On the last day of January, Beth and I finally made it to see blues guitarist Buddy Guy play at his eponymous club. I say finally, because we’ve lived roughly three blocks away for 12 years, and we’ve been to Buddy Guy’s Legends, but we’d never seen the man himself play at his own place.

Hanni just turned sweet 16.

Well, we had seen him play, but only at a big outdoor venue. But every January — every night, all month, Buddy Guy and his band play at his club. It’s a kind of residency. And hearing him in a venue like that is different. Tickets go fast, and people line up at noon to get good seats (it’s all general admission). Beth and I weren’t up to such a vigil, so we took our chances and ended up with standing room space.

Which was just fine, because who wants to sit still, anyway? Going on 80 years old, he can still play one-of-a-kind riffs, and he can sing, and he’s a great showman. All I could say afterward was, “I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

And then this past weekend we were treated by our generous friends Jim and Kathy Zartman (octogenarians themselves) to a special performance by Erwin Helfer and friends. Kathy’s a student in one of Beth’s memoir classes, and her husband Jim is kind enough to drive Beth to and from class. About Erwin Helfer: He’s an accomplished blues/boogie woogie/jazz pianist who’s something of an icon here in Chicago. The performance, at the Old Town School of Folk Music, was in celebration of his 80^th birthday. It was a pretty wonderful night all around, as this account in the Chicago Tribune makes clear.

And then, down in Urbana, Hanni the retired wonder dog just turned 16. Her human companions, Nancy and Steven, celebrated by treating her to fried eggs for breakfast and then took her out to a local forest preserve where she likes to run. And run. And run.

Sometimes I don’t much like this getting older stuff. It’s not about the so-called milestone numbers, it’s more the aches and pains, the little diminishments that are just part of the deal. But to Buddy, Kathy, Jim, Erwin and Hanni—thank you for providing proof that life not only goes on, it can go on with style and grace.

I think I’ll go fry myself an egg.

All four of the memoir-writing classes I lead for Chicago senior citizens are in full swing again. Their first assignment? 1966.

93-year-old Wanda Bridgeforth piped up immediately after hearing the prompt. “That was a great year!” She came back the next week with an essay about her daughter, Wanda, Jr. getting married in 1966. “I inherited a wonderful son-in-law, and after Junior left, I inherited her bedroom, too.” She transformed Junior’s bedroom into a sewing room. Wanda turned 44 years old in 1966, and it was the first time in her life she ever, ever had her own room.

That’s Wanda from way back on her 90th. Photo courtesy Darlene Schweitzer.

Writers in the memoir-writing classes I lead span from 61 years old to 93 years old, and this writing prompt betrayed their ages. Michael Graff, one of the youngest writers in my classes, was only 12 in 1966 and wrote about attending his first boy-girl party that year. “The purpose was for boys and girls to get together in a setting where they weren’t hostile toward each other,” he wrote. “At age 12 there were no real relationships, no sexual conquests, and no truly broken hearts. What was most important was being on the invitation list.”

Most of the boy-girl party invitations were sent by mail. “However, a select group of girls, the crueler ones, came to school with stacks of envelopes to hand out,” he wrote. “Some did it with subtlety, but some did it with drama of a starlet handing out Oscars at the Academy Awards.”

Of all the boy-girl parties in 1966, young Michael was only invited to one. “I told myself it didn’t matter.” Michael’s essay ends with a description of party nights at home watching ‘Get Smart” on TV, playing with his Aurora race car set or sorting his coin collection. “The best revenge is living well.”

1966 was the first year tobacco companies had to print the Surgeon General’s warning on packs of cigarettes, and many writers mentioned smoking in their essays. Mary Lou Wade was pregnant that year and wrote about spending Memorial Day with her sister. “We lazed on the patio smoking Pall Malls and sipping weak gin and tonics,” she wrote. “1966 was before warnings of the damage of fetal alcohol syndrome, or if it existed, I didn’t heed it.”

Her healthy son was born on a memorable day: 6/6/66. “Even now when the date comes up, people comment of the sign of the devil,” she wrote. “Brendan is a successful artist now, and he shows no sign of the demonic traits.”

Lyndon Johnson was president in 1966, and the Vietnam War was escalating. None of the writers in my classes had served, but some had friends or family members who’d been drafted. One writer traveled to D.C. in 1966 to demonstrate against the war, and another wrote of joining the new organization Betty Friedan had founded that year: National Organization for Women (NOW). Her essay explained how that led to her involvement in the Chicago chapter of the National Black Feminist Organization years later.

Regan Burke was fighting against the war — and in favor of civil rights  —  in 1966, too. She wrote about meeting and marrying car enthusiast Jim Kelly, the father of her son Joe, that year and what ensued afterwards. “One weekend in March, Kelly drove to Florida with my mother’s boyfriend, Harry, for the annual Sebring 12-hour race that was the U.S. equivalent of France’s LeMans Grand Prix,” she wrote.  “Baby Joe and I stayed home to help salvage the 1968 Eugene McCarthy presidential campaign. We roared down the highway in the gas-guzzling Austin Healy to Trenton, where I hoisted Joe into a backpack and joined McCarthy volunteers to knock on doors.”

