The New Song Book
Chapter Two: The Road Always Leads Back to You

Spring and summer, 1971, presented once-in-a-lifetime opportunities and challenges. The year of high school graduation sticks in the memory as a hallmark, although, often clinging with a rose-colored hue.

The summer of my 8th grade year, I ran for President of our parish CYO club. I won after giving a pre-election speech. Mind you, no one had ever given a speech for election to that post before. Usually, the kids just elected the person everyone liked the most and got on with it. Winning an election with a speech struck me and stuck with me.

Although our high school had neither debate nor speech teams, I kept my edge by being particularly noisy and overly full of myself, such that when the contest for graduation salutatorian was held, I entered and won. 1971 was the 50th year anniversary graduation for Long Beach Saint Anthony High School. Frances Tinker, our valedictorian, very much more deserved her role than did I. Nevertheless, the light shone bright on my very big head that graduation day.

Having played baseball through Little League and the last two years of high school, I had received an athletic scholarship offer at an out-of-state university. Now, a little truth telling is in order on this one.

It was the case that for about six months, from the summer of 1970 through mid-spring, 1971, I was probably one of the better high school 2nd base prospects in Southern California, a traditional hotbed of baseball talent. But that exalted ranking came to a screeching halt the afternoon that I suffered a severe ankle sprain when ducking away from a high-inside fastball . . . the wrong way. Instead of turning my back inward, as trained, I turned directly toward the ball, then crumpled to avoid being hit in the face. The sound my ankle made was mistaken, by the home plate umpire, as my helmet being hit with the ball, so I was awarded first base. I limped down to 1st, stole second, and scored on a single. We won a very important game against the best team in our league, 1-0, and I was never the same player thereafter. Although not the most important player on our team, I was the lead-off man and spark plug. We had no sports trainer; I didn’t get the right medical care and never fully recovered. As my batting average and play slid, so did our overall team performance. We made the playoffs but were routed in the first game. I should not have gotten a college ride.

However, earlier in the season, when things were going good, an assistant coach on our football, one Mr. Latham, saw me play, was impressed, and contacted the baseball coach at his alma mater, the University of Nevada at Reno. I was offered a full tuition scholarship (we had to pay for my room and board), essentially, sight unseen by UNR. The day after the ankle injury, I was scheduled to meet the team and coach, legendary former big-league MVP Jackie Jensen, at their game with Loyola of LA. I made the visit on crutches, thereby further “bolstering” (or was that “blustering”?) my already shaky credentials.

I was excited to have the offer. Although I had never seriously considered playing college baseball, I wanted to play in the big leagues, preferably for my beloved Angels, and I was convinced that Jensen, a former power-hitting outfielder, could teach me to improve my hitting to the point that I could make the bigs. Imagine my chagrin when at the end of that season, the spring before I was to start my college career, UNR fired coach Jensen.

I decided that I needed to reward myself for all the hard work brought about by high school. You know, putting up with school and parents and all. My idea was to set out on a cross-country trip, by myself. Both mom and dad were raised in the midwest; over the years, we made 3 summer trips, from Long Beach, to visit relatives in Iowa. This time, I’d make the trip on my own. The cars that I’d driven during high school, first Uncle Joe’s (mom’s brother) semi-restored Edsel, then a red-VW hatchback, belonged to dad, so were not available for the trip. Luckily, the elderly woman who rented the duplex in Belmont Shore below my Aunt Lucille, (dad’s oldest sibling), had a 1956 Dodge for sale. The car had spent a lot of time sitting in the garage; the matron drove it to church and the supermarket, and not often, either. I think I paid her $350.00.

Athletes who had accepted college scholarships for the fall weren’t eligible for the baseball college. I figured that if they offered it to me, I’d call Reno and tell them “no,” even though I suspected that would not wash with the nice folks in KC.

And second, just about the time that the scouts figured out how to spell my name, the just-graduated catcher from UNI started pounding balls off and over the outfield walls of his home ballpark. And all the scouts turned and rushed in his direction, pens and clipboards in hand, and that was that. They’d found their man that day and it definitely wasn’t the little guy from California..

Soon thereafter, I headed for the third Iowa stop on my adventure, Keokuk, the south eastern town where my mother and father had met and married over 20 years earlier.

