My friend Lynn LaPlante-Allaway is a professional musician, and earlier this month she sent this email with an offer I couldn’t refuse:

I will be downtown for a rehearsal, would you like me to come by and play my violin for you? I will sit quietly in the corner and play and all you do is lie there, listen and heal.

Lynn arrived two days after I returned from the hospital. Mike met her at the door. I didn’t even get up. She went right to work, setting up behind me so that I wouldn’t feel obligated to smile or react while she played. “I just want you to lie there on the couch, listen, and heal.”

Mike left during Lynn’s performance, and when he returned an hour-and-a-half later he said I looked like I’d just received a massage.

You might remember reading a post I wrote last year about Daniel Levitin, the author of This Is Your Brain on Music. Levitin’s research shows that dopamine (a “feel-good hormone”) is released every time you listen to music you like. Not only that, but listening to music with someone else can release prolactin, a hormone that bonds people together. I’ve never had much success when trying to meditate –I’m just too antsy. Within minutes, however, Lynn’s music had put every worry and pain right out of my mind. It was, in a word, sublime.

Lynn’s beloved mother Alice Gervace LaPlante is the one who inspired Lynn to use music to help friends heal after a trauma. Alice died last year from complications related to Alzheimer’s disease. Lynn had played for her mom her entire life, but she did so with a different intention after Alice got sick.

Alice Gervace LaPlante (left) and my friend Lynn LaPlante-Allaway, taken at one of Lynn’s concerts when Alice was still getting out and about.

“I’d say lots of prayers beforehand, call in all her angels and helpers and mine, too and all sorts of woo woo stuff that works for ME,” she told me. “And when I played for her, I swear to you, something happened: the whole room changed, and my music changed, too.”

The only word Lynn can think of to describe her healing performances is “channeling.” Her own heart rate slows down as she plays, and she says her brain waves slow down, too. She can feel the person she’s playing for slow down as well. “I had no idea I could do this until my Mom got sick.”

Friends have been marveling at how quickly I am recovering, and you blog readers have been leaving comments about how healthy I look in the photos Mike publishes here, too. Many, many good things have combined to help me heal, but I gotta say: that early hit of dopamine and prolactin sure gave my recovery one helluva jumpstart!

It’s been one month since my life-saving heart surgery, and to mark the occasion, Mike and I took a cardio-walk downtown to attend a concert last night. Lynn is the principal violist with the Chicago Jazz Philharmonic, a 55-piece ensemble that combines a jazz band with a symphonic orchestra. “This is the most exciting musical group I’ve ever been a part of,” Lynn told me. “And it just keeps getting better.” Last night was the Chicago Jazz Philharmonic’s first-ever appearance at Orchestra Hall. The music was gorgeous, and knowing Lynn was up there on stage playing her heart out made it all the more special. It was, in a word, sublime.

Hi All,

Last Saturday Beth and I spent a splendid afternoon on the shores of Lake Michigan on a breezy picture perfect, 72-degree day at Foster Avenue Beach. Beach is a little bit of a misnomer–it’s more of a really nice park with a beach, replete with soccer fields and the like. We were attending Ribicue, which is an annual end-of-summer gathering of Beth’s friends from her days in Scott Hall, a University of Illinois dorm. Well, at this point, they’re my friends, too, I’d like to think, because I’ve been attending with Beth for a good many years. 

Anyway, I was going to post about Saturday’s picnic until I had this inkling and did a search and … I already posted about it years ago. When I read the seven-year-old post I was delighted that it’s held up, and it pretty well describes the feeling of the gathering each year. The event is largely the same, though there was talk of Medicare and grandchildren that didn’t occur in 2016. But if anything, times like those spent at Ribicue seem to have grown even more appreciated over time. And so, I’m going to paste the old post below. And, to the generous grillmasters who make it all happen: Thanks again Don, Craig, and Jim!

Mondays with Mike: Originally posted September 26, 2016

When Beth and I moved to Chicago in 2003, she was hard at the business of promoting her first book, the memoir “Long Time, No See,” published by the University of Illinois Press. She was on the airwaves with the likes of Rick Kogan and, back then, The Kathy & Judy Show. The Chicago Tribune gave the book a good review, and Beth began appearing at libraries and bookstores around the city and suburbs, reading from her book.

Lots of Beth’s friends from high school and from the University of Illinois had settled in or around Chicago. After every media or personal appearance, it seemed she’d hear from one or another of them.

Ribicue, 2016.

But the first reconnection was a personal encounter. We were on the Red Line subway when this tall stranger peered down at Beth and said, “Ms. Finke?” She looked up and immediately realized it was Don—they’d both lived in Scott Hall, a U of I dormitory that was part of a complex called the six-pack. She learned Don lived on the North Side (though he’s an avid White Sox fan, and we’ve since attended several games with him and his wife). They were off and running in conversation until Don had to run—we came to his stop, and it was goodbye. At least for the moment.