Judy Roth got married in 1966, too, and her account of their honeymoon in Europe was a beautiful confirmation that love can truly be better the second time around. “We had a fine time except for the flight to England during which I sobbed much of the way, sure that I’d made a mistake getting married only fourteen months after my divorce,” she wrote. “I got over it by the time we landed and didn’t look back for 43 wonderful years.”

You think you know a person. And then you watch a documentary.

So it was when I sat down on the couch to watch the latest edition of PBS’ American Masters series, this on a guy who’s one of the greatest filmmakers of our time—Mike Nichols.

Now, I knew he was good. I just didn’t realize how good. It’s hard to say that he flew under the radar. He was famous. Rich. And married to Dianne Sawyer. But the body of his work is just incredible.

It’s also worth noting that his is still another story of immigrant-makes-good in the United States. He and his family immigrated to New York City from Nazi-era Berlin, thankfully, while, they still could.

He ended up studying at the University of Chicago, where he met the likes of Susan Sontag. And Elaine May (who directed this documentary), of course, with whom he developed an enormously successful comedy partnership—the two were also part of what became Second City.

That’s pretty good right there, in my book. But, he eventually was asked to direct a play, and the rest, as they say, was history. The first play? “Barefoot in the Park.”

His first movie? “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” Think about that. Hello, Elizabeth and Richard, thank you for joining me on my debut. (And if somehow you’ve never watched it, shame on you and add it to your queue).

His second movie: “The Graduate.” Think about that.

Plus, in his interviews for the documentary, he’s just charming, insightful, doesn’t take himself too seriously, and is just one of those people I’d give anything to have been around. (I especially liked his take on how the French view American film; I believe the word “frogified” was used.)

It’s really worth the watch. The PBS site indicates the hour-long film will be online through February (though as of this writing, the sites seems to be down). But I believe it’ll continue to be aired on local stations during that time, also.

In the meantime, I’ll leave you with the list of films that he directed:

2007            Charlie Wilson’s War

2004            Closer

2003            Angels in America (TV Mini-Series) (2 episodes)

2001            Wit (TV Movie)

2000            What Planet Are You From?

1998            Primary Colors

1996            The Birdcage

1994            Wolf

1991            Regarding Henry

1990            Postcards from the Edge

1988            Working Girl

1988            Biloxi Blues

1986            Heartburn

1983            Silkwood

1980            Gilda Live (Documentary)

1975            The Fortune

1973            The Day of the Dolphin

1971            Carnal Knowledge

1970            Catch-22

1968            Teach Me! (Short)

1967            The Graduate

1966            Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

P.S. Oh yeah, there are also the theater credits:

Hi folks, it’s Mike–introducing a guest blog of sorts. It’s actually a blog converted from an email message from our remarkable friend Steve Ferkau. Steve is, well, one of a kind. In the best possible way. 2016 marks the 14th year in a row Steve will climb to the top of the John Hancock Center (94 floors, 1,632 steps). No small feat for a guy once on the verge of death from cystic fibrosis, who is now a double lung and kidney transplant survivor!

Breathin’ Steven always makes it to the top. And raises money for a very good cause.

He had to take an unwelcome break from his workout routine last week when he caught a viral infection. It’s the kind of virus that a non-transplant person wouldn’t have to worry about–but Steve does. He was prescribed prednisone. I’ve  taken prednisone for really bad sinus infections in the past. And I’m not ashamed to say–I kinda liked it. Lotsa energy, sort of felt invincible. One time when I picked up a prednisone prescription, I noticed that among the many side effects listed on the label was this: False sense of well-being. Bring it on!

When I learned Steve was on prednisone, I emailed him to ask how he was doing, and to compare notes about how it affects him. And this is what he wrote back. He did not disappoint. Apart from being funny, it provides a little window on what transplant survivors have to endure. Hope you enjoy.

False Sense of Well Being
by Steve Ferkau

Agreed on the false sense of well being!!! It’s a very dirty drug – and actually rather awesome for transplant and immune suppression / immune confusion. But it can make people angry, depressed, grow hair, lose hair, hyper, jittery, F**KING TALKATIVE, high blood sugar / diabetic, cataracts, osteoporosis, the list goes on…. It’s a corticosteroid, not an anabolic steroid — your body actually naturally produces it to battle inflammation. Our bodies, even when they’re failing miserably, are totally amazing biological machines.

Laura LOVED that I was cooking, cleaning, cleaning more — she could get used to that. Not the constant chatter though – a dose of shut-the-f**k-up would sound delightful to her if someone could slip that into my drink.

