Grampa and Gramma

Tuesday last week, I flew into Quad Cities Airport, located at Rock Island-Moline on the Iowa-Illinois border. I arrived early in the morning, rented a car, and drove the rest of the way to Peoria. My last visit was five years ago, when I’d arrived in time to say goodbye to my Gramma, and then stayed a week until the service. My rental car’s satellite radio meant I had more choices this time than simply browsing through country, latin, and right-wing agitation, but most of the choices were wasted on me. I wasn’t looking for musical stimulation as much as I was comfort, so I settled into a classic rock station and drove. Driving through the cornfields was soothing.

I’d come this time for my Grampa’s funeral and to spend some time with Mom and my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Most of us were born in Peoria, though one cousin was born to my aunt in Germany on the Army’s dime, and another was born and raised in Santa Barbara until she was a teenager. My folks and I left Peoria in the 70’s and migrated to Southern Illinois, where they went to school and worked for years until they split up, and later headed for opposite coasts. Mom’s been in Ventura since ‘85, I’ve been there and half a dozen other cities since then.

The Backyard

By noon I was at Grampa and Gramma’s house, built around 1950 right next door to Great Grampa John and Great Gramma Bea’s house in West Peoria, down the street from the Franciscan Convent. My memories of Great Grampa are fuzzy, Great Great Gramma a little clearer. Great Great Gramma had moved in with John and Bea in her 40’s, claiming to be terminally ill and wanting to be with her daughter and son-in-law for what she was certain were her final months. She lived with them until she died at 99, outliving my Great Grampa John by several years. She was a hypochondriac and loved soap operas. One day she yelled to my Great Gramma, “Bea! Come quick! That’s what I’ve got, just like on TV! I’ve got coma!”

My first night in town, the whole family went to Crusen’s on Farmington Road, a bar and grill with an outdoor deck and gracious wait staff. Several of my cousins are pregnant or carrying infants or both, and seeing them as adults with their critters was both unsettling and delightful, as I tend to think of them all as being about 8 years old. There was something on the menu called a Horseshoe, which is an open-faced two-patty burger smothered in fries and cheese. I opted for the less intimidating cheeseburger, and a couple beers. That night, we sat around the fire pit in the back yard, drank some beer, shared some stories about Gramma and Grampa and things my mom and aunt and uncles did when they were kids.

Grampa and Fish, A Long Time Ago

Wednesday I woke up and realized I’d turned 40 years old, partly because it was my birthday. But also because staying up until after midnight and drinking four beers had left me feeling kinda old. Not hungover, more like my head was cross-threaded on my neck. Preparations were under way for the service, photos and dress clothes were organized and packed into cars. I played some frisbee in Great Gramma’s yard with my uncle and cousin for most of the morning while waiting to pick up my suit.

I’d found a dry cleaner close by, and explained that I’d just flown in and needed the suit for the service the next day. He’d agreed to have it done by 11:30 a.m., which left plenty of time until the service. When I went to pick it up, I saw a man filling five-gallon buckets with water from the neighbor’s garden hose, and taking it into the dry cleaner’s. He turned out to be the owner. He came out to the counter, shook my hand and said, “You’re the one I did the suit for, right? Very sorry to hear about your Grampa.” He told me that the guys doing road construction out front on Western Ave had turned off the water main, but the neighbor had agreed to let him use the hose to fill buckets to fill the boiler, so that he could finish my suit. I was floored, and felt really good about being in the midwest.

The Urn, Springdale Cemetery

The burial service at the cemetery was beautiful. Grampa’s ashes were mixed with Gramma’s, and were buried next to Great Grampa. Two Marines came from Quantico and presented a flag to us, and the local VFW Color Guard fired a 21-gun salute. I found it impossible to have hostile or cynical feelings about America’s military during the service, just as I had at my Grandfather’s funeral 15 years ago. Taps played in the background, every expression and movement was solemn, deliberate, and real. It filled me with pride, sadness, and a profound sense of the honor bestowed upon my Grampa. I held my mother’s hand through the eulogy, and afterwards picked up four shiny buckeyes from the ground around the graves.

We stopped at Schooners for lunch before the memorial service. The grill was down, but the fryer was up, so I ordered a tenderloin. What came out of the kitchen was a pounded piece of battered and deep-fried pork, about a foot square. It was over four times bigger than the bun sitting on top of it, which presumably had a mate trapped underneath. I cut it in half, and into quarters and ate one. Ordinarily I might’ve been game for two of the quarters, and it was good, but I wasn’t very hungry, and it wasn’t good enough to make me hungrier.

