Centenary

Tokyo's mayor gave 3,000 cherry trees
to Washington, D.C. in 1912 as a gesture
of friendship between Japan and the U.S.

As children, we tend to view our parents as other-worldly people vastly different from ourselves. They wield such power in our lives that we set them atop towering pedestals that we ourselves patiently polish and raise to sometimes dizzying heights. Some pedestals come crashing down abruptly. Others grow so lofty that we are forever distanced from their tenants and we are left never really knowing who that parent truly was, what they hoped for and dreamed of and whether or not they approved of us.

Over the past several years, I've been experiencing a growing affinity for my elders. As I approach and overtake the moments within their lives when I first met them, I'm blessed with insights that infuse my recollections with color and enrich my experiences.

I've found that context is one of the greatest contributors to insight. In other words, I can learn more about my parents and grandparents when I consider the events within their lives in the context of their times. For example, my great grandfather Sergio Joaquin emigrated from the Azores to Boston, Massachusetts in 1852. On the surface, that's a pretty pedestrian fact. But when you consider that the Azores experienced earthquakes in 1841, 1848 and 1852 and the fact that he was only 14 when he left, it suddenly becomes a drama that is pregnant with possibilities. It's like picking up a box of crayons and coloring inside the lines of a black and white drawing to create a portrait that's relatable and whose texture and depth establish a connection and--yes--inspire insight.

Building context in this way contemporizes the past. I can build my understanding of Sergio by comparing his immigration experience--choosing to leave his home in the wake of a natural disaster--with my experiences during Hurricane Wilma. That comparison creates an emotional connection with him, and I find myself admiring him for having the courage and foresight to journey alone to a foreign country and make a new start at such a young age.

I'm using context in this manner a lot lately because this is an important year for me and my immediate family. I'm 50 this year--the same age my father was when I was born--and next month marks my father's 100th birthday. Surprisingly enough, when I look at the events of 1912, I see a very familiar world.

One of the most significant events of 1912, of course, was the tragic demise of the Titanic, echoed by the recent sinking of the Costa Concordia off the coast of Italy. Other echoes abound. Italian forces bombarding Beirut, rapid change in Asia with the rise of the Republic of China, social activism in Africa with the founding of the African National Congress (ANC)--the political and social hotspots of 100 years ago are all too familiar today.

There were new and exciting applications of new technologies as well, such as the first parachute jump from a moving plane (Albert Berry); the first English Channel crossing by a female pilot (Harriet Quimby); and the first non-stop flight from Paris to London (by Henri Seimet in three hours).

The year had its heroes (Roald Amundsen announced he had reached the South Pole), its stars (Sarah Bernhardt starred in Les Amours de la reine Élisabeth), its tycoons (Carl Laemmle incorporated Universal Pictures) and its tragic figures (Robert Scott and his team perished in their disastrous bid for Amundsen's prize). It even had U.S. military action on two fronts with the U.S. Marines dispatched to Cuba and Nicaragua.

In short, I've found that 1912 was a lot like 2012 in very many ways and that my father's world was very similar to the world in which I live today. And that makes me believe that maybe he and I weren't so different after all.

Editor's note: My cousin Ruthie has pointed out that, while I was writing the above entry, she was marking her father's 106th birthday. RAF (as she and her sisters called him) was a legendary figure in his own right having graduated from Harvard University at the age of 20. Following the sudden death of our grandfather, RAF ensured that his brothers, sister and mother survived the Great Depression by putting his own ambitions and aspirations aside, moving back home with his new wife, Ellen, and dedicating himself to his family.

Project Nunway

During World War II, there was a very modest, humble Mother Superior who lived in a convent outside Rouen, France. Being a pious, good-hearted woman, she took it upon herself to stand up to the Nazis by hiding Jews from the Gestapo, feeding the poor and aiding the French Resistance whenever she could.

After the War, she was granted an audience with the Pope where she was to receive a medal in recognition of her heroic efforts. Her fellow Sisters--immensely proud of her accomplishment--took up a collection for her journey and urged her to update her travel wardrobe.

"After all," said Sister Marie-Claire, "you're going to meet His Holiness! You can't do that dressed like some poor church mouse!"

Residents of the surrounding community--especially those whose lives she had saved--were equally proud and equally vested in seeing that she received proper recognition. They pressed decreasingly modest sums upon her for the trip, urged her to throw out her travel wardrobe and insisted she indulge in a full-blown makeover.

