The two memoir-writing classes I lead in person are both starting up again this week after a month-long break. I don’t give writing prompts during breaks, but I encourage writers to write about whatever they’d like and read it at the first class of the new six-week session. Mel Washburn came back with this fast-paced, impressionistic vignette about college life in the early 60s and generously offered to let me share it here with you Safe & Sound blog readers.

Back to School

by Mel Washburn

Early in September 1963, I travelled 340 miles from my family home in Kentucky to northern Indiana.

In Kentucky, I had worked all summer – three hot and humid months – as a laborer for the City Department of Streets and Sewers – shovels, hot tar and jack hammers. I sweated like a pig

When I got to Indiana, the weather was cool. The leaves on the trees were changing color. The air was dry and fresh. It smelled like Autumn, and I loved it.

I was eighteen years old, a college sophomore, a fraternity member, a competent Bridge player, and adept at throwing a frisbee. I was in a good place, with good people. In the year ahead, I would learn new things, have new thoughts, and work on becoming the grown-up I was meant to be.

The evening of the first Monday of that school year, I sat down on the couch in my room and began to read the Shakespeare play we’d been assigned by Professor Baker, who was known to give surprise quizzes early in the semester, just to keep us on our toes. Sometime around midnight I fell asleep over my book. When I woke up the next morning, I had sniffles and a sore throat. Nothing serious, but it took the thrill out of Autumn.

Six days a week, I went to class, then to the library to study, then to the frat house for dinner and cards. As a sophomore, it was my duty to harass the fraternity’s first-year pledges, and I did so, with unbecoming zeal. I also wrote and directed our fraternity’s scatological entry in the Blue Night sketch competition.

In the months to come, President Kennedy would be assassinated, and I would drive all night with some buddies to attend his funeral. My hometown girlfriend would write that she was in love with someone else, and I would lose several nights’ sleep over it. President Johnson would declare a war on poverty and sign the Civil Rights Act. The Beatles would appear on Ed Sullivan.

At the end of the school year I went home to another summer of working on the streets and sewers. I also searched, unsuccessfully, for a new girlfriend. That summer, three civil rights workers were murdered in Mississippi, and Congress passed the Gulf of Tonkin resolution. I got a letter from my fraternity brother, Dave Kendall, which he had written in pencil on a sheet of toilet paper. He was in a small town in Mississippi, working to register Black people to vote, and the sheriff had locked him up in jail.

In September 1964 I returned to college for my Junior year. Dave Kendall was back, safe and sound, from Mississippi. The air was cool; the leaves were changing color and it smelled like Autumn. But I wasn’t thrilled. People like Kendall were doing important things, while I was just a school boy who played bridge and could read Latin. It didn’t seem like enough.

I really don’t much like it when Chicago takes a major public space like part or all of Grant Park out of public commission for events like Lollapalooza or, this past weekend, NASCAR’s Chicago Street Race. And I never trust the numbers that the organizers or the city provides in terms of economic gain—they’re notoriously overstated.

They typically don’t account for the economic activity that gets displaced: the people who avoid downtown who would otherwise have come down for dinner or a concert.

I also spend my working days to lower greenhouse gases from buildings, so burning fuel for fun ain’t in my wheelhouse.

So it might not make sense but I have to confess: I enjoyed the goofy NASCAR thing this past weekend. It might be because I’m a bit relieved that it’s over and while there was one casualty, it was an accidental electrocution of a contractor. That’s not cool but we feared worse could happen—a crash into spectators or worse, and what we all fear these days when there are big crowds—a mass shooting.

But it’s also because I’m a casual racing fan. Watching the drivers figure out a track that wasn’t a track so much as a driver’s nightmare was fully interesting—these guys were really good.

And because I met several really nice people from NASCAR who were here in Chicago working the event. Also symbolically, it was heartening that somehow Red Staters and Blue Staters could not only get along, but have fun together, for at least for a few days.

Beth and I watched TV coverage and what struck us both is how excited the announcers and commentators were to be in Chicago. The production crew had done its homework—they peppered airtime with bits of Chicago history and trivia. They raved about the food and the views and it seemed like they were sincerely tickled to do something so different and new. And cameras are always kind to the Chicago skyline and lakefront, even on an overcast day.

