The paternal genetic origin of my maternal genetic origin died a few weeks ago.  That’s the most comfortable way I’ve found for acknowledging birth relationships in my life.  For normal “not estranged from family” folks, this would be your grandfather. 

The overly dramatized intro is not super important.  It happens to be just one event rotating in a cyclone of other thoughts and situations I contemplated some far-fetched interrelated meaning from that probably didn’t exist.  Some may say I overthink things, but maybe I’m just a deep hearted believer in serendipity.  Come fight me about it. 

Having decided I would go to his funeral I spent some lost time in the Milwaukee-area.  I haven’t found much reason to go there anytime recently, except for ball games on the edge of town and a few moto things that I’ve planned for and unfortunately needed to skip at last minute in recent years.  My maternal genetic origins are rooted in Milwaukee, and tons of my formative memories include seeing the Goodyear Blimp at Timmerman Field close to my grandparents first home, getting the good produce and onion rolls at Sendik’s, frozen custard at Kopp’s, watching the Circus Parade, getting Chinese on Sunday afternoons at the Yen Ching on Good Hope that’s no longer, then a movie at the budget cinema a little further down, going to the Hyatt downtown and sitting in the revolving restaurant, saluting the flag at the top of the Gas Company (my grandfather was a lifelong gas-man for the City of MKE), and cruising North Lake Drive in my grandfather’s prized Caddy Coupe de Ville, being the top vertex in the triangle of this story. Those memories are mere images to me, and nothing more.

Do you know Guardians of the Galaxy? Oh, of course you probably do.  I’m not one for superhero movies or most media made after 1990 so my references are limited aside from the marketing bombs I’ve seen in the Target aisles with the cute little tree guy or whatever.  Given that, it’s odd I landed on that one while waiting for the moving trucks to haul my life away yet again just prior to my grandfather’s funeral, but I did.  And while I’m not in the business of reviewing films, my taste is horrible, the storyline has a poignant cassette tape playlist tie in of primarily 70s daddy-yacht rock hits that makes my Saturdays at the 70s heart swoon. Perhaps that makes my music preferences trash too, and if that’s the case, why are you even here?

Enter “Lake Shore Drive” by Aliotta Haynes Jeremiah, the second point where two lines meet.  A pianist at heart, I’m a sucker for any good feature of keys in a rock song and this is it.  I remember this album of the same name in the collection at home as a kid, and I was blown away that the song had dipped so far from my recollection until I happened to hear it in the Vol. 2 movie that I inhaled after I got through the first.  Affectionately referred to as “LSD” in the song, it’s a love song for the route along Lake Shore Drive in Chicago.  Yes, I can accept that although it is Chicago, it is a beautiful drive.  No, it’s not about drugs, you want “Snow Queen” for that, but rolling down the right strip of asphalt can absolutely give you that feeling.

There’s a road I’ve already told you about, lives in my old town and I’m convinced my soul is that unchanged highway in northern Wisconsin.  She contains my favorite grove of Tamarack trees, swaying pines, sleepy lakes, and a home containing my past life, resting just off Hwy 17. It’s always a fun stretch in the snow where county lines fall into a black hole and everyone fights over who should plow, so much so it never gets done. I’ve forever been inspired to stretch haiku muscles and wax poetic from my experiences on that road. As soon as my moto skills grow out of infancy, I’m excited to bike and love it from a whole new perspective. 

And given that I was strongly discouraged from safely rediscovering my grandparent’s original neighborhood on the northwest side because of the rampant crime in that part of the city and finding myself inspired by the aforementioned LSD song and missing my old highway, I adventured in the opposite direction up into Fox Point past their more recent home, through Whitefish Bay where my grandma was born and raised, and down to Bradford Beach on North Lake Drive, which comprehensively is the MKE version of Lake Shore Drive in Chicago.  A constant consumer of cool buildings, I contemplated the intermingling of family legacy with the breathtaking homes along Lake Michigan.  The lore begins with a Mr. John Lilly, Hungarian immigrant into the United States arriving with the proverbial $2 in his pocket, who proceeded to grow a successful contracting business that managed the construction of many of them big fancy homes we see on that drive, and he later died a wealthy man.  John was my grandmother’s father.

Veteran’s Park is one of my favorite spots to chill by Lake Michigan, watch boats, feel waves, and smell shitty dead fish.  I sat by myself and maybe cried a little, feeling selfish, lonely, wanting something I don’t even know what anymore.  Is it too much to want to watch waves crash and discuss 70s yacht hits about road romances or playlists?  I digress, I’ve written on that nonsense already. 

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I’m not all that lonely. The drive isn’t special because of who I was with or the vehicle they had. Those things indeed can make the ride a lot more fun, but it’s not critical. Feeling singular is impossible when I can truly feel the legacy to my left riding south along the lake, around me on 17 going north. The air is lighter and the pavement is smoother, even when that’s not reality. Concrete mountains, stars, rats to riches. It’s magic or something.

So anyway, I quit all that soon enough and rallied at the funeral home and sat for a church service.  I was told I needed to smile more.  The fact I came “all that way” for a funeral was gasped at.  It was speculated I’d been vacationing because I’m apparently super-duper tan and how dare I be.  Someone even asked who bought my car for me.  And this is why I don’t go to these things. I don’t care but it is tiresome.

Yet, I didn’t go up in flames. I stood tall.  Then, my too-tan smile-less atheist ass got in in the Audi Q7 absolutely in my name and I sped the fuck away from there on one of my favorite routes.  The one that led me home.  This time, though, I listened to Tupac and any tears I conjured before were left in the lake where they belonged. 

@siliconeandvinyl