Monday, April 18, 2011

159 There is a cancer in Streator, Illinois, and it is killing her most beloved sons and daughters.

There is a Cancer in Streator, and it is 
Killing the Most Beloved of Us

At first there were the five of us:  Billie Arbogast, Billie Cox, Mark Ganzer, Robin Watson, and Greg Williams.

Kindergarten and first grade were the best - we played sun up 'til sun down in the summer, and just loved being in school together, then Billie Arbogast moved away, and it was down to four.  A part of us had departed, and, at some intuitive level we could sense it, but four boys, braving the wilds bounded by Greeley School to the North, Kleaver's Grocery store to the South, along Everett Street, had plenty enough to keep them from getting philosophical, or looking too deeply into the meaning of being a part of.

We played basketball almost year round.  Two on two, or we'd go to the grade school out east, over the bridge across the wide swath of railroad tracks and play teams - the four of us together.  Softball in the summer time - four was plenty for a team - pitcher, shortstop, two outfielders.  If need be, we could substitute a runner.

We'd even watch a little TV.  The American Basketball Association had just formed, and they were exciting!  They dunked!!  They shot three-pointers!!!  They had a red-white-and-blue patriotic basketball, but, mostly we played, ran, and rode our bikes, all over the North side of town, up and down, and down and up, and back again; exploring the streets, and the bridges over the stream that run past the glass factory where we'd find floating six packs of empty cans of beer.

Greg Williams bet me I wouldn't last a month when I got my paper route.  I lasted four plus years 'til we moved.

Billie Cox, so handsome, the tallest one of us, the one we all wanted to be best friends with.
Billie Cox is dead now too.  Didn't make it past '95.  There is something toxic in that little farming community that formed and shaped me.  It might be from the coal mines, it might be from the glass factories, it might be from the DDT, but it certainly kills those whose immune systems are not strong enough to fight off the toxins.

The lives of Streator's children, and my grade school class mates are at risk.

Oh, Billie Cox, if you have not died in vain, then we MUST uncover this killing agent and rid it from the sacred ground of our youth.

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My drummer, drummer, boy.

It just seems impossible to me. the words, "Ralph Kotches is dead," strike like a metal-gloved hand across the face.  How long ago was it anyway, that wayward fun-loving soul drummed up the roars of thunder with that smile on his face saying "got a plan, got a plan, hey man, got a plan, you won't even BELIEVE it!"

    Ralph Kotches is dead,
    and one day, too, I shall follow.
    So my drummer, drummer boy, my friend,
    drum me into the halls at the end,
    of where I was born to go and stay.
            So my drummer drummer boy,
    laughing loudly, filled with joy,
    set the tempo march us double time.

So my drummer, drummer boy,
keep me cat-like ready, keep me iron-steady,
keep me in the joys of heady child's play near God. So my drummer, drummer boy,
Streator's pride, Streator's joy,  May
you that drummer, drummer boy always be.
       So my drummer, drummer, boy, drum some   
       more, that we may see, what will be in store,
if only we, join hands embark on the goals of community, serenity, and love.

Oh when the saints,
Go marching in,
Oh when the saint go marching in,
Ralph Kotches will be the drummer,
When the Saints go Marching In.
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Oh no, how can it be that Linda Bedecker has died so young?

Oh no, how can it be that Linda Bedecker has died so young?
She who used to have hair-ironing Friday nights,
And put half a buck of gas in the pink car,
Who kept all the girls laughing, except for gym class which ROARED!

Who sang and sculpted, and took the road trip to F L A  with
Kathy, June, Wilma and Judy in the brand new '70 Cutlass
Oh alas, alack, did these lasses ever pick up the slack
And what stories they did tell of THAT trip before the
reality of the separation of the umbilical cord from Streator
and all those Streator class mates into what is next in the world -
Be it college, military, or some drudgery job at the factory,
Marriage, kids, just run away to get away not then even realizing
Better than this it would never be, although, at best,
you can find just as good.

Who had more fun at Norris' than at the homecoming dance
Because fun, and life, are always where you find them, WHEN YOU CHOOSE
to make the best of the moment – that ZEN-like state which God confers
upon us at our pleasure.

Gone, so tragically departed but, if I were to wager there ever was
One Holy Spirit who stays and guards and guides me into the straight
and Narrow ways of the Lord's most loving children
Then it's Linda B. that's guiding me to see the see we all did see
A glimpse of all the best that we might ever be.

God Bless you Beloved Child of God.
===========================================================

Patty Wilkerson is dead, too.

Patty Wilkerson is dead, too.

Of all the girls I adored, Patty was so special - the freckles, the blond hair;
But she was a tomboy, and that always attracted me - because a tomboy
will race you, play catch with you, not throw a dodge ball like a girl - 

You don't ever have to worry about hurting a tom boy
Far more likely, you will slip up and put them off and they will haul off
And whale on you.

Patty was just a human being - a friend - a dear friend
And a good human being.
So many of the girls describe their love-hate relationship with her.
I think it was because she was always surrounded by boys who loved tom girls.
Jealousy and envy - and these were qualities that Patty did not possess
So, no wonder there was sometimes such friction and animosity
It was as if an alien from another planet had landed and was in serious danger
Of capturing the hearts and loyalties of all the boys - all the best of boys
All the best looking, the smartest, the kindest, the most artistically gifted.
Patty went military - what else?  What else is as tom boy who is a God-fearing patriot
Supposed to do?

Patty Wilkerson is dead, and a part of me died with her.
Rest in peace oh angel - who always called us out on our nonsense,
But who could play the nurse, Joan of Arc, and Xena Warrior Princess
Without ever skipping a beat.
I'll see you in heaven, Patty Wilkerson -
And we can run and throw and laugh the rest of days away.

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