A very near and dear friend of ours was off the radar last week for a few days. Which isn’t terribly unusual, but we live in the same little neighborhood, and we usually do run into each other by accident at least once a week.

We came to learn that he’d been in the hospital for four nights after a scary episode that was successfully treated. He’s back in circulation.

He’d intentionally not informed anyone except a friend in a faraway place—which was entirely his prerogative.

Still, we—and his many other dear friends who hadn’t known—were kind of miffed to learn about it after the fact. (And we kind of piled on him, poor guy.)

Some people like visitors, others not so much.

Which on one hand doesn’t make a lot of sense. I mean, the only thing that really matters is that our friend is fine. None of us could’ve done much of anything but worry. Or visit, which our friend didn’t want. I didn’t’ used to understand why you wouldn’t want visitors while in the hospital, but Beth has taught me that not everyone wants to have company when they’re not at their best. And besides, it’s hardly like you’re alone—you’re visited and pricked and prodded and measured pretty regularly.

Still. I remember when my parents were still around. They only grudgingly reported on one another’s maladies. Anything short of crisis was kept mum. And they’d come clean only when they absolutely had to. You know, like, “I hate to bother you, but your father’s had a major heart attack.” Nothing to see here!

And even Beth, who doesn’t like visitors when she’s been in the hospital, wrote in Long Time, No See about the power of not feeling alone. She wrote about a sensation she had while in the hospital shortly after our son Gus was born—he arrived in deep distress, and his very survival was in question at the time:

I felt somehow that a lot of people were thinking of us, all at the same time. I don’t know what the trendy word is for it now, but back then it was “vibes,” and they were good and strong.

This interlude was interrupted by Dr. Ionnides’ return to my bedside. “We’re not sure how it happened,” he explained, “but the baby’s condition has reversed itself.”

For me, I guess it’s always been sort of simple, if not necessarily defensible: If I care about you, I’d always rather know than not know. I might not be able to do anything, but it gives me a sense of being in it with you. And while I’m not all new age or religious about this stuff, that just may count for something.

So, to my friends reading this: if you land in the hospital with a health scare, you damn well better let me know.

An eighty-year-old writer in the Thursday memoir-writing class I lead for Lincoln Park Village was so moved by the Mondays with Mike post here this past Monday that he wrote his own essay about author Wallace Stegner. Bruse Hunt read this essay in class yesterday and generously gave us permission to share it with all you Safe & Sound blog readers here. 

by Bruce Hunt

I am a regular reader of Mondays with Mike. I was especially glad that I read this Monday’s edition, called Accidental Goodness, because he shared his admiration for Wallace Stegner and his misremembered introduction to him at the University of Illinois.

Here is my version of an introduction to Stegner. Just because it is more than 30 years old does not mean it is any less true (or frankly more true) than Mike’s version. But the parallels are fascinating.

In the early 80s Anne and I were wandering through one of our favorite venues in Door County, Wisconsin, the Passtimes bookstore in Sister Bay. It seemed to us this idiosyncratic shop must have been around for ages. We have since found out that it was founded in 1978.

The founder was Harold Grutzmacher, and he was the sole presence while Anne and I were exploring the aisles in the store. He was not exactly lurking, but it seemed to me he was consciously keeping us in view but letting us roam. We were watching him and he was watching us.

I had determined that if I was going to enjoy the new house we had built at Wagon Trail on Rowley’s Bay and if I was going to keep myself intellectually challenged, I should read poetry. Given my work in the market place, I had the idea that Wallace Stevens, the insurance executive from Connecticut, who was also a complex poet, would be a good place to start.

“I’m looking for something by Wallace Stevens,” I said to Anne when she inquired about my poking around.
“Here’s one you must read,” Harold burst forth from the neighboring aisle. “Its one of his best” He presented me with a rather plain copy of All the Little Live Things by Wallace Stegner.

After acknowledging our mutual embarrassment, Harold for eavesdropping inaccurately and me for not having a clue who this excellent author might be, I decided that I should take the mistake as a sign and I bought the book.
It was a sign. Stegner’s tale of the 60s is exactly right; the characters (Allston, Peck, Marian—crabby, hippy, happy) are worth caring about – always a critical judgment. I became a Stegner junkie.

That’s Bruce and his kids in bygone days at his beloved New England lake. (Photo by Anne Hunt.)

