Memoir

Mostly recollections of family, teachers, good times, bad times

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The Graveyard Shift

I woke this morning about 5:30 a.m., which is an hour later than I had woken the previous two days. “Sleeping in” is an unexpected challenge in my later years. I have trouble stretching my sleep to six hours, which always catches up with me in early afternoon.

I remembered that I once wished that I could be awake before sunrise to enjoy the quiet moments of nature waking up. Be careful what you wish for! So I tried to be grateful for the early rising.

It is a blustery morning, and when I picked up the paper in the driveway the wind was gusting like an approaching hurricane. The flag was whipping straight out, and I thought how fortunate it was to be at half-mast (honoring the dead in the Nashville shooting) so the flag pole did not sway to the point of breaking.  It is a pretty flexible aluminum pole; it will probably endure more wind blasts than I think.

When I returned to my recliner in the study facing the street, I could see the trees across and behind the houses on our street swaying with their own characteristic motions in the wind.  Some roof-high, bare, stiff branches trembled in a kind of agitation that suggested keeping their composure under stress.  They were the most vertical of the branches.

Higher above the roofs were evergreens outspreading like open arms. They swayed gently in the high winds as though cradling the winds in their needles.  They were the most horizontal of the tree limbs.

Higher than the evergreens were the more vertical limbs, five long branches not quite straight into the sky, but angling sharply upwards. These were truly swaying with the wind, even the high winds, and showing their resilience against forces trying to pull them apart.

I have never noticed how trees have their own rhythm in the high winds, so getting up early had already blessed me with fresh observations.

Once the sun was up and shining I discovered that the bird house outside my window contained both mama and papa Eurasian Sparrows, one pacing on the roof and the other with head looking out from the entry hole. This is the first time I have seen two birds in this house since we moved it to the front yard this spring.

It is supposed to be a “bluebird house,” and we have been evicting all signs of nesting there until we could get bluebirds to settle in. I saw two bluebirds in the tree by the street, forlornly gazing on the sparrow residents.  I don’t think I have the heart to evict the sparrows, now that two of them have taken residence in the bluebird house. I am afraid we will have to say “You snooze, you lose,” to the bluebirds, much as we love them.

The upside is that the bluebird house is within six feet facing our front window, so we will have an intimate view of family to come.  This house has been tenanted by sparrows before, despite all our best efforts to clear out their nests. The sparrows are relentless nest-builders and not easily discouraged, whereas the bluebirds are picky and falter easily. I have seen them on top of  the house, but, to my knowledge, they  have never taken up residence, last year or this.

That’s quite a lot of activity for early morning.  The sunrise hours are all I have hoped them to be. I should be grateful to be up at 5 a.m. or later, so I will accept this gift of my latter years. If I have to nap in the afternoon, so-be-it. That’s what retirement is for.

 

 

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The Ego and I

Ego LM2102SP   EGO Power+ LM2102SP 21 in. 56 V Battery Self-Propelled Lawn Mower Kit (Battery & Charger) W/ 7.5 AH BATTERY

I have to admit buying a new battery-powered mower called “Ego” may say something about me, but it gives me pleasure to quietly demolish the leaves in my backyard and the unrelenting grass in my side yard this early in the spring. The “Ego” is anything but pretentious, humming its way through the winter accumulation of leaves and grass, leaving an invisible deposit of mulch behind.

As Victoria could tell you,  I have been coveting a battery-powered lawn mower through most of the winter, comparing specs online and visiting Lowe’s and Home Depot in the dead of a cold snap. It is a complicated analysis to make sure you get the best equipment for the investment, especially when you have a functioning gas-powered mower slumbering in the storage shed.

In the end I relied heavily on Consumer Reports,  since they had tested all the equipment and could tell you what the manufacturers concealed, like the time to charge the battery and the actual endurance of a single charge that might vary when you use a self-propelled mechanism.

I decided that this would be my last mower, so self-propulsion could be a feature I would be glad to have in the future. The single-adjustment for four wheels was another indispensable improvement over the wrestling with four stubby stubborn levers on my old gas-powered version. Lawn maintenance just got blissfully simpler.

Of course the emission-free engine makes a modest improvement in the immediate environment in my neighborhood. No gas, no oil, no early-morning roar.  That should make me a better neighbor and environmental steward. Not that anyone was complaining.

