That’s Ulrich and Ellen Sandmeyer, a few years back. If you’re on Facebook, click the image to read a beautiful tribute at the Sandmeyer’s Bookstore page.

The spring of 2003 I was without a job—the weekly newspaper I worked for in Champaign-Urbana had closed its doors at the end of 2002. I hung around the office a couple months to take care of the nasty details.

Our son Gus had moved to a facility for the developmentally disabled in Wisconsin a few months earlier.

I was aimless.

Then, Beth’s first book, “Long Time, No See,” was published in April. It was what I can see now as a demarcation in Beth’s life, and in our lives—one of those many lines in a good life that defines “then” and “now.” Suddenly everything was different. A vacuum presented opportunity.

We each grew up in the suburbs. But neither of us had ever lived in Chicago—the city that defined what a city is for the two of us. If not the spring of 2003, then when?

Back when Beth was at Braille Jail (her nickname for the state rehabilitation facility for newly visually impaired people in the near west side of Chicago) her sister and brother-in-law would occasionally spring her for a meal in the nearby Printers Row neighborhood. Beth had fond memories of those bits of relief from living in the blind version of Cuckoo’s Nest.

That was a start for our finding a new home. I did some online research and we made some visits and eventually leased a place a couple blocks from the real Printers Row. That real Printers Row being one block—maybe two if you’re generous—between Ida B. Wells Drive, a major thoroughfare, and the old Dearborn Station, where Dearborn Street ends. Dearborn Station used to be a bustling train depot, but it now houses yoga studios, medical offices, a Montessori school and the like.

Our neighborhood is so named because most of the buildings on our street were originally used by printing and publishing businesses, or those that supported the logistics of those endeavors. (Also, Elliot Ness once had an office in our condo building, but I digress.)

Back in the day, printers relied on natural light to check their work, so the windows in neighborhood buildings are tall and wide. The ceilings are high, too, to accommodate printing presses and other equipment. The neighborhood went the wrong way for a long time, and most of the lovely old buildings were marked for demolition in the 70s and 80s. Thanks to some stubborn preservationists, the visionary architect Harry Weese (D.C. friends, you have him to thank for the design of your subway stations), and pioneering folks who were willing to homestead in Printers Row, the neighborhood was not lost, but found.

Two of those homesteaders were Ulrich and Ellen Sandmeyer, who opened their bookstore long before Printers Row was a sure bet. I first met Ulrich when I was up from Urbana doing a scouting trip. I stopped in to see if Beth might make a promotional appearance for her book there.

“Nein” was the answer. OK, Ulrich didn’t say it in German, but it was firm. Ulrich Sandmeyer hailed from Germany, spoke impeccable English, but you know, once German, always German. He explained that the store is so small it doesn’t well accommodate such events.

But Beth charmed Ulrich (or did he charm her?), who teased her for her unabashed self-promotion. Ellen—who maintains the shelves and window displays in ways that are both artistic and sales-savvy—put “Long Time, No See” in the front window, trumpeting a local author. This, even though Beth had been local for, oh, a couple months. Ulrich also, as they say in the book business, hand-sold a ton of Beth’s books. The German guy was a damn good salesman.

The Sandmeyers, as much as anyone or anything, made Chicago feel like home.

That was, as Humphrey Bogart would say, the start of a beautiful friendship. Sandmeyer’s Bookstore was and is an anchor—the anchor—of what I, totally biased, think is the best neighborhood in Chicago. And the Sandmeyers became the most wonderful kind of friends that one can make as adults. By that, I mean they already had full lives when we met them, as did we. But somehow, they and we found just enough  room for one another.

Sandmeyer’s Bookstore is a polished little gem—every warm, wonderful thing about Ulrich and Ellen courses through it. The wooden floors creak, the radiators clank, the selection is beautifully and intelligently curated with purpose, and there are always witty little novelties at the checkout counter—book lovers’ versions of the candy rack enticing an impulse buy. (My personal favorite was a GW Bush end-of-term countdown clock/keychain.)

Ulrich’s wry sense of humor always astounded me. First, because humor is one of the most nuanced and difficult things to master for a non-native English speaker, and he had mastered it and then some. Second, because like other non-native Americans, he had an outsider’s viewpoint that never failed to open my eyes. I was just another fish in the tank.

He and Beth developed a rich relationship—he came to call the now-closed Hackney’s, our old watering hole—“Beth’s office.” We’d stop by the store just to catch up, talk politics, and have a laugh. We’d run into him outside the store, when he was out taking a smoke break. Like the friendly and crusty beat cop, Ulrich was a comforting, reliable presence to us, and to the whole neighborhood.

Thank you for following along as I get used to using the term “was” when it comes to Ulrich. He died last Friday. I would say “after a long illness.” But, again, humor me: he died of cancer, fucking cancer, goddamn fucking cancer.

I miss him.

I know the drill. I’ll always miss him. The neighborhood will always miss him.

And like the other remarkable people that I’ve been privileged to know, he’ll never really be gone. The last time I saw him was before Amazon announced what cities it would be fleecing for the opportunity to let the company roost. Amazon, let it be said, has not been good for independent bookstores. One of the Sandmeyer’s employees told us the story of how someone once browsed the aisles, picked up a book, and asked, “Do you know how much this costs on Amazon?”

She was astonished.

Ulrich was dispassionate about such things. Or, I should say, he never seemed to take them personally.

I can imagine our talk about Amazon’s decision. I’d get all uppity about it and say good riddance to something we never had.

And I can hear him laughing at me.

Last night when the L.A. Dodgers’ Manny Machado swung and missed so awkwardly at a wicked Chris Sale pitch that he fell down, the Major League Baseball season came to a close. The Red Sox won, which at this point is getting kind of old (my Cardinals fan friend calls Red Sox fans “professional Irishmen”). Nonetheless, I generally root for the American League, and seeing Sale—who labored with mostly bad teams for years with my White Sox—close out the championship was pretty cool.

Unless the White Sox are in the playoffs (an infrequent occurrence), around this time of the year I pick an alternate horse. Sometimes it’s a team/fan base that I least dislike. This year it was fun: I took the Brewers and Astros. The Brewers had a really entertaining team, a smart young manager, and the best radio announcer—Bob Uecker—in the business. He’s funny, yes, but he calls a damn good game, too. And thanks to a little App on our phones (MLB AtBat) Beth and I could listen to him call all the Brewers games.

As far as the Astros, well I can’t help it—we’ve written before about our friend Kevin who works in their front office. I just love seeing him in selfies with players like Alex Bregman after a clinching game. I also wanted the Astros to be the first team to repeat in forever.

Alas.

If you grew up in Chicago on either side of town, you have to learn to savor the World Series regardless of whether your team is in it or not. (In some ways, it’s a lot more pleasant; it’s certainly less stressful.) There’s always some regular guy that plays out of his mind. And games that are incredible for one reason or another. This year, that guy was a journeyman player named Steve Pearce and that game was the insane two-games-in-one 18-inning marathon.

Our pal Nancy Faust will be back behind the organ for a spring training game in 2019.

I also like this time of year because of the anniversaries of the 2005 World Series—the four games my White Sox took from the Astros when Houston was still in the National League. That 18-inning Red Sox-Dodgers game brought to mind a gut-wrenching, 14-inning game the White Sox won. There was much shouting at the TV, and ultimately, screams of joy in the wee hours. (I did not make it to the end of the 18-inning affair this year.)

Speaking of the White Sox, Beth and I saw our friends Nancy Faust, her husband Joe, their son Eric and his girlfriend last week. We caught up, got some great stories about Old Comiskey, past players, Haray Caray—and we had a lot of laughs. They are all delightful people and I thank my lucky stars that, thanks to Beth and her writing, they are our friends.

Still, I always get a little melancholy when that last out of the World Series is made. It’s probably silly to care so much about a game, but hey, it’s my silly. And there’s this: Nancy told us that she’ll be playing the organ for the Cubs-Sox spring training matchup at the Sox spring ballpark.

You know, I went to spring training once when the Sox were in Florida. But I haven’t been to Arizona yet….

One thing I never, ever, ever take for granted is how much each of Beth’s Seeing Eye dogs has meant to Beth and to us. I still remember the days when Beth struggled to hone her cane skills—it was a real struggle for both of us. I constantly worried, she didn’t get around as independently as she does now, which affected both of us and our relationship.

My gals get around, thanks to The Seeing Eye. (Photo: Bill Healy)

And, people treated her differently. I witnessed it and still do. People see Beth with Whitney and they, at the least, smile. And most don’t hesitate to strike up a conversation. When Beth used a cane, they got quiet and nervous and just cleared out of the way. Even when I accompany Beth, it’s different with the dog than with the cane. There’s a palpable nervousness when people see the cane. This is not to harp on them, and plenty of people with a visual impairment thrive without a dog.

But given Beth’s disposition and spirit, Pandora, Hanni, Harper, and now Whitney have been priceless additions to our family.

That’s all owed to The Seeing Eye, a non-profit organization based in Morristown, New Jersey. It was the first guide dog school in the United States, and Morris Frank—a co-founder—crusaded for the use of guide dogs and the right for people with guide dogs to access hotels, restaurants, trains, planes and other places otherwise closed to animals. (I can’t imagine what he’d think of the concept of emotional support peacocks, but that’s another topic.)

The Seeing Eye breeds dogs, matches them with puppy-raisers, then, through an intensive program, trainers spend four months teaching the dogs who make it that far to lead a person with a visual impairment. The dogs that make it through this part of the program are then matched with a human companion who has met the school’s admission requirements. Then, the two of them go through nearly four weeks of on regimented, on-campus training. (For a great look at the process, check out the documentary Pick of the Litter, which chronicles the journey of guide dog candidates. It’s filmed at Guide Dogs for the Blind, a terrific school on the West Coast—and the process at both schools is very similar. FYI, less than half the puppies end up making the cut.)

It’s a big deal, a ton of work, and really expensive. Roughly $50,000 per dog. The Seeing Eye charges students only $150 for their first dog and $50 for each thereafter. Veterans of the military pay $1. From the Seeing Eye web site:

A fraction of the total cost to create a match between person and dog, this fee reflects the student’s commitment to enhanced independence.

Right now, The Seeing Eye is participating in a contest whereby the highest vote getter among three non-profits will receive $50,000.

I hereby endorse The Seeing Eye, and urge you to vote for itat this link:

https://www.nrghomepower.com/nrggives/?fbclid=IwAR2fWjGlPXklla3nB3FDC_me5kmRT3vYRAcFn_1A6Y90LdC6Eh-a19H8ufo

But do it fast. You have until 11:59 ET TONIGHT, October 22, 2018 to cast your vote for the Seeing Eye.

Nationals Park was nice, even in the rain. And the seats were great. (Thanks Michael B.)

Last week I wrote while riding the Amtrak train home from Milwaukee, today it’s from row 15 on a Southwest Airlines flight, headed home from a wet but fun-packed weekend in Alexandria, Virginia.

The flight to DC was a little trying—the turbulence was constant, and bad enough that the flight attendants couldn’t bring passengers the pretzels and a drink. As we descended, we made a final bank left and then boom, a big bump that left my stomach in my mouth for a moment.

I stayed with Pick and Hank, longtime friends whom I’ve posted about before. Friday night we went to the home of our mutual pals’ Mike and Susi, who hosted a grand dinner of charcuterie, two kinds of steak, vegetables and yes, some libations. (I wasn’t driving.)

Saturday night Mike and Susi treated me and Pick to a Washington Nationals game. It could’ve been two games, because the previous night’s game was rained out, and our ticket got us into the rescheduled rainout plus the original Saturday night game.

Except.

It rained all day Saturday, too. The rainout had been scheduled for 3:00, with the second game scheduled to start at 7:00. For the longest time, we couldn’t tell what was going on—I finally found confirmation on the Nationals Twitter feed that the first game was going start around 5:30.

Rain was pretty much forecast for the entire evening and weekend, and I wanted to at least see Nationals Park for the first time, so we drove to nearby subway stop and then took the Metro to the park.

For several innings, it was really pleasant. Our seats were fantastic, just to left of home plate and just high enough to give great perspective. And I got to see Max Scherzer—one of the best—pitch. He did not disappoint. The Nationals’ opponent, the Cubs, were not at their best, booting the ball around and generally looking tired (they’ve been on the road a long time). I was easy on the nearby Cub fans—many looked like drowned rats. Rain delays at ballparks can be miserable.

When the rain picked up again in the bottom of the seventh, we decided to head home. I’d had a banh mi hot dog (honest, and it was really good), a cold beer, walked the park (very nice, indeed), and the score was 8-0 Nasty Nats. My work there was done.

It rained again Sunday so Pick and I headed to the newish MGM casino that’s just on the other side of the Potomac River from Alexandria. There’s also a giant convention hall/hotel complex there, with a sort of popup town that wasn’t even there just a few years ago. Pick and I people watched, fed some penny slot machines, had some dumb fun and headed back when that crazy casino background noise started getting too disorienting.

Last week I wrote about how time seems to be flying. So much has changed in the Washington area since I lived there in the late 70s and early 80s. And it’s not slowing down. Construction cranes are everywhere. Those years have flown by.

But the time I spend with these dear friends, well, it feels like it always has and always will–timeless.

Beth wrote about our visit to Perkins School for the Blind already—but before Perkins, there was New Hampshire. And after Perkins, there was a visit to Fenway Park (this baseball fan’s first). And after Fenway….

1960s kitsch at the JFK Museum.

A quick recap: It all started with a day and a night in Epping, New Hampshire that included a walk on the beach (yes, New Hampshire has 21 kilometers of shoreline that includes a great sandy beach), playing fetch with Whitney (who took her first saltwater dip), a lobster roll, some shrimp and hours of conversation and laughter with our friends Siobhan and Greg. Then, an overnight stay in an ancient riverside mill converted to apartments, and hours of conversation and laughter with our friends Mim and Kin.

In Boston we made a visit to the JFK Library and Presidential Museum. Beth had visited when she could still see and loved it. This time someone at Perkins arranged for Beth to have her own docent for a tour. I made my own way. The exhibits are terrific—including a set of 1960s era appliances, with black and white TV, aqua blue table radios, and that mid-century modern stuff that’s so popular. I can’t believe mid-century modern is a thing. For me it’s just the junk I grew up with.

It also reminded me of what a great orator JFK was. There was no dumbing down or talking down, the speeches were substantive and superbly written, and it was clear the speaker understood and believed in what he was saying.

And, well, the world was a mess. What new? I recommend visiting—the building itself, an I.M. Pei design, is worth it in itself.

Up close and personal with the Red Sox bullpen pitchers.

That night, we took in a Red Sox-Atlanta Braves game at Fenway Park on a picture perfect summerish evening. We sat right on top of the bullpen, and kids of all ages would come down between innings hoping for an autograph. One 20-something guy came down and kept yelling, “John, c’mon, John, even a nod?” He eventually remembered it was JoeKelly, not John Kelly, who was standing and watching the game. Joe gave him a nod, and the guy walked away in bliss.

It’s the second time I’ve sat near the bullpen (the other at White Sox park)—it’s a blast watching their warm-up rituals. The pop in the catcher’s mitt starts off muted, but then as the warm-up progresses, the volume rises with the velocity of the pitches. And at Fenway Friday night, we heard—for real—the bullpen phone ring.

As for Fenway, I’m glad I made it there. Not just to check it off my “parks visited” list—but just to see, in person, a place I’ve seen on TV most of my life. I still remember watching the Red Sox and Cardinals World Series in 1967. The Red Sox have done a great job using adjacent streets to open up the experience and make it easier than it otherwise would be to navigate. They also seemed to have done a pretty reasonable job (considering the vintage of the building) with accessible seating—something that anyone who uses or has pushed a wheelchair always scopes out, by instinct.

I got the requisite goose bumps walking in—but not because it was Fenway, per se. I get ‘em every time I walk into an MLB park for the first time. They each have their own character, the fans emit their own collective aura—and it’s always great to soak it all up. I’d rank Fenway up there, but PNC in Pittsburgh, AT&T in San Francisco, and Camden yards in Baltimore remain my favorites (after, of course, White Sox park—and the smell of grilled onions every time I walk in).

From there, it was a too-short visit to Alexandria, Virginia, where we… enjoyed hours of conversation and laughter with our friends Pick and Hank.

We sure are lucky.