"After all," said her dear friend Monsieur Arena-Homme, "you'll be representing your entire community! You can't do that dressed like a little brown mouse!"

Soon the day came for her to take the train to Paris and, from there, to fly to Rome. She set out in the morning shortly after Matins wearing her traditional habit and sensible shoes. She carried a battered, borrowed valise in one hand and a spare rosary in the other. As she traveled down the winding, cobbled street, her fellow Sisters trailed behind singing quiet hymns of praise and scores of local villagers marched with farewell bouquets of spring flowers. Outwardly, she frowned over their attentions and frequently asked them to return to their daily lives. Inwardly, she nursed a tiny nugget of pride.

The train's arrival at Paris Nord--a riot of sound, color, steam and bustle--was incredibly daunting for the Mother Superior and she was highly tempted to simply turn around and return to her quiet little cell in Rouen. Instead, she gritted her teeth, adjusted her coif and bandeau and struck out for the nearest taxi stand.

She soon discovered that Monsieur Arena-Homme had prepared the way for her when she noticed a liveried driver standing next to a very respectable Rolls Royce Phantom and holding a crisp white placard on which her name appeared in black, block letters.

"Pardon Monsieur," she inquired, "Am I to understand you are waiting for me?"

"Mais oui, Madame!" he riposted. "For you are the little Mother Superior, and I am your faithful servant!"

A small smile crept across her face followed by a warm flush of pride and recognition.

"This is Monsieur Arena-Homme's doing, is it not?"

"Oui, Madame," he said as he took her valise and gently placed it in the Phantom's generous trunk. "He has given me complete instructions for your stay and arranged for you to have everything you wish while you are here in Paris."

She laughed out loud and softly demurred. "Well, Monsieur, that remains to be seen. For now, would you be so good as to take me to the guesthouse in Sacre Coeur? I need to obtain lodging."

"But Madame," he protested. "Did you not know? Monsieur Arena-Homme has purchased a suite for you at the Hotel Ritz!"

The little Mother Superior stood there aghast; but while she was speechless over her friend's generosity she was secretly thrilled to be in a position to enjoy the finest accommodations Paris had to offer. Her eyes drank in the sites as her driver negotiated the busy streets and delivered her to the Place Vendome where he gently escorted her faltering steps through the breathtaking lobby and into the waiting presence of the hotel concierge who, to her immense and private delight, had been expecting her.

"Ah, Madame!" he cried, smoothing his pencil thin mustaches, "You have arrived at last!"

"Au revoir pour le moment, Madame" her driver intoned while bowing and politely kissing her hand, "I shall entrust you to the capable ministrations of Monsieur Gabrielle. If you have need of me, tell him and I will attend to you at once."

Monsieur Gabrielle clapped his hands and servants suddenly appeared to press a glass of champagne upon her and take her tired valise from her hand. Someone offered her a piquant amuse bouche, and she soon found herself ensconced in no less than the hotel's finest room: the Imperial Suite.

"Oh," she enthused, "It's just all so beautiful. And here I am, just a tired little country mouse. I'm afraid all this opulence is not for me."

"But Madame," insisted Gabrielle. "It is! You are famous throughout all France for your heroic deeds! Allow us to repay you in part for all your sacrifices. Shall I order more champagne and arrange for your dinner?"

"Well..." she said, "All right, but do you think I might freshen up a bit first?"

"Ah but Madame," he said, guiding her to a nearby sofa the size of her convent cell, "You must first meet with Monsieur Dior for your fitting!"

"What!!??" the little nun shouted, spilling her champagne on the lush Aubusson rug. "Monsieur CHRISTIAN Dior??"

"Mais oui!" said Gabrielle. "Your dear friend Monsieur Arena-Homme has arranged for the great Dior to transform you for your audience with Monsieur Le Pope. After all, you stand for all of France! We can't have you doing so feeling like, how you say, une souris fatigués!"

Her fitting with the legendary Dior was like a dream overflowing in taffeta, lace and organza. Dior, for his part, went above and beyond the confines of his dress duties and engineered an entire makeover that included facial, makeup, hairstyling, manicure and pedicure. He even gave her a crash course in charm, poise and etiquette. She caught a brief glimpse of herself in a mirror and was outwardly alarmed--though inwardly pleased--when she spied a slightly familiar heart-shaped face peering back at her with curiosity.

