what about the plastic animals?

Eugene Bullard Lived Here

80 East 116th Street was the home of Eugene Bullard, the first African-American military pilot.  Bullard grew up in Columbus, Georgia but left home at the age of eight.  Yes, eight.  He saved up the money he earned as a jockey and working odd jobs so he could travel to France (his father was from Martinique and Eugene spoke French at home).  At twelve Bullard stowed away on a ship bound for Scotland.

Bullard worked more odd jobs in Scotland and England and took up boxing.  The boxing circuit eventually led to France.  When World War I broke out Bullard joined the French Foreign Legion.  He saw action on many fronts before being seriously injured at Verdun.  Because of his injuries Bullard could no longer fight in the infantry. Instead he took up flying, first seeing action in September 1917 and registering two confirmed kills and possibly a third.  When the United States entered the war Bullard tried to join the US Army Air Service but was refused.

After the war Bullard was a French hero, married a Countess, had two daughters, owned a gym, and co-owned popular upscale nightclubs.  In 1939 he joined the French underground and was severely wounded while fighting the Germans in Orléans.  He was smuggled to Spain and eventually evacuated to the United States.  His daughters were able to leave France in 1941.

In New York Bullard worked many jobs, including as an interpreter for Louis Armstrong.  His final job was as an elevator operator at Rockefeller Center.  In 1949 Bullard was beaten by the state police in the second of the anti-communist Peekskill Riots.  Despite photographic evidence and film of the beating, nobody was charged in the beating.  In 1952 Bullard was severely beaten in a Harlem restaurant, losing his right eye.

In 1954 Bullard was invited to relight the Eternal Flame of the Tomb of the Unknown French Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe and in 1959 he was awarded the Legion d'Honneur, France's highest honor.  It wasn't until 1994, when the Air Force posthumously commissioned him as a 2nd lieutenant that the American military recognized Bullard's achievements.

I'm not sure when he moved to 116th and Park Avenue, but that's where he was living when he died on October 14th, 1961.  Bullard was buried with military honors in the Federation of French War Veterans Cemetery in Flushing.

Temperatures Across the State

Back in the good old days, one of the great pleasures of living in Lincoln was watching the weather on the local news.  Before cable was ubiquitous Channel 10/11 was the only local station that could be viewed in outstate Nebraska.

Every night at 6 and 10 the local news would begin with five minutes of weather.  The camera would lovingly pan its way across the handwritten map from Chadron in the panhandle to Falls City in the southeastern corner.  Bruce Kopplin would dutifully and monotonically read off the temperature of every single city on the map.  He once explained that he had to mention every city or the station got barraged with angry phone calls from the overlooked town.  Toward the end of my stay the station upgraded to a map with stick on temperatures.

It was with great disappointment that I saw the fancy new computer graphics.  There was no panning and the weather guy didn't mention every city.  So disappointing.  I was half-tempted to call the station and express my outrage that they had skipped McCook.

Lincoln Homes

17th and H St. (1983-1984)

2920 Q St. (1984-1988)

18th and F (1988-1990)

These are the three places I called home in Lincoln.

The first, was a fourth floor (upper right) furnished one-bedroom apartment in the Shurtleff Arms.  I think rent was $200/month.  In addition to the bed in the bedroom the living room had a murphy bed.  The building looks a lot better cared for now than when I lived there.

Fun facts: 

• It was 107 F (42 C) the day my father and I moved me into the fourth floor walk-up. 
• In all the excitement of moving to Nebraska I didn't think to ask about laundry.  For months I walked to a laundromat on the other side of the capitol until one cold day I saw a neighbor carrying laundry downstairs dressed only in shorts and a t-shirt.
• Once, while exhausted, I absent-mindedly only went up to the third floor, where I unlocked the door and took a step into the apartment below mine.  It was only when I heard a conversation in Chinese that I realized that I was in the wrong apartment.  That got me to wondering if one key opened all the apartments.

It is hidden by the tree on the right but the building was a block from the state capitol.  I often would cut through the parking lot -the state senator's parking lot- to get to 16th Street.  Two blocks away is the governor's mansion.  Bob Kerrey and Debra Winger were practically my neighbors!  Across H Street is the Kennard House -the oldest house in Lincoln.

The following year four of us graduate students shared the house on Q Street.  A house that will live in infamy after we held a housewarming party for ourselves and showed our guests the one 2x4 in the basement that was holding up the entire first floor.  I'm surprised it is still standing.

Jack and I had bedrooms on the second floor while Susan and Mary had theirs on the first.  Rent was $100/month each until January.  That's when we were joined by JW for half a year.  If I remember correctly, he and Jeff were kicked out of their apartment because it was to be demolished.

The Q Street house was on the edge of what was a bad neighborhood for Lincoln.  I didn't know it at the time but a kid named Joba Heath (later Chamberlain) lived just a few blocks away on Y Street.

That arrangement ran its course after a few years and I decamped back toward the capitol.  This time to the corner 18th and F Streets.  This was by far the nicest, and most expensive ($225/month!) place of the three.  I had half the first floor to myself.  Cherry wood cabinets in the kitchen and hallway.  It was quiet and there is a very nice little park at the end of the block.

