Youth and friendship :: a state of mind

Karen and me

I've been blessed with some wonderful friends in my lifetime. There are one or two I've gained in recent years, and then there are the friends of a lifetime.

I'm sure that the same is true for you.

In my case, the (true/forever) friends I can count as mine for all time, no matter what, are few in number, but still more numerous than I deserve.

These are the ones who, because of shared history and values, are friends for the same reasons and in the same way throughout the years decades, no matter how often -- or how seldom -- you see them.

Such is my friend Karen.

It was an unexpected treat seeing her again recently after (at least) forty years.

Our reunion took place at a meeting during the Southwide Independent Baptist Fellowship, a conference held in Columbia. 

TG and I, plus Andrew and Brittany, Chad and Erica, Audrey and Dagny, and even our son-in-law Joel (he was actually a delegate at the conference), were there because a longtime friend of our family was one of the speakers.

As I was in the midst of greeting some acquaintances and family members before the service began, I looked up and there was Karen, smiling at me like it was 1975, even though we're both grandmothers.

It wasn't a total surprise; her husband, Steve, had been at our church the previous Sunday, and had told me that Karen would be in town for the special meeting later in the week.

Although Karen is from Alabama (I'm sure I once knew, but I cannot remember where Steve is from), they now live in a midwestern state.

Karen, Steve, and I went to college together, all members of the Class of '78.

(Unlike me, they received their diplomas on graduation night, haahaha.)

As Karen and I reminisced, I was reminded of the fact that for all of the reasons I admired and looked up to her in the past, I still admire and look up to her. My friend is as genuine and unassuming as she ever was.

In fact, both Karen and Steve are exactly as they were when we were all in our late teens and early twenties.

They're just a little older. And so are the rest of us. 

Anyway. Picking up the thread with Karen was special. As we talked about age being only a number (as older folks are prone to do), my friend told me about a poem called Youth, by Samuel Ullman.

She told me that this poem was especially beloved of General Douglas MacArthur, who often quoted it -- sometimes in its entirety.

It's possible that you're already familiar with all or parts of this poem. But if not, you may read it here.

Thanks for that, Karen. And thank you for your friendship.

To quote the cute pirate: You're a diamond, mate.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday

Remember where you came from. Know where you're going.

Complimentary Milk Duds at Lou Mitchell's

Apologies for my longish absence. Events occasionally overtake me.

Our travelogue continues.

On the day we decamped from our friend Jerry's comfortable abode in Hammond and moved house to Chicago, we left in time to do something off the beaten path before taking advantage of early check-in at our hotel.

A room with a view

I refer to our leaving Northwest Indiana in the rear-view and taking the Dan Ryan, then Lakeshore Drive, to a point seven miles north of downtown: specifically, the Edgewater neighborhood of Chicago.

It was here that I lived with my family for a period of time in the early sixties.

Last summer I told you about my mother, sister, and I sort of recreating an old photograph -- as in, one taken on Easter Sunday, March 29, 1964, in front of a small private school next door to the big old house (long gone) where we occupied a tiny apartment.

Snowy Easter Sunday 1964 ... that's me on the left

I had really wished that Mom, Kay, and I could go back to Chicago and stand in the same place for that photo, fifty-five years to the day since the original was taken.

Remember, it was taken twenty-five years to the day before my son Andrew was born?

I found that fascinating. How long the time, and how short.

It will floor you

Anyway, since TG and I were in Chicago and within striking distance of the street where our small nomadic tribe sojourned once upon a time, I wanted to go and see it.

Parking is at a premium anywhere and everywhere you go in Chicago, so TG dropped me off in front of the old Stickney School. It's now apartments.

Edgy in Edgewater

I was able to get the edge of my face while behind me was the approximate spot where Kay and I stood, with our mother facing us, in the original photo.

Not exactly a reenactment, but it will have to do.

After that distinctly inauspicious moment, TG picked me back up and I suggested that we make our way around the corner to Goudy Elementary School.

Here's where I must pull over and park for a mo.

It winds from Chicago to LA

In the course of my childhood, from the time I started first grade at the age of five -- no; I was not a child prodigy, but thank you -- and through the twelfth grade, from which I graduated three months after my seventeenth birthday, I never attended the same school twice.

In fact, throughout grade school my sister and I sometimes matriculated at more than one institution of learning in a single school year.

We moved a lot. I was the perpetual new girl.

Legendary for their coffee

Of all of the schools in which I was enrolled and attended class for any length of time, until the sixth grade when I had my favorite academic year ever at Oakland Park Elementary School in Oakland Park (Fort Lauderdale) Florida, I do not recall the names of any of them. Or anything else about them.

Except for Goudy Elementary. And I have no idea why I remember it.

First grade? Second Grade? Sketchy (at best) recall of teacher(s), school(s), or even city(ies) or state(s). Fourth grade? Fifth grade? Nothing. (Well. I vaguely recall that in fifth grade, at one point I had a teacher named Mrs. Reddy. And I sort of remember what she looked like. It's not much to go on.)

(My mother told me that I started school in Seattle, Washington. It may as well have been on the moon because I have no recollection of pursuing any sort of studies in the Pacific Northwest.)

It looms large

(And I know -- because I've seen pictures of myself and my sister all dressed for school and lugging our book satchels -- that I started second grade in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I do have a vivid memory of being sent home early on November 22, 1963. But before that school year was over, we had moved back to Chicago.)

(I remember all of my schools after sixth grade, up to and including my college, from which I graduated forty-five years after my first foray as a freshman in the fall of 1974.)

