Diane and I are essentially risk-takers. We consider the odds as carefully as we can, but basically we go for it. We always have. Like the hillbilly perched on the edge of a bridge over a river who is about to jump off after he yells, “Hey dude, watch this!”, we leap off the edge often. However, unlike the whiskey-fueled, show-off hillbilly, we will check to see how deep the water is first.
Selling our house and most everything in it, denuding ourselves of things, after a lifetime of accumulation, to set off in a used motor home for parts unknown is solid evidence of that. We talk about it often, Diane and I. All of the good things (and some of the bad things) that have come to us in this lifetime have happened because we took a chance, accepted the risk. And, it is true as well that there are times when you have no other choice. We have no home base now, really. As a fallen leaf in Autumn drifts and helicopters down to a lazy river we’re floating downstream. Though not entirely without control, we’re drifting down the river where the currents seemingly take us. We linger in an eddy for a while and then we’re soon back in the current. So far, no logjams or hazardous snags have drowned our float. They are there, but we’ve avoided them to this point.
Sometimes we think about swimming back upstream. We think and reminisce about friends and family and what it will be like when we swing back through St Louis for a visit. Images of times past flood the movie screen of our minds. As familiar as an old classic film that we love our hearts are enlivened by the prospect of spending some quality time with those whom we cherish. It’s not as if we haven’t kept in touch with folks over the months and years. We have and do. Telephones and Facebook see to that. But, having the time and the place to be face to face, to laugh out loud, to hug heartily, to create new experiences, we hold dear. Even though we choose to travel, discover, and experience anew, being with our friends and family has become an annual progression we cannot give up. Just as when you were a child at the carnival you wave mightily at your mom and dad, your best friend, your cousin, when the carousel brings you around each time. The flying elephant you have saddled takes you around in a circle up and down in magical time to the calliope, away, and then back again. Sooner or later the ride ends and there’s a kid in line just waiting to take your seat. This ride feels like a long one, though. The old carny at the controls has given me the wink.
So, the old line in the song comes to mind for me, “You can’t go home again”. Indeed, we try. Most everyone tries. We come back to old St Louis, our home, for so many years. It’s a magnet to us. We lived for a while in Minneapolis and Los Angeles while I worked for MCA Records. We returned. My mom once said, “People leave but they always come back to St Louis.” We came back and raised our family here, thirty years in the same house in Kirkwood, MO. I once went by the home I where I was raised. Eighteen years I spent living on old 537 Ridge Ave by the train tracks. It was the same old house, but so different in so many ways. The folks who live there now completely remodeled the interior. Everything about it seemed smaller. Yet, the house looks exactly the same on the outside. Down the street and around the block were the homes and haunts of my friends. There’s Johnny Loretta’s house. He was my best friend for so long, passed away now. The Higgins lived over there. My brother, Joe, and I had many sling shot and pea shooter wars with them on hot summer days. There’s the Pin Oak tree that Bob Parsons and I would climb on sunny summer days. We thought we could hide up there among the leafy branches and no one would see us. Down the street Jack Beager and Conrad Jacobs put together baseball games in that vacant lot...right there! The lot's still vacant. Imagine that in this day and age. My parents would go across the street to the Smith’s back yard patio and join the neighbors for square dancing parties on cooler summer nights. They called their square dancing group, “The Rafter Rockers”. Later they were “The Mustard Cutters”. I recall the elaborate free-flowing dresses with sequins the ladies wore. I believe there was an unspoken contest as to whose square dance dress was the most fanciful. There’s the Frisco train tracks and where the old wooden Edgar Road Bridge was. Tom Mulvihill and Tony Wippold lived right next to it. That was my playground, that old bridge. I can still smell the creosote-soaked timbers in my mind. The hotter the day, the more the smell permeated the atmosphere.
