Howard, Herman, Tolstoy, and Miss Wiedmeier

This week, Herman Weber died. To those who don’t live in the greater Ann Arbor area, this probably means very little. Herman was 100 years and 2 weeks old when he passed. From M Live:

A farm boy from Chelsea, Weber opened his first restaurant in 1937 after apprenticing as a dishwasher and cook at Metzger’s German Restaurant. While other restaurants have come and gone, Weber’s has endured for 77 years, one of Ann Arbor's older restaurants and one of the state's largest. It has passed to the second and third generations . . .  .

As the nation was being connected coast to coast with interstates that encouraged travel and the Holiday Inn chain of motels began to take root, Weber grabbed a piece of the action: He built six cabins on the restaurant’s property, calling it Holiday House. This eventually paved the way for today’s 158-room hotel.

And when Scio Township remained dry and refused to offer liquor licenses, Weber saw the future and in 1962 moved down Jackson Road to the current location in Ann Arbor, which allowed alcohol service. (http://www.mlive.com/news/ann-arbor/index.ssf/2014/05/long-time_restaurant_and_hotel.html)

Image from http://www.joyamartin.com/anna-karenina/

My pal Howard spent part of today at Muehlig Funeral Chapel to pay respects to his friend Herman. During my visit with Howard this evening, he said that he believes that he and Herman shared some 50 lunches together through the years.

“The only reason we didn’t share more was that Herman insisted on buying all the time,” explained Howard. “I refused to let him continue treating me.”

Tonight, we had a great visit.

Beyond his recounts of Mr. Weber, Howard shared more history and lore than I had capacity to remember. I do recall vaguely that his connection with Mr. Weber included Howard’s late wife’s mother. She was Dorothy S_______ from Chelsea, Michigan and she taught Herman and his brother reading and other lessons as they developed in the “Jerusalem” area of Washtenaw County. The crossroad just north of my farm is Jerusalem Road – Howard confirmed the proximity to my farm and told me where to find certain graves (including his wife’s) in a nearby cemetery.

Speaking of reading, he and I visited about our current literary pursuits. I’ve recently taken on Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and Howard shared my enthusiasm for the novel describing the read (more to come in future blog posts) as wholly significant. He dismissed his current reading as “too much.”

“Miss Wiedmeier blessed and cursed me with my love of reading,” mused Howard.

Miss Wiedmeier was Howard’s 5th and 6th grade teacher in the 1930s. Howard admitted that he wasn’t a strong reader. “There were four reading groups – the best readers were in group one. I was in group four.

“I remember having to stand in front of the class to read. Every time I did, my classmate Betty Benedict would cringe. She was in reading group one and would roll her eyes and sigh as I fought through my reading,” grumbled Howard. “At the end of the school year, I asked Miss Wiedmeier how I could improve my reading.”

Miss Wiedmeier invited Howard to come to her modest apartment throughout the summer to work on his reading. It worked.

“In the fall, I was asked to read aloud and, of course, Betty rolled her eyes. I managed to read flawlessly and Betty was shocked.” He then recalled looking at her and expressing his triumph by placing his tongue firmly between his lips and exhaling violently (the raspberries). Miss Wiedmeier wasn’t impressed but Betty earned her comeuppance!

Howard shared that some 20 years later – after his schooling and stint in the Air Force – he attended an event in Ann Arbor. He felt a tug on his arm and upon turning, an adult Betty Benedict returned the raspberries with the same enthusiasm and told him she’s been waiting impatiently to oblige his gift of so many years prior!

Our time together was pushing past our typical hour-long visit but he and I were enjoying ourselves. I got a bit bold. “Howard, the last time we visited, you said that you were sure that this was the last year of your life. How do you know that?” My question was voiced more calmly than I knew I was capable.

“I can’t do some things anymore,” he answered simply. “This past weekend, I planted flowers. I’d plant for five minutes and rest for twenty. Things are shutting down.”

I couldn’t argue or assure – at that point, I knew my role was to remain his friend. I asked that he make sure that his sons had my telephone number for when his status changes (I so wish I could have said “if his status changes”). He promised he would.

We spent the balance of my visit discussing the importance of poetry. “Always read poetry aloud,” advised Howard. “It’s a joy to hear.” I couldn’t help but think of the depth of tonight’s conversation as I backed down his driveway. In addition to what I’ve shared, we touched on cooking, history, politics and many other authors.

I’m lucky to know Howard and I'm pretty sure he's happy I'm in his life.

Bicycle

Scott (right) riding with Lance Armstrong

Every good day doesn’t always include being happy.

My pal Scott, whom I met when I was in first or second grade and him a year behind, had one heck of an accident while biking 10 years ago through the hills surrounding Nashville, Tennessee. Exceptional medical care returned him to his wife Terri and daughters Jayne and Anne. I don’t know all the injuries, but I know that it was months before he was able to return to normal life activities.

For Scott, 100 to 200 miles weekly on a bicycle is routine. He’s raised thousands of dollars for LiveStrong (celebrate the charity, despite your opinions of the founder), local bicycle trails, and other charities. His love for his daughters inspires and his humor is wonderfully wry – I don’t know if I’ve ever met a more genuine person. His wit, kindness and absolute physical fitness remain evident, but never condescending.

In high school, Scott and friends Dave, John, Keith and others decorated 50-foot elm trees in front of our house with 50 – 60 rolls of toilet paper (it was an amazing TP feat!). My parents feigned annoyance but I think they quietly celebrated that I was enough of a target to deserve this as one of those backhanded compliments that help define the teen years. Streams of Charmin decorated those trees until the third or fourth rainstorm that autumn.

During my collegiate freshman year – his senior year of high school – he secured tickets to the Slippery Rock vs. Shippensburg football game held at the University of Michigan’s football stadium (Slippery Rock was an adoptive fan favorite of Michigan Fans for years) and invited me to join the group and drove from Monroe to Hillsdale to Ann Arbor and reversed the trip to assure my attendance.

Scott, Dave, John, Keith and I were together today and were joined by Terri, Jayne, Anne and Scott’s siblings Amy and Matt – along with Scott’s mother, many in-laws, nieces, nephews, co-workers, and friends. Today was Scott’s funeral. This past Saturday, he was out riding and fell to a massive heart attack while on his bike. He was 52 and, as I mentioned, the picture of physical fitness. This should not have happened. No. Not possible. But, it did.

A reunion

I mention that today was a good day – well, a good day with tears (and that’s OK). The church was full and reunions 30 years overdue happened throughout the day. Dave, John, Keith and I rode together from the church to the cemetery and participated in the final burial rites. A raw mix of wind and rain stung but we all took turns leaving a thumbprint on the casket (at the urging of the presiding deacon).

On the ride back, the four of us had a mini “Big Chill” conversation with collegial openness and respect. We caught up, but most importantly came to the conclusion that while Scott would have whole-heartedly approved and laughed had we wrapped the coffin with toilet paper, there would have been no way to explain it to anyone else.

Chelsey

It’s too early to definitively identify the contributing factors leading to the death of Chelsey Northup, but what is a known (and legitimately suspected) point to a lesson for us all.

Here’s the story: Saline woman, 21, dies in crash after distracted driver crosses centerline

Here’s some back-story: Chelsey was working her way through college, could brighten any room with her smile, worked as a server and, upon turning 21, a bar keeper. Chelsey had hundreds of Facebook friends and has been memorialized with this wonderful line:

You knew if Chelsey was there, you were going to laugh.

New advertisements decry “buzzed driving” and warn against the distractions of texting while driving. In this case, Mr. Garrett Roe said he was reaching for his phone, looked up, and saw that he was in the oncoming lane of traffic. That would have been Chelsey’s lane.

It's more than possible that Mr. Roe and Chelsey had met prior to Sunday evening – his insurance office was about a half mile from the restaurant where Chelsey worked and – according to some patrons I know – he was a regular. If they had met before the crash, I expect (and hope) that her bright and dancing eyes will forever be on his conscience.

I wasn’t close with Chelsey, but certainly knew her and know her sister. This is a sad story and carries lessons for us all.