Here’s to serendipity. Eventually, Beth was invited to something called Ribicue. This annual event is held in September at Foster Beach, pretty much come hell or high water, though those two have caused cancellations or postponements. Don and his pals Craig and Jim—the three musketeers of the Weber grills—prep the day before and hover over the grills all afternoon, cooking up an endless supply of some delicious ribs. Their stamina is amazing, and surpassed only by the obvious joy it gives them to do it.

The rest of us guests bring salads, desserts… or nothing.

On a day like last Saturday, it’s really spectacular in a lovely, laid back way. The temperature was in the 70s, the skies were clear, a stiff breeze meant you could both see and hear Lake Michigan. The best thing, of course, is just hanging out with friends.

Beth and I always take a walk along the beach.

How do you get an invite to this exclusive event? Well, sorry, you had to live in Scott Hall on the correct floor back in the day. Or know someone who did. (I won the jackpot on that.) I’ve gotten to know—and have befriended—many of Beth’s friends from Scott. We all catch up with each other. And we compare notes about our college experiences—Saturday, two of us reminisced (in some wonderment) about living in a triple dorm room. (Those triples were more like army barracks than what we call a dorm room these days, but you know, it was good for us.)

I’ve spent more than one sublime lakefront Saturday afternoon with this crew. And I’m grateful that they’ll have me, even if I did live in Hopkins Hall, and not Scott.

Michigan Avenue looked ghostly on Saturday, April 4, 2020. Click on the image to watch the eerie cab ride.

As our friend and neighbor Al Hippensteel puts it, I’ve been on a kind of blog sabbatical. Hope to get back in the rhythm starting today.

Three years ago this past April, after six days in the hospital and three days in a City-run covid isolation hotel, I got a cab home from Chicago’s Streeterville neighborhood back to our Printers Row condo.

I took a video of that dystopian ride. Little did I know things would get worse before they got better.

The lockdown was bad enough, but a couple rounds of George Floyd riots (yes, there were also constructive protests—the looting and violence were riots) left a “Dawn of the Dead” air to Chicago’s once vibrant streets and businesses. Shattered glass, boarded up stores, and lonely streets.

The day after the May 31 looting in 2020. Plywood was too late for the SRO Sandwich shop, which never reopened. That awning is the entry to our building.

It’s been a long, arduous slog, and we’re still not exactly where we were before the pandemic (and likely never will be), but I’m happy to report Chicago has found its legs and is running hard again.

During the lockdown and beyond, I’d say that we city dwellers had it the hardest. Why? Because every place one could choose to live carries tradeoffs. For example, small town life offers peace, quiet and a sense of intimacy. But that can sometimes mean too peaceful, boring, and everybody in everybody else’s business all the time.

City life—as Beth and I have been lucky enough to experience—means drinking from a fire hose of cultural and sporting events, but also enduring the blare of sirens, the thundering L trains, daily reports of violent crime, and much less green space.

During covid, there was no tradeoff for us. We lost what we came for 20+ years ago. There was no jazz at Jazz Showcase down the street, no Chicago Symphony just blocks away, no SummerDance at Grant Park. No nothing.

Dearborn Street, outside our front door, this past Saturday during Printers Row Art Fest. (Click to enlarge.)

It was bleak but we improvised, having impromptu meetings in our little park just outside our door. Sitting in parkas next to wide open windows at Half Sour, our favorite watering hole, when it was freezing outside, seeking camaraderie as well as hoping against hope that it would help the place survive. Buying gift cards at Sofi, the Italian restaurant downstairs in our building, and maybe not using them right away (or at all) as a way of keeping it off life support.

Sometimes I wondered if it would be worth it, this trying to stick it out thing. Over the past few weeks I can, relievedly, elatedly, report: Damn right it was.

Taylor Swift, the Pride Parade, NASCAR, Beyonce, Lollapalooza, Ed Sheeran all in a month—a bunch of stuff we don’t do but that brings energy one can feel. (And in NASCAR’s case, hear.) Jazz Showcase has more programming than ever, including a Monday evening summer residency by the Chicago Jazz Orchestra, a splendid big band. We took one of those in a couple weeks ago and then the next week we headed to Symphony Center to see Ben Folds in concert with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, one of the most moving, stirring performance of any kind I’ve seen anywhere, on any stage. (Their rendition of the Psychedelic Furs “The Ghost in You” was bring-you-to-tears beautiful.)

Our friend Nancy had her birthday party in a beautiful spot on a beautiful night. (Click image to enlarge.)

Last Friday night we cabbed up to Montrose Beach and Harbor to celebrate a friend’s birthday on a sublime, lakefront evening replete with puffy, peach-tinted clouds against the skyline. And this weekend our Dearborn block closed for the Printers Row Art Fest, with Lit Fest coming in September.

Chicago faces, as it always has, serious problems in addition to its gleaming skylines, beautiful public lakefront, and cultural gems.

Like I said: It’s a tradeoff, and one I’m proud and privileged to make.

Wedding day, July 28, 1984. Photo: Rick Amodt.