That Sucker’s Huge

The memorial service was beautiful. We each told our favorite stories about him, talked about what a wonderful person he was, and how much he’d meant to us. I gave a short eulogy, in which I tried to put into words all the feelings I had about what an amazing, decent, funny, loving, hard-working, and human person he was. It wasn’t possible to convey everything he meant to me, I know I felt like a chump trying to put words together that lived up to how much I loved and revered him. I started to say how much I was going to miss him, when I realized how much I missed him already and my face started failing, so I closed with a thank you and sat down.

That night, we went out to Agatucci’s for thin-crust pizza. One of the bartenders bought me a beer for my birthday. I ordered a side salad, which came out as a handful of iceberg lettuce with a dollop of bleu cheese dressing on top. The pizza and the beer were plentiful and delicious. We went home after, circled around the fire pit, drank beer until late at night and told Peoria stories. My aunt, my mother, and I slept soundly in the Starcraft camper-trailer, set up in the driveway.

The Firepit

Thursday I took my uncle and cousin to Bradley Park and played a few holes of disc golf. Bradley’s not a tremendously long course, and it seems like the flow’s not as good as I remember it after what must’ve been a redesign, but it’s fun to throw on. It was really just a warm-up for heading down to Pekin with my aunt’s boyfriend to play McNaughton Park. He was one of Peoria Frisbee Club’s early members, was involved in designing and building Bradley Park’s original course in 1984 and the championship course at McNaughton Park, and ran tournaments and actively promoted the sport for about 13 years. He and my cousin and I headed to McNaughton and played 18 long, gorgeous holes on a perfect day. I couldn’t have been happier or more grateful. I’m not sure when or how I’m going to make it back to Pekin, but when I do I’ll have my full bag with me.

We headed home after our round to clean up before meeting the family at The Burger Barge. This is where your diet goes to die a swift, violent death. I opted for the outstanding Peacemaker Barge, which is the result of a head-on collision between a fried-catfish sandwich and a fried-oyster po’boy, served with a pile of freshly fried potato chips, and it destroyed me. But the monster of the menu, the challenge I couldn’t even conceive of taking on, was the Red White and Moo:

2 – 9 oz. Burgers smothered w/cheese, our Butterfly pork chop slid in between with lettuce, tomato, pickle, onion and Dock Sauce.
(Now that’s All American!)

The Peacemaker

That night, we got some more beer, gathered around the fire pit, and got into our folklore. I really, really want a fire pit.

I spent Friday with the family, and got to visit with Great Gramma Bea. She’s 102, and though she admits that there’s a lot she doesn’t remember, there’s lots of light left behind her eyes. I drove back to Quad Cities Airport that afternoon and got back to D.C. late. Saturday morning I chased and wrestled my laughing children, and worked the Bike Clinic later on.

We had my birthday party Sunday, which featured hot dogs and ribs and rice tomato salad and baked beans and mac and cheese and plenty of beer and plenty of high-grade socializing. We counted 20 children, mostly between two and six, running laps around the house. It terrifies me that these psychotic ferrets will make decisions about our end-of-life care one day. The Wife made a chocolate cake that had 5 iced layers and one red-cake layer on top in the shape of a sprocket. It was a spectacular and exhausting weekend.

Over the course of the last couple weeks, I’ve gone from a manageable one-ninety-ish to over seven hundred thirty five pounds. You’d think I’d be much bigger, but it’s mostly density, so I wear it pretty well. My first thought Monday morning was that I needed to have my intestines bead-blasted. I’m hoping that a couple months of vigorous bike miles and salads for lunch will bring me back to “reasonable”, maybe even on the way to “fightin’ weight”.

But right now, all I’m fightin’ is the desire to eat two burger patties with a pork chop slid between.

[updated for red-pen offenses and to add a pic]

Robert Summers grew up in Kentucky and southern Indiana during the depression. At least one teacher used to let him sleep in class because she knew he worked at night and early in the dark hours of the morning to provide for his family. He told me once, “We were poor, but it was okay, because everyone was. You just didn’t notice it as much.”

