Energy, Food and Melting Ice

teaching at the Middlebury College environmental journalism fellows workshop
Bill McKibben, arguably the foremost environmentalist in the world now, and a great reporter, at the Middlebury College environmental journalism fellows workshop in California, 2010. Photo/Keith Schneider

I read with interest the interviews with Bill McKibben and Amory Lovins that Yale Environment 360 posted today and in February. Good stuff. Perplexing and nerve-wracking all at the same time.

Amory’s optimism about the prospects for clean energy, in its consistency over the last 30 years, reminds me of Lester Brown’s equally long-term pessimism about the world’s capacity to feed itself. Both have the technical details in place to make plausible cases but the actual events deny support for the theses.

Bill’s interview sounds like the several conversations I’ve had with him in recent months. A discouraging geopolitcal cocktail. Two shots escalating despair. One shot personal determination. Add melting ice.

— Keith Schneider

Haverford College Friends

Haverford College friends - Keith Schneider

CHARLOTTESVILLE, Va. — When Bob O’Connor (far right above) was 18, he lived directly above me in a second-floor dorm room in Barclay Hall at Haverford College. He’s a big-boned guy with a quiet way, a sizable intellect, and likes to have fun.

Two upper classmen, Pete Doan and Evan Lippincott, lived across the hall from my first-floor room. Pete and Evan were dorm reps and were supposed to keep tabs on freshmen like me and Bob. They did. They bought us beer and bourbon at the state store in Ardmore.

The other important aid Pete and Evan provided was introducing their young charges to their friends. That’s how I met Andy Solberg (second from right), an Illinois boy a full foot taller than me, infinitely more amusing and intelligent, and can be charming and cranky all at the same time. We get along real well.Haverford College friends

The other two guys in the picture are Jim Walker (second from left) and Pierce Homer (third from left). Jim possesses the curious and incalculably valuable capacity to talk about almost anything with depth and authentic expertise. He also knows how to relax. One morning I found him asleep in the bathtub of my junior-year Haverford Parks apartment.

Pierce is a riot, whip-smart, and our lives really connected in the years right after college when I was a young writer in Charleston and he was living in Alexandria, Va. preparing for graduate school in public administration. On reporting trips from the South to Washington, D.C. I spent nights at the carriage house with the outdoor pool that he rented in Old Town. We had a ton of fun.

Last week, for the first time in quite awhile, the five of us gathered in Charlottesville for a couple of days at the comfortable and spacious modern home that Bob shares with his wife, Sara, and youngest of four children, a daughter, Carolyn. Our time was spent climbing to the summit of Humpback Rock in a cold, gale force wind. We played pool and (good surprise) ate healthy food, including a delightful gumbo sent north from Birmingham, Ala. from Alice Walker, Jim’s wife. We did a good bit of remembering events, and friends who weren’t able to join us. We marveled at the clear sky and view of the Shenandoah blue ridge that greeted us each morning from Bob and Sara’s kitchen. Mostly, we delighted in our strong connection and company.

Robert Frost wrote, “We dance round in a ring and suppose, But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.”

The five men pictured above represent many of the highest ideals of our generation. I say that without any sense of hubris or irony. Our lives as adults have been stoked by the kindling of opportunities and distresses of our time. We thrived even as the country steadily shifted from an era of entitlement, and a dismaying sense of exceptionalism, to a new period of competition, doubt, and caprice. Had we grown up in the same era as our millennial children, worried about educational opportunities limited by diminished financial resources, competing to gain a slim hold in a nation distorted by rigid ideology and real fear, our choices and our paths would have been much different.

The secret, though, sits in the middle and knows.

These men married well and are raising fine children. They are good husbands and fathers. They all are in good health. Their ability to cultivate strong friendships is essential to their well-being.

Their work matters, too. At age 55 and 56, each constructed lives that are wonderfully relevant. Bob is professor, chair, and physician-in-chief in the Department of Emergency Medicine at the University of Virginia Health System. He spends enough time in emergency rooms, in Virginia and overseas, to save lives, lots of lives. Andy is a commander in the Metropolitan Washington, D.C. Police Department. In the 25 years he’s been with the department he helped turn Washington from one of the most dangerous cities in the country to one of the safest.

