My kind of town

Chicago is.

Zelda and I cruised into the Windy City in the golden Sunday afternoon, gliding up Lake Shore Drive (the highway signs say 'LSD') past the Field Museum and Shedd Aquarium to Grant Park and the Loop. We hung a left on Columbus, another left on Wabash, going south under the El tracks, straight to the Hostel International on East Congress. Lickity split, almost like we knew what we were doing.

We checked into our clean, quiet dorm rooms, called our friends, and went for a walk to get into the spirit of the place. Up Michigan Avenue in all its shiny, cosmopolitan glory, a few blocks west, and then south again, making a loop through the Loop. By this time, Zelda has the layout down cold and she's telling me where to find things.

Turns out my taiji brother Donald was starting his summer work project supervising teacher interns on Monday morning, so we arranged to meet Monday evening. Zelda's high school pal David was free, however, and he invited us out to a bar in his neighborhood, so we got a quick bite to eat and boarded the Blue Line north to Logan Park.

David and his roommate Kevin met us at the station, and we walked a few blocks to the Map Room, a nice little neighborhood bar with full-color physical maps on all the walls and the largest beer selection I've ever seen - four pages, three columns, single-spaced in 8-point type - I would have died of thirst before I got through the list. Luckily we had guidance, and David ordered a round of something Belgian, very smooth and sweet. It was delicious. An oatmeal stout followed, something completely different, to go with the ongoing banter of David and Kevin, and the whole evening was a pleasant introduction to Chicago culture as seen by a couple of guys from Ohio.

We got up the next morning, enjoyed the free breakfast in the hostel, which really is international, bought two-day transit passes, and solved a small parking problem before heading north toward the Loyola campus. Luckily we found a free, shaded, on-street parking place right next to Donald's building. It was like that - unpredictably up and down - all day, as we negotiated our way through the city, and we adjusted as needed.

Z and I rode the Red Line south and walked a few blocks east to the Field Museum, pausing for a few minutes to repair my broken sandal on the way. We initially intended to go to the aquarium but reconsidered when we saw the mile-long line. There was no line at the Field, and admission was free on Monday to boot, so we spent the whole afternoon roaming through plant and animal bio-geography (or was it geo-biology?), ancient Egypt, and planetary evolution, with time out for lunch on the south steps. Do you realize how much 'natural history' includes? The vast collection is mind-boggling in its scope and somewhat traditional in its approach, but a real treasure and worth every minute.

We were tired coming back north on the Red Line and got coffee at a little place by the Granville station, then went to meet Donald. It had been a long time (1980?) and I guess we've both been through a few things. When I first knew him, Donald (or DJ, as everyone called him) was married, had two little kids, taught middle school math, and had a house in Evanston. Now he is divorced, retired, a grandfather, and lives by himself in a condo overlooking Lake Michigan.

DJ was an influential figure at a formative time in my life. He was Huo Chi-kuang's senior student at the Chinese Cultural Academy in Evanston and introduced me to the practice of t'ai chi ch'uan. Needless to say, I took to it like a duck to water, and DJ's personal friendship only made my study more rewarding. Looking back now, I think I took his big-brotherly mentoring and mythologized a combination of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Charles Mingus, and Othello.

We spent the whole evening talking, mainly catching up on what has gone down in the last 30 years, and that's a lot of catching up. Donald knew a good Ethiopian restaurant a few blocks away, so we walked there and had a fabulous vegetarian meal and a good red wine. That helped free up the flow of conversation. He explained his breakup with Paula, and it became clear how difficult that ordeal was. Paula still lives in their house in Evanston.

Donald also had a falling-out with Prof. Huo and left the academy to study with another teacher, Joe Morris, on the South Side. The practice there involves more meditation, qigong, and martial applications than Huo had shared and led to a Taoist initiation with Joe's teacher, Wang Yen-nien. We later talked about A Course in Miracles, which DJ has been doing through a group in Evanston.

DJ has always been serious about music, and recently has taken up playing the viola da gamba and electric bass. DJ turned me onto Renaissance and Baroque music back in the day, but I never knew he was into jazz, so when I mentioned my love for Brubeck, he brought out his favorites: Coltrane, Miles, and yes, Mingus. We later watched a DVD about the classical guitarist Julian Bream that included some fine performances.

