BBQ Jesse Mae Style

One of my favorite memories as a kid is that of the frequent BBQs my neighborhood had. Our little cul-de-sac loved to eat. Someone would start a grill and before you know it, salads, vegetables and beer would arrive and the party would start. The best ones were when Jesse Mae cooked.

Jesse Mae was a sort-of Southern Belle. Born in Cairo, Il (pronounced Kay-row) she was just enough genteel southern to be a bit exotic in our lilly white neighborhood. And damn she could cook. Nothing fancy, but great BBQ, salads and all that I can still taste.

The one gift I have from this remarkable lady is her BBQ sauce. Trust me, no Gregory Court BBQ was complete without it. I asked my sister to find it for me and sure enough, mom had written it down. Simple, tasty, totally unhealthy.. but damn... it is like home.

I am going to make a batch and use it this summer to remember when I was just a goofy kid, enjoying life in the suburbs.

Jesse Mae Perks' BBQ Sauce:

1/3 lb lard

2/3 qt vinegar either white or apple cider

4 tbs salt

3 tsp black pepper

2 tsp cayenne pepper

2 tbs paprika

Melt lard in large pan. In qt jar add all dry ingredients to vinegar and shake well to blend. Add the vinegar mix to the melted lard. Cook 15min until thicken. DO not boil.

Brush on chicken or chops.

The best.

The Woods

Thomas Wolfe was right, you really can't go home again. Nothing is quite the same, but we keep on attempting nonetheless.

But I am luckier than many, the home where I spent my youth from age 3-18 is still standing and still owned and occupied by my family. My old room is still there, full of my sister's junk (as are all the rooms), but still there. Actually lots of things are still there; while cooking this weekend I asked my sister where the hot pads were. "Where they always have been", she replied with an annoyed sneer. Yes, they were, the same ones too. How silly of me to ask.

Thankfully, among all the things laid unchanged, "the woods" is still there too. 14.5 acres of untouched woodland that wrapped around my street, shielding us from the noise of the main road leading to town. Today called officially "Sanders Park", the woods is now maintained by the city park district. But in my day I am not sure who owned it and we really didn't care. All us kids in the neighborhood, boys and girls alike, spent most of our day exploring this uncharted wonderland. To our young minds, it was akin to the jungles of Africa that we read about in Social Studies. Just as scary and full of wild animals and strange plants too.

We even had a Tarzan vine, a huge old vine that hung from a tree conveniently perched on a gentle slope. We would swing on this vine for hours, bigger boys who shed their shirts to emulate the latest Tarzan hero, little boys, girls, an even an occasional adult neighbor. Deep in the woods, a small ditch sometimes flowed with water. Fording it was a challenge and certainly led to much moaning by our mothers as we arrived home covered in mud. We named places, claimed land, looked in awe at the culverts leading under Center Street that led to someplace even more scary and unexplored. I was 12 when I first went under the culvert.... I was disappointed as it only led to the Zientara family's yard and I had been there before.

My friend Gary and I spent a lot of time there. Building forts, exploring, looking for the magic land of the May Apples, strange plants we had never seen before. We'd get lost looking for it every time. While digging around for some reason one fine summer day, we uncovered a scary bright red glowing crinkly thing. Running in fear that we had dug up the devil, we beat a retreat vowing never to return and be good boys. A dog, raccoon or someone less easily frightened later dug the scaly red object up and deposited it near by. It was the red inside tray of a package of cookies.... ah childish imaginations.

But Thomas Wolfe was correct.

This weekend, as I drove by or stood at the window and gazed at the bare, silent trees of the woods, it looked less imposing. The mystery was gone. It was smaller and I could easily rationalize that it was just a few acres not a few miles of land. The Tarzan vine has long been absorbed into the loamy soil. The ditch was full of water from recent rain, but it was just a drainage ditch taking run off from the pavement, not a roaring stream dividing my land from Gary's; I certainly felt no desire to defend it from invaders. The knot of trees that had grown in a circle are still there, although hard to find. I am sure a rare dogtooth violet still pokes its head up now and then but May apples are just common wild plants. I didn't see any evidence of Bobcats or other wild beasts, just the occasional deer.

Part of the woods has been mowed and cleared. An historical marker has been erected in the clearing at the corner of Hunt and Center. Seems the woods has a long history, part of the land first settled by Europeans in the county. Abraham Lincoln's name is on some legal land transfers, our city actually had its beginnings there, although the first buildings were built a few miles to the east. No longer just a scrap of land, but one with history and significance.