"Oh," she sighed. "This is too much."

"But Madame," they said, "This is what you deserve!"

In the end she graciously accepted Dior's ensemble and turned her attention--and direction--to her impending flight to Rome. Once on the ground in Italy, she was met by one of the Pope's staff and whisked through the ancient streets to the storied doors of the Sistine Chapel where a receiving line of dignitaries, nobles and other illuminaries waited to greet a glittering, richly dressed Pope.

As His Holiness walked down the receiving line the little Mother Superior fussed quietly over her outfit and focused on not falling off her unaccustomed high heels. She adjusted her trendy cloche, smoothed her flowing silk gown and tugged on her matching gloves. Soon, it was her turn to be presented.

"Your Holiness," said the Pope's attaché, "May I present Mother Superior Marie-Souris Pauvres of the Convent of St. Anne de Rouen."

Mother Superior curtsied deeply and beautifully (she'd practiced with Gabrielle for hours the night before) and rose with a flourish and an impish smile.

The Pope cocked an eyebrow at her, scanned her from the top of her fashionable head down to her delicately clad toes and looked at her questioningly.

"Dior," she whispered conspiratorially and giggled.

The Pope reared back, grinning ear to ear and opened his pristine white cloak to reveal his opulent, richly made robes. He spun around twice, looked her full in the face and crowed with a flourish, "Balenciaga!"

No Habla Espanol Please Yes?

My father was a relatively private man and despite a great deal of potential conversation starters--two marriages, six kids and a dozen or more different careers--he remained that way throughout his life. When he did tell the occasional story, it was often worthy of repeating. I've recently discovered that many of these stories are unknown to my brothers and sisters. Since I've always found these tales to be entertaining and illuminating, the least I can do is to set them down and share them liberally.

I like coffee, I like tea. I like the girls and the girls like me*
*"Java Jive" by the Ink Spots--the one song Dad played on the piano and sang

Dad (right) on the SS Pennsylvania       

In 1936, when he was 25, my father left Boston and set out for the greener pastures of California at a pivotal time in his life. His father, Arthur William, had died five years earlier and the family had seriously struggled during the economic crisis. It was also a pivotal time in history. The nation was still working through the Great Depression but things were looking up; unemployment had dropped to its lowest rate in five years (16.9 percent), and the newly established Social Security Administration gave people a modicum of hope for a measure of future stability.

Moving to California was a natural choice since my father's family has always been "bi-coastal" with half the family living in California and the other half along the eastern seaboard. Getting there, however, proved to be a challenge. Dad didn't own a car and flying to California was prohibitively expensive so he booked passage with a few friends on the SS Pennsylvania. Owned by the Panama Pacific line, the Pennsylvania sailed from New York to San Francisco with stops in Havana, Panama, San Diego and Los Angeles.

Considering his age, this must have been an incredibly exciting trip for Dad. It was very likely the first time he had ever ventured this far from home and he was doing so without his family. The Pennsylvania--and its destinations--undoubtedly added to the excitement. It was a relatively new ship (less than a decade old), carried 750 passengers (first class and tourist) and boasted a crew of 350. A tourist cabin at the time cost just $125. However, Dad's only comments about the ship--and the trip, for that matter--were limited to how close he came to being left behind in Havana, Cuba.

As he told it, he and his friends were very excited to go ashore and visit Havana when the ship docked en route. The fact that this was his first (and subsequently only) trip abroad must have made the urge to explore completely irresistible. The intrepid trio decided to rent a car and visit some of Havana's more famous sights, including the now legendary Sloppy Joe's bar.

After a satisfying few hours of sightseeing, the three friends headed back to the dock for the ship's impending departure. Driving in Havana in 1936 must have really been something especially with the free-for-all traffic and lack of traffic signals. Unfortunately, Dad and his friends were a little lacking in driving skills and a bit ignorant of the dangers tourists faced abroad. As they wound their way through the streets of the city, they passed a cop who immediately flagged them down.

"Is there a problem, officer?" asked Dad.

"Dame tu licencia de conducir, por favor," said the cop, holding out one hand and rubbing his first two fingers against his thumb.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Dame tu licencia de conducir, por favor," he repeated, a little louder, still rubbing the thumb and fingers of his outstretched hand together.

