The only way I can think of to get my money's worth out of this....

A couple of months ago I paid off my car loan.

(Thank you.)

It will come as no surprise to most of you that the actual amount owed on said car loan at any given time was something of a moving target. The monthly bill contained a specific payoff amount, but only if you paid that amount on one specific day, and probably at one particular hour, whilst standing on one foot whistling a tune to be named later. The makers of the loan were extremely cautious, lest they lose a single minute of accumulating interest.

I'm not complaining, mind you. I needed the car. I needed the loan to get the car. The dealer sold me the car and arranged for me to get the loan from the car manufacturer. When I took the money, I took all that came with it.

But, finally, after what seemed like a very long time (because it was in fact a very long time), my monthly payment and the payoff amount came within shouting distance of each other. I tried my best to calculate, as near as I was able, the exact amount including the last penny of juice that the lender could squeeze from the loan, and added in another $5 besides, and I put that final payment in the mail.

Yes, Millennials and Zoomers, I am fully cognizant of the fact that I could have much more precisely calculated the exact payoff amount if I'd only paid on line.

I do pay most of my bills that way. But this bill I paid by mail. There's more psychic satisfaction, in my opinion, in putting a check like this in the mail than in clicking a couple of buttons on the keyboard. Anyway, that's a collateral point, at best.

My goal was to pay off the loan with this one final negotiable instrument (look, Millennials and Zoomers, you learned about checks in high school consumer ed, even if you have never written one, and you probably got a refresher when you covered the UCC in law school, so stop pretending you don't know what I'm talking about).

I fully understood that the car might yet be re-po'd if I were even a penny short. So I tried to go over the exact amount due. But I also tried to come as close as possible to the exact amount.

And you know what? I succeeded.

When the final check cleared, I was 61¢ ahead.

Pretty good, I thought.

Time went on, and all the required paperwork trickled in confirming that I had actually repaid the loan in full (and 61¢ of then-some), but the overage was not refunded. I did not stress. I did not even care if I got stiffed out of my 61¢ windfall. I was a solo practitioner for the last 20 or so years: I've been stiffed out of lots bigger amounts owed than 61¢. Lots, lots, lots bigger.

I was fine... until I got this:

You are looking at a "prepaid Mastercard" issued by Chrysler Capital, as a part of a program administered by North Lane Technologies, Inc. Pre-loaded, allegedly, with my 61¢. According to the materials to which this card is affixed, if those 61 sweet centavos are not residing physically within the card, they are held at or transferable to Sunrise Banks, N.A.

I've fuzzed out the individually identifying numbers in this picture because I don't want this windfall to fall into the clutches of the Russians. Or the North Koreans.

And, as you can see, all I have to do to tap into this largesse is activate the card and obtain a PIN, either by calling a 1-800 number, visiting the North Lane website (not the bank where the money is waiting), or downloading the North Lane Mobile App.

Because, obviously, one can't be too careful when dealing with these enormous sums.

TikTok seems positively reputable compared to this, doesn't it?

And I haven't even mentioned the $3 monthly fee yet....

Yes, there's a $3 monthly fee that accrues starting in the month following the card's expiration date... you know... if there's anything left on the card after the stated expiration date. Let's see... $3 deducted from a 61¢ balance... I'm a lawyer, so the only math I can do is dividing by three, but I don't think that works very well....

But, OK, assuming that one is willing to sign up for this card -- we'll call it merely registering, of course -- but, either way, necessary, of course, to get the PIN -- allowing all these companies access to one's identifying information, how many places can there be where one can use a debit card with 61¢ on it?

I can just see the happy faces of the cashier and my fellow customers at my local Jewel, were I to pull out this card as the week's groceries are totaled up -- here, let me put the first 61¢ of this on this card right here....

But what really annoys me about this card -- aside from the fact that these 61¢ were brought so tantalizingly close to my grasp, and yet so cruelly kept just beyond -- is that it must have cost a heck of a lot more than 61¢ to deny me that modest sum in this manner.