Does it actually boil down to the “ego” of the lawn mower owner to acquire the newest, cleanest and quietest engine of grass destruction?  Hard to deny the acquisition was not self-serving, because I feel some smug satisfaction lightly steering the stealthy steed of yard maintenance around a modest 1/3 acre of domestic flatland. Here I was cheerfully patrolling the back yard before the first day of spring!

I’ll leave it to the wise reader to recognize the ego sprouting with the daffodils before the latest frost.  I’ll just self-propel my way to unassuming happiness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Good Will Towards Travelers

After recounting the lost days trying to get Southwest Airlines to fly us to San Diego over the Christmas holidays, the consequences of missing our cruise down the Mexican Riviera are quite different than we expected. “Peace on Earth good will towards men” has new relevance a month later.

Our peace comes, in part, from recovering our expenses; the good will comes from Southwest.

First, we were consoled that we had bought travel insurance at the recommendation of our travel agent, the insurance endorsed by Norwegian Cruise Lines. Then our hopes were dashed when the conditions for reimbursement did not include failed transportation. Aon denied our claim.

Then we were consoled that, since we had already booked another cruise later this year, we could ask Norwegian to apply the lost investment in the first cruise to another cruise eight months later. Then our appeal for credit was denied:

 While we sympathize with your situation and please understand that it is not our intent to cause any further distress, unfortunately, we are unable to offer any additional compensation above the insurance claim determination refund issued by AON. It would be inconsistent for us to make exceptions when other passengers have cancelled and accepted these terms.

Supposing that Norwegian did not understand that we only wanted credit, not a refund, we followed up with a second appeal to have the lost investment in the first cruise applied to the second cruise, which had a substantial payment due in April. The credit would have paid for less than half of the payment due.

After an additional review of your reservation and claim determination, our records indicate you only purchased Essentials travel protection, instead of the Standard travel protection insurance policy through AON. Therefore, while we sympathize with your situation and please understand that it is not our intent to cause any further distress, (emphasis mine) unfortunately, we are unable to offer any compensation or credit for the cancellation fees assessed to your reservation due to airline delays and or cancellation. The terms and conditions governing our cancellation policy and applicable fees are outlined in our brochure. 

The tired bureaucratic response to a simple appeal for good will in rewarding a returning customer stands in startling contrast to the efficient, compliance of Southwest Airline. We tried to appeal for compensation from the beleaguered airline in a desperate attempt to recoup about $4,000 in lost cruise expenses.

Within three days of applying, we were notified: You received a payment from Southwest Airlines. Once processed, the payment will be automatically transferred to your United States Bank Account.

They paid in full.

This defines, “goodwill towards men,” in my most recent experience. I should mention that Southwest had already refunded the cost of the airline reservation (of course) and thrown 25,000 points into our account. They could have settled at that. After all, they had thousands of customers claiming damages for SW failures over the holidays. They couldn’t compensate them all, could they?

Yes, they could.

All is forgiven, Southwest. We booked you for our flight to New Orleans this week with no hard feelings.

As for Norwegian Cruise Lines, we will not be making our balance payment in April for the Alaska cruise. It might have been fun.

 

 

 

 

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Seven Stories (4): California Dreamin’

All the leaves are brown (All the leaves are brown)
And the sky is gray (And the sky is gray)
I’ve been for a walk (I’ve been for a walk)
On a winter’s day (On a winter’s day)
I’d be safe and warm (I’d be safe and warm)
If I was in L.A (If I was in L.A.)
California dreamin’ (California dreamin’)
On such a winter’s day

The song was released September, 1965.  The Mamas and the Papas version haunted us through the winter until it drenched the air waves. I was getting ready to graduate, and finally a song had come along to capture my melancholy, my dreams. California dreamin’ in winter.

When you are a senior in high school a lot of things are breaking for you. You have a driver’s license, maybe a job, maybe a college acceptance, maybe a girl friend. O.K. three out of four wasn’t bad.  I didn’t have a girl friend, but I did a lot of California dreamin’ about one.

The song made you feel like the winter of Long Island Sound was going to blow over, and you would find yourself dating some California girl who couldn’t get enough of you.  It had  lonesome lyrics and an expectant melody. How could a song about grey skies and brown leaves sound so hopeful? Because you could dream yourself into expectations. Probably my most hopeful/ hopeless dreams involved Julie Christie (Dr. Zhivago),  Jane Fonda ((Cat Ballou), and Claudine Auger (Thunderball).  In that era sexiness involved rescue by some courageous male or curves in the right places.  Considering my courage usually fell short of asking a girl out on a date, my fantasies were a bridge too far.

