Enter through the unremarkable front door and inside you find something much more remarkable: a genuine rail car-style diner dating from the 1920s surrounded by that brick exterior, which was added later (but probably not too much later). The main room, long and narrow — narrow as a rail car — features a stone-top counter with 18 stools and a narrow food-service area behind the counter, complete with a large griddle given over mostly to the preparation of Franks’ specialty, the Garbage Plate, more about which later.

The place had that diner smell: eggs and meats and hash browns and coffee. It also had that diner sound: the murmur of conversation, workers calling to each other, silverware scraping plates, metal clinking metal, the hiss of the griddle.

It was packed. A row of people sat at the counter, while others were at booths in the small rooms added to the counter room. A line of people waited for their seats in a long row behind the people at the counter. When seating was free, the people at the front of the line squeezed between the people sitting at the counter and the people behind them in line to reach either empty counter seats, or a small door that went to the rooms with the booths.

Franks Diner has a history. The Jerry O’Mahony Diner Co., a corporation whose specialty is long lost, built the original rail car-style diner in 1926 in Bayonne, NJ. Taken to Kenosha by flatcar, “there was some real excitement in downtown Kenosha when six horses pulled Franks Diner to the spot where it stands today,” notes the Franks Diner web site. “Anthony Franks, who first learned of the unique restaurant opportunity through a magazine article, paid $7,500 plus $325 in shipping charges to launch his business. He added a dining room in 1935 and a larger kitchen in the mid 1940s.”

I have to add that $7,825 in 1926 dollars was quite a risk, totaling more than $95,500 in current dollars. Mr. Franks must have really wanted to make a go of it, and I’m glad to say that the Franks family owned the joint until 2001. The current owners have only had it for about a year, and apparently have not meddled with success. At one point, an enormous man — large of height, large of stomach, bald and wearing a white apron with food stains — emerged from the back kitchen, and by his conversation with someone else, I knew he was one of the co-owners. “Did you have a good year?” I asked him. “It’s been great,” he said.

Diner authenticity is one thing, but without Franks’ great food, the restaurant would have vanished long ago. The star of the show is its Garbage Plate, a concoction of hash-brown potatoes, eggs, green peppers, onions, jalapeños (if you want them), and a choice of three or fewer meats (including no meat). The thing is seriously large. The standard Garbage Plate has five eggs, while the half plate has three. Most of the people I saw leaving Franks were carrying to-go boxes probably full of garbage, so to speak. Yuriko and Lilly split a full Garbage Plate, and I was able to sample some. Wow. My own meal, a couple of large pancakes, was superb, but not as good as garbage.

In the fullness of time, John Fillmore would be the great-grandfather of Millard Fillmore. Born in Ipswich, Mass., on March 18, 1702, John Fillmore was the first child of John and Abigail Fillmore and later referred to as the first known American-born Fillmore. He died in 1777, but as a young man barely survived his time with the Captain Phillips.

“The pirate soon came up and sent a boat on board our sloop, demanding who we were, and where we were bound,” Fillmore wrote of his first encounter with the pirate ship. “To which our Captain gave a direct answer. By this boat’s crew we learned that the noted pirate, Captain Phillips, commanded their ship… Having often heard of the cruelties committed by that execrable pirate, made us dread to fall into his hands.”

Phillips in fact let the sloop go — but only after deciding that Fillmore would join his crew as a “good, stout, resolute fellow,” forcing him to serve aboard the pirates’ ship Revenge. “Those only who have been in similar circumstances can form any adequate idea of the distress I experienced at this time. If I obstinately refused to join the pirates, instant death stared me and my comrades in the face; if I consented to go with them, I expected to be massacred for refusing to sign the piratical articles, which I had fully determined never to do…”

Fillmore did not sign the articles, but was put at the helm of the ship anyway. Captain Phillips had promised to release Fillmore after two months, but of course did not. “Captain Phillips… was not addicted to one particular vice, but to every vice,” Fillmore wrote.

The better part of a year passed; the pirates attacked other vessels and pressed other men into service; and Fillmore and others plotted to take the ship from Phillips. Naturally, Phillips got wind of the plot.

