(Baby) Grand Mother

Among my most vivid memories is my mother playing Debussy's Claire de Lune on her baby grand piano.

Mom was born in a farmhouse near Damar, Kansas. In that time and place it seemed like the world was ending. Smarter land management solved the Dust Bowl and massive government investment in a world war took care of the Great Depression.

Geraldine May Ordway was barely a toddler when the stars/shale formations aligned and oil was struck on her grandfather Fred Bemis's land in Ellis County, Kansas. Geology and good fortune delivered Fred's family from the despair that claimed so many Great Plains families.

A standup guy and rock solid Christian, Fred Bemis typified his western Kansas early 20th century stalwart peers. No one needed remind him that to those whom much is given, much is expected. Fred's philanthropy flowed through his family, church, Hadley hospital, Fort Hays State College.

Mom at 16 with her baby grand.

Fred's son-in-law (my grandfather) was an entrepreneur long before it was labeled. Vic Ordway liked big shiny cars and whiskey sours at the cocktail hour. He was gregarious, hilarious and generous. For her 16th birthday, Vic gave Mom a baby grand piano.

Within a year of the baby grand, Mom married my Dad, whom she'd met at Plainville High. Sixty years ago this month. Three babies in five years. Mom worked directly from the blueprint of her generation: Raise a family.

Each generation is shackled by the mores of their time. Today the infrastructure of Mom's generation is crumbling, but back in the day, it framed up and girded the world: A woman's place is in the home, don't cry over spilled milk, you can always find bargains if you look hard enough. 

Engaged at 15. Baby grand at 16. Married at 17.

Didn't take her long to realize she was not happy, but Mom stuck it out until the kids grew up. Only then did my parents go their separate ways.

We are all products of our upbringing and childhood environments. Barring some psychic change, we do what they did, we do what comes naturally as a matter of course. Her father was easy on her. She was easy on me. And I was easy on my son. Easy in the sense that we viewed our children as gifts and our upstream motivation was to spare them pain, sorrow and hardship.

Two years ago, after a lifetime in Kansas, Geri Ordway moved into an attached apartment of my sister's home in Tennessee.

Mom will celebrate her 78th birthday this summer in Nashville, where she builds 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzles (in mere moments, it seems), champions progressive causes, creates works of art she calls "quilts," and fondly remembers the past.

Among Mom's many gifts is an innate ability to hang on to relationships. She makes -- and then keeps -- lifelong friends wherever she goes. Her connections with some of her friends span more than half a century.

Another thread in her life is a remarkable capacity and willingness to care for loved ones as death draws nigh. In '72, Mom was a one-woman hospice for her mother-in-law. She was there for both her parents, her Aunt (Vic's sister) and most recently, her own little sister, my Aunt Linda.

They are both extraordinary gifts to which I suspect she doesn't give a second thought.

Conscious or not, Mom's sort of become the de facto Ordway family matriarch. She's the one who stays in touch with the nieces, nephews, grandkids and their families.

My Mom is the kind of personality who draws strength from strong personalities close to her. Mom didn't issue any manifestos. She didn't burn her bra. She adored her father, raised her kids, has faith in God and loves her neighbor.

There are many lessons I can still learn from her.

As she reminisces, I hope Mom has no regrets. If she does, I'm not sure she'd verbalize them.

I hope she realizes how her actions and her intentions come from the best possible place.     

Kansas Up and Down the Dial

Because I began my professional career behind a microphone, I have a soft spot in my heart for radio. Back then, the business plan was basic: Put a stick in the air, offer appealing programming and sell commercials.

Today, we have satellite radio in each car and our bedroom. Lately, instead of Jim Bohannon on 1350 KMAN at bedtime, I tune into John Miller calling Giants games on KNBR, San Francisco. I listen to west coast commercials and wonder about the business plan. The chances of me buying a car from “your Bay Area Ford dealers” are nonexistent. But because of technology and my choices, I’m not even hearing the ads that air during Bohannon on my local radio station.