I remember the song playing in the background June of 1966  at Terri’s birthday party. Terri was a girl in my math class. I was pleased to be invited to her party; her crowd was pretty much my crowd.  The song gave me just enough hope to ache for someone when there was no someone on the horizon yet. I remember her party was outdoors, the music and the weather were sundown warm, and I was California dreamin’.

Terri sat down next to me on her patio and politely asked about my plans for after graduation. We were both headed for college, both to small liberal arts schools, both English majors, both unattached, although Terri was on the rebound from a fall relationship. That intimidated me a little, because it meant she was more experienced. But she was very sweet with curly, shoulder length brownish hair and barely an inch taller than I was. And she was available.

My built-in melancholy rule was that I should date girls who were Christians, though not necessarily Presbyterians. Still how did you know a girl’s spiritual condition, if she went to another church, and you didn’t share the same religious life together? Your best bet was to date ab intra ecclesia,  within the church. And yet I was not so attracted to girls within my own church. The cutest ones were Catholic. That stymied my dating expectations.

Stopped in to a church
I passed along the way
Well I got down on my knees (Got down on my knees)
And I pretend to pray (I pretend to pray)
You know the preacher likes the cold (Preacher likes the cold)
He knows I’m gonna stay (Knows I’m gonna stay)
California dreamin’ (California dreamin’)
On such a winter’s day

The song even had a church in it. I was pretty sure Mama Cass was praying for guidance about romance when she “stopped into a church.”  As it turned out, she only “pretended to pray.” Still she was in a church, where I knew anything could happen. If there was a difference between “California dreamin’ ” and “praying,” I did not think much about it. I hoped God would notice my longings and find me a life partner in my senior year of high school. A little disconnected from reality, I was.

Terri made it perfectly clear she liked me. I think we even talked about church a little to establish we had common spiritual ground.  She gave all the right signals. My senior summer stretched ahead with the possibility of checking the fourth box of my great expectations. I just had to reach out . . .

If I didn’t tell her (If I didn’t tell her)
I could leave today (I could leave today)

Why didn’t I tell her I liked her? Why didn’t I ask her if she had seen Thunderball  or Cat Ballou?  Why didn’t I suggest dinner at Central Avenue Pizza? Scared. Paralyzed by religious compunctions stronger than desire.  I can feel them in the pit of my stomach today fifty years later.  I can see Terri searching my eyes, I can hear the tidal pull of

California dreamin’ (California dreamin’)
On such a winter’s day (California dreamin’)
On such a winter’s day, (California dreamin’)
On such a winter’s day

No winter in the air, but winter in my dreaming. Winter in  my hapless soul. Missed opportunities. Hope Terri found hers.

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Seven Stories (2): The Best Year-Marty, Mickey Mantle and Mister Glaser

The months between October 1957 and October, 1958 were an incomparable streak of stimulation, stability, and joy for me that will never be duplicated. There will never be another Marty, Tom Swift, Jr.. Mickey Mantle or Mr. Glaser, because life can never be such a plateau of uninterrupted joy. I have spent the rest of my life trying to recapture it, but life has never been so sublime as the year bracketed by two World Series 1957-1958, the year I was nine becoming ten.

Marty was my best friend. We shared two perfect fantasies–the Tom Swift, Jr.series and the secret cell of Russian spies.  I was never more addicted to reading and log-keeping than I was that year.

The reading consisted of keeping up with the latest Tom Swift book as soon as it hit the shelves of Hefro’s, the neighborhood variety store. We haunted the bookshelves to capture the next edition of Tom Swift, because we devoured each one as soon as it was published, especially the first twenty-two in the series. The last one I remember reading was Tom Swift and His Repelatron  Skway, published in 1963.

The author managed to put Tom in some horrible predicament at the end of each chapter, so compelling that I would look ahead at the illustrations to see if he survived in later chapters. Naturally this suspense pulled me inexorably to the next chapter until I finally had to put my light out, so my parents did not discover me reading way past bedtime. One of my well-kept  secrets was reading by the glow of an electric space heater in my bedroom. I had to keep raising the thermostatic controls so it would not shut off as I was reading yet one more chapter.

Marty and I shared the joy of this addiction. We often imagined that he was Tom Swift, the brains, and the I was the brawn, Bud Barclay. I have never been so compelled by a series, a character, and a reading partnership since those years before high school.