“Phillips charged me, as he had done my friend, with contriving to betray him, and take the ship,” Fillmore recalled. “The accusation was true enough, but I concluded a lie was warrantable in that case, and consequently replied, that I knew nothing of any conspiracy either against him or his crew. I had prepared to make resistance, in case he offered any abuse; but he had a pistol concealed under his coat, which he presented to my breast, and snapped it, before I had time to make any evasion; but happily for me it missed fire. He drew it back, cocked, and presented it again, but I struck it aside with my hand, so that it went off by my side, without doing any injury.

“I thought of knocking out his brains with the handspike that lay near me, but I knew it would be instant death for me, and therefore concluded if he would leave me, I would not meddle with him at that juncture. He then swung his sword over my head, damned me, and bid me go about my business, adding, that he only did it to try me… The pistol missing fire when snapped at my breast, and then going off by my side, was a strong indication to me that Providence had interposed graciously in my preservation — that our final deliverance from the barbarity of the savage Phillips, and his abandoned banditti, might be more speedily effected.”

And so it was. One morning after the rest of the crew had gotten good and drunk the night before, Fillmore, a man named Cheeseman and a captive referred to as “an Indian” rebelled. Direct action was the only thing to win their freedom: “The Master being busied, I saw Cheeseman make the motion to heave him over, and I at that instant, split the boatswain’s head in twain with the broad axe, and dropped him upon the deck to welter in his gore. Before the Captain had time to put himself in a posture of defense, I gave him a stroke with the head of my axe, which partly stunned him; at which time Cheeseman, having dispatched the master overboard, came to my assistance, and gave the Captain a blow with his hammer, on the back side of his head, which put an immediate end to his mortal existence.”

Having captured the ship, Fillmore and the others took it into Boston, where three of the surviving pirates were executed (and three others were sent to England for that fate). Fillmore concluded: “The honorable court which condemned the pirates gave me Captain Phillips’ gun, silver hilted sword, silver shoe and knee buckles, a curious tobacco box, and two gold rings that the pirate Captain Phillips used to wear.”

Alas, none of President Fillmore’s quotes fall into that category. Still, he had a few pithy things to say. The following are all attributed to him.

On the hell of being a pre-pension ex-president (a situation not dealt with until the Former Presidents Act of 1958):

“It is a national disgrace that our Presidents, after having occupied the highest position in the country, should be cast adrift, and, perhaps, be compelled to keep a corner grocery for subsistence.”

On why he wasn’t an abolitionist:

“God knows that I detest slavery, but it is an existing evil, for which we are not responsible, and we must endure it, till we can get rid of it without destroying the last hope of free government in the world.”

A prescient thought indeed for the mid-19th century:

“England at present wields the destinies of the commercial world, and her power is concentrated in London; but if this country can maintain its union, there are those now within the hearing of my voice who will live to see New York what London is now.”

Something to gladden the heart of Ron Paul:

“The government of the United States is a limited government. It is confined to the exercise of powers expressly granted, and such others as may be necessary for carrying those powers into effect; and it is at all times an especial duty to guard against any infringement on the just rights of the states.”

On the 19th-century locusts known as office-seekers:

“Nothing brings out the lower traits of human nature like office-seeking. Men of good character and impulses are betrayed by it into all sorts of meanness.”

In an antebellum moment of despair:

“May God save the country, for it is evident that the people will not.”

Sure, I headed up the Know-Nothing Ticket in ’56, but some of my best friends are foreigners:

“I have no hostility to foreigners. . . . Having witnessed their deplorable condition in the old country, God forbid I should add to their sufferings by refusing them an asylum in this.”

Nestle does not make wasabi-flavored Kit Kat chocolates for the U.S. market, but I got a hold of “fun-sized” one recently, a genuine example of made-in-Japan-but-not-for-export candy. That’s true even though there’s an English slogan on the package: Have a break, have a Kit Kat.® Japanese packaging is peculiar that way, and I’ve given up trying to figure it out.

At first, the taste is standard Kit Kat chocolate. But then you sense a faint but unmistakable hint of wasabi, the same spice as on sushi, though dialed down considerably. It’s strange. It’s completely out of place. It must be an acquired taste. I don’t think it’s ever going be exported to this country, so few will be the Americans who acquire the taste. I will not be one of them.

Born on January 7, 1800, Millard Fillmore rose from modest circumstances to become the last Whig president of the United States on July 9, 1850, when his predecessor died. He himself died on March 8, 1874, reportedly after telling his doctor that “the nourishment is palatable.”

