With all the passion and angst and fear and — in some quarters joy — attending the presidential election this year, it’s easy to forget Tip O’Neill’s favorite maxim: All politics is local.

Of course presidential elections matter (see Supreme Court), but in my view, real change bubbles up, it doesn’t trickle down. Attention must be paid to state and local politics.

Here in Illinois political dysfunction has produced a nearly dystopian situation. We haven’t had a budget, not to mention a serious plan for addressing long-term pension problems, for going on two years now. Like many other states, Illinois has financial problems. Unlike most other states, Illinois has not been paying its bills, which has put a real hurt on a lot of people. As usual, the pain started with human services. But it’s spreading And today this: Mt. Sterling, a small downstate town that supplies water to a medium-security prison—is threatening to shut off the supply because the state owes it $370,000.

Meanwhile, a showdown between Republican Governor Bruce Rauner and Democratic House Speaker Michael Madigan continues the budget paralysis. What’s worse is that between them, sorry, I can’t find one to root for, and I blame them both.

It can make you throw up your hands and give up.

But don’t do it.

Here’s something else those of us in Illinois can do. I was reminded (thanks Regan!) of a long-running campaign aimed at cleaning up the redistricting process. Redistricting happens every ten years, based on census numbers. Unfortunately, it’s also based on the needs and wants of political operators who want to protect their turf or gain more. Here’s a nifty slide show explanation in case you’ve forgotten civics class:

Click on image to go to a handy explanation of redistricting, and how it can go awry.

Redistricting is an utterly boring subject in a way and also supremely important. This gerrymandering has been show to be at least part of the polarization across the United States, as well as the paralysis of the kind we’re experiencing now in Illinois. A nonpartisan and committed group called Independent Maps has been collecting signatures for a petition to put a constitutional amendment on this fall’s ballot. The amendment would clean up the redistricting process.

The Board of Elections just validated the signatures—a major hurdle. It’s now headed to court where, ahem, Michael Madigan’s favorite lawyer is fighting against it.

A similar effort was ruled unconstitutional a few years back, but this effort was crafted to avoid that fate. You can learn more at the Independent Maps site, where you can also donate or help with you time by writing letters and advocating.

It’s concrete. It would make real difference now and moving forward. I hope you’ll support the effort.

And vote this fall!

Today’s guest blogger, Nancy Lerman.

My assignment to write a 500-word essay about One Thing I Own that I Should Throw Away but Probably Never Will exposed a few of the writers in my memoir classes as…gasp….hoarders! Nancy Lerman, one of the youngest writers in my classes, is one of the packrats, and she managed to avoid writing about something she should throw away by skipping the next class.

The following week I assigned “Nine” in honor of Anna Perlberg’s memoir, The House in Prague. Anna is a writer in one of my classes, and her memoir starts in present tense from her nine-year-old point of view. Writers could do an essay about themselves as nine-year-olds or use the number nine in any other way they chose. Here is Nancy’s “Nine” essay in its entirety (the “Michael” she refers to in the essay is her husband, and “Evan” is their 27-year-old son).

by Nancy Lerman

Last week’s assignment was to write about one object we should give away but never will. That topic hit too close to home.

I am a packrat. My closets overflow with shoes, sweaters, books, linens and toiletries. A hoarder to the core, the thought of tossing puts me in a tizzy. Rather than write that essay, I played hooky. Yet deep in my unconscious the desire to let go simmered and stewed.

This week’s assignment is to write anything about the number nine. After a week of brooding I am ready. Grabbing a step-stool I begin the purge.

I’ll have nine in no time!

