A Short History of America - Classic R. Crumb Poster

 

A Short History of America

R. Crumb Poster

Published by Denis Kitchen

Arguably cartoonist Robert Crumb's most popular and most timeless image, this poster shows the gradual metamorphosis of a single plot of land from virgin wilderness to urban decay in 12 panels. It first appeared in black & white in 1979 in the ecological magazine Co-Evolutionary Quarterly and in Snoid Comics. It was rearranged and colored by Peter Poplaski in 1981 and quickly became Kitchen Sink Press' best-selling poster. After the popular but depressing 12-panel poster went out of print, Crumb added three panels to answer the "What next?" question posed in his original final 12th panel. In this 15-panel version Crumb depicts three possible futures:

a.) Lower left shows the "Worst case scenario: ecological disaster;

b.) Center: "The fun future: Techno fix on the march!"

c.) Lower right: "The ecotopian solution."

Measures 22 inches high x 24 inches wide

Ships rolled in a sturdy tube

$30 Including Shipping (In US) - Click Link

 

GIGI

Summer came, and again I made my way to Eagle River and camp after picking up my certification as a National Trip Leader with the American Youth Hostels. Preparations for trips were in full swing - new bikes to assemble, old canvas tents to waterproof and patch, and paddles and canoes to check.

One of the first trips of the summer was a canoe trip with sixth grade girls. We put in on the Wisconsin River near camp, where the highway comes close to touching the banks of the river. We scrambled up and down the steep banks to load the canoes with the supplies and the campers ready for launching.

A rarity occurred. The girls had sufficient canoeing skills to arrive at Planting Road, our destination, earlier than expected. It was a beautiful sunny day, with a light cooling breeze.  I asked if they wanted to continue down the river to the Rainbow Flowage, figuring we’d find a good campsite along the way.  This group enthusiastically said they did!

Several hours of paddling carried us onto the Rainbow Flowage, a vast, open expanse of water that stretched like a silver mirror under the sun. Headwinds whipped up whitecaps that slapped against the canoes, and spray stung our faces with every stroke. The girls paddled steadily, but even their skill couldn’t fully counter the relentless push of wind and wave. What had begun as a near-perfect glide became a tiring struggle: shoulders burned, arms ached, and the rhythm of the river seemed to slow with each passing minute.

At last, we spotted a clearing along the upper reaches and pulled over. The site wasn’t one I’d used before, but it had road access and enough space to set up camp. We pitched tents, got a fire going, and settled in as the sun slipped down. I thought we’d found a great new spot—just a short walk to the trailhead in the morning to guide the truck that would return us to camp.

I walked down the road to figure out how to let our driver know where we were. I knew they’d be coming down Oxbow Road looking for us—but they didn’t know where to turn in.

I spotted Oxbow Road ahead, maybe a quarter mile from the camp site. Relief quickened my pace. But as I got closer, my stomach sank. What I hoped would be an easy access and pickup became a nightmare. A heavy locked chain stretched across the road, anchored into posts, and just before it yawned a deep pit—built to make sure no vehicle could ever reach our site. My nerves began to fray. How would we get the canoes, the gear, and the campers out of this blockaded spot?

Back at the camp site, I decided on the only solution I could come up with: start carrying. I hoisted a canoe onto my shoulder and began the long walk toward the roadhead. With five canoes to move, I knew it would take multiple trips, and the next morning would be swallowed up by hauling gear, so getting the canoes out of the way made sense. At least it was a plan—a way forward.

The gunnels of the canoe pressed down on me in that familiar way, every step a mix of balance and strain and knowing that each round trip would feel heavier and longer.  Then I felt tugging and pushing at my back.

“Who’s there?” I called.

“It’s me, Gigi!” came the reply. Gigi, is a petite eleven year old who throughout the trip kept a smile on her face as well as her cabin mates.  One of those unusual kids who meets the moment and enjoys the adventure and who makes all feel comfortable in her presence.  She darted into view, her grin nearly as wide as the canoe itself. “I’m here to help you, David Nature.”