So it was with a sense of guilt amelioration that I slipped into a rental car last week equipped with AM and FM, but no satellite radio. During a 2-day road trip that would take me to within a stone’s throw of Missouri and Colorado, I would return to my radio roots.

The rental car agency (where they’ll pick me up) asks me where to tune the radio.

“K-Rock, 1-oh-1-five. Manhattan.”  

It’s K-Rock’s “old school lunch” programmed locally. Target demographic: Me. Former long hair world conquerers. Now hairline receding, middle age precipice-approachers who hear Blue Öyster Cult and travel back in time over our cobb salads (dressing on the side, please), burnin’ for you and days gone by.   

Home in the darkness, home on the highway...

K-Rock’s signal fades as I dip into a Flint valley somewhere in Wabaunsee County. Switch to 580-AM. When I worked there, WIBW was the Voice of Kansas (Stauffer Communications’ caps).

It’s a talk show. Local? The host is fawning over some guy screaming about the failed gun background check proposal in the U.S. Senate. It’s the Mike Huckabee show. Sorry, but I have little patience for people who run for president and parlay their 15 minutes into a radio talk show.

I exercise my rights as a consumer.

CLICK.

Topeka meeting done, now Pittsburg-bound by way of Kansas City.

810 SportsTalk (WHB) all the way to Crawford County. Kevin Kietzman railing on the Chiefs draft strategy. I don’t always agree with him, but Kietz is a pro and understands sports talk radio in a big league market needs a bit of a jagged edge if it’s to succeed.

It’s dark when I leave Pittsburg and head west for Wichita. The Royals are off tonight, so I catch the last few innings of the Cardinals game in Philadelphia on KMOX 1120, St. Louis, one of the biggest AM sticks in the land. I find myself pulling for the Phillies. My Cardinals ambivalence can be traced to the ’85 World Series.

(Denkinger was wrong, btw and the Royals have not been to the post-season since. Karma?)

Right before my head hits the pillow in Wichita, I punch the sleep button on the bedside radio. It’s tuned to KNSS-AM 1330. During the 11 o’clock top of the hour national newscast, something about an MIT cop shot in Boston.

Up before the dawn, on the road for Scott City. KMUW, 89.1 FM. Public radio hosts juggle breaking news and a pledge drive on Morning Edition as events in Boston unfold.

Broadcast journalism at its finest, summed up in three words: Dina Temple-Raston. OK, I guess that may technically be two words. Regardless, in a garden of dandelions and thistle, she’s a tulip.  

A subject matter expert with a 21^st century beat. As NPR’s Counterterrorism Correspondent, the woman is plugged in to systems/networks. When short on facts, her speculation and supposition is grounded in experience and a thorough understanding of her subject matter.

“Al-Qaeda’s become much more arms-length recently, in terms of the way radicalization is happening. They just have sort of an Internet presence...”

When I get west of U.S. 81, for reasons obvious to anyone familiar 21^st century Kansas demographics, the radio frequency spectrum tends to fall into three broad format categories: country, classic rock and Spanish-speaking.

“Dave FM” is KKDT licensed to Post Rock Radio in Burdett.

“We couldn’t be more country if we sold live bait...”

KSSA-FM 105.9, Ingalls. La Kebeuna. Not sure what it means. I need/want/intend to learn more Spanish than muy bueno and la isla bonita.

Check the smart phone and notice a new icon has appeared on the top line. It’s Tune In, an app I downloaded to listen to K-State sports on the road. I apparently programmed it to clue me in on “breaking news” and am now treated to live manhunt coverage from WBZ-1030 AM in Boston.

As I drive through Lane County, Kansas.

Going home, my plan was to listen to Denny Matthews, hopping affiliate to affiliate on the Royals Radio Network (Ulysses, Dodge, Hays, Larned, Great Bend, Salina, Junction City and Manhattan.) Except the game’s postponed since most of Boston was locked down all day. Back to surfing.

