Beth’s in Florida, sitting at a table with her sisters and boxes of wine and bottles of wine and talking. About what? I don’t know. They do this once a year, and they leave the rest of their families out of it, which is the best for everyone all the way around.

The cover of John Prine’s newly released “Tree of Forgiveness.”

On Saturday I headed down to Urbana, or Champaign, or Champaign-Urbana, whatever you want to call it. Went to see John Prine, thanks to Steven, of Steven and Nancy, the couple who adopted Hanni. Steven manages the Virginia Theater, and he tipped me off to Prine’s appearance months ago.

Before the show I had dinner with a buddy and his wife, dear friends from back in our college days, Kenwood and Lori. Kenwood and I go back to our freshman year in college. We have stories. Stories that we mostly keep to ourselves. Lori entered the picture a year or two later. We were thick as thieves. They visited my lonely self after I took a job in Washington, D.C., after college, which helped keep me afloat during a difficult time.

Then life took over. They had two daughters, Kenwood built a thriving business, we had Gus, Beth lost her eyesight. All that stuff. We stayed connected, just barely, drifting in and out of contact with one another. Kenwood and I occasionally attended motorcycle race track days, where one can do a sort of Walter Mitty experience, lean way over in the curves, and not have to put up with car drivers on cell phones. Fast, fun, and safer than public roads.

Too much time had passed between our last get-together. But, as I was reminded on Saturday evening, it’s like riding a bicycle. We picked up and were off to the races from the get-go.

After a meal and catching up, Lori headed for home and Kenwood and I headed for the show at The Virginia, a gem of an old movie theater that’s been beautifully restored. The warm-up act was two guys called The Milk Carton Kids. Well, two guys and two acoustic guitars, and at first I was thinking about the scene in The Blues Brothers when John Belushi destroys the folk singer’s guitar.

But they were terrific. Great harmonies, pretty amazing guitar picking, and deadpan comedy between songs.

Then the main act commenced. There was minimal stage set-up and equipment. There was Prine, a lead guitarist, a pedal steel guitarist (who also played mandolin and fiddle, I hate those showoffs), a drummer and an upright bassist. The backdrop was an image of the Paradise, Kentucky post office.

I kinda grew up with John Prine. I first heard his music performed by, of all people, John Denver, who included a rendition of “Angel from Montgomery” on one of his albums.

As I watched and listened with my old friend, I was gripped by something akin to nostalgia, but better than that. Prine’s songs are timeless. The words and music take you places on their own. And, music being what it is, his songs took me to places and times when I first listened to them. Some of those places and times, years ago, alongside my friend Kenwood. It was kind of transcendant.

Prine’s songs are about humans, trying to do their best, failing a lot, wanting, longing, striving, and sometimes succeeding in what counts most—connection to others. All done with a sense of humility, and humor.

Occasionally I looked over at my longtime friend and thought, wow, where has the time gone? Still, I thought, after all this time, we’re the same people.

And then again, we’re not.

After a fantastic show, Kenwood and I convened for a beer at a local brewery called The Blind Pig. No TVs, just conversation. He and I covered a lot of ground in a short time. Mortality. Do you believe in the afterlife? Politics. All sane, honest, and heartfelt. I was reminded of why we became friends in the first place.

Before we headed our separate ways, my friend said, simply, “You know, I’ve had a great life.”

“So have I,” I said, and we drank a toast.

Over time, I’ve become fonder and fonder of various forms of jazz music. For many years, that would not have included traditional jazz, otherwise known as Dixieland. To me, it was sort of caricature music, the raucous stuff I heard at Shakey’s Pizza parlors as a kid.

The Fat Babies

That started to change after Beth and I got together. As a young man, Beth’s big brother Doug picked up the trombone—and got really good at it. He was playing gigs in his teens—and Beth and her sisters and mother developed an appreciation for tradjazz.

Doug eventually enlisted in the Marines and played in the Corps band. But then there were children, bills, and the whole responsibility thing, and he put down his horn. Beth and I would often go see Doug’s former band mates at places like Andy’s in Chicago, but Doug remained, like us, an audience member.

Until 1996, that is. The Finke clan planned a surprise party for their mother Flo’s 80^th birthday party. In advance, Doug dusted off his horn and worked on his embouchure and got the band back together to surprise Flo. It was a rousing success, and Doug’s been playing ever since.

