Thirty-two fourths. A top-heavy fraction? Equals 8? Or a way to say that Gven and I have endured many Independence Days since we met on the bicentennial of the founding of the imperial amerikan nation-state, and did so again. Cue the rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air, our flag is still there.
This time we had people over for a change. We tried to make the house presentable, though rumor has it you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Yet everyone came, they seemed to have a good time, I guess, and a backyard cookout at the Golly household probably reflected our best and our worst.
Gven said the yard looked good, but to my eye it was a mixed bag of dry flowerbeds, developmentally delayed vegetables, and trees that need some serious trimming. The patio itself, scene of the soire, is 12 rows short of a complete reconstruction, so about 80 percent of the brick pavers look nice and uniform, if not quite flat, and the unfinished 20 percent provides a revealing before-and-after contrast. I think the slight undulations add character, don't you?
Our "eclectic" collection of mismatched outdoor furniture was adequate; everyone had a place to sit and eat, drink, talk: one real (circa Clintonville) Adirondack chair, 2 plastic faux (circa Westerville) Adirondack chairs, two old fashioned sleel springback chairs (circa Atlanta), three molded plastic stacking chairs (circa Grandview), and two folding canvas deck chairs fresh from Schiller Park theater duty.
The new ceramic tile and steel table held brots and burger from the old Weber grill (circa Grandview) and wine; beer is in the fridge. In the kitchen you'll find Julie's fruit salad, Linda's broccoli salad, Sue's pasta salad, and of course Kate's cake. I'm forgetting someone's contribution because I'm a poor and forgetful host.
Jim asked about the garden, of course, so we walked back to the southeast corner to check out the volunteer pumpkin (or squash?) vines, the retarded tomatoes and peppers, the finger-sized eggplants, the tall onions going to seed. He reported on the state of his raspberry bushes with typical New England reserve and admired my compost frame.
Michio also admired the compost set-up and, modest to a fault, lamented that he hasn't organized his kitchen around separating compost from trash, paper, metal, plasticm, and glass. I had a book I wanted him to see, a 1935 edition of Wahr's Japanese Dictionary of Physics and Chemistry (really) found at a yard sale some time in the 1970s and still taking up space on a shelf in our workshop. Since Michio is both Japanese and a chemist, I thought I'd finally found somebody to take this monstrous tome off my hands, but he wouldn't take it; he said I should see what I can get for it on eBay.
Gwen personal trainer Sue showed up; Zelda's friend Stephanie was there; Jim and Kate's kids Emma and Tedy came, and so did Linda's son Jason. We talked about some of the little dramas in our lives: what our kids are up to, movies we've seen, what our kids are up to, books we've read, what our kids are up to. Jason had some harrowing adventures at Bonaroo; Tedy is preparing to make the trek to the College of Santa Fe in the fall; Zelda runs into both of Julie's sons at her favorite north campus haunts. "La Vie en Rose" is very good, so I should see it while it's still at the Drexel.
And then there were fireworks, of course, because this is Amerika, and it wouldn't be our nazional independence day without the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air, etc. Someone said they don't like the pre-Fourth "Red White and Boom" extravaganza downtown because of all the white trash who go. Then why are you here? I wondered, but not outloud. The young went to Whetstone, the old went to Methodistville, and the holdouts stayed put on our bourgeois countercultural terra cotta patio to watch fireworks through the pine trees.
Our first fourth together was the bicentennial in Atlanta. I was visiting my sister Jo Jo, helping her move to a house closer to my brother-in-law's psychology practice around the corneer from Emory. Gven was living in midtown, teaching yoga, and working at the office. We had a group-date to the Varsity, an Atlanta fast-food institution near Georgia Tech and downtown. I think we had ice cream and champagne. The next night we had a double-date with some other people and saw a very bad movie. The next night we made a pizza with sliced tomatoes.