1. Frye boots, circa 2001. I’ve always loved these shortie boots even though I haven’t worn them in over a decade. They were comfy for the first few years but then my knees started throbbing after 15 minutes of wear. Evan’s girlfriend politely declined when I tried to give them to her six months ago. Back in the dusty shoebox they went. Until now. Gone.
2. Lemony-mustard-yellow Italian sling-back flats, circa 1988. These shoes’ surprisingly neutral color goes with virtually everything. Even so, I haven’t worn them in 20 years. (Five years ago I caved and parted with an identical pair in rosy-magenta.) I slip on the lemony flats. They’re still cozy. I’m giving them a test-wear while continuing to hunt for other give-aways.
3. My deceased mother-in-law’s beige Dockers khaki pants. Never in a million-years would I buy a pair of preppy Dockers. But Dee did. She died, but her pants still hang in my closet. Someday they’ll be perfect for an African safari or Amazon boat ride. I’m not planning on either trip. Even if I were, the 5’2” Dee hemmed all her pants. These Dockers are way too short for me. Gone.
4. Xeroxed flip-book of 12 recipes from our day at a cooking school in Saigon, Viet Nam. All 12 contain soy sauce, miso paste or hoisin. I’m allergic to soy. Gone.
5. The Guinness Book of World Records for 2001. This was a Chanukah gift for toddler Evan. Gone.
6. The Guinness Book of World Records for 2002. The 2002 book has a pre-holographic snazzy cover, very avant-guard for the time. Neither book has been touched since 2003. Gone.

I’m exhausted. Time for a snack. Prowling through my cupboard I unearth an unopened box of chocolate-mint-girl-scout cookies. Expiration, 2010. A tin of chocolate covered pretzels. Expiration, 2009. A Christmas mixed nut assortment, Expiration 1999. Gone. Gone. Gone.

These lemony-mustard-yellow sling-backs are keepers. I slip them off and the soles of my feet are covered with a white gooey substance. Shoving my footsies under the faucet doesn’t help.

“The lining is sticking to you,” Michael cackles and hands me a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I scrub for 10 minutes. Finally, the white is gone. So are the shoes.

Another stellar assignment from Beth!

My husband Mike Knezovich and I have written posts about our writer friend Jean Thompson many times before – everything from the one I wrote about how she introduced herself to me decades ago from the barstool next to mine at Champaign’s Esquire Lounge to the one Mike wrote after Who Do You Love? (One of her collections of short stories) was nominated for a National Book Award.

Jean was in Chicago for the Printer’s Row Lit Fest last weekend. Her session was scheduled at the same time as the memorial service Mike mentioned in his Mondays with Mike post earlier this week so we didn’t go to hear her panel. Lorraine Schmall to the rescue! Lorraine is a writer in the weekly memoir class I lead in Printers Row. She went to Jean’s panel at the Lit Fest and reports in here for our Safe & Sound blog readers. Here’s Lorraine’s guest post:

By Lorraine Schmall

If you haven’t made it to Lit Fest, a/k/a The Printer’s Row Book Fair, mark it on your calendars for next year. This pageant of poetry and prose has been around since 1985, and it’s really fun.

From left to right, Julia Keller, Jean Thompson, and Vu Tran.

The crowd is happy because vendors give away a myriad of free shopping bags and sunglasses. There are a million gorgeous books, and they’re all on sale. There are writers hawking their work, and young optimists handing out pins that say “every poem is a revolution.” There’s food and drink. There are high-class live events featuring the two hundred some invited authors, like movie star Ethan Hawke, Gourmet Mag Editor Ruth Reichl, astronaut Buzz Aldrin, and Pulitzer Prize-Winning poet Tracy K. Smith.

It was ninety degrees all day Saturday but the streets were packed, and the bars were crowded: nothing like a short story and a Sangria.

I started my day with a session called “Do We Ever Escape the Past?” an intriguing question, but one left unanswered. The panel of superstar authors with Chicago connections chose to talk more about their art than psychology. But it was worthwhile, nonetheless.

Jean Thompson lives in Urbana and teaches at the U of I. She Poured out Her Heart is her twelfth book. She shared a dais with Julia Keller, a West-Virginia transplant who’s got a condo in Chicago, six best-selling books under her belt, and a Pulitzer Prize for writing (as a reporter for the Chicago Tribune) a “gripping, meticulously reconstructed account of a deadly 10-second tornado” near Starved Rock State Park. I remember the stories and got scared again just reading that in her bio.

Joining them was Vu Tran, born in war-scarred Viet Nam shortly after his father was airlifted out with the U.S. troops as Saigon fell. Vu is now a University of Chicago professor who has written a noir crime thriller featuring 1970’s Vietnamese refugees and an insider’s look at Las Vegas.