And, thanks largely to him, we learned about a band called The Fat Babies. They aren’t kids, but they aren’t geezers either. They look like they might be accountants or insurance salesmen in their day jobs, but on stage, they just swing. They play around Chicago pretty often, and we’ve seen them at venues far and near.

Beth’s sister Bev was in town last night, so we headed to Honky Tonk Barbecue in the Pilsen neighborhood, where every Sunday night, some members of the Fat Babies—known as The Cellar Boys—play. For free. No cover. Last night they had a guest singer. I usually don’t like singers, but she was terrific—she dressed and acted the part.

And so did lots of the audience—dressed and acted the part, that is. It’s like that at these shows. Kids with tattoos and piercings dressed in vintage clothing. It’s kind of nerdy but overall, just a breath of fresh air. We’ve seen it in New Orleans, too—young people keeping the traditional roots alive on the street and in clubs.

Anyway, the crowd was a terrific mix of old and young, couples who knew what they were doing putting a show on the dance floor and from our perches at the bar, we could see it all. The couples included men and women, men and men, and women and women. A dashing young Hispanic man in a fedora and three-piece suit approached me and asked, “Sir, is it alright if I hang my coat on your chair—I can’t find a place to hang it.” Another man, after reaching past me to collect his drink, said, “Beg your pardon.” I had to ask him why. “Sorry for the reach,” he said. Civilized and kind. Plus, over the course of the evening, the bartender and I talked motorcycles and compared notes on bikes we’d owned.

Beth, Bev and I had been discussing the state of the world, particularly the recently revealed horrors about the Larry Nassar abuse and the wave of such revelations.

But the music and the scene sort of took over, and at some point, Bev leaned over and said, “Most people are good, don’t you think.”

I’m still not so sure. But last night, that was absolutely true.

I love being a special guest at book clubs. Bookworms tend to be the polite type — no one criticizes an author who is sitting right there!Sipping on wine,munching snacks, talking about writing, what’s not to like? I had such a good time at a neighborhood book club that I asked Mel Theobald, one of the attendees, if he’d be willing to write about it for our blog. Thank you for saying yes, Mel. I may just start using “The Nearly Famous Beth Finke” as my signature now!

More than a Book Club
by Mel Theobald

Publishing a book is no easy feat. Neither is walking into a roomful of strangers to talk about it. Yet, there she was, the nearly famous Beth Finke, author of Writing Out Loud, sitting in the unfamiliar turf of our party room with eleven eager souls, ready to respond to their most pressing questions.

Beth and the book club.

Although there was no shortage of snacks and wine, the author asked if there was cheese on the table. No cheese. Yikes. I rushed to fetch my favorite smoked gouda and returned midway through the introductions. It was already apparent when I took my seat that this was going to be a fun evening.

Al Hippensteel, my altruistic next door neighbor, happens to also be one of Beth’s students. Anyone who knows Al is aware that he possesses a droll sense of wit and irony. At his invitation Beth was our condo association book club’s first ever visiting author. With humility and humor, she impressed everyone with her ability to remember names and recognize their voices after a single round of verbal, mini-bios.

That’s Al Hippensteel looking on as Beth signs a book for one of the club members.

From the outset, those around the table peppered our guest with questions. They were most interested in her teaching techniques and the secrets of the publishing industry. Beth answered every question. She confessed to changing the names of a few characters. At one point she admitted getting miffed that her editor for asking her to withdraw a story. “But you pick your battles,” she told us. To be a writer requires patience, detours and sacrifices.

With barely a wobble, she wove the narration of her own writing into that of her students. Blindness is one of the themes that runs throughout her writing. In one chapter of Writing Out Loud she writes about being invited to drive a car on an open slab hundreds of yards wide. Paired with a professional race car driver, she chose to accelerate to a speed of 80 miles per hour. When asked what possessed her to do this, her face blushed red, “I got to sit in a Ford Mustang next to a friend of Paul Newman!”

Beth allowed that it was due to the success of one of her students that she was granted an audience with the future publisher of her latest book,and when asked about the pronunciation of her name, she answered, “Finke as in stinky.” Allright then.