Our midwest trips always ended up in Keokuk. Mom’s sister, Veronica, her husband, Jim, and three wonderful, grown up children lived there. K-3 had been mom’s refuge after returning to North Dakota from working in the wartime Southern California airplane manufacturing plants. A break up with a North Dakota beau, a mere few weeks prior to their wedding, found her running away from her North Dakota home and ending up near her beloved sister and family. After we moved to California, the summer trips to Iowa could always begin with dad’s relatives in and around Sioux City (brothers Leo, Reno, and Paul; sisters Rachel and Georgette) and in Cedar Falls (sister Bertha), but the trips had to end in Keokuk with mom’s only sister, Aunt Veronica. So it was pretty natural for me to head there. Additionally, I had two extra legs planned on my trip after Keokuk. I would go to Peoria to see my father’s sister, Aunt Corrine (and Uncle Dave Davidson, a man with the nickname Iron Duke before my dad acquired it), then pile Corrine into the car and head for Evanston for a weekend with a favorite cousin Mary Victoria (Vicky) Davidson. But before that trip, the shit would hit the fan in K-3.

I had not yet been on a date during this trip. I was young, good looking enough, a scholarship-bound athlete; surely there was SOMEONE in the midwest who’d consider themselves lucky to spend a few hours in my company. Trip was half over; no dates. Now, the reality of the situation was that I had not dated much at home, during high school, either. I should not have had high expectations; in fact, should have figured on spending a lot of time alone. As an only child, I was used to that; often preferred it. I’d had one steady girlfriend, as a high school freshman. After that, nothing more than an assortment of stand-ins for the girls I aspired to, but could not attract. I was not, at that point, a very good judge of who the right girl(s) for me might be. I was, however, starting to feel just a little bit left out; short of desperate, but motivated for some “action” nevertheless.

One of my very favorite cousins was there in Keokuk. In fact, Patrick Michael O’Brien was a sort of hero to me. Elven-Irish handsome with a twinkle in his eye and a bounce in his mid-20s step, Patrick had been a ladies’ man deluxe and high school basketball player; always quite the young man around town in Keokuk. I had admired him all along; he’d been nice enough to humor me, play with me, take me along with him despite the wide difference in our ages. I always wanted to be like Patrick. Oh, and he was a little “wild.” Drinking, smoking, coming home from dates with girl’s panties in the glove box, that sort of thing. Yep. Greatly admired by his very younger cousin.

For the most part, we talked, laughed, and hit it off generally well. After the fireworks, we headed back to Ann’s house, a beautiful home overlooking the Mississippi River just at the end of one of Keokuk’s most exclusive and expensive drives. We sat on the floor in the den and living rooms, telling stories and playing board games. Something seemed to click, but I was not precisely sure what.

The next day, I was off to Peoria for a few days stay with Aunt Corrine and Uncle Dave. Many years later, after Uncle Dave passed away, Aunt Corrine moved to California and lived in the Belmont Shore duplex with Aunt Lucille. Many years after that, Cheryl and I rented Corrine and Dave’s house on Biltmore, in Peoria, from my cousin Tim. The house I visited in 1971 was the first home we would live in, for 6 years, after moving to Peoria. Our first two children arrived while we lived there. Eventually, Corrine moved back to Peoria, lived with Tim and family, passed away, and was buried next to Dave.

That fated summer, I played a round of golf with Uncle Dave. Dave had been a master golfer through his life; at one time, he was the Country Club of Keokuk, where he had lived and played for decades, champion. Although he was good off the tee, his iron and short games were so good that, over time, he acquired the nickname, “The Iron Duke.” By the time we played our round, he was in his late 70s. We played on Peoria’s oldest course, Madison Park, a par 68, 18 hole course of reduced distance but narrow fairways and many mature trees. I’ve always been an impetuous golfer; impatient with my poor play and for not meeting my potential. Dave hit the ball down the middle almost every shot, played with a calm demeanor, and really loved the game and its richness with deeply felt values. I’m sure that I enjoyed his company more than he mine, that day. We now live a half-block down the street from the 12th fairway at Madison. I walk over and play 5 or 7 holes from time to time. The many men in my family who played and loved golf are always heavy on my mind when I am over there on a quiet evening, trying to learn to play calmly and within myself. Uncles Paul Lamoureux, RL (Dave) Davidson, Don Bechtel, and Jim O’Brien; cousins Jim Grobaty, Neil Anderson, and Richard Hauck all played on earth, and most likely now regularly line up with Rog for outings on the better courses beyond. I seldom swing a stick without thinking of them all, fondly, especially when I’m practicing by myself.

