Judy Blue Eyes

    “Fear is the lock and laughter the key.” Suite: Judy Blue Eyes,” Crosby, Stills and Nash

Close to 50 years ago, after finishing three sets of tennis with Paul Kern, Nick Kanellos, and Bob Wilszynski at Woodlake Village Apartments, I was getting into my car when I smelled reefer emanating from one of the units and heard the mellow sounds of “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” from the 1969 self-titled Crosby, Still and Nash album that also contains “Marrakesh Express” and “Wooden Ships.”  I waved, flashed the PEACE sign, and from an open sliding glass door a long-haired hippie waved back.  Had he beckoned, I’d have gladly joined them.  Hearing “Judy Blue Eyes,” on WXRT en route to IU Northwest, I could still recall many verses, including: “Chesnut-brown canary, Ruby-throated sparrow, Sing a song, don’t be long, Thrill me to the marrow.”  One I never understood in Spanish: “Me la traiga a Cuba, La reina de la Mar Caribe, Quiero solo visitaria alli, Y que triste que no puedo!”: Translated it appears to mean:  “I'd bring her to Cuba, The queen of the Caribbean Sea, I only want to visit her there, And how sad that I can't.”

“Judy Blue Eyes” always reminds me of grade school pal Judy Jenkins, whose brother Terry was my grade school best friend and whom I reconnected with in ninth grade after living in Michigan for over a year.  By then Judy was blond, quite beautiful, and popular; though at her and Terry’s house quite often, I was too diffident to ask her out, afraid of jeopardizing a close relationship, so settled for being a friend and confidant.

About 20 years ago, coming back from Wells Street Beach to our house on Maple Place, I heard the mellow sounds of Marvin Gaye’s “Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology)” from the 1971 album “What’s Going On?” emanating from folks enjoying a cookout in front of Miller Village Apartments.  I joined them, the vibes were friendly, and I was invited to a Labor Day party in one of the fourth-floor units.  I showed up but noticed a certain tenseness among some guests, who seemed to suspect I might be a narc.  After a short time, I departed.  Carolyn McCrady lived on the same floor but soon moved out after unsavory renters moved nearby.  Five months later, home invaders broke into Dave and Angie’s cabin a block away from us and across County Line Road from Miller Village Apartments.  The three of us were playing the board game Shark.  The bastards held us captive and terrorized us for over an hour.  Though they were never caught, an FBI bloodhound traced their scent to the fourth floor of Miller Village Apartments.

Sunday after making blueberry pancakes and kaibasa and watching Sunday news shows, I found two movies OnDemand, the depressing “Blue Valentine” (2010) starring Michelle Williams and Ryan Gosling (about a marriage falling apart) and the silly but funny “What about Bob?” (1991) with Bill Murray and Richard Dreyfuss as a mental patient and his self-absorbed shrink. I caught the first two hours of the Oscars and learned next day that the South Korean film “Parasite” not only won both for Best Director but Best Picture as well, beating out such favorites as “Joker,” “The Irishman,” “1917,” and “Little Women.”
Maurice Sendak
At Munster Center for the Arts I told Art in Focus program director Micah Bornstein what I needed for my speaking engagement next month (sound system, stools, and dance floor), then watched a documentary about Maurice Sendak (1928-2012), most famous for the children’s book “Where the Wild Things Are,” whose upcoming Memorial Exhibition will be at the Center’s gallery for two months. Interviewed at age 80, Sendak talked about being traumatized from learning about aviator Charles Lindbergh’s baby having been kidnapped and killed (it inspired “Outside Over There”) and seeing a childhood friend in Brooklyn fatally struck by a vehicle on a street trying to retrieve a ball Sendak had tossed him.  “In the Night Garden” (1970) caused a furor because of a drawing of a child’s penis.  Some librarians censored the book; others actually drew diapers on him.  Asked if he’d purposely drawn the offending member, Sendak responded, “That dick didn’t get there by itself.”

George Van Til asked me to keep my book club introduction of him brief when he spoke about his forthcoming autobiography; beforehand I wrote out these remarks:

    As George Van Til once told me in an interview, his political career both began and ended on Route 41.  It began when he took a Political Science class at Indiana University Northwest and joined the IUN Young Democrats, where he met political officeholders and aspirants, some of whom are still active in county government.  The Young Democrats served as a springboard for a career in Highland town government and as Lake County surveyor, with Van Til ultimately winning a total of 16 elections.  During that time, I would frequently see him at events in Gary and of concern to workers and environmentalists.  His efforts on behalf of those people earned him the enmity of powerful economic interests who, when they could not defeat him at the polls, turned to the Justice Department, which ultimately charged him with practices involving his staff that were common, nay, near universal among elected officials. 