Jim’s helped to put people into homes, first as director of planning and development in Wilmington, Del. and now as a federal Housing and Urban Development official in Alabama.

While on the way out to Charlottesville, Andy and I passed underneath the new bridges and tracks that are extending the Washington Metro system 23 miles to Dulles Airport. That’s a $2.6 billion project that Pierce helped to make happen as former secretary of transportation in Virginia.

I came away from those two days feeling so content, humbled by the fortune of lifelong friendship with these men, and privileged to know that our adventure together moves forward.

— Keith Schneider

Bob O'Conner, Jim Walker, Andy Solberg

Donald Spitzer, Last Of A Great Cambridge Family, Is Gone


When you ask his friends and family what they most admired about Donald Spitzer, the answers included his quick wit, his considerable intelligence, and his great love for family and friends.

They also note that in a family of gifted athletes Donald was tall and slim and gawky. And in a family of rugged Hungarian men  skilled in pounding wrought iron into graceful swirls and curves, Donald trained to be a graphic artist in the last tough years of the Great Depression. He was, in short, a gentle man interested in space and lines and colors, and so easily contented that his comfort zone only rarely stretched much further than the home on Michaels Lane in Croton-on-Hudson, New York where he lived for 54 years.

Or so it seemed.

What most people did not know is that Donald Spitzer, who was 94 when he died after a short illness on November 16, 2011, was also a man of immense courage and purpose,  a combat military policeman who directed soldiers and traffic in the dark and blood on Omaha Beach on June 6 and June 7, 1944 and saved dozens, if not hundreds of lives.d-day

Donnie, as I knew him, was my great uncle, the younger brother to my grandfather, Al Spitzer. He was the last surviving of  seven children raised on Sacramento Street in Cambridge, Massachusetts by Alexander and Katherine Spitzer. The oldest Spitzer child, a daughter named Theresa, was born in 1906. Donald’s death marks the end of an era in my family that spanned 105 years.

The story of Uncle Donnie’s bravery in the early hours of the Normandy invasion was told to me this week by Ed Malsberg, Donald’s closest friend since they met at the Massachusetts College of Art in Boston in 1936.

On June 6, 1944, Donald was a 27-year-old combat military policeman aboard an Army amphibious landing vehicle loaded with nearly 40 other frightened soldiers and approaching Omaha Beach in the late afternoon between the invasion’s first and second waves. The vehicle’s commander, Spitzer told Malsberg, decided to delay his vessel’s landing until night fell to avoid the murderous German defenses. But once the landing craft reached the beach and lowered its ramp into the surf and exploding crossfire, the soldiers didn’t move until Spitzer screamed into the dark: “Let’s Go! Get off of here or we’re all going to die!”

In a military invasion that produced 80 percent casualties during its earliest stages, Donald’s call to action prompted his military brothers to leap out of the craft and hustle to shore. Just three men were killed.

In the hours that followed, the tall and gaunt young policeman performed his duties on the beach without rest, guiding waves of soldiers and equipment to safety. At one point a colonel came by to order Spitzer to direct traffic toward a crest and dune in another direction. Spitzer ignored him. He knew there were German mines where the colonel pointed and that many Americans would die crossing the area. When the senior officer passed, Spitzer kept sending soldiers to a place on the beach that was safer.

Spitzer’s grit and determined presence on the beach, and later on the ridge above, signaling and guiding and managing the flow of soldiers and equipment, made him one of the invasion’s memorable figures. Much later in his life, while serving as the art director at the short-lived World Journal Tribune newspaper in New York in the late 1960s, a reporter at the new paper and a Normandy veteran recognized him and then wrote an article for Argosy Magazine about the “tall, gaunt, lonely figure” who directed traffic at Normandy.

“He said he never expected to survive,” said Ed Malsberg. “I asked if he was afraid. He said he was afraid but he did what he was expected to do. Troops landed and he had to stand there while the bullets were flying. If you know Donald, he seems the most unlikely person to be in that position. He was gentle, and all angles, and had poor eyesight.”