In my youth I could either be found on the train tracks or over at Blackburn Park. My older brothers collected and sold all my dad’s beer once (probably a case) to soldiers on a passenger train that was stopped behind our house back when soldiers traveled by train. They were on their way to Fort Leonard Wood in central Missouri. Fort Lost in the Woods my brother Norm called it. A dollar a bottle, Falstaff’s finest. An entire street, Swon Ave, and all its inhabitants have been wiped clean off the map thanks to the construction of Highway 44 back in the late ‘60’s. Swon Ave straddled the train tracks for a quarter mile. All those homes are the right hand lane for eastbound I-44 now. I wonder if the ghosts of those long-gone families sometimes stick out their thumbs as veiled and shrouded hitchhikers from time to time. Do the spirits of those Swon Ave children of 1959 ride their bicycles down the passing lanes oblivious to the traffic? Are they yet waving to the engineer of the passing Frisco freight train?
Two streets over and one block down is Blackburn Park, Heaven on Earth to a neighborhood kid. We’d spent countless hours there as younguns. We’d leave after breakfast for Blackburn and come home just in time for dinner. Singer’s Market, one of the many confectioneries and little markets that served all the little neighborhoods throughout Webster Groves, sits sadly forlorn now, converted into a modest bungalow. We would ride our bikes over there on muggy August afternoons and trade in 3 empty coke bottles we scrounged somewhere. They were worth 2 cents a piece. For 6 cents you could buy a half of a Popsicle. Yes, they would break a Popsicle in half for you saving the other unaffordable half for the next kid who happened to crave your flavor and had 6 solid copper pennies to burn. It’s all still there, but it’s different. I don’t know anyone in the neighborhood now save some long-lost ghosts I grew up with. We’re just passing through.
We drive through the various areas of metropolitan St Louis where I know the streets and the businesses. Old Orchard is a cool little spot in Webster Groves, just down the street from Webster University and the Loretto-Hilton Theater. Basically one of my boyhood haunts, I’ve been coming here for over 60 years. I’d walk the train tracks from home to Old Orchard often, maybe 25 cents in my pocket burning a hole. When I was that yearning lad of 8 or 9 years the Ben Franklin 5 and 10 cent store was the anchor of the area. There was a lumber yard there, now a McDonalds. There was Gus’ Barber Shop, The Velvet Freeze ice cream store, and The Old Orchard Pharmacy, home of the best milk shakes and malts west of the Mississippi. There was a true-life cobbler shop there, down the street, with a dirt floor. A quiet, thin man in overalls and a railroad cap worked on everyone’s shoes in town. I never heard him speak a word. No one threw away shoes without them getting repaired there at least once. Me...I got horseshoe taps put on my heals. All the boys had them back in the 60’s. It was a level of grade school cool you could not do without.
Behind Old Orchard lay a large field with a baseball diamond. I played cub softball and baseball there often. Our grade school, Holy Redeemer, had football practices there in the fall. In my late 20’s, John Geers had a grill there where Ben Franklin once stood, The Webster Grill. Our band, the Guojons, played there weekly for several years. Good old Music Folk, the instrument store established in the early 70’s, is still supplying instruments and strings and all things tone to all the dreamers like me. Yeah, it’s changed a lot over the decades, but the buildings themselves in Old Orchard look almost as if they’re frozen in time.
We may go to a friend's house, or to visit my son, Eli, and his growing family. The places and the people are the same, yet different, too. We can pick up right where we left off when we meet with our loved ones and seemingly it’s as if we are transported back in time right to the memory spot where we last met. It’s not, though.
Lately, when we come back here we find that an old friend has moved on to their next life. Most times we know before we get here. Bob Lawder, John Bieser, and Phil Wadlow, three musician friends of mine, left our earthly neighborhood this year. Where are the creative notes and harmonies we made together now? They took us so high...like kites in the sky. Where does it all go?
We all change. The earth changes. The love remains right there in the heart of it, though. Right there in our hearts it remains.
