AN ENDEARING PRESIDENT, A FAILED ONE, A SAD DEVELOPMENT, AND REFLECTIONS ON THE BEATLES
Vol. 1, No. 34
In this edition, your pensive correspondent highlights the relationship between Jack and Caroline, shares the prophetic words of an American journalist, and mourns the passage of a time with an easy friend.
This week: A 7-minute read
FAIL TO THE CHIEF
This juicy quote was written by American journalist H. L. Mencken in the Baltimore Evening Sun on July 26, 1920. We are not making this up:
“As democracy is perfected, the office of the President represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. On some great and glorious day, the plain folks of the land will reach their heart’s desire at last, and the White House will be occupied by a downright fool and a complete narcissistic moron.”
Many folks now consider Mencken’s words prophetic, given the current occupant of the White House. Yet it was only a few months after he wrote those words that Mencken’s fellow Americans elected as their president one Warren G. Harding, who has gone down in history as one of the most dismal leaders to occupy that office.
Many modern U.S. historians rank Harding the third worst of the lot, though some of the more generous ones rank him fourth worst. His administration was wracked with scandal, and he was at the time viewed as ineffective, indecisive, a poor communicator and lacking a moral compass. Most observers at the time said Harding preferred poker, socializing and womanizing to actually working. He died in office in 1923 after suffering a heart attack. He was 57, having three years earlier fathered a child with a long-time mistress.
Oh, and the other “worst” Presidents? James Buchanan, who immediately preceded Abraham Lincoln; Andrew Johnson, who immediately followed Lincoln; and, ahem, Donald Trump in his first term.
ALL TOO SAD, ALL TOO OFTEN
It’s sad to say, but I learned this week that a friend from my high school and college days has died. What’s even sadder is that it was a not recent development; he died more than two years ago and I did not know.
I only found out because it was his birthday on Thursday and I sent him a note to wish him happiness. Alas, there is no joy in Mudville. A mutual friend then dropped me a note telling me of our buddy’s passing.
It's a terrible way to get this kind of news, and it’s not the first time. It got me thinking about a lot of things, not the least of which is that what was once considered a terribly sad and rare occurrence has increasingly become more commonplace—yet still sad.
My mind took me back to high school and one of those memorable moments when my late friend—his name was Larry— shot me a look in biology class. It was sorta like the one Bryan Cranston made to Jerry Seinfeld here. The reason? We, along with the rest of the school, had just learned I lost the election for student council president to a classmate who was infinitely more qualified for the position than was I. She was the sort of girl you knew was destined to do great things in her life, and great things she did.
Anyway, it was that kind of easy relationship for Larry and me. We didn’t spend a lot of time together but when we did, it was casual and fun and we both knew we had each other’s back. I can remember in college (I was going to school in Hamilton, he was in school 45 minutes away in St. Catharines), Larry had a date with this girl from Hamilton and he was nervous about it, so he recruited me to accompany her girlfriend and make it a double-date. There aren’t many people I would have done that for, but Larry was on the list. It was fun.
I share this because I recognize many of you are of similar vintage as me; some a little older, some a bit younger, yet of that age when mourning friends and loved ones has come to be expected as part of life.
It never gets easier, eh? Here’s an old Scottish blessing that somehow seems appropriate.
Let us gather, hearts entwined, To celebrate a life, that once did shine, Our dear friend, a soul so bright, A testament to love, and Highland light.
MORE ‘DEAR TERRY’ LETTERS
Re ‘McConnells, Beatles, and D.C.,’ March 16. Great aside on the Beatles, Terry. I was in England for four months in 1964 with my parents, renting a house in Esher, Surrey, which happened to be the domicile of George, Ringo and Paul. John lived on a nearby estate. I can remember seeing George and Patti in their green XKE flashing by with Patti’s scarf blowing backwards ... all very stylish. My sister and I stuffed notes in Paul’s gate and George’s front door, and I recall we did not find where Ringo lived. Alas, no one answered us. Lorne Eedy, St. Marys, Ontario
Re ‘Do Geese Gaggle?’ March 16. Speaking of groups of animals, Terry, when the kids were little we were driving in the country and I said, “Look at that flock of cows.” My daughter piped up and said, “herd.” I said, “herd of what?” She said, “herd of cows.” Naturally, I replied, “Of course I’ve heard of cows. There is a whole flock of them right there.” Dick Wood, LaSalle, Ontario
If you want to drop me a note (and risk me publishing it here), just reply to this email or, if you prefer send it to mysundayreader@gmail.com.