They were a stellar panel, all three with books positively reviewed in the New York Times, so they had a prestigious time slot –late morning — and a plush address: the Shedd Room at the Blake Hotel (many other authors had to carry on under tents in the mind-bending heat).

It was a fast hour and a half, listening to them. Funny Jean told us “It’s so much easier to write about bad sex than good sex. Everybody’s had that.” When asked if she starts her books with a plan, she said her characters created themselves. “This time I really wanted to write about higher love. But every day life and ordinary people got in the way.”

Jean’s biggest fan, humorist David Sedaris, claims “no one is beneath her interest…or beyond her reach.” I can’t wait to read her books.

It was exciting to meet Vu Tran, since I just came back from a visit to Viet Nam with my daughter. I assume his book will never be sold in his native country, which regulates speech and art as strictly as a red light camera controls us scofflaws. He said his first novel Dragonfish had a life of its own. “I didn’t know the ending until a week before I turned it into the publisher.” Not surprisingly, this brainy academic said all his characters suffer from a great deal of anxiety, like their creator. “That’s tough for them, but great for me because it’s fascinating to write about.”

Besides his neuroses, was anything else from his past in the book? “I was in a bad relationship at the time. All that menace and anxiety fell onto the pages of my book.”

Julia Keller, a television and radio commentator, was an upbeat moderator, who is happy that people write, read, and love books. “Print is back!” she crowed. She ended the session by quoting Phil Ochs, when she ruminated about why anybody would try to write at a time in history when all hell seems to be breaking loose: “In a time of such ugliness, the true protest is beauty.”

A group of handsome guys with British accents met me for coffee Sunday morning. The rendezvous came after Neale Minch, a longtime friend from my days working at the University of Illinois Study Abroad Office, emailed me the night before.

The British Invasion: From L to R: Neale Minch, Michael Selbie, and Julian Hamilton-Peach.

“I am in apartment in Chicago (55 East Washington) with Mike Selbie and Julian Hamilton-Peach. You quickly came up in the conversation. Are you available to hook up some time this weekend – even if only briefly?” Neale reads this blog (hi, Neale!) and that’s how he knew how to contact me. I was tired from a very busy weekend, but I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity. I hadn’t been with these guys for thirty years or more, and I was flattered they remembered me.

Some background: Before I lost my sight I was the Assistant Director at the University of Illinois Study Abroad Office. I helped college students who wanted to study overseas and arranged housing and other details for students from Britain who were spending a year at the U of I. The job entailed talking with students, checking out what programs might work for them, phoning different college departments or other universities to arrange for the transfer of college credits. I was sure I’d be able to perform these tasks without being able to see.

My boss, however, was equally sure I could not.

I tried proving her wrong. At first I didn’t use a white cane or a dog. I quit driving or riding my bike, but I could still see well enough to walk to work with a walking cane (Mike and I happened to have bought one as a souvenir during our honeymoon in Scotland months before, when I could still see perfectly well).

As my eyesight got worse, I started making mistakes in the office. One morning I spilled grounds all over the floor on my way to make the morning coffee. I sat inches away from my computer screen to see the words. I ran into tabletops. At one point my boss took me aside and told me I wouldn’t be going to the annual convention with my colleagues that year. “You’ll embarrass the office,” she said.

By the end of that year, I had lost my sight completely. The Americans with Disabilities Act had not been passed yet. My contract was terminated.

I usually remember that time as one long sad year, but Sunday’s short hour with these guys has me thinking differently. Julian is originally from Wales. He was an engineering student in Britain, but he reminded me Sunday that when he was at the University of Illinois he was able to take classes in the humanities along with engineering. “I even took dancing” he laughed.

Neale studied at the University of Sterling in Scotland, and his time at the University of Illinois was his first trip to America. Sunday morning he told us how he’d spent his first weekend in America at a house in the Chicago suburbs, where he asked if he could try their lawn mower. Once he got started cutting the lawn the father there rounded up all his neighbors. “Look!” he said, pointing at Neale. “We have a new English caretaker.”