With that, she pressed her small hands against the canoe, steadying it as I walked. Her laughter bubbled up in the dark, lighter than the load on my shoulders. In that moment, the weight of the canoe seemed lessened—not because the work had changed, but because it was shared.

By the time we reached the roadhead, I realized something I would carry long after the canoes were hauled and the campers safely home: leadership isn’t always about being the strongest or solving every obstacle. Sometimes it’s about making space for others to step in with their own courage and joy. Gigi reminded me of that truth. What could have been remembered as a grueling, exhausting mistake became instead a story of resilience, laughter, and an eleven-year-old who taught me what it means to truly help carry the load.

The First Camp Bike Trip

 I slit open the first box and pulled out a gleaming new Huffy. Twenty-nine more bikes waited in the truck. By the time I lined them up, they looked like stars on a showroom floor—each one destined to carry its own story.

They weren’t the finest machines, but they would do. People joked the name came from all the huffing and puffing they caused. For days I tightened bolts, pumped tires, and coaxed stubborn gears and brakes into working order. I also prepared a trailer for my own bike to carry the essentials—water jugs, tools, a first-aid kit, and the all-important repair supplies.

The inaugural trip was with the oldest girls from Cabin Tent Judah. Their sleeping bags, tents, and food went by truck to our campsite on Planting Road, a well-worn stop from canoe trips along the Wisconsin River. The place was a meeting of worlds: pine forest against a sandy cut bank, the river curling at its edge. The only neighbors were loons and the occasional muskrat.

Ateret, the Camp Director, met us in front of the office to wish us well and remind us about bug spray. She had a knack for worrying about everything that could go wrong, yet she also understood how rare and valuable these kinds of trips could be. She liked to tell me, with a wry smile, that she hated the outdoors. I never fully believed her. She thrived in a classroom, but never admitted that camp—the pine woods, the campfires, the quiet lakes—was just another kind of classroom.

Then we were off—a long, single-file line of bikes gliding down a quiet country road, me riding caboose. On one side stretched cranberry bogs and potato farms; on the other, pine forests and blue lakes flashing through the trees. Spirits were high, and the road ahead felt wide open.

The day’s highlight came at a tiny convenience store in the middle of nowhere, where we bought ice cream and sodas and devoured them at rickety picnic tables out front. To the girls, it was paradise—a world away from the polished comforts of their upper-middle-class suburban lives.

Later, we stopped at the dam at Rainbow Flowage. Together we stood in silence, watching the torrent spill and thunder over the rocks, as if the whole trip had been carrying us to that moment.

The way back was harder. The sun beat down, and even the light winds seemed against us. Legs grew heavy, spirits sagged. The girls’ chorus alternated between “How much farther?” and “Car!” each time a lone vehicle passed on the road. I rode at the back, pushing them along with encouragement and silent prayers.

At last we rolled into our campsite. The Wisconsin River shimmered gold and bronze in the slanting light. The girls tumbled off their bikes and sprinted for the water, their shrieks and splashes echoing through the trees. I stayed back, leaning against a pine, my legs aching but my heart light. We had made it.

Dinner was a simple stew, simmering in a blackened Dutch oven over the fire. Around the flames we traded stories and songs—the kind that rise unforced after a long day outside. A cool night breeze drifted through, easing the memory of the sun’s heat. Moonlight and stars filled the sky, and in that glow of fire, song, and laughter, the group felt truly bonded.

When the campers asked if they could sleep beside the fire, I agreed. We pulled our bags into a circle around the glowing embers, heads toward the warmth. Sleep came quickly and something –perhaps primitive– makes time by a fire feel healing, restful, and renewing. 

The peace of the night was broken when I woke to nudges from both sides.

“David—David—wake up! Look!”

I opened my eyes. Across the firepit, directly opposite me, a black bear stood. It wasn’t large, but one of its claws had hooked Leslie’s sleeping-bag zipper. The animal pawed and twisted, trying to wrench itself free. Leslie froze, wide-eyed, barely breathing. The only sound was the frantic thrash of fabric and the soft pop of fire’s embers.