"I don't understand. Um, oh! No comprender!"

"Dame tu licencia de conducir, por favor!" the cop shouted furiously pantomiming the act of opening a wallet and extracting a few bills. 

"We're in trouble," Dad's friend muttered.

"You have no idea," muttered friend number two.

"What did I do?" Dad ask, flustered.

"You stopped," his friends said in unison.

The cop, embarrassed and at a loss for words, now struggled to save face. Dad's limited Spanish and lack of street smarts gave the policeman no choice but to arrest the three of them and charge them with leaving the scene of an accident. According to the cop, the car had grazed his ample belly when they had passed him standing on the curb.

Over the next few hours, Dad and his friends gingerly negotiated for their release. Despite how frivolous they may have seemed, the charges were serious. Those who struck a cop got one year and 29 days in jail. Just arguing with a cop could get you 3 months and 29 day.

Because they were plainly tourists, Dad's friends were released after a few hours. However, thanks to his darker complexion and latin features (courtesy of his grandfather, Sergio Joaquin), Dad was not so lucky. The cops were convinced that he was a Cuban native and that he was trying to flee the country. Ironically enough, it was Dad's inability to communicate with his captors that earned his release in the end. They finally let him go once they decided that no real Cuban could ever speak Spanish so badly.

(Editor's note: the veracity of this little tale may rightfully be questioned since the more I recall it, the more it sounds like an episode of "I Love Lucy!")

Digging Through The Past

Family weighs on my mind lately. Not in a bad way you understand. It's good. You see, I've returned to the pursuit of my family's history and flushed a few cousins out of the bushes and reconnected with people I love in the process.

Genealogy can be fun but it can also be frustrating. Think of all the John Smiths in the phone book and then imagine some future curious relative trying to identify which one of them was his or her long lost uncle. Then, of course, there's what I like to call the "Cleopatra Syndrome." The most well researched names and lines are those descended from kings and other people of importance. So it's easy (and fun) to take a few shortcuts, accept someone else's research at face value and declare yourself the 11th descendant of the Thane of Cawdor. After all, it sounds a lot better than being descended from Murray the Floor Scrubber.

Duncan and Christina were wed at Kilchrist Kirk.

One of the most rewarding parts to all this comes from gaining insight into family you've never met. For example, my great great grandparents Duncan Macdonald and Christine Campbell were married on the Isle of Skye in 1825 in a country church--but what a church! Kilchrist Kirk (Christ Church) is now a famous romantic, spooky, weather-torn ruin. Originally built after the Reformation in the early 1500s, it replaced an earlier, medieval Catholic Church on the same grounds. A new church was built in nearby Broadford in 1840 and Kilchrist was apparently abandoned to ruin.

This kind of stuff really gets me going. Dates and place names are all very dry but when you combine them with a picture of a person or a place you're inspired to keep digging and filled with the hope of finding more. What's truly rewarding is when "more" brings new relationships (such as with my newfound cousin Graham and his wife Holly on my father's side) and reinvigorates old relationships (such as with my sisters Susan and Donna, Uncle Dean and Marquis cousins on my mother's side). Genealogy gives you something to talk about together and allows family to bind over the subject of family. Sure, we toss around religion, politics and other hot potatoes from time to time and drive each other crazy but we're always pulled back to earth by what we have in common--like a simple country church.

It's Murder on the Lemon Express

Today's news of a Canadian man who tried to cross the U.S. border with his dead wife in the car reminds me of a story I heard about ten years ago.

My friend Jonathan, a British national, was working as a tour operator in Bournemouth. He booked an older British couple (let's call them Maggie and Sal) for a trip to Benidorm on Spain's Costa Blanca, a beautiful area popular with British tourists,

According to Jonathan, Benidorm is a bit like Acapulco with a dense beachside strip of high-rise hotels packed to the gills with tourists. Jonathan warned Maggie and Sal that being on the beach might not suit their tastes but Maggie was firm in her tour package selection for one reason: it included two tickets on the fabled "Lemon Express"--something that would make her the envy of all her friends.

The fabled--and now defunct--Lemon Express.

The Lemon Express--Spain’s first tourist train--was launched in 1971 by a British man named David Simpson who rescued old train carriages from the Carcagante-Denia line. Featuring balconies at each end, the old carriages gave the narrow gauge train an old world air, and it became very popular with tourists. The five-hour excursion train offered spectacular scenery, breathtaking views of the Mediterranean coastline and a tour of the guitar factory in Gata de Gorgos.