Do the math. If 1976 was our first, then 2007 was our thirty-second - if you count 1980, when I was in Adel, Iowa, working at Camp Sunnyside, and she was in Atlanta training with the Light of Yoga Society. There was one in Chicago, one in Oberlin, one in Ithaca-Cortland, several more in Atlanta, including one Peachtree Road Race fiasco, and several in central Swingstate: there have been Doo-Dah Parades in the Short North, the Park of Roses, patriotic Methodistville Rotary Club parades, and even a gray pickup truck disguised as a Yoga Factory "float" idling up State Street.
Happy anniversary.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Friday, July 06, 2007
Granddad's Bluff
In many ways, it was the high point of the whole trip to revisit my roots in Minnesota and Wisconsin. After Uncle Chuck's funeral, after a tour of Spring Grove, after dinner with the Anderson cousins, after brunch at Fazey's in the heart of downtown, our family group of 10 piled into two cars for a leisurely drive around La Crosse. The rain had come and gone, and it was a good day to see the old neighborhood in the town I almost grew up in.
It's a straight shot out Market Street from the Mississippi River to the bluffs that rim the town on the east. The tallest one, Granddad's Bluff, is accessible by car and has a park on top, so it was our destination. We pass St. Francis Hospital, which has gotten much bigger over the years, and Hogan School, which has gotten smaller since I was nine, and stop at 2018 Market St., our house in the late 1950s. Funny how everything has shrunk - the house, the yard, the two-block distance to school. Some icons are unchanged - the same ancient green drinking fountain on the corner by the school ballfield.
Everything has been spruced up, but I recognized historically important things, like the front step I launched from when learning to ride a bike. Being there sparked lots of memories and talk: Max Schwertfigger, the nice old man who lived nextdoor on one side, and the Bothes, the mean old couple who lived nextdoor on the other side; the mulberry tree that used to be in the front yard, the back step I bounced a ball against in imaginary baseball games where I played 18 positions (plus announcer): "The windup and the pitch from Spahn, it's a long fly ball deep to rightfield, Aaron goes back, he's at the warning track, he leaps, he makes the catch to end the inning."
If you go a few blocks farther out Market Street, take a left, then take a right and cross the railroad tracks, you're heading up the bluff on a winding wooded two-lane road. Halfway up we pass the little tavern where Great Uncle Rudolph (Grandpa Anderson's younger brother) used to hike for a beer before continuing his stroll up the bluff. I remember Rudolph as a long, lean, tanned old guy swimming regularly at the beach across the river. He lived downtown, played the violin, gave music lessons, and painted. My brother Rocky is driving our parents and me in his rented Taurus, talking business on his phone as we climb the mountain; there's an overseas steelmill deal that won't go down until all the eyes are dotted and all the tees are crossed, so it's not a done deal yet.
We reach the parking lot, picnic area, and scenic overlook at the top of the bluff, and it's even cooler than I remember it. My nephew Greg says, "Thanks for showing us your bluff, Granddad!" You can see the whole town from up here, across to La Crescent, Minnesota, and for miles up and down the river. You can see the bridge, the downtown streets where we were a few minutes ago, and the old G. Heileman brewery - makers of Old Style lager - near the bridge. You can see the UW La Crosse campus in the foreground to the right, and beyond it the North Side, the airport, and French Island, where the Black River joins the Mississippi. In the other direction, you can see Lutheran Hospital (just past St. Francis, the Catholic Hospital), the Gunderson Clinic, and some of the coulees, like hollers that extend back between the bluffs.
Memories come flooding back for everyone. Dad starts telling stories about the insurance business. My sisters remember kids they knew at Campus School, where they went to junior high. We decide to drive down past the university and find it. Someone's long-dormant street sense leads us to the right intersections, and we drive by the campus, right to the old brick school. My sisters Anna Banana and Jo Jo locate the Frank Lloyd Wright house where their friends the Dahls lived. Mr. Dahl ran the local Ford dealership, and his sons were my sisters' ages. Dad launches into a tale about selling old man Dahl some insurance. Quite the wheeler dealer.
