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.