Chapter 77: Museums and Old Friends

June 24, 1981

I asked at breakfast. “Hey, Dad, Angie and I were talking last night.”

“Yes, son?”

“She might have a few old friends to invite. Could we maybe have them join us at Giordano’s? Just for dessert. I thought not dinner; Angie and I agreed that should just be us.”

“Of course! How many?”

“Three, I think.”

“I can’t see why not. It might be fun!”

Mom smiled. “And why are you asking, son?”

Angie took that one. “Because if you didn’t like it and I asked, you’d just say yes.”

Dad shrugged. “She’s probably right.”

Angie called and got Claire’s mother, who fetched Claire. From the squeal that filled the hotel room out of the telephone, I was pretty sure Claire still remembered and cared about Angie.

They talked a mile a minute for about ... fifteen miles, I guess. Math checks out. Claire would check with Gail and Allison, and she also had our number. Angie’s and mine, not the family line.

“She remembered me!” Angie bounced after putting down the phone.

“Of course, she did. You’re unforgettable.”

“And you’re biased.”

“Still right.”

The drive to the Museum of Science and Industry from the hotel is about half an hour by the boring route and almost an hour by the scenic route. The scenic route is almost identical to the route we’d driven yesterday, so, boring route, here we come!

The Museum itself is sprawling and covers all sorts of things. Rocketry. Computers. Many engineering disciplines, and math, and all the hard sciences. There’s a giant model train setup that is amazingly complex. There’s a replica coal mine with a full-sized working mine elevator and a demonstration of how gas explosions happen. There’s a captured World War II German submarine that you can climb through.

Angie and I planned to see every last bit of it. Mom and Dad just wanted to survive the experience.

Early on we decided to split up and meet for lunch around 12:30 in the cafeteria downstairs. Angie had already determined that, yes, we were going to Chinatown for dinner. That would be quite the experience.

We went everywhere, hand in hand. Through all the galleries, reading the placards, playing with the interactive exhibits. Hugging in the coal mine elevator. Clambering around in the submarine. Meeting Mom and Dad halfway through, gushing about all we’d seen, complaining about how much more we had to do, setting a leaving time of 5pm, then running off to do the rest after wolfing sandwiches. Taking pictures along the way — not too many, but here and there. Getting other tourists to take pictures of us together.

I’d always loved Science and Industry. But it’s so, so much better when you’re with someone who wants to share everything with you.

As we drove into the main street of Chicago’s Chinatown, Mom looked around with big eyes. “How do we even decide? I can’t read most of these signs!”

“We’ll know, Mom. Steve and me. We don’t read Chinese, of course, but there’s enough English. And I got a lot of tips from a kid in our study group.” Hey, I’m a kid in our study group. And she’d gotten a lot of tips from me.

Dad looked around, just a bit nervously. The notorious Chicago housing projects started just a block or two away. There was little interaction, though, and while you could get shot for being a white guy over there, here you were safe.

Angie pointed, and I nodded. Yes! That’d do.

We got Dad to park in a street space and walked up to the restaurant, where a sign advertised ‘All Day Dim Sum.’

Mom blinked. “What’s Dim Sