A Couple Of Thoughts

I seem to be all over the place lately -- many different projects happening at once. Thus, today's blog is a combo platter. Well, maybe not a combo platter, maybe more like a value meal...

…SOMEBODY'S WATCHING ME

I'll admit it. When I'm at home alone, I do not close the bathroom door while I'm using the facilities. I think that this is due in part to my experience growing up in a house with seven people and one bathroom, and then, of course, moving on to college where I shared a bathroom with many more people.

Our bathroom door is directly across the hall from our bedroom door, which is directly across the room from our bedroom window, which overlooks the alley. Yesterday, as I was preparing to leave the bathroom, I felt as though someone was watching me through said window.

Not only was this unsettling since I was sitting on the toilet at the time, but it was also frightening since the bedroom window is two stories up with nothing near it to lend access to it.

Except for a telephone pole.

Unfortunately, I didn't have my glasses on. I could see the curve of something like the top of a head and eyes? did I see a pair of eyes? They were gone when I squinted to see more clearly.

I flipped the door shut, completed my bathroom protocol, and then grabbed my glasses from the hallway shelf on my way to the bedroom window.

I carefully approached it from the side trying to be as quiet as possible.

Sitting just as quietly on the windowsill keeping his head down below the window was Rocky the Squirrel. He wasn't wearing his usual cap and goggles -- but it was him!

My four-word exclamation did not startle him. He merely stood up and looked at me. I asked him what he was doing out there, but he didn't respond. He was holding a piece of brick that he had chosen from the assortment that rests on the ledge from our last tuckpointing extravaganza.

He started to nibble on the brick. I asked him if he was feeling okay. He pulled the brick from his mouth and looked at me as though I had said something stupid. Then he scampered back down the telephone pole.

I should note here that some observers of nature claim that strange animal behavior is a predictor of natural disasters. In December 1990, many earthquake-types were predicting that the New Madrid (MA-drid; not like the city in Spain, first vowel as in cat) Fault was going to blow. Sales of bottled water and granola bars went through the roof, schools closed, general craziness ensued in communities along the fault. My sister Lucy was in St. Louis at the time (a city that would feel it if the fault actually did something). To this day she claims that as she did dishes one night she looked out the window and saw a squirrel standing on a tree branch and staring at her.

Now, there are tons of squirrels in and around my parents' house -- seeing one on a tree branch is no big deal. Lucy said this one was different. She said that when she noticed it and stopped doing the dishes long enough to look at it, it looked right back at her and began patting its head with one hand and rubbing its stomach with the other. She swears it.


BABY YOU CAN DRIVE MY CAR

David and I bought a new car last week -- our first big purchase as a married couple, and our first joint purchase of a car. Well, that's what he's saying. Now instead of his car and my car we have the Focus and the Metro.

We traded in his '98 Volkswagen (my '96 Geo Wagenschen still has a home with us). The road to the purchase was paved with visits to the garage for various VW ailments. The car had over 105,000 miles on it, so while it was frustrating, it wasn't really unexpected.

I did some research on new cars (Dave claims it was a lot, I like to think of it as thorough). It's amazing what you can learn online these days. Dave gave me an idea of what kind of car he was thinking about. Most days when he came home from work I had a couple of file folders with some stuff for him to read.

We narrowed the field and I did some inventory searches of local dealerships to zero in on what we wanted. Since Dave has been extremely busy at work and since no one wants to spend more time at a dealership than is necessary, I was hoping that this specific information -- I had invoice costs, MSRPs, current financing deals being offered, and even the damned vin's -- would aid us (and the dealership) in a near painless purchase.

I won't bore you with the details of how wrong I was. I am shocked by the gall of salesmen (yep, all men) to lie to my face. I am surprised at how difficult it is to give a company thousands of dollars knowing that at least a couple of them are profit. I am astonished at the surprise of salesmen that I would know anything about the car I think I might finance for thousands of dollars and 60 months besides the color.

