated their respective businesses on the east side on a street named Belmont Avenue. To this day, in my mind's eye, I can easily conjure a visualization recapturing the sights, sounds, and distinct smells of the place, especially in the summertime. Nothing expressly overpowering, but make no mistake…while it wasn’t a rose garden, it remains mine to treasure.

***

One day, close to the end of a well-played summer, my friends and I had vacated the local schoolyards and our ferocious schedule of having fun, in order to trek along with our Mothers to secure our clothing and school supplies for the upcoming, beginning of a new term of torture. In other words, back to school time was arriving far too quickly than any of us liked. 

 

As my Mom and I returned to our neighborhood after a long day of bargain hunting, I looked forward to having my favorite pretzel presented to me by my favorite Pretzel Guy. (It still remains hard to believe I never learned his name.) When we arrived at our Pretzel Guy's usual location, there was his pushcart but not our regular Pretzel Guy. When we asked about our Pretzel Guy’s whereabouts, we were told the new guy was only going to be there for a day or two and that our regular Pretzel Guy was away doing something for his family.

While the pretzel was the same, not having my friends alongside and not having my regular Pretzel Guy there, coupled with never enjoying my Mom’s company during meals, added to my less than normal ecstatic nature. Nevertheless, we ate and unceremoniously made our way home.

During this period of time, our family had taken up residence in our own home located on 94th Street, between Avenue A and B, in an area known as East Flatbush, Brooklyn. The houses were all built very close to one another, and all looked exactly the same. Each home was a two story duplex with an additional basement apartment. A narrow, single car width driveway between them separated the homes. My Mother was able to easily hold a conversation with our next-door neighbor across the driveway from us. 

So, there we were back at home, my Mom was preparing dinner for the family. My Father was about a half hour away from returning from work. I was on the front porch aimlessly looking down the street in an effort to drum up an early evening game of stickball before darkness set in. There wasn’t a friend in sight. As a matter of fact, it was unusually quiet for our street. 

I heard the strains of a violin playing in the distance. As I strained to see where the music was coming from, the familiar outline of a figure came towards our house. As he came closer, I began to recognize the man playing the violin. 

I ran into the house shouting,  “Ma, it’s the Pretzel Guy. Our Pretzel Guy is almost here!” 

My Mom yelled back at me, “It’ll ruin your dinner.” 

“You don’t get it Ma,” I said. “It’s our Pretzel Guy playing the violin!” 

With this, my Mother came quickly to the front of the house. By now, the Pretzel Guy was in the driveway between the two houses. Our Pretzel Guy was dressed in a suit and tie. In a minute or two, many of our neighbors had gathered around him in addition to those who stuck their heads out of the windows on our second floor. The piece he was playing came to an end and everyone applauded; some tossed change down into his outstretched cap. In a moment, he began playing another tune, but this time as he played he moved back down the driveway towards the street and ultimately to the next house in line.

When my Dad came home, I couldn’t wait to relate the story of our violin playing Pretzel Guy. My Father wasn’t the least bit surprised. He explained to me how the violin playing was our Pretzel Guy’s nighttime and weekend job. 

I was surprised and taken aback by this new revelation. But, it wasn’t the end of our Pretzel Guy’s surprises. I found out much later on that he was part of a group of men, each with their own special talents carried from the old country, which found an inability to support themselves and their families while in pursuit of their true, lifelong passions. The prideful lessons received by all who came in contact with them were never anything short of inspiring and, to many of us, empowering as well.

In the ensuing months and years, and up until the end of the world at war, many of these people indirectly became part of my life. From musicians to craftsmen in every imaginable field of endeavor, these immigrant men and women performed the services used and recommended by my family...

And, one day I came to understand what my Father meant when he allowed, “Charity begins at home.” I wonder if that was the reason he always insisted on buying American products. 

What would your Father have said?