FESTERING ETHNIC TENSIONS

With America’s reputation as a melting pot, it’s surprising to see how long some ethnic tensions continue – often for generations.

Sometimes it’s simply in the ways values differ – the extent to which cunning is admired or detested, for instance, or how the family is expected to behave at the dining table.

Sometimes these erupt in a marriage of spouses from different backgrounds.

And sometimes the conflicts arise in the Old World the family fled in the first place. Think of the Balkans or Middle East, for example.

In Big Inca Versus a New Pony Express Rider, these come to the fore in mysterious ways in the isolated community of yrUBbury, especially once Bill puts the Company agenda into motion.

That is, once Big Inca also begins moving mysteriously in the background, drawing and redrawing the battle lines, largely along ethnic identities.

It’s a wilder fantasy, after all, than Wall Street. To continue, just click here.

Inca 1

WHERE ARE THE GROWNUPS IN THIS PARTY?

“No” is no way to lead.

That’s the lesson from watching two-year-olds or, for that matter, all too many parents.

The only thing the so-called Freedom Caucus members of Congress seem to know how to do is vote “No.” In that way, they’re two-year-olds. And don’t tell me, No, they’re not.

Just see what happens when it comes to voting for their own party leadership. No Speaker.

It’s no way to lead. The grownups in the room need to assert their authority. Perhaps, too, some parenting lessons are in order. If there’s anyone who can teach them.

SPEAKING OF SPEAKERS

Sometimes a detail from a specialized strand of knowledge opens up an insight on a broader field. In this case, it springs from my awareness of Quaker history and the naming of children.

One of the pivotal figures in the schisms within the Society of Friends in the first half of the 1800s was a wealthy English banker and evangelist who traveled widely through the United States from 1837 to 1840. Joseph John Gurney (1788-1847) was so popular that “Joseph Johns” became a synonym for potluck dishes in parts of the American South, and many infant boys were named Gurney in his honor. He was even invited by Henry Clay, the Speaker of the House, to use the Capitol’s Legislation Hall to address members of Congress. In the end, a large branch of American Quakers came to be known as Gurneyites.

All that came to my mind while scanning a list of Speakers of the House and wondering if any had become president. (As noted earlier, one had – James K. Polk, who defeated Clay in that election.)

But the name of another Speaker caught my eye: Joseph Gurney Cannon, a Republican from Illinois who led the House of Representatives from 1903 to 1911.

Could there be link to the English evangelist?

As it turns out, yes.

Although Cannon’s biography has him born a Quaker in 1836 in Guilford County, North Carolina, (home of my Hodgson ancestry for many generations), I find no Cannons in the genealogical minutes. His mother, on the other hand, came from an established Friends family, which would have provided Quaker contact but not membership. In fact, her marrying a non-Friend meant losing her own membership in 1828, though she could still attend worship. Joe moved with his family to Indiana in 1840, eventually married in a Methodist service, joined a Masonic lodge, and died a Methodist in 1926. It’s a common story, actually.

What’s more interesting is the argument that “Uncle Joe” was the most dominant Speaker in the history of the House, as well as being its second longest. Time magazine’s first issue (March 3, 1923) featured his portrait on the cover, for good reason. Cannon was the longest-serving Republican in the House, totaling 40 years in office.

So much for the image of meek Quakers, no matter how tenuous the connection. Not just outspoken and pugnacious, Cannon was apparently tyrannical, leading to a crisis not unlike the one facing Congress at the moment. He was stripped of much of his ironfisted control in something resembling a coup by progressive Republicans aligned with Democrats. Sound familiar?

Cannon’s history also plays into another line of mine. He was followed as Speaker by Champ Clark of Missouri, who was somehow closely affiliated in business dealings with one of my mother’s ancestors.

START FILLING THE GROCERY CART … WITH BOOKS AND VIDEOS

As I blogged during the summer of 2014, the No. 1 topic of discussion across much of New England concerned the dramatic battle for control of the Market Basket supermarket chain. In an unprecedented reaction to moves by one-half of the family owning the company to sell the popular stores to more expensive rivals, its management, devoted workers, trusted suppliers, and loyal shoppers united to bring the enterprise itself to a halt. A grinding halt. And it worked.

After months of earlier rebuffs and daily headlines, the part of the family actually running the stores announced an agreement to buy the entire operation from its hostile relations.

It was a complicated story, with some long-festering feuds in the not-so-recent background. The kind of story that’s bound to show up as movie adaptations. Maybe even as a television mini-series. Maybe not Dallas in Boston, but as rich in its material.

We’ve been waiting for the book-length analyses, and the first one is finally making the rounds: We Are Market Basket (the title comes from a slogan at the time) has been published by an American Management Association affiliate.

