It’s a great place and I’m becoming a regular columnist – something I’ve always wanted to be when I worked on newspapers.
You can read my stuff for free and an attractive thing about Substack is that they don’t sell names, e-mail lists to third parties for adv. spam like most other platforms do.
Here’s a link to my latest:
| https://randybaran.substack.com/p/the-screen-door |
Minus a core member, sadly
Jim Kenning came over last week. He’s on the left with his soon-to-be-wife, Judy, on his shoulders. We couldn’t figure out how long it had been, but 40 years, at least. We were both part of a group of friends I fondly remember as the Elmwood Park Gang,
I used to run this picture every summer when I was on Facebook. Next to Jim and Judy on the roof of Jim’s old Olds: Jeff Hammette, yours truly, Tom Spahn with unknown gf, and Wayne and Joy Orlowski, two years before they were married. At the steering wheel of Jim’s old red Olds is John Cannon. John, Jeff and I were soon to meet gfs, some of whom became spouses and in my case, engaged.
I remember getting terrifically sunburned, which stood out from the good times we had that day, and good times were plentiful with this group. We partied many times together, went to each other’s weddings, camped up in Wisconsin one weekend and all of us slept in Wayne’s tiny collapsible trailer. The guys played poker semi-regularly and I remember coughing and choking when we smoked our first cigars. But mostly, we just shared life.
I went downstairs to meet Jim instead of buzzing him in so he didn’t have to navigate the hallways and find the elevator. As soon as I saw him waiting outside, I felt Wayne’s absence. Jim was always with Wayne. They were neighbors. Same with John and Jeff. Wayne and I were always together – we grew up together. He’s the missing member. It’s because of him, the EP gang happened in the first place.
Wayne and I went way back. I mean way back, to the playpen as a matter of fact. He was born two weeks before I was. My oldest friend. His folks were friends of my mom’s; his dad and my mom went to grade school together and Wayne’s mom and mine worked together as teenagers, becoming Rosie the Riveters during the War. Not kidding – their company made headlights for locomotives.
Wayne died in 2017. Complications from heart surgery affected his lungs and made him suffer for 6 years. That’s all I’ll say, except I urge you to keep in touch with your close friends. I had lost touch with the gang and found Wayne’s obit by googling around a year or so after he’d passed.
Before I get back to the story, the guy with the scowl on his face in the lower left of the picture is my Uncle Paul. In 1929, Feb. 14, matter of fact, he was a 13-yr. old newsboy working Clark Street when he saw a car filled with ‘gentlemen’ pull out of a dealership, on its way to commit infamy at another garage a little further north on Clark Street. He knew who was driving, but that’s another story.
Jim, Joy, and I started at DePaul in ‘68. Wayne came along a year later. Wayne, Jim and I had so much fun buzzing around Lincoln Park and being young adults that we sometimes took leave of our senses and had to pull over and laugh it off. No drugs. However, one time we got quite drunk on Paisano wine and drove past the Biograph Theater (where FBI ‘G-men’ killed John Dillinger), loudly expressing our TGIF exuberance with the crowd waiting to go in and see the movie.
There are a thousand stories, all with a commonality: things you do through the years with your best of friends group. Pizza – “let’s get a pizza!” Oh my God. No wonder some of us had bypass surgery. Wayne even tried making one on the grill. Not a good thing.
See, it never ends. I think I’ll write a Part 2, because I need to address the mystery woman Jim was very interested in hearing about. And some of the exploits of John Cannon and myself. For now, I’ll give you a brief idea of what all of us did with our lives. Here’s a photo of Wayne and Joy’s wedding in 1973.
