Articles & Essays

Jack has written more than 500 articles and essays for The Atlantic, Scientific American Mind, Wired, American Heritage, The History Channel Magazine, The Washington Post Magazine, Minnesota Monthly, and many other publications.

Read his articles and essays here.

Jack El-Hai's Books
  • The Lobotomist: A Maverick Medical Genius and His Tragic Quest to Rid the World of Mental Illness
    The Lobotomist: A Maverick Medical Genius and His Tragic Quest to Rid the World of Mental Illness
  • Non-Stop: A Turbulent History of Northwest Airlines
    Non-Stop: A Turbulent History of Northwest Airlines
  • Lost Minnesota: Stories of Vanished Places
    Lost Minnesota: Stories of Vanished Places
  • The Nazi and the Psychiatrist: Hermann Göring, Dr. Douglas M. Kelley, and a Fatal Meeting of Minds at the End of WWII
    The Nazi and the Psychiatrist: Hermann Göring, Dr. Douglas M. Kelley, and a Fatal Meeting of Minds at the End of WWII
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What's Wrong with the Crazy Horse Monument?

Four years ago, I took my family on a road trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota. Along the way, we toured the Corn Palace in Mitchell, sipped water and shopped the trinkets at Wall Drug Store, took in the splendor of the Badlands, and camped in the woods on the mountains sacred to Lakota Indians. The head of the Crazy Horse MonumentWhat I remember most, unfortunately, is the bad vibe I felt at the Crazy Horse Monument, just a short drive from Mount Rushmore.

This was the only tourist attraction that charged admission by the carload. The $27 fee gives access to a museum of Indian artifacts — a confusing collection of objects from many tribes, yoked together with no unifying theme — as well as a movie about Korczak Ziolkowski’s obsessive quest to sculpt the monument from the side of a mountain. You also get a distant view of the unfinished monument itself and a look at what remains of Ziolkowski’s art studio. For an additional fee, we could have taken a bus to a spot closer to the monument for a better view. After 65 years of blasting and excavation, the monument so far shows only Crazy Horse’s face and the top of his outstretched arm, with much, much more still to sculpt. At its current rate of progress, the monument will not be completed for about another 200 years.

As I walked through the small museum, I began wondering. Was this place really intended to honor Crazy Horse, the iconic Lakota leader who defeated Custer at Little Big Horn and was murdered by a U.S. Army private a year later, or did it stand as a monument to Ziolkowski? The sculptor’s story is interesting: brief work with Gutzon Borglum on the carving of Mount Rushmore, recognition at the 1939 World’s Fair for his bust of the pianist Ignacy Jan Paderewski, an invitation from the Lakota chief Standing Bear to carve the memorial to Crazy Horse in 1947, and Ziolkowski’s single-minded dedication to the project until his death in 1982.

Gradually, from examining the Crazy Horse Memorial Foundation’s tax filings, I’ve come to understand another of Ziolkowski’s achievements.  His monument has provided lucrative employment to his family, and could continue to do so for many generations.  The foundation is a family operation that represents itself as a charity.

Korczak Ziolkowski with Lakota Chief Standing Bear, circa 1947.

According to the foundation’s 2010 tax return (the most recent one available through widow Ruth Ziolkowski, who is 85, earns compensation totaling $159,000 a year. (The foundation also states on the tax form that this octogenarian works an average of 80 hours per week.) Executive VP Jadwiga Ziolkowski makes $89,000, operations VP Anne Ziolkowski-Christensen brings in $69,000, resident artist Monique Ziolkowski-Howe takes home $53,000, and independent contractor Mark Ziolkowski makes $154,000 for forestry and rock-crushing work. Other family members hold jobs there, as well.

In 2011, the foundation — which has a net worth of $51.4 million — earned $6.9 million in revenue and ended the year with an excess of $1.6 million after expenses. I tried to glean how much the Crazy Horse Memorial Foundation actually invests in bringing its sculpture of Crazy Horse to completion. There’s no clue in the tax filings, except a line that lists $371,000 for “other” expenses. If that’s truly what the foundation spends to work on the monument, it represents only 5 percent of the organization’s revenues.