Authors are frequently advised to “know their audience,” with the implication of tailoring their work to assumed demands. In this case, the book can be seen aiming at two audiences: New Englanders who remember the revolt and likely participated in some part of it, and then business majors and managers around the world. It’s both a strength and weakness for the volume.

Reading the text, it’s easy to see which part was written by which coauthor: Lowell Sun newspaper reporter Grant Walker drafted the day-by-day narrative, while associate business professor Daniel Korschun provided the chapters on business management. It’s all good stuff, though a bit repetitive, as one might expect from daily news reports that have to recap earlier developments. And I started wishing Walker had more sources to draw on. Still, they underscore the point of their book.

As the subtitle says, The Story of the Unlikely Grassroots Movement That Saved a Beloved Business, this was a remarkable event. Korschum uses it as a platform to argue for an awareness of stakeholders in a company – not just stockholders. It’s a theme Bernie Sanders has been pressing in his presidential campaign, and he’s not alone it saluting its importance. Workers, suppliers, and entire communities have investments of one sort or another in the companies that operate in our presence. For Market Basket, with prices typically 16 percent lower than its major competition, customers have a definite reason for supporting the stores, which, as it turns out, are remarkably profitable, despite or (as Korschum argues and others of us believe) because of their culture of contrarian instincts.

You can read the book for the reasons why. The list of down-to-earth practices throughout the operation, where the lowest level workers are encouraged to find ways to improve the business, is worth the read alone. You won’t walk through any store quite the same afterward.

My interest in the topic goes back decades before this, as I saw the operations of a smaller but similar grocery operation run by my then-girlfriend’s father. His own father had started out with a produce cart that went door to door. Besides, my own inclination has been for smaller, typically family, operations rather than monolithic corporations – as I demonstrate in my novel Hometown News and pursued for most of my employment as a journalist.

As I was perusing We Are Market Basket, I kept thinking of business books like Tom Peters’ In Search of Excellence series. They’re fun to read and make their point, though there just might be more to the story. In this case, I definitely feel there is.

Yes, when we come to the stakeholders argument, we can look to John Henry Patterson’s benevolent leadership at the National Cash Register Co. in Dayton, Ohio, or the glory years of the cereal makers in Battle Creek, Michigan, or Aaron Feuerstein’s moves in the aftermath of the Polar Fleece fabrics’ devastating factory fire in Malden, Massachusetts. Essentially, these provide similar models of enlightened leadership along the stakeholders’ ideal. But this book also leaves me wondering about the next generation after Arthur T. Demoulas’ leadership – he is, after all, pictured riding a white horse. So there’s a need for a management text on maintaining leadership a generation or two down the pike, which this book glides over as one of simply maintaining the historic company culture. There’s a lot of repetition on Market Basket’s culture in these pages, perhaps to drive the point home or, as I suspect, perhaps because of slack editing. But will that culture be enough?

On another front, there’s a volume yet to appear that puts the Market Basket experience in perspective with other leader-defined companies. Yes, we love our heroes, but they’re hardly the stuff of corporate America these days. More often, they’re anonymous and invisible. What kind of executive would be needed to fill Arther T.’s shoes?

And there’s another round of writings that might relate Market Basket to other family-owned companies and their survival or failure in moving from one generation to another. Family ownership issues have become a distinct subset of a business school curriculum. You don’t get fired from being a brother or a sister or cousin or grandkid — it’s a lifetime position.

We Are Market Basket skims over the earlier family conflicts that erupted into ugly, protracted, and costly court battles only years before the events at the heart of this book. To understand the bitterness of the most recent round, I’d love to see a volume – or at least one more open to both sides – more detailed than what this one presents. Not that the other side made itself in any way sympathetic in the 2014 accounts. Even so, the events were not quite as black-or-white as they seem to appear. An astute reader senses the authors’ desire not to antagonize their sources, meaning the book’s told basically from one side.

Another fascinating dimension also appears in corporate ownership that’s not quite split evenly 50/50. Television viewers may remember an episode of Ed Asner’s Lou Grant series where the newspaper was threatened by such a division – not that much different from the Seattle Times, actually, where one percent held the sway vote.

When it comes to Market Basket, we have one crucial family voter who switched. Why? Everyone wants to know.

So I’m still hoping for a more definitive volume than this entry. Maybe by the crack team from the Boston Globe, which could throw far more reporters at the story than the suburban Lowell Sun could – reporter/author Welker at least had the advantage of having the Demoulas family grocery stores originating in Lowell and putting their headquarters one town over, in Tewksbury, but he was a Lone Ranger in the face of a large reporting and editing staff in Boston.

Another of the case studies waiting to happen would look at Market Basket since the uprising. Can it sustain the large debt load and still maintain its generous employee bonuses and profit-sharing, along with its low prices? A year-after report by the Globe found that the company is indeed prospering in its rebirth. But long-term questions remain.