As a kid, I had always hoped that the woods would be there forever, protected for kids to always enjoy. Thankfully, the city of Decatur agreed and it was spared the fate of being plowed under for more houses or a convenience store.

So while there is much familiar at home there is much change. I can physically go home, that is not an issue. But in my mind it is so different; maybe I am the one who is different. Yeah that is it, while the land changes slowly and inevitably we plunge into adulthood and then middle age where everything once fresh, new and mysterious becomes the mundane.

I wish the Tarzan vine was still there.

Dunbar: Heading Home

Reluctantly, I took my leave of Howard and Louise around 4;30 or so; if I had more energy I would have kept it up all night. But I had been up since 4AM, still needed to drive the 2 hours to Decatur, and it had began to rain. I left with a couple of souvenirs; a picture of dad's family taken in 1942 and Howard's autobiography of his WWII adventures and career as a biology teacher. Along with my Grandfather's Illinois Central Railroad watch that I got many years ago, I have a few things to hold on to from a vanishing generation.

Getting behind the wheel of a car again felt strange a bit, yet at the same time comforting. Mobility and freedom were mine again. Although I know now I have to play the game and have Dunbar licensed in Missouri to please the authorities bent on wringing every penny out of us they can.

Dunbar took me south on the somewhat familiar roads, past Peoria, down to Lincoln and then on to Decatur on the more familiar Route 121. It had become even more chilly from the steady fall rain and I had not brought a jacket it still being hung in my storage unit. Thus I infiltrated the blinding bright world of the Lincoln Wal-Mart, bustling at the dinner hour, to buy a cheap "Made in Indonesia" jacket for all of $10. Sadly, I think it is the only place on can buy a jacket in Lincoln, IL at that time of day.

My sister did not have to work Friday night, so immediately upon my arrival, I ordained a trip to "Los Matadores" in the once state of the art Fairview Plaza Shopping Center. What is now "Los Matadores" used to be part of the big Goldblatt's Department Store, closed many ages ago. Always good food, lots of it, good margaritas and sort of a tradition for me.

I stayed little in Decatur, needing to get back to KC, so I left Saturday AM after doing a few errands with my sister. The trip here was totally uneventful and Dunbar proved reliable and comfortable. HM Puggles was thrilled to see me home and enjoyed her first ride in her new limo on Sunday. She thinks it is fabulous, actually. She was out with me when I unloaded a bag of Purina from the trunk, purchased in Decatur when I found it on sale. She is convinced that her limo comes with food as standard equipment.

As I type this, I really wonder why I have taken the time. If you are reading, admit it, you really do not find this totally mundane story fascinating at all. I could be describing a trip to the gas station for all that matters. But it serves a purpose for me. Maybe someday, if all this gets preserved, a member of a future generation of the Clark family will find it and as it was with my Uncle's stories and a gold pocket watch, a bond of understanding will be forged between estranged generations.

Thus I go on.

Going Home Pt 2

One sad fact of life is that you don't get to choose where you are born and are raised. If so, I doubt I would have chosen my home, Decatur, IL., a blue collar berg smack in the middle the Illinois corn and soybean fields. Do give me some points; I got out as soon as I could. If my sister was not there, I doubt I would go back at all.

Decatur has about 81,860 people according to the 2000 census. When I lived there the population was always listed as around 78,000. 1990 it was 83,000 some people. So, since the statistics rarely lie, it is clear that Decatur is far from a boom town.

Shabby. That was my impression this time around. Shabby and declining. Sad really. Even my son Daniel noted it was getting a bit ragged. “Decatur was never all that exciting, but I remember at least the buildings were kept up and were open, there were stores and restaurants and things looked nice”, he opined as I met with him in St Louis on my way home. He observed well.

The yards and neighborhoods are beginning to look unkempt. Even my old neighborhood is getting frayed around the edges. A dry summer didn’t help, but it seemed lawn care was not high on anyone’s priority.

So many businesses that had been there forever were gone. I wrote about the two car dealerships that had passed on, both buildings were empty and deteriorating. The old shopping center near our home had tenants, but some shops that had closed last year were still empty. An old grocery store sat empty, as did many businesses along Pershing Rd, the old main shopping drag to the north. Some of the businesses still there looked shabby and barely hanging on. They used to shine.