Eventually we end up at Asbury Methodist Church, and it looks about the same, but the doors are closed, so we can't go inside. Too bad. This was like home away from home for Mom, a mainstay of the choir, and Dad, Sunday School Superintendent on alternating years. Talk of church friends leads us to Rudy's A&W rootbeer stand, which still has curb service with those little trays that hook on the car window, but instead we troop inside to their biggest booth: Mom and Dad, sisters Anna Banana and Jo Jo, Anna's husband Fred, their son Greg and his wife Christine, brother Rocky, Zelda, and me.
The Rudys were members of our church, and lo and behold, today is the Rudy patriarch's birthday, so there's a party going on. The old folks talk about their retirement, their golf game, their kids and grandkids, and their mutual friends from church; the rest of us "kids" eat our chili dogs, fries, root beer floats, hot fudge sundaes, and other healthy snacks. The juke box plays hits from the 1960s, and for a fleeting minute, we knew both the words and the tune (but not the artist): "Bus stop, bus go, she stays, love grows under my umbrella...Every morning I would see her waiting at the stop, sometimes we'd shop and she would tell me what she'd want. All the people stared as if we were both quite insane, someday my name and hers are going to be the same."
We haven't run out of landmarks, but it's getting to be a long day, and it's drizzling on and off. We drive by the public library, and the bike racks are still there, right where we left them. This was probably Jo Jo's house of worship. We head back downtown, and a visit to La Crosse isn't complete without stopping at the brewery for a look at the World's Largest Six-Pack - two rows of three water tanks about 50 feet tall painted with the labels of La Crosse Beer.
Our pilgrimage at an end, we go back to the motel to rest before the cocktail hour and a casual supper at Aunt Marion's apartment complex party room with our cousins on the Anderson side of the family. There will be much food and moderate drink, photographs of days gone by, and several tables with lively card games going. There is an international garden in Riverside Park, right down the hill from the deck, where La Crosse's three sister cities have contributed Chinese, Japanese, and Russian elements to a single formal garden; a bunch of us walk down there to get a closer look, and it's quite beautiful.
Everyone has to travel back to somewhere the next day, so we make it an early evening. There are many good-byes, abundant thank-yous, and several pledges to keep in touch. We make our logistical arrangements so that everyone catches their flight or hits the road at the appointed time to the correct destination. Except for leaving the motel without the suit I didn't wear to the funeral, our departure went without a hitch, and we were back in Ohio by nine that night.
It's a straight shot out Market Street from the Mississippi River to the bluffs that rim the town on the east. The tallest one, Granddad's Bluff, is accessible by car and has a park on top, so it was our destination. We pass St. Francis Hospital, which has gotten much bigger over the years, and Hogan School, which has gotten smaller since I was nine, and stop at 2018 Market St., our house in the late 1950s. Funny how everything has shrunk - the house, the yard, the two-block distance to school. Some icons are unchanged - the same ancient green drinking fountain on the corner by the school ballfield.
Everything has been spruced up, but I recognized historically important things, like the front step I launched from when learning to ride a bike. Being there sparked lots of memories and talk: Max Schwertfigger, the nice old man who lived nextdoor on one side, and the Bothes, the mean old couple who lived nextdoor on the other side; the mulberry tree that used to be in the front yard, the back step I bounced a ball against in imaginary baseball games where I played 18 positions (plus announcer): "The windup and the pitch from Spahn, it's a long fly ball deep to rightfield, Aaron goes back, he's at the warning track, he leaps, he makes the catch to end the inning."
If you go a few blocks farther out Market Street, take a left, then take a right and cross the railroad tracks, you're heading up the bluff on a winding wooded two-lane road. Halfway up we pass the little tavern where Great Uncle Rudolph (Grandpa Anderson's younger brother) used to hike for a beer before continuing his stroll up the bluff. I remember Rudolph as a long, lean, tanned old guy swimming regularly at the beach across the river. He lived downtown, played the violin, gave music lessons, and painted. My brother Rocky is driving our parents and me in his rented Taurus, talking business on his phone as we climb the mountain; there's an overseas steelmill deal that won't go down until all the eyes are dotted and all the tees are crossed, so it's not a done deal yet.
