Festivus with the Lunch Club

For years, I heard tales. Every Tuesday - Friday, unless in court, my father left around 11:50 to meet his cronies. The location and number varied; they bounced around from Chardon establishment to Chardon establishment, spending an hour talking sports and politics, bantering and reminiscing. I went the day before Thanksgiving last year, but the crowd was slim, so you can imagine my excitement when, due to my completely open schedule, I was able to join the annual Festivus luncheon at BLT (Bass Lake Tavern), one of the finest restaurants in town. Indeed, the experience was all I hoped it would be.

Dad and I entered; he introduced me to Bill. I had met Ed at yesterday's lunch (I was trying to enjoy as many of these as possible). Both heartily welcomed me, and we took our seats to wait for Dave and Joe. They soon joined, and it was not long before someone brought up Oberlin. My dad had attended one of the most liberal colleges in America, and the school recently made headlines because its students protested supposed cultural culinary appropriation. The Banh Mi was apparently not up to Vietnamese standards. I wonder if the protesting students realized that the "American" hamburger at most college cafeterias is not up to standards either. Dad had no defense for his alma mater.

We perused the menu. The reuben was on special, likely $14, and probably worth the extra $3 on such a special occasion. Dave pointed out it didn't have Thousand Island dressing, but a unique sauce. Still pretty good - just not Thousand Island. Bill ordered the vegetable soup and fruit, and the table turned their heads. He immediately defended his selection: he had indulged the day prior and had a McDonald's McMuffin that morning. We spared his man card.

Marc came late, but immediately made his presence known. He referenced the accusations against Bill Cosby, and my dad steered the conversation in another direction, protecting my ears. "She chose to come," Dave pointed out. Indeed, I was more than satisfied to be a fly on the wall, wherever the conversation led.

Regardless, we turned to other news. A skier had died at a Jackson Hole resort. Only good skiers die, because they take risks. This one, however, may have hit a tree stump rather than a tree, which could make the resort liable. This became a short legal discussion on whether the resort would be exonerated from the death or deemed negligent. I think that was the gist, at least. The table consisted of four attorneys and two Chardon business owners, so the chance of legal jargon was pretty high. Of course, the attorneys all dabbled in "clean" law. Estates, trusts, wills and such. Not the messy stuff.

We talked about the family businesses - an auto dealership, owned by Ed, and a funeral home, owned by Marc. Both advertised locally.
Ed told the story of his 88 year-old father. He asked Ed why he always saw commercials for the funeral home but never for the auto dealership. Ed responded, "Looks like both our demographics are working." We laughed.

In this crowd, you had to be able to laugh at yourself, too. Dad brought up his diet, which is akin to the federal budget. He was supposed to gain eight pounds, he only gained five, so he lost three pounds.

The table shared the same high school alma mater, Chardon High. Since everyone played sports - some, "legends in their own mind" - the glory days emerged. In particular, while Dad was the only person to have scored two points for the opposing team, Marc was the only person to have been kicked off the basketball team twice. Marc did play his senior year, though, and the team was twice as good as Bill's senior year. They won two games instead of one.

High school athletics remained an integral part of life, and we talked about Kareem Hunt, the Willoughby South phenom who was excelling at Toledo University. Dave asked if anyone would see Concussion. No one really said one way or the other, though we did discuss the feasibility of concussion proof helmets being created, manufactured and bought at a high school level. If they worked, then yes, people will buy them, but kids won't stop playing football. Then there were the varsity jackets. Back in the day, if you were at the mall, and you had a Chardon varsity jacket, and a Mentor guy had a varsity jacket, you knew you both played sports. Not now. Anyone could buy a varsity jacket, and stitch any activity on it - equestrian, for example. This just didn't seem right. Those jackets were a symbol. They were earned.

Politics entered conversation once. We were discussing Ed's New Years Eve gala, and someone asked if they should bring anything, including their wives. Only joking, of course, and when I told him I would include it in my blog*, he asked me to spell his name correctly. This is why there are no last names - I have no idea how to spell them. Apparently, a local 70s politician also insisted the papers spell his name correctly. He was running for every position in the county, but he was a Democrat, so he barely stood a chance, no matter how many places his name was on the ballot. He didn't win.

I didn't want to leave the conversation for a second, but I had to excuse myself to use the restroom. When I returned, Marc was telling the story of his father surviving World War II. After being shot in the knee and shoulder, he dove behind a pile of horse manure, which shielded him from the bullets fired. The beam from the building collapsed and narrowly missed him. At that point, he knew he would survive. The doctors wanted to amputate his leg, but that was out of the question - he didn't care if it was dangling. He still played football when he returned.

I did join the conversation a couple of times. Bill asked about Jim Lyons, one of Dad's college roommates, because he was an attorney in the area. I told the story of Jim learning to juggle in college. He was so excited, until Dad walked in, grabbed a shoe, a banana, and some other random object and started juggling. "If you can't juggle, you aren't an athlete," Dad stated, matter-of-factly.

We talked about family. Ed's daughter graduating college, Bill's son joining his practice, Joe's granddaughter on the professional tennis circuit, Dave's family cramming into his home for the holiday. And Dad bragged about me. I liked that he was so proud, although I was not immune to ridicule. Dave held that even if I had a scholarship to Michigan, at the end of the day, it was still Michigan. I didn't mind. It seemed a rite of passage into the lunch club.

I don't know where life will lead me, but if I am in a place where, even after forty-some years, high school cronies share lunch like they're back in the cafeteria - well, I'd like that very much.

* I hope my recording of the events does not ban me from future lunches.