The only thing I didn't like was the lack of a shower.  I was a bath-only person for a couple of years.  At least the tub was large.  The black-and-white hexagonal tiles on the bathroom floor were a bit much as well.  Especially on those nights when I came home after having a drink or two.

Following 18th Street I moved a few hundred miles east.  I hope this doesn't mean I have to make a visit to Saginaw to complete the former home series.

Culturally Significant

New graffiti in Harlem.  Is it a Banksy?  Jake doesn't think so.  Who put up the post-it notes?

The Plant Will Play

I watered my lily plant before leaving for work this morning.  This time lapse (picture every three minutes) shows how the lily moved during the day.

You can make your own time lapse movie, if you've got a Mac with a built-in camera, by downloading Gawker (the software, not the unrelated blog).

Sapp Brothers

The Sapp Brothers giant coffee pot -the true "Welcome to Nebraska" sign.  At one time this was the undisputed largest coffee pot in the world.  For Lincolnites and ex-Lincolnites the giant pot means you've successfully passed through the lesser city of Omaha and are now within an hour of home.

The Great Platte Valley

August 1983.  My father and I stopped at the first rest area in Nebraska to take a break before the last hour's drive to Lincoln.  This is my introduction to Nebraska.  A sign that says "The Great Platte Valley" and a perfectly flat landscape (click on the panorama to get a much larger version).  There was a discussion about the sign's accuracy as we didn't see a valley.  I was soon to the learn that the Platte was famous for being a mile wide and an inch deep.

In retrospect there was a much more significant, and noticeable, landmark about ten miles back.

Return to Harlan

Harlan is unusual for a county seat in that neither the main east-west or north-south streets pass through the center of town.  It might be a perfectly pleasant place but there’s little of interest to a tourist passing through on the way to Lincoln, so it was almost a surprise when I took a right at the sign that pointed to the business district.  I wasn’t hungry or thirsty and I didn’t need to take a break.  Maybe I was just curious, or maybe my thoughts were spinning back to a long ago December.

One Christmas break I decided to drive from Lincoln to New York rather than fly.  That way I could see a bit of the country and meet my friend Jay at the Out-R-Inn in Columbus.  All was going well when I get passed by a car somewhere in western Iowa.  The woman in the passing car’s passenger seat has a look of disgust as she stares at me.

“What’s wrong with her?” I thought.

I looked in my rear view mirror.  Smoke is pouring out of the Escort as far as the eye can see.  That’s pretty far on I-80 in western Iowa.  I pull over and see oil dripping off the engine.  There’s also a sign for a 24-hour service station at the next exit, a mere mile away.  I drive slowly to the service station.

“My car blew a lot of oil back there, can you take a look?”

“I’m not working on cars today.”  So much for the 24-hour service.  “There’s a Ford dealer up in Harlan, though.  I can refill your oil and you should be able to make it.”

Off I go to Harlan.  A couple miles up the road the car starts making giant sucking sounds.  It’s the transmission that’s blown, not the engine.

I don’t remember much about Harlan but that the Ford dealer was on a side street just off the courthouse square.

The service department takes me in right away after hearing my sob story.  The mechanic opens the hood and sets a funnel on the engine block while he grabs the hose for the transmission fluid.  I gasp in horror as he completely spaces out and starts pumping the fluid into the funnel without putting the funnel in the transmission fluid reservoir.  There is transmission fluid all over the engine and shop floor before he realizes what’s happening and stops pumping.  Yikes!

I thank him for the fluid and decide that if the transmission’s really gone, I’ll take my chances on a place closer to Des Moines than to allow him to replace it.  The transmission didn’t last until Des Moines, but with another topping off with fluid it did last until I found a competent mechanic.

As you can see the Harlan Theatre opened in 1882 as Long’s Opera House.  It was converted to a theater in the 1930s and has been owned by four generations of the same family since the late-1950s.

A Postcard from Audubon

Argh!  The internet was out at home last night.

After a couple of days in Nebraska I made my way back to Audubon to buy a souvenir.  I just assumed it would be easy to find an Albert postcard or souvenir.  Casey's didn't have any.  The Pamida, whose slogan is "your hometown store" did not have any hometown items in the store.  The library was closed, the Mini-Mall was closed, and the Chamber of Commerce had gone home for the day.  Drat!

Luckily the Ace Hardware store was open!  They didn't have any Albert paraphernalia but the owner generously offered to to have the Chamber mail me a postcard.  One day last week Albert arrived in the mail.  Thank you Ace Hardware guy and Audubon Chamber of Commerce!

Albert the Bull

Albert at the airport

Albert on a flag in the city park

Look at those lashes

Albert in Albert the Bull Park

Say "hello" to Audubon's main attraction, Albert the Bull!  Albert is the world's largest bull.  He is made of 45 tons of steel and concrete and stands thirty feet high.  Albert has beautiful, delicate eyelashes.  It takes 65 gallons of paint to make Albert look like a real Hereford.  Oh, heck, listen to Albert yourself.

In Lincoln the next day I was suddenly struck with horror.  Oh no, I had forgotten to get an Albert souvenir!  I had to go back to get a postcard, magnet and/or t-shirt.  Looking at the map I quickly chopped off the Missouri portion of the trip and added a short venture into Kansas so I could return to Audubon.  When I did return I ran into a little problem, but all worked out well in the end.