Infospigot: The Chronicles

All Class/No Class Crete-Monee Reunion, 2009

The big event of the late weekend was a small gathering, at our house in Berkeley, of folks from Crete-Monee High School, from which I graduated in 1972. This was sort of an informal reprise of an actual "all-class" reunion held a couple weeks ago in Crete, a town about 30 miles straight south of downtown Chicago. About 700 people showed up for a catered event at the racetrack on the edge of town. The Crete-Monee diaspora includes at least a handful who have landed in Northern California. A few of us who have stayed in touch or who have happened upon each other on Facebook began talking about a West Coast version of the Crete event. And so this weekend's All Class/No Class Crete-Monee High School Reunion, 2009 was born.

Who showed up? Anne Kaufman, '74, right off the plane from Chicago. Mike Rodgers -- '74, too, I think, and Wendy Seehausen Rodgers (not sure what class). Jimmy O'Donnell, who blasted down from his creekside paradise near Mount Lassen in Shasta County; he's an honorary graduate of the Class of '74 because his family moved after his sophomore year and he was forced to complete school in the snowless suburban sprawl of Contra Costa County. His sister Laurie O'Donnell, who was in my class ('72) but who I never really talked to much until yesterday. Linda Stewart, who as a German teacher to many of the assembled was in all our classes; she came down from Truckee, the town just across Donner Pass on Interstate 80 in the Sierra. And then there was Kate, my wife, who grew up Crete-less (she's from the northern Jersey shore, sort of) and me.

So eight in all. More would have been fun, and if we could teleport people I can name several friends (Randy, Ron, Mike, Dan--you listening?) I would have beamed in in a second. But yesterday eight was enough, to coin a phrase. Linda remarked that everyone talked to everyone else, the group kept forming into small groups, breaking up, and reassembling itself into twos and threes of engaged conversation. The food was good. The weather was beautiful. There were some funny memories, some warm recollections, some scary and sad stories about classmates and friends. Most of us ended up taking a walk through our neighborhood just after sunset, and that was the way I imagined the day ending.

I've never once gone to one of my class reunions. It's been 10 or 12 years at least since I've been part of a high-school-centered gathering; the last one was at Linda's when she lived in San Francisco. People are talking about it happening again next year. We'll see what comes. Meantime I'll work on my teleportation skills.

Ten Ten

I could spin a yarn about October 10, 1979. Eamon--the guy on the left here--has heard all about it and probably has more interest in the story than just about anyone, since it concerns his arrival in the world. Today was his 30th birthday, and he and his wife, Sakura, and our other son, Thom (the lad on the right) spent the day here. No reminiscing, really--we just hung out together and enjoyed the spread Kate put together for lunch. Then Thom went off to see Bob Dylan at the Greek Theatre and the rest of us went over to San Francisco to eat some more. It was a pretty special day for the parents. Happy birthday, Eamon!

Lovely Commemorative Plate

From the collection. Without permission of owner.

.... And Back Again

We're back west. And to get here, we took a flight at 6:30 a.m. from Newark to San Francisco. That's a shot out a starboard window, a couple minutes off the runway. It was a beautiful trip, even if most of the pictures did not turn out.

To get to the flight, we got up at 4 in the morning or so and were on our way from our friend Lisa's house to the airport at 4:30. The weather on the other coast was summery but not appalling. Meaning humid and warm bordering on hot. I saw in the weather forecast last night that alerts for poor air quality had been issued for parts of the New York area, and a string of 90-degree days are coming up, too. Maybe we dodged some unpleasant, sticky, August weather. I don't mind missing it. What I will always miss, what memory does not oversell, are the nights, so warm and lush they practically demand you come outside and sit or stroll.

Back by our bay, our summer is in full force, too. Sunny and highs in the 70s. After sunset, the temperature was a breezy 60. Our summers aren't oversold either: they're humane and let you go from Memorial Day to Labor Day without thinking about air conditioning. You just need to remember your sweater or flannel shirt for that after-dark walk, and your fine.

'Yes, This Is a Restaurant'

We drove from Geneva on the Lake, Ohio, to West Hazleton, Pennsylvania, today. Nearly 400 miles, and the first 300 on two-lane roads--state highways and U.S. routes out of Ashtabula County, the northeasternmost in Ohio, across northern Pennsylvania to Mansfield. Eastbound on U.S. 6, we hit U.S. 15 there and took it south to Interstate 180, which makes a semicircle to the east and south of Williamsport and leads you to I-80. From there we drove until very heavy rain hit, just after sunset. After about 10 miles during which a lot of traffic simply pulled over to the shoulder, we and some other kept going with our hazard flashers on until we got to the Pennsylvania 93 exit and drove south until we found a motel.

