Monday, April 18, 2016

When Sinclair Lewis got a new hat

Sinclair Lewis in the 1920s.

This is an edited version of a post first published in April 2009.

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The junction of Linwood and Troost is long past its days of prestige. Boarded-up storefronts and vacant lots seem to dominate the neighborhood now, and the 1920s relevance of, say, the six-story Elsmere Hotel – Highest Point in the City ... Always a Cool Breeze – is not even a memory for most Kansas Citians. Gone. Likewise its next-door neighbor, a church at the corner of Forest.

The Linwood Boulevard Christian Church was a lively spot in its time. Movies were shown here. Boxers traded punches. Jazz combos played. Young people danced. Old men debated tough issues. Plump women cavorted in their underwear.

And before a packed house one Sunday evening, April 18, 1926, Sinclair Lewis dared God to strike him dead.

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In 1926 Sinclair Lewis was the author of three best-selling novels – Main Street, which satirized small-town America, Babbitt, which satirized businessmen, and Arrowsmith, which satirized the medical profession. He was ready next to take on organized religion, and having met a minister from Kansas City who offered to help him research his novel, Lewis traveled here that spring and set himself up in rooms at the Ambassador Hotel, 36th and Broadway.

For a time the actress Ethel Barrymore, performing downtown in a vaudeville show, was Lewis' neighbor at the Ambassador. She later remembered passing his open door:
It was always crowded with ministers of every denomination whom he was bullying, in the hope, I suppose, of extracting something for his book. He would stride around the room, pointing a finger at one of them after another and saying, "You know you don't believe in God."
One of those ministers was Burris A. Jenkins, pastor of the Linwood Boulevard Christian Church.
Jenkins was a native Kansas Citian, Harvard Divinity grad, former college president, novelist, former newspaper publisher, war correspondent, and syndicated columnist. One of his four standing-room-only Sunday sermons was broadcast to several states on WHB radio. He was a free-thinking clergyman who, when civic leaders were choosing a name for a war memorial opposite Union Station, suggested "liberty."

He believed that parts of the Old Testament were unfit to teach children. And that churches catered to the middle-aged and elderly at the expense of young people. That anyone who considered dancing sacrilegious was behind the times. That sex education was helpful, not harmful. And that a church should be open to everyone, regardless of denomination.

Depending on one's perspective, Rev. Jenkins was either modernist or blasphemous.

"My church is nothing if not an experiment station," he once said. "Everyone knows we are willing to try anything once, and maybe twice."

Linwood Boulevard Christian.

Linwood Christian offered "esthetic" dance classes for women (popular among those trying to lose weight), boxing classes for boys, free psychiatric counseling for all, and Sunday night events that included dinners, picture shows, music and dances, and an Open Forum for debates or lectures on any subject.

In April 1926 a hot topic around town was young people and the trouble they could get into during Prohibition. And so the Open Forum on that Sunday would discuss "Flaming Youth” The speaker would be Sinclair Lewis.

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The church auditorium, which could seat 1,500, overflowed that night and turned away several hundred more. Lewis – tall, thin, red-haired and freckled – stood before them and announced what to do about today's youth.

"Give them food, clothes, and tell them the truth," he said.

Eventually he got around to the subject of religious fundamentalism.

"Is there no joy, no greatness, in living?" he asked. "Is it fear of hell that makes us good? If this theory is part of your Christian religion, then damn your Christian religion."

Then he conducted his experiment, his test of God's fundamentalism. He took out his watch and set it on the rostrum, asking to be struck dead within the next 10 minutes.

"Here's a lovely chance for God to show what he can do," he said.

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Having survived the experiment and returned to his apartment at the Hotel Ambassador, Lewis was roundly criticized in newspapers and churches for his show at the Linwood Open Forum. Burris Jenkins was not among the critics.

"Those who were present," Jenkins wrote in his newspaper column, "heard Mr. Lewis express his belief in God and so great a reverence for Jesus that it hurt him to see religious people fighting over the gentle Master of Nazareth. There are two sides to every question and to every man."

But a year later, after Elmer Gantry was published, not even Rev. Jenkins could find much to say in favor of Lewis's novel about a hard-drinking, womanizing,  murderous preacher.


"Along with his intolerance of shams and hypocrisies – altogether becoming in a satirist – he shows himself intolerant toward any kind of religious thinking, to which mankind is incurably given," Jenkins wrote in a review.

During the few months he was in town, Sinclair Lewis managed to make plenty of news. First for belittling things Kansas City loved about itself (J.C. Nichols' Country Club District, the Liberty Memorial), then for saying he was thinking of making it his home ("Kansas City is the most typically American city I know.") Then for his evening at the Open Forum. And finally for refusing to accept the Pulitzer Prize for Arrowsmith, declaring that such awards compel writers "to become safe, polite, obedient and sterile."

