chicago

A holiday love story

When I was in the hospital in Boulder, Colorado with the heart problem a few weeks ago, I asked a nurse about my cardiologist. I knew he had retired, but didn’t know why. “He’s 68 years old,” she said, “and he wants to spend more time with his girlfriend, who lives in Chicago.”

#HolidayLoveStory

A tale of two stories

A couple of stories are bouncing around in my head, so I thought I’d write them down to get them out of there.

In story #1, I was meditating a few nights ago when “Boom!” I was standing in the house I grew up in. I always wanted to go back there to see what it was like with an older set of eyes, so I took my time in walking around, looking at and touching everything. Eventually I walked downstairs, and when I got there a young version of my mom came out of her bedroom and seem concerned about something. Then she looked at me and said, “Money is important, isn’t it?” I replied, “I suppose so,” and then she kept walking around with that concerned look, and then the scene ended just as fast as it began and I was back in the darkness of meditation.

In story #2, my family was at O’Hare Airport in Chicago, and I probably wasn’t a teenager yet, maybe thirteen years old at the most. I think I went to get a drink of water, and when I turned around an older hippie girl was standing there. She leaned down and pinned a little fake red flower on my shirt and said something spiritual, which I thought was cool. Then she asked if could give her some money. I didn’t have any money, and when I told her that, she ripped the flower off my shirt and stomped away much less peacefully. I remember thinking that her behavior wasn’t correct, and I suspect that incident made me mistrust religious people for quite some time.

(From a Facebook post from May, 2018.)

Receiving radio stations for hundreds of miles

I was driving in western Kentucky around four o’clock on Friday morning, and I was able to get in radio stations from Arkansas, Iowa, Chicago, Cleveland, and Atlanta. That was pretty cool.

“That’s for your sister”

When I was young — ages 0 to 8 — my family lived in Chicago. One day I was walking down a sidewalk, and some older boys were walking the other way.

I was a little kid and pretty much just going “La la la la ...” down the sidewalk when the boys stopped me. One of them asked, “Are you M’s brother?”, where “M” refers to one of my sisters. I said something like, “Sure, yes, how you doing?”, when he hauled off and punched me in the stomach. “That’s for your sister,” he said.

(As the saying goes, Hurt people hurt people.)