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.

Today’s guest blogger, Bridget Hayman.

Disclaimer: Today’s Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger, Bridget Hayman, is not a senior. One of the Zoom memoir-writing classes I lead on Thursday afternoons is open to writers of all ages. Bridget is the Director of Communications at Access Living (a leading force in Chicago’s disability advocacy community) and is using her lunch and taking PTO time to attend class while working from home these days.

Tomorrow, July 26, 2020 is the 30^th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act. Bridget has cerebral palsy – she has been disabled her entire life, and the essay she came back with is a great example of how the ADA made many positive changes for people with disabilities but leaves room for improvement.

When I Became an Adult

by Bridget Hayman

Accepting an internship in Chicago was just my beautiful pipe dream…until my Grandpa turned it into a feasible reality. “I called all of the taxi companies,” he said with a glint in his eye, casually handing me a thick envelope of $10 bills. “That’s the exact amount of money you’ll need to take a cab to and from work everyday.”

I stared at him, openmouthed. I’d just turned 21 and had never seen so much money in one place, let alone in my hand.

And so, there on my grandparents porch in Denver, my plans for a summer in Chicago suddenly solidified. Grandpa then added one more tidbit. “I almost forgot,” he said with a sly smile. “I found out there are more affordable ways for you to get around the city, too. Either way, the cash is yours.”

A month later, I was sitting on the corner of Dearborn and North Avenue with my arm in the air and unwelcome tears stinging my eyes. I sat alone, exposed and invisible, watching the taillights of another taxi pass me by — the 8th one to do so that morning. Damn. I’d be late for my 9 a.m. for sure. I probably should have just stayed home in Denver.

When I’d first arrived in Chicago a week earlier, a cabbie named Frank picked me up and told me what was quickly becoming a familiar truth. “Most cabbies won’t stop for you, they won’t touch your wheelchair,” he warned, passing me a card through the partition with his cell phone number scrawled on the back. “Next time you need a ride, you call me directly.” I’d already called Frank that morning. He wasn’t available. Same with Abdul, Jamal and Samir.

So, I headed out to hail a cab. And still, there I sat.

Ahh, hell.

It was getting later and later. Maybe I could wheel to work? No… not with the missing curb cuts and broken sidewalks along LaSalle Street.

That’s when I spotted the bus stop on the opposite corner. Could I take the bus? I’d heard it was accessible, but I hadn’t found the courage to try it.

A woman standing by the sign smiled when I pulled in next to her. “Give up on getting a cab?” She asked.

I nodded.

She paused.

“Ummm … have you taken the bus before?”

Oh my God. Was it that obvious? “No,” I conceded. “Does this one go to the Loop?”

My new friend assured me it did. When the bus arrived, she watched me get on the lift — It folded out from the stairs! — and showed me how to pay for my ride. Only $1.25! “It’s her first time on the bus!” She announced to everyone.

Ugh.

The driver showed me how to hook in my wheelchair and looked pointedly at me in the rearview when we got to my stop. The office was a short block away, no streets to cross, no curb cuts necessary. I made it to my 9 a.m. right on time.

I was an adult, after all.

More players in the outfield than in the bleachers.

Last night, I watched the White Sox beat the Cubs in an exhibition game, part of the teams’ preparation for a truncated season. That season will be 60 games, if they’re lucky enough to finish; a normal season is 162 games.

There were no drunken brawls between the contentious fan bases in the stands, because there were no fans. Foul balls that reached the seats just bounced around.

The game was played at Wrigley Field, but the announcers we chose to watch sat in a booth at White Sox park and called the game from screens. Crowd noise was piped in through the PA system at Wrigley so the players and the viewers could hear it. Many players sat in stadium seats just behind the dugout to avoid crowding to keep them all spaced at safe distance. The organ played, but I don’t know if it was live or pre-recorded bursts.

On the one hand it was completely, utterly, weird. On the other hand, a great pitch looked like it always has, and so did a home run.

Though I still have mixed feelings about the endeavor—trying this hard for normalcy in abnormal times makes me dizzy—I’ll confess, I found it glorious.

Without most all the trappings associated with a typical MLB game and broadcast, I was delighted that the game remains the game. Jason Benetti and Steve Stone, the White Sox announcers, were so ecstatic about being back in the game that the weirdness took a back seat. (Benetti is practiced in remote baseball broadcasting—he’s been calling Korean games from home in the wee hours of the morning for a couple months now for ESPN.)