  

The sun’s setting as I cruising through the Ellsworth County Smoky Hills. It’s apropos that KSAL-FM 104.9 is playing Head East.

There’s never been any reason for you to think about me.

There’s never been any reason why broadcast journalism needs to dumb down. Consumers drive the decisions. If you don’t like what you hear/see...

CLICK.   

There’s never been any reason not to write a new business plan, when technology trumps the old one.

Bring a good feelin’ ain’t had in such a long time...  

I Love a Parade

"Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup."

                                       -- Crowded House (1986)

As Kansans, do we take a little more ownership than others in civil rights? Our cultural infrastructure is infused with blood, shed in the struggle for freedom and equality. A century later, some judges said a little Topeka girl did not have to go to a school that was not equal. On the heels of Brown vs. Board of Education, my generation lived a means to that end.

When I was in 7^th grade, the Wichita school board decided that plucking a handful of kids from the comforts of suburbia and shipping them to the inner city (and vice-versa) was a wise tactic in a larger strategy aimed at racial integration.

Welcome to the land of baloney on white bread with Miracle Whip.

Now, assimilate.

Visit Pleasant Valley today and you'll see the demographic panoply of 21^st century American society. If the desired outcome of busing was to prime the diversity pump, one can make a compelling case that it worked.

Today’s civil rights struggle is marriage equality.

I’m not a lawyer and I’m not smart enough (stupid enough?) to predict how the U.S. Supreme Court will rule. However, comma, (My high school yearbook teacher at Wichita Heights would say that out loud: “However, comma.” I still do.) However, comma, when your government is of, by and for the people, it will – by design – react to the people.

Sometime soon, the high court may strike down the Defense of Marriage Act. It may overturn California’s Proposition 8. Regardless of the specific case, it’s just the means to an end.

And when they do, the ruling will be a reflection of the people.

By 1954, when the Warren court ruled on Brown, the Plessy v. Ferguson fig leaf had shrunk to the point where there was simply no moral argument left to defend ‘separate but equal’ education for black kids and white kids.

Civil rights is a march.

Look around. The parade is passing by.

An entire generation of Americans is baffled and asks, “Why is this even a question?”

In my Manhattan Mercury, this Sunday morning alone:

- A new city commissioner (elected Tuesday) says the city should look at ways of changing the mindset of the community over LGBT discrimination.

- A former Baltimore Ravens linebacker says a handful of NFL players may soon come out.

- A land grant university in New Jersey is imploding because of a basketball coach’s homophobic ignorance.

Funny quirk about democracy. When the people lead, their government tends to follow. Politicians (the president, Hillary Clinton, Rob Portman) put a stake in the ground. Ideas and concepts become mainstream.

Chief Justices of the Supreme Court tend to be pretty astute observers of American society and even though they’re not elected, don’t kid yourself, they’re as political as anyone in Washington. That’s the thing about Chief Justices. They don’t like to be on the wrong side of history.

I can’t get inside the man’s head and heart, but I can draw inferences and conclusions based on my observations and experience. If John Roberts wants 22^nd century Americans to remember a Roberts Court the way my generation remembers the Warren Court (champions of racial equality)... 

If the highest court in the land can say recounting votes in Florida violates the equal protection clause of the 14^th Amendment – and still sleep at night, then there oughta be plenty of room to stand behind the equal protection clause for something as consequential as, say, equal protection.

So I have faith in the system. Borne from experience. I have seen it work in my lifetime in Kansas. I see the system working again.

My role as one of the people?

Simple.

To be engaged. To care. To vote for presidents, governors, lawmakers, city commissioners and school board members who, in their hearts, “get” this of, by and for the people business.

I’m done here. I think I’ll go pursue some happiness.

Ostensibly and Inevitably

I’ve mentioned before in this space that I sometimes scribble fragments of thought on scraps of paper. Ostensibly, these fragments are often the raw material – the essence – of a blog post.