But for reasons I will never understand, when I was seven years old and in third grade, I have solid memories of being a student at Goudy Elementary School on Winthrop Avenue in the Edgewater neighborhood of Chicago.

Mrs. Sullivan was my teacher and I can still see her in my mind's eye. She was tall and wore an impressive beehive hairdo.

Looking southward

So it was that TG dropped me off in front of William C. Goudy Elementary and went to find a parking space. I made my way up some stone steps and to a set of solid metal double doors.

I pulled. The doors were locked. A sign said that you'd need a photo ID to enter the building.

A Chicago institution

As always when we travel, I was wearing my small crossbody bag and my driver's license wasn't in it. It was in the car, but TG had taken the car to find someplace to park.

I was descending the stone steps, thinking of calling TG and asking him to bring my wallet, when the doors opened and a gentleman asked me what I wanted.

I took it as a sign

I explained that I didn't have my ID on me but that I'd gone to school there in third grade, and I just wanted to look around.

A lovely lady then motioned to me from just inside the building. She was standing by a reception desk.

Come on in, she said. I'm the principal.

And so I did, and was greeted warmly, and the kind lady -- name of Mrs. Pamela Brandt -- asked me if I'd like a tour around the building.

Sears Tower* is King ... here's the Queen: 311 South Wacker

Of course I said I would, and TG soon joined us, and it was pretty great to walk the hallways that I walked as a seven-year-old, more than half a century ago.

I recognized the gymnasium, which is smallish. Its high, tall windows were exactly as I recalled. 

As we walked around, Mrs. Brandt told me that in 1988, then-Secretary of Education William Bennett dubbed Goudy the "worst school in America."

And he did -- you can look it up. Of course Goudy wasn't THE absolute worst -- that term being subjective -- but unfortunately it was a type of the worst. Graffiti marred the walls and gangs roamed the halls.

Iconic signage for a legendary diner

Mrs. Brandt told me that her late husband volunteered his time to help paint and restore the building to some of its former beauty and functionality.

Today Goudy is regarded as an excellent school. I could tell that Mrs. Brandt runs a tight ship both academically and in regard to student conduct, but that a code of love and kindness prevails.

She took us into two classrooms and, in each one, introduced me to the children as a former student at Goudy.

In one room she asked the students to raise their hand and tell me something they like about their school.

You'll put your eye out ... or hurt your neck

I admit I became emotional. One child said he liked it because, as their teacher reminds them, every day they become "one day smarter."

Another said he likes Goudy because if you fall down on the playground, someone always comes quickly to help you feel better.

I can't explain it but I wish you could have seen their little faces. It was a moment.

Soon we had to leave but not before TG took my picture with Mrs. Brandt. I felt as though I had made a new friend. She is special.

Thanks for the memories

Then we made our way back south to the Hyatt Regency McCormick Place, and checked in to our room. Normally we stay much closer to all of the downtown action, but prices were high as cats' backs this year.

We walk a lot when we visit cities -- in fact we walk as much as we can -- but we also take the subway, the bus, and summon Ubers. Whatever works best.

After getting settled, we Ubered over to Lou Mitchell's, a legendary Chicago diner, for our meal of the day.

This is Jackson Boulevard

Lou Mitchell's is famous for a number of things -- not least that it claims to be the precise spot where Route 66 begins.

It winds from Chicago to LA
More than two thousand miles all the way
Get your kicks on Route Sixty-Six

At Lou Mitchell's, when you walk in the door, a seater/greeter begins plying you with donut holes. Ladies get a mini box of Milk Duds as well. 

According to the web site, it's because Greeks believe in welcoming guests with something sweet. All I know is, those donut holes were money. I saved my Milk Duds to eat at the ball game that night.

We sat outside, under a yellow umbrella, practically in the shadow of the Sears Tower.* The weather was perfect.

The view to the north

After laying waste to a huge, piping-hot omelet with scrumptious breakfast potatoes and tasty toast and mouth-watering house-made marmalade that was unlike anything I've ever experienced (I don't remember what TG had), we were ready to walk down the street to the Sears Tower.*

It was only a few blocks. As you get closer and closer, the size of that building truly boggles the mind.

This is Route 66

We entered and found the place where you buy tickets to the skydeck.

A few minutes after that, we were zooming upwards more than one hundred floors.

The view is pretty much incomparable. Pictures do not begin to do it justice.

Hahahaha nope

People were lined up -- and had paid extra -- to stand on the clear acrylic ledges that jut out from the building.

No thank you.

Once you've walked around all four sides and taken several pictures of the view from each direction, you're just about done (and it doesn't take all that long).

Looking northeastward ... John Hancock Center

Luckily there's a gift shop right there and I needed souvenirs for the kids. We looked around but ended up buying presents in a larger gift shop downstairs, where the selection was wider.

Then it was time to go back to the hotel and get ready for the game. The subway ride to Wrigley Field would take the better part of forty-five minutes.

That sign is 85 years old

We Ubered from our hotel to the Cermak-Chinatown station and bought three-day Ventra card passes that would allow us to ride the subway as much as we wanted throughout our visit.

To say that the subway gets crowded between all Chicago stops and Wrigley Field on game night would be like saying that it gets cold in Chicago in the wintertime. Duh.

Al fresco dining, urban style

Definitely. Although TG and I had seats (I won't get on if it's too crowded to find a seat), literally every hanging strap had a hand hanging on it, and a person hanging from the hand.

Standing and swaying room only.

Take me out to the ballgame

But we reached our destination and it's always such a happy time when you first see the friendly confines, and make your way inside and to your seat.

We're always early so that we can enjoy the ambience and the organ music and the weather.