Downtown used to have some department stores, a Carson Pirie Scott, K's Merchandise Mart, Myers Brothers that became a Bergner's and lots of small shops and busy streets. Now a lot of it is a big empty lot. It used to be a big hole, but the mosquitoes took over and they finally got the big idea to fill it in. Only a few diehards and a one block area of small boutiques hang on for dear life.

One of Decatur’s big problems is that the town has an inferiority complex, some say rightly so. Springfield to the west has a steady base as the state capitol. Springfield always gets the new stores and services before Decatur. The twin cities of Champaign-Urbana boast the University of Illinois campus and a much more active and vibrant community. Bloomington-Normal, also a pair of cities, have Illinois State University and the base of State Farm Insurance to keep them afloat. Their growth in the last decade has made them a power house in the area. Decatur just never seems to measure up, like a small kid being compared to his genius or athletic siblings. Bragging about the city strikes me as empty rah rah, cheering loudly and foolishly for the losing team.

Decatur was built on blue collar industry. Much of it struggling or gone. Firestone tires, GE, Borg Warner, Essex Wire, all left. The two big factories devoted to soybean processing and agribusiness, ADM and Tate and Lyle (nee A. E. Staley) are doing well but not enough to make up for other losses. Caterpillar tractor has seen some hard times but still hangs on. Nothing big ever seems to come in and absorb the losses.

Decatur has also tried hard to kill itself with a long history of political blunders. The most famous locally and the one that has enduring effects to this day was the blunder involving the annexation of the Hickory Point Mall. Like the surrounding cities, Decatur was ripe for an enclosed shopping mall. But the city powers that be at the time wanted to preserve downtown. Admirable in intention, but the developer had the land, was going to do it no matter what and wanted the city to annex the property for services. After a long debate, they said no to annexation. So the small village of Forsyth said sure, and they got the land... and the tax revenue, and more development. Decatur saw the downtown stores move out anyway, businesses move to the bustling new area and saw tax revenue plummet. They tried to starve it by not having bus service to the mall and faced an uproar. Decatur has made a lot of decisions like that; a failed water park never built even after street and light improvements were made, buying the Holiday Inn and watching it die, again a victim of bad location. Guess what? A new one is planned for Forsyth.

So, home gets more shabby, poorer and older. My generation moved out and many of the later ones did too. There are some who like it there, boosters to the end. Maybe they have more loyalty than I, maybe something is there I do not see.

Decatur has a motto: “Decatur, We Like it Here”. (I think the alternative was “Decatur: Better Here Than Nowhere”

My Motto: Kansas City, I love it here.

Going Home Pt 1

Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home. Or so the sentimental old song says. The long holiday weekend allowed me some time to visit my home town of Decatur Il and the house I grew up in. My sister sill lives in it and is doing her best to wreck it. My home town is showing its age too, and just like my sister, the city management has done a good job of wrecking the place. I'll deal with that later.

Despite the fact that the house and the neighborhood is getting old and needs some work, I loved going home. My neighborhood on Gregory Ct was unique. We got along, we shared, we played and partied. Every night when we were through with supper and the dishes done some one would pull a lawn chair out and sit out on their driveway. Soon someone else would be there and then another and another. Soon all the neighbors would be gathered in lively conversation, a cooler of beer or soda, snacks and such would appear and the world's problems solved, or at least discussed in length. Us kids would play hide and seek, circle ball, ride our bikes or whatever else was in vogue. The parties did not go too late, usually around 9:30-10PM or when the mosquitoes became annoying. Weekends there was always a cookout somewhere, food and drinks would fly.

Even in 2007, some of the same neighbors are there. Every Sunday, my sister goes to across the street to the Middens like she has for years for brunch. It is just assumed. Several other neighbors from the 60's still live there, though some have moved and some have passed on. It does give one a sense of stability, of belonging. It may not be the ritziest neighborhood in the world, but there is a certain "front porch" mentality that survives there, not the hide in back on the private deck mentality of newer places and younger lives.

We told the Middens we were going to cook out on Sunday PM. My sister said the grill would be hot and come and grill with us. Since we were fixing tuna steaks, Ann and her mom brought hamburgers as mom does not like fish. Potato salad, grilled romaine salad, tuna steaks, fresh tomatoes, pitchers of margaritas, apple pie, it was all there to share. Used to be there were more of us at the parties, but mom and dad are gone, Mr Midden is in a nursing home, the Perks and Sullivans are gone, Mrs Hopkins is gone and her husband was not home, Mr Mickels is gone and Mrs Mickels is down in Texas now, so the cast was a bit smaller.

The spirit of these people were there, watching as we carried on the tradition of a front porch neighborhood that shared, looked out for each other and had a lot of fun.

Farewell Hazelrigg's

You sometimes just can't help thinking that things that appeared rock solid and would be around forever are in fact slowly sinking away. Birds in the sky, now fireflies are dwindling. Courtesy, customer service, a real voice on the phone. LPs and 35mm cameras, payphones....relics now, confined to museums. Pan Am Airlines, Oldsmobile and Plymouth autos. The 2002 demise of Plymouth recently ended a long established business in my home town. Been there since I was a pup, figured it would be for a long time to come.

Hazelrigg's Chrysler, once Hazelrigg's Chrysler/Plymouth, shut its doors this past April. My sister mentioned this to me recently. I thought they would be there forever, the hard part had passed for them. But the owners were getting older, Jim had died and the youngest brother is around 70. The market was crazy, car sales except for the damn Toyota and Honda brands were down. It was getting hard to make ends meet in a smaller, family owned business.

The demise of Plymouth in 2002 was the death knell for many Chrysler/Plymouth dealers. It took their bread and butter away, of course the bread had been moldy and scarce for a long time. But minivan sales were still good, and the compact Neon made some sales. But the venerable Plymouth brand was dying, Dodge was the hot brand with the biggest selection of models. Chrysler brand had a resurgence with the hot 300M and then the later 300C, but Chrysler was more upscale and thus sales were not at the level of Dodge. Without the full range of cars, Chrysler dealers were struggling.

My dad bought most of his cars from Hazelrigg's. Starting with a used 1956 Dodge, his 1962 Chrysler New Yorker, and ending with his 1977 Chrysler New Yorker. My sister had that car for years and Hazelrigg's kept it running as well. I even bought a car there, a 1990 Plymouth Voyager minivan, back in my family man days. Ok, we were not their best customers, but damn it we were loyal for sure. Dad had known the Hazelrigg's for years, they had originally been across the street from his office in Downtown Decatur on Prairie St. The move to North Oakland (practically the suburbs) took place I think in the late 60's. It was their only home for a generation or two of car buyers.

Chrysler is now sold at the Brady Automall, along the Interstate with the rest of the businesses that abandoned downtown and even midtown Decatur. Somehow, it will be not be business as usual. The same staff, the same people who knew you at the shop or the business office, no one to call and say "Paul, the big Chryslers are going away soon, better get one now." North Oakland will not be the same either with Tallman Cadillac being empty as well, another icon of Decatur auto lore gone.

I somehow think we are losing something important, or at least anchoring and familiar. Like the firefly. And flocks of birds.

Reflecting on 50

Monday February 25, 1957 was a pretty uneventful day with one notable exception. Yours truly came kicking and screaming out in the world at Decatur/Macon County Hospital at about 1AM, thus forever disappointing my parents.

I was supposed to be born on the 24th. My parents were married on 4/4/44, my sister born 11/4/45, my dad born 1/4/22. So you see the deal; four was the lucky number. Of course mom was born 6/1/23 so she was left out in the cold too. Maybe that is why we got along.

50 years. Many tell me I am still but a child. Some look at me and think I am younger. No one mistakes me for older. Yet.

50 years. A lot has changed. Born just before Sputnik, I remember the space race and like a lot of kids my age sat riveted to the TV watching John Glenn and ultimately seeing men on the moon. I came to visit this planet years before Cable TV (color was still amazing for a while), the internet (computers were still numbered in the hundreds and did not much more than a good calculator) and cell phones(a Princess phone was a treat). Cars had tail fins and Alaska was not even a state, nor was Hawaii. Jet airplanes were new and rare, most still powered by pistons.

I have seen some amazing things and been to some amazing places. Stood on the Mount of Olives and in Westminster Abbey. Climbed two volcanoes, walked the streets of Mozart, Henry VIII, Jesus, Mohammad, William Wallace and Napoleon. Seen a lot, met a lot of people. Laughed a lot, cried too much and made many great friends. I was blessed with 3 wonderful kids, one who sadly does not walk this world anymore, but two I know will do great things and make me proud, as I already am.

1/2 Century. A damn long time. For some reason, 50 is harder on me than 30 or 40. 30 found me unhappily married and in a horrible job, but I still felt I had my whole future. 40 found me in a great job, lots of great friends and co workers and the peak of my career. 50 finds me floating, drifting would more accurately it. I never figured I'd be where I am now, out of the real world of work, in a simple job with more hassles than benefits. A lot of friends have drifted away as it becomes more necessary for people to move to stay ahead of the game. We plan on keeping touch, but that soon passes. Soon it is just too much water under the bridge.

50, I'll survive it. Eating my way through it more like it. Now 60, that is unfathomable. We ain't even talking about that.

I'll be home For Christmas

I'll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents on the tree

Christmas eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams
1943, by Walter Kent (music) and James Gannon (words)

....as the old song goes.

I went home again this past Christmas, as I always do. No dream required. I have been in Kansas City since 1997 and have never spent a Christmas Day or Christmas Eve here. Without fail, I have went back to Decatur; rain, snow, sleet, whatever thrown at me has never stopped me.

I am lucky in a way; my sister still owns and lives in the house I grew up in, I was about 4 when we moved to the new suburban house from the smaller house in the city. I don't remember the first house much, just a few fuzzy memories of my mom and the neighbors interacting.

My sister is older than I, almost a different generation than me. For years we were strangers, but with mom and dad gone and an extended family that is nowhere near close (I have aunts and cousins I have not seen in years) we are all we have. My kids are grown now and have their own agendas, Christmas at Dad's is unthinkable to them as it was for me at that age. They'll come around someday.

Christmas at home is far from exciting. We eat, Donna watches her omnipresent TV, I bitch at all the junk she collects, she eats more and shops more. We go to the Midden's on Christmas Eve, despite the fact that Dee is frail and Bob is in a nursing home. Wine and beer has been replaced with diet soda and tea. I have went over there for as long as I can remember. Dee's cooking is suspect, but she never fails to have a spread. She still gives everyone a tacky present, but her heart is 100% gold.

Donna and I are lousy present givers. We always know what each of us got each other. Makes it easy but it takes the drama out of it. Sometimes the gifts are are still in the sack from the store. I am a lousy wrapper, so it takes some of the anxiety out of it.

Puggles always comes along. She likes visiting Aunt Donna, lots of yard to explore and a neighborhood safe to walk in. Donna professes to be annoyed by her, but I think she secretly adores her. For Puggles, any one who lounges on a couch is the top, so she thinks Aunt Donna is a goddess.

Home is getting shabby. The house needs some work. It, like us, is getting old. Neither of us have the money to sink into the place. We replace as needed, like the roof and the Air conditioner and the tree trim. The big ice storm last month did a number on all the trees and knocked down my apple tree I planted in about 1966-67. But despite all, she still stands, many of the same neighbors are there, the woods I loved to explore still beckons, and I still have a key. I have someplace I can always go. Not being homeless is a great feeling.

Powerful

Finally my dear sister has power. After the ice storm of Wednesday the 29th she got it back sometime this evening. She is not sure when, but her answering machine came on when called at 9:30PM.

It is amazing how we are so tied to our power. We can't function without it. She was going nuts, not so much from the cold but from the lack of TV and communication. I'd be the same without my internet for sure.

Many more still wait for power and the power company is threatening its customers by saying if the states do not give them a big rate hike they want, the service will be worse. Bullshit... it will get worse anyhow, the big wigs will get more benefits and money like all the companies do. The customers will suffer.

Oh, and while most of St Louis froze, Boy Gov was hob-nobbing in Florida with his GOP money men.

I Turned Out OK I Guess

I think of myself as a reasonably intelligent guy. I did well in school, graduated 14th out of a class of over 400. I went to college, got a BA and a MA from a good school. My English is quite good and I can even spell. I have a good command of French and can manage a conversation in Spanish. I know the capital cities of all 50 States…yes even Dover, Delaware and Bismarck, North Dakota. My IQ is a mystery to me, but I am sure it is relatively high, definitely above the moron stage.

How did I get that way? It certainly was not due to a plethora of dedicated grade school and high school teachers. Most of them were morons. My dear friend David, my most faithful blog reader, and a man I have been proud to call a friend for (are you ready David) 43 years, shared some of the same teachers as I did. He turned out ok too….. must be in the water.