Ostensibly.

So I’m rooting around in a pile of ‘em recently and come across one that is partially decipherable.

Illegible?

I can make out the three bottom lines:

- touch screen

- smart phone

- fat fingers

But as God and Whittaker Chambers are my witness(es), I cannot make out the scribble at the top.

Which leads, inevitably, to AN ACTUAL CONVERSATION. (my caps)

Inevitably.

Mike: “Can you make out this top line here?”

Jackie (taking note in hand and carefully scrutinizing my hieroglyphics): “Looks like l-a-m-e-n-t-a…”

Mike (suddenly remembering): “Oh yeah! It’s Lamentations.”

Jackie: “What’s that?”

Mike: “It’s a book in the Bible. I think it’s like an entire Old Testament book of complaints. So clearly, this note was the start of a rant on technology. And I was gonna call it... 

...wait for it... 

...‘Lamentations.’”

Jackie: “Looks to me like your technology problems go a little deeper than smart phones. I’d say they start with pen and paper.”

My widened eyes and wry (sardonic?) smile are her cues that something just clicked in the vast nether regions between my ears.

Jackie: “What is this? Another ACTUAL CONVERSATION?”

Mike: “Pphht,” hustling back to the dining room. “This could be a whole blog entry.”

Nom, nom, nom

Up until recently, I could eat with impunity.

Cheeseburgers? Snarf. 

Mashed spuds and gravy? Lemme at ‘em. 

Bag o’ donuts? Nom, nom, nom. 

I’m the guy who, as a sophomore in high school was put on a two-a-day triple-thick milkshake regimen, to gain weight, in order to wrestle at 98 pounds.

That was then. This is now.

“This,” being the glide path to the precipice of middle age and the biology that attends it.

The metabolism slows, nature takes its course and the Age of Eating with Impunity (my caps) fades wistfully.

I first noticed it in ’05 perusing post-Door County, Wisconsin vacation photos. Most of the people in the pics were easy to distinguish: My parents-in-law, Jack and Jean, Jackie and who’s that ginormous tub of lard with a chin-and-a-half and his arm around my wife?

So back on came the running shoes. Soon, though, I reached that equilibrium of time, space, desire and hard, cold reality where all the half-marathons and accompanying training in the world are not enough to impede the steady, incremental upcreep of weight.

Then arose what I can only describe as a life-changing revelation. Go get a pen. You’re gonna wanna write this down:

Losing weight requires a combination of exercise and diet.

Who knew?

Which brings me to January and the start of the Governor’s Weight Loss Challenge. The Governor and his team challenge all comers (mostly in government) to see who can lose the most cumulative weight through the middle of May.   

There’s like 1,026 teams in this thing. Some of the team names are pretty creative:

Fisycal (K-DOT accountants)
Shrinko de Mayo
Badonkadonk Busters
Shrinking Ottawa Government (municipal clerks in Ottawa)
Hungry Hungry Historians (Kansas Historical Society)
4 Ho-ho’s and a Twinkie (don’t even ask)

We’re the Beefeaters #2, because we love pot roast, flank steak and hamburgers. My teammates are all colleagues of my wife in the Kansas Department of Agriculture. In fact, I’m a hanger-on in Beefeaters #2 but I’m making the most of it. Jackie’s on Beefeaters #1 and is dropping weight as fast as me. She won’t divulge numbers, but she’s getting into her skinny jeans and when I hug her, there’s not as much in my arms as there once was.  

What it’s done for me – for the first time ever – is provide discipline and accountability. Before this Challenge, I’d stray from a diet and boom, back to the donuts. The only one let down was me.

I pound a bag o’ chips down my throat now – and I’m letting my teammates down.    

Built-in accountability.