We got a late-ish start out of Geneva OLT, about 11:30, but I was inclined to stop when I saw stuff that interested me anyway. Well, most stuff. I did skip a picturesquely seedy old resort called "Ralph's" on the outskirts of town. But not too far down the road, I stopped at the little box of a public hall in Denmark Township. And just east of there was a little crossroads (Ohio 7 and 167) called Pierpont, near the Pennsylvania line in Ashtabula County. The place is as closed as it says it is. It looks like a mess, outside and in. But if one local's review is to be believed, it would be a pretty unusual dining experience. (The text of the sign in the window: "Temporarily Closed. If you live out of town, leave your phone number if you want me to call when I reopen. Thanks.")

Road to Vacationville

That's a billboard at the western end of the Indiana Tollroad. In Gary, to be a little more precise. We saw it as we drove east from Chicago to Geneva on the Lake, Ohio. It's a hard-looking little town east of Cleveland that bills itself as Ohio's first Lake Erie resort. The shore is lined with summer cottages, old travel courts, and some newer, swankier buildings that look like they could be time-share condos. There's a strip where bars, cheap eats, arcades, and souvenir shops dominate. So do bikers, on the weekends. The weekdays and nights are pretty quiet. Walking down the main street last night at 1a.m., there were a few drinkers traipsing from bar to bar looking for a last round. A woman called to us as we passed a winery, "Excuse me! Excuse me, sir! Is that winery open?" I heard the same woman call across the street to a couple of guys a few minutes, "Hey, I've got drinks over here!"). It's friendly enough here, anyway. (Below: Eddie's walk-up Dairy Queen and hamburger stand.)

Guest Observation: 'On the Road Again'

A Tom Rush song for which I can't find the lyrics online. If memory serves, it starts like this:

"Well, I locked my door as the sun went down
And I said goodbye to Boston town,
Took the Mass Turnpike down to Route 15,
That'll take me on down to the New York scene.
Humming of the tires sure is pretty,
Think about the women in New York City,
On the road again.
Take the Harlem turn to the Jersey pike
And you roll through Philly in the middle of the night,
On the road again. ..."

Me? I'm flying to the Midwest and then making stops along Lake Erie and points east. See you out there.

Family History

We're repainting the entryway to our house, the first time we've touched it since we moved in toward the end of the Reagan administration. One artifact we're going to let stay: the doorway molding where we've marked the kids' (and others') heights. It reminds me of the doorframe in our house outside Park Forest, upon which I took it upon myself to write the date we moved in along with all the family birthdays. The house was still there last time I checked. I wonder if those dates are.  

July 5

There was a birthday here today. The first time I spent a birthday with the person in question was 26 years ago. Against all the odds I've been invited back again and again.

This morning, we got up at 5:15 after a night trying to calm a fireworks-rattled to get ready for our annual First Sunday of the Tour de France race-watching extravaganza. The first neighbors showed up at 6 or so. Afterward, we pieced together the rest of the day.

We had visitors: One son and his wife drove up from their place in far-away San Jose, and then we went hiking on Ring Mountain in Marin County. Clear day, with views into every distance.

Then we came home and cooked dinner and the other son and his, you know, very good friend, joined us. All six of us had a repast of buffalo stew (there's a first time for everything) and salad and an excellent cake from the local French-like cake maker.

Then everyone went on their way, and we were left alone with the dog. What a great day, from first sleepy moment to the last, also a little sleepy. We'll have to try the whole thing again next year.

Sailor's Tango

Growing up, there were a few musical staples in our house. I mean in my pre-teen years, before I discovered WLS and what was playing there. The station we listened to--the only one, except on snow days when we had a local AM station on to see if our school was closed--was WFMT. I think it's tag line was "Chicago's fine arts station." It carried, and still carries, classical programming, soberly read news headlines, and, on Saturday nights, "The Midnight Special." That show was a weekly fixture for me for years. It started with a recording of Leadbelly singing the song from which the show took its name and ended with Richard Dyer-Bennett singing "You've Got to Walk that Lonesome Valley."

My parents didn't have a big record collection, and I don't remember their LPs including anything at all that would have been considered popular music. Well, maybe there was a Mitch Miller record in there. But mostly the discs included a few of my dad's classical favorites, including an early '50s recording of Arturo Toscanini conducting the NBC Symphony Orchestra in Respighi's "The Pines of Rome" and "The Fountains of Rome" (the only side I ever played was "The Pines," which ends with a stirring, bombastic passage meant to evoke the march of returning Roman legions; I'll bet Mussolini just loved it). Others I remember hearing often, and still listen to, featured the Chicago Symphony Orchestra: Fritz Reiner conducting Wagner overtures and Prokofiev's "Alexander Nevsky." My mom's tastes, as I remember them, were more in the vein of classic musicals. I remember hearing "My Fair Lady" a lot when I was little. Hours of "Camelot." "West Side Story." "Man of La Mancha." "Jacques Brel is Alive and Living in Paris." And my parents seemed to share an enjoyment of recorded comedy and folk music and the way I recall it went out of their way to introduce us to performers like Pete Seeger, The Weavers, Joan Baez, and Burl Ives.