Music, Real Music…
I find time nearly every day to practice my art, music. Lately I have been obsessed with learning as much new music as I can. New licks, new songs, and new ways of presenting old songs have possessed my time with my instruments. I want to be a better musician. I want to sing better. I want to write more and better songs. I feel that by and large I am getting better at this music stuff, not faster for certain, but a little wiser. Trigger Finger and a little arthritis has dampened my speed, though I can push myself into greater dexterity than I’ve ever had. The real deal, though, is playing and performing with other musicians. That act is an entirely different experience than playing tunes in the shade of a Cottonwood by your own self. There is the double gratification that happens. It’s very spiritual. You are playing an instrument and singing, yes, but the higher quality is the creation of the live song, the groove along with the voicings of each individual's instrument and their vocal blend. I think of a perfectly spiced soup with a rich stock...no one ingredient overpowering the taste, yet each ingredient adding highlights to the perfectly round taste.
I think I sing better these days. My timing and personal swing have improved over the years though there’s no accounting for my tone. It is what it is. Me, I’ve been blessed immeasurably by having so many good friends to sit down and pick with. I can’t believe my lucky stars. And, as it turns out, perhaps not surprisingly, some of my best friends are my music pals.
This year’s trip around the sun and back to St Louis has been especially gratifying, musically and otherwise. Right off the bat, right from the Jump (pun intended) I was invited to perform with The Cosmic Cowboys, the band that Richard Dempsey and Connie Columbo-Dempsey built. What a fun band they are. Their song selection is really strong and they feature songs that other bands usually won’t tackle. Richard and Connie’s harmony together is really tight and a joy to hear. Our first sojourn together this Autumn took place at Stoval’s Grove out in Pond, MO.
Stoval’s has been a musical roadhouse since 1939. I remember that when I was in high school Bob Breidenbach and I drove way out there one Saturday night when the Missouri Valley Boys, the eponymous house band, were performing their retinue of Hank Williams and Lefty Frizzell classics. We begged them to let us perform during one of their breaks, which they generously allowed. With Bob on the banjo and me on guitar we played Foggy Mountain Breakdown and Shuckin’ Corn, the Flatt and Scruggs classic instrumental bluegrass tunes. We thought we were nigh on to Grand Ole Opry stars that night. Seemingly, nothing has changed in all these years at Stoval’s. It’s as if a giant bubble was placed over the place and time has not been allowed to alter the roadhouse one iota. Richard and Connie invited me back to play there a second time in October and each session out there was pure joy for me. The “Dancers”, those regulars who by and large occupy the roadhouse every weekend, danced. That’s the ultimate test of your band. If they don’t dance, that’s your last show there. If you put a little extra pep in their step on the old wood dance floor, well then you’re golden. Dancers and players performing as one...nothing better in music happens than that. There’s no place there for the pensive, reflective, drama-dripping, self-evocative singer/songwriter who’s drowning in self-pity...unless, of course, it’s in 3 quarter time. Then you can waltz to it...and that is more than acceptable. At Stoval’s it don’t mean a thing if you can’t swing.
In past years during the Fall, usually in November, the Road Apples would perform back to back concerts at the Focal Point in Maplewood. We could sell out the house, small venue that it is, both nights. Fans from the days of yore when the Road Apples were a really popular band still like our music. It's so gratifying to us. Typically, that particular Road Apple band’s make-up consisted of Bob Breidenbach on dobro, Thayne Bradford on mandolin and fiddle, Ed Cabanas on stand-up bass, Fred Gumaer on drums, and me on guitar. That particular membership is as close to the original band as we can get these days.
The Road Apples, at various times over the past 52 years, (did I just say 52 years?) has had as its illustrious members:
Dave Mehl, an original founder of the band...guitar
Bob Breidenbach...dobro, banjo, guitar, lap steel, pedal steel
Ed Cabanas...bass
John Jump...guitar, mandolin, accordion
Mike McReynolds...bass
Bill Klein...bass
John Tikner...banjo, fiddle
Brad Koberman...fiddle
Rick Rhomberg...bass
Thayne Bradford...mandolin, fiddle, guitar, accordion
Phil Wadlow...banjo
Sandy Weltman...banjo and harmonica
Randy Shore...bass
Fred Gumaer...drums
John Bieser...bass
Blake Travis...congas/percussion
Bob Lawder...bass, guitar, keyboards
Frank Heyer...guitar
Bob Heyer...guitar
Larry Weston...guitar
Danny Thompson...our manager for oh, so many years.