That, and the obvious fact that someone got paid to come up with this scheme to keep refunds from being paid. Wouldn't it have been a whole lot simpler to just keep the money and not tell anyone? It certainly would have been cheaper to write me a check for the 61¢....

Book focuses on family formation on the frontier

Born of Lakes and Plains, by University of Oklahoma history professor Anne F. Hyde, looks at five different families, over a period of a couple hundred years, from the late 1600s to the late 1800s, each founded by the union of a Native American woman and a European man. The men were traders and trappers (initially beaver trappers) and the women were, with perhaps varying degrees of personal enthusiasm, but in accordance with their duties to their parents and their cultural norms, helping to cement the loyalty and assistance of the European men for their respective tribes. Born of Lakes and Plains tracks the descendants of these unions as they struggled to perserve their property and their culture.

As with all family stories, if told over such a long stretch of time as is involved here, there are conflicts, triumphs and tragedies, people that seem likable, and people that seem loathsome, heroes and villians both in the same or succeeding generations. In this sense in particular, the scope of the work, trying to keep track of so many for so long, left a lot of seemingly interesting stories untold, or told only in outline form.

Perhaps a lot of effort is wasted trying to convince the reader that connubial contact betweeen cultures, and the families resulting, was normal, frequent, and as necessary to European expansion into tribal territories as the erection of forts and the deployment of troops. Perhaps more necessary.

I suppose that the typical reader may not realize how frequently, left to their own devices, Europeans and tribal peoples mixed and began to forge their own cultures, or adopt, more or less, the culture of one of the parties to the union.

Today's history students have heard of the Trail of Tears. the forced removal of the Cherokee and other tribes to Oklahoma from their homes in what is now the American Southeast. They probably don't know that the principal Chief of the Cherokee during this dark chapter in American history, John Ross, was, by 'blood', roughly seven-eighths European. This biographic sketch, on the Oklahoma Historical Society website, does not even mention this. Wikipedia notes that Ross was the son of a Scots trader and a mixed-blood Cherokee woman. Ross's great-grandmother, Ghigooie, was a full-blooded Cherokee; she married William Shorey, a Scottish interpreter. Their daughter Anna, Ross's grandmother, married John McDonald, a Scots trader.

But, because Cherokee society was matrilineal, Ross was considered Cherokee by the Cherokee. This was the case with other tribes also, as Hyde explains in Born of Lakes and Plains. This cultural fact explained how and why persons of mixed-descent could, at least initially, move fairly easily between European and tribal societies.

This changed, in time, as Hyde documents. I thought one story in particular illustrated this: Hyde recounts how one mixed-descent person in one of the families she followed, in the Pacific Northwest, could get elected to local office -- but could not vote for himself because he had been branded an 'Indian.'

I read a book a couple of years back, The Name of War: King Philip's War and the Origins of American Identity, by Jill Lepore, which explored the conflict between Indian tribes and English colonoists in New England in the 1670s (a war that, for a time, seemed as if it might result in the conquest of the not-yet-so-well-established English settlers). It occurred to me then that the war resulted because the ministers of Boston and Salem were alarmed that some of their congregants were 'going native' just as tribal chieftains were getting concerned that their subjects were getting too chummy with the English: Leaders on both sides faced loss of status and their respective subjects mixed and mingled and started creating a distinctly American culture... one in which the existing leaders might not play the central role.

We don't have competing cultures clashing on a frontier in our modern day and age... but we seem to have no end of 'leaders' looking to divide us from our neighbors over issues of identity. Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven indeed, as Milton had Lucifer put it in Paradise Lost. But however it may benefit some 'leaders' today, it doesn't help the rest of us one bit.