His signature is on all the bills forming the Compromise of 1850; the bill that made California a state; an act creating the Washington Territory (essentially the future Washington state); the appointment of Brigham Young as the first governor of the Utah Territory; orders sending Commodore Matthew C. Perry to open Japan; and a message to Napoleon III telling him to back off on plans to annex Hawaii.

Fillmore amassed a library in the White House, having found the place practically empty of books, but he did not install the first bathtub in the executive mansion. His administration resolved major disputes with Peru and Portugal and other nations. He helped found the University of Buffalo and the Buffalo Historical Society.

As the head of the ticket for the American Party in 1856 (the Know-Nothings, unfortunately), former president Fillmore got 21.5 percent of the popular vote, a record for a third party at the time. The only third-party candidate to receive a higher share of the popular vote since then was Theodore Roosevelt, as the head Bull Moose (Progressives) in 1912, with 27.4 percent.

This New Year’s Eve was almost Lilly’s first with friends, rather than her family, but the party fell through. Next year, I figure, they’ll pull it off. Gathering for the new year is something youth should do.

Last summer, a high school friend of mine published this picture on Facebook, and she’s kindly letting me put it here. It dates from December 31, 1981, during a gathering of high school friends a few years after we’d finished high school.

I’m actually in it — barely. That’s the edge of my leg, arm and head on the left. At least, I’m fairly certain that’s me. Left to right from there, top: Tom, Catherine, George, Ellen, Lynn, Louis, Elysse, Tom, Debbie; bottom: Stephen, John, Nancy. I’m not sure who took the photo.

I’m glad I have an image of Stephen, the fellow with his tongue out, a pose he struck sometimes. Stephen Humble in full. He was born in December 1961, so had he lived, we would now both be 50.

That occurred to me a while ago, and when I had the thought I happened to be near Google, so I put his name in. There’s a psychiatrist in Nashville by that name, and an English cricketer of that name who has a Wiki entry and a Facebook page, and a number of other references that probably don’t point to the person pictured above. Deeper in, there are other references to other people, but I have to put in “Stephen Humble MIT” to get a few fleeting references to his name in dusty user group archives and academic papers. Maybe those are faint traces of the person I once knew.

So I thought he should have a better mention somewhere on line. Here, for instance. Stephen Humble was my friend in high school and a memorable character for those of us who knew him (‘umble, he said it was pronounced, but not even the teachers said it with a silent h). He was exceptionally bright and insatiably curious about a lot of things, with a special facility for mathematics, the sciences and languages, at one point studying Turkish “for fun.” He was the only male flautist in our high school band. He appreciated strange humor and weird incongruities, had a vigorous laugh for someone with such a skinny frame. In his high school years to proved to be a freethinker and all around odd duck.

So naturally Stephen gravitated to my group of friends. Fit right in, he did. I know he caught a fair amount of flak from, let’s say, less enlightened kids, though probably more so in junior high than high school. Too bad for them. They missed out on a lot by not listening to what he had to say.

He’s the only one, besides former Sun-Times columnist Zay N. Smith, ever to appreciate my line, which I made up one day after Latin class: “I move that the subjunctive be abolished from the English language.” Stephen laughed out loud at that, back when that was an actual activity rather than Internet shorthand. Of course, it’s not really a laugh-out-loud joke; but as I said, Stephen was a highly literate oddball.

He went to MIT in the early ’80s. I don’t really know what he did for a living after that. He was a Unix expert, among other things. I remember once he told me how user-unfriendly Unix was, noting that when you made an entry mistake, the only reply the system would give you was a question mark. I think he spent some time in Europe, doing who knows what, but by the last time I saw him, in 1995, he was back in Cambridge, Mass. At that moment in his life, he had an enormous, Old Testament-prophet head of hair and beard.

He also had a boyfriend. That was a surprise. Not, ultimately, that he preferred men, but that he had a sex life at all. Knowledge of the carnal sort seemed to be one of the few kinds he wasn’t interested in, but I suppose our high school assumptions were wrong, as they often were.

I don’t know why he killed himself in 2002. How could I know that anyway, even if I’d seen him more often during the last 20 years of his life? Whatever troubled him must have been powerful, to subdue his love of learning. But I won’t dwell on his end. All I know is that my life was more interesting for having known him, and so requiescat in pace, Stephen.