In the end -- after two dealerships and walking out of "negotiations" at one point -- we got the car we wanted at the price we wanted from a salesman who reminded me of the Willy Loman-type salesman on The Simpson's. I'm thinking more and more that I may travel back down to Rantoul, Illinois -- in the far far away future when it is time to buy another car -- to go to the great dealership where I bought my Wagenschen. (Click here and read My Little Car for more details.)

I'll blog later about our new car. It doesn't have a name (or a gender, for that matter) yet, and we're still getting to know each other.

Home Away From Home

Lately I have found myself bumping into Webster Groves, Missouri here in Chicago, Illinois. Webster happens to be my hometown.

It's not a very big place. Webster is an old, traditional "bedroom community" just minutes from the St. Louis city limits. My parents (Mom from north city, Dad from south city) moved the family to Webster just months before I was born – and they still live in the same house. All of us grew up there, walked to school, walked to the library, walked to the grocery store, surrounded by trees and big old houses. It is very idyllic. Dave calls it Mayberry. I think it actually makes him nervous to be there sometimes.

I have been accused of being very proud of my broader hometown, St. Louis. I have found that St. Louisans of all stripes are proud of our hometown. We have a kind of small-town mentality about the place, and most can quote interesting facts about its history. I once saw an interview with the rapper Nelly – who comes from a part of St. Louis that is not at all like Webster – in which he took the time to point out that the first Olympics in the United States were held in St. Louis in 1904, the same year as our World's Fair. That's pride. Oh, and his backup band is the St. Lunatics.

Speaking of the Olympics, check out this link (or the Webster Groves one above) for details on when the Olympic torch for the Athens 2004 Olympic Games will pass through, and indeed stop in, beautiful Webster Groves this month.

So back to my point: Webster keeps popping up here in the big city.

I find that I meet a lot of St. Louisans in Chicago. The husband of the woman who with her brother owns a bar we go to is from Kirkwood (a rival suburb) and his family's former lawyer is my brother-in-law's father. I also know a woman who is in the choir at St. Al's who is from St. Louis – she and her St. Louisan husband were married at the New Cathedral in St. Louis, which my great-grandfather helped to build.

Often, once they find out that I am also a proud St. Louisan, they ask when I am planning to move back. What? The first time I heard that question I was really confused. It seems that most expat St. Louisans gradually find their way back to the homeland.

While all St. Louisans I meet know Webster Groves (the real St. Louisans, not people from the east side or far-reaches like Eureka), not many are from Webster. Until recently, that is.

I went to buy a new futon cover for our futo-couch (Dave's word) a few weeks ago. There's a tiny futon place just a few doors up from St. Al's, so I decided to stop in and see what they had and for how much when I was conveniently parked at the church for something or other. The young man working there was very helpful and friendly. He convinced me to purchase the cheaper of the two covers I was considering since the return policy is for store credit only. So, if I indeed wanted the more expensive cover, it could be easily arranged.

I returned that same afternoon to return the couldn't-be-more-wrong maroon cover I had purchased that morning. The friendly employee recognized me and facilitated the exchange. We started talking when he asked about my quick decision. I mentioned that I had to be at the church (pointing my finger down Lincoln Avenue towards St. Al's) later for a meeting (Oktoberfest), and thought it would be easiest to make the exchange now.

So we start talking about the church. He hasn't been inside, but has thought about it because it looks so great on the outside. I, naturally, start talking up the church, its history, its architectural impressiveness, etc. and tell him he should stick his head in.

He says, "I'm Catholic, I should really go for mass sometime."

I say, "Well, I don't have anything to say about that."

He says, "I'd love to go to mass somewhere beautiful because I grew up in a parish that had a really ugly church."

I say, "Me too!"

He says, "Which church?"

I say, "Oh, not someplace here. I grew up in St. Louis."

He says, "Me too!"

And so it begins. I often refer to these moments as Barbara Ann moments as I am sure that they are due to whatever genetic characteristic for conversation-making and making connections with strangers my mother passed on to me. (Click here and read the story O Canada! for further evidence.)