He joined the Marines when he was 16 during WWII, a practice common among poor midwestern boys who could pass for 18 and wanted to join the war effort. He became a radio specialist, and fought in the South Pacific. When I was growing up, his basement was filled with parts of pieces of radio-controlled airplanes, some with wingspans of five feet. He mostly stopped flying them in the 70’s when CB’s became popular and interfered with the RC control signals. I also know that he never flew, that he was afraid of heights. I was told it might have been because he climbed tall, skinny palm trees, under fire and in high winds, to put up antennas for radio equipment.

He came home to Peoria, Illinois, and married Barbara Van Winkle. Their wedding photo is exquisite, he’s tall and handsome, she’s beautiful and beaming. They built a house next to Barbara’s father and mother in West Peoria, on West Heading Street. He worked for Caterpillar, which was Peoria’s heart, and raised two girls and two boys. Their oldest daughter, Jane, is my mother.

By the time I was old enough to get to know Gramma and Grampa, the house was always full of family. My earliest memories were of my uncles and aunts, ones from soon after that include my cousins. The basement had a pool table, which also had a clamp-on ping-pong table and another surface for building slot car racing tracks and miniature landscaping. In another corner of the basement was Grampa’s enormous workbench, buried under years of tools and parts.

The living room always had a full size couch, a matching love seat, and a big easy chair for Grampa. It was dominated by a Steinway, on which I remember my Aunt Linda playing Moonlight Sonata. My impressions of dinner at Gramma and Grampa’s always involve pot roast and mashed potatoes, Wonder Bread and butter, and cranberry sauce that comes out in the prefect shape of the can it came in. We ate at the table sometimes, but more often than not we’d take TV trays to the living room and watch Lawrence Welk, Hee Haw and Andy Griffith. Days of our Lives was Gramma’s favorite soap.

They did Civil War re-enactments, Grampa was a member of the 114th Illinois Volunteers. He had a couple beautiful reproduction muskets (I remember the Enfield and the Zouave), a full dress uniform and great coat, wool keppie, and assorted leather bags and belts. There were several lead ingots and a bullet mold on Grampa’s workbench, I watched him make minie balls with it. I remember camping with them in their Starcraft in Makanda, Illinois at a festival. There was black powder and cavalry charges and wheeling marches and artillery fire from the ridge that shook the earth and potatoes packed in mud, baked in the fire. Grampa made quite a handsome Union soldier.

My grampa smoked, then quit cigarettes and smoked a pipe for a while. Then, he decided he wanted to join the Shriners, and learn to play the bagpipes. A doctor told him he’d have to make a decision between being a marching piper or a smoker, so he quit. Just like that. He learned to play the practice chanter, then the pipes. After several years, his playing went from wounded animal, to tolerable, to quite good, to beautiful. Years ago, when Gramma and Grampa were visiting Mom in California, he played at sunset on the beach, and brought strangers to tears with Amazing Grace.

My Gramma passed away five years ago, just before my daughter was born. Grampa has had Alzheimers for years, but hung in there for a long time with the help of medication. The saddest moments would come when he’d forget that my Gramma had passed. He’d want to share something with her, and we’d have to remind him. In moments of lucidity, he missed her almost more than he could bear. Today would have been their 59th anniversary.

My Grampa passed away last night around 2 in the morning, Central time. He was a good man, a great story teller, and he loved having his grandchildren (and, later, his great grandchildren) brush his hair and tickle his feet. When he’d get angry, he’d bite his fist. He frequently said things like, “well I’ll be durned!” and “that feller”, and it suited him perfectly.

I love you Grampa, and I miss you.

A little over a year ago, I stumbled across a great cycling blog, though it already had an eager following of many thousands of folks in the cycling community. The proprietor, Elden Nelson, is an avid cyclist, on and off-road, and a wonderful humorist. I enjoyed every post, and over time gradually got to know a little about him, his riding buddies, and his family.

I also came to know, through his writing, about his wife Susan, her struggle with cancer, her family’s commitment to fighting it, and the cycling community’s response to their calls to help. I was inspired to join the fight, which is why I’ll be riding my first century in the Philadelphia Livestrong Challenge two and a half weeks from now, and why I’ve been asking for your support. I’ll be riding to fight cancer in the larger sense, but specifically, though I’ve never met or spoken with the Nelson family, I committed to this almost a year ago to fight for Susan, and for the Nelson family.

Susan passed away this evening. If you’re so inclined, you might drop a note of love and support. My thoughts and prayers are with the Nelson family tonight, and we’ll keep fighting.