Mark Spitzer, his 57-year-old son and only child (see pix below with wife Kamila),  didn’t know many of the details of his Normandy service. “He never talked about World War Two,” Mark told me this week. “He couldn’t sit through “Saving Private Ryan.” He did say that the water was blood red.”mark-and-kamila-spitzer1

Donald David Spitzer was born in Cambridge on May 15, 1917, the second youngest of four boys and three girls raised in a stern Germanic home headed by an immigrant Jewish Hungarian master wrought iron craftsman. While his older brothers, Al and Richie, developed the hard muscles and the durable iron values of their father, Donald’s wiry frame and expressive spirit was clearly influenced by his sweet and generous mother.

For a time in the mid-1930s he sought to be part of the family business, making and installing great masterworks of wrought iron. After graduating from Cambridge High and Latin School he spent two years studying engineering at Boston University.

In 1936, though, he changed direction and enrolled at the Massachusetts College of Art, where he trained in graphic art and also served as the president of his senior class. He graduated in 1940 with the equivalent today of a Bachelor of Fine Arts.

During World War Two Donald was sent to Rutgers University to briefly study combat engineering but ended up at Fort Belvoir, in Fairfax County, Virginia, south of Washington, D.C. Malsberg, who also enlisted and served as a Stars and Stripes illustrator, spotted his friend there one day on a truck collecting garbage.

Months later their paths crossed again at Camp Reynolds, near Pittsburgh, a busy itinerant base, lit at night by the red fires of nearby blast furnaces, where men were mustered before being sent to Europe. Malsberg recalls that one evening, early in his stay at the camp, he was lying on his bunk and looked up to see a wooden clothes hanger with the name Donald D. Spitzer neatly spelled out in black lettering.

“He was very methodical like that,” said Malsberg. “That’s how I knew he’d gone overseas. It was an incredible coincidence. I interpreted it as showing how we were together almost all the time.”

The next time the two friends came into contact was in the late spring of 1945 when Donald, then serving as a field headquarters clerk in Belgium with access to telephones and personnel files, tracked Ed down. Malsberg was stationed in Paris. One day in June Ed took an unexpected call. On the other end of the line was Donald, who was in the city on leave. The two soldier/artists spent the day drinking cognac and sight-seeing and ended up at Montmartre, where the French impressionists used to hang out. “It was a miracle how he found me,” said Malsberg.

After the war ended, Malsberg convinced Spitzer and two other college classmates — Don MacKay and Clifford Geary — to move from Boston to New York, where they felt their career prospects were keener. The four men rented two apartments at 433 West 45th Street, a five-story walkup tenement in the Hell’s Kitchen section of Manhattan. Malsberg lived on the fourth floor. Spitzer lived on the fifth.

Among their neighbors, and close friends, was a young married couple from the Midwest, Charlton Heston and Lydia Clark, who’d graduated from Northwestern University and were starting their acting careers in New York. Donald and his friends celebrated in 1947 when Charlton, whom they called Chuck, played Caesar’s lieutenant in a Broadway production of Shakespeare’s “Antony and Cleopatra.” Lydia’s first Broadway role was opposite Chester Morris in “Detective Story.”

Donald quickly launched a successful freelance graphic design career that earned him an interview and then a job in 1947 as assistant art director of the New York Herald Tribune, one of the country’s great newspapers. He also met a young legal secretary from Amesbury, Massachusetts, who in March 1951 became his wife,  Ruth Spitzer. Three years later their son, Mark Spitzer, now an emergency medicine specialist in West Virginia and an avid rock climber and adventurer, was born.

“Donald lived vicariously through his son’s world travel and adventures while he and Ruth lived a quiet life in Croton,” said Jo-Anne Spitzer Schneider, his niece. “He really enjoyed what Mark was doing and his son’s adventurous life.”

Donald’s career at the Herald Tribune ended when the paper closed in 1966. Its newsroom and assets merged with several more papers to form the World Journal Tribune, where Spitzer was named art director. Donald served long enough to participate in the original design of New York Magazine. He then heeded Ed Malsberg’s advice to see one of his friends at Reader’s Digest, where Donald was hired as art editor for the large book division based in Manhattan.

