Our flight from O’Hare to Washington, DC was cancelled Friday afternoon, but after re-booking and enduring Two additional flight delays, we finally arrived in DC at midnight.

Nine hours in an airport provides a couple with a lot of time to come up with great ideas about housekeeping, budgets, writing, Academy award nominees, work, Facebook, Hackney’s, Flo, the upcoming baseball season, the 2016 Presidential election, books, dog names, groceries, Fresh Air interviews, jazz music, bartenders, aquariums, business ideas, and…blogs!

And so, here’s the thing: Mike enjoys writing guest blog posts, and we get oodles of positive comments on my Safe & Sound blog when we publish his posts, so while sitting at Gate B19 with Seeing Eye dog Whitney lying patiently at our feet, we got to thinking, hey, why not have Mike Knezovich write a post once a week, and the decision was made. Starting February 3, 2014, readers can look forward to our Mondays with Mike segment every week on the Safe & Sound blog.

Before the feast: That’s Michael and Susie Bowers, Pick, and moi. Hank’s in the kitchen….

As for the weekend trip to visit our dear friends Pick an Hank in Washington, DC, the wait at O’Hare Friday was well worth it. Visits with Pick and Hank are always a joy, and the highlight of this one was dinner at their condo with mutual friends Mike and Susie Bowers. Hank prepared a fresh salad with homemade dressing, followed by scrumptious filet mignon with roasted brussel sprouts and beautiful russet baked potatoes. And then? Cheesecake for dessert. Pick provided musical entertainment, and if you link here you can hear me joining him for a blues number on the piano. It was as cold in DC as it was in Chicago over the weekend, but it’s amazing how much being with friends, and especially, playing music together, can warm the heart.

My loyal blog readers will remember the tribute to our dad that my sister Cheryl wrote as a guest post here a few months ago. She’s back today with this sweet essay about Flo on her 96th birthday.

Honey Girls

by Cheryl May

Last year we celebrated Mom’s 95th birthday on the 95th floor of the John Hancock Building in downtown Chicago. It was her first time there, and she still talks about that special celebration. This year she told us she didn’t want to do anything special. “It’s gonna be special already,” she said. “The new baby is due on my birthday!”

Well, Mom’s birthday gift was delivered a little early. Her 20th great-grandchild, Addison Rose, arrived on April 13th….and what a beautiful gift. So when we gathered for Mom’s 96th birthday yesterday we raised a glass or two — in celebration of both Mom’s and Addie’s birthday.

Our sister Bev drove in from Michigan and surprised Flo at the entrance of the restaurant, and our cousin Darrell stopped in, too. Mom marveled that her first birthday phone call that morning came at 7 a.m. “Seven in the morning!” she said, shaking her head in amazement every time she said it. “Can you believe that?”

What she couldn’t know then was that a string of phone calls would be waiting on her answering machine when we brought her back to her condo, culminating with a Liberace-style rendering of “Happy Birthday” from Pick and Hank in D.C. Pick at the grand piano, of course!

A neighbor at mom’s condo had decorated her door a la college dorm room days. “The sign said 95,” Mom said. “She got it wrong. I changed the five to a six.” Neighbors couldn’t help but notice the sign, and birthday cards started piling up under her door. “So many cards!” she beamed. She didn’t take a nap yesterday, so much going on and all. I don’t feel tired,” she assured us. “But I know I will once I sit down and put my feet up.”

Some of us can never remember the name of the “new” small restaurant we meet at across from the Elmhurst train station, so we just say, “you know, Honey Girl.” Heads nod, all of us remembering the clothes store that used to occupy that space when we were growing up. And today, it was the perfect name for the place we celebrated Florence Maria Martea Frederika and her new great-granddaughter Addie Rose: Honey Girl!

An NPR story called Obama: A New Force in Publishing describes how our president is helping authors sell books.

When he’s seen reading a book on a plane or carrying one in his hand during his travels, it can create a stir. When Obama was photographed holding Fred Kaplan’s Lincoln: The Biography of a Writer, the book’s sales bumped immediately, and requests for media interviews with the author surged.

Now, that’s the sort of surge I’d love to experience! So here’s my plan: I’m going to send a copy of Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound to the schools the Obama kids go to. Both Obama daughters attend Sidwell Friends School, but Sidwell’s lower school is in Bethesda, Maryland — that’s where Sasha attends second grade. Malia is in fifth grade, and that’s part of the middle school, located on the same campus as the high school in Northwest Washington.

I’ll send a letter along with each book, explaining the visits Hanni and I make to schools. I’ll tell them about our dear friends in Alexandria, Virginia. “We visit Pick and Hank a lot,” I’ll write.” Next time we’re in town, Hanni and I would love to come visit your students.” I suppose the Sidwell Friends School gets barraged with offers like this, but am hoping my letter might stand out:

• I live in Chicago, and that’s where the Obama girls are from.
• it’s rumored Melee and Sasha will be getting their new dog as an Easter present tomorrow, so dogs will be all the rage at the school.
• Because I can’t see, I won’t know which of the kids in the school are the Obamas. This means I won’t gawk.