Shoot, over the decades the Road Apples have become less a band and more of a movement.
Now, in the Road Apple band everybody sings, that is just the rule. Every one of these fine musicians gave the band a unique flavor and color. Some, like Bob Lawder, Brad Koberman, Thayne Bradford, and myself wrote original songs for the band. During the last edition of the band in which Bob Lawder, Blake Travis, Bob Breidenbach, and I were members, we would write songs every rehearsal. One of us might come in with an idea, a melody, some structured chords or what not and we would all collectively create a new song. Some were not so hot. But, some were damn good if I do say so.
This year marked the 50 year high school reunion for my class of dear old Webster Groves High School. It was supposed to be last year but Covid-19 put the tilt on hold. What a buzz-kill this pandemic has been. The Original Road Apples minus Dave Mehl performed on a beautiful Sunday morning at Tilles Park overlooking their little lake. I have to say it was an illustrious event with all the classmates mingling and laughing and comparing family photos on their smart phones. Sugary donuts spiced the event along with hot coffee. No one could possibly sit still with that brand of high-octane fuel. The band played some inspired music to match the mood I must say. It was sublime for me personally speaking. It wasn’t the compliments we all received on our music, though, let’s be honest, that’s always great to hear. It was the emotions that come with lifting those old friend’s spirits with happy notes and harmonies on a warm sunny Sunday, accented by a slight cool breeze that reminded us all of those days when life lay before us like a brand new map spread out on the table. We were together then as now, though some have taken the exit ramp for the Last Adventure.
That was Then and This is Now you’ve heard said. But conversely...magically, the event switched to That was Now and This is Then... for a few hours. Our faces subliminally reverted before each other’s eyes, young with anticipation and expectation.
We’ve all, graduates of Webster Groves High School Class of 1970, paddled upstream, back for this one day, to “home”. The teenage angst of those bygone days, the heartbreak and the bad days, have all been brushed aside in our collective mind’s eye. None of that negativity matters now. We’ve all made it this far on the carousel ride of life. The currents, never wavering, will take us back downstream, as surely as our band’s last happy note drifted upward to Heaven. We fight those currents, but we all submit.
The Log Cabin Boys band are another assemblage of some of the dozen or so musicians who comprise a couple of hands full of bands in the area. The Log Cabin Boys have Gary Hunt on mandolin and guitar, Bob Breidenbach on dobro, Dade Farrar on stand-up bass, and Fred Gumaer on drums, and me on guitar. We get together once, maybe twice a year, primarily when I’m in town I guess. In what is becoming an annual event, Diane and I put together a Pickin’ and Eatin’ party across the street from our RV park along the banks of the Missouri River. All the picker-friends we have that we could get together along with a few very close non-musician friends came out for an afternoon of great food, live music, story-telling, and out-loud-laughing good times. Everyone brought a dish and everyone ate and laughed and sang all afternoon long. We’re going to keep that annual fete alive, I’m sure.
Later during October, Gary put together a gig for the band out in St Clair, MO on a bluff overlooking the milky green Meramec River. This was an annual party event complete with pot-luck privileges for the band. The Log Cabin Boys played their hearts out that night. Man, we sounded fine. People asked, “How often do you guys rehearse?” “Well, never.” we answered. We just come together now once, maybe twice a year when I blow into town. We all know the songs, we’re friends with no musical egos in the way, and we know how to lift a song and send it on its way. Plus, inspiration was flowing that night along with the sips of whiskey the band members were stealing between sets. Me, on the other hand, I was high on being with my musical buddies once more.