His first book project was an illustrated Bible. Noting his company’s strength in synthesizing articles and literature into short and lively reads, he joked about the company’s Bible. “Well,” he said, ” we got it down to seven commandments.” His work earned Spitzer a national design award for a book on car care, and he retired from Reader’s Digest in 1984.

By then, he and Ruth had been living in Croton-on-Hudson for 27 years in a white house just a few miles from Ossining, where Ed Malsberg settled in 1952. He took great interest in his family’s exploits, talking to his brothers and sisters who’d moved to Florida, keeping in touch with Mark, staying in touch with nieces and nephews, reading, discussing politics (he was a Big D Democrat), hanging out with Ruth and Ed and friends. His mind was sharp. He was gracious and happy. “He was cool and I loved him,” said Mark.

On October 13, 2011 Ruth died after a long illness at age 89.  Five weeks later Donald was gone, too. “He had a very stable life,” said Ed Malsberg. “He was recognized as an art director of good taste and he was pretty contented. It wasn’t a dramatic life. He wasn’t adventurous. He was a very loyal friend and people liked him.”

— Keith Schneider

Nashville’s City Cafe East; One Fine Lunch Joint


Knocking around Nashville last month dropped me on the doorstep of City Cafe East, one of the finest lunch spots I’ve ever had the pleasure to visit. It was a Thursday, when owner and executive chef George T. Bird (on right above) and Calvin Oden feature a menu headlined by meat loaf with zesty sauce, Jerusalem chicken, salmon croquettes, and baked tilapia.

George and Calvin serve lunch cafeteria style at the 1455 Lebanon Pike restaurant behind a long glass and stainless steel display case. Customers can also choose from soul food style helpings of black-eyed peas, red beans and rice, creamed corn, green beans,  mashed potatoes, and Cajun corn bread.

Love those peach and cherry cobblers for dessert.

Fridays feature roasted pork loin and fried catfish fillets; Mondays are about baked chicken breast and country style steak. Once a month George soaks hickory chips in pineapple juice, a prelude to a barbecued brisket feast that attracts 250 to 280 diners to City Cafe East.

The day I arrived at the just lunch cafe (10:00 a.m.- 2:30 p.m) so did families, and working guys, and businessmen in button downs and patterned ties. George opened for business the same month in 2008 that the bottom fell out of the economy. But he said business has been steady and growing. There is no doubt why. George’s cooking is inviting and fresh and satsifying. And the top price — $8.75 for a main course and three sides — is more than fair. It feels good to eat well and support such a distinctive place and its welcoming owner.

— Keith Schneider

Benzie County’s Gorgeous Leaves of Fall


The anguish of fall is upon us in northern Michigan. The astonishing colors, temporary as they are, are brushed onto this magnificent place I’ve called home for two decades. Yesterday, on one of the last road bike rides of the year, I took this gallery of shots with my iPhone. Every corner on our two-lanes, virtually empty of traffic these days, a billboard of reds and oranges and yellows unfolds, the colors deepening with the sinking sun. fall-benzie-corn-2011-5-300

The “leaves” of fall have multiple meaning for those of us fortunate enough to live here. The spectacle of nature’s color palette applied to leaves that weeks ago were just green is one translation, of course. Bfall-benzie-2011-31ut leaves also apply to the knowledge of the approaching cold rains and dark afternoons of November when your own personal weather forecast also gets a little dank and gloomy.

For me, November is the hardest month. It’s night by late afternoon. I’m not ready to layer sweaters over heavy shirts over tee shirts and pull on heavy socks and pants to stay warm, but I do. My bike goes up on the wall of the garage, unmoving until May. The days draw steadily colder until the first snow flies and the ice appears on the small inland lakes. The six weeks or so between October and December’s earnest snow, when the cross-country skies are waxed and readied, are a time of writing and reading and watching college football.

The leaves, in short, mark the season of passing. And for all the color and joy they bring, I’m no different than most people around here. I know cold short days approach. Windows shut. The season of sun and sweat give way, at least until December, to places where nothing flutters in a fresh wind.

— Keith Schneider