The Rest of Methland with some New York Times Fun!

                METHLAND!

Lori Arnold in an article for The Sun. Picture from the Internet.

         Two words. Lori. Arnold. She was introduced at the end of part one and I can't believe it.  She was dirt poor and became a millionaire by selling meth. I hope no one reads Methland and gets that idea! An image I keep thinking about is the walls of her house stuffed with money. It was shocking that she went back into the business after she was arrested and charged. I read an article on Lori and it was interesting to read about her side of the story.
           When Nick Reding talked about mirror imaging, it made me frustrated to think that Sudafed, Actifed, and Benadryl were being looked at to change it's molecular structure. They'd be doing all that work because of meth addicts. I didn't know that the small percentage of addicts purchasing these medicines would make such an impact on the companies. Larry Murphy seems to be the most sensible person so far. He sees the problem, knows what caused it, and he is motivated to help rebuild Oelwein. Instead of changing the ingredients in medicines or busting every meth lab, he knows that starting with providing steady jobs with benefits is the right step. He knows that Oelwein doesn't need any more meat-packing plants or low-paying jobs with no benefits.


           I thought the beginning of Methland was more interesting and more fast paced. Towards the end it's been more information and facts. It's interesting but I loved the stories that Reding gave us. The Combat Meth Act was really interesting to me and was a great step towards controlling meth being produced. Pseudo companies have cut their production by two-thirds (from 1,130 tons to 275 tons). WOW!


            I liked the ending of the book with Murphy talking to his wife about what he saw in the suburban home. The last sentence is something I have to agree with. "How do you stop it if you can't even see it--if you can't even imagine it?" If I had the chance to go into a meth lab and see what it would look at, I would definitely do it. I'm so curious. We've been learning about meth for the second half of the semester and it's hard to imagine what the stories are talking about. I think it would be fun to have a recovered addict talk to our class about their addiction.


                 NEW YORK TIMES! (Click titles for the NYT articles!)

Learning to Play the Game to Get Into College

         I picked this article as an example for literary journalism, because they turned a story about a program called Let's Get Ready into something a lot more inspiring. They talk about two students, Jessica Charles and most importantly, Nathaly Lopera. They take a close look at Nathaly's life and her background and how she has been a hard working student. Since elementary school, Nathaly has been up and ready to get on her school bus at 6:30 am. After her school activities, she gets home as late as 10:00 pm. THEN she starts studying.

Nathaly Lopera studying. A pic from the article!

           Let's Get Ready is a free SAT Preparation for low-income students from all socio-economic backgrounds. Michael Winerip, the writer of this article, did a good job talking about this program by taking real students who struggle and try hard to continue on to higher education. He got quotes from her teachers who helped her along the way. It's an inspiring story and it opens my eyes that not everyone has the resources that I get.

At Prep School, Rolling Up Sleeves and Working the Soil

        This article is a good example of literary journalism, because it talks about the farm-to-table movement that has been recognized at private schools. For example, the Hotchkiss School, "a prestigious coeducational prep school," is returning to its roots and incorporating agriculture into its curriculum. Not only do students learn about the landscaping, they are using the fresh produce for their dining halls. The sauteed kale, parmesan roasted potatoes, zucchini squares, mixed salad greens, squash soup, pickled beets, braised parsnip, buttered carrots, green beans, and onions are all from their harvest.

        This article shows good literary work through its descriptions. I love this sentence, "The new students hiked up to the farm from campus, and shortly after, Mr. Hicks cajoled them into digging up the soil with their hands. They obliged. But the wrist-deep discovery of earthworms elicited shrieks of disgust, and the bulbous acron squash drew quizzical looks for some." It has great visual and I enjoyed the article very much! Very interesting.

A photo from the article shows students going out to gather food. Picture from NYT.

Reporters Meet the Fists of the Law

        This article started off explaining how New York cops have "arrested, punched, whacked, shoved to the ground, and throwing barriers" at reporters and photographers. I realized it was a possible literary piece, because Michael Powell (the writer of the article) began using the word "I." He writes, "I've run across the Brooklyn Bridge as protesters tossed bottles at cops, stood inside illegal squats on the Lower East Side as police massed outside..." I really enjoyed his take on the problem. He didn't put his opinion about the problem in his article, he added facts about his own position as a reporter.