I sat up fast. Two aluminum plates from dinner lay near the firepit. I snatched them up and clashed them together with all the force I could muster. The metallic clang split the night air. The bear jerked, startled, and with a final rip of fabric tore itself loose. It bolted into the woods, crashing through the underbrush until the forest swallowed the sound.

The group went from frozen to blast-off in seconds. The campers scrambled to their tents without a word. I walked past each tent, heart still pounding, listening for the girls’ steady breaths.  Returning to the fire, the smell of scorched stew and marshmallows still lingered in the coals. Gradually, the night’s serenity returned: the
soft rush of the river, sparks drifting upward, the wind in the pines.

That night, under the stars, I learned that bike trips—like canoe trips—held their own kind of wilderness. Sometimes it was laughter and soda at a country store; sometimes it was the heavy breath of a bear in the firelight. Whatever the experience, we were in it together.

L'il Further - Canoeing on the Wisconsin River

 

Near the headwaters, the Wisconsin River is a few feet wide and meanders through forests and verdant rural terrain. The tannin stained waters are cool with ripples formed from the fallen trees and rocks which cover a storied past.

Late spring, 1973, I was dropped off at a canoe landing, so I could become familiar with a canoe route that I would soon lead campers on overnight canoe trips.  How unexpected the flashback to the eight year old me – when I cried at Camp Sidney Cohen because I didn’t get a canoe certificate at the final banquet awards night.  Matt, the waterfront director, gave me the certificate later that night. It didn’t occur to me to wonder whether it was out of pity rather than merit.  

While we put in at that landing often, the most memorable aspects were the one lane bridge which thumped and rattled whenever a car crossed and the ancient weather battered Coke machine that must have been placed there by an enterprising neighboring homeowner.  The quickly flowing water and the brush-lined banks were typical of the headwaters of the river. The strength of the current was perhaps most vivid when the brush would bend upstream while the current rippled down.

   

The river current was strong enough to push the canoes downstream without much encouragement or effort. While the physical challenge of the paddle was not significant, the need to cooperate and work together was profound. Canoe trips are a shared experience that brings the opportunity to work together. I always had a camper in the bow of my canoe. Perhaps the non-swimmer in the bunk, or a camper who was a little more homesick than the others, or uncertain about which end of the paddle goes in the water. Regardless of the reason they were there, we were a team.

The narrow banks were close enough that even a beginner in the stern could keep the canoe going downstream by ricocheting from bank to bank. A bit like a carnival bumper car ride. Eventually most campers showed some rudimentary ruddering skills and sometimes even a classic J-stroke was executed.

I always liked to paddle in the back of the procession of the 6 camper and counselor filled canoes.  Unlike the mother goose who led her goslings, I preferred coming to a problem rather than hoping the gang behind me would somehow be able to follow along and keep up.  I spent a fair amount of time in the water dislodging hung up canoes.  Campers seemed to have a knack for finding trees that had fallen in the water, or rocks that were usually slightly submerged, and landing on sandbars that were slightly below the surface.

Campers’ tolerance for the paddling and the overall adventure quickly wears thin. I’m hungry, tired, or bored were the mantras. As time flowed, the most frequent question became “how much further?” Of all the potential answers, my go to response was “It’s a little further.”  While satisfying to me, campers would want to dig deeper and ask “What’s a little further?.”

Gradually the river widened - small streams and creeks quietly filled the river beds which expanded and even provided some options to go right or left around the occasional island or large boulder.  Sometimes there was even enough of a beach to pull over and take a collective rest and enjoy the sandwiches and bug juice the camp kitchen had sent along for lunch.

After resuming the paddle again, it was inevitable, the questions came fast and furious, the chant of the day “How much further.” 

A little further.

Paddling this route we would ultimately stop at a long used campsite. Our “little further” after lunch was probably a pokey two hour paddle.

Here we are - we’ve arrived at “River Road.” It was really the end of a long country logging road that abruptly ended at the river bank with a circular turn-around at a tall oak tree.  The camp site was above a sandy embankment with a small adjacent landing area. A well worn trail slightly from the landing led to the top where we set up camp.  The embankment was created by the meandering stream hitting the bank for generations, gradually wearing and cutting it away, and over time resulting in a steep slope.  Downstream from the River Road campsite was “Winter Haven” , a developed camping site at the confluence of a creek,that led to Camp Ramah, and the Wisconsin River.  This followed by another site similar to River Road, but on the opposite bank known as Stella D’oro.  Camp legend holds that campers got so sick of having the Bronx based kosher cookies that they would bury them there on trips, and so named the site as a memorial. 