I read his novels, his not so well disguised memoirs (Recapitulation) and his essays about the natural world, especially the natural world of the Western United States. His collection of essays about living and writing in the West, Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs, reminds us why he moved back, even though he appreciated my New England, and how important it is to pay attention to the water. It seems to me he does represent a sort of prose version of Ansel Adams, as Mike suggests in his post.

I have given up altogether on reading Stevens; I tried but his images baffle me. He could never be a hiking companion as Wallace Stegner might have been.

Passtimes, the bookstore, closed in 2014, not because of Amazon but because of the decline in trade during the shortened tourist season. Or so said Steve Grutzmacher, Harold’s son. Wallace Stegner died in an auto accident in Arizona in the mid 90s.

He should not have been driving at night.

Bruce Hunt is one of dozens of older adults in Chicago in my memoir writing classes, and if readers are interested in learning when my new book about them is coming out, they can sign up for my newsletter.

As I posted last week, I often listen in as Beth listens to books. The latest of Beth’s audio books I’m eavesdropping on is by Wallace Stegner. Crossing to Safety was Stegner’s last novel. It received an extensive and positive review in the NY Times when published. But Stegner probably didn’t care so much by then. I know he didn’t care so much for the Times—he felt, and probably rightly—that the paper had not paid proper attention to his earlier work. The Times never reviewed his National Book Award winner (The Spectator Bird) and only acknowledged Angle of Repose after it won a Pulitzer.

The cover of Crossing to Safety.

I regret that it’s the first Stegner I’ve read, but I look forward to reading more. The writing’s superb for many reasons, one being that he chronicles nature in a sort of prose version of Ansel Adams. I’d tell you more but trust me, it’s more fun to Google him and go on a little virtual history expedition. There you may just bump into something serendipitously nice.

I know this because reading Stegner recalled a publication I worked on back in 1989 when I was an editor at the University of Illinois. I worked in a department that offered design and editorial services to other campus departments. We were engaged by the English Department to do the catalog for an exhibit called Dandy & fine: Accent to Ascent (1940- ): correspondence on the occasions of work published in literary magazines at the University of Illinois.

Whew, that academically stuffy title didn’t do it justice. The exhibit collected letters—handwritten and typed—from literary figures including Eudora Welty, Katharine Anne Porter, E.E. Cummings, Flannery O’Connor, and—as I recalled, Wallace Stegner.

These writers have all been published in one or the other of two literary magazines published at Illinois over the years. Back in 1989, the English Department had discovered and filtered through archives from those journals. I can tell you, those people could write a letter, and it was a privilege to literally get my hands on them and read them.

The cover of the exhibition catalog. If you care to look inside, click on the image, scroll down, then you can download two-views–but they take a long time.

I was the project manager on this one, and I worked with my favorite ever graphic designer, Julie, who is still a friend. Julie was the star of this show. This was before desktop publishing. Some of you may remember “mechanicals.” Designers would use real colored paper on one layer, type on another layer, another color paper on another—and each layer got shot on graphic film and then composited together. There weren’t no Illustrator or Photoshop or InDesign back then.

Anyway, thanks to Julie, the catalog for the exhibit ended up being a work of art in its own right, and lots of the people who pay attention to such things thought the same. It won multiple awards. It had a beautifully intimate look and feel, a very organic scrapbook of pieces and excerpts from the letters, accompanied by brief anecdotes about the editors of the journals over the years.

Too lazy to unbury my banker’s box of old publications I’ve hoarded, I made a couple Google queries and damn if I didn’t find the catalog online. Well, sort of. What I found are full scans of eight two page spreads. I could look at the whole publication two pages at a time. I was delighted to find that, in my view, it hasn’t aged, and Julie’s work remains as beautiful and appropriate to the subject as ever.

I was not as delighted to realize that it was Wallace Stevens, a great artist  in his own right, and not Wallace Stegner who was one of the featured authors.

But I didn’t mind, really. It all took me back in time, and reminded me that some accidents are lucky ones.

An NPR story this past week reported that a theatregoer who is blind is suing the producers and the theater that’s offering the hit musical “Hamilton” in New York City because they are not offering headsets with live audio description for theater-goers who are blind or have visual impairments.