As the evening drew to a close, Beth invited Al to read one of his class pieces. His beautifully written essay was impossible to finish without knee slapping laughter. In brief, it was about his courtship with the woman he would marry, who just happened to be right there with us: she’s a member of the book club. The piece was a light-hearted mix of metaphors of popular music, cars and youthful innocence. Everyone erupted in applause.

And just think. He might never have written it, had it not been for Beth’s class.

Hi all. Mike here. We just had a joyous weekend spending time with our friends Pick and Hank, who visited from Washington, D.C. Or more specifically, from Alexandria, Virginia. We’ve posted more than once about this dynamic duo. It’s not a stretch to say that at this point, we’re all like family–only better, because we’re not family. 

That’s Hank on the left, me, Pick, and Beth during a vacation we took together in New Orleans.

We are fortunate people, which is something Hank understands perhaps better than anyone. His parents outlived their time in concentration camps during WWII. But his mother and father didn’t live long afterward–and that had everything to do with their hellish time at the hands of the Nazis. 

Apart from their own suffering and Hank being deprived of his parents at a very young age,  Hank recently had an encounter that reminded me that anyone’s suffering is all of our business, and anyone’s suffering should be understood as our own. 

Hank wrote–movingly and courageously and hauntingly–about this encounter. And he generously agreed to our sharing his writing with Safe & Sound readers. With that, I give you the words of our friend Henry Londner.

I Cannot “Just Get Over It!”

Yesterday, upon learning that I would not be keen on taking a river cruise through Germany and Austria, someone said to me “The Holocaust was 75 years ago. Why don’t you just get over it?” Well, I cannot “just get over it.”

My grandparents, many aunts and uncles, and even first cousins, along with 6 million other Jews were gassed, then mutilated to remove their gold teeth and fillings, and finally incinerated.

So, I cannot “just get over it.”

I never knew the unconditional love of grandparents that almost everyone I know experienced. I know I longed for it too and still do. So, I cannot “just get over it.”

I grew up in a community of walking wounded; Holocaust survivors living with debilitating physical ailments that often shortened their lives and PTSD so severe that some ended up taking their own lives years after the war.

So, I cannot “just get over it.”

My own parents were among those whose lives were cut short, leaving me an orphan at the age of 13 and forever longing for the unconditional love of parents. Even at 66, sometimes I still feel like a motherless child, so I cannot “just get over it.”

Other children of Holocaust survivors and I suffer from PTSD even if we were born after the horrors. In my happiest times, there is a cloud over me that I cannot dispel. I can never just “let loose.”

So, I cannot “just get over it.”

It is difficult for me to trust anyone completely, and even while making progress I am again set back by the resurgence of hate that is all around us.

So, I cannot “just get over it.”

Even though I was born after the Holocaust, I sometimes feel survivors’ guilt and even guilt that the wonderful life I have is built upon the bones of the millions whose lives were cut short.

So, I cannot “just get over it.”

I know the Germany and Austria of today are not the same, and I even have friends who hail from these places. and yet, I still cannot “just get over it.”

Hearing these words from someone I have known nearly half my life, and knowing that in an instant they changed our relationship irrevocably is just one last thing — I cannot “just get over it.”

Last night Beth and I joined friends for a celebratory picnic on the lawn of the Pritzker Pavilion at Millennium Park. The occasion: Our friend Janet just became a full professor at the University of Illinois-Chicago, a testament to her brains and fortitude. As we noshed, we listened to jazz—it was the final night of this year’s Jazz Festival—and the evening was capped by a performance by The Rebirth Brass Band.

High school kids from Joseph Clark Senior High School in New Orleans’ Tremé neighborhood founded Rebirth in 1983. Members have come and gone, but the second line tradition, the raucous, powerfully rhythmic music that makes you move whether you want to or not, goes on.

Beth and I lived in Urbana in the early 90s, and it must have been 1992 when the two of us began planning a trip to New Orleans. When we struck up a conversation with Jon—who booked bands for a music club in downtown Champaign called The Blind Pig—and asked for recommendations. He didn’t hesitate: “There’s a band you absolutely have to see,” he said. “It’s called Rebirth Brass Band. It’s not like anything you’ve heard, and promise me you’ll go.”