Chicago is a stunning city, with all its warts, and it was gratifying think about all those people who’d only heard about the warts getting a chance to see it shine.

It was also fun to see the folks who didn’t buy a ticket—but who were curious—find ways to peek in. For example, the distinguished Spertus Institute for Jewish Learning and Leadership operates in a beautiful, multifaceted building on South Michigan. On a Saturday stroll I noticed their outdoor roof space was absolutely packed. Other rooftop decks were also popular perches.

And hearing the TV announcers calling “and now they’re coming down DuSable Lake Shore Drive” instead of they’re “coming down the back straightaway” was a hoot. My favorite comment regarded spotters. Spotters are race officials stationed at key corners and other spots around the track. If something bad happens—like a crash or a spinout—they’re on their radio immediately and a caution flag will come out, telling the drivers to slow down. At one point, one of the commentators—Dale Earnhardt, Jr.—casually commented that, “The turn 6 spotter is on the roof of Chicago Symphony Center.”

I know that might abhor some people, but I just got a kick out of it.

Overall, even with the rain, NASCAR pulled off quite a feat—as did the Chicago Police and Streets and Sanitation crews. What I feared would be an absolute shit show turned out to be a nice surprise (in my estimation).

It still doesn’t change my mind about taking Grant Park out of commission for events, but it could have been worse.

On July 1st and 2nd this summer, NASCAR is running a street race in Chicago through and around Grant Park.

Don’t believe me? You aren’t the first. Several neighborhood friends have told relatives or friends from other parts of the country, and they balked. Until they looked it up. Heck, I’ve told fellow Chicagoans who didn’t believe me.

NASCAR has raced in the Chicago area for some time, but at Chicagoland Speedway in Joliet. So it’s not like NASCAR is unknown in these parts, just that no one can believe it’ll be on our downtown streets. They can be forgiven: Though F1, Indycar and other circuits have had street races forever, this will be NASCAR’s first ever, anywhere.

Given where Beth and I live, we’ve been keen to the reality of the race from the beginning, because the cars will be roaring by within earshot and a couple blocks away. Parking restrictions have already started, and segments of major arteries—including DuSable Lake Shore Drive, Roosevelt Avenue, Michigan Avenue, Balbo Street and Jackson Boulevard will be closed well before and after the race. It’s like Lollapalooza but for race fans.

We don’t own a car so I’m not worried about that. The noise I am worried about. All in all it promises to be a hot mess, especially for local drivers.

But there is a voyeuristic part of me that just wants to see whether this becomes the predicted shit show or whether it surprises.

The course is actually kind of clever. And it will provide NASCAR with the most picturesque backdrop it’s ever had. And racing—particular road racing—has always been a guilty pleasure of mine.

Still don’t believe it? Check out the NASCAR site.

And there’s a possible Talladega Nights movie sequel here where Bubbas come north and run into Ditka fans at local taverns and gang members in the streets. (I’m pretty sure it’ll be mostly high-rollers who are coming, though.)

Then again, maybe the race comes off great, the NASCAR fans enjoy conversation over beers with locals, and the Bubbas go home to tell folks that Chicago ain’t all that bad.

A person can dream (hallucinate)?

For those who haven’t seen Talladega Nights, it’s spoof whereby a gay, French F1 driver comes to America explicitly to beat a NASCAR driver named Ricky Bobby. Antics ensue.

Give them a wide berth, please.

I would bet that if someone kept track, my Printers Row neighborhood has more dogs per capita than any place in Chicago—and probably beyond.

Which is fine. I like dogs.

I like people, too. Mostly. But here’s the thing. Because of Beth’s circumstances and by extension my circumstances, I have a different viewpoint than some.

Some context: A survey by The Seeing Eye was published last year in the Journal of Visual Impairment and Blindness. Seeing Eye dog users were asked about interference–which is any distraction (intentional or not) by people or other dogs. From the article in the Seeing Eye Guide, a magazine for constituents:

“The interference can range from deliberate, sustained eye contact with the dog that can cause a distraction to an attack on the guide dog or handler.”