Some prison guards from the Norton Correctional Facility are in the lead. In fact they’re smoking the field. They’ve lost a cumulative 196 pounds since January 15. Must be some sort of a prison hack hunger strike rockin’ out there. I can see the headline:

Dangerous Criminals Escape 
Prison Guards Complain of “Lack of Energy” in Pursuit  

I harbor no illusions we’ll catch those skinny prison guards, but we are currently in 90^th place. Out of 1,026.  

That’s worth a donut. Which I’ll enjoy on Memorial Day.

Heart of Gold

This will work best if you listen to this music while reading this entry.

When my big sister was 16, she could not walk past our mother's baby grand piano without plopping down and hammering out a quick rendition of Neil Young's Heart of Gold.

She'd pound out the steady bass register chords with her left hand and finger the melody/harmonica part with her right.

At 14, I grew weary. Of Heart of Gold.

My God.

Not.

Heart of Gold.

AGAIN.

Give it a rest, already.

My sister is an ordained Disciples of Christ minister and heads up field education for Vanderbilt's Divinity School. She's tolerant, patient and accepting. Viki's a feminist lefty and wears it comfortably. She worries about little things. Like the health of the planet.

Or put another way, she walks the Earth conscious of her own autonomy as a child of God and all that He has made.

My sister, the servant. With a heart of gold.

Vik left home and Kansas for college in the fall of '73 and never looked back. My sense is my sister's heart of gold was being formed during those piano-pounding teenage years. She and I were and remain (...duh) only two years apart chronologically, but in temperament and attitude we may as well have been Nixon and McGovern.

Superman and Lex Luthor.

I played fast and loose with life. Viki followed the rules. And then made sure the rules were fair for all. She's naturally at ease with people. It's a skill I have had to work hard to perfect. Her default was others first. I'd look for an edge.

Viki, Mom and me. Manhattan, Kansas, ca. 1959

She's always been tight with our Mom and about a year ago, Viki and her life partner made the selfless decision to sell their house in Lexington, Kentucky and buy a house in Nashville, with an attached, yet separate apartment for Mom.

Mom's 77 and still able-bodied enough to get around. And she does. Get around, I mean. Mom's story rates its own blog and that's coming soon.

Anyway, when Mom moved from Kansas to Nashville, I promised her and Vik I'd visit twice each year -- spring and fall. Just got back from one of those weekends.

In a couple of months, my big sister will officiate at my son's wedding. I did not have to encourage Scott to build a relationship with his Aunt Viki. He caught on early that she's pretty special. They have much in common.

It's these expressions I never give, that keep me searching for a heart of gold.

In life terms, I'm a Johnny-come-lately to this notion that maybe it's not all about me. Sometimes the lessons come hard. You spend your whole life chasing illusive peace of mind only to find it lies within.

Oz never did give nothin' to the Tin Man that he didn't already have.

This blog is an expression. Every prayer and meditation is an expression. Making things right is an expression.

Being of service is an expression.

I'm a precipice-approaching miner for a heart of gold. And if I can even come close to chiseling out one akin to my sister's, I will count myself fortunate.

Above the Crowd

It had to be difficult growing up.

It’s hard enough to blend in with the rest of the kids. When you tower over them, a whole new level of angst and anxiety enters.

Since I wasn’t in Harlem in the early ‘90s, I’ve no way of knowing when the basketball desire surfaced in young Anthony Jordan Luis Henriquez Roberts. All I can do is peruse the public record and make some educated assumptions.

In the 21^st century, there are multiple tracks for young ballers. The Clent Stewart/Will Spradling track: Public high school star, college ball, real world.

The other end of that spectrum is the Michael Beasley/Ben McLemore track: Guys who are so good, AAU and the perfunctory year in college are mere stepping-stones to the Inevitable Mountain of Cash and Adoration (the NBA’s caps).

Hundreds of others land somewhere in a vast netherland between. Where the end game is not inevitable, but OMG is it hopeful.