[UPDATE]: This is a beautiful eulogy to Susan. Riding for Team Fatty on her behalf will be an honor, of which I’m probably not worthy, but I’m sure proud have the opportunity to do it.

Years ago, before DC or New York or San Francisco, before Southern California, before St. Louis, I lived in Southern Illinois. My folks went to SIU in Carbondale, and spent the next several years working for different organizations in Jackson and Randolph County. One of the towns we lived in was Chester, Illinois, nestled on the banks of the Mississippi.

Chester had one street light, and about 6000 people. The official population was 8500, but that included the 2500 or so “residents” of the Pierre Menard Home, a maximum security correctional facility for the criminally insane. It also had a food factory, Gilster-Mary Lee, where they made cake mix. I always remember that smell.

I lived there from fourth to sixth grade. I haven’t kept up with anyone I went to school with, though I remember many of the names, and even some of the faces. Of the ones I do, perhaps the face I remember most vividly is Melissa Reiman. She was athletic and tall, a born achiever, and a radiant person. Whenever my mind stumbles back through what remains of my memories of being 11, she’s in them, a bright, shining star.

So, how did this come up? Well, just a little bit ago, another name popped into my head that I couldn’t place, so I Googled and the name came from a site dedicated to Chester High School’s Class of ‘87. I clicked, and my stomach flipped and dropped.

The Chester High School Class of 1987 has lost their “Favorite Punk Rocker.” The City of Chester is remembering Melissa Reiman who lost her five-year battle against cancer Friday morning, May 1.

The 40 year old CHS Hall of Fame member passed away around 6:30am central time Friday morning in a San Diego hospital with her family surrounding her.

I haven’t talked to her in probably 25 or 30 years. I didn’t know she’d married, or had a son, or moved to San Diego. But I’m certain of two things: I know she fought like hell, and I know she’s left a massive crater of a hole in the lives of those she left behind. I feel it a thousand miles and 30 years away.

This is insignificant in the scheme of things, but I’ve made a small donation to my Livestrong account in her name, the eighty-seven cents to mark what would’ve been our common graduating class had I stayed in Chester. Melissa, you’ll be on my mind and in my heart while I ride.

As I read a few folks’ blogs last week, and noticed the playlists they were forming for their long rides, I became entranced by a vision. I see myself steaming along the Capital Crescent Trail, early in the morning, spirits buoyed by something upbeat, perhaps Spirit of the Radio. Then, I become inspired by High on Fire’s face-melting guitar licks and hammering toms to get out of the saddle and crank like hell. Finally, Tom Jones croons me down, I find an easy, solid cadence, and keep on rollin’ towards the Green, Green Grass of Home. It’s a beautiful, bewitching dream, no?

The beauty of the dream, however, is betrayed by the reality of personal audio devices. Frequently, I’ve been on the business end of what I initially believed to be shockingly inconsiderate behavior, only to approach the person and realize that it wasn’t deliberate thoughtlessness so much as earbud-induced, inadverdent obliviousness to the flow of the world around them. And numerous times, I’ve witnessed someone nearly eliminate themselves from The Great Darwinian Contest by rocking the soundtrack of their life a little louder than other sounds that are, I realize, less appealing, but nevertheless crucial to one’s safety. Approaching cars and jealous, well-armed spouses, f’rinstance.

But I felt like I could be different. I figured if I was wearing headphones, and came to the top of a subway escalator, I’d have enough presence of mind to clear the way and dart the eyes. I figured that I’d never ride wearing headphones on any street with significant traffic, and I’d otherwise keep the volume low enough to hear music and people on paths and trails. Maybe I was right, maybe not, but Geddy Lee, Matt Pike, and Tom Jones were egging me on and I couldn’t resist. So I bought an MP3 player.

Friday night, I stayed up late after the kids went to bed, loading up 300ish songs, carefully selected from several thousand, and cross sorting them into playlists that reflected genre, personal categories, and most importantly, tempo. It was late when I got to bed, and I knew that the ride I had planned for the morning would hurt a little more, but I figured I could always turn to the Reverend Horton Heat if I needed to pick it up.

Saturday morning, Rebbie and I loaded up Nigel, and rode off to the Mt. Pleasant Farmers’ Market, where I was gonna hook up with my buddy Mark, who is also an intrepid Xtracyclist. Our plan was to head down to Tryst for coffee and pie, then ride our longtails out to Mt. Vernon and back along the Mt. Vernon Trail. I was a little spun, but it was a truly gorgeous morning, my legs felt good, and spinning the cranks got me fired up. About 3 miles from home, I looked down and realized that the player I’d clipped to my shorts, the one I’d bought less than 24 hours ago and finished loading less than 5 hours before, had vanished.