          

          The best part of this article was a report on the reporters. It's rare to read a story on what they go through and it's refreshing! Reminds me of when my professor Valica Boudry has told us that in the past she has gotten punched for trying to take pictures of her subject.

         "As the police carried of a young protestor whose head was covered in a crown of blood, a photographer stood behind a metal barricade and raise his camera. Two officers ran at him, grabbed the barrier and struck him in the chest, knees, and shins."

Story One

THE SCRAPBOOK 
A Woman's Pursuit to Unite Generations

There was no way I was going to email him. “Caley, please do this for me.” My mom always gets caught up in things like this. “It’ll take five minutes.” I open my computer and type in the name Joel Maturi followed by the University of Minnesota. Being the athletics director of the University of Minnesota, he has many accomplishments and is well known. My mom wants me to send him an email asking him if he knew a guy with the same last name as him, even though she knew he is a busy man. “Mom, this is ridiculous.”

January 13, 1995—it was a cold, dark evening. The stillness of the air outside 7500 West Lake St. made the house seem a little too quiet. There was no life inside, almost making it seem like the house, too, had no life. My great grandfather, Chet Isaacson, passed away after being sick. My dad (who was the executor of the estate), his sister and her husband, my mom, and my dad’s parents met outside the house to go through it and pick out who gets what. The house smelled of cedar and the distinct aroma of antiques. On the main level, they started sorting through the silverware, china, vases, and other furniture that was valuable. They walked up into the attic and turned right around, disregarding it, knowing that there wasn’t anything good to take. As they stayed on the main level and went through the items, my mom went back to the attic. The dark, musty room had a twin bed with an old dresser next to it. The slanted ceiling that peaked in the middle made the room comfortable for no more than one. Not finding anything she liked so far, she went to the closet and pulled the string to turn on the single light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. Beneath the hanging clothes and in the corner she found a worn leather-bound book with “Graduation Memories” engraved on the front. Underneath it were two yearbooks that dated back to 1926 and 1927. These were the types of belongings she was looking for.  

She carefully flipped through the scrapbook and was stunned. A girl in her high school years had put it together. She couldn’t believe how detailed it was. Every page was full. There were photos, dance cards, commencement cards and programs, rosters, party hats, etc. And it was all from the 20’s. She picked up the scrapbook and yearbooks and hurried downstairs to show everyone the treasure she had found. “Look everybody! Look what I found!” After a couple uh-huh’s and subtle nods, they continued what they were doing. My mom took a seat on the couch and explored her find. A couple hours had passed and the families started to leave. My mom asked if anyone wanted the scrapbook and they hardly looked up to say no. My mom thought she had scored. In her eyes, she had found the best possession in the house.

She’s always been interested in history. But not the type of history of how the car evolved or how the civil war ended. She likes the history of individuals. Like at an antique store, she’s likely reading the postcards that were sent a hundred years ago between friends, or picking up an old perfume bottle and imagine who used it last. She’s goofy. It wasn’t until I was ten years old that we became really close. My rebellious sister who is eight years older than me moved out and my parents divorced. My mom and I had all the time in the world together after that. It was almost as if we were really getting to know each other for the first time. We took road trips together, mostly to Brainerd or Duluth. We’d talk the whole way up. When we weren’t talking, she’d blast the music, preferably classic rock. When we really got into it, she’d take out her harmonica from the center console and play like she was born a rock star. Even though I rolled my eyes nine out of ten times, I secretly enjoyed it.

For weeks, every night she would pull out the scrapbook she found and look at it. Eventually my dad thought my mom was too obsessed, almost getting frustrated that she would spend the time before she went to sleep looking at some old book. Eventually, my mom went from reading it every night to once a month. She didn’t forget about it though. She took it out every once in a while just to imagine what it was like back then. The scrapbook was put together by Julia Isaacson, my great grandfather’s sister. Her family was from Chisholm, Minnesota, graduating in 1926 from Chisholm High School. Julia collected items from her school, such as programs from plays, newspaper articles, tickets from events, a collection of commencement cards of her classmates, and graduate booklets. Other items included party hats, paper flowers, used cigars, holiday cards, membership tickets, photos, dance cards, and hand written notes.