I don’t know how long it’ll last. They haven’t played a single real game yet. There has been no travel. The whole thing is fraught. And I hope no one suffers for the effort. I wouldn’t wish covid on my worst enemy (OK, there is one exception).

But for one night, baseball.

Also, did I mention? The White Sox beat the Cubs, 7-3.

Today’s guest blogger Gabriela Freese, pictured here with her 16-year-old granddaughter, Nina.

I am pleased to feature Gabriela Freese as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. Her parents immigrated from Germany to South America; she and her twin sister were born and raised in Paraguay, and Gabriela immigrated to Chicago in 1959, where she met her future husband, a German immigrant.

After receiving a degree in denistry from Loyola University, Gabriela had a practice in Oak Park, home to the world’s largest collection of Frank Lloyd Wright designed buildings. How better to embrace America than to purchase a home designed by FLW? They did exactly that, raised their children in that home, and after retiring, Gabriela moved to Admiral at the Lake in Chicago. She’s been a writer in the memoir class I lead there ever since the class started, and she continues to participate now as we meet via Zoom.

The Window

By Gabriela Freese

Looking into a chocolate store window, nose pressed against the glass…as a little girl I’d imagined smelling some of that haunting aroma. And tasting it, too! Intense moments like that have a way of resurfacing every off and on, and this time it resurfaced as a simile of what I’ve experienced in the last few months. The shut-down began in March. Not really an ideal time of the year to be outside, so the first few weeks sheltering in place were rather welcome. My usual activities cancelled, days were wide open for me to decide how to fill them.

I began by sewing fabric masks, using material donated by the quilters in our building. New regulations for all residents at The Admiral — and our workers, caregivers and staff, too — required lots of masks, so I sewed on and on.

After about 120 masks I decided to diversify. I put away the sewing machine and decluttered my files instead. My to-do list was shrinking. I felt so accomplished!

However, by the time I started yet another cross stitch project, the days started getting longer, we had a bit more sunshine, the ‘nose pressed against the window’ feeling became more acute.

On my daily walk I checked for tiny green shoots on bushes, on trees. I remembered how many ginkgo trees were along each path (those are my favorite trees). The smell of warm earth was as good as that of chocolate. I greeted even the weeds.

Slowly I exchanged winter coats for lighter coats. The walks got longer, and, indeed, one day little green things appeared everywhere, as if on cue.

What a joy to see that normal things were still happening at this time of pandemic illness. Not only that, the little shoots had turned into beautiful leaves, into flowers, into beacons of color and growth — to the point where they now need to be trimmed. This recurring phenomenon that nature puts on for us is what we see through the window of our choice. Of course we cannot see COVID 19 – the virus itself is invisible, So all wee see is the devastation it causes. But pausing to look for something that lifts our spirits can help us come out the other side. All we need do is choose our window and…start looking.

Joe Segal founded what morphed into Jazz Showcase in 1947. He was also named 2015 Jazz Master by the National Endowment for the Arts.

Awhile back I wrote about an especially kind musical instrument maker and repairer. The short of it was, after a valiant effort to repair my upright bass, the effort failed. He kindly agreed to take it off my hands and save me lugging it back upstairs, and he even refunded, in full, the repair fee I’d paid.

“I’d like to pay you something,” I said.

“No, keep it,” he insisted. “When you can, use it to go out and hear live music.”

Last Thursday night, we did just that.

Of all the local businesses that have been hit by covid, we most dreaded that Jazz Showcase, a Chicago institution, would not reopen. The Showcase has lost leases and moved several times over several decades. We feared that covid might be too much.

But Beth got an email last week: They would open. With live music. Dee Alexander, another local institution, would appear with a trio.

Advance reservations only. Temperatures taken at the door. Mandatory masks. Six feet. You know the drill, and if you don’t, I don’t want to know you.

The place seats enough people that it was easy for them to simply use table tent signs to indicate what tables were off limits. It was day one, and we were among a total of maybe 15 people. It was good to see Wayne Segal, founder Joe Segal’s son who now runs the place, as well as the still familiar crew.

We felt completely safe, and we kept masks on except when we were sipping while we listened.

As the saying goes, this group had not missed a beat. It was as if there was no layoff. It was their first time in front of people in forever and clearly, they loved it as much as we did.

We have a really nice stereo system, and we love our CD collection. But in the first 30 seconds, we got the glorious reminder that nothing’s like live music.

Let’s all behave so we can see some more.