Zelda got the futon and I got the air mattress. DJ made his favorite breakfast: fresh mangoes, boiled eggs, toast, cheese, and jasmine tea. Before catching the El downtown, Z and I made a beeline to the Heartland Cafe, where Gven Golly worked in the seventies, for our much-needed coffee. A trip to Chicago wouldn't be complete without at least one trip to the Heartland, and we both felt right at home. We sat at a screened-in outside table, talked, and soaked in the vibe of that special place.

With emotions running down my face, we rode the El south to the Museum of Contemporary Art on Michigan Ave. near Water Tower Place, a very different part of town from the funky charm of Rogers Park and the Heartland, but free on Tuesdays! It was different and just a little jarring: one level under construction and noisy; another level with a small but fascinating collection of Sol LeWitt works; Raphael Terrer's Paddle and Kayak were also pretty cool; another level housing "Exposed: Defining Moments in Photography, 1967-2007"; and people setting up for an evening jazz event outside on the terrace. Bernd Becher and Hilla Becher's Cooling Towers was riveting in juxtaposing the materials and design of grain silos, industrial towers, and nuclear power plants in several sites in Europe.

We walked across the street and sat on a park bench for a while in the sublime June weather, and Zelda caught the El to meet David at the Fullerton station. She would hang out with him for the evening, and I would pick her up in time to head for Wisconsin the next day. I watched the upscale urbanites and had a bite to eat, then went back in the MoCA and wandered out to listen to the band and enjoy that distinctive cross-section of humanity. In my excitement I called Gven at home and gushed (to her voice mail) about how much she would like there and how we should visit (or move!) there some time soon. Rather than ordering food and a drink like the beautiful people on the terrace, I sat down by myself at a Reserved table and explained to three different waitpersons that no, I didn't need anything right now, and yes, I understand that the table will be needed, and yes, isn't it a lovely evening, and they were fine with that. It's funny how people treat you with respect sometimes.

When I was ready to go, there was a young guy busking on the platform at Chicago Ave. and doing a very good rendition of Steve Goodman's classic "City of New Orleans," made famous by Arlo Guthrie. Steve's been dead for some time now, but as far as I know Arlo is hanging in there. But it is a sad, sweet post-industrial song.

Blood, water, and all that jazz

A week of travel in which nothing is certain ahead of time, so the traveler is never sure what to expect, makes for some surprises. Zelda and I drove through several waves of rainy weather Saturday on our way across southern Wisconsin, northern Illinois and Indiana, and western Ohio. There were brief showers on Friday in La Crosse, but not enough to prevent us from seeing what we wanted to see on a day-long walk down memory lane in my childhood hometown.

The big storm was Thursday, while my brother Rock and I drove back to La Crosse from Spring Grove, heading down Norwegian Ridge on route 44 toward Hokah, Minnesota. It was a gulley-washer, almost no visibility, then just as quickly it stopped before we crossed the river into Wisconsin. We had some time before meeting the sisters for dinner, so I went outside for a workout and did a taiji form under a big tree by the river. About the time my form was finished, here comes the storm again, and the big tree wasn't much shelter, so I got a nice soaking before dinner.

No big deal. I changed clothes, and we met the rest of the group at Schmidty's on the South Side. The House Fish was excellent with a local brew. Afterward, we all gathered at Jeanie Beanie's hotel downtown to play Catch Phrase - you know, that game where two teams match wits with verbal cues and try to beat the timer. It was fun for young and old. Thus ended a long, eventful day that began with Uncle Chuck's memorial service in the form of a jazz concert in a Presbyterian church.

An open, airy structure of wood, stone, and glass with lots of flowers and an eight-piece band. Second son Russ Anderson greeted us and said "This is going to be a celebration," which it was. Chuck's band opened with several old favorites, including St. James Infirmary, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, Battle Hymn of the Republic, Amazing Grace, and The Old Rugged Cross, all played New Orleans-style with a somber kind of joy.