Will the fuller story ever come out?

For me, more and more, I’m looking for another current example, somewhat the way scientists want an experiment that can be replicated — another stakeholder over stockholder victory.

In the meantime, we’re still shopping – almost religiously – at Market Basket.

WHERE’S THE HONOR OR ADVANTAGE?

Once upon a time, being Speaker of the House of Representatives of the United States was an esteemed and quite powerful position.

For one thing, I never previously realized my hometown carried the name of the third speaker. Nor did I realize that Massachusetts had been the source of more of the officeholders, eight, than any other state. (In contrast, Virginia and Ohio provided the most presidents.)

I do remember finding family postcards of the Missouri mansion of Champ Clark, who was Speaker 1911-1919, and being told, in reverential tones, that one of my great-great-grandfathers had somehow been in charge of his affairs in this native state. Not that I’ve ever followed up to confirm the story. Maybe it was a cousin?

Curiously, though, despite all of its prestige, only one president – 0ur 11th – ever served as Speaker. That was James K. Polk, who led the House, 1835-39, before landing in the White House, 1845-49. In that election, he defeated another Speaker, Henry Clay. (For the record, Gerald Ford had been only Minority Leader before becoming president through Richard Nixon’s resignation.)

Looking back, though, the last reference to the position with any general air of full respect from both sides seems to invoke Tip O’Neill, 1977-87.

That’s three-plus decades ago.

For someone with the ambitions of Wisconsin Representative Paul Ryan, these factors have to come into play as he considers Republican Party calls for him to run for the Speaker’s gavel. Even without the current toxic situation, it would add up to a dead end. Or, at best, a final step.

Let’s see how long reason holds out in the end.

ARE THOSE SEAMS TURNING INTO TECTONIC PLATES?

Only weeks ago, I wrote on the longstanding seams in the Republican Party and wondered about their coming apart. (Here’s what I posted.)

Since then, in the dizzying developments in the party’s inability to name a new Speaker of the House of Representatives, along with the mystifying field for the presidency itself, it’s now possible to ask whether those seams have become tectonic plates – the kind that are about to erupt as a very destructive political party earthquake rather than simply ripping apart.

The so-called Freedom Caucus is being called the “kamikaze congress,” one that would rather see the Capitol blown up than do anything for the good of the country. The more moderate or more mainstream Republican congressmen, meanwhile, are awakening to the fact that their party can’t govern in its current state – whether they align themselves as a Reality Caucus with a core of moderate Democrats is making for some fascinating discussion.

As a blogger without insider information, I can only watch all this from a distance. Keeping up with the news, much less digesting it and relaying any conclusions, is exhausting. So here we are, following a big drama. Who knows how many acts there will be or how much figurative blood will be shed. It’s that, or comedy, but I can’t see anyone here laughing anytime soon.

PRIMARY CAMPAIGN TRAIL NOTES

Last weekend, at our town’s annual Apple Harvest Day festival, as I passed the Democratic Party booth in the array along Central Avenue downtown, someone mentioned that Rick Santorum was in the crowd.

“I’m not sure I’d recognize him if I saw him,” I confessed. Not having a television does limit my awareness in some ways.

“Oh, you’d know him if you saw him. He’s taller than me,” my informant said.

As it turned out, I did catch glimpses of the former U.S. senator from Pennsylvania moving through pedestrian jam. It was his blue sports coat and khaki pants, mostly, that said GOP hopeful – or possibly, staff. Still, he was talking to an aide, rather than shaking hands and greeting potential voters. Could it be? What would I say? Or ask, pointedly? Besides, we were being carried along in opposite directions.

Later in the afternoon, at a booth where I was volunteering, I was given a business card at the end of a pleasurable bit of small talk. The next day, reading the news, I learned that this was Santorum’s host for the event. Little did I know that over breakfast just downstream, the candidate had received an earful from two Planned Parenthood supporters.

Maybe he’d had enough for the day?

~*~

As I’ve mentioned, our telephone’s been ringing with presidential primary campaign pitches. Some of them are robo-calls we promptly ignore. Talk to us in person, or else!

And then there are the surveys, sometimes several a day. Some of them are legitimately neutral, but others, well … let’s just say it’s quickly obvious who’s paying the bill.

Sometimes it’s a bit amusing, like the one from a first-time questioner working for the Carson camp. She stumbled through her script but had our sympathy. It’s how you learn the process, after all.

But then there was one that started asking if we were “strongly likely,” “somewhat likely,” “somewhat not likely,” or “strongly not likely” to vote for Trump, Carson, Bush, Kasich … and then suddenly turned to questions solely about Bush. Wait a minute! You claimed to be an independent research firm! What about the dozen or so other hopefuls on the GOP ticket?