Maggie was adamant in her choice. Sal was ambivalent. He'd been leaning more towards a quiet caravan park in Croatia. Seeking a compromise, Jonathan booked them into the last hotel on the strip, away from Benidorm's densely populated central beach.

The morning after they arrived, Maggie proudly presented herself in front of the hotel with a reluctant Sal in tow. Within minutes, the bus arrived to take them to the train and the retired couple boarded the empty bus.

"Please move to the back," said the bus driver.

"Certainly!" said Maggie and the pair walked to the back of the bus where Sal grabbed the window seat and promptly fell asleep.

The bus edged along the strip and stopped at nearly every hotel. Dozens and dozens of British couples eagerly boarded, all steadfastly clutching their prized tickets for the Lemon Express. They cheered when the driver turned in at the station. He watched as row after row of chattering couples patiently exited the bus with one exception: a radiant Maggie stood alone in the aisle.

As she stepped past the driver, he said, "But madam, where is your husband?"

She turned and patted him on the shoulder, "Oh, he's not feeling up to this so I just decided to let him sleep. He'll be fine until I get back."

The driver shrugged and parked the bus in the adjacent lot where he, too, napped until the train's return.

The journey up the coast to Gata de Gorgos was everything Maggie had hoped for and more: the charm of the old-time carriages as they gently swayed up the mountainsides; the handsome waiters who passed out cool, sleek glasses of chilled, sparkling wine; the fascinating artisans who so expertly crafted fine, Spanish guitars. She was proud of her newfound independence and, for several hours, didn't miss Sal in the least.

When the group returned to the bus, Maggie was, again, first to board. She walked down the long, narrow aisle, found her original seat next to a still-slumbering Sal and proceeded to revisit her trip by sorting through her ample bag of souvenirs. The bus snaked along the Benidorm strip leaving happy couples in its wake until, finally, it reached its final destination: Maggie and Sal's hotel. Bag in hand, Maggie marched up the narrow aisle and presented herself--alone--to the driver.

"But madam," he asked again, "Where is your husband?"

"Sir,"she responded, "I'm afraid my husband's dead."

"Dead!?" he said, horrified. "When did he die? Just now?"

"No," she said. "He died this morning just after we boarded the bus."

Baffled, the driver asked, "Why didn't you say something?!"

"Well, there wasn't anything I could really do about it," she explained, "He's always doing something like this, and I decided I wasn't going to let him ruin my trip. Besides, I really wanted to go on that Lemon Express."

Selling Thumbs Door-to-Door With Charles Darwin

My buddy Blake.

Sometimes I think that Blake is the one person in this entire world that truly loves me. But that’s not really true. Denial is a river in Egypt; the capital of Djbouti is Djbouti; and jaded is that green sweater that makes me look like a big old ball of molting angora.

First of all, Blake is not a person, he's my dog. Second of all, he only loves me for my thumbs. If he could kill me and take my thumbs for himself, he would. I know this for a fact. He would kill to be able to open his own bag of food and clip his own nails.

This--I tell myself--this is Darwin knocking at mankind’s primordial door. “Come down from the trees,” he calls as ancient man chitters and peers down at the wicker basket over his arm. “I brought thumbs!”

Which reminds me: I had a dream about the Apocalypse once. I stood on a high, windswept rock and the horizon seemed to swallow itself whole in a very bright, convulsive flash. In the fading light I saw two Palmetto bugs sitting on the edge of a large, flat rock playing cards.

“Tell me Agosto,” said the one bug to the other. “Have you got any thumbs?”

“Go fish,” said Agosto.

And the sun snapped off like a light.

Where's the (Black Angus) Beef?

Nobody here but us chickens cows. That's right. Cows.

When I was growing up, Dad liked to terrify me with his plans for his future retirement. "Your mother and I are moving in with you Murray so you can support us in our old age." Nothing frightened me more.

Shortly after I graduated from junior college, Dad announced that I would be pursuing a journalism degree at the University of Missouri-Columbia (news to me) while he pursued the life of a gentleman farmer on 10 acres just outside of town. It was everything Dad had ever wanted--a charming little spread with a red horse barn and matching outbuildings. Most importantly, it offered him an opportunity to raise Black Angus cattle.