That process of cultural separation divided some of the families Professor Hyde follows in Born of Lakes and Plains. It virtually destroyed some others. It forced people to choose one world or another -- but both worlds were changed, irrevocably, by the personal choices made by persons in proximity to one another, whether the leaders of those worlds recognized it or not. More than tribal place names survive in our world, too, whether you or I carry any mixed-descent heritage or not, or whether we as a society acknowledge it or not. That's not what Hyde's book is about; she's just providing a foundation for people to realize how much adjacent cultures shared, and for how long. But it's important to realize that foundation exists, and Hyde's book is important for that reason.

Musing about Committeepersons in the Bad Old Days and their role today

Letters. If people remember anything about what Democratic Party Committeemen (they weren't "committeepersons" then) did during the Bad Old Days (for our purposes we'll use this phrase to refer to the reign of Richard J. Daley, pictured here), they'll remember letters.

A letter from one's home committeeman was necessary in order for one to be considered for any public sector job -- and not a few private sector jobs, besides. (What? You think Madigan was the first pol to place people with ComEd?)

Of course, there were LETTERS and there were letters back in the day. The latter got you an interview, but no guarantee of a job, and no guarantee you'd keep the job if you did get it. Some people moved up in public careers without ever getting a new letter after the first one. Persons with particular skills were always needed (still are) to decipher the books, or keep the machines running -- but, if you went back far enough in the employment history of anyone of a certain age, there was sure to be some sort of a letter in there somewhere. If not every one of them, darn near anyone who ever wrote letters at one time had a letter of their own.

And, of course, those persons blessed with LETTERS were pretty much assured of guaranteed employment from the person to whom the letter was directed. Some didn't even need to show up for work at all in the Bad Old Days -- not as long as they worked their precinct anyway, and so long as they didn't run afoul of their clout.

But letters, as important as they were, were not the currency of the Old Machine. They were just a means to an end, that end being: Jobs. Every Committeeman in the good graces of Richard J. Daley had a certain number of jobs that could be doled out to top precinct captains or assistants. The number varied from ward to ward. Critics of the patronage system have correctly noted that committeemen in certain ethnic communities had control of more and better jobs than other committeemen, though the voters in these less favored neighborhoods were no less numerous, and perhaps even more reliable. The 11th had more jobs than anyone, of course, because that was Da Mare's ward.

A committeeman might distribute his jobs solely to relatives and friends, or perhaps to those willing to give the committeeman a 'taste' of every paycheck. This was corruption, surely, and some people eventually went to jail over this kind of misbehavior but, more important, from a party organization standpoint, it was bad politics.

The purpose of any party organization in our system, in the Bad Old Days and now, is to win elections.

In the Bad Old Days, the committeeman was supposed to use his jobs to build a reliable cadre of precinct captains. One was not supposed to waste a LETTER on someone who did not know how to work his assigned precinct or precincts.

And while there may have been (and often were) all sorts of other activities (good, bad, criminal, or merely questionable) involved in precinct work, one core function was what today we would consider "polling." The committeeman was expected to find out how his ward would perform before the election; his captains would tell him what the results would be before any votes were cast. And they'd all better be right. All their jobs depended on it. (I have used 'ward' here on purpose; there were committeemen in the townships even in the Bad Old Days -- Da Mare rather quaintly referred to them as the county towns -- but the expectations, and the corresponding opportunities, were far fewer.)

I was still in college when Richard J. Daley died (December 20, 1976 for those of you who might have grown up elsewhere). I'd been at a prayer breakfast he attended just a couple of weeks before he dropped dead in his doctor's office. But there had been 3,000 or so others present for that same breakfast, and I was seated about a mile away from the head table, so I believe I can confidently disclaim any blame.

Anyway, someone decided that the 1977 St. Patrick's Day Parade would be a proper vehicle for public mourning of the fallen Boss. I gather that every Committeeman was asked to do their part. Certainly the 49th Ward, where Neil Hartigan was Committeeman, wanted to make a big impression. The net was cast so wide even I got hauled in.