THIS WEEK’S SHAMELESS PLUG
What follows here is from Jay Moriarty Has Seen You Naked, the fourth book in the series The Casefile of Jay Moriarty. As we mentioned before, the author is Kit Walker, a.k.a. Carson McConnell.
The entire collection can be found on PayHip. This particular book, all 78 pages, sells for $2.99.
In this introductory scene, Sebastian and Jay head to an Apple-type store in London’s Covent Garden after Sebastian’s cellphone rather alarmingly begins to swell.
THE LAST TIME Sebastian Moran braved Covent Garden in December was just after his first tour in Helmand. He’d been Christmas shopping with his mother.
What he remembered most clearly was the sheer noise of the place. They didn’t get much shopping done that day.
Sebastian would’ve preferred not to repeat the experience, but Covent Garden was home to the only Different Store within reasonable range of his flat in Chelsea. And Jay had insisted on coming along to monitor the situation with Sebastian’s phone, which meant there was at least one person around having a worse time than he was.
Thanks to a series of overenthusiastic housewarming gifts, Sebastian owned two cast-iron Dutch ovens. His less favourite of the two currently contained his phone, its lid sealed in place with a generous amount of duct tape. He tucked it under his arm to free up a hand as he opened the door for Jay.
Sebastian forged a path through the crowd to the tech support bar up on the second floor. There, they were intercepted by a young woman with an overzealous smile and a lanyard.
“Hi!” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t.” Sebastian gestured to the Dutch oven under his arm. “I need a new phone. This one’s about to explode.”
The woman’s smile froze in place, but she forged onward: “I’m afraid you need to book a tech support appointment through the Different App.”
“I can’t do that,” Sebastian patiently explained, “since my phone is about to explode.”
The woman’s mouth opened, then shut as she adjusted to this departure from the usual script. She waved Sebastian toward one of the tall, round tables arranged neatly around the room. “Wait here. I’ll see if a technician is available.”
She hurried away while Sebastian propped his elbows on the edge of the table. They were in for a wait. Sebastian had a tolerance for boredom honed by 12 years in the army—a soldier who wasn’t bored was generally being shot at—but Jay was getting restless.
The technician finally arrived at their table. He was dressed identically to the other staff—same t-shirt, same lanyard—and therefore his elevated status was communicated entirely by the impressive size of his beard.
“Hey,” the technician said in a bored tone. “What’s the problem?”
Sebastian pointed at the Dutch oven. “Phone’s about to explode.” The technician suppressed a roll of his eyes. He reached forward and casually peeled away the duct tape, then lifted the lid. His eyes went wide. The lid fell back into place with a firm clonk.
“I need to go get my manager,” the technician said, and scurried off.
Then a middle-aged woman with an air of authority and a politely inquisitive look stepped up to the table. Sebastian groaned and once again pointed at the Dutch oven. “Phone. Explode.”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard.” The manager carefully cracked the lid open and peered inside. Her face settled into a rigidly neutral mask, and she untucked a tablet from under her arm. “Let’s just pull up your account … .”
Sebastian rattled off his name and phone number. The manager studied the results on her tablet, then frowned.
“It looks like Different dropped your carrier a few months ago,” she said. “It’ll be just a few minutes to switch you over to a new plan.”
“I don’t want to switch carriers,” Sebastian said.
“I can’t replace the phone if you’re not with an approved carrier.”
Sebastian sighed. “All right, how much will this cost me without the warranty?”
The manager gave him an apologetic look. “I’m afraid we can’t sell you a phone, either, unless you switch.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Jay’s limited patience finally ran out. “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, and snatched the lid off the Dutch oven. The screen of Sebastian’s phone had started to break free of its frame, bowing outward as the battery beneath it swelled up like a balloon. Jay popped the SIM tray open, retrieved the card, and dropped the phone back into the Dutch oven, slamming the lid into place. Then he was gone, striding toward the exit. The manager stared after him.
“I suppose we’re done here.” Sebastian slid the Dutch oven across the table toward the manager. “That’s yours. Thank you.”
That’s it till next week. / T.
© Terry McConnell, 2025
Please note: Artificial intelligence was not used in the preparation or writing of any part of this newsletter.