The log-keeping was for a spy operation that Marty and I ran out of my attic and his, as we posed as Russian observers of the movements of our mothers and neighbors, logged our findings, and reported to some imaginary home base. I have told the story of how we migrated from one objectionable location to the other during these adventurous years of undercover living [https://wtucker.edublogs.org/2021/07/03/my-early-spy-career/].  We could never satisfy our parents that we were not inhaling some dangerous substance in my abandoned dog house, my unfinished attic, our improvised shack in his back yard or in his unfinished attic.

Mickey Mantle and the New York Yankees was the one obsession I did not share with Marty, but my father was both my inspiration and my co-conspirator on the subject of baseball.  My mother saw baseball as an anti-intellectual distraction, because the away games on television were an endless fascination for both of us.  The World Series years of 1957-58 were peak fan experiences, because the Yankees fell to the Milwaukee Brewers in 1957, but came back from a 3-1 deficit to win in 1958. Bullet Bob Turley was the Most Valuable Player in the 1958 Fall Classic, but later he had arm trouble and faded into obscurity.

But Mickey Mantle struggled past knee and shoulder injuries to lead the Yankees to the World Series in a fantastic run of championship appearances from 1956 to 1962. The Yankees appeared in six of seven World Series during a period when Mantle won the Most Valuable Player Award three times. Mantle was a tragic-heroic figure as he played injured more than he was healthy and was subjected to criticism for his unhealthy nightlife and extra-marital involvements.  My father always preferred the moral and pious Bobby Richardson, the Yankees’ second basemen during this run, but Mantle was a clutch power hitter, only rivaled by Hank Aaron in their primes.

My romance with baseball has continued through unexpected conversions from Yankees to Red Sox and Red Sox to Cardinals. That may be the one enduring legacy of the golden years.

Mr. Glaser might have changed my life permanently in one memorable moment in fifth grade.  He was reviewing the social studies chapter on Scotland and the sheep-herding industry, not a captivating subject, but I had kept up with the reading.  He asked us to consider why sheep had become important to Scotland, and, after a prolonged silence, I raised my hand. “Because they were adapted to the ways of the land,” I mostly reported from my reading. He looked startled, then asked me to repeat my answer, which I did. He repeated my answer under his breath, and then suddenly swung around and walked behind his desk.

“Let me write that down,” he murmured. “I want the other teachers to know one of my students said that.”  In retrospect I understand the theatrics of stopping the class to write down something I said, a motivational tactic to get me to speak up more in class. Of course, it worked, because now I thought I was the font of genius.  Of all the events of my first ten years of schooling that was the most consequential, because I suddenly believed I had something to say.

Life rarely offers great winning streaks like the transformative months before the weekly perils of adolescence.  After I was elected class president in sixth grade, life dipped and rose with regularity.  There were peak moments of finding love or spiritual renewal, but they were peaks, not plateaus. The plateau of 1957-58 remains extraordinary.

 

 

 

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The Light of Life

What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. (John 1:4, 5)

There is a Christmas story that is tender and nostalgic, and there is one that is affirmative and contemporary. John’s story is the latter. What difference does the birth of Jesus have on December 25, 2022? It is a light that shone in the darkness, a light that still shines in the darkness. We have this light as much as the first light that came from the voice of the Creator.  The darkness has not overcome it.

We had three days of disappointing Advent, two in the Lambert International Terminal hearing our flight delayed, then cancelled, with promises that another flight would take us to San Diego in time to board the Norwegian Jewel, our cruise ship. That flight was cancelled within five minutes of boarding time.

Finally we were given two tickets that would board us on a flight from Chicago on Christmas Eve, that would arrive within an hour of the gates closing on the ship. Victoria drove us through the dark morning of Christmas Eve to reach Chicago within three hours of our flight departure time.

We stood on the winding lines of  a desperate crowd in Midway Airport for about an hour and a half, while the departure time for  our flight kept withdrawing toward a landing time  impossible to reach our ship before it locked us out.  We finally succumbed and dragged our bags to the Parking Shuttle Bus, loaded up the car, and made our way back three hundred miles in utter defeat. It was one of the darkest Christmas Eves of my life.