I packed Corrine into the Dodge and headed for Northwestern University to visit cousin Vicky where she was finishing up graduate studies. Got my first look at “college life” as Vicky was ensconced in a basement apartment with what appeared to me to be all of the necessary bric-a-brac for successful independent living. I’d not been previously to Chicago and though we didn’t stop for more than a quick lunch, I remember being impressed by the fact that there was another big city by water, in addition to Los Angeles. Couldn’t possibly be as good, but there it was, anyway. We drove out to Crystal Lake, IL to see the youngest Lamoureux family sibling, Aunt Bernadette. As the baby, Bern was everyone’s favorite. She was a knockout dark haired beauty. My father absolutely adored her and when she died of cancer in middle age, the family was devastated, especially, I think, my dad. That visit was the last time I would see her. When I met, courted, and married my lovely wife Cheryl, my father was tickled pink and loved her to death. Partially, I think, because Cheryl looked a lot like Aunt Bern. My father was never senile, the heart attack at 69 years of age saw to that, he never confused the two. But Cheryl got into his heart a little faster than either of us expected.

After the weekend in ChicagoLand, we drove returned Corrine to Peoria. 1971 was the summer that Reggie Jackson hit that prodigious home run onto the Tiger Stadium roof at the All-Star game. The morning after we watched the game together, I said my goodbyes to Corrine and Dave, and headed for California.

Except, I didn’t.
Go west, that is.

Instead, I followed a feeling and turned the auto south, to Keokuk. I wasn’t really sure why or what for. I suspected, though, that it was either Tressa or Ann and I was pretty sure that I could not decide which. Remember, I wasn’t really very good at picking the right girl for me. But by the time I knocked on the door at 11 Hillcrest and asked if Ann could come to out for chat, I’d made up my mind.

I stayed over a few extra days; Veronica and Jim didn’t mind; Pat and Rita rolled their eyes, wondering exactly what I was up to. Ann and I talked, a lot. Especially about religion. She had a strong faith background and I’d gone to 12 years worth of Catholic school and had developed some very independent ideas. Talking about religion (seemed to me) to make me appear smart. Ann didn’t need the crutch, she was smart. But my willingness to talk deeply about things that mattered to her helped fill the “he’s a serious guy for a ballplayer” bill. And so we talked for hours at a time. I played my 12 string guitar and we sang. I only thought that I played and sang well; though I’m sure I played and sang with enthusiasm. Ann went on to sing in the St. Olaf College Choir - - one of the most important college music ensembles in the country. I went to view their play rehearsals a few nights in a row and while that didn’t make getting over Tressa any easier, seeing her with Neville every night further clarified the situation.

From July 4, 1971 through the end of 1977, Ann Raney and I carried on a long-distance love with many twists and turns. Later in the

In the fall, I went off to college as planned, but snuck to Keokuk over Thanksgiving break, lying to my parents about where I was going. Wouldn’t be the first or the last time that I ended up in Keokuk when I was supposed to be someplace else. The baseball deal didn’t work out; I was home attending the local junior college by 2nd semester.

After Ann decided on St. Olaf for college, I spent the summer of 1974 living in Keokuk, doing factory work and riding a bike, as I had wrecked the Dodge earlier that year and had no replacement. I took the train from Los Angeles to Fort Madison, Iowa. I almost died, twice, that summer.

First, riding home from coaching a little league practice one afternoon, I ended up on the hood of a car driven by a woman who ran a stop sign. The look on her face, as I lay on her hood, covering over most of her front windshield, hanging on to her radio antenna for dear life, told me that she was probably more scared than was I. Luckily, I had hopped up off the bike just in time to avoid serious injury; alas, the bike was never the same.