The Friendly Confines

The Cubs lost.

Yeah. Not gonna lie; that was a major disappointment. Their season was tanking big time (and DID ultimately tank, miserably), but that night there remained a sliver of hope that our boys of summer would make the playoffs.

We had a good time anyway. I also had a pretzel and a soft drink, and that little bitty box of Milk Duds came in handy.

Clark and Addison on the Red Line

Then it was back to the Addison Street station, back onto the subway for a late-night ride, back to the Cermak-Chinatown station, collected from in front of the Nine Dragon Wall for our last Uber ride of the day, which took us to our hotel where we enjoyed sweet dreams.

More Windy City adventures to come! Stay tuned.

But that is all for now.

*It has a new name but I never use it.

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Happy Wednesday :: Happy Week

Let the river run

Trump International Hotel and Tower

On the day after I finally graduated from college, TG and I had breakfast in "da region" before driving the twenty-five miles to Chicago.

When we travel -- and even when we are at home -- TG and I like to find places that serve breakfast all day -- or at least until mid-afternoon, when they close.

In my case, I'm in search of a huge fluffy omelet. Or pancakes. And fresh, hot, strong coffee.

TG and the Wrigley Building

When we lived in Northwest Indiana, a favorite place to dine was Round the Clock.

There are several locations but this time, we visited the one in Highland. As the name implies, they may doze but they never close. The food is good and the prices are excellent.

There were several old-school diners in Chicago where we planned to eat later in the week, but on this day we wanted to walk a few steps further down memory lane.

Hot Pocket Building

Round the Clock did not disappoint and soon, having enjoyed eggs and biscuits and breakfast potatoes, we were cruising along Interstate 94 towards the city.

It was a beautiful day aided and abetted by a fluffy-clouded mackerel sky.

Yes; the weather in Chicago can be quite horrible a full six months out of the year.

Marina City

Of the remaining six, four are sure to be iffy. They'll be either (still) too cold, too hot, too humid, too wet, or too windy.

Or a truly baffling combination of all of the above. Within a twenty-four-hour period of time.

But there are eight weeks per year -- give or take -- in which one is sure to encounter near-perfect climatic conditions even in Chicago: sunny and mild, with low humidity and a delicious breeze.

Nuveen Building :: 333 W. Wacker Drive

This was one of those days -- although, before its conclusion, it did get a trifle too hot for my liking.

But we muddled through.

Our immediate destination was the Riverwalk.

Get on the Riverwalk here

It's exactly what it sounds like: a stretch along the Chicago River where one may walk.

A mile and a quarter long, the Riverwalk can be accessed by stairs from several of Chicago's bridges.

We merged onto the walk at the DuSable Bridge, where Michigan Avenue -- specifically the Magnificent Mile -- meets the river.

There are plenty of pigeons

(Chicago boasts the greatest number of movable -- or trunnion bascule -- bridges of any city in the world except one: Amsterdam.)

(Well. That is what the docent who guides your Shoreline Architecture River Tour will tell you. But if you actually look it up, you will find that this statistic may not be entirely true. At the very least, the subject is open for debate.)

(And don't ask anyone from Pittsburgh.)

You can hail a water taxi

At any rate, these dozens of impressive counterweight drawbridges are raised several times each year -- in the spring, when the sailboats that have been wintering farther up the river make their way back out to Lake Michigan for the summer season, and again in autumn, when those same sailboats travel (reluctantly I'm sure) back upriver for the winter.

I've wanted for years to see that, but here is what happens if you don't do your homework: you miss it.

As in, the day after TG and I were walking the Riverwalk, was a boat run day. And I didn't know it.

One of those bridges

Looking back, we had a semi-tight itinerary and it probably wouldn't have worked out for us to stand there and watch. But still. I would have liked to know what I was missing.

For future reference (both yours and mine) here is a web site that provides the bridge-lifting schedule. If you make it there to witness this, do let me know.

But if it's merely boats on a river that you like to see, there is no shortage of those. Boats of all sizes -- both private and commercial -- happily cruise the river most hours of the day and night.

You can rent this pirate vesselFor the last two years -- plus one summer a long time ago -- TG and I have enjoyed the aforementioned Shoreline Architecture River Tour.

Every time we take this seventy-five minute tour, we see something different (because the skyline is always changing) and learn something new.

I never tire of hearing a knowledgeable guide discuss architectural styles and the history of the skyline, while seated comfortably on the deck of a barge.

Tribune Tower and DuSable Bridge

Of course, the vast majority of Chicago's architecture is newish, having been built after the near-total destruction of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, which decimated over two thousand acres and more than seventeen hundred buildings.

Take the Sears Tower*, for example. Talk about an icon. It was completed in 1974, the same year I moved to the area to start college.

I remember being transfixed by that building each week as we were trundled into the city on buses, to be dropped off on our Sunday School bus routes where we spent the day visiting our riders.

Standing tall on Wacker Drive

(Yes; we did that year-round. No; I never had a warm-enough coat. Another story for another day.)

The Sears Tower* -- from every angle, every time -- still mesmerizes.

In my next post, I'll show you close-up street views of it, as well as the vistas on show from its 103rd-floor observation deck.

Looking east, towards the lake

Speaking of angles -- at the top of this post is a picture of the Trump International Hotel and Tower, the second-tallest building in Chicago, the seventh-tallest in the United States, and the thirtieth-tallest in the world.

Completed in 2009, it is stunning and I never tire of taking its picture. From near or far, this building is truly an incredible sight.

Chicagoans -- many of them -- detest it, as you may imagine. 

Vietnam War Memorial on the Riverwalk

I like it.