So, besides the fact that I’d just lit $50 on fire, and that I’d traded 3.5 of my planned 8 hours of sleep to go all music-geeky late into the night, I had to explain to my wife that not only had I spent money on electronics, but had spent it on a device that we’ve both roundly reviled over and over for its impracticality as a cycling accessory (or a walking accessory for that matter, assuming one wants to be aware of, and involved in, one’s surroundings). She didn’t actually give me any more flak than I deserved, but it still added a dollop of humiliation to the loss.

I’d write it off as a lesson learned, but the dream of adding music to the miles is too desirable, and Lee, Pike, and Jones are not a trio of imaginary guiding angels to be ignored. If any of ya’s out there have a 2 or 4 gig flash-based player that’s just gathering dust in your gadget drawer, I’d be happy to put it to good use. Otherwise, I’ll probably get another one and try again. If you have any tips for staying alert, being considerate, and not endangering one’s self, feel free to leave them in comments. Actually, if you have any amusing anecdotes about failing to stay alert, being an inadvertent jackass, or hilariously almost killing oneself while rocking out, feel free to share them too.

The ride, incidentally, was outstanding. Coffee at Tryst was good, and the blueberry pie was yummy. The ride down Rock Creek Park and across the Arlington Memorial Bridge was a fine warm-up, Nigel ran smooth as the pie made its way into my bloodstream. The trail ran south past Reagan National Airport, and wound along the Potomac for 16 miles and change from the bridge. Mt. Vernon was lovely, the ride back was pretty spirited for a couple old guys drivin’ haulers, and we stopped in Old Town Alexandria for a burger and Yuengling before heading back into the city. Once I hit the other side of the bridge, I worked back up to the market, picked up Wife and Daughter, and headed home to prepare for Tent Night at the Pool. The weekend turned out great, the whole family had a great time, and by Sunday night I’d clocked 176 miles for the week.

Not bad! Though I can’t help but wonder if I could’ve made the jump from “awesome” to “epic” if only Geddy, Matt, and Tom had been there with me.

Our roommate was in the process of buying Clovis from us, it fits her well and it was a great bike for her, she was driving her car less and less and even came camping with us up the C&O Trail.

Yesterday, at the restaurant she works at, the kitchen manager took her bike outside and left it there to make way for a delivery. Two hours later, Clovis was gone. Our roommate is sick about it, we’re sick about it, and we want him back.

If you happen to be in the College Park, MD area, and see a maroon Trek 970 with yellow-outlined black lettering, stop the person and/or call the police. Here’s some more info about the components:

• yellow Rockshock Quadra shocks. If the caps are opened and pulled out, there’s yellow springs instead of elastomers inside.
• Salsa Cro-moto stem, high rise, with black steel riser bars with Salsa “Hot Pepper” grips and Deore XT 8 speed Rapidfire shifters and Deore XT brake levers. It also had a silver/black Cateye rechargeable Single Shot light. Goddamit.
• WTB Pure saddle, WTB All Terrainasaurus tires
• Topeak pannier rack
• Wellgo pedals

I’m not optimistic about the chances of ever seeing Clovis again, but there’s always hope. Thanks.

A year ago, I was a committed Democrat. Today, though there’s still no question about whether and for whom I’ll vote, I don’t think there’s a partisan argument from either side that I find very persuasive. I thought I was going to be more jubilant at this point, with a truly inspiring, once-a-generation Democratic nominee facing off with the most entertaining implosion of a campaign the GOP’s run in my lifetime. There was supposed to be pitchers of Schadenfreude, filled at a giant, bubbling, multi-tier Schadenfreude fountain and served into chilled Schadendreude steins by a busty blonde St. Schadenfreude waitress. But I’m just not feeling it.

So I thought I’d share some of the thoughts that are getting my attention these days, but I’ll put them beyond the jump for those that would rather not do that to their beautiful minds. Respect.

(more…)

Oh man, this is a hell of a thing to wake up to. George Carlin is dead. I’d say that he passed away, but he’d have thought that was a bullshit ideom. He’s dead.

Thank you George, for the laughs and the ponderings and the parts of me that you built. I miss you already.