Most nonprofit organizations do not operate with so much nepotism and so little apparent investment in the most visible part of their mission. (And few of the best nonprofits ignore or refuse to cooperate with the Better Business Bureau's efforts to evaluate charities, as the Crazy Horse Memorial Foundation has.) Ziolkowski often proclaimed his aversion to government support because he feared federal bureaucrats would slow things down and dilute the message of the monument. Something else government involvement would bring, of course, is oversight. As things now stand, with the Crazy Horse Memorial Foundation receiving no government funds and operating on money that comes from admission revenue and charitable donations, its highest-paid officers have no incentive to complete the sculpture. The longer it takes, the more money in salaries and income Ziolkowski family members will receive. Why not let it take 200 years?

The foundation does sponsor some worthwhile programs, including college scholarships for Native American students, which totaled $250,000 in 2010. That same year, however, the compensation of its officers, directors, and key employees, most of them Ziolkowski family members, ran to $446,000. Something is out of balance.

Staff at the Crazy Horse Memorial museum say the completed monument will be the world’s biggest sculpture, a carving equivalent in height to a 56-story building and more massive than the Great Pyramid in Egypt. That’s impressive, but none of us will live to see it. As the nation waits, the Ziolkowskis keep enriching themselves from their unconventional charity.







Confessions of an Art Linkletter Kid

Art Linkletter died two years ago, but I still sometimes think about the long black limousine that appeared outside my Los Angeles elementary school one morning during the spring of 1967. Art LinkletterIn stepped five children, including me, on our way to the set of Linkletter’s famous House Party program, where we would become the latest of Art’s kids — you know, the ones who said the darndest things My mom had prepared me for the world of color TV by making me wear a pair of orange socks.

The chauffeur dropped us off beneath the unblinking CBS logo.  A horsey, big-jawed woman, Dorothea Fitzgerald, came out to meet us. She had worked for Mr. Linkletter since 1950 and had already guided 12,000 kids onto the show.  

Miss Fitzgerald went over the questions that Mr. Linkletter was going to ask us.  First, she said, what’s your favorite food? 

“Spaghetti, “I said when my turn came, “with meatballs.”  Miss Fitzgerald’s eyes grew dull.  “Isn’t there an unusual dish that your mother makes — a family specialty?” she asked. I knew there had to be a right answer.  “Dolmades,” I said, explaining that this was a Greek food my Mom had learned from my grandmother. Miss Fitzgerald flashed her mare’s smile and jotted a note on a card.  

Then came the next question. If I could have any two people in the world as parents, who would they be? I mentioned Elizabeth Taylor and Dick Van Dyke, although I couldn’t think of a single reason why. “How about if you say this,” Miss Fitzgerald told me.  “’I want Elizabeth Taylor so I can have a Wow for a mom, and I want Dick Van Dyke so I can have a Zoom for a dad.’” What did that mean, I wondered, and was she allowed to invent answers for me? She waited for my reply. Did she want my truthful answer or a response that pleased her?  I knew, and I nodded. 

At that moment Mr. Linkletter walked into the room. He was tall and thickly built, and he wore a blue suit.  Makeup caked the lines of his face and gave it the tint of a baked potato’s skin.  The face powder made his teeth appear china white, and his scalp glistened under a comb-over.  He looked ancient.

Linkletter was then 54 years old. “Hello there, kids,” he told us, all business.  “Ready to go?”  We said nothing.  Of course we were not ready.  “We’ll have a lot of fun out there,” he said with a clap of his hands.  Then he was gone.

Much too soon, we were marched before the audience and into our chairs on the House Party set.  The cameras were not yet rolling. Mr. Linkletter stood before the impenetrable blackness of the audience, haloed in light and his suit blazing an electric blue.  “Hello, orange socks,” he said.

Everything unfolded in fast-motion.  Two men wearing headsets glided their cameras into position like water bugs. Music chimes playing a nursery school tune sounded from nowhere.  And then Mr. Linkletter was at my side, introducing me to America.

A couple of months later, when this taped program finally appeared on television, my father used a silent Super-8 camera to film the show off the screen. It shows my House Party appearance in an eerie and flickering pantomime.  

There I am, sitting on a stool with my hands in my lap and my black glasses clamped onto my face.  Mr. Linkletter has his hand on my knee.  My face fills the screen in a close-up.  What a clear and bright face it is, unmarked by disappointments.  I answer his question, nodding my head for emphasis. The view shifts back to Mr. Linkletter, who raises his eyebrows and looks at me with what appears to be fondness and admiration.  He tugs at his microphone cable and moves along to the girl on the stool next to mine.  

