On this date 85 years ago, the federal law was passed establishing a minimum wage, time-and-a-half pay for overtime, and proscribing child labor. And it all started with a pretty girl! What doesn’t? FDR was campaigning for re-election when a young girl was held back by security trying to pass him a note. He asked to see it, and was at first disappointed that it didn’t contain her phone number. He went on to read it nevertheless. It said “I wish you could do something to help us girls.” She described her pay in a sewing factory as just $4 per week. Yikes, that’s almost as bad as CUNY faculty salaries! Roosevelt decided then that he needed to act on child labor and minimum wage laws.
I couldn’t come up with a photo or name for that girl, but another story popped up — the Anna Sklepovich story (that was her real name). In 1941, Anna wrote a note to FDR wishing him a happy birthday and noting that they had the same birthday (Jan. 30). FDR’s secretary, Margaret LeHand, sent a nice note back to Anna. Here’s where things run off the rails: Anna’s brother intercepted the note and added a phony invitation to the White House at the bottom. He must have done a convincing job, because two days before the birthday, Anna took a train to DC (from Gary, West Virginia), and showed up at The White House! FDR’s staff explained that the invitation part of the note was a scam, and settled her in with the DC police for the night and arranged a trip home for her.
Bummer, right? Well, that’s not the end of it. The story hit the press and FDR read about it the next morning. He had his staff transfer Anna to a fancy hotel and arranged for her to visit him for real (they talked about fishing), and to attend his birthday party. That’s Anna on the left and ER on the right with the knife.
Lana Turner is standing next to Anna and a bit of a flap arose between them. According to Anna, Turner was not happy with Anna stealing some of her limelight and pushed her aside for the photo. Anna told the press, “She poked me in the ribs and tried to get me to move out of the way.” She added that Lana “isn’t so pretty. She’s artificial-looking.” ER smoothed things over. Here’s a shot of Lana — you decide.
The puzzle today was roundly disliked by Rex and most of the Commentariat, who I thought went a little overboard. It included the following great clue/answer at 81D. The clue was “Stop hiding behind?” The answer was MOON. (Get it?) (Think tuchas. When you moon someone, you stop hiding your behind.)
Another good one was at 72A: “Famous drawing of a ship?” The answer was SIREN SONG. (The Siren “draws” the ship to her.)
I was glad Rex rated it “challenging” because I crashed at several points and couldn’t finish. I didn’t know BRIAN MAY (79A) — he’s the “Lead guitarist of Queen, who has a PhD in astrophysics.” (Wow!)
97A also nailed me: “Like much prized blue-and-white porcelain.” It turned out to be MING ERA, a WOE for me (what on earth?).
And 75D, “Old timer” turned out to be SAND GLASS. Ouch. (Like hourglass: Old timekeeper.) The letters I had led me to SANDAL ASS, which I like better. It seems like a good name for a 70-year old (“old timer”) who spends a lot of time in the sun. Hey Sandal Ass — pass the Fresca!
The baseball fans among you may have heard that the LA Angels beat the hapless Rockies last night 25 to 1. LA scored 13 runs in the 3rd inning and 8 more in the 4th. It was 25-0 going into the bottom of the 8th but Colorado rallied for a run. All the runs were earned: the Rockies made no errors. The third Rockie pitcher gave up 9 runs and may have felt he was drowning: His name is Noah (Davis). Glug, glug.
The 21 total runs scored in the 3rd and 4th innings tied the all-time record for runs scored in two consecutive innings — it was only done once before: By the Pirates on June 6, 1894.
Rockies’ infielder Mike Moustakas didn’t play in the game, but after watching it, he said, “Shit, I’d rather be on that team.” So he was traded to the Angels. [I made up the quote, but the trade did occur.] Here’s Mike with his pretty wife Stephanie. Start packing, Steff!
This poem from today’s Writer’s Almanac is by David Romtvedt and is called “Sunday Early Morning.” (It’s a week late for Father’s Day, but I’m in a forgiving mood.)
My daughter and I paddle red kayaks
across the lake. Pulling hard,
we slip easily through the water.
Far from either shore, it hits me
that my daughter is a young woman
and suddenly everything is a metaphor
for how short a time we are granted:
the red boats on the blue-black water,
the russet and gold of late summer’s grasses,
the empty sky. We stop and listen to the stillness.
I say, “It’s Sunday, and here we are
in the church of the out of doors,”
then wish I’d kept quiet. That’s the trick in life—
learning to leave well enough alone.
Our boats drift to where the chirring
of grasshoppers reaches us from the rocky hills.
A clap of thunder. I want to say something truer
than I love you. I want my daughter to know that,
through her, I live a life that was closed to me.
I paddle up, lean out, and touch her hand.
I start to speak then stop.
The poet David Romtvedt’s daughter, by coincidence, is (like mine) named Caitlin, which she spells “correctly.” He is 73, was born in Portland, OR, and grew up in ‘Zona (see pic, below). He lives, writes, and teaches in Wyoming with his wife, Margo Brown, who is a potter. When she says something funny, his response is “Stop! You’re kiln me!” [No it isn’t.][Carl! — Send more pottery puns!]
This is for those of you, who, like me, would like to read another one of his poems about his Caitlin. It’s called “Surprise Breakfast.”
One winter morning I get up early
to clean the ash from the grate
and find my daughter, eight, in the kitchen
thumping around pretending she has a peg leg
while also breaking eggs into a bowl—
separating yolks and whites, mixing oil
and milk. Her hands are smooth,
not from lack of labor but youth.
She’s making pancakes for me, a surprise
I have accidentally ruined. “You never
get up early,” she says, measuring
the baking powder, beating the egg whites.
It’s true. When I wake, I roll to the side
and pull the covers over my head.
“It was too cold to sleep,” I say.
“I thought I’d get the kitchen warm.”
Aside from the scraping of the small flat shovel
on the iron grate, and the wooden spoon turning
in the bowl, the room is quiet. I lift the gray ash
and lay it carefully into a bucket to take outside.
“How’d you lose your leg?” I ask.
“At sea. I fell overboard in a storm
and a shark attacked me, but I’m fine.”
She spins, a little batter flying from the spoon.
I can hear the popping of the oil in the pan.
“Are you ready?” she asks, thumping to the stove.
Fork in hand, I sit down, hoping that yes,
I am ready, or nearly so, or one day will be.
Thanks for dropping in.
The Wellington Files 