Good enough that as youngsters they take their talents to the high school equivalent of South Beach. In J.O.’s case, to the tony suburbs of Port Chester and then an ivy-covered prep school in Winchendon Freaking Massachusetts, with AAU ball thrown in to attract the college recruiters.

Port Chester lies equidistant between Rye, New York (birthplace of Barbara Pierce Bush) and Greenwich, Connecticut, which claims Truman Capote. It’s only 25 miles between Harlem and Port Chester, but physical distance is a poor measurement of societal culture distinctions.

One of these things is not like the other:

Barbara Bush, Truman Capote, Jordan Henriquez.

High school J.O.

Life in high school tends to be dominated by a universal struggle for admiration. The primary concern is to fit in. But what if you’re 7 feet tall and surrounded by educated-class kids raised in privilege? One can assume J.O.’s culture featured a bright line between the adult world and the kids’ world. Here, parents tend to think the cares of adulthood will come soon enough so let ‘em play.

Then he gets to Manhattan, Kansas and encounters yet a third culture when he begins to rub shoulders (or in J.O’s case, elbows) with the self-effacing, others-driven, sons and daughters of toil. 

Here’s where I’m going: Like all 23-year olds, J.O. can take the best parts of all these experiences and mold a life’s direction.

Somewhere along the path to the precipice, I’ve transformed from a mere sports fan into a human being with emotional attachment to these young athletes. Their sliver of time in the spotlight is so finite.

College J.O.

J.O. has two more games remaining in the regular season, then however far we go in the tournaments. Senior Night tonight and his Wildcat career record shot-blocking days at Bramlage Coliseum will be history.

When he’s on, J.O. is an artist. When he misses the pass or clanks the dunk, the pre-precipice approaching fan(atic) in me will sometimes surface and because I have all the answers, I think he should be better. Then my wife reminds me he’s 23 years old and did I make any mistakes when I was 23?

Uh…  a couple.

The K-State media guide tells me J.O.’s majoring in social science with an emphasis in education. From that, I deduce that he is others-driven.   

Today, if you watch closely, you can see his angst and anxiety manifest itself. The guy wants nothing more than to contribute. He looks to his teammates for affirmation and support.  

We all suffer angst and anxiety. We all want to contribute and look to our teammates for affirmation and support. Few of us are athletes on display.

Rise above the crowd, my friend.

Efforting

When I toiled in the vineyards of television news, often among my duties was to record the video news feed from The Network (CBS News’ caps).

During finite periods of time (generally about an hour before local news broadcasts) The Network would offer fresh video material to the affiliates to slice/dice and/or cut/paste as they saw fit to fill holes in their pending local broadcasts.

Very often, a specific piece from The Network was not quite ready. On those occasions, these words would appear on screen:

“Efforting…   keep tape at speed.”

That last part meant if you waited to start recording until the video was finally sent, you were screwed, since given of the foibles of the technology du jour, it took a few seconds for the tape in your recorder to actually get up to speed.

If your tape was not at speed, the first few words of audio would sound like HAL 9000 singing “Daisy” as Dave Bowman methodically set about unscrewing his Plexiglas innards.

“Efforting” meant just that.

It meant those poor, underpaid, overworked Network schlubs on the sending end were busting their humps during this finite period of time to get this video finished and out to us poor, underpaid, overworked schlubs on the affiliate station receiving end.

(Schlub yin and yang.)

To make an already long story short (I guess actually, it’ll make it longer, sorry. Whaddayagonnado?), today when someone asks me for the random status update, I’ve been known, on occasion, to respond, “I’m efforting. Keep tape at speed.”

This is often greeted by a quizzical look, accompanied, no doubt, by these thoughts:

a. No clue what he’s talking about, but I ‘spect it’s a dated reference.

b. Regardless, he doesn’t have what I want.

All of which led me to ponder the shelf-life of words, phrases and cultural linguistic shorthand. Some of which I grow increasingly weary:

“At the end of the day…”

“It is what it is…”

“Let’s be transparent…”  (We used to call this “being honest.”)