One evening in September early in our yearly return we went to see a band play in Old Orchard, a neighborhood retail area that I mentioned earlier. Thayne Bradford was playing with Straight as the Crowe Flies, a semi-JD Crowe cover band. JD Crowe being the preeminent banjo master who resides in Lexington, KY. These boys play some wonderfully constructed Bluegrass, some old and some newer. Joel Ferber plays the mandolin while Thayne plays guitar. Thayne invited me up for a few tunes and this renewing of live band performance was most gratifying for me. The band is very, very good. I thoroughly enjoyed their music. For the life of me and to my eternal discredit at this writing I cannot recall the banjo or bass fiddle player’s names. Shame, shame, triple shame on me for such fumblance of memory.
Fittingly, for me anyway, on our last night in town Diane and I went to see my best buddies, Bob Breidenbach and Thayne Bradford, along with Mike Tiefennbrun (sp?) perform at Sqwire’s Restaurant in old Lafayette Square on the near south side of St Louis. Bob has been playing there for something like 8 years now every Thursday evening. Usually he partners with another St Louis musical institution, Charlie Pfeffer, but Charlie has moved to Newburgh, MO and doesn’t like the long drive home. He plays now every other Thursday I believe. Sitting in the audience and hearing my friends play their music was great. Bob and Thayne’s voices blend so well together. They invited both me and Fred Gumaer, who also attended, up to perform a few songs with them. How gracious my friends are. I delighted in every note, knowing I wouldn’t have this opportunity again for a while.
On Being a Tourist in your Old Home Town…
It’s really important for us to see all our old friends and family while we’re in St Louis. That’s why we stop in here annually. Our son, Eli, and his growing family are so close to us in our hearts. We often ask ourselves if we should move back here to be close to them, perhaps to lend a hand when they need us for anything. We are family after all. I know that if Eli ever asked us to be here, to move back to St Louis close to them, we would do it. As it is, with Eli and his family and with our dear friends, our times together are the definition of quality time. We count every moment as a pleasure, not mere happenstance that occurs as our daily circles of life cross paths.
Hallowe’en with Eli, Carrie, and the kids was a ton of fun. The kids, Stanley and Ruby, were a trip to see in their hand-made costumes that Carrie created. Stanley was Raphael, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, and Ruby was the most delightful little fairy complete with gossamer wings. A blazing fire on the patio in the backyard along with a chili dinner preceded the candy-fueled march through the neighborhood at dusk. The afternoon and evening were picture-perfect for this all-American autumnal event. The kids are at the perfect age for Hallowe’en. They weren’t quite sure about Diane and me and our intentions as we took on heavy make-up to transform ourselves into Camp Host Zombies. “It’s only me, Grandpa John.” I repeatedly assured them. They weren’t totally convinced I think.
We also got to spend some long-overdue time with Tim Kennedy, one of my dearest old friends from the Sunnyside Gang, that group of semi-wild guys and gals who used to hang out at Dave Perez’s house on Sunnyside Ave in Webster Groves as we all lived through our very late teens and early twenties. Nightly we’d gather beneath the street light outside of the Perez household and plot our nightly excursions. Some Budweisers, maybe a bottle or two of 69 cent Red Ripple wine, a couple of joints of Mexican, a sack full of White Castle burgers, maybe even an Imo’s Pizza if someone had money to burn...those were the fuels of choice, or at least affordability in those madcap nights. We also got to hang out with Jimmy Tillay, Ed Reeber, and Roger Stojeba one nostalgic afternoon while in town, all members in good standing of that Sunnyside Gang. Petty criminals we all were, the fun-loving sort, always up for laughs. I love those guys, always will.
I got to hang out and play a round of golf with Bobby Thompson, Dave Cochran, and Justin Hirsch, all high school and even grade school buddies. The scores were erratic, but the laughs were down the middle of the fairway, honest and true. We spent good quality time with both of Diane’s sisters, Suzy and Pam as well.