I came up with this great idea (to send a book to Sidwell) months ago, when the Obamas first announced that the girls would be attending that school. But as Thomas Edison liked to say, “Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.” So far I haven’t worked up one bead of sweat composing the letter, much less addressing the envelopes or asking Hanni to guide me to the post office to slide the packets into the mail. Now that I’ve put this idea out to the public in this blog post, though, I have to do it, right?

My fantasy, of course, is that Sidwell asks Hanni & me to come. Malia and Sasha love our presentation so much that they take Safe & Sound home from the school library. Their dad greets them on the White House lawn when they return from school, and they hand the book over to him before receiving their hugs. Snap! Snap! Snap! The cameras start clicking, and next thing you know President Obama is pictured hugging his girls with one arm, the other arm hugging a copy of Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound. This could be bigger than…well…bigger than Oprah.

From the NPR story:

Perhaps, Seroy (Jeff Seroy, a publicist for the publisher Farrar, Straus and Giroux} likes to say — only half in jest — Obama will have the kind of influence on book sales that his supporter Oprah Winfrey has had.

“I think there’s room for two Oprahs, and I think if there is a new Oprah, Oprah will be happy that Obama is the new Oprah,”

On September 28 last year, Beth and I were in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, thanks to the generosity of her nephew Ben—who owns a sweet little condo right off the lake, and who let us take a break from downtown Chicago.

We got a call – our friend Brad had died after having seemingly survived lung cancer, only to have it roar back in multiple forms. Beth and I were scheduled to stay another night in Wisconsin, but after a very brief talk, we decided to head home to be with our friends, friends who had rallied around Brad to the very end. It was really no decision at all so much as a need.

I’d been working at my laptop at the breakfast bar, and when I stood from the stool to start packing to leave, I was frozen in excruciating pain. My lower right back and hip just radiated misery, and I couldn’t bear weight on my right leg. I remembered that the condo had a jacuzzi—Beth started the hot water and I more or less crawled to the tub. She found the switch for the jets, and I got in and curled up so that they fired on my back and hip.

It worked—I managed to get in the rental car and get us home, and we met our friends at the local watering hole where we’d hung out with Brad. It was therapeutic.

My back remained irksome—and I lost feeling in a couple toes and my foot flopped, so I saw my Dr. I had an MRI and got a call with the results—I had a herniated disc that was pushing on nerves. These nerves, the Dr. explained, controlled my leg, as well as my bodily functions, so I’d best see the spinal surgeon ASAP. Two weeks later, Beth and I sat in the specialist’s office. He showed me the images of my spine and my hoodlum disc. After some conversation, we decided I’d try physical therapy and then come back.

After two weeks, I was still limping, but my foot and leg were measurably stronger, so we stayed the course with PT and no surgery. It was a slog. I was restricted from lifting or any physical vigor. In our household, that required a lot of creativity. Beth has always been able to take the garbage to the chute just down the hall. But recycling requires navigating to the bins in our loading dock. Where there is recycling, there is a way. We got the communal cart that we typically use for groceries and big packages. Beth loaded the recycling bag, and I pulled the cart with Beth in tow. I guided us to the recycling bins, and Beth lifted and emptied the bags.

And so it went. I had groceries delivered and transferred them from a table in the lobby of our building to the cart by more or less tipping the bags over onto the cart. I unpacked the lightweight stuff and Beth took care of the rest.

Come Thanksgiving we ordered a fresh local turkey from our little market down the street. When it came in Beth brought her big backpack and I guided her and our turkey home. Beth put it in the fridge and when it came time to dry brine it, she lifted it out of the fridge and put it on the counter. When I was done, she returned it to the fridge.

On Thanksgiving day, she lifted it into the roasting pan. Together, we lowered the roasting pan into the oven—she grabbed one handle, I grabbed the other and I guided us onto the baking rack.

That’s also how we took it out—teamwork—and for the record, the turkey was fantastic (not dry) and also yielded some great broth.

And that’s how it was for several months. Together we applied the same kind of creativity that Beth and I had to find when she lost her sight nearly 40 years ago, the kind of ingenuity that Beth has to employ to navigate her life to this day.

On December 23 (Beth’s birthday and Festivus!) I had a routine skin check. I’ve had some pre-cancerous stuff removed in the past, so these checks have become a regular ritual. My regular dermatologist was on leave so I saw a different doc. She introduced herself and said, “Word on the street is you have a lot of moles.” Not exactly the reputation I’d cultivate but she wasn’t wrong.

Two spots were suspicious, and both were biopsied and I got stitched up and went home. A week later the results indicated one of the two areas was a real problem. The good news is it was caught early, the bad news is it sits in an awful spot—just above the knee on the inside of my thigh, where things bend.