Everyone I know is coping remarkably well with the universal craziness of life today (all things considered), but everyone has bad days, sad days. Lately I’ve noticed a healthy tendency for people to just be honest about those times. It’s an oppressive time, and while I maintain hopes for better times ahead, those hopes are tenuous. So, today, I’m choosing to look back for relief and inspiration.

Tomorrow, Beth and I celebrate our 36th anniversary. The morning of July 28, 1984 started in the backyard of our friend Colleen’s parents in Hillside, Illinois. Colleen’s father, the late Judge John Keleher, officiated and our parents attended. It was modest and small and kind of perfect.

We were officially married in Cook County, but another ceremony and party took place later, in DuPage County, in another back yard—Beth’s late sister Bobbie and her husband Harry generously hosted the affair. Hosted doesn’t do it justice. They’d more or less planned their splendid garden around the event, and managed the logistics of tents, pig roasters, etc. Lots of Beth’s enormous family stepped up to help–brother-in-law, Rick Amodt, volunteered to take pictures.

Our friend Pick, who grew up in Rural Virginia as a Southern Baptist, had agreed to officiate the second ceremony, using the vows that Beth and I had written together.

A polka with the original Mike Knezovich, Mike’s late father. Photo: Rick Amodt.

It could’ve been hot. It could’ve rained. But the afternoon was sunny and comfortable with a breeze. It was sublime.

Here’s an account from Beth’s memoir, “Long Time No See” :

Flo walked me down the aisle, and my friends Anne and Colleen served as bridesmaids. When it came time for a toast, the nieces and nephews served Champagne. We’d hired a group of Mike’s dad’s buddies from the steel mill, Roland Kwasny and the Continentals, who moonlighted playing weddings and other functions. They were everything we could’ve hoped for. Behind bandstands monogrammed “RK,” the ruffle-shirted, heavy set machinists and bricklayers played everything from Polkas to “Proud Mary.” And Roland and the boys were good enough to let Pick—a versatile showman, indeed—sing a few numbers while my sister Beverle sat in on drums.

We ate and drank and danced until well after sundown. We told each other it was the best day of our lives.

And it was the best day of our lives, at least to that date. We’ve been fortunate to have had even better days since. Of course, there were some pretty awful days. And times when we’ve barely held our marriage together by a thread.

Beth’s sister Bev drummed and our friend Pick crooned. Photo: Rick Amodt.

Marrying Beth remains the single best thing I’ve ever done for myself. And I’m elated that both of us are still ticking, together, after 36 years.

We’ve made it in no small part because of the support of our friends, family, and good–hearted strangers. Thanks.

Happy anniversary to us.

When Beth and I moved to Chicago in 2003, she was hard at the business of promoting her first book, the memoir “Long Time, No See,” published by the University of Illinois Press. She was on the airwaves with the likes of Rick Kogan and, back then, The Kathy & Judy Show. The Chicago Tribune gave the book a good review, and Beth began appearing at libraries and bookstores around the city and suburbs, reading from her book.

Lots of Beth’s friends from high school and from the University of Illinois had settled in or around Chicago. After every media or personal appearance, it seemed she’d hear from one or another of them.

Ribicue, 2016.

But the first reconnection was a personal encounter. We were on the Red Line subway when this tall stranger peered down at Beth and said, “Ms. Finke?” She looked up and immediately realized it was Don—they’d both lived in Scott Hall, a U of I dormitory that was part of a complex called the six-pack. She learned Don lived on the North Side (though he’s an avid White Sox fan, and we’ve since attended several games with him and his wife). They were off and running in conversation until Don had to run—we came to his stop, and it was goodbye. At least for the moment.

Here’s to serendipity. Eventually, Beth was invited to something called Ribicue. This annual event is held in September at Foster Beach, pretty much come hell or high water, though those two have caused cancellations or postponements. Don and his pals Craig and Jim—the three musketeers of the Weber grills—prep the day before and hover over the grills all afternoon, cooking up an endless supply of some delicious ribs. Their stamina is amazing, and surpassed only by the obvious joy it gives them to do it.

The rest of us guests bring salads, desserts… or nothing.

On a day like last Saturday, it’s really spectacular in a lovely, laid back way. The temperature was in the 70s, the skies were clear, a stiff breeze meant you could both see and hear Lake Michigan. The best thing, of course, is just hanging out with friends.

Beth and I always take a walk along the beach.

How do you get an invite to this exclusive event? Well, sorry, you had to live in Scott Hall on the correct floor back in the day. Or know someone who did. (I won the jackpot on that.) I’ve gotten to know—and have befriended—many of Beth’s friends from Scott. We all catch up with each other. And we compare notes about our college experiences—Saturday, two of us reminisced (in some wonderment) about living in a triple dorm room. (Those triples were more like army barracks than what we call a dorm room these days, but you know, it was good for us.)

I’ve spent more than one sublime lakefront Saturday afternoon with this crew. And I’m grateful that they’ll have me, even if I did live in Hopkins Hall, and not Scott.