One afternoon we visited the Daniel Boone home in Defiance, MO with Suzy and her husband, Tom French. The Daniel Boone home has been preserved in very close condition to its original construction. In addition, a small village of authentic period cabins and out-buildings have been preserved from within 50 miles of the site and brought there to create a small Missouri pioneer village, minus the Osage and Shawnee who occupied the Missouri River Valley in those bygone days. It’s an impressive assemblage and preserve, complete with a very knowledgeable guide who regaled us with Daniel Boone family stories and facts that leave you wondering how these folks accomplished all that they did in this, the wilderness that it was in the early 1800’s. Being within a mile of the Missouri River and being Daniel’s home in 1804, Lewis And Clark paddled both upstream and downstream past while Daniel lived here. Somehow, they didn’t meet. I find that very strange. Mr Boone surely knew they were coming. Everyone else in the nearby village then known as Charette came out to greet them as they passed westward. The local Shawnee even came down to trade deer meat with them near here. No one appears to know why Mr Boone did not join the party that day to wish Lewis and Clark and their intrepid crew good fortune.
I was disappointed and surprised to discover that Daniel Boone owned slaves. I had not known that before my visit here. I falsely thought that a frontiersman on the edge of civilization would not, could not, afford slaves, or even consider the notion. But, he did. It was intriguing to me that one can see the hand-hewn logs in the house from 200+ years ago. Daniel’s ax marks are on every rafter and support beam in the old manse. But, was it Mr Boone’s tireless chipping away at the logs or was it a slave’s endless burden that put those trees to use as a home? No one really knows now.
I think often how hard it was for the folks who lived in bygone days. Pioneer, Native American, Slave, you name it, it must have been a challenge every single day just to get by and live. Life these days in America, indeed, throughout the world, is not so rosy either. Tragedy and destruction, hatred and violence are in the news everyday. Some folks are living through the most terrible times themselves all around us. Diane and I have it easy. Most of us do in this country. We are shielded from most of troubles of the age. We are privileged. I don’t mean to say we haven’t worked really hard to get what we have. What I do mean to say is that we are fortunate to have been given the opportunity to work hard and earn it. So many don’t even get the chance. They are held down by any number of visible as well as invisible forces. Then, there are the addictions of the age trying to creep into your life just as a cockroach finds the crevice in your home’s foundation to invade. Drugs, alcohol, the mad pursuit of money for money’s sake, the abuse of wealth, the endless pursuit in the accumulation of “things”, political tribalism, these threats and more challenge so many of us masking the security that civilization should be able to bring.
On a bright and sunny Saturday morning I was walking along the river path with Heidi and Dash, our dogs just across from the RV park where we are staying. As I left the narrow forested corridor along the river’s edge and I popped out into the clearing, right where we had previously held our little pickin’ and eatin’ party not just a week prior. Just as we cleared the wooded area a police car came flying into the parking lot and pulled next to an old Suburban, its side panels rusting badly. The policeman jumped from the car, opened the tailgate and pulled a completely naked woman onto the asphalt. She was limp as a sheet and lifeless. A naked man crawled out from the car and struggled to put his pants on. The cop immediately began CPR with the woman, but nothing positive was resulting. The policeman worked tirelessly and professionally to save her. She lay there dead. Within 30 seconds an ambulance and another patrol car arrived. Quickly, one of the crew produced a syringe and injected her to try and save her life. It wasn’t working. The man who apparently was her partner in the car waived his arms in the air as he answered the cop’s questions. I couldn’t hear the words, I stayed my distance at 50 feet away. After just a few minutes the crew of policemen and EMT guys began to look down at the ground and their efforts became less dramatic, less frantic. I don’t think they were successful at reviving the woman. One of the officers retrieved a towel and covered her out of respect and dignity. I watched this tragedy for perhaps 3 or 4 minutes. I began to feel as if I were a voyeur and so I left. There was nothing I could do or say, the substance had taken her away. That bright and cheerful Saturday morning she had broken the bonds of her personal slavery...unintentional as it may have been.
One other less dire but equally cheerful morning Diane and I ventured to downtown St Louis to visit the Arch. Of course, we have been there many times since it was constructed in 1966. They used to hold massive 4th of July celebrations on its grounds with national acts performing concerts. I recall Linda Ronstadt performing there once in the 1980’s. Tens of thousands of folks were out there with her in the sun, sweating and dancing to her rocking band and her laser vocals.
