Advoken's Blog

It dawned on me that as my 90^th birthday approached that I was extremely blessed — not only that I had survived all these years but because of the good fortunes of life that I had no control over.

I was blessed at my birth – August 8, 1929 – to be born Caucasian AND male.  In my lifetime, those two factors made it possible for me to live in relative comfort, always having access to sufficient food and adequate shelter while also having opportunities to relax and have fun.  Most people in this world have never been so blessed.

Being born Caucasian, of course, provided me with the assurance that when as a child I

walked into the Ben Franklin Five-and-Ten store in our neighborhood that the manager would not be eyeing me suspiciously, worrying that I might steal some penny candy.  A black boy my age would have faced constant scrutiny.  And now, as an adult I can pass a state trooper a few miles above the speed limit without being stopped; if I was black, my chances of being pulled over would have been greater, for sure.

I was blessed to have been born a boy in an era when a male child was able to pursue whatever career he fancied, as long as he persevered in it and had some basic abilities.  My late wife Ann, born in 1930, graduated in journalism from the University of Minnesota in 1951 – the same year I did from the University of Wisconsin, also in journalism – and she was truly talented, winning a Phi Beta Kappa key in the process.  Yet, when she took her first newspaper job, it was on the Society pages, not in the news section.  Her college friend, also a female, wanted to be a sportswriter; of course, that didn’t happen.  In Ann’s case, she met me, we married and within a year she left the trade to bear and raise our five children.

We were both blessed to have our family, but I often wondered whether she might have been happier to continue working as a newspaper reporter or editor.  But remember, the 1950s were the years when the belief was that “a woman’s place was in the home.”

I was blessed to be born into a home where our parents had both the wherewithal and the motivation to care for me and my two brothers, to be attentive to our needs, to assure we got medical care when and if we needed it, and to make our home a welcoming place.  My father, a tannery worker, was lucky to have remained employed during the Great Depression, though his wages were cut so drastically that we lost the home my parents had purchased in 1930.  Yet, we stayed in the home – a comfortable brick bungalow – as renters until 1947, largely because the landlord was unable to find buyers for the residence.  Yes, truly blessed to be in a safe neighborhood where we could play ball in the streets or in vacant lots and go to decent schools.

I was blessed to be able to find a way to get a college education; my parents were unable to pay for my tuition or living costs.  Yet, at that time, I was able to find a job working weekends, nights and summer vacations for an employer who ran a retail “beer depot” and wholesale beer distributing business.  With those earnings and wages I earned busing tables I was able to pay the $60 a semester tuition plus the room costs (averaging no more than $5 a week) and still have 35 cents left over so that I could buy a quarter of beer for a Saturday night splurge with my buddies.

I was blessed, too, for surviving two near-fatal medical crises.  At age 15, my appendix burst, spreading poison through my system.   Normally that would have meant death, but it was 1945, the war was nearly over and penicillin – a drug that had saved thousands of wounded soldiers and sailors – had just been released for civilian use.  I was told I was the first patient in Milwaukee’s St. Mary’s Hospital to receive the drug.  It saved my life, an early example of how the miracles of modern medicine became available at a critical time.  My second near fatal experience was ten years ago when I had a massive heart attack.  I was saved by the coincidence of being in the emergency room when it hit and getting treated by a celebrated physician who happened to be on call that Sunday morning.  Now at age 90, I am still alive and quite active, again kept alive by modern drugs that weren’t available in earlier days.

I have since realized that my life has continued through these two medical crises because there were funds to pay for that care.  In my teen years, my father’s modest salary was enough to cover the costs of the penicillin and now, as a senior, I have not only Medicare but an excellent supplemental health care plan, thanks to my union.

It took me a long time to realize that I entered this life with more chips on the table than most children in this world.  Certainly my chances of leading a largely fulfilling life were far greater than if I had been born into poverty, had been African-American or Hispanic or had grown up amid unsafe neighborhoods and lousy schools.  In the race of life, I truly started ahead of many children who were also born in 1929.

Somewhere, sometime, in the years ahead, may we create a world where all children are born on equal footing.  That is my 90^th Birthday wish. – Ken Germanson, Aug. 12, 2019.