Soon Mr. Linkletter returns to me.  His hand is back on my knee.  I speak, he takes a big step backward, and he’s all smiles. He gives me a chuck under the chin. There the film ends.

We never got around to discussing Elizabeth Taylor and Dick Van Dyke.  When Miss Fitzgerald carried onto the stage one of our prizes, a telescope, Mr. Linkletter had the last word: “You can use this to spy on the neighbors.” 

Thus arose my connection with Linkletter, which lasted well past the cancellation of House Party three years later. I often thought about his smile, his “orange socks” quip, and the answers his assistant coached me to give.  Art and I shared something bright and something that felt strange. Our relationship had complications.


Abraham Lincoln's Funeral Car

For the past fifteen years, I’ve often heard from researchers and TV documentarians who want to know something about the railroad car in which Abraham Lincoln’s body traveled to its final resting place following his assassination in 1865. President Lincoln's Funeral Car in Alexandria, VirginiaThese people find me because I wrote an article about the car during the 1990s. Apparently too little has been published about it. (I included my essay in my book Lost Minnesota: Stories of Vanished Places, whose Amazon link you’ll find to the right of this blog.) Sadly the car, which was called the United States, suffered a fate almost as tragic as the President’s.

Designed and constructed at the U.S. Military Car Shops in Alexandria, Virginia, in 1863 and 1864, the special car, built to transport a living Lincoln and his cabinet, was one of the most elaborately appointed railroad vehicles ever made. It had upholstered walls, etched-glass windows, 16 wheels (adaptable to both standard and five-foot-gauge tracks) to ensure a smooth ride, and rooms for working and relaxation. The exterior sides bore a large painted crest of the United States.

Perhaps thinking the United States too ostentatious, Lincoln did not use it. After his death, however, the car carried Lincoln’s body on a two-week, 1,662-mile journey from Washington, D.C. to Springfield, Illinois, for burial. The train stopped in many cities on the way — meeting huge crowds along the tracks — and the President’s casket was removed each time for display and public mourning.

Later, the military sold the United States to the Union Pacific Railroad for $6,850. It spent eight years as an executive car. Then, for $3,000, it went to the Colorado Central Railroad, which stripped it (leaving only the wall upholstery), installed wooden benches, and put it into service as a day coach and later as a common work car.

Thomas Lowry, president of the Twin City Rapid Transit Company, lamented this fate for what he called “the most sacred relic in the United States.” He bought and restored the car in 1905, hoping to donate the United States to an organization that would house and preserve it. After his death the car passed to the Minnesota Federation of Women’s Clubs.

On March 18, 1911, just months before the Federation planned to move the car to a permanent exhibition space, a grass fire swept the area of Columbia Heights, Minnesota, where the United States was sitting idle. The car burned completely. Historians salvaged only a coupling link from the ashes. Had the railcar survived, it surely would be a popular destination for the countless people today interested in Lincoln and the Civil War Era.



E.G. Marshall's Invented Past

When the actor E.G. Marshall died in 1998 — remember him in the movies Twelve Angry Men and Interiors, as well as a slew of TV shows, including The Defenders? — the world’s media took note. Newspapers and magazines passed along many tidbits on Marshall’s life: that he was born on June 18, 1910 (Variety), that he was “of Norwegian stock” (People magazine), that his full birth name was Edda Gunnar Marshall (The Times of London), and that he “was educated at Carlton [sic] College and the University of Minnesota” [London’s Independent]. 

Much of it was wrong.

I was interested in Marshall’s Minnesota roots, so I began an examination of the late actor’s past. I discovered that records at the Steele County Courthouse in Owatonna, Minn., listed him as being born on June 18, 1914, as Everett Eugene Grunz, the son of Charles and Hazel Grunz, who claimed only German, Scottish, Irish, and English ethnicity. “There is no Norwegian ancestry in the family that I know of,” I heard from Joe Grunz, Marshall’s youngest and only surviving sibling, who lived in Williams, Minn. 