We had some doozies. Mrs. Kassoy (spellings of names may be a bit fuzzy after lo so many years) in 3rd grade loved to throw things at us, like erasers and chairs and books. She was a menace. My 4th grade teacher Mrs. Goforth, a kindly lady, spent most of her time telling us of the trip she won to Hawaii. As most of us had not been west of Denver, it was all fascinating to us. We learned little else, but heard all about the Hawaii. I had a 5th grade teacher (or maybe 6th, help me David) named Mrs. Dillie that lived up to her name as well. There was a well publicized cheating ring in 6th grade with the math teacher we had (a Mr. Stewart??? Don't remember, his name. He was a big fellow and my first male teacher)in which I think everyone participated.

The real losers were in Middle School as they called it then. Mrs. White, a science teacher, was hopelessly lost when it came to science. She was a Home Economics teacher forced into teaching science. We already knew more science than she did. Mrs. Ashley was an English teacher who was bizarre to say the least. She had an interesting way of speaking and complete lack of control of her class. “Neeer… Shut your teeth” she bellowed one day. Insane. There was another English teacher, whose name I forget (she made a huge impression) who just gave us reading assignments and let us be as she sat at the desk and looked bored.

Mrs. Morris was unique. She was a former college professor who for some reason ended up teaching Middle School science. We never asked why. Luckily, unlike Mrs. White, she actually knew some science. She thought we were college students and thus expected us to know more than we did. She was outgoing and always had us engaged in something. We did science projects including one of the first environmental projects, a neighborhood clean up. She was actually pretty good, when she remembered that we were 12 and not 22.

The most pathetic and the one I blame for my complete lack of understanding of math was Mr. Gilbert. He gave us spelling tests. We could not count, but we could spell. We would take a spelling test every day and had to spell the name of our city, our state and other words he thought we needed to know. He was mentally ill and blew his brains out a couple years later. Sad, but not unexpected. How he ever got to be a teacher was beyond me.

The vast majority were not standouts in any real way. They were neither enthusiastic motivators, nor insane idiots. They got us by.

I guess I had some good teachers, Mrs. North, Mrs. Greer, Mrs. Howard, Mr. Kirby, Mrs. Ogden, and Mrs. Chapman. These teachers expanded my mind, showed me new things, and gave me skills I still use today. We could use more like them today. Johnny could read if they were in charge.

Jimmy

In my hometown, West Grand Ave proceeded grandly westward as its name implied. Up until the 70's sometime, it ended in a graceful S curve blending into West Center Street. Center Street proceeded out of town, past the street to my house, past the creek and corn fields until it T'd with Wycles Road. The great plan was to eventually extend Grand westward and meet up with Center Street at the foot of the hill down from my house. Although that would have been interesting, it really served no purpose. The planned development of the Community College on W. Center never came to fruition, so the plan languished and now is apparently forgotten. The only vestige of this plan is the 2-3 block extension that now T's with Home Park Ave, the S curve now partially gone.

To make this extension they had to demolish Jimmy Edwards' house. When the S curve existed, if you went straight you'd enter a gravel lane that led to an old, rundown and somewhat spooky house mostly hidden by a tangle of trees and weeds. Poor Jimmy. I wonder what became of him? A strange fellow he was. And sad I am sure. Jimmy was thrust into our middle class grade school world of vacations, second cars, 2.5 kids and a dog on a cul-de-sac. Jimmy's lot was different it seemed. I don't know of anyone whoever went to his house. We were afraid to. It had to be dirty, or at least haunted. We were sure his parents (or whoever took care of him) were decidedly beneath us and likely evil.

Jimmy yearned to be a part of us. He longed to be "normal". I remember he was always trying to impress us, using his active, escapist imagination to concoct anew and more fanciful tales. He excused his falling asleep in class once because he had been up late. "My brother took me to Paris in his Rolls Royce". We all tittered with childish laughter as Jimmy looked annoyed and bewildered. Jimmy, although he new about Paris, (yes France, he said, not the Paris in Illinois) and Rolls Royces, failed to remember that one could not drive to Paris in France not in Illinois. I wonder if in reality his drunk father had been beating and kicking his mother or was bailed out of jail....

Jimmy struggled mightily to be like us and to be liked by us. Looking back nearly 40 (!) years, I realize this now. The me of today would have reached out to him, but the me of then rejected him like the others. He invited me one day after school to go to his house and make Santa Clauses. I declined, fearing I'd be mugged or shot or.....something.

Jimmy, I wonder where you are. And I am sorry how I treated you. Is it too late to be friends?