We found care for Gus through a Respite program, and we flew on Thanksgiving day because it was cheap. We headed to a touristy place called Seven Sisters in the Quarter for dinner and picked up the local weekly. Sure enough, Rebirth was playing that night at a place called Kemp’s.

It’s not the Rebirth we saw at Kemp’s, but here’s a nice taste:

I asked the waitress if she knew anything about Kemp’s. Never heard of it. Back to the hotel we asked at the desk. Nothing. Finally, we just headed outside with the address and found a cab.

The driver didn’t know the name but he knew the area. Sure you wanna go there? Yep.

The listing said the show started at 9, and me being me, we got there like an hour early. Kemp’s was a ramshackle one-story building that looked like a house more than a club, replete with bars on the windows.

“Let me check it out for you,” the driver said. He left us in the cab, walked into the place and a few minutes later said, all right, if you’re sure. We paid the fare and headed in.

On the inside it looked like it did on the outside—a functional dive. There were a couple bartenders with not enough to do. There were maybe two or three other people. We took seats at the bar. I ordered a beer, and the bartender asked if I wanted a straw. It was a thing there.

Time passed and by 9, well, there were maybe 10 people there, all from the neighborhood and known to the bartenders. No sign of any performance on the horizon.

Then, a slim but muscular guy in black jeans and a tight, white T-shirt—think a young Bruce Springsteen—walked through the front door.

“Johnny!” shouted the locals at the top of their lungs. Johnny swaggered to the jukebox, took out a ring of keys—the kind you see maintenance guys carrying—stuck one into a recess in the front of the juke box, and motioned to the patrons. They ran up and started making selections—while Johnny was in the house, the jukebox was free.

As we neared 11:00 p.m., the place got very crowded. And then around 11:15 one of the bartenders yelled, “Everybody out, pay your cover and come back in.” One of the bartenders went to the restrooms—they found a kid standing on the toilet in the stall of the women’s bathroom trying to sneak in free.

Because of Beth’s blindness, they let us pay at the bar and hold our seats.

After a chaotic re-entry and more people filing in, the place was absolutely crammed. Somehow, though, as soon as we heard the first notes from a tuba, a path was cleared and Rebirth marched in. There was no amplification, but I’ve never been in a more electric space.

The band somehow fit themselves onto a tiny platform that could hardly be a stage. I should say they were on and around it.

It’s cliché, but you could feel the music. All those young kids pushing air out of all those horns and a bass drum beating a rhythm that could make Elaine from Seinfeld look good dancing.

I know, because Beth and I danced for hours, and we did it like no one was watching. We danced with each other, with the people next to us; we were just one big, ecstatic, sweaty, undulating mass of people having the best possible time humans can have.

I don’t know how many sets they played, but I know they didn’t quit until after 4:00 a.m., because we were still there.

That’s when things got dicey. The bartenders called us a cab. None showed up. The bartender then suggested that they give me the phone—that if they heard a white guy calling for a cab from this address, a cab might show up.

No luck.

Beth and I were, in fact, in a very small minority of white people at Kemp’s. In the beginning we were the only white people. After it filled, I’d say there were maybe 10 white people.

I’ll confess: especially back then, I saw color. I was self-conscious at first. But by the time we left, I couldn’t have cared less. We were treated like gold by everybody there.

I did some research and found that Kemp’s—no longer in existence—was owned by a musician named Fred Kemp, who was a horn player with Fats Domino’s band. It was at the corner of LaSalle and Washington, in the midst of a giant public housing project—which also no longer exists. (You can read more about the area and its history here.)

So it was rugged.

But still.

We were exhausted, no cabs coming, and so we did about the stupidest thing we could do—we began walking. Especially stupid because Dora was back at the hotel—we knew it wouldn’t work to have her in a crowded place. Dora was hardly a killer, but people don’t know that.

Within a couple blocks, I saw a phone booth. I dropped in the change, called a number on a card I’d gotten at Kemp’s. The voice asked where I was—“Where?” was the incredulous reply.

OK, we’ll get someone there.

Minutes later a taxi showed and not long after that, we retired, just before dawn.

The next day we quizzed each other to make sure all that really happened. We had a great time. We learned some things and lost another bit of naiveté.

And we thought, how lucky we are.