The bank at River Road was a steep sandy bank with the roots of trees exposed at the top  - a great place for jumping and rolling into the river.

Unloading the canoes, filled with campers counselors, tents, food, and sleeping bags was remarkably easier than it sounded.  Something about being away from the known comforts of a somewhat rustic camp setting helped create a cooperative attitude among all. Camp being set up led to free swim washing away the day's toil, and gearing up for an open fire cooked meal.

Camp time, which generally means not using daylight savings time, meant that darkness came to camp earlier than the long summer days everyone else seemed to relish. The warmth of the fire, the smell of the burning pine, coupled with the evening stars,and being enveloped by a twilight sunset, helped create a time of closeness and peacefulness that is familiar on a trip, but so very rare in day to day experiences.

Dinner cleanup was along the shore of the river with the sand serving as a giant Brillo pad that made the pots pans, utensils and aluminum dinnerware sort of shine. Stories, songs and memorializing the day's events were featured at night - with a speciality of using popular songs of the day and wording them to feature the experiences of the day.  They were usually performed at flag raising on the following day.

Here comes the sun

Said David Nature

Here comes the sun

It’s alright, it’s alright

We’ll stay here tonight . . .

During the years I spent as the trip leader (tripper) I estimate that I spent about 100 nights away from camp - in so many ways a camp outside of another camp.  A unique experience and place that came to embody some of the essence of what the camp sought to provide. In both places campers experienced independence and responsibility. Personal success was interwoven with the group. Everyone is a star takes on a nuanced meaning when seeing the evening sky light up with galaxies and countless possibilities for that star.

Early on in leading the trips I came upon the solution to the perseverative question of “How Much Further.” I cut out a piece of construction paper into an uneven edged shaped figure and attached a cotton ball with a dab of glue - resulting in the discovery of “What’s a little Further.” 

I made sure that each camper who went on a trip received the “Little Further” as part of the session’s ending award ceremony.

Check out - Alex's Chair for further stories about Camp.

https://www.bklvr.com/2020/09/alexs-chair-legacy-of-camp-interlaken.html

Uncle Jake - on rent, shoes, and jobs!

 In 1949 my Uncle Jake made news by reducing the rent on some of his apartments. A photographer captured the moment, and the picture may have even appeared in the Milwaukee Journal. I found a print of that photo recently, a reminder of how Jake always seemed to do things in his own way.

Most people in Milwaukee knew him through Friedman’s Clothing Stores. The West Allis location was his flagship, but he also had a shop downtown—possibly in the Pfister Hotel—and another on the North Side. With my cousin Zal, he started a store in Southgate Mall, Milwaukee’s very first shopping mall. Zal eventually took over that store, but the family name was etched into Milwaukee retail for decades.

Jake’s path there was anything but straightforward. He came to America in the late 1800s and began by selling cigars on trains. Eventually, he drifted to Wisconsin and opened a shoe store in Potosi. Times were lean—so lean that Jake lined the shelves with empty boxes to create the illusion of inventory. In truth, he owned only a single pair of shoes. When a customer asked for their size, he would apologize and promise to order it, showing them the one pair he did have as an example. That bit of ingenuity was the start of a lifetime in retail.

I heard that story from Aunt Rose, Jake’s wife. She laughed when I told her about my own first job interview after college, which, by coincidence, took me to Potosi. The hiring committee, looking for a youth director, worried I might not be happy there—it was, after all, a Catholic town, and they guessed I was Jewish. I didn’t get the job. Only later did I learn that Jake himself had once been treasurer of the Potosi Catholic Church.

That was Jake in a nutshell: an immigrant with nothing but hustle who built something real, a Jewish shopkeeper who ended up managing the books for a Catholic parish, and a man who made his way forward with wit, grit, and a knack for turning empty boxes into possibility.