Then there's the Nuveen building, the post-modern curved blue-green wall which, in a definitive example of contextualism, follows the gentle line of the river and reflects the buildings, sky, and water around it.

There are the Marina Towers, completed in 1968. Within the confines of Marina City you can live, park your car, shop, get your clothes dry cleaned, and for all I know, get embalmed.

All with a great view of the city, the lake, and the river.

The city in a garden

I remember the "corn cob" buildings from when we lived in Chicago when I was a kid, when they were brand spanking new. Every apartment is wedge-shaped and has a balcony.

There is the Wrigley Building -- completed in 1924, built by the chewing gum magnate of the same name, for the headquarters of his company -- with its facade of pure white glazed terra cotta rising so grandly from the sidewalk, facing the gothic masterpiece Tribune Tower across the avenue.

Wrigley Building from the Riverwalk

Many call one of the newer skyscrapers towering over Wolf Point -- the confluence of the north, south, and main branches of the river -- the "Hot Pocket Building" because it resembles -- well. A hot pocket. Or the cardboard container a McDonald's apple pie comes in.

Once we'd finished walking the Riverwalk both ways, we climbed the steps to street level and walked some more, northward on the Magnificent Mile. We bought tickets for the architecture cruise and walked until time to climb aboard.

We bought cold beverages from the drugstore across the street from Water Tower Place, and because we were hot and thirsty, they tasted so good. 

Wolf Point from the Riverwalk

And it was a good thing too because by the time we took our seats on deck, the sun was shining full on it, with little to no cloud cover. We were grateful for a cool breeze once we got underway. And sunglasses.

The sun was sinking lowish by the time the cruise concluded, and I went to the prow of the boat as we floated away from the lake, back towards the spot just east of Michigan Avenue where the vessel docks between tours.

Dominating the skyline here is the wavy 101-story Vista Tower, the new under-construction project of Jeanne Gang and her Studio Gang Architects.

Jeanne Gang's Vista Tower

It's actually three connected towers and is planned for residential use. Towards the top of the tallest tower is a blow-through floor, to mitigate the effects of lake shore winds on this supertall skyscraper.

It's going to change everything. It already has.

I guess the buildings of Chicago prove that the sky is the limit.

Contextualism at its finest

TG and I walked to our car then, and headed back to Northwest Indiana. We'd be guests of our friend Jerry for one more night there, before coming into the city to stay for the next few days.

Also we had a dinner engagement -- with some old (not them; our friendship) and very beloved friends, Fred and Vickie. On our second date, in 1978, TG and I triple dated with them and another couple.

Fred and Vickie treated us to an excellent meal at Little Italy in Dyer, Indiana. If you ever have an opportunity to dine there, do not pass it up.

If you're conflicted about what to order, I recommend the crispy pork shoulder.

And that is all for now.

*It has another name but I don't use it.

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Happy Tuesday

A degree of reminiscing

I put him on the spot

The next leg of our trip to Chicago involved not the Second City, but the city where, more than forty-three years ago, TG and I met.

I refer to Hammond, Indiana -- the 46320 -- a classic rust-belt town situated a stone's throw from the Illinois state line and so close to Chicago that it is part of the Chicago metropolitan area.

A garden spot it is not, and has never been.

I'm sure it was a bustling place mid-century but these days, with the exception of Sundays, downtown Hammond is all but deserted.

The reason it's busy on Sundays is because of First Baptist Church of Hammond -- the "old church on the corner" of Sibley and Oakley Streets, founded in 1887. Controversial since 1959 (when Jack Hyles became its pastor) and blighted by scandal in recent years, First Baptist is still the largest church in Indiana.

It was on church property that I first laid eyes on TG, in February of 1976. He did not immediately see me but it didn't matter. The damage was done.

Looking northwest on Sibley Street, from the old church building to the new

At the time, I was a few weeks shy of nineteen and a sophomore at Hyles-Anderson College, a ministry of the church. TG, a 1974 graduate of The Citadel, taught biology and coached basketball at Hammond Baptist High School -- also a ministry of the church.

In the picture at the top of this post, TG is standing on the spot where, on Sunday, August 20, 1978, after evening services, our romance officially began. As in, I was purposely lingering on that corner -- yes; I was lying in wait for him -- when my peripheral vision informed me that my love interest was approaching from just behind where he is standing in the photo.

At the opportune moment, I whirled around and got TG's attention, and subsequently let him know that for the first time in the two and a half years we'd known one another, I was not a dorm student.

Three days later, he called to ask me out on a date. That date took place the next evening -- Thursday, August 24, 1978 -- at old (now non-existent) Comiskey Park, where the Chicago White Sox beat the Kansas City Royals 4-1.

We were engaged the following March and married on June 16, 1979, at Forrest Hills Baptist Church in Decatur, Georgia (my home church). I shared pictures of that life landmark last year, after we took Dagny to the Georgia Aquarium for her fourth birthday.

Since I last visited First Baptist Church -- that was in 2002, for a wedding -- a new, even larger, church auditorium has been built. So this time, I was looking forward to seeing it.

The sign, for as long as I can remember

So on that Sunday evening a few weeks ago, when TG dropped me off at the curb of the new church building and went to park, although the newer building was technically unfamiliar to me, the surroundings weren't.

We had a nice time seeing dozens of friends from the old days, and getting reacquainted.

The next morning, we went back to the church property to walk around and take a few pictures. It was a cool and misty day with gray skies, but that's pretty standard for Hammond. So it seemed right.

Former Federal building, now FBC offices

The church owns two entire blocks of downtown Hammond; buildings and storefronts that once housed thriving businesses are now Sunday School departments.