With that, at least one Kansas City man had had enough of Sinclair Lewis. Seeing a giant hat – size 207 5/8 – being used as a window prop in Rothschild's clothing store, he bought it for $27.50 and had it delivered to Lewis at the Ambassador. With a note suggesting it might be large enough for the author's swelled head.

Lewis refused to be photographed standing under the hat. Asked whether he had any comment, he paused.

"No. I guess not," he said.

Size 207 plus.

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Burris Jenkins' church burned down on Halloween 1939. The fire reportedly had started on the auditorium stage. Three years later, renamed Community Christian, the congregation moved into a new building designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, at 46th and Main.

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Sunday, March 27, 2016

Ephemeral city: Election day sign


It's a brown paper sign, backed with cardboard, found in a dark nook of an antiques mall. I wanted it to be an original artifact from the most notorious election day in city history, but knew it was probably a fake, a prop. And I was pretty sure I'd seen it somewhere before. Turns out, I was right.

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Several folks suffered beatings and kidnappings, and four people died in election-day violence on March 27, 1934. One of the dead was a deputy sheriff, one a Democratic precinct captain, one the owner of a hardware store, and one was Larry Cappo.

In March of 1934 Larry Cappo was a 27-year-old former boxer, a welterweight with a middling record who had been known by his opponents as a crafty puncher with a dangerous right, by regional sports writers as the "Knockout King" or the "Walloping Wop" or the "Pride of Kansas City," and by adoring females as the "Valentino of the Ring." Cappo's hometown fans would often travel to his out-of-town matches in towns like Sedalia, Joplin and Des Moines.

Larry Cappo
He had been born Lawrence Caciappo on Valentine's Day 1907, the second son of Italian immigrants on Kansas City's tough North Side. It was a poor neighborhood where some boys learned to run in packs, destroying property, rolling drunks, stealing cars, etc. These were boys who came of age just as Prohibition was creating a whole new world of criminal opportunity. Newspaper stories often referred to them as young Sicilians in silk shirts, with oily hair and powerful cars. 

By March 1934, Larry Cappo was out of the boxing ring and waiting tables at Dante's Inferno, a new night club that had opened just before Christmas as Prohibition was ending. The club, at Independence Avenue and Troost, would become known for its devil-themed decor and its female-impersonator floor shows, and was owned by Joe Lusco.  Lusco also ran a flower shop known to police as a nest of criminal activity. He was active in North Side Democratic politics and until recently had been associated with Johnny Lazia, the chief underworld connection for Boss Tom Pendergast. But Lusco had split with Lazia and aligned himself with Pendergast rival Cas Welch.

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The election day violence in 1934 was the result of a political rift between separate elements of the Democratic party, the Cas Welch faction and the Joe Shannon faction. The precinct captain, a black man, was shot dead at a polling place at 24th and Michigan. The other three were killed later in the day near 58th and Swope Parkway. Three carloads of men pulled up outside a polling place there looking for the deputy sheriff. Shots were fired. The deputy fell, as did the hardware man, who was an innocent bystander. Larry Cappo was a passenger in one of the cars. A bullet from the deputy's gun  struck him in the head. 

The scene at 58th and Swope Parkway after the shooting.


In the language of the newspapers, the events of March 27 changed Larry Cappo from "boxer" to "gangster." One account had it that "Cappo was a lieutenant of Joe Lusco." He was buried and forgotten.

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In 1996, director Robert Altman gave us Kansas City, a film about his hometown with a fictional story set amidst historical realities. The movie includes jazz, played by world-class musicians, and in the minds of critics the music is the only reason to watch. So recently I got a copy of the Kansas City DVD and watched it again. 

Altman reimagined real pieces of his youthful Kansas City, not necessarily true to life. For instance, his "Hey-Hey Club" was set in the 18th and Vine neighborhood, but the real Hey-Hay Club was spelled differently and sat at 4th and Cherry streets on the North Side. 

And while the movie is set in March 1934, the election violence is depicted as a simple Pendergast power play, trucking in thugs to pad the Democratic vote and shooting down someone who stood in the way. Fraudulent voting was certainly a part of elections in the Pendergast era, but the 1934 events could be traced to political infighting.

In real life, Boss Tom Pendergast lived in a huge mansion in the Country Club District and probably would have voted that day in a grander building than the one depicted in the movie. But there it is, in the scene where Boss Tom goes to a humble edifice to cast his ballot, my sign identifying an official "polling place."

Mr. and Mrs. Tom Pendergast enter the polling place in Robert Altman's "Kansas City."

At the end, the credits roll and there are characters named "Tom Pendergast" as well as "Johnny Lazia" and other real-life figures. And yet, the movie has no "Larry Cappo," in history the "Pride of Kansas City" turned dead gangster.