At least this one wasn’t turning to a pitch for donations.

~*~

Considering the number of phone calls we’re getting from so-called opinion research outfits, I am concerned about the validity of the results. If a few people are getting the equivalent of “voting early and often” in the opinion sampling, what’s to preclude toying with the results? Why not say something that spins the outrage or anxiety? Why not boost a marginal candidate? Why not jump on a hot-air balloon for a short ride? Or try to deflate it?

More to the point: the only result I truly care about takes place in the election booth. Why can’t we concentrate on the issues until then, rather than the artificial horse race? (Or, in this case, elephant race, for the most part?)

ONE MORE NOTABLE FAMILY

Boston's Back Bay is viewed from the stone tower in Mount Auburn Cemetery. The Fullers are buried nearby.
Boston’s Back Bay is viewed from the stone tower in Mount Auburn Cemetery. The Fullers are buried nearby.

Mount Auburn Cemetery, at the edge of Cambridge and Watertown in Greater Boston, not only lays claim to being the first garden cemetery in America but also boasts some of the most notable names in the nation’s history.

This small family plot, for instance, holds the remains of Transcendentalist leader Margaret Fuller and pioneering architect Buckminister Fuller.

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Margaret Fuller Ossoli’s inscription reads, in part: By birth a child of New England, By adoption a citizen of Rome, By genius belonging to the world.

 

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WHERE ARE THE CANDIDATES’ OFFICES?

In remarking about the failure of the presidential candidates to get out and do the ground-level face-to-face meet-and-greets that are the foundation of New Hampshire’s first-in-the-nation primary, I’ve failed to notice a conspicuous change in this particular campaign. I live in a county seat, one of ten in New Hampshire, and usually by this point in the campaign, we’d have prominent campaign headquarters downtown.

Not this time.

No, it finally dawned on me. Nada!

(Well, since drafting this, we got a phone call saying Hillary just opened an office here, just not downtown. Still, something’s akimbo.)

In fact the Republicans, who ought to be the most active in staking out territory, had only eight offices across New Hampshire by mid-September – all in Manchester, the largest city, an hour away from where I live. Much more from the further reaches of the state.

Contrast that to the Democrats: eight offices for Hillary Clinton alone, at the time, four for Bernie Sanders, and two for Martin O’Malley. Fourteen in all. And Joe Biden’s still waiting in the wings.

The local office is where a candidate’s organization offers literature and answers questions to passers-by, does its phone-banking, encourages supporters to meet, plans canvassing and visibility events. It’s where each candidate gains visibility – and credibility – every time a driver or pedestrian comes past.

Maybe the Republicans think advertising will fill the gap. It won’t. Each region of my adopted state is different. I’ll leave it at that.

I’ve also mentioned the lack of living room meetings and am surprised to see the only ones listed on the Republican side are all in Scott Brown’s Rye home – that is, the former U.S. Senator from Massachusetts. Hardly bread-and-butter invitations to the faithful, right?

AN ABOLITIONIST NEXUS

Coming upon Moses Brown Square in Newburyport, Massachusetts, one evening threw me for a loop. The plaque said this Moses, 1742-1827, was a prominent shipbuilder and merchant active in the slave trade. (Not to be confused with a Capt. Moses Brown, 1742-1802, a privateer – that is, a licensed pirate living nearby — also on the wrong side of my moral compass.)

The ringer, as I read, was that Newburyport, with all its wealth based on the rum, sugar, slave trade triangle, was hostile to abolitionists, and its Moses had soon become its wealthiest resident. So that was the funding for those glorious houses on High Street, not the whaling trade? I hadn’t suspect this turn.

What a contrast to the more famous Moses Brown (1738-1836), a Rhode Island Quaker convert who became both an avid abolitionist and a pioneer of the Industrial Revolution in America – himself quite wealthy and a founder of what’s now the prestigious Moses Brown School in Providence, adjacent to Brown University.

I’m guessing they were all cousins, given the naming patterns and wealth.

What further intrigues, though, is the other statue in the square, this one for William Lloyd Garrison, an abolitionist who was also from Newburyport. There you learn of the depths of the town’s virulent support of slavery and their collaboration with its institution.

Curiously, Garrison “the Great Liberator” found two important colleagues from upstream on the Merrimack River.

The first was John Greenleaf Whittier, the Quaker poet living in neighboring Amesbury, Massachusetts, kitty-corner upstream.

And the other was the journalist Horace Greeley, born in Amherst, New Hampshire, further upriver.

What I see in all this is a hint at the hot pockets, pro and con, on a contentious issue of the time – sometimes within a stretch of the map, sometimes with a family. Not that things are always any different today.