The church also owns the old Federal Courthouse and Post Office, which it spent $1.2 million renovating several years ago, into office space for the pastor and church employees. Adult Sunday School classes convene in old courtrooms there as well. But no judging, haaahaa.

This aged but still beautiful building was where, as a college student working early mornings on a north Chicago bus route, I spent many Sunday afternoons waiting until time for Sunday evening church to start:

Seifer Furniture Company building, c. 1925

The campus of Hyles-Anderson College is seventeen miles away in Crown Point, Indiana, and as we weren't allowed to drive around on our own (and I didn't have a car anyway, or even a driver's license, haahaha, long story), it wasn't feasible to return to the dorms between the conclusion of bus route duties and Sunday night church.

It sounds draconian now -- and it was, especially in the winter, which was most of the school year -- but we thought nothing of it. Or almost nothing.

Times were different. 

Here's a building directly across the street from the old auditorium; it's an educational facility built sometime in the eighties. In my college days there was a ramshackle building there, and it housed the bus offices -- meaning, it was the nerve center for the hundreds of Sunday School bus routes that ran each week all over the greater Chicagoland area.

The Walker Building

We brought all four of our newborn babies to church for the first time at First Baptist, placing them in the care of nursery workers during services.

Because we moved to Knoxville in 1991, only our two older children have substantial memories of when we lived in Indiana and attended First Baptist. 

The old church on the corner

When we left Hammond that day, we drove south on Route 41 towards Schererville, where we lived for the first twelve years of our marriage, and where we had an appointment to meet an old friend for pie and coffee.

On the way, we drove through Munster, Indiana, the home of Community Hospital, where all four of our children were born, all delivered by the same doctor.

We stopped to take a picture.

This entrance looked different in the eightees

The hospital started in 1973 with 104 beds, and is now a 458-bed acute-care facility. I looked it up.

During the decade when I was a patient there once every three years to have yet another baby, the hospital consisted of one smallish building:

My babies were born here

It's a much larger complex now. My doctor's office was in a medical park across the street. Those were the days when lots of obstetricians were in solo practice. That meant that often when you showed up for your routine appointment, you'd learn that the doctor was over at the hospital delivering a baby.

You waited patiently (haaahaha) with the other mothers, knowing that eventually, someone else would be waiting while Dr. Chung delivered your baby.

Except, none of my children were born during office hours. They were cooperative that way.

Good times.

He was a groomsman at our wedding

So then we drove on to Schererville, where we met our good friend Jim at Baker's Square.

Jim is a busy lawyer whose late father, James Clement, was a criminal court judge. TG once served on one of his juries and counted him a friend.

Jim was a point guard on the first basketball team -- JV -- that TG coached at Hammond Baptist High School.

The passage of time, and age, being the strange things that they are, although Jim was a former student of TG's, he's one of our best friends and has been for all of these years. Even as a high schooler, he was a groomsman for TG at our wedding.

TG and Jim, along with other guys from "back in the day," still play golf together in the spring, in Nashville.

After catching up with Jim, we drove out to Crown Point and Hyles-Anderson College.

I did not have a tassel to turn

And while there, I became a college graduate.

See, I can explain. 

When I walked across the platform at First Baptist Church on graduation night in 1978, I received an empty diploma case.

That's because, for reasons I cannot remember, I still required one class to graduate: American Literature.

Now, I was a pretty good student. If I'd taken American Lit, I would've gotten an A. I love American authors and poets; ask anybody. I'm all about Henry David Thoreau, Edgar Allan Poe, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, William Faulkner, Thomas Wolfe ... I could go on. You might say I'm self-taught in that subject.

But I didn't take the class.

And of course I intended to take it in summer school, and to trot by the Academic Dean's office when I'd passed it, to collect my missing diploma.

And I do not remember why I didn't do that either, except I was by that point pretty distracted by TG and fairly determined to get him into my life. I didn't even go home that summer; I stayed on campus, lived in the dorm, and worked.

I toyed with the idea (for five or six minutes) of starting a master's degree, once I'd gotten that American Lit class.

At any rate, life overtook me and then it was romance and then engagement and a wedding to plan, and then marriage, and pretty soon there was a baby on the way, and then another, and then another, and then another.

And then we moved away and I never took American Lit.

In recent months, however, I became aware of an opportunity that I wanted to take advantage of. And it required a four-year degree. No exceptions.

I called the gentleman you see in the picture above, standing with me as he gave me my diploma a few weeks ago. His name is David and he's now the Academic Dean.

David was actually in my graduating class. I'm sure he received his diploma on the night in May of 1978 when we marched to Pomp and Circumstance. He's worked for Hyles-Anderson College ever since.

When I talked to David on the phone in early May, he told me that I needed only one and a half credits to get my hands on that diploma.

A real-deal diploma is finally mine

(American Lit is a three-credit class but he'd give me one and a half credits for life experience.)

I pleaded suggested, surely I can write a paper or take a test for that one and a half credits?

No. I could not. I had to take a class.

So I took a class. From the University of Oxford in Oxford, England -- the oldest university in the English speaking world. My college was Trinity (there are thirty-nine of them at Oxford).

No; I did not go to Oxford, England. I wish. I took my course online.

It was a course on the writings of Jane Austen. I know; she's Brit lit and not American lit. But David kindly agreed to accept the transcript from Oxford indicating that I'd completed and passed the course.

And so I spent much of the summer reading Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Northanger Abbey, Persuasion, and Mansfield Park.

I did a fair amount of required reading aside from the six novels. I interacted with my classmates and our tutor in online discussion forums. I wrote two papers. 