We reach the parking lot, picnic area, and scenic overlook at the top of the bluff, and it's even cooler than I remember it. My nephew Greg says, "Thanks for showing us your bluff, Granddad!" You can see the whole town from up here, across to La Crescent, Minnesota, and for miles up and down the river. You can see the bridge, the downtown streets where we were a few minutes ago, and the old G. Heileman brewery - makers of Old Style lager - near the bridge. You can see the UW La Crosse campus in the foreground to the right, and beyond it the North Side, the airport, and French Island, where the Black River joins the Mississippi. In the other direction, you can see Lutheran Hospital (just past St. Francis, the Catholic Hospital), the Gunderson Clinic, and some of the coulees, like hollers that extend back between the bluffs.
Memories come flooding back for everyone. Dad starts telling stories about the insurance business. My sisters remember kids they knew at Campus School, where they went to junior high. We decide to drive down past the university and find it. Someone's long-dormant street sense leads us to the right intersections, and we drive by the campus, right to the old brick school. My sisters Anna Banana and Jo Jo locate the Frank Lloyd Wright house where their friends the Dahls lived. Mr. Dahl ran the local Ford dealership, and his sons were my sisters' ages. Dad launches into a tale about selling old man Dahl some insurance. Quite the wheeler dealer.
Eventually we end up at Asbury Methodist Church, and it looks about the same, but the doors are closed, so we can't go inside. Too bad. This was like home away from home for Mom, a mainstay of the choir, and Dad, Sunday School Superintendent on alternating years. Talk of church friends leads us to Rudy's A&W rootbeer stand, which still has curb service with those little trays that hook on the car window, but instead we troop inside to their biggest booth: Mom and Dad, sisters Anna Banana and Jo Jo, Anna's husband Fred, their son Greg and his wife Christine, brother Rocky, Zelda, and me.
The Rudys were members of our church, and lo and behold, today is the Rudy patriarch's birthday, so there's a party going on. The old folks talk about their retirement, their golf game, their kids and grandkids, and their mutual friends from church; the rest of us "kids" eat our chili dogs, fries, root beer floats, hot fudge sundaes, and other healthy snacks. The juke box plays hits from the 1960s, and for a fleeting minute, we knew both the words and the tune (but not the artist): "Bus stop, bus go, she stays, love grows under my umbrella...Every morning I would see her waiting at the stop, sometimes we'd shop and she would tell me what she'd want. All the people stared as if we were both quite insane, someday my name and hers are going to be the same."
We haven't run out of landmarks, but it's getting to be a long day, and it's drizzling on and off. We drive by the public library, and the bike racks are still there, right where we left them. This was probably Jo Jo's house of worship. We head back downtown, and a visit to La Crosse isn't complete without stopping at the brewery for a look at the World's Largest Six-Pack - two rows of three water tanks about 50 feet tall painted with the labels of La Crosse Beer.
Our pilgrimage at an end, we go back to the motel to rest before the cocktail hour and a casual supper at Aunt Marion's apartment complex party room with our cousins on the Anderson side of the family. There will be much food and moderate drink, photographs of days gone by, and several tables with lively card games going. There is an international garden in Riverside Park, right down the hill from the deck, where La Crosse's three sister cities have contributed Chinese, Japanese, and Russian elements to a single formal garden; a bunch of us walk down there to get a closer look, and it's quite beautiful.
Everyone has to travel back to somewhere the next day, so we make it an early evening. There are many good-byes, abundant thank-yous, and several pledges to keep in touch. We make our logistical arrangements so that everyone catches their flight or hits the road at the appointed time to the correct destination. Except for leaving the motel without the suit I didn't wear to the funeral, our departure went without a hitch, and we were back in Ohio by nine that night.
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