Mike Selbie told me he’d arrived in Champaign-Urbana from University College London with nowhere to stay. “You’re the one who worked out my housing for me, Beth,” he said. Once he named the address — 801 Main — it all rushed back. I pictured the house perfectly.

Julian lives in Cambodia now, Mike is in Australia, and Neale lives in Colorado here in the United States. Last weekend was the first time they’d all been together in 30 years, and they chose Chicago because the America’s Cup World Series sailing event was here last weekend.

We had a lot of laughs Sunday morning, and hearing their stories has helped me picture that year more clearly, too. With all its challenges, we all had a lot of fun. Before I left, Neale pointed out they were all wearing the same shirt. “It’s not a t-shirt,” he said. “It’s a proper shirt, with buttons.” Neale had complimented Julian’s shirt when they arrived, and when Julian said he’d bought it at Macy’s, they all decided to head to the State Street store to buy one, too.

“We checked out of the hotel today and the woman behind the desk asked us if we were a band!” Neale laughed. Sure enough, a woman at the coffee shop came up as we were leaving to ask the same question. In many ways, they were.

Their American friend Stu was with them, too, and they all followed me out the door to see how Whitney works to guide me down the sidewalk. Once we got to Michigan Avenue, we stopped so I could hug them each goodbye. I wondered later what passers-by must have thought, seeing this woman with her Seeing Eye dog hugging the band members and waving goodbye. I hope they decided I must be their agent.

We get horrified. We get sad. We get voyeuristic—we want the details. We get angry. We want this never to happen again. We blame. It goes away. And it happens again.

We’re doing something wrong. That’s what I know for sure. I have opinions about that, but everybody does right about now; it just sort of stinks to get on a soapbox right at the moment. I think it probably matters more to talk about all this a couple months from now.

So instead, here’s how my gift of a weekend went.

It began with catching parts of various eulogies from various bigwigs for Muhammad Ali. Ali—along with Dr. Martin Luther King—opened my eyes about race when I was a boy living in an all-white suburb that was populated by a lot of people who’d moved from Chicago during white flight. The phenomenon that was Ali made me begin to reckon with a lot of stuff—primarily that counter to comfortable wishful thinking, the Civil War hadn’t put the evil of slavery or racism behind us. More generally, it taught me that at any given time, things aren’t really as they appear. I also learned about great resolve and courage in the face of a veritable mob of angry, hateful people.

I’m grateful, and the better for, having lived in Ali’s times.

Beth and her cousin Randy comparing notes over coffee at a birthday party for Randy’s father, June 7, 1992.

Saturday, Beth and I drove to the suburbs for a memorial service for her cousin Randy, who died this past February at the age of 61. There were no bigwigs speaking, just loving brothers with poignant and brief memories. And Randy’s former husband and lifelong friend, Mark. I knew and liked Randy for a variety of reasons—one being that he, like Beth, was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes as a child. They experienced a lot of the same stuff—including the early death predictions by physicians with the bedside manner of frogs. They had an important bond. (In the end, it was pancreatic cancer that did Randy in.)

But I learned a lot about Randy and his family at the service. For one, that his family—at a time when such things were not openly accepted—recognized and accepted Randy’s sexuality pretty early on. Which probably had a lot to do with what his partner Mark talked about—that Randy had helped Mark accept himself. I got the distinct feeling that the support Randy got from his family was a gift he passed along to Mark.

The Fat Babies cooking at Honky Tonk Barbecue. Photo: Bev Miller.

Sunday night Beth, her sisters Marilee and Bev (in town for the memorial) and I went to Honky Tonk Barbeque in the Pilsen neighborhood to see The Fat Babies. I’m not a big traditional jazz fan. (In bygone days it was called Dixieland.) But these guys are something else. For one, they’re young by tradjazz standards, for another, they’re just fantastic musicians. And they draw a young crowd that dresses and dances the part. It’s a happy, celebratory scene every Sunday evening. And it’s … free!

I’m surely not going to ignore what happened Sunday. I couldn’t really, even if I tried. But I can’t help but feel that the way we have learned to react to these things in some way feeds them.

And so, what I’ll remember most about this weekend are Muhammad Ali, Randy Moos, and The Fat Babies.