The minister talked briefly, and a bandmate spoke about their shared musical history, playing with Bob Hirsch, Milt Hinton. Les Brown, Jay McShan, among others. The minister told some stories, like when Chuck and my dad took over my grandpa's restaurant and changed the name from Al's Lunch to the C&D Cafe, advertising "Chuck your troubles and Dunc a donut at the C&D."

The band closed with Wonderful World, and everybody gathered nextdoor for lunch in the church dining room, where a CD of more tunes accompanied slides of Chuck's life. Baby pictures with his little sister Helen, high school photos, in the Army during the war, a group shot of the 1947 Spring Grove Homecoming beard contest in the C&D, with Marion and their babies, grandchildren, and of course playing bass with the band. I spotted Terry Grosskopf, the current bass player, and told him I enjoyed his rock-solid solo on Amazing Grace; he told me Chuck had lured him from a teaching job in Chicago and recruited him into the band. And the beat goes on.

After lunch we got in cars and drove the half-hour over the bridge to Spring Grove, where just sighting the water tower and the church steeple brought back memories. There was a big group gathered at the cemetary and lots of casual conversation before the urn of ashes were lowered into the ground. Words were said, taps was played, and a flag was presented to Marion by a unit from the American Legion. Some of the oldtimers are still around, and I met a guy named Carty Onstad who played basketball with my dad back in the day. It was a sunny summer solstice afternoon in southern Minnesota.

After a little while all the Andersons and Duncansons regrouped in the park to take group photos. You know the drill: those in the picture hand their camera to someone else, say 'cheese', and then the next group poses. There's more shade in the park than at the cemetary, so it was a nice place to chill. Someone got the bright idea to go get ice cream at a the Blue Moose, which was recently opened by a guy about my age who grew up in Spring Grove when the C&D was still open and yearned for that kind of hangout. The place was hopping, and the chocolate shakes were excellent.

While enjoying her ice cream on the back deck of the Blue Moose, Helen decided to take a walking tour of the town, egged on a bit by her kids. Jo Jo, Rock, Anna Banana, Zelda, and I went along, followed by an entourage numbering around twenty and ranging in age from 4 to 86. We walked down Division Street to the house she and Chuck grew up in, then to the big brick house their two families shared, with commentary on when her dad built the smaller house out in back, the spirea bushes that used to grow in the front yard, and lots of other memories (which I can't remember a week later).

Summer is

strawberries
sunshine
swings
stakes (for tomatoes)
Sauvignon
salvia/sage
spider lilies
spirea
softball
screendoor slam
skin
shades
sunscreen
swimming
cycling
seashore
sand
sandals
swimsuit
songbirds
singing
suntan
snakes
sunburn
salads
snapdragons
shedding
shorts
seashells
shovels
shears
solstice
. . .

A toast composed two hours after the reception

Barry and I first met in a book. I was interested in progressive education and China, so my philosophy professor (thank you, Dick Garner!) thrust a book at me about John Dewey's experimental schools in China between the wars. What I found in the pages of that book was a kind of conversation between Dewey and some other social revolutionaries, mediated by Barry Keenan, in the presence of Marx, Wang Yang-ming, and Confucius.

A few years and a couple of teaching jobs later, I found myself joining this church and taking an adult religious education class called Building Your Own Theology (BYOT). What a great course title, and who should I meet the first night of the class but Barry Keenan. I quickly learned that he wasn't just a theorist, but he was working hard to walk the walk. We both ended up joining the same men's group, and we've been meeting every week ever since.

Other serendipitous things happened. One Thursday night in my taiji class at the rec. center, I was using a phrase from Confucius, "root and branch," to describe a turn that starts in the legs and works its way up the spine to the arms, the idea being that if you pay attention to the root of the action, the outward details, the branches, will turn out fine. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than in the door slides Barry, who happened to be across the hall with the folk dancers, to say hello.

This story has a beginning and a middle but no end. Connections are made, like an electrical circuit or a synapse between neurons, and the conversation continues. This past week, our men's group got together for sushi, sake, and song (no strippers, sorry) and shared some poems in honor of this marriage. So I offer 24 syllables, and the spirits of John Dewey, Mao Zedung, Li Bo, and Confucius may or may not be present in this room.

After five seasons
Watching twelve animals circle the sun
New growth for a firmly rooted tree

Here's to Karen and Barry!