One record they had that got played over and over and over and that my siblings and I adopted as our own was by Will Holt, an interpreter of the Brecht-Weill canon. I can't say I understood the songs (or that I do now, for that matter), but the music and lyrics were peculiar and fascinating. On a driving trip once, my brother John, about 10, surprised my parents by coming out with the lyrics of "Kanonen Song" from "The Threepenny Opera" (the refrain goes: "Let's all go balmy, live off the army,/See the world we never saw,/And if we're feeling down,/We'll wander into town,/And if the population/Should greet us with indignation/We'll chop them to bits/Because we like our hamburger raw"). I think the surprise was occasioned by the sudden realization that we actually were listening to and absorbing this music to some degree.

Online, you can still find used copies of the album, "The Exciting Artistry of Will Holt." I've got a copy that I found in a record store out here, though I don't have the equipment set up to play it. One side consists of original interpretations of standards like Cole Porter's "I Love Paris." The other side, with the Brecht-Weill numbers, made a deeper impression. In addition to "Kanonen Song," they include "Mack the Knife," "Alabama Song," "Bilbao Song," and "Sailor's Tango." They all contain a blend of irony, cynicism and world-weariness. Holt translated lyrics for two of the tracks--"Bilbao Song" and "Sailor's Tango"--and those contain an element of frank sentimentality that seems to be absent in the hard-edged German originals. The Brecht-Weill "Matrosen-Tango," from the show "Happy End," is a woman's observations about the selfishness, arrogance, and machismo of seafaring men; of course, they're bound for a fall. The Holt "Sailor's Tango," is in the voice of the selfish, arrogant sailor. Both versions include an interlude that talks about the sea: in the Brecht-Weill version, the ocean is calm on the surface but ultimately ominous and annihilating. In Holt's version, the ocean and night are depicted as peaceful and welcoming--but still annihilating.

I started thinking about "Sailor's Tango" a couple weeks ago and tried to reconstruct all the Holt lyrics. I feel like I missed something, but here's most of them, anyway.

Hey, there, we're setting sail for Bremen,
The seamen are loading up with booze because it's a long way home.
Just bought a box of cigars--Henry Clay--
and I've got a dollar saved for one last woman.
So excuse me please but don't get in my way,
Excuse me please but don't get in my way.
It's your last night on shore and you can't get enough
Of the sight and the sound of the city.
Every bar is crowded with all your friends,
Every moment you hope it never ends.
Then it's OK, goodbye,
All you feel for those poor slobs is pity.
Because nothing can make you feel more like a man
Than when you've got that ocean in the palm of your hand.
Then it's OK, goodbye.
Don't get caught praying down on your knees,
Don't spoil your life being anxious to please,
Because who's got the need
To beg and to plead
Because if they don't like it, so what?

Oh, the sea is deep and blue,
And everything is going to be all right,
And when the day is over, then welcome to the night.
Oh, that sea is deep and blue
And when the moon is shining bright,
Oh, the sea is deep and blue,
Oh, the sea is deep and blue,
So deep and blue.

As luck would have it, we hit a bad storm,
The engines stopped, we hit the rocks, and so it ended.
Hey, there, who ever thought we'd end up by drowning
Just a few miles from Bremen but a long way from home?
Yeah, keep on shouting, there's nobody near--
There's no one can hear you.
Oh, we only had a few miles to go,
Oh, we only had a few miles to go.
Now the sea's coming up,
And the ship's going down,
Gee don't those harbor lights look pretty?
I'll bet every bar is crowded with all our friends,
I wonder what they'll say when they hear how it ends.
They'll say OK, goodbye.
And you never can tell when that moment will come
When he says up above, here's your pity.
Where's my box of cigars--Henry Clay?
Well, I've just got to say ...
Yeah, we were bragging, our feet on dry land
But standing in water, then you'll hold out your hand,
And know that you need
To beg and to plead,
Oh, Christ, I'm scared of the dark.

Oh, the sea is deep and blue,
And everything will be all right,
And when the day is over, what happened to the night?
Oh, that sea is deep and blue,
And when the moon is shining bright,
Oh, the sea is deep and blue
Oh, the sea is deep and blue
So deep and blue.