Jim left his accounting job halfway through his career, studied HVAC and became Director of Air Quality for the indoor animal habitat at Chicago’s Lincoln Park Zoo (correct me if I got this wrong, Jim). Joy married Wayne and applied her Education degree toward teaching in the Catholic elementary school system. Wayne (the late Wayne Orlowski) – it pains me to write that. After earning his business degree at DePaul, I helped Wayne get in at Quill Corp, where I had started as a copywriter. He went on to an executive job with American Hospital Assn. and, like Jim, opted for a career in the great outdoors – package delivery, Jim told me. Tom is a reputable lawyer and works in his home town of Winchester, Il. John started and stayed in Journalism, moving to San Diego in the 80s to become Copy Editor of the SD Union-Tribune daily newspaper. He does not remember double-dating in Chinatown with me and the mystery woman.
See you next time.
The Return of the Trumpet – The Prologue
“THE SOUND OF screeching brass scratched across the Heavens, followed closely by a thunderous, mourning wail. An angel of light and music had broken off, and in his insolence, challenged the Holy. The battle raged, until Heaven itself could no longer bear the rending and evacuated the angel, who lost his glory and grew dark.
Thrown down with terrible force, the angel spun uncontrollably, accelerating in his descent. Stars and sky rapidly gave way to earth, revealing a blur of streaking colors expanding beneath him, accompanied by deep, rising sounds. The spinning slowed, and he began to absorb the spectacle.
Satan came to him and whispered a new name, “The Adiinnildin, Great Spirit of the Light.”
The angel crashed in a remote part of the Northern Hemisphere, a land of sometimes constant sun, yet deeply frozen. He lay for a moment, facedown, sizzling in the ice, then drawing energy from the shocking cold, he stood up and began to walk toward what he heard and saw.
The entire planet, sparsely populated in that epoch of time, shuddered with a deep, twisting tremor.”
Excerpt From: Randy Baran. “The Return of the Trumpet” https://www.amazon.com/Return-Trumpet-Complete-American-Fantasy-ebook/dp/B0D8WSLV1Z
I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to friends, fans and family – some of who toiled hard on the production of this project and all of whom hung tight for the almost 40 years it took to bring it to completion. As one writer (Susan DeLay) graciously wrote: “Of all the advice and prayers Brad Tillman (protagonist) receives as he embarks on his quest, his mother’s wisdom rings true: ‘There’s a great joy in this. Hold onto that joy and never let go. It’ll be your best weapon.’ ” With all my ability and all my heart, I bring you that joy. RB
What if there really IS an answer?
Tuesday, Aug. 6, 2024. Finally the release day has arrived! My long-awaited epic fantasy is now available on Kindle. Please google: amazon.com The Return of the Trumpet – The Complete Edition.
Join the quest as trumpet prodigy Brad Tillman searches for the mystical trumpet he was once entrusted with (it has disappeared) and a way to return it. His trail leads to exotic lands, insanely passionate people, an alarmingly corrupt, brutal enemy, and a fight for his family that finds the fate of the world contained in his next breath.
In the course of writing, I looked at light scientifically and at love from a few perspectives, including emotionally. The deeper I delved, the clearer it became that at the highest plane of spirituality, where some day we will all exist – they are both one. –RB
#utterly romantic #time-travel #exotic lands #urban fantasy #epic #mystic #spiritual #musical warfare #kinetic electric instruments #high comedy #humor
I had a dream…
Last night I had a dream about Ronald Reagan. We were at a picnic – keep in mind this is a dream. I’m sitting at a picnic bench, eating or talking with friends and Mr. Reagan appeared, standing to my left. He looked kind of like this:
Maybe without the hat. That said, hold onto your hat. He smiled at me and said something – probably, ‘How are you doing, is the food good, isn’t it a great sunny day?’ etc, but it was preceded by a sound that made me start laughing.
I looked at Mr. Reagan. “Pardon me, sir, but did you just say something like Donald Duck?”
He did. He looked at me with an impish grin and a twinkle in his eye. Like him or not, Reagan had a great sense of humor. We both burst out laughing. That was the end of the dream, but the twinkle set off a very real memory.