I enjoyed it a great deal, and I learned a lot, and I passed with what can only be described as flying colors.

And in due time, I received a piece of Royal Mail from Oxford, indicating that I had earned transferable credits for taking the course. I forwarded that document to David so that he could apply the credits to the ones I already had.

And now, forty-one years later than originally planned, I am a college graduate.

David also gifted me with an annual from our graduation year, which I did not have.

And he even found my picture within its pages.

Senior picture ... age twenty-one

I should have taken more pictures while I was there; the campus, which long ago was a monastery (First Baptist Church of Hammond and Hyles-Anderson College bought it from the monks) has changed a lot but most of it remains as I remember it.

The old chapel with its stained glass windows is now a mixed-use facility, as a new chapel was built while I was still a student there.

Old-school stained glass

After saying farewell to my alma mater -- for real this time -- we drove back west on Route 30 towards Schererville to see Jess and Kathy, two of our dearest friends in the whole world.

But first we stopped at Memory Lane Cemetery, where many folks from our past are buried or installed in mausoleum walls. The cemetery and full-service funeral home are owned by First Baptist Church of Hammond.

TG and I actually own grave plots there. They are for sale, as we plan to be interred here in Columbia and thus have acquired two more grave plots. That's two more than we require. Call me if you're interested.

But I wanted to pay my respects to certain people beloved to me, such as Linda Clement Richards, one of my best friends ever in my lifetime.

Remembering my friend Linda

Linda died of cancer at the age of forty-six. She was the big sister of our friend Jim (the one we met for pie), and the eldest daughter of Judge Clement and his wife.

Linda and I had lots of adventures packed into a short time. She was special. We loved to go shopping and often did. With little encouragement we'd be on our way to Chicago, to enjoy its shops and restaurants.

Judi is still missed

I also paid my respects at the grave of my friend Judi, who died too young in an automobile accident. She was special too. One of her daughters still keeps in touch with us.

We paused a moment to remember the judge:

He was a good and fair man

Then it was time to hang out with Jess and Kathy for a few minutes before meeting some more friends for dinner at Teibel's, a restaurant that is no less than an institution in Northwest Indiana.

They're famous for their Canadian Yellow Lake Perch, boned and buttered. You should go there sometime.

I didn't get any pictures at Jess and Kathy's house. He was not feeling well and she had had an extremely busy day. We sat in the yard and chatted for a while, then kissed them goodbye. We stay in touch.

At Teibel's we met our old friend Gail and her daughter Abbey.

Me and Gail, my teacher and friend

Gail was a colleague of TG's and my student teaching advisor during my senior year, a friend to both of us and a mentor to me. She was so proud of me for finally getting my diploma.

I took it with me into the restaurant, so that she could admire it.

(Gail was probably incredulous that I hadn't finished my degree in 1978 when I was supposed to. But she was too nice to say so.)

We had a delicious dinner and stood gabbing in the parking lot long after the meal's conclusion. It was a beautiful night.

And then we returned to the home of one of TG's oldest and best friends -- Jerry, who is now a widower -- where we were staying for a few nights before checking in at our hotel in Chicago.

I think you'll like what we did in Chicago. It has more to do with my education, and with many degrees of reminiscing. And city sights and excellent food, and of course, baseball.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday

There's more than corn in Indiana

Oh hi. Again I feel that apologies are in order, for my delay in posting. But seriously: today is the first day I could attempt to write this post for you.

On account of, my aforementioned computer problems -- which were already verging on dire -- escalated in recent days to the equivalent of a four-alarm fire consuming the house next door, with a stiff wind blowing from that direction.

I'll be honest: I am not tech-savvy enough to know whether my computer problem could have been solved in any other way besides the way we chose to deal with it. 

My needs are simple: I just want it to work. And by that I mean, work in such a way that I don't have to think about it.

So I bought a new latest-model MacBook Pro.

click to embiggen

I'm not bragging here; it's merely a tool and not a status symbol. In my world, a good computer is essential. And it was time. TG bought me my first MBP in July of 2012.

When it began slowing to near-unbearable levels approximately eighteen months ago, I limped along for a while, dreading the inevitable.

Then last July, I took it in for an assessment. It's too old, the techs told me, to do the things you're asking it to do. And there's nothing that can be done about it. Buy a new one.

But I balked. It wasn't just the expense; it was the principle. I was only asking the machine -- which I babied -- to do the things a computer is made and designed to do.

Nothing exotic, I can assure you.

But whatever. I suppose my device was rather long in the tooth. One must be realistic. In the computer world, seven years is a century. I may as well have been chiseling blog posts in stone.

Moving on. I have a new computer now. And all is well -- well. Wait. After a disturbing hiccup on DAY ONE, all is, I assume, actually well.

Let me unpack it for you.

After a bad day with my computer on Monday, and again on Tuesday -- to the point that my frustration level was fixing to go off the charts, TG told me on Tuesday night, go tomorrow and get what you need.

Magic words. So I did as instructed, and by two o'clock -- having done all of the necessary research online (using my phone) -- I was back home with my new whiz-bang MacBook Pro.

I unboxed it, followed the prompts to set it up, and everything was peachy and I was basking in the glow of the experience of having a new computer with the latest of everything.

Smooth and intuitive, just the way I like it. Shiny and fast, like a sports car. Very cool.

Then the screen went black.

For no reason and with no warning. And I had been in the middle of editing a photo.

The machine had indicated that it came out of the box fully charged. But just in case it was confused, I hooked it up to the power source.

It then indicated that the battery percentage was in fact zero. Mmmmmkay. That would explain a black screen, all right.