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Sunday, February 14, 2016

A canine valentine

This past year I lost my dog Blossom to a rare blood disease. She had come to us as a stray puppy, about eight weeks old in the vet's estimation, which put her birthday around Valentine's Day.  So, in honor of what would have been the completion of Blossom's seventh trip around the sun, here is a post first published in February 2011. 

It's a 75-year-old story, about an old Kansas farm dog, a young Army private stationed in California, and a long journey, via Kansas City.

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Laddie
Main Street between Crown Center and the Plaza is strewn with forlorn-looking real estate: apartments, restaurants, bars and shops, some vacant, most surrounded by empty parking lots. There's a lifeless old brick building in the 3600 block that probably hints at what its next-door neighbor – years ago demolished – looked like on February 6, 1941. That's when it was Young's Small Animal Hospital and when Laddie, a 10-year-old Airedale mix, arrived for treatment.

Laddie had traveled by train in a crate from Chanute, Kansas, and he was in sad shape. His brown eyes were glassy and he was shivering, had a weak pulse and couldn't walk. He had lost 15 of his 40 pounds, having not eaten for two weeks. The story from the Chanute woman caring for him was that Laddie missed his master, Everett Scott, who had enlisted in the Army some months earlier.

The woman, Scott's sister, had written to the 7th Infantry Division at Fort Ord in Monterey, California, where Scott was in training. Officers there found no rules preventing a soldier from keeping a dog in camp. Laddie's story made news in Kansas City, where officials at Transcontinental & Western Airlines saw a public relations opportunity. A TWA plane would fly Laddie from Kansas City to California.

But after the train trip, Laddie was too feeble to fly. Vets at Young's Small Animal Hospital wrapped him in blankets, rinsed his eyes, force-fed him milk and a raw egg. They injected him with saline and dextrose. They gave him a blood transfusion. It was too early to tell whether he would survive, they said.

The vets stood by him through the night, along with a man from TWA, and by morning Laddie had improved enough to continue his journey. One vet called him a "one-man dog" whose recovery would probably be helped by a reunion with his master.

By the time Laddie, still wrapped in blankets, was put in a basket and driven to Municipal Airport the newspapers were reporting that he was "overcome with grief because his master left him for the Army."

And because hundreds of people had phoned Young's Small Animal Hospital to inquire about Laddie's condition, KMBC radio was on the scene to broadcast his departure from the airport.

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In researching this story I ran across a small-town Kansas newspaper of 1941, which quoted an old-time editor who believed "a paper should have at least one dog story every day."

Just as they do now, dog stories appeared regularly in 1941. A toy Pomeranian who survived birth despite weighing only an ounce and a quarter. A Boston terrier whose barking saved his sleeping owners from a house fire. A mixed breed who kept a woman and newborn baby warm all night after their car wrecked in a ditch.

But Laddie's journey to rejoin his master was the dog story of the year, followed closely in newspapers from Kennebec, Maine, to Panama City, Florida; from Yuma, Arizona, to Benton Harbor, Michigan, to New York City.

They chronicled Laddie's 2,000-mile trip to California via Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he rested and received a piece of Pvt. Everett Scott's clothing, airmailed in to lift his spirits. On the last leg of the flight Scott's voice crackled over the plane's radio from Fort Ord – "Hello, Laddie! How are you, boy?" – and the old dog reportedly lifted his head slightly and blinked his eyes.

Pvt. Everett Scott and Laddie at Fort Old, California.













Hundreds of people waited in a cold rain for his arrival in California and the newsreel photographers were there and finally dog and master were together again. "Laddie, old boy, you don't look so good," Scott said. "But we'll get you well again." There was another blood transfusion, this from a St. Bernard named Winkey, and 75 other potential donors stood by. And when he perked up a bit and his appetite improved, doctors were cautiously optimistic.

So the news of February 13 hit hard from coast to coast, including in Kansas City. The front-page story here began: Ten-year-old Laddie, his canine heart weakened by grief, died today at the Monterey presidio – four days after the 2,000 mile flight which brought him to his master. The official cause was "gastroentritis with complicating heart lesions, anemia, and the effects of old age." The account in the New York Times said "Whatever the cause, it was brought on by loneliness."

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They buried Laddie on Valentine's Day, on the grounds of Fort Ord. There were flowers and a little gray casket, and the men of Company G heard a eulogy for an old dog who once chased rabbits and herded cattle with his master on a Kansas farm.

The days ahead would bring more newspaper stories. One about a lonely military wife who asked to be reunited with her man as Laddie had been. Some questioning the outpouring of sympathy for a dog when, for instance, Nazi bombs were delivering hell to humans in England. And an editorial that concluded: "So long as human beings can grieve over a sick and dying dog, we stand in no eminent danger of permanent moral or spiritual degradation."

But for Pvt. Everett Scott, it all boiled down to something simpler. Anyone who has had a dog knows the feeling.

"It's pretty tough to lose an old friend," Scott said. "He was a good dog."



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Blossom: 2009 – 2015


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