LEAVES & BEANS, PEORIA HEIGHTS  –  The man across from me is a lawyer, I believe. He just simply has lawyerly looks. Patrick Bateman in the flesh, with his pressed suit and perfect fingernails. Or Andy Bernard from The Office.

I’m undecided whether this is a date or an interview. If this is a date, I don’t want to date anymore.

“I don’t know if you know anything about history, but…”

Interrogation-style questioning from the man, while the woman flips her curly hair a bit and giggles. She’s not stupid, though, just uncomfortable. There are white Keds on her feet, the rest of her blending into the shadows.

Odd topics are brought up; drinking and religious beliefs. “I usually drink one night a week,” he says. Religion is silly, both agree. He attempts relating to her, a Red Lobster employee. “When I worked at Jimmy John’s….”

There’s too much past being introduced into the conversation. He’s post-frat, I suppose, for I keep hearing “I respect…” in the conversation. Most stories revolve around the success of his other friends. And, of course, him.

“Most girls would be impressed by this….” I’m now thinking that this is a date. My god. An interrodate.

She’s 24. And looking to move to New York. “They’ll start wondering why you’ve been a waitress for three years!” he exclaims.

He’s using a voice that sounds like an Irishman underwater. This is his mom voice, I believe. It goes on far too long.

“Have you had enough conversation?” he finally asks. She mutters something, and after an hour of painful companionship, they are gone.

May 28, 1932 South Harvey, Michigan

I hate melodrama. The only thing that I hate more intensely than melodrama and spinach is myself. You think perhaps that I am insane?I am. But I have my pen; I am in my element and I defy you. (Here there is a lengthy pause, a gusty sigh, and the indomitable Bellow rolls on in all his fullness and strength.)

<snip>

As of late there has been a noticeable rift between us. It seems that the incorrigible [Nathan] Goldstein is uneasy. It seems that in the presence of others you are too lavish in your affection toward him. The situation indeed is critical. (By the way, Yetta, make it a point to show this to Goldstein.)

<snip>

We may still be casual friends. But some day when I am in my dotage and you are many chinned and obese we may be reconcied. In the Interim be happy – if my notorious skepticism allows me, I too will endeavor to find contentment with Pearl.

So Yetta,
It is Good-bye –

You are at liberty to do as you like with this letter.

After staring at its 600-page heft for a few months, I’m diving deep into “Letters” by Saul Bellow. See you in April.

A massive tip of my hat to Travis Heying, friend and staff photographer at the Wichita Eagle. A box of old 4×5 negatives was recently dumped at work, so he decided to scan and post about a dozen to Facebook. He believes the the majority of the negatives are from long-time Wichita photojournalist Jerry Clark, who worked at both the Eagle and Beacon newspapers for nearly 50 years.

According to Travis, there are hundreds and hundreds of negatives from 1950’s assignments, including some from the devastating Udall tornado in 1955. Someone snagged the entire collection at an estate sale and thought that the newspaper might like to have it. “We’ll never know how those negs ended up in an old shoebox in Newton,” Travis said. It reminds me a bit of the recent Vivian Maier treasure trove.

The first shot is my favorite. And so is the second, but for different reasons. More photos after the jump.

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I’m leaning toward the “practice elocution, poise and how to attain it” bit. One hour a day feels too little, but you can’t shortchange studying needed inventions.

Like many, I did make a few half-hearted resolutions for the new year. Ready? In no particular order…

• Respond to emails, phone calls, etc in an appropriate amount of time. Same day, ideally.
• Stress less. Period.
• Be more innovative at work. This could be much easier with editor encouragement.
• Keep a clean apartment! And, while doing so, host parties. My place is too nice to keep under a bushel.
• Strike up conversation when I’d usually just smile. I won’t rule out girls in this plan.
• Take less photos, but post more of them. A lot more. There’s no point in hauling a camera around if the images just go on a harddrive to be forgotten.
• Be more musical. More practice, more public performance.
• Learn to cook, finally. And fish in a skillet doesn’t count.
• Kill drama at every encounter.

Did I miss anything? If I can genuinely accomplish 15%, I’ll give myself a nice pat on the back.

I found myself sitting at the pipe organ console, a 3-manual behemoth with pedal board and pipes shoved in all areas of St. Francis of Assisi Church. I once was an organist there, from middle school through high school, and this was not the same organ. I remember an electronic beast, with speakers crammed where the pipes now reside, temperamental and constantly being struck down by lightning. Notes would stick, lights would flash ominously, and one could easily assume the whole thing was haunted. This was the organ I learned on, shrill and imperfect.

You might assume that over a decade of piano lessons would equip me for playing anything with keys – and you’d be wrong. I eventually took organ lessons at Newman University from an old nun (spunky, but what other type is there?) This was my first honest-to-god pipe organ, and it hurt to switch to something so inferior each week back at my church.

While in college, a few individuals decided that enough was enough. A pipe organ was purchased from a closing church, the entire thing shipped to Kansas and the building process began. It’s an Aeolian-Skinner, a marquee organ maker, and it’s shocking to hear how loud it can be. The architecture of the church twists the sound into something flat and uninspiring, but sitting at the console mere feet from the 16’ and 32’ pipes, you simply don’t care.

I still have music contacts in Wichita, and I was practically begged to try it out. So I spent 45 minutes flubbing around as my sister watched and occasionally shushed me when I’d open things up a bit. I brought no music, unprepared for the opportunity, but it served two important purposes. A reminder that the organ is deceptively similar to a piano: notes play forever, key action is unforgivably sensitive, and in addition to two hands, there are two feet to contend with and a bevy of stops and other mechanical switches to operate. But most importantly, I realized that I need to get serious about music again.

Music performance is a tug-of-war between perfection and passion. Combining the two results in intense moments of anxiety and joy.

Not sold on pipe organs? Let me change your mind:
Saint-saëns Symphony No.3 Finale
Louis Vierne First Symphony Final Movement
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I’m watching my mother spoon a “magic cup” into my grandpa’s mouth. It’s ice cream with nutrients and protein laced throughout; “magic cup” sounds more enticing. This is the state of things at home in Wichita, I’m afraid.

My grandpa is 87-years-old. After being hospitalized for an issue or three in the autumn, he now spends his time in a rehab facility. It’s a temporary nursing home, really, a place to learn how to become mobile again. My parents, my mom’s siblings and my grandma take turns keeping vigil 4-8 hours at a time. It’s been like this for months, a schedule made out for every day of the week, and it could continue for months more.

He doesn’t say much, but he was never one to gab. My sister and I visited him a few nights ago and he awoke long enough to faintly nod hello and mouth goodbye. When words are so few, this suddenly becomes very meaningful.