Five or six minutes later, the screen having reappeared as abruptly as it had taken its bad self away, the battery percentage again read one hundred percent. Happy happy happy.

So I unplugged the power cord and continued working.

Twenty minutes after that, the screen went black again. After a contemplative interlude on my part, during which I stared in unbelieving dismay at the blackness of the screen on my brand new laptop, it woke itself up and once again gave me my screen back.

I called the store where less than three hours before, I'd bought my new MacBook Pro with touch bar and generation eight Intel core.

Sounds like you got a bad one, the person on the other end of the line said with what can only be described as a studied nonchalance. How 'bout you bring it back and we'll switch it out for another one.

? ? ? ? ?

Mmmmmkay. I refreshed me red pirate lippy and marched back over there in the sweltering ninety-eight-degree early October afternoon.

I relayed to the person behind the counter in the computer department how I'd been told on the phone that I'd inadvertently purchased a "bad Apple."

Haaaahaha. Oopsie! So very amusing.

I didn't even know you sold bad ones, I said. And for the same price as good ones!

(Yes; I said it quasi-sarcastically. Sue me or, in the alternative, step off.)

Well, not intentionally, the worker amended with a slightly defensive air and the identical brand of studied nonchalance I'd encountered in her colleague on the phone a half hour earlier. She had something metal protruding from her left nostril so I did not argue.

(People: they don't care. Best Buy doesn’t care. Apple Computer doesn't care. Silicon Valley doesn’t care. Just open your wallet, pull out the card, and refrain from sniveling. There's a good little consumer.)

Turns out that the box I'd been handed by a courteous young male employee earlier that day, contained a computer with a bad battery.

It must've fallen through a crack in Apple's quality control, is how it was explained away to me.

? ? ? ? ?

All I can say is that I'm glad the problem manifested itself immediately rather than later, when returning the defective machine for one with a good battery may have presented more of a problem. 

I shudder to think.

And that brings me to our trip -- a story that I am now able to tell you.

On the day we departed, we were on the road before ten in the morning. We drove about nine hours, to Indianapolis, Indiana. The trip was uneventful.

After a relatively restful night, we checked out of our hotel and entered the late-late-summer atmosphere of the Hoosier state's capital city.

Little-known fact: I was born, not in the South like both of my parents, but in Indiana -- Kokomo (because my USAF pilot father was stationed there at the time of my miraculous appearance) -- but if I'd ever been to Indianapolis before a few weeks ago, I do not remember it.

It's pretty great. Everyone should visit at least once.

When we take a long trip, my primary goal is to visit cities that are new to me, and in those cities, to see and photograph as many historic cemeteries as possible. 

Thus, on the way to Chicago in August of 2018, we stopped for the night in Louisville, Kentucky, so that I could walk Cave Hill Cemetery in that city. Eastern Cemetery -- a most poignant place -- was thrown in as a bonus.

Once in our destination city of Chicago last summer, we did a half-day of graving at Graceland Cemetery -- that's one I wish you all could see, in person -- just a few miles north of Wrigley Field.

When we traveled to Baltimore for my birthday last March, we broke our journey in Richmond, Virginia, so that I could see Hollywood Cemetery, perched scenically along the James River. I'd wanted to walk that cemetery for years.

I realize now that, due to the awful performance of my old computer, I have never showed you most of those pictures (editing photos had become a grueling chore).

We'll get caught up; I promise.

But en route to the Windy City this year, I wanted to see Crown Hill Cemetery in Indianapolis. It is the third-largest cemetery in America that is not government owned. 

There are over two hundred thousand interments, including the resting place of Depression-era criminal John Dillinger, who was gunned down by the law in Chicago in July of 1934, when he was only thirty-one years old.

Another visitor to Dillinger's grave that day told us that his tombstone is the third one placed since Mr. Dillinger's death. Do you see the pieces hacked off the sides of the granite stone? That's what people do. Eventually the stone has to be replaced because there's not much left of it.

(Not to seem sanctimonious and I hope you don't take it that way, but I do not touch tombstones or grave monuments of any kind, in any way. Never ever. The pictures I show you are of these things exactly as I find them.)

That's not to say that I've never taken anything out of a cemetery; I have.

But I digress.

Also, Richard Gatling, inventor of the Gatling gun, is buried at Crown Hill. It's a beautiful place.

We arrived at the soaring gothic gates of Crown Hill Cemetery early on that morning, even before breakfast (and before too much in the way of heat and humidity).

I knew we'd be able to visit a second time later in the week, because we'd arranged to spend the night in Indianapolis again on our way home. So I wandered with my camera, enjoying the weather and the sights.

Crown Hill actually has an area called the Crown Hill, featuring swankier graves -- such as the Greek-temple style tomb (not pictured above) of James Whitcomb Riley, the "Hoosier Poet", who wrote the poem Little Orphant Annie upon which the famous cartoon character was later based -- and boasting a view of downtown Indianapolis.

And while I did not find Fame, I did locate Fortune.

Of the two, I'd definitely rather have fortune.

The fall season was only just beginning to show out in Indianapolis; I imagine that now, it's much more colorful. And cooler. I wish I were there to see and feel it.

I love it when stone figures seem to fuse with the scenery, as this one with leaves in her folded hands. No; I did not put the leaves there.

Every fall, in whatever cemetery I happen to be, I take the obligatory heart-wrenching close-up of fallen leaves on the pathway, with tombstones stacked in the distance.

I never get tired of that shot.

There is a grave marker similar to this one in Elmwood, the historic cemetery here in Columbia where TG and I own plots (one for him and one for me). This young man died at the age of twelve. According to Find A Grave, he perished of diphtheria. 