When we left on our 50 Amp Vision Quest in February of 2018 they were preparing to revamp the Arch museum and the grounds. They were going to physically tie in the Old Courthouse a block away with the Arch and the Old Cathedral of St Louis by creating a green promenade between and among them. Fearing the spread of Emerald Ash Borers and the probable infestation of all the beautiful Ash trees on the grounds, it was planned to remove all the Ash trees as well. Having been some 40 to 50 years since most of them were planted, the Ash trees were mature and their spreading branches and graceful leaves lent a peaceful and serenely beautiful elegance to the National Memorial grounds amidst the clamor and clang of downtown St Louis. I wondered what the grounds would look like now after decades of familiarity with the place. Also, being really fascinated by history, what would the new museum look like?
Arriving downtown midday on a weekday, I was a bit surprised by how many folks, like us, were touring the Arch area. I’ve always felt that the riverfront of St Louis was a lost opportunity for the city to create a vibrant, attractive, and interactive experience for locals and tourists alike. For a time in the 70’s and 80’s the Laclede’s Landing area just north of the Arch was revitalized and showed promise as doing just that. That effort, and most of the businesses there, has fallen into a sad state of disrepair and forlorn loneliness. The riverfront has the industrialized look of a once busy river city that has moved on from its heyday. Uninspiring to say the least, it’s very drab down there. However, I’m here to report that the work done for the Arch and its grounds is a monumental success. It's hardly the clearing on a bluff overlooking the massive river that Pierre Laclede and his small team claimed for the new city's location. It's hardly the busy steamboat river port of Mark Twain's time. So much history here, but you'd never know by being here now...save the Arch museum.
I anticipated that the grounds, once lined with all the mature Ash trees would be semi-barren, perhaps replanted with young upstarts 30+ years before maturity, more a moonscape and less a National Monument grounds. Wrong! Somehow, there remains large tracts of semi-forested areas now. The trees are very diverse in species. I can tell, though it was long since the flowering days of summertime, that they planted all sorts of varieties of blooming bushes along the pathways leading to the Arch itself. There remains a broad vista of open area, green with vibrant grass surrounding the Arch’s two legs, giving the overwhelming massiveness of the monument its full due of eye-popping respect. I was awed once again as I was back in 1966 when the thing was first finished. The green way between the Arch and the Old Courthouse makes perfect sense as well and is well conceived and laid out.
The new museum underground between the legs of the Arch is magnificent. Beginning with a very broad and long entrance way centered between the legs of the Arch you are led gradually downward a good 20 vertical feet or so to the physical entrance of the museum. Once inside you venture downward yet another 30 or so feet either by escalator or stairs to the museum itself. The museum is set up in six semi-separate semi-circles attached to central walking causeway. Each of the six sections is set up to focus on six consecutive chosen time periods of St Louis’ history and its role in the Westward expansion of American civilization. Whether or not you are a fan of American expansion through the West, whether you empathize and sympathize with the fate of the First Nations who were virtually wiped out by all this, whether you feel Christopher Columbus was a Prophet or a Plague, the history of it all is out there. The stories of the people are important. The story of the land is important. As they say, history repeats itself.
We found the museum extremely well conceived and constructed. As much as I believed I knew about St Louis’ history, I learned anew as much as I already knew and understood. We were so impressed with our visit. Funny, none of my local friends has brought up the “new” Arch since we returned here. I wonder how many of the locals here have ventured downtown to check things out? For a tired old downtown, a city with sloping shoulders, this Arch and its museum and new grounds is a rose among the thorns.