    Two years ago, Post-Trib columnist Jeff Manes wrote a column about George Van Til.  He began with the Biblical quote: “He that is without sin among you, let him cast a stone.”  He ended by saying that prison taught him humility – something he admitted he needed and this quote from Van Til: “When I drive by the government center, where I worked for so many years, I avert my eyes.  It’s difficult to look.  Government service is what defined me.  That’s who I was.  What am I now?  It’s a struggle.”  Then Manes added: “As for me, I suppose I needed to talk man to man with the tall, bearded Dutchman for 90 minutes.  My conclusion? No stones cast here.”

 Jimbo and George in Terre Haute, 2016

A large group was on hand for Van Til’s talk, including former Lake County sheriff Roy Dominguez and longtime East Chicago wheeler-dealer Bob Cantrell, who starred on East Chicago Washington’s 1960 state championship basketball team that defeated Muncie Central 75-59. Much of what Van Til revealed about his career as a public servant was familiar to me from interviewing him for several hours, but he added some spicy anecdotes so as (his words) not to bore his audience.  Years ago, Lake County politicians were known to visit sporting houses at the State Capital when the legislature was in session, with the understanding that what goes on in Indianapolis stays in Indianapolis.  One well-known politician, now deceased, was undressing when the lady of the evening asked where he was from and ticked off the names of Region clients.  The man quickly put his clothes back on and was never tempted to return.  One conservative downstate Republican legislator suggested that he and his wife stay overnight and swap mates.  George didn’t take him up on the offer. 

George read off some prospective chapter titles, including one covering the feds vendetta against him, “I didn’t do it.” I teared up when he told of Mayor Richard Hatcher arranging a luncheon at Beach Café for black elected officials to express their appreciation for his services on behalf of the people of Gary.  Before starting his prison sentence in Terre Haute, George spoke with others, including former Calumet Township Trustee Dozier T. Allen, who’d been incarcerated on what to expect. When he realized that most prison guards and white prisoners were Trump supporters, he was careful not to bring up politics.  Playing the piano at Sunday church services was something to look forward to and offered needed solace.  When told by those attending that they’d been praying for a piano player, George thought, “I hope that’s not why I ended up here, as an answer to their prayers.” One holiday Archbishop Tobin conducted services at the chapel and told the prisoners, “I am your brother, Joseph.”  Van Til was impressed.  His prison nickname became “piano man.”

I’m debating how spicy to make my September Saturday Evening Club presentation on “Novelists as Social Historians.”  Before discussing such personal favorites as “Rabbit Run,” “To Kill a Mockingbird,” “The Jungle,” “Babbitt,” “Grapes of Wrath,” and recent works by Elizabeth Stroud and Richard Russo, I may start with the first novel I recall reading, the controversial potboiler Peyton Place (1956).  Kids usually read for adventure, fantasy, or to be educated – in this case, it was about sex.  Its themes of hypocrisy, social inequities, class privilege, and sexism in a small, conservative town were especially relevant in postwar America. “Peyton Place” entered the lexicon; after several high school classmates became pregnant involuntarily, gossips clucked, “This town is a regular Peyton Place.”  The book spawned several sequels, two movies, and even a prime-time soap opera starring Mia Farrow as Allison and Ryan O’Neal as Rodney.  Author Grace Metalious was a rebel who often eschewed bras and dressed in men’s clothes prior to becoming famous (some would say notorious) and drinking herself to death within a decade.  I was shocked to find a copy of “Peyton Place” hidden in the bookcase of my maiden great-aunt Grace.  It opened to pages containing juicy passages that she must have read several times.  Here’s one:

    Her finger tips traced a pattern down the side of his face, and with her mouth almost against his, she whispered, “I didn’t know it could be like this.”

    She could not lie still under his hands.

    “Anything,” she said. “Anything.  Anything.”

    “I love this fire in you.  I love it when you have to move.”

    “Don’t stop.”

    “Her? And here? And here?”

    “Yes. Oh, yes.  Yes.”

This car scene featured teenagers Rodney and Betty, who had a “fast” reputation:

    Her whole body twisted and moved when he kissed her, and when hos hands found their way to her breast, she writhed on the seat, jackknifed her knees, pushed Rodney away from her, clicked the lock on the door, and was outside of the car.

    “Now go do it to Allison MacKenzie,” she screamed at him.  “Go get the girl you brought to the dance and do it to her.”

  Before Rodney could catch his breath to utter a word, she had whirled and was on her way back to the gym. He tried to run after her, but his legs were like sawdust under him.  He hung on to the open car door and retched helplessly, the sweat poured down his face.