Ann’s decision to stay at school for a class that took up half the summer, and more than half of my visit, was not happy news for me. Moving to Keokuk Iowa and working in a factory all summer so that I could be, yet again, without a date for weeks at a time was not my idea of a good time. I protested profusely, then gave in under the logic that getting to see her some of the time was better than none. One weekend, we decided that I should drive up to St. Olaf to visit. Having no vehicle, Ann talked her parents into allowing me to drive her Firebird for the trip. I left work early on Friday afternoon, headed (mostly) north, and looked forward to an exciting weekend. Even though I managed to control my urge to drive REALLY fast (both given that I’d done the 100 mph thing AND that the Firebird was a very very hot ride), fate would not fully forgive the folly of my being there. Heading down a long, steep, grade out in the middle of NO-WHERE (ok… northern Iowa someplace), a trucker coming UP the hill decided that he just HAD to pass the car in front of him. He badly misjudged my speed coming down and I had to move onto the right shoulder to avoid hitting him. When my back wheels hit the gravel shoulder, the Firebird went into an uncontrollable spin. I had one of those “time stands still” events as the car did three full circles, flew off into the right-most ditch, and stopped miraculously—about a foot and a half short of the electrical/phone pole around which I would have been wrapped just prior to my passing from this life. About an hour later, a local farmer brought a tractor, yanked the Firebird out of the ditch, the guy at the local gas station opined that the only damage he could see was the ton of grass-n-crud stuck to the underside of the car, and on my way I went for a memorable and comparably low-key weekend in Northfield, MN.

There are other great stories about Ann and me but we gotta leave those for other tellings. The back story for The Road Always Leads Back to You is adequately established. Well, except the two most important parts.

First, over the course of years, Ann and I became engaged to be married. Twice. One of the times included shopping for and ordering a custom-made engagement ring. We never got to the stage of planning a ceremony. Both times, we broke up first. But the thing was real serious. We’ll save the gruesome details surrounding the break-ups for, as I said, later.

Ed and Ann, back in Keokuk, summer, 1974. Ann has done something reasonable with her hair; Ed has not

That other thing, though, is probably the most important part. Ann wouldn’t have sex with me. No, this isn’t a continuation of the “couldn’t get a date to save my ass” deal. This was a real decision, mostly on her part, that the answer to my pleas, demands, pouting, insistence, foot-stomping and even (sometimes) yelling, was “no.” Not once did she say something like “let’s wait,” or “I’m waiting” or “I think we should wait.” It was just “no.” The rest, well, was in the saying of it. Considering that I was going great distances to be with her, that we’d been separated for long periods of time, and that, mostly, we were engaged, I found the answer intolerable. But somehow, reasonable. We really loved each other. We had some great times together. So “no” it was.

And then we broke up, again. Not over, THAT. Over something else.

So why was THAT so important? Well, by the time Ann and I reconnected, years had passed and we were both married to other people. Accounting for why we wanted contact with an ex-lover would not be the easiest thing to explain to a spouse. But as providence and Ann’s good judgment would have it, we were both able to look our mates straight in the eye and tell the truth: We had not been lovers. We did not have sex. We had no intention of ever having sex. We were not a threat to each other’s primary relationships/marriages.

We were just a couple of old, very dear friends, who enjoy communicating with each other, and who had some great stories to tell about some really fun and odd times together. Further, both of us were willing to NOT communicate with each other if either of our spouses were even 1% uncomfortable with the situation. Fortunately, both Ann’s one-time husband, Paul, and my long-time wife, Cheryl trusted us, understood, and so it was that the road continued in its own way.

At this writing, it’s been 44 years and we are still close, fast friends. Ann is a successful executive; the CEO of an award-winning mental health clinic in Skokie. The awards were, largely, based on her extraordinary leadership and dedication (as well as the hard work of the team she has empowered). Although we live only 3 1/2 hours apart, our professional and personal lives seldom offer adequate time for face-to-face visits. Some years we’ve seen each other once or twice; other times, more than a year passes between visits. Now and then, we meet in the middle for a quick lunch, walk (always hand in hand), and chat. A phone call here, a short note and/or Christmas or birthday gift there. It’s all just water down the river of a voyage shared between fast friends.

The Road Always Leads Back to You.