Other U.S. presidents born in January were, in order, Richard Nixon (January 9, 1913), William McKinley (January 29, 1843), and Franklin Roosevelt (January 30, 1882). As for vice presidents, other than those who became presidents, the January birth list includes two living — Walter Mondale and Dick Cheney — and two dead, John C. Breckinridge and Charles Curtis.

A good number of presidents also checked out in January, beginning with Calvin Coolidge, who supposedly inspired Dorthy Parker to say, “How can they tell?” when informed of the former president’s passing, which was on January 5, 1933. Theodore Roosevelt, Rutherford B. Hayes, John Tyler and Lyndon Johnson also joined the ranks of dead presidents in January.

And of course, January is an important month for the U.S. presidency because it includes the newfangled inauguration date, January 20, as specified by the 20th amendment to the Constitution, which was ratified in 1933. Since January 20, 1937, 12 presidents have taken the oath of office in January on 19 separate occasions.

Unlike last year, we didn’t happen to see any of the holiday movies showing at theaters, such as We Bought a Cemetery for Christmas, Who Cares About the Adventures of Tintin? or The Girl Regretting Her Dragon Tattoo. I did manage to see Duck Soup on television on New Year’s Eve.

That was my nth viewing of that movie at intervals of once every two or three years since the mid-70s. I know all the gags but laughed again all the same, and saw some details I’d never noticed before (or had forgotten). I paid particular close attention this time to Margaret Dumont, whose face was remarkably expressive. I’ve come to doubt the story that she didn’t get most of the brothers’ jokes, which sounds like something Groucho would make up.

I also paid closer attention to Edgar Kennedy, the lemonade vendor tormented by Chico and Harpo. Turns out he had quite a career and, if Duck Soup is anything to go by, a fitting sobriquet in “Master of the Slow Burn.”

Over the holidays I also chewed at some of the books I’ve been reading lately, such as The Warm Bucket Brigade: The Story of the American Vice Presidency (Jeremy Lott, 2007), an entertaining read that (among many other things) makes a good case for regarding President Tyler more highly. Still, I didn’t find myself in the grip of an intensely good book, as I did with True Grit this time last year.

I did spend some time reading the entertaining blog Lifetime, Wow! which consists of reviews of movies shown on the Lifetime Movie Channel. I’m not particularly familiar with Lifetime, but apparently it shows a lot of risible movies, and the bloggers at Lifetime, Wow! shoot those fish in that barrel with glee. The blog’s plot synopses are probably more fun than most of the movies themselves.

The future 19th President of the United States and First Lady married in late 1852. This photo was taken on their wedding day, December 30.

Hayes was practicing law in Cincinnati at the time. Twenty-five years and a day later, on December 31, 1877, President and Mrs. Hayes celebrated their silver anniversary with a re-enactment of their vows at the White House, presided over by Rev. Dr. Lorenzo Dow McCabe of Ohio Wesleyan University, who had originally married them.

In Woodrow Wilson (1958), Arthur Walworth describes Wilson’s coming into the world in antebellum Staunton, Virginia: “In the ground-floor chamber of the Wilson manse, near midnight on the third day after the Christmas of 1856, Jeanie Wilson gave to her Joseph his first son. They named him Thomas Woodrow, after his maternal grandfather.

“The baby was put into a well-fashioned crib and was cared for and fed by free Negroes who cooked in the cellar over an open fire, baked in a brick oven, and drew water from a well. Before the child was a month old, arctic winds swept down upon Staunton and drove snow through the cracks of less substantial houses. The town was cut off from the world for ten days.

“But in his snug home the infant was safe and warm, and grew larger and fatter than his sisters had been. In four months Jeanie Wilson was writing to her father that she had a baby whom everyone called ‘beautiful,’ and that he was ‘just as good as he can be,’ that Joseph’s congregation was growing and there was ‘no desirable thing’ that God had not done for her.”

By a curious coincidence, today is also the anniversary of the death of First Lady Edith Bolling Galt Wilson, the president’s second wife and either “steward” of the presidency (her term) or conniving de facto president (critics’ characterizations) during her husband’s illness in late 1919 and early 1920.

Edith died at age 89 on what would have been Woodrow’s 105th birthday in late 1961, having lived long enough at attend John Kennedy’s inauguration.