The survey found 89 percent of the people had at least occasional interference from other people and 78 percent reported interference from other dogs.

Beth’s freedom of movement, her independence, her very life all depend on a dog. Luna is not a pet. She is a partner who relies on Beth as much as Beth relies on Luna. Walking around Chicago is a difficult and intense job. Beth is listening for traffic and sensing input from the handle on Luna’s harness. Luna is listening for Beth’s commands and weighing them against what Luna sees—and Luna selectively disobeys Beth’s commands when what she sees (construction barriers, potholes, cars, trucks, dumbshits on electric scooters, etc.) runs counter to what Beth has asked.

I love Beth and I worry about her. So, sometimes it’s hard for me not to make orphans of some of the dogs in our neighborhood and our very own condo building. Their people do really stupid shit.

Let’s leave Beth and her blindness and her service dog out of it to start. There’s stuff that a sighted person like me can’t understand. People in our building let their dogs pee immediately outside our building entrance. Usually against the planters. Often near outside seating at restaurants on the first floor. Which, apart from being, at its face, completely ignorant and insensitive to others, requires our maintenance people to wash down the area, every day, with detergent. This is not cool. It is disrespectful.

As an able-bodied, sighted person, I also am perturbed by people who assume I like THEIR dogs. Who have long retractable leashes that I have to sidestep to avoid tripping. Who like to stop in the MIDDLE of the sidewalk to let their little whatevers sniff someone else’s little whatevers while the people blurt out baby talk to the little whatevers.

For these people, the dogs are not pets. They’re attention-getting devices. They are accessories. And if you haven’t picked it up as yet, I don’t like it.

For me it’s an annoyance. For Beth it’s a freaking hazard. There is a person in our building with an adorable puppy. And this person milks it. She stations herself on the sidewalk looking for people to ooh and aah and it always creates a little bottleneck. These circumstances aggravate me but they are absolutely hazardous for Beth. Luna’s job is really hard and she’s trained to negotiate circumstances but there are limits. And people like this make it impossible.

It’s not that hard. Here are some human being lessons for you Printers Row/Transportation Building dog owners:

• Some people don’t like dogs.
• Some people are fine with dogs but yours is not that special.
• If you love dogs, that’s great, but ask their companion if it’s OK to pet or otherwise pay attention to their dog.
• Because all people need to travel down the sidewalk, keep your dog close at hand.
• Because all people need to travel down the sidewalk, it’s OK if your dog wants to visit with other dogs, but please, move to the side.
• Beth’s dog—and other service animals—are not pets. Don’t make baby sounds, or make eye contact, or assume that Luna needs to meet your dog—or you.

Follow these simple precepts and you will avoid my wrath. Which you really should want to do.

That’s my dad Mike on the left. Uncle George Knezovich center and Uncle Dave Knezovich on the right. Uncle Steve Knezovich, not pictured, served in the Navy.

My earliest recollections of Memorial Day have my father at the barbecue grill, listening to a radio broadcast of the Indianapolis 500. It was a day off work for my mom and dad, a day off school for me an my sister, and an excuse for a cookout. All the neighbors were doing the same in their backyards. Charcoal smoke permeated the block.

As I often do now, I look back and wonder what my parents thought at the time. For them it had been the Depression, the war, and now we’re in the backyard grilling ribs. I can only wonder. Oh, for a Time Machine.

Originally called Decoration Day, Memorial Day was and is dedicated to those who lost their lives while serving. Veteran’s Day is a tribute to all who served. They’ve sort of melded in our culture. I’m not sure whether that’s a good or bad thing.

We can argue about the morality of the wars our elected leaders have chosen to fight. I don’t think that means there is any ambiguity about those who carried out those missions.

As I’ve written here before, my father and his three brothers all served during WWII. Thankfully, all of them survived the war itself. But they all suffered tolls. And so, here’s to the memories my father, Mike Knezovich, and his brothers George, David, and Steve (not pictured above but fully appreciated).