“Reaching out…”  (This used to be known as “gimme a call.”)

“Going forward…”

Recently I hear sportscasters misuse the word, “scuffling.” “Carmelo’s been scuffling a bit as of late…” Huh? I thought it meant fighting or scrapping but they use it as if it means, “struggling.”

Maybe there’s a new definition I’m not aware of. But since I looked it up in the Urban Dictionary, I tend to think not.

And my new all-time recent fave,

“I know, right?”

Lest we forget the words and phrases which have meaning to precipice approachers. Then we say them out loud in the presence of others.

And our offspring just look at us and sigh.

“Get down,” “bodacious,” “right on,” “fox,” “boogie,” “booking” (as in going fast).

Which reminds me of the time in the television news vineyard toiling years when a colleague and I booked into Sonic in Junction City for lunch because we were in a hurry (no doubt to be back to Topeka to get the tape up to speed by 4 p.m.)

After a burgerless 15 minutes, I repunched the red button and offered,

“Yo! What’s the status of those burgers?”

The reply was something to the effect of, “Doin’ the best we can in here.”

By now we all know what they shoulda said:

“We’re efforting. Keep tape at speed.”

Songs from the Precipice

Until I saw the comment, the thought never occurred to me.

“MM- You should make a playlist of tunes featured on the blog.”

The idea was immediately reinforced.

“I agree and I would tap that on my iPod.”

So, the blogger pondered... “Why not?” (blogger pondering must be followed immediately by three periods... otherwise, how will readers discern pondering from bloviating?)

Only in reviewing the history of this enterprise (three years next month, sheesh!) did I get the macro vibe of the influence music has on what I spew forth in this space.

Holy crap, it’s ubiquitous!

From chronological periods of music (1975 and I Married a Head Banger) to specific life and world event lyric-driven reflections. (No Static at All, Walk Like an Egyptian).

So, from March 2010 through today, with no further ado, by popular request, I humbly offer Songs from the Precipice (Clint Blaes’ caps). I’ve linked to a few of my faves:

Turn the Beat Around, Vickie Sue Robinson (1976) 

Revolution, The Beatles (1968) 

If You’re Going to San Francisco, Scott McKenzie (1967) 

Right Here Right Now, Jesus Jones (1991) 

Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show, Neil Diamond (1969) 

Rock You Like a Hurricane, Scorpions (1984) 

Just the Way You Are, Billy Joel (1978)

John Brown’s Body, Various Artists (1861) 

Soul Meets Body, Death Cab for Cutie (2005) 

Chicago, Sufjan Stevens (2005) 

Paranoid Android, Radiohead (1997) 

Teach Your Children Well, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (1970) 

Landslide, Stevie Nicks (1975) 

Walk Like an Egyptian, The Bangles (1986) 

That’s The Way (uh-huh, uh-huh) I Like It, KC & the Sunshine Band (1975) 

In Da Club, 50 cent (2003)

Sister Golden Hair, America (1975) 

Black Water, Doobie Brothers (1975) 

Jive Talkin,’ The Bee Gees (1975) 

Philadelphia Freedom, Elton John (1975) 

One of These Nights, The Eagles (1975) 

Listen to What the Man Said, Paul McCartney & Wings (1975) 

FM (No Static at All), Steely Dan (1978) 

Josie, Steely Dan (1977) 

We Are Family, Sister Sledge (1979) 

Big Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell (1970) 

Reunited, Peaches and Herb (1979) 

Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Israel Kamakawiwoʻole (1993) 

Relax, Frankie Goes to Hollywood (1983) 

No Such Thing, John Mayer (2002) 

Rhiannon, Fleetwood Mac (1976) 

Cum on Feel the Noize, Quiet Riot (1983) 

Pour Some Sugar on Me, Def Leppard (1987) 

Armageddon It, Def Leppard (1987) 

Nothin’ But A Good Time, Poison (1988) 

Panama, Van Halen (1984) 

18 and Life, Skid Row (1989) 

Stayin’ Alive, The Bee Gees (1977) 

Some Nights, fun. (2012) 

Yesterday Once More, The Carpenters (1973) 

Devil Woman, Cliff Richard (1976)

Yesterday Once More

The memories wash over me like fully cranked, overdubbed Karen Carpenter vocals.