The "steps" he's leaning on are likenesses of twelve stone books -- one for each year of his life. The spine of the bottom book is inscribed with the year 1877, the year he was born. The top book is inscribed with 1889, the year he died. 

The book held in the hands is, in such cases, generally thought to be the Bible.

Another monument, in this case erected by a family in memory of several deceased children, was remarkable for the amount of time- and weather erosion the kneeling figure exhibits.

It appeared to be melting. And even in that condition, poised high on its ornate plinth, one could sense the pleading and the pain of the children's devastated parents, represented by that lonely angel.

And then there were the deer.

Deer -- and other wildlife, but mostly birds -- love living in large park-like cemeteries. I suppose it's the calm, the trees, the absence of human threat.

But I'm always surprised when I see deer. This was my first time to spot a stag. I'm glad I was using my long lens; he was at least thirty yards away.

After an hour or so spent strolling and shooting in the cemetery, we were ready for breakfast.

We went to Yolk City Way in downtown Indianapolis. Chad and Erica ate at a Yolk (it's a chain) in Chicago when they visited there over the Labor Day weekend, and she'd told me it was very good.

And it is. If you get an opportunity to eat breakfast at Yolk, don't pass it up.

Then I was ready to walk around some more -- this time in downtown Indianapolis. We were expected at a friend's house where we'd be staying a little over two hours' drive away, in Hammond, but not until later in the afternoon.

Plus, you gain an hour when you travel that far west.

First TG drove around for a while, until I was sure I wanted to get out and take pictures. It was overcast and even sprinkling at times, but that wasn't the only issue.

The main problem was a dearth of parking.

So TG let me out at Lucas Oil Stadium -- home of the Indianapolis Colts -- and went to find a spot, then came back and joined me.

Until that day, I was unaware of the existence of Lucas Oil Stadium -- where they play football games indoors (and if you've ever been to Indiana in the wintertime, you'd understand why) -- and barely aware of the Indianapolis Colts.

(Long ago I said no to football and yes to black lace.)

But I enjoy architecture and sports venues are interesting, and as the Colts were on the road that day, there was no traffic to contend with and -- this is the best part -- no people.

The horseshoe motif is everywhere in Indianapolis. Remember Crown Hill, in Crown Hill Cemetery? The tombstone of Robert Irsay -- longtime owner of the Colts -- is there, and guess what's engraved in stone upon it?

That horseshoe.

There's also a pretty impressive statue to Peyton Manning -- "The Sheriff" -- the Colts' famous quarterback, in front of the stadium..

I knew who Peyton Manning was but, until I saw the statue, would not have known which team he played for.

This will date me seriously but I know more about Peyton's father, Archie Manning, than about Peyton or his brothers.

When I briefly lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, with my family in the early 1970s, Ole Miss was in the grip of Archie fever. I remember hearing the chant of Archie who, Archie who drifting through the night air when LSU played Ole Miss at Tiger Stadium, loudly enough that it was audible at our house if we stepped out onto the porch.

Anyway.

I didn't get a picture of this but as we walked around outside Lucas Oil Stadium, someone, somewhere, was operating a drone in the area. That in itself is no big deal, but they were making it swoop and dive a lot lower than made me comfortable.

I mean, what if someone came up behind the person holding the remote control, and tickled them? That drone could hit an innocent lady out on the street. Like me. With not-so-favorable results.

But that did not happen.

As I walked around the statue honoring Peyton Manning, admiring it and photographing it from many different angles, I thought about something I heard when I watched a TV movie about the Joe Paterno scandal.

When Joe Pa's statue and monument was being torn down and removed from the campus of Penn State University in 2012, some wise person opined that we should never erect statues to living people.

I hope Peyton Manning is never found to have done something -- like, eaten at Chick-fil-A or voted for the "wrong" presidential candidate -- oh wait! He's an establishment Republican, so he's okay -- so heinous that his statue is made to disappear.

Because it's nice.

Nunber Eighteen: Always a Colt.

Here's an interesting shot with the Perry K Generating Station visible in the distance.

The smokestacks are painted Colts colors.

I had to get away from that still-buzzing, still-swooping drone at that point, so I told TG I was going to walk in the direction of a building I'd seen, that I wanted to get a picture of to show you.

He said OK and trotted off to retrieve the car, and said he'd meet me there. It was just down the street.

This was it:

I know; right?

More Rolls-Royce products are made in Indianapolis than anywhere else in the world.

We're not talking about the luxury automobiles, though; those are made in England. It's more their fabled aircraft engines.

According to the Rolls-Royce web site: Approximately 4,000 employees work in Indianapolis in manufacturing, assembly, test, engineering and a variety of staff support roles.

This building is known as the Rolls-Royce Meridian Center. It's mostly offices, and the building is newer than it looks. I think it was designed to resemble a 1930s art-deco style edifice.

I like it.

Then we walked some more and I saw the butterfly wall, which I showed you last week with me in the picture.

Just past the wall was an underpass -- you can see it at the bottom left of the photo -- and beneath it were many homeless people. Indianapolis is very clean and tidy, and the folks appeared to be trying to hold everything together. I hope they find better shelter before the snow flies.

Around the corner from the butterfly wall was another butterfly wall.

Such beauty and talent.

These butterflies were painted on the outside walls of a CVS drugstore.

So special.

In due time we boarded our vehicle once again and headed for Hammond, in extreme Northwest Indiana, where TG and I met.

I think you'll like what I share with you next. It will be early in the new week.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Friday :: Happy Weekend