We arrived home within a few hours of the Christmas Eve service, so we live-streamed it,  and Pastor Dave preached on Luke Chapter Two with its shepherds and angels and how Mary “treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.”  I have always felt I don’t treasure and ponder this story. One who has treasured and pondered it is Rachel Held Evans, who wrote before she died in 2019,

God shrinking down to the size of a zygote, implanted in the soft lining of a woman’s womb. God growing fingers and toes. God kicking and hiccupping in utero. God inching down the birth canal and entering this world covered in blood, perhaps into the steady, waiting arms of a midwife. God crying out in hunger. God reaching for his mother’s breasts. God totally relaxed, eyes closed, his chubby little arms raised over his head in a posture of complete trust. God resting in his mother’s lap. . . https://cac.org/daily-meditations/marys-wholehearted-call-2022-12-23/

Mary may not have phrased it this way, but the sense of what was happening to her comes from this meditation.  When I ponder this part of of the story, I can only think, “The wonders of his love, the wonders of his love, the wonders, wonders of his love.”

This morning Pastor Dave preached on the John 1 Christmas story, the one that says nothing more than “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” That’s it; the rest is history, implies John.  But he added this in v. 4-5 What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

We see the darkness closing in every day, in the January 6 insurrection, in the slaughter of children in Uvalde, Tx, in the invasion of Ukraine, in the deadly shooting of a teacher and a student in University City, MO, even in the bitter disappointment of missing a boat and a Christmas with our Ohio family.

Yet we see light in the world, the light of a Congresswoman willing to stand for democracy against her own party, the light of a Congress taking its first initiative on the age of purchasers of semi-automatic weapons, the light of the courageous President of Ukraine, Volodymyr Zelenskyy, the light of courage of St. Louis police to bring down the shooter within 14 minutes of their notification, the light of Christmas morning in Chesterfield MO knowing we could not fly to San Diego unless by the grace of God.  So we celebrate what remains without the grace to fly wherever we wished.

Because we have the light, if we are ready to see it in the face of disappointment or tragedy. At the end of every tragedy, whether in Shakespeare or the headlines, there is light, not overcome by darkness.  This morning I have been thinking of another flight, which we will only board by the grace of God, a flight to tour of the Holy Land in 2024, where, What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people.

Because the light is here as promised. But we have to look.

 

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Thanks for a Year

My Lord and God, thanks for the moment when I could remember the blessings more than the grievances, and look back on the goodness in the 2022 CE.

In November I had begun to blog my blessings, including the solitary moon, the perfect moments of morning twilight; for the smoothness of the lager Paulaner Salvator, for Christ the King with no kingdom, and for Brian Doyle (1956-2017), the composer of “uncommon prayers.”[https://wtucker.edublogs.org/2022/11/21/thanks-for-the-late-poet-of-gratitude/]

Ceiling of Union Station

On October 27, our anniversary, we attended the InterFaith Annual Fundraising Banquet, which we exited for a  sound/ sight show at the Grand Hall of Union Station, before retiring to the Drury Inn. We had an early morning concert at the Powell, so we rolled out of bed right into Tchaikovsky, a delightful capstone to our Fourth Anniversary.

In October our new landscaping was completed. Appreciating the thoughtful  ever-green planning of Jim Graeler, the stately sentry boxwoods and “Cryptomeria japonica” enhancing the corner,  with the diminutive Christmas bushes  [Duke Garden] scattered along the front, charged along the front walk by the electric dwarf blue spruce, the  spiky sedge plants, and the “Gold strike junipers, and thanks for the expected glory of  the dormant English lavender and lavender azaleas, abutting white dogwood, all soon to be charming strollers up Schoettler Valley Drive.

Columnar Boxwoods

Cryptomeria ‘japonica’

Blue Spruce, “Everest’ Sedge, ‘Goldstrike’ Juniper

 

 

 

 

Bicycling in Copenhag

 

St. George and the Dragon;

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thankful, too, for the September Saunter through Scandinavia, rival kingdoms now mellowed siblings enjoying the pleasures of the welfare state, bicycling and skoll! ing their way into our hearts. My only regret my premature exit due to CoVid.

Victoria at the Reflecting Pool of Kalmar Castle

Dome of St. Lucas

 

For the theatrical sojourn in Stratford Ontario in August,  the  convivial  dinners  and   local  exploration with  Marty  and  Hope, for the curious  alpacas  and  their matchless,  warm fur.  For the  modern  versions of A Comedy  of  Errors  (1939)  and Little Women,  the  wild  farce of  The Miser, I give thanks.

