"You want it to be one way. But it's the other way."
For Kate:
A cloudy December First. We had an appointment up in the hills. Parents were there, and a few friends. I made a big Russian macaroni casserole–Garrison Keillor would call it a hot dish–and I arrived a little late. As the first rain slanted in, streaked the windows, obscured the bay and the town below, you looked into the gray light: calm, absorbed, reflective, maybe visiting scenes of years to come. I saw then, still see looking back into that room from so far away, love, just love.
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.
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!
From the collection. Without permission of owner.
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.
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.")
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.)
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.)
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.
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.