I don't know why Dad obsessed over Black Angus in particular. One cow is as attractive as another to my eye and although I understand the difference between a Guernsey and a Texas Longhorn, I was not the discriminating carnivore my father was. He held Black Angus Beef up as the pinnacle of man's pursuit of the ultimate steak. At long last, he had an opportunity to become a serious cattleman.

My Dad was one of those people who can succeed at just about anything they put their minds to, be it real estate, banking or sales (he excelled at each of them and more). However, Dad was a master at talking other people into doing what he wanted. Enter the 4-H kid from down the road.

Anyone who's ever attended a decent county fair knows that 4-H has a number of great programs that introduce young people to the animal sciences, teach them self sufficiency and give them an opportunity to demonstrate what they've learned by raising livestock. My Dad knew this important fact and he immediately put this knowledge to use by scouring the nearby farms and finding a 4-H kid. (I was a suburban kid; we had Junior Achievement instead of 4-H. I can't milk a cow, but I can sell you a coffee mug.)

I don't remember the kid's name but Dad put him to work right away assassinating the pigeons roosting on the horse barn and soiling his shiny red aluminum siding. He was very happy to go 50/50 with Dad in purchasing and raising five or six young Black Angus for his summer 4-H project.

City folk, such as we were, are not meant to raise livestock. We don't understand the mechanics of it and, what's more, we don't have the right mentality. We didn't see future steaks or burgers. We saw overly large dogs with soulful, liquid brown eyes that cut us to the quick. Those stupid, staring eyes bewitched us and we became servants of their growing, insatiable need for food. (There were times, I confess, where we considered fitting them with collars and leashes so we could take them for walks in the cool of the evening.)

The 4-H kid was responsible for purchasing and stocking feed supplies for the small herd, and he was very dutiful in ensuring that food was fairly distributed on a timely basis. But, again being city folk, we knew that all dogs--even pet cows--love treats. Dad grew up during the Depression and he was always keen to pinch pennies wherever possible. So, taking a cue from Woodrow Wilson's herd of sheep on the White House lawn, Dad set up a system to distribute lawn clippings to his beloved cows.

Dad had many pursuits in life but he had one overriding passion: his lawn. In my father's world, the quality of a man's lawn was a reflection of his stature. The better the lawn, the better the man, and Dad's lawn was like a golf course. The cows loved it and Dad loved feeding them. He'd spend hours petting them and scolding them for humping one another when they got bored. He knew each of them by sight, gave them nicknames and faithfully remembered which of them liked a good belly scratch or nose rub. Each week, he carried a bright yellow plastic bin full of grass clippings and fed them by hand or scattered the treat along the ground. Soon, the once timid cows learned to recognize the bin and anticipate the reward it contained.

Dad always insisted that the clippings not be dumped over the fence but, instead, that they be scattered on the ground inside the corral as neatly as possible. This wasn't always easy to do. Mom took the bin in one day when the pack stampeded up the hill and surrounded her in eager anticipation. Being stared at by 2,000 pounds of cow can be pretty intimidating--especially for a 65 year old, 5'2" woman with a heart condition. She screamed, threw the bin at them and ran for her life.

Eventually, the time came for the kid to present his project at the county fair. The corral was empty save for the yellow bin, a haunting reminder of our dear, departed pets. As I recall, the kid got a blue ribbon. More importantly, Dad got five sides of hand-raised Black Angus Beef.

It took about a week for the slaughterhouse to process everything and deliver pound after pound of pet cow wrapped in crisp white butcher paper that Dad enthusiastically piled into a brand new freezer. Finally, after months of patient, diligent feeding and care, Mom placed an ample, medium rare porterhouse on Dad's plate. His excitement knew no bounds--until he took a bite and chewed. And chewed. And chewed. The meat was as tough as an old shoe.

Angry, Dad called the slaughterhouse and accused the man in charge of switching his beloved Black Angus for inferior cuts and keeping the best for himself. He'd been swindled! No, insisted the man in charge. He'd done no so such thing. That was Dad's herd.

"How do you explain this then?" Dad demanded. "This is prime Black Angus Beef I raised myself! I fed them by hand since they were calves! Why is it so tough and stringy?"

"I dunno," said the man. "I can't explain it. Unless, of course, you fed them grass clippings."