For the pilgrimage to Spirit Lake, North Dakota, joy and labor in the same hand, an ongoing mission with the Dakotah people,  building, demolishing, repairing, celebrating.  We  made  a tiny, transforming  difference. For  us  as  much as  Spirit  Lake.  Weather cool and mostly dry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks for the amazing haul of the ABC Sale, the haul from our attics, basements and closets and the haul of $13K,  all to go to local missions. A logistical achievement of moving into and moving out of church space never before witnessed in my experience.  I managed to latch on to a dark oak desk that now undergirds my typing.

Hamilton finally delivered the twice-postponed 50th Reunion, technically my 52nd. We made it a road trip, visiting Chatauqua (western NY) in its off-season on the inbound leg and the Lucille Ball Museum and the Rock’n Roll Museum (Cleveland) on the outbound. I love the trip that evolves organically around a meaningful event–the 50th Reunion–the stately lodging at the Athenaum (Chautauqua) blooming its spring best–and the trip through the history of Rock ‘n Roll featuring excerpts from Peter Jacksons’ documentary on the Beatles. And I loved the small group performing of the alumni/ae chestnuts–the singing was always fine on College Hill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For its length, the main event of 2022 was the journey to Hawaii in three crowd formations: the whole family (ten of us) on the gorgeous beaches of Oahu, the three of us (Donna Savage, Victoria, and me) 6-day-tripping the Big Island, and the two of us indulging in five days in Hanalei, Kauai, on the very brink of paradise.  Hanalei  should be  captured on  foot  for shopping and culture.  Worth  living in  the  town– with rentals at those cutthroat prices!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I thank you for the involved carefully plotted vacations, the organically evolving trips, and the organic plant matter in our front yard, which will  stay put, as you will it.  Thanks for the health, hope, and funding to travel as I dreamt it. Amen.

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The Pearl

‘Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls.46 When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it. Matt 13:45-46

I believe in moments of grace, when we are given more than we can imagine deserving. We may have discovered such a pearl, like the merchant in Jesus’ parable.

It was almost by accident, but its value was obvious, and I reached for it resolutely.  And pretty soon I knew it was more than a pearl, but my key to the kingdom.  That’s how it was when I met Victoria almost five years ago.

I was a widower, but committed to another chance at marriage, because the single life was not for me. I had tried out  OurTime and Match.com for three months, meeting some congenial women, many multiple dates, one that had touched me emotionally. I was an ardent reader of the roster of Match candidates in my 25-mile radius and had even started a Match correspondence with a woman in Texas.

At a professional conference in St. Louis I sat in the bar of the downtown Marriott and scanned the local listings for Match. But why? I was only in town for two more days and St. Louis was 500 miles from home. I think I was reading the Match listings as I would the daily newspaper. Who’s new? What hope?

Then I sent out three invitations for Saturday night, as I would have if I were home. Why? In retrospect it made no sense to start dating one night before leaving town. Still I received two responses the next day, one regretting she already had plans and one saying, ok let’s have dinner.

I made reservations at Copia, a restaurant in walking distance, and then spent that Saturday in Conference sessions. I returned to my room and had time enough to get ready for dinner at 6 pm.  I remember my date, known to me as “Vi,” said she would wait in the bar, wearing a distinctive hat.

When I got off the elevator I saw her, standing in the bar crowd, wearing that stylish hat. Recalling that moment I can’t help but associate her with Iris Gaines played by Glenn Close in The Natural, bathed in some heavenly radiance the first time Roy Hobbs (Robert Redford) sees her. It wasn’t quite the drama of the movie, but it was more than the usual first Match date where two people wave at each other and you realize this is your date for the evening.

It was a cold, windy November evening when we hurried down the street to the restaurant, getting the premium two-person window seat. I remember Vi could not keep that hat on in the wind, but it had served its function–to identify her.

I remember we occupied that table for three and a half hours.  I remember the food was great, but “Vi” was better. She talked twice as much as I did, but she was easy to interrupt, quick to listen. And we got quickly into serious issues like our family and religious backgrounds. And I remember that less than ten minutes into our conversation, she said, “It’s nice to be wanted,” and her voice broke.  I was hooked.

I remember half way into our conversation, we were talking about who Jesus was in reference to the first chapter of John’s Gospel. That does not sound like first date conversation, but it tells you everything about what was important to us. I remember saying Christianity was not about the answers, but the questions, and she remembers registering that in the positive column of her first-date assessment.  We both talked freely about our deceased spouses, and that proved to be a hallmark of our future relationship. We wanted to remember and honor them.

