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Day 1 |
Probing America: High Tech on Back Roads Day Ten and Eleven The Fourth of July in Chenoa, Illinois July 3 and 4, 1992
Don't be concerned if you missed the 10th day, we didn't do a piece. Well, the immense event is history. It happened last evening and we survived. Not to be too serious about reporting the Chenoa weekend, we did decide it may be more fun to vary our style, moving from the collective we, to the specific I. Theresa thought, because the events and circumstances are so well known to her, that it might be functional for me to begin. Then she will continue, and if it continues to be interesting, we will trade the keyboard several times. If all this seems too much for some of you, we will understand your pushing block and delete. Several correspondents expressed interest in reading about the end of the odyssey, if that is not a self-contradiction of the concept, so here it is. There are several related pieces: Chenoa, the small mid-western town and environs; the 30th reunion of Theresa's high school class; the July Fourth celebration in Chenoa; Ripley family dynamics. I'm asking Theresa to respond to this rubric, and choose the starting point. Yes, Jack I can take this form and I think it easiest to start with the 30th year reunion because even though it made a reason to be here, it is not the most important part of the Illinois experience. The reunion was OK. Not dynamic and not a disappointment. I did agree with two classmates that we would never attend a college reunion, but high school reunions seemed like the thing to do. There were 22 classmates present out of the original 36 and two classmates wrote long letters. As far as how the class responded to me, I was nominated, along with one other woman, to have changed the most. I don’t know what that means, but never give up a distinction if it is given to you is what I say! Back to Jack for psychological analysis. I don't know about the analysis, but hey! Several of your eager correspondents deserve additional details. First off, the venue was Baby Bull's, the finest dining Pontiac has to offer. Chenoa has next to nothing to offer, thus Pontiac ten miles west on Route 66 is the choice. I inquired and learned that Baby Bull's is named after a local fellow of Greek decent who to this day owns and operates it (he worked the reunion for awhile). Legend, or perhaps more accurately, rumor has it that when he was an itty bitty baby of Greek decent he looked remarkably like a Bull, so the name and it stuck. He appears to be in his forties, and must like the name. After all, who named his restaurant? Two reunions were scheduled. The other, being larger, got the big room at Baby Bull's. Chenoa got the small room, to which the only entrance was through the big room. The larger group in the big room was a class of 72, younger and much more spirited and noisy. As the evening progressed this made it sometimes difficult to hear the master of ceremony. We made a stylishly tardy entry, but style doesn’t count that much, so were mostly ignored. Thirty years is a long time, allowing for considerable changes in the old bod and face. So, actually, some people were unrecognizable to others. A standard question to a couple was which one was the alum. Theresa paused only a moment and ordered her priorities mentally, and took off like an inspired jogger, moving from one classmate to another. At the end of the program, Joy, the MC, produced a tape recorder and said that all of us (I think she meant the 22 Chenoans) should record salutations and fond wishes to the two west coast absentees who wrote the thoughtful letters. As the tape recorder was handed off, it was clear that Theresa had about a 45 minute queue ahead of her. She whispered in an aside (knowing her group intrinsically) to me that she would take care of this, gestured to Joy that she wanted to say something, and then announced to the group that we had family commitments and simply had to leave; what a wonderful experience this, her first reunion had been. Joy deftly retrieved the recorder, passed it to TR, asked her to be the first voice on tape, which she sweetly was, getting us to the family gathering, and eventually the Chenoa street dance by 9:00. Ripley back. I should learn to take quicker showers. The two more important events, or happenings, were reuniting with family and Jack experiencing that family and the sense of what my community is all about and what it has done to stunt or shape me, depending on how you look at it. We were only in the area a little over 48 hours but in that time managed to have several family events occur in an easy, delightful fashion. I could describe them all but I will attempt to give you a flavor by describing the last event together which was last evening at the home of Janice and Jerry Campbell, my brother's widow and her new husband, who was my brother's best friend and the namesake for my oldest nephew. Ten of us were gathered: the hosts; Jack and myself; nephew Jerry and his wife Beth (who had just finished working a 14 hour straight shift at the hospital and had delivered two babies) and their two kids; and nephew Dave and his wife Lisa who had come down from Chicago for the Fourth and to see us. Ann, my niece, was absent due to being getting the fireworks set up in Chenoa. They had prepared a super meal down to the homemade ice cream I had requested over a month ago. We sat and discussed the events of the last couple of days: the reunion, seeing two first cousins, other family members, and, of course, Chenoa's Fourth of July. As the meal progressed and the 17-month-old was conspicuously quiet and then appeared proudly with hands caked with plant dirt, the group began to remember times together. The two brothers, my nephews, who thoroughly enjoy one another, began to reminisce about growing up and trying to get each other blamed for the other's pranks. They began talking about Ray, their father, and my parents in the endearing way they felt about growing up together on two farms working together. Jerry Campbell, the new family member and Ray's friend, joined in by discussing the times we all played ball together in our back pasture. The places we were discussing were within a half a mile of where we were having dinner. The ease with which we were going back and forth between history and today, considering the circumstances of group, seemed rare to me.
I believe there are likely two kinds of places where such a complicated, natural relationship vignette could happen. The obvious is in rural or small town settings with several generations of family and friends about. From what I read, the other is in ethnic ghettos and neighborhoods of cities, where, for different reasons, the same kind of ties exist. I would not like the city for an extended period of time, nor could I connect with the people there. In contrast, there is something very attractive about this rural environment of good people, so much so that one is tempted to dreamily consider escaping to it.
And as for the Fourth of July. Theresa says it is the best damn fourth of July celebration for any town near its size in the USA, and I'm on official record to say, "Right On!" A huge flea market, horseshoe throwing contests, a street dance, ice cream social, a parade with a steam tractor hooting train whistles, and about four blocks ahead of the next entry, a vehicle from every fire department from towns 10 miles around, sets of 3 and 5 couple ponies pulling wagons, kids, tractors, and everything big on wheels that would move. People gathering more than an hour early to view. It all happened, with a fireworks display 4 hours later. We were not born on the fourth of July, but, boy was it fun to be in Chenoa when it occurred
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