There are other roses here in town, too. The Art Museum, which is free to the public, The St Louis Zoo, which is free to the public, the Botanical Garden, world-class flora sanctuary and site of Buckminster Fuller’s giant geodesic dome, The Jewel Box, another botanical gem featured in Tennessee William’s play, and on and on. Each one a cultural icon of enlightenment and inspiration. Of course, my St Louis Cardinals hold court here as they have for well over 100 years now, the Pride of St Louis. The St Louis Blues hockey team whose devotee’s now nearly match those of the Cardinals spin the puck and put those biscuits in the basket downtown. Their victory parade after finally winning Lord Stanley’s Cup was the largest in the history of the city. They are building a new stadium for a new pro soccer team that will debut here in a year or two. St Louis has always been a huge “soccer town”. Sons and daughters of German and Italian immigrants brought the sport into prominence through the large Catholic school system in the city. The area’s restaurants match those of any other town in the country both in quality and quality. They always have.
There is at least one other attribute of this city that goes largely unnoticed. Being a musician and having traveled all over the country, and having spent considerable time in Los Angeles, Nashville, and to a lesser degree, New York City, the live music put out by the local musicians is incredibly strong and diverse. Having the Blues Museum here in town testifies to the local passion for the Blues (even the hockey club is called The Blues, right?). But any other variety or genre of music is played in spades by excellent musicians nightly. Bluegrass, String Band, Celtic, and Americana are represented as well as anywhere on the planet. Old time Country and Western Swing bands are popular as well. Hip Hop and Rap are equally strong as evidenced by Nelly, the St Lunatics, and other ground-breaking artists. The gritty soul-spilling Ike and Tina Turner sprung from city’s north side. Miles Davis jazz revolution rose from the city’s east side, and indeed, the town has long been classified a "horn town". There’s even some remnant beatniks who hold court with their poetry spun over Bebop strains. Jazz, it’s here is Spades as well. Why, even the nation’s arguably best harmonica player, Sandy Weltman, holds court here.
The crowning glory of the town, though, is the St Louis Symphony Orchestra whose collective spirit as well as many of their individual members are world-class of the first order. I contend, with solid confidence, that St Louis can feature more great musicians than nearly any other city on the continent. Surely, New York and Los Angeles have more of what I would classify as truly world-class musicians...the highest of the highest order. Perhaps Nashville is right there, too. But whatever that nearly intangible level of musicianship is called that is just a horse hair beneath “Best in the World” is abundantly available in this metro area, still the cultural melting pot and jumping-off point into destinations known as well as unknown in music culture. My friend and band mate, Fred Gumaer could wax unaided by notes for hours on the influential artists who sprang from the streets here to national prominence. The only problem being a musician in St Louis is, you will never make it big here. You'll have to leave, as so many have before, to cash in your chips. All things being equal though, St Louis is a great place to pay your dues.
Fred is also a DJ personality on the unchallenged and best music radio station in the country, KDHX Public Radio, also located in the city. Believe me, I’ve listened to radio everywhere on the continental USA. None...that is zero...match KDHX for diversity of music and DJ’s, amount of commercial-free music broadcast, and knowledge of its progenitors. Having been in 49 states of this country I can straight-away tell you that it’s true. Would you like to hear Americana? They got you covered. Would you like to hear West-Coast Rap from 2010? How about some Hungarian a cappella folk songs? Would you care to hear some Ska? Perhaps some Navajo or Ute Nation hits from the Southwestern corner of Colorado would click your clock? Name your poison, there’s a time slot for it on the radio station. And, if you don’t hear it, just call in and ask. Someone there will know of it and provide it on air for you, all free, totally paid for by listener support.
This year’s visit to the old River City for us did not see us visiting the various attractions I listed prior as much as visiting friends and family as much and as often as possible. That is more important for us anyway. Maybe it was because we have had the loss of close friends lately. Maybe it due to the past 18 months of Covid-captivity and the overall absence of comradeship. Maybe it’s simply because we love being with family and friends so much. We count ourselves overtly and abundantly fortunate to have the time and places to meet and hang out with those we love. What better treasure could we possess after nearly 4 years on the 50 Amp Vision Quest than to pick up right where we left off with family and friends? I wonder if part of us never really left town after we sold our house and home and nearly everything we owned in 2018? After all, my mom often said..." People always came back here." We seemingly always have one foot planted in St Louis and one foot searching for new footing.