At work I was yabbling away at the building concierge working out some fundraising thang — and explaining to her how the high doses of prednisone impact me — as she could readily observe by my lips moving in a blur.  As we were standing in front of the barrista I ordered 4 shots of espresso. You would have LOVED the look on her face. Like, ARE YOU F**KING KIDDING ME??? And pleading with her eyes, “Can that possibly be the right thing to do at this moment???”

Well… I had the last elevated dose this morning — so the fun stops now. Or, at least the accelerated fun.

I see the doc tomorrow regarding RSV status… I may not be out of th woods — it can impact lung transplants dangerously and if the $500-for-ten-days-drug they gave me ain’t cutting it, they’ll wanna get more aggressive. Viruses suck — oral antivirals are a bit of a joke — VERY expensive and quite ineffective… But even IV and other antivirals are a crap shoot at best. Again — the most effective thing is your body rising to the occasion. But then you just hope immunity thangs don’t suddenly go the route of, “and you may ask yourself, this is not my beautiful wife, and this is not my beautiful house, and these are not my beautiful lungs, and this is not my beautiful kidney…”.

I’ve been through seemingly WAY more serious things than this — but in reality, they’re not. It’s these seemingly little things that scare me.

Hope you’re doing great!!! I’ve got an amazing team behind me.

This year’s hustle is just four weeks away: Sunday, February 28. You can read more about Steve and donate to his Climbing for Kari team on his web site. Please read his story, and the story of his donors–it’s remarkable. 

I wrote here last month about my friend (and baseball organist) Nancy Faust donating her home practice organ to an auction benefiting Chicago White Sox Charities. Boston Red Sox organist Josh Kantor placed the winning bid on the Hammond Elegante Model 340100, and earlier this month a slew of his Chicago musician friends picked up a rental van in Chicago to deliver it to Kantor in Boston.

The organ juuusssst barely fit in the van.

The musicians took a pit stop at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown along the way, and a story in the Chicago Reader this month reported that the trip almost didn’t happen at all: They measured ahead of time, but when they got the rental van, the organ didn’t fit. “The crew managed to Tetris it inside,” the story said. Singer Kelly Hogan was on the moving crew and told the reporter that the musicians who drove the organ to Boston all have many, many miles in band vans between them, and that it was “pretty normal” to be resting her arm on an organ as they were traveling.

The story said Josh Kantor was overwhelmed by the scores of people who called and e-mailed and texted him asking what they could do to help get the organ to his home in Boston. “A friend sawed a metal railing off the entrance of Kantor’s house so the organ could be moved inside,” the story said. “Another donated a Nancy Faust bobblehead, which became a focal point of videos documenting the trek.”

Nancy was vacationing with her husband Joe in the Southwest while the organ transplant took place, but she emailed me a few times to send clips of stories and interviews with Josh Kantor about his new musical Instrument. “Here is a link to this morning’s interview on 670 the score with Josh Kantor who bought the organ,” one note read.  “What a gracious guy. The ballpark has enabled me to meet the nicest people.”

Nancy sent me the Chicago Reader article I’ve been quoting in this blog post, too, along with another note. “Hi Beth, This is a rather long, very inclusive account from today’s Reader about my ‘organ transplant,’” she wrote. “Josh Kantor has been far too kind but hopefully gained the best memories, friendship bonds, and the Red Sox recognition from the whole adventure. Love, Nancy.”

Me and Mike with Nancy Faust at the Green Mill awhile back. Nancy showed Mike her World Series ring.

The Nancy Faust-Josh Kantor mutual admiration society was formed when Kantor was hired as Red Sox organist in 2003. Over drinks and Hammond B3 music at the Green Mill in Chicago last month, Nancy told me how Josh flew to Chicago to see her when he got that job at Fenway. “He spent the day with me,” she said, and that story in the Chicago Reader quotes Kantor saying, “That was one of my favorite days ever!”

Kantor told the reporter that during that visit, among other things, Nancy urged him to keep updating his repertoire. “If you want to do this for a long time and not turn into a dinosaur like a lot of other organists have, keep learning new songs.” More from the Chicago Reader story:

His fascination with her process helps explain why he was so interested in purchasing this particular organ. “To me, the organ that was in her home for 35 years, that was her practice instrument, was as interesting—if not more interesting—because that was the lab instrument, basically. That was where she did all her homework,” he says, laughing. “That was where she concocted all her genius.”

Baseball organists are a dying breed – MLB reports fewer than a dozen ballparks still hire organists, and many of the musicians are only allowed to play a few times throughout the game and “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” in the seventh inning. The Chicago Reader story called Kantor one of the “most vocal proponents of organ music and its role in baseball,” and it sounds to me like he’s doing a great job. He couldn’t help but notice how open and accessible Nancy Faust was to fans at White Sox Park, and he said he tries to do the same, with a modern twist: He takes song requests via Twitter (@jtkantor) at Fenway.