Hartigan (not yet Attorney General -- he'd just been defeated for reelection as Lieutenant Governor) wanted to involve Loyola students in the 49th Ward's parade unit. I was the student body president. The head of the Loyola College Democrats, who was a neighborhood guy and active in the 49th Ward Organization, thought it would be a good idea for me to accompany him to a meeting with Hartigan. I guess my participation would supposedly make the school's participation more official. Looking back, I can only imagine what the Jesuits would have said about that.

But I went to the meeting, at the old Elks Club, at Ridge and Thome, right behind Misericordia. I'd helped build floats for Homecoming parades when I was in high school in the suburbs so I knew something about twisting paper napkins in chicken wire and making it look like something. More or less, anyway. I'd never been to the St. Patrick's Day Parade, but this all seemed like great fun until Hartigan asked me point-blank, "How many students will you turn out?"

I was heading to law school by then, although I don't recall whether I'd been accepted or not. I gave, what seemed to me, to be a good, lawyerly answer, "Well, sir, it depends."

I prefer to think that Hartigan regarded me more with pity than with scorn. But it might have been either. He tried again, more slowly this time: "How many students will you turn out?"

Completely rattled by the fact that what I thought was a good and sufficient answer had obviously fallen so flat, I babbled on (and on) about, well, the parade would take place right around midterms, and then there's the weather, of course, more if the weather's nice, but not so many if it's cold or rainy.... Finally, the guy who brought me elbowed me, or stomped on my foot, or gave me some other, similarly subtle signal to please shut up, and, as soon as I paused, blurted out "250."

Hartigan, satisfied at last, moved on to whatever other business needed attention.

I kept my temper until my host and I were headed back to campus. "Why the Hell did you say we'd get 250 people?" I might have used other adjectives and adverbs, but this was the 1970s and language was kinder and gentler then.

"It'll be alright," my host assured me. "He just needed a number." He elaborated: "This wasn't an important number -- like how many votes you'd turn out in your precinct on Election Day -- it was just a number." (In the end, we did turn out at least 250 people, not all of them capable of standing on their own by the time the parade actually started, but these were shunted into the middle of the mass of flesh moving down State Street. Honor was satisfied.)

That was as close as I ever came to providing numbers for the Old Machine, important or otherwise. I also never got to be a judge. There may be -- I begin to think, after roughly 30 years of considering the subject -- some correlation.

For better or worse, party organizations were intimately connected to their communities in the Bad Old Days. That's how good organizations knew which races they would win, and by exactly how much. We can catalog all the bad things about the Bad Old Days some other time. (Yes, we would need to set aside a lot of time.)

But let's stay close to the topic: Are party organizations as 'wired-in' to their communities today?

In running FWIW all these years, I've become familiar with a lot of ward or township groups that give every outward appearance of being very democratic -- small 'd' intended. They enroll members and sometimes charge dues, the members elect officers, and the members vote on the organization's endorsements (which don't always match what the county Party has slated). More than once I've reported about differences between a ward or township's endorsements and the recommendations made by the Committeeperson. How can you get more democratic -- small 'd' intended -- than having an organization that doesn't even agree with its titular leader?

But it occurs to me that all the members of these modern organizations are self-selected. They come out of interest and stay out of affinity with their like-minded fellows. Obviously, the volunteers, however they arrived, have been sufficient to get the petitions signed. But... are they representative of the community as a whole?

In the modern age, with real pollsters ringing our phones every night at dinnertime, all the many direct mail pieces, and a steady stream of commercials helping to guide the formation of our collective opinions, does it really matter who the Committeeperson is, or how the ward or township organization is structured?

In any given election cycle, for somewhere around 20 or 25 people, namely, the slated countywide judicial candidates and the alternates, the 80 ward and township committeepersons are the most important persons in the world. But are these 80 individuals important to anyone else? (I'm not talking about Committeepersons who hold other elected offices, too -- these persons would have importance in those other roles, presumably. Hopefully.) But as Committeepersons? Do Committeepersons still matter? How? Why?

I'll hang up now and listen to your answer.