It was 1980. I got a call from my editor (I was at Lerner Newspapers at the time), asking me if I’d like to shoot Reagan’s campaign. There was a photo op at a large senior center in Northlake, Il.
Hot diggity. Had to go somewhere and get fingerprinted by the FBI, SOP at the time. I was approved, got my passes and the day of, readied my photo equipment and was off to Northlake; a western suburb of Chicago, a little south of O’Hare.
The place was once a major hotel. It had been converted into a senior residence and for some reason, had a huge auditorium. It was packed. Lots of fans, canes, silver hair. I was 29 then, now I’m part of that crowd.
Press was in a good spot. I wound up only about 10-15 feet from the podium where Reagan spoke. I remember Cubs TV broadcaster Jack Brickhouse came out and revved up the crowd, which didn’t need to be any more keyed than they already were. “Hi Jack” most of the press corps said, with a wave. I had more fun hanging out with Harry Caray a few years later, but that’s another story.
Brickhouse first brought out Henry Hyde, former and then-current US House Rep from the 16th District, Illinois, who spoke fondly, of course, of Reagan. Then US Senator Chuck Percy came out to even more applause. I call him Chuck because I spent 45 minutes in his Wash. DC office with a few other students in 1973, lobbying for the National Student Education Bill. Not like going bowling but good enough.
And the main event. You had to have lived during that time. Probably as close to Beatlemania as I’ll ever see. Talcum powder was flying, 5-day Deodorant pads fell from armpits. Men stood up applauding, shouting, with creaseless plaid pants, white belts and white shoes.
It was a gala. Reagan tore the house down before he said a single word. I took this picture:
Not the greatest shot, but the paper ran it. Now I was probably closest to the podium, kneeling, separated by those plush ropes you see in movie theaters. A loose wall of security you might say, but I didn’t think any of the crowd could have leapt over them. The other two gentlemen left and Reagan, now in his element, took the stage.
You can youtube or google his speeches from that campaign but Reaganomania was catching on like a California wildfire. The enthusiasm was genuine – this from someone who grew up in a staunch DaleyDemocrat Chicago family. My folks voted for Reagan too, btw.
What I’m about to tell you actually happened. I was shooting with a flash unit (Graflite Strobe) big enough to deter a jumbo jet to Midway. It was much too strong to shoot so near the subject and couldn’t be dialed down. Photogs used slower film and small F-stops.
Reagan didn’t like the flash. Understandably, he wore contacts and his eyes were likely sensitive to a minor explosion going off before them. He gave me a look that had no twinkle. Being raised right – that’s all I can think of – I politely shut off the flash. I could’ve turned it around to the audience or bounced it, but I just opened up the lens and shot available light (photog talk). Reagan must have appreciated it.
He gave the crowd their money’s worth. When he was done speaking, he decided to shake hands. He was coming toward me. I was still on my knees but got up quickly (oh, to have those days back again). I kind of spun the camera gear behind my back and prepared to shake the future president’s hand.
He was right in front of me, hand outstretched. He took my hand. “Good luck on your run, Mr. Reagan.” I don’t know how many, if any, of those words got out, but I almost went airborne. We had made eye contact and for a split second, Reagan’s eyes widened.
Scary. Till I (and he) found out what it was. I landed to the future president’s right, in front of one of the Secret Service guys, who had a bit of a smile on their faces. I looked back and there was a short, stout, yes, little old lady who could’ve been a relative of Ditka’s or even Ditka on his knees, in drag. She had blindsided me. She grabbed the Gipper’s hand and I heard her coo, “Oh Ronnie, I just love you! I’ve seen all your films…” To her credit, she was probably a young girl, teenager, when Reagan was a movie star.
I gathered myself together – I didn’t think it was funny as the SS did – and got up, muttering to myself. Mr. Reagan turned his head ever-so-slightly in my direction and with a slight smile, glanced at me with a twinkle in his eye.