In the last six months, owing to life and career decisions, I often find myself occupying many of the same physical spaces as when I came of age in Wichita. So I suppose it's inevitable that the view from the precipice of middle age will, on occasion, face backward.

What in my youth was a crime-infested skid row on East Douglas is today Old Town. Just a month ago, cops fired tear gas into an Old Town crowd after some shooting incidents. I guess if you wait long enough, history starts to rhyme.

Within these spaces, the bricks and mortar has been rearranged from my youth. They look different. But when I'm in them, they feel familiar. 

I remember...

... going downtown with my father to get my first pair of dress shoes from a place called Sam Shustorman Shoes. Turns out Sam Shustorman was, in fact, a shoe store man.

... the iron grip of Mary Ann Englis's hand the moment Ben Gardner's head floated into the hole of his Jaws-doomed boat hull.

... conveniently forgetting that I knew sic 'em from manual transmissions when I bought a '71 forest green MGB ragtop from a guy in Goddard. I learned fast -- the hard way. During the rush hour drive home on Kellogg.

Miller Theatre, 115 N. Broadway. "Refreshingly cool."

... the folks taking the fam to the Miller Theatre to see Burt Lancaster, Dean Martin and Jacqueline Bisset in "Airport." Our first movie in Wichita.

... Pogo's. Working and practicing my night moves.

... waiting tables at the Wichita Club. Pouring coffee with one hand, holding a saucer as a shield in the other, to prevent splashing on the bigshots high atop the Vickers-KSB&T building.

... Junior year at Wichita Heights High. U.S. History teacher Delbert Johnson slamming his fist on a desk the Monday after the Watergate Saturday Night Massacre. "Young people! You are LIVING IN HISTORY RIGHT NOW!!" 

... driving home alone (in the 'B') spooked after seeing "The Exorcist" at the K-42 drive-in. Cliff Richard's 'Devil Woman' on the radio. (Sing it with me, "The Rock...of Wichita... K-E-Y-N...")

... thinking Rumours was pretty much the best album. Ever. (Still do).

... coming face-to-face with a gallon of Sherwin-Williams in the passenger seat of Duane Smith's Datsun 240Z as he crashed through the plate glass window of Joe Vosburgh Paint & Wallpaper after missing the turn on an ice-slicked Douglas from Washington. New Years' Eve 1977.

... since I was 19 at the time, wondering if I knew the 19-year old sniper who killed three people and wounded eight from the 26th floor of the downtown Holiday Inn, then the tallest building in Kansas. I didn't.

 Lowenstein, ca. 1971

 ... admiring Wichita Aero John Lowenstein launch a home run at Lawrence Stadium which cleared the right field fence, bounced on McLean Boulevard and rolled into the Arkansas River. When Lowenstein made the big leagues, I'd regale my chums, "Hey, I once saw..."

... Kerry Livgren wielding a bottle of Jack (no doubt, to help him rise above the noise and confusion) as he greeted wheatheads queued up to see Kansas in concert at Century II.

Later this year, my colleagues and I will move into the first newly-constructed building in downtown Wichita since the Fourth Financial Center/Bank IV/Bank of America/insert latest multi-bank holding company merger-acquisition name here building went up 40 years ago directly across the street.

Forty years ago, in the same block where the new Kansas Leadership Center building is currently going up, in front of the Henry's department store, I would board the city bus to take me across Wichita, home to the harvest gold/avocado green suburban norms of the neighborhood called Pleasant Valley.

Same space. Different time.