You regular blog readers know that I’m a huge fan of the word “reasonable” when it comes to reasonable accommodations for people with disabilities, but in my view, the “reasonable” part applies to both parties. Is it reasonable for a blind patron to insist the theater have a paid audio describer on hand at live productions of Hamilton for people who can’t see the stage?

Sure, someone would be there live to describe the actor’s movements, but at what expense? And let’s get real. Would anyone with a good pair of ears want to mask the sensational sound of the live music on stage by wearing a headset?

Thanks to my dear friend Colleen, I was able to attend a preview of Hamilton when it opened in Chicago last year. Audio description was available at the performance we went to, but with so much information out there about the hit musical online and in audio books, I didn’t use them. This is one theater piece that is more about music than action. Here’s an excerpt from my review. It opens with a description of Mike buying me the CD ahead of time :

He even bought me the CD and read some of the lyrics to me before I figured out where to find them online to research the wording myself. Anytime he left home, he’d return to the sound of the Broadway performance blasting from our living room speakers. “You can leave it on,” he’d sigh, but I’d turn it off. More fun to listen alone anyway. Then you could dance and sing along.

In my review, I report on what a good sport Mike was about my little obsession. He asked questions about — but did not attend — “In the Heights” (Lin-Manuel Miranda’s first Broadway musical) after Colleen and I went to see Chicago’s Porchlight music Theater’s production a few weeks before we went to Hamilton. And, being a non-fiction kind of guy, Mike happily listened along when I’d go to bed with the audio version of Ron Chernow’s Alexander Hamilton (the biography that inspired Hamilton the musical).

That’s me and Lafayette after the Chicago performance. Or me and Jefferson. Whichever you prefer.

Colleen chose to listen to the book on audio, too, rather than read it in print. The audio book is 38 hours long. It is absolutely astounding that the musical Hamilton covers pretty much the entire Alexander Hamilton story in three hours. The founding father packed a lot into his short life, leaving more than 26 written volumes of work and oodles and oodles of personal letters behind when he died. And when he was alive? Alexander Hamilton liked to talk. To tell all that in three hours, you need to fit a lot of words in to every measure. You can’t hold onto a musical note very long — you’ve gotta move right along to the next scene. Using hip-hop was a no-brainer. And, simultaneously, brilliant. One thing that is stunning about Hamilton is that it never stops, and there are no speaking parts. Every word is sung. You wouldn’t want to miss a note, and I think you’d miss a lot with someone in your headset describing the action.

The NPR story reports that Scott Dinin, the attorney representing the blind theater-goer, is not seeking damages for his client. “He can’t under the terms of the ADA. He’s trying to make sure that theater becomes more inclusive by spotlighting the problem using Broadway’s biggest hit.” Is that resonable? I don’t think so.

The snow this week has a lot of people asking me if my dog Whitney likes being out in winter weather. Truth is, she doesn’t have much choice. Poor guide dogs, they never get a day off work!

The snow started falling in Chicago Sunday, and it was still coming down last night. Snowy weather is often more time-consuming, more physically and mentally tiring and can be more dangerous than traveling in good weather.

Whitney and I get a little help from our friends–my brother-in-law Rick gifted me these nifty cleats I can stretch over my boots for traction.

When I was a kid, I thought it was magical the way snowfall muffled the sound around you. I still do. But my walks with Whitney this week haven’t been the magic I’m looking for. Enough snow fell to mask the audible cues I use to navigate the city. Commuters who could see were trudging through the Loop (downtown Chicago’s business district) with their heads down to avoid the snow pelting their faces. That would have been fine if they all had dogs like mine to guide them, but they didn’t. Whitney was on her own, weaving me around the blinded commuters in our path.

And that’s not all: Snow has accumulated between the raised, circular bumps I’ve come to rely on to tell me we’re at the edge of a curb ramp, so I’m not always sure where we are.

“Stay home!” friends and family tell me. Easy for them to say, but some of us have to go to work! And then there’s this: We live on the seventh floor of an apartment building, and Whitney needs to get out and “empty” every once in a while. Not to mention, get some exercise.

Eyebrows up! All I have to do on days like this is take a deep breath and remember what trainers drummed into our heads when my blind peers and I were first learning to work with our guides: Trust your dog. Hold on tight to Whitney’s harness, and follow her lead. “Whitney, forward!”