I’ll save you the gory details save to say—they’re gory. I have a gazillion stitches that bark at me every time I move. They’re coming out Friday but it’ll be awhile before I can do stuff like exercise. This after finally being cleared for the treadmill after months of PT for my back.

And just to top things off, on Saturday, I was making room in the refrigerator to store a big old pot of sloppy Joe’s that I’d made for a neighborhood get-together Saturday night.

As I pushed stuff back on the left side of the shelf, a giant jar of pickles squirted out the right side and landed squarely on my barefoot right big toe. I screamed. Beth ran out of her office to find out what was wrong. I cursed. I iced.

I returned to our chaise lounge, which has been my nest for the past several week. Leg extended, ice pack on my stitches, and now, frozen peas on my toe. A thoroughly inglorious existence.

At this point I was pretty sure I’d skip the party and send the sloppy Joes with Beth and stay on the chaise where I could do no more harm. One of our friends, Steven, offered to drive me the two blocks and promised to take me back home whenever I needed to go.

Ultimately, I donned my sweats, and slippers (regular shoes were too painful for the toe) and Steven brought me door-to-door. I hobbled to a couch, our party host Ruth brought me an ice pad, and I roosted.

Our friend Jim brought me food, our friend Laura brought me beverages, and I had a great time, much better that I would’ve had moping on the chaise.

That very morning our friend Colleen had delivered a care package that included her world famous minestrone (along with some grated parmesan), frozen pesto, and fancy dried pasta. Beth had engineered her visit, which was a surprise, and I about cried. OK maybe I did a cry little bit.

I’ve had some very painful and low-spirited times in the past few weeks. Ultimately, they’ve left me humbled and more grateful for life than I’ve ever been.

I’m lucky because I have good health insurance. It would’ve been easy to avoid that skin check, and if I weren’t insured, there’s no doubt I would’ve skipped it or put it off. And that probably would’ve been it for me.

I’ve got kind, sharp-witted friends who are steps away, and who made me completely forget my stitches and my toe Saturday night.

And best of all, I have a beautiful and intrepid partner who can help me get a turkey in and out of the oven. What else do you need?

Happy New Year from our friends’ place in Urbana, Illinois!

Beth and I have been bathroom refugees since December 26. That is, we’re having our bathroom redone, and since we only have the one, we got outta Dodge while the work is being done.

Our adventure started with a staycation of sorts—I used credit card miles that piled up over the shutdown to book four nights at the Hotel Essex on Michigan Avenue about three blocks from home. The whole thing kind of flummoxed Luna at first. Where they usually made a right, Beth commanded her to make a left, and they zigged where they usually zagged. But it was pretty terrific. The hotel was right across from the Hilton, where Beth swims, so that was convenient. (We would’ve stayed at the Hilton, but I didn’t have enough miles.)

Here’s to a prosperous and happy 2023!

Plus, the hotel restaurant had a great happy hour, so we invited friends from the hood to join us at ourswank new digs.

On Friday, a generous friend loaned us her car and we drove south to Urbana to visit our friends Steven and Nancy, who were Hanni’s people after she retired. We also saw my nephew Aaron and his children and his fiancé.

We ate great Chinese takeout, and yesterday, I whipped up the best batch of black-eye peas and collards I’ve ever whipped up.

It’s been swell.

Eating black-eye peas and collards is a Southern tradition that is believed to bring good luck and good fortune (literally). I learned about that tradition decades ago from my friend Pick, who grew up in Virginia.

Driving around Urbana-Champaign always is sort of paradoxical—our former long-time hometown feels totally familiar, but what with the new high-rises, campus buildings, and new restaurants and shops I’m not familiar with, I feel like a ghost.

But overall, it’s pretty wonderful, and I’m at a point in life where what familiar things remain trigger an avalanche of memories. Which trigger other memories (like eating black eye peas and collards with Pick.)

The past year has been paradoxical, too. My work is meaningful and the non-profit organization I work for is thriving. Beth is going strong, as she posted just last week. We’re mostly healthy (but for a herniated disc that is steadily improving thanks to my physical therapist.)

But there was loss, a lot of it. There was our friend and neighbor Janet, Beth’s niece Stacie (not all that long after the premature loss of her nephew Robbie), my Urbana friend Barry, the irascible and inimitable Brad, Flavio of Printers Row Wine, and the regal, one-and-only Wanda Bridgeforth.

A couple of these losses are felt more intimately—because of the frequency with which we saw them and their proximity, I keep expecting to run into Janet and Brad when Beth and I stroll around the neighborhood. I can recall their gaits; I’d recognize their silhouettes as I squinted to see them approach from down the street. Every once in awhile I think I see them.

When Beth and I experience a loss, our friend Hank, of Jewish heritage, always sends the most comforting of thoughts: May their memory be a blessing.

Their memories are indeed blessings. As was the good fortune of knowing them.

Here’s to a safe, healthy, and happy 2023.