The Grunz family moved from Owatonna to St. Paul when Marshall was about eight, and he went through the public schools there. Joe Grunz speculated that his brother may have used a busy thoroughfare in St. Paul, Marshall Avenue, as the inspiration for his stage name.

Then I contacted Eric Hillemann, the archivist at Carleton College in Northfield, Minn. (my own alma mater), who had spent several years tracking the actor’s slippery past. “I saw him listed among people who were well-known Carleton alumni,” Hillemann told me. “I checked his file through the college’s central records. It was clear there was a mystery about him.” No Carleton records, in fact, suggested that Marshall was ever a student. Similarly, the University of Minnesota’s archivists were unable to find any paper trail of a student named Everett Grunz or Everett Marshall. “To my knowledge, he did not go to college,” Joe Grunz said.

So how did all this false information about Marshall’s origins make it into print? Over the years, Marshall apparently supplied the information himself to the editors of such reference works as Who’s Who in America, Current Biography, and Who’s Who in the Theatre. When he died, obituary writers around the globe consulted those sources, and the rest is (or isn’t) history. (Books like The Encyclopedia of Hollywood Film Actors continue to include the incorrect information, as does Marshall’s Wikipedia entry.)

I asked Clifford Stevens, Marshall’s last agent, why the actor would fib about his past. “E.G. had a good time being mysterious about his early years,” Stevens told me. “It’s not that he was ashamed of his past. He just liked to keep it mysterious.” A sad consequence is that new fans of Marshall’s artistry may never know the true story of his life.


The Cherry Sisters: good or bad?

Somehow, 100 years ago, five apparently talentless siblings from Marion, Iowa, reigned as America’s most famous female vaudeville team. For many years I have gathered information on the Cherry Sisters — Ellie, Lizzie, Addie, Jessie and Effie — and have found their lives full of puzzling events and psychological enigmas. Why did audiences come to see them? Did they really need netting to protect them from fusillades of rotten vegetables from the audience? And then there’s the biggest question of all: Did the Cherry Sisters realize they were bad?

Their atrocious performances — full of acrid singing, childish skits, and awkward religious tableaus — brought them notoriety. Early in their stage careers, a Cherry Sisters stage show in Dubuque, Iowa, sparked the worst riot in the city’s history. The audience mocked the Sisters’ singing by raining cabbages, onions and even an old tin wash boiler on the stage, and tore up the seats. One witness to a Cherry performance complained that the Sisters sang in “totally unclassified tones, indescribably in their awfulness. All expectations of a rank performance were disappointed. It was lots, lots ranker than anyone in his sane moments ever imagined.” 

Another published slam announced that “the mouths of their rancid features opened like caverns, and sounds like the wailing of damned souls issued therefrom.... Effie is spavined, Addie is knock-kneed and springhalt, and Jessie, the only one who showed her stockings, has legs without calves, as classic in their outlines as the curves of a broom handle.” Critics catalogued their badness in terms never applied to men. And so things went for years in their performances from Des Moines to Chicago to New York — on and off from 1893 to 1936. 

The actress Marie Dressler was said to have been uncertain of the authenticity of the Sisters’ badness. A frustrated Des Moines Register writer declared that “either the Cherry Sisters are completely sincere and take themselves seriously, or they are the most accomplished actresses the world has ever known.”

I’ve concluded that the Cherrys “played bad” to keep folks coming to their shows. Though undoubtedly lacking in artistry, they exploited badness to stay in the public eye. It was their brand. When Addie and Effie performed at a radio station barn dance in 1936, Effie — who twice ran farcical campaigns to become mayor of Cedar Rapids — was asked whether she thought their act good. “Good?” she shot back. “There’s 2,500 people out there, isn’t there?... Good! You’ve got to be good to pack as many people in as we have for 40 years.”

Like us all, the Cherry Sisters were complicated. They didn’t appreciate insults but kept taking them. They complained of the moral impurity of other performers (singling out Mae West for special scorn), but sued when others judged them harshly. (Their infamous libel lawsuit against a newspaper, argued before the Iowa Supreme Court, produced a landmark decision that upheld the right of the press to publish public criticism and fair comment.) They craved privacy and drew attention to themselves.

After Effie became the last Cherry to die in 1944, most people who recalled the Sisters at all remembered them as simply bad. That’s a shame, because the Cherrys were bad and so much more.