I remember her shapely legs as I watched her go to the rest room at the end of dinner. As we left the restaurant, I remember Vi saying we should pray about how we might pursue this relationship. She was signaling she wanted to continue the relationship long distance, but I had heard this line in the past as a stop sign for the gentile Christian dating relationship.  I was a little panicky when I assured her I would be in Lawrence, Kansas visiting my sister for the Christmas holidays. Vi reassured me that she considered that a convenient opportunity to meet again.

Back at her car, she offered to drive me around to the entrance to my hotel.  At some point I said, “I’m not sure I know your name,” although she remembers telling it to me in the beginning. It was “Victoria.”

I remembered the awkwardness of ending about fifteen first dates on Match. I had learned one thing for sure. Not to miss making a good first impression.  “I’d like to kiss you,” I said before exiting the car. The most glorious smile burst on Victoria. So I did.

That was it. I knew some “amazing grace” had happened. I had found a “pearl of great value.” It was a climactic moment for Match.com, but, most of all,  for Victoria and me.

Sleepless in St. Louis

You are incredible:

A few moments

Doubting the mechanism match.com

Then believing in me

The untested product

spilling out into your life.

You sat  down skeptical,

But suddenly vulnerable.

I wanted to leap across the table

Hold you, thank you

For trusting a reckless stranger

Who reached for the dating slot machine

Coming up quadruple apples.

Is there a script for first dates?

Where the couple circle around

Confident and qualified

Securing the high ground?

We trashed that script

With shameless grief and joy

Held in one hand.

Where did you get the courage?

A careful principled woman

Venturing out on a chill November night

Gambling or believing,

Taking the risk

On the out-of-town stranger.

You are incredible.

 

 

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50th Reunion: The Road Trip

The great New York Road Trip of 2022 centered on Hamilton College, the 50th Reunion location, but it was bookended by a couple of great institutions: Chatauqua and Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.  Neither of these can be comprehended in a day, but we tried anyway.

On the inbound trip we stayed at Chatauqua for two nights during the off season: no lectures or recreation in progress.  What is  Chatauqua  during the high season?

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Over 150 years Chatauqua has been a center of discussion and learning, along with summer recreation. It was laid from the foundations of the summer church camps, and 5-6 church houses remain active for members of  Judeo-Christian churches.  But it has become more secular and ecumenical over the years. We have viewed the lectures virtually over the past year, but the traditional venue is the amphitheater

 

 

 

 

 

 

and the Hall of Philosophy
Below a most unusual Episcopal Church and the front yard of the Unitarian Church, holdovers from more spiritual days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The grounds are a mixture of gorgeous, jammed-together Victorian cottages and mansions and some modern one-floor workshops for dance, music, writing and literature, mostly for young people, but inviting creative adults as well.  We found the book store and the library open, and made room for many more books from the library’s used book sale in its basement. We viewed some of the quaint summer residences with an eye to reserving  time next summer, when our calendar was not already jammed with events.

Jamestown is the nearest major town to Chatauqua, and it is the birthplace of Lucille Ball.  A museum memorializes the Luci and Desi Show, as well as her remarkable career in the movies before she became known as the queen of slapstick.

Two complete sets of the Luci and Desi Show are displayed intact, along with some film clips to remind you of the comedy that followed the announcement: “Lucy, I’m home!!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The photo of Luci and Carol Burnett reminds us of the significant debt Burnett owed to the mentoring of Lucy over the year.  They were good friends from the time Burnett began to produce her own show.

A great stop on the return trip from upstate New York is the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. We booked the Hampton Inn just a half mile from the museum and walked down the main street to enter at 10 a.m., along with a hundred of our closest friends.  Below you can see front and side views of the museum and a list of the 2022 inductees. Who would guess that Dolly Parton and Harry Belafonte would be admitted at so late a date or that they would even be considered “rock and roll”?  This museum has a big tent for Rock’n Roll. I bought a critical/ historical “Fun Family Guide” to Rock’n Roll by Jason Hanley to get my vision clear. It starts with Elvis and ends with U2. Should be educational.

Lots of great rehearsal footage of the Beatles on the first floor, documenting even months before the break-up. Most are included in Peter Jackson’s documentary Get Back, which is many hours long, as I have heard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I thought the flowered jacket of Dusty Springfield (below) was quite a sartorial statement for one of my favored rock singers. Who is Dusty Springfield, you might ask?

