By FRED KRONER
So, how was your Sunday?
As I awoke and greeted a new day, there was no reason for me to believe it would not be like any of the other recent Sundays.
The pace is a little slower on this day, but there are certain things on the to-do list: grocery shopping, mowing (nope, not today) and watching the Cubs play baseball (darn, that’s three losses in a row).
The grocery store seemed filled with more shoppers than usual, perhaps because school will be starting in another week at the University of Illinois and the early arrivals are already stocking up. As I was navigating through the produce section (I managed to miss the carrots the first go-through), a voice called out my name.
In the days of the past – pre-pandemic, that is – I most likely would have noticed the person first. It’s a little more difficult now to recognize someone when you see half of a face, or maybe even one-third of a face.
He had to introduce himself. It was Bryan, someone whose family I’ve known for more than six decades.
We chatted for a time, catching up on each other’s lives. I was delighted to hear that his mother, Irene, who recently celebrated her 84th birthday, is doing well.
The conversation brought back a treasure trove of memories. For most of my childhood friends, it’s impossible to remember when and where I first met them, or what the circumstances were.
Bryan’s oldest brother, Rick, was my age and is probably the person I spent more time with through my first 20 years than anyone else outside of family.
I know exactly how it started, but I don’t know the reasons.
In the 1960s – the old, old days for many of the readers – Mahomet only offered half-day kindergarten and, for some reason, there was no bus service for the rural children. Once they reached first grade, that changed, but for kindergarteners, families were responsible for transporting their children to school.
For some reason, my mom and Irene took turns hauling Rick and I to school, and then back home. Not sure now if they did it a week at a time or every other day. We lived in the same general vicinity – that is, north of town – but Rick’s family was about 3 miles closer to the village limits.
It’s interesting that this arrangement was made. I don’t remember my mom and Irene ever socializing and, in fact, Rick wasn’t even the closest child in my class at the time. Randy lived on the same country road as my family, less than a mile away.
Why I didn’t carpool with him, I guess I will never know.
Maybe because I had no brothers or sisters, Rick became my first early friend by default. I didn’t really know any of the other children in my class, except Randy, in advance of seeing them at school.
Rick and I became close, though as fate would have it, we weren’t on the same bus route. Two buses left daily from the grade school when we had reached first grade. Mine made a stop at Briarcliff – back when the subdivision had only a handful of houses and all on the eastern portion of the property – while Rick’s bus, driven by Blondie Carpenter, continued the trek north on IL-Rt. 47 to his road near the top of the hill, which was a dead-end for those driving east.
My bus skipped that road as well as the next one at 2500 (they weren’t numbered back then!) but turned on 2600, 2700 and again at the Shiloh Methodist Church.
Rick’s dad, Robert, owned a radio station in Champaign (WTWC), which was located just south of Springfield Avenue, between Neil and First streets. Rick would hang out there, and occasionally even got to play some records, but I don’t know if his voice ever made it out over the airwaves.
Occasionally, the station got duplicate promotional copies of records. Rick got his choice, of course, but he would willingly share. That’s how I got my first Marshall Tucker Band album (which I still have in the basement).
As we grew older, eventually getting our licenses and a small degree of independence, I would hang out at Rick’s house. His mom had five boys to feed, but always seemed to have enough food if I wanted to stay for the evening meal.
Knowing how boys eat, having enough food in and of itself was an accomplishment.
Eventually, Rick became the best man at my first wedding – the only one he was alive to witness – and one memory has never left me about that weekend in Mattoon. One of us overslept on the Saturday morning of the wedding almost 44 years ago – I won’t name any names, but it wasn’t me – and we were in a rush to get to the church.
As we left the Holiday Inn, I stepped in a fresh pile of bubblegum and it was doing a good job of adhering to my right shoe. Rick volunteered to drive, though he had no idea where we were going, as I sat in the passenger seat with my pocket knife, scraping off the gum and hoping I didn’t cut my finger as he wheeled around corners and hit every pothole, even ones that didn’t exist.
All’s well that ends well. We arrived safely at the church, and even had time for a hurried picture with the photographer before the ceremony began. And, my shoe was cleared and my fingers were intact.
These are memories that haven’t been in my mind for decades, and likely wouldn’t have popped up on Sunday had I not run into Bryan. It’s amazing how a chance meeting can trigger a flood of fond moments from the past.
As I reflected, another thought was crystalizing. In many regards, my first meeting with Rick was truly by chance.
What if our mothers hadn’t made those travel arrangements to school for kindergarten? What if the M-S district offered bus transportation for students that young?
He might have just been one of the many students in my grade who were acquaintances, but not particularly close friends.
All it took was a trip to the grocery store, and another chance encounter, to promote a trip down Memory Lane. And yes, I finally found the carrots.
