Who Dad?!

Rogers Park

I've never had this experience so profoundly before. I keep sitting down to write one thing and another comes out. It's as if someone or something else has some invisible control over my mind.

Today, I insist on getting back to the guys I grew up with in the neighborhood known as Rogers Park. I need facts though to stay grounded, so bear with me.

Hailing from Rogers Park, I never thought how the name of the place might have influenced development. Over the years, with time to consider and pursue even the most obscure lines of thinking, I can see the connection between how responses to messages like "Let's ride our Stingrays at breakneck speeds down treacherous Mt. Trashmore" were almost always met with some version of "Roger That."

Or, "Let's stay up all night, sneak out of our houses, and go watch the sunrise over Lake Michigan."

"Roger That."

So, perhaps those of us from the old neighborhood prone to feats of derring-do, and/or blessed with a can-do spirit, owe something to the Irish immigrant, Phillip Rogers. Okay, he was mostly a farmer, but he did purchase (at about $1.25 an acre) 1,600 acres of what we now know as Rogers Park. The guy only lived to 44, but look at all that was named after him!

However, it was his son-in-law, Patrick Touhy, who inherited the homestead on what we call Ridge Avenue and the surrounding acreage. He started subdividing and developing in the 1870s, and in 1878 the area was incorporated as the Village of Rogers Park. Chicago annexed it and its 3,500 inhabitants in 1893.

The street I lived on shared an alley with the buildings on Touhy Avenue. I never thought about where that name came from. We spoke it as if spitting something out. It was the busiest street in the neighborhood.

Sometimes at night, as a tall and agile kid, I'd climb out a window to our porch then down to the top of a shed, and from there use a drain pipe to get to the ground. I'd wear all black and move in the shadows through our yard, across the alley, and then climb up to the roofs of single storied buildings in a row along Touhy Avenue. I'd cross from roof to roof, hiding behind the parapet walls, spying on the people below. There was no point other than to see without being seen.

And, there really is no connection between the phrase "Roger That" and Phillip Rogers, but the fondness for saying "Roger" is widespread and must mean something, right?

The first people to live in those forests and prairies by Lake Michigan were the Pottawatomi. And, from what I can remember of high school, there sure was a lot of pot around me. Names matter. For example, try to find someone raised in Hyde Park!

Richie Havens playing in a school gymnasium.

Us, sitting on the floor right in front of him.

His spit, like holy water, cleansing us.

There I go again! I could not stop myself from writing that. Yes, it's a real memory, but what does that have to do with Rogers Park? I'm pretty sure that was a moment from a trip to Wisconsin. I'm having a hard time staying focused, sorting things out. It's as if some part of my mind wants to go elsewhere. I'm floundering here. Whatever organizing principle I had is gone.

"D'jeet?"

"What?! Who said that?!"

But I'm here alone. I must have made that up, but that word, that sound opened up something forgotten: unexpected adventures that began with banter and laughter.

"D'j'eet?" was once the opening salvo for a group of guys: Ira, Gary (Da Gar), Jay, Robb (Bubbles), Marty, Lorry (Lorenzo), and me. We'd often greet each other with "D'j'eet?" It was pronounced as a quick syllable and a half inquiry, short for "Did you eat yet?"

In other words, shall this outing begin with a meal? And, if so, where? A proper reply to "D'j'eet?" might even be to begin the negotiations with the name of a place.

Back when we wandered around on foot between Lerner Park and Rogers Park, it was simple. Indoors with a table: Louie's, Rosa's, Barnaby's, Gold Coin, Gulliver's, or Pickle Barrel. For the best hot dog, Paul's Umbrella, but if fries were required, Terry's. Great diet, huh? My theory though is that laughter and movement can digest most anything.

I could (should) write a book about us growing up together, or, at least about the houseboat trips. We took several. When we were all turning forty, we began meeting in various places around the country to resurrect our glory days, reminisce, indulge, and create new memories, but would often return to Lake Powell, back when the water level there was much higher.

When Ira's brother Michael, a fellow golfer and also a dear friend of mine, joined us on a trip, we co-created Houseboat Golf. The game required floating golf balls, a few clubs, some astro turf, and inflatable tubes for targets. We'd find a suitable bay on the lake, position the targets between the houseboat and the shore, and then hit at them from on top of the boat. We also rented a two person kayak which we'd use to fetch the balls, using a small fishing net to retrieve them. It was a blast. People boating nearby would slow and steer close enough to give us a thumbs up or some acknowledging cheer. I wonder how many followed our lead?

We've scattered around the country, but always keep in touch. Once, Ira, recalling a moment at the YMCA, sent this in an email to his brother Michael,

"Ella's playing softly, the room smelled like Aqua Velva and steamed cotton, a man sits in a corner ready to help".

However, it went out instead to all of us Roger Park pals. Jay responded,

"When the beautiful redhead strolls into the room."

One by one, we added sentences. Eventually, I turned it into what I called fast food fiction. Tales of the Conspiracy Cafe: Barcelona was born from our play.

Near the conclusion of the book, I had the main characters set off in a houseboat named the "Slow Duck", a tribute to all of the fabulous houseboat trips our group took together on Lake Powell.

I had attended my 30th high school reunion that same year, was frustrated at how hard it was to finish any conversation, and so initiated an email group to continue the catching up. When I mentioned in an email having completed this book, a former classmate, Nancy, wanted a copy. She shared it with Rodney Vance who later bought the rights, wrote a screenplay, organized a reading in the Spielberg Theatre at the Egyptian with Wil Wheaton, Dorian Harewood, Lisa Tharps, and others.

The story of the movie yet to be made could be a movie in itself. Ask Rodney about it. 

Rhapsody

Like a grown child

gone from home

out there

making connections

finding a path

facing Life

unshielded,

my books travel

without me,

spend time with people

I may never know.

A few words

trickle back

bring smiles

some warmth

but that work is done

only gratitude

surrender

trust remain.

Creativity

ceaseless river of Now

some words guide

others anchor

all reveal

buried music

shifting shorelines

mesmerizing rhythm

of mind

minding

mending

itself.