Springfield’s solo career began in late 1963 with the upbeat pop record “I Only Want to Be with You” — a UK no. 4 hit, and the first of her six transatlantic Top 40 hits in the 1960s, along with “Stay Awhile” (1964), “All I See Is You” (1966), “I’ll Try Anything” (1967) and the two releases now considered her signature songs: “You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me” (1966 UK no. 1/US no. 4) and “Son of a Preacher Man” (1968/69 UK no. 9/US no. 10). The latter features on the 1968 pop and soul album Dusty in Memphis, one of Springfield’s defining works. In March 2020, the US Library of Congress added it to the National Recording Registry, which preserves audio recordings considered to be “culturally, historically or aesthetically significant.    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dusty_Springfield

Pretty nice tribute, huh?

We saw the ground floor of RRHOF and that was it. It was an historical revue, no more.   Five more floors probably at least 2-3 days for the next trip to Cleveland.

Needless to say, a nice week’s visit for the whole family.

We had the delightful bonus of meeting a newly-sworn couple of American citizens from Iraq on our trip down the boulevard. Victoria has the photo record and published it on Facebook. Behind them is a giant rubber stamp with the word “FREE” engraved.  So serendipitous or, as I now say, a “meaningful coincidence.”

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Reunion Pilgrimage

The long-deferred 50th Reunion finally transpired June 9-12, 2022. With two years of reunions delayed, we had three 50th Reunions in one gorgeous weekend, plus the first ever 50th Reunion for Kirkland College, our sister school that survived ten years before dissolving into Hamilton in 1978.  Our class was the first to see co-education on the Hill.

Note that the roadside sign credits Samuel Kirkland with the founding of Hamilton, yet he had to wait 156 years to get his name on a college, a women’s school that preserved his name for ten years. Hamilton is named for its illustrious trustee Alexander Hamilton, because the name had a little more visibility. Below center, Kirkland’s tombstone reveals that Samuel was a missionary to the Oneida tribe; the tombstone beneath memorializes his protege Schenando, who helped found the struggling mission in Clinton, NY.  Class annalists (narrative historians) claim that the mission never gained solvency or credibility, until founded as an academic institution “Hamilton-Oneida Academy” in 1793.

 

 

The Hamilton Chapel (above) remains the symbol and anchor of the campus. When the steeple and walls were found deteriorating, the College raised $3.1 million almost effortlessly, because of alumni (ae) devotion to this prominent and significant structure that can be seen lighted from the NY Thruway at night.  The renovation considered the oldest records of the construction of the Chapel going back to 1827. The renovation story is summarized at https://www.hamilton.edu/news/story/preserving-chapel-steeple-history-refurb

We witnessed a “ribbon-cutting” to recognize donors and include alumni in the opening of the newly preserved Chapel. Kind of anti-climactic for those who might have lived through the decapitation of the steeple and other more dramatic stages.

I tried to capture the inscription in the third floor library, a new addition to the structure. It says “Send forth your light, O God,” backed by a half-moon window that projects sunlight on the table in the foreground of my photo. To me, this  was one of the significant renovations.

Of course, reunions are really about meeting people who have aged dramatically, while you remain ageless. Below are some of my dearest friends: Bruce MacIntyre (coat and medallion) my musical roommate for three out of four years; He might well be singing at the left; Ray Boggs (coat, tie and medallion), first freshman I met on LI, where we lived; and Dave Klein, below (in the coat and tie), another Long Islander, who endeared himself with massive letters sent through the U.S. mail over the last ten years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the Reunion Banquet: A pick-up choir

The medallions were passed out to all members of the Class of ’70, probably for surviving this three score and ten and managing the journey to College Hill another time.  With the exception of these individuals and Bob Frazee, whom I failed to capture on film, I could not recognize any of my former cohorts at Hamilton.  We were severely dependent on the hanging name tags worn at the belly button and sometimes even needed a little narrative to remember our connections.
The final remembrance took place in the chapel on Sunday morning, when our own Charlie Hambrick ’70 delivered a sermon on the importance of remembrance and inclusion, followed by a reading of names of those deceased since we met last. I recalled some of them as hall mates in the freshman dorm–men too young for this inclusion.

Victoria and I made this journey as a road trip, so there are many more stories to link to this trip.

But this is what we want to remember as the Reunion.

Dave Klein Explaining