Throughout the scrapbook there was a name that kept appearing—Babe. My mom figured it was another one of her best friends. “Babe and I went to the lake today and stayed out til midnight…Babe and I spent the day in Duluth…Babe and I went to the dance together.” It was only a matter of time until my mom figured out that Babe was in fact a boy. His name was on all her dance cards along with the other boys’ names and written notes that said, “I danced with Babe Maturi all night.” There was an arrow drawn in the scrapbook pointing to a handkerchief saying it was Babe’s and there was an old cigar that said next to it, “Smoked this with Babe.” A commencement card revealed his real name as Alfred B. Maturi. What didn’t make sense to my mom was that he wasn’t pictured in the yearbook with Julia’s class, so she figured he graduated ahead of them.

My mom looked over every item and pieced Julia’s life together. She found out things like who her friends were, where she lived, and that her mother died when Julia was young. She also figured that she had moved in with her uncle and was raised by him because her father had died at a young age as well. Other items showed that she was a great swimmer, was popular in her class, and she danced to all the songs during school dances.

In January 2011, my mom was reading an article in the Star Tribune. There was an article on the University of Minnesota and their sports program. The athletics director Joel Maturi was featured. Something clicked. The name Maturi had appeared in the paper and said he was from Chisholm, MN. “Gosh, I wonder if the Maturi that I have seen in the scrapbook is related to him.” She couldn’t imagine more than one Maturi family from the same town. “Caley, you have to email him and ask who his dad is!” My mom, who is a hairstylist, barely touches computers. I doubt she knows how to turn one on. She needed my help with figuring out how to get a hold of Joel Maturi. “I lost my dad and if anyone had anything of his, I would cherish it.” Being a stubborn daughter, I finally got my computer and emailed Joel Maturi to the email address that the U of M site gave me. All I knew was that I was emailing a big-named guy from the U of M asking if he’s related to a name mentioned in an old book my mom kept in her closet.

January 5, 2011

Mr. Joel Maturi,

   I have a scrapbook from 1926. There is some memorabilia of an Alfred B. Maturi. If it's a relative of yours and you’re interested in getting some items of his, I would love to send them to you.

Thanks, Jane Bakeman

By the next day, Joel Maturi emailed us back:

Jane,

   Thanks for the email.  My Dad was Alfred Maturi and I would love anything you may have.  Thanks for thinking of me.

Joel Maturi

My mom was so excited she had found a match in the names. Going through the scrapbook once more, she marked the pages that had the name Maturi and Babe on them. Instead of taking just the item off the page, she took out the whole page for him, totaling around ten pages of memorabilia of his dad and anything else that was on it. She got a shoebox together and with the pages, she included the yearbook he graduated in. Even though he wasn’t pictured, there were ads in the back, showing the businesses and shops around Chisholm at that time, including a meat market owned by a Maturi. There were also pins and buttons ranging in size of Chisholm high school, Calvin Coolidge (the president at the time), and the University of Minnesota. Along with the items, my mom put a note in the box.

Mr. Maturi,

      I was so excited to hear that Babe was your dad. I’ve had this 25 plus page scrapbook for years and every now and then I would look through it and feel like I almost knew some of these people. I love the era. My first husband’s grandfather’s sister (got that?) put this book together. Her name was Julia Isaacson. She and her brother Chet graduated together. Your father must have graduated in 1926 or earlier, because he isn’t in the yearbook, but I thought you’d like looking at it. In the back there are ads that mention your name. I tagged the pages where your father is mentioned. I also left the rest of the memorabilia on the scrapbook pages. It’ fun to see some of the old cards, articles, programs, etc. My favorite find is your dad’s handkerchief—what a treasure. So enjoy looking back in time and remember your father.

Jane Bakeman

Within a couple days later, my mom received a hand written note back from him.

Jane,

     Thank you for the box of memories. My wife and I enjoyed looking through them. I’m anxious to share them with the family. Thanks for taking the time.

Joel Maturi

That’s it? Now what? Her story had come to an end. My mom was glad he wrote back, even though it wasn’t as exhilarating as she thought. Through years of looking through this scrapbook, she had learned about the life of a teenage girl from the 1920’s. She had passed almost half of the scrapbook to a stranger. My mom hoped that he appreciated it as much as she would if she had received some of her own father’s memorabilia.

About six weeks later, my mom got a call from her sister, Amy, who lives in Brainerd, MN. She knew the story of the scrapbook and how my mom sent items to Maturi. “He’s going to be in town, Jane.” Maturi was going to be at a fundraiser in Brainerd to meet with the head coach of their football team. “I’m going to this event, and if he’s there I’m going up to him and ask about what you sent.” My mom was so excited. She didn’t know if he had forgotten about it. When the night finally came, my aunt called my mom and told her she was on her way. It had become a mission for Amy to talk to Maturi.

The goal was for Amy to ask Maturi what he thought about the box of items my mom had sent. My mom kept busy while she waited to hear back from her sister. She put in An Affair to Remember, a movie from 1957. My mom could never sit down to watch a full movie. She’s too hyper. She’ll put one in, but she’ll never watch the whole thing.  And there was no way she could concentrate on one at that point. She put a load in the washer, and folded the load coming out of the dryer. Back in the kitchen, the smell of chicken a la king filled the air. My mom stirred in the peas and pimentos to add to the taste. She went to the living room and sat down. Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr shared a kiss on the screen. She got back up. My mom couldn’t figure out what to do. Every ten minutes my mom checked her phone, almost like a teenage girl anticipating a text from a boy. After an hour passed, not wanting to wait any longer, she called Amy. Her phone was off. It went straight to voicemail and my mom left a short message. “Is he not there or what’s the deal? Let me know.”

As more time passed, my mom’s hopes started to dwindle. There goes that opportunity, she thought. She knew she was never going to get the chance to meet him, she would at least hope that Amy would. She could almost hear the phone conversation, “Sorry Jane, he didn’t show up.” My mom started to feel down. The thank you note my mom received from Maturi didn’t sound like he was thrilled. Had she misjudged the situation? Was it not as remarkable as she thought it was? It wasn’t about thankfulness to her. She just wanted to know if the treasure was seen in the light that she had seen it in.

The movie was coming to an end. Her laundry was done. And dishes were stacked in the kitchen sink. She started to fill the sink with hot water and the phone rang. My mom ran to the phone and answered it with her wet hands covered in suds. She heard Amy’s voice on the other end. “He was there! I talked to him!” My mom felt like she had won the lottery. Butterflies fluttered inside her. Amy explained to my mom that she had gone right up to him when she saw him. She asked him about the box of memorabilia of his father that he had received and that it was from her sister. He called out to his wife, who was talking to a group of women. “Lois! Lois get over here!” After explaining to his wife why this woman, my aunt, had come up to him, Maturi’s wife became overjoyed. “Jane, I can’t tell you how excited they were,” Amy explained to my mom. “They couldn’t stop saying how excited they were to have shared it with their family.” My mom glowed. This is what I needed, she thought.

My aunt continued and told my mom that she asked Maturi about why his dad wasn’t in the yearbook. Around the time that the class of ’26 was getting their pictures taken, his father was hit by a train. For months after that, he was at the Mayo Clinic in rehab, recovering from the accident, not knowing if he’d ever be able to use his legs again. Since he was gone so long, maybe that was the answer to the mystery between Julia and Babe and why they didn’t stay together, my mom thought. She couldn’t thank Amy enough. Amy was able to tell my mom about the raw emotion Maturi had. It was exactly what my mom was yearning for.

My mom went to bed that night on top of the world. She knew she had done the right thing. Her story had come to an end, but in the right way. She couldn’t help but think that maybe somewhere out there, in an old house, upstairs in the attic, in the corner, and between some pages would be something of her father’s and it won’t be mistaken for just an old book.



The cover of the scrapbook (left) and one of the pages in it.
Picture taken by Jane Bakeman.

More pages of the scrapbook. Picture taken by Jane Bakeman.





My aunt Amy Ryan, left, stands next to Joel Maturi and his wife
Lois at the banquet in Brainerd. Taken after talking to him about
the scrapbook. Picture taken by Bob Ryan.

My mom, Jane Bakeman.
Photo taken by Caley Jorgensen.