It turns out that the futon man grew up in Florissant, Missouri. Northsider. So we talk about where my mother grew up, fellow northsider. Which leads to where I grew up, Webster. It also turns out that his brother and sister-in-law live in Webster. The sister-in-law grew up there and always planned on raising her children there. So they live on a street off of Summit. One of my sisters used to live in a house on a street off of Summit! Small world, huh?

So not two weeks later I am at home and Dave asks if I new that the neighbors are from St. Louis. What? How had I missed that? I had only recently connected with the woman downstairs and across the hall who noticed my Drake sweatshirt. Turns out she grew up in Iowa City. I have had much more contact with Dave and Amanda next door due to our mutual plumbing woes. How could I have missed the St. Louis connection?

It turns out that Dave spotted Amanda wearing a Cardinals t-shirt. (Dear Reader, please keep in mind that my beloved is sensitive of this matter as ours is considered a mixed marriage on both sides of the family.) To Dave's mind, only Cardinal fans wear Cardinal gear so close to the Friendly Confines.

So, he asks her point-blank, "Are you from St. Louis?"

She says, "I lived there for a while and went to school there."

He says, "Where?"

She says, "Webster University? Do you know it?"

He says, "Oh, jeez, my wife is from Webster," and of course ends the interaction there.

I was showing my mother-in-law the back porches of our building when I spotted Dave and Amanda out back.

I say, "Webster Groves, huh?"

He says, "Yeah, Amanda mentioned you're from there. She went to school there and I used to hang out there."

I say, "Hang out there?"

He says, "I was a fire fighter in Florissant [see earlier encounter with futon guy!], and used to hang out on campus" with a grin on his face.

Amanda comes out and we discuss Webster. I tell her about when my parents moved there in 1970 (and it was Webster College) and they saw "hippies hanging out the trees" as they drove down Big Bend Boulevard.

She says, "Where did you live?"

I describe where my parent's house is.

She says, "So you went to Holy Redeemer?"

This is further proof of a St. Louisan characteristic of asking about one's parish (lots of us are Catholic) or high school in order to gain a better understanding of the other person. Dave is always stumped by this question.

We briefly discussed Webster and St. Louis and how great a place it is and how much cheaper all of those big, old houses seem now that we have spent time in Chicago.

I had forgotten how often I find my hometown here in Chicago. It reminded me of an incident early in my time in the big city. The longer I lived in places outside of St. Louis, the more I realized what a unique breed we St. Louisans are. (Personally, I think our pride is particularly evident. Oh, and the fact that we are the best and most-knowledgeable fans in all of baseball.)

Anyway, St. Louisans have become noticeable to me. They have different personality characteristics. They have more conservative hair cuts. They even dress a little differently. So Dave, our buddy Chris, and I were sitting in our old usual bar many years ago enjoying several beers. We used to sit at the far end of the bar where it curved around. From this vantage point, most of the bar's patrons could be observed for our entertainment. The neighborhood was then (and I guess is still now) a massive single's bar. The whole place was teeming with young singles – many of them not Chicagoans.

We were enjoying the follies of one particular group of young men who were having very little success in getting to know young women in the bar. As we enjoyed our anthropological analyses of their failures, it hit me – I know these guys. I mean, I didn't know them, and yet they were familiar to me. After some reflection, I realized what is was – they were St. Louisans.

So I say to Dave and Chris, "Those guys at the end of the bar are from St. Louis."

They say, "How can you tell? Did they say that?"

I say, "No. I can just tell. Look at their hair cuts, their braided leather belts, their loafers, their inability to get the bartender's attention. They're St. Louisans."

They say, "No way. Prove it."

And so money is laid on the bar and I walk down to the group of young men to win easy money from Dave and Chris.

I say, "Hey, what high school did you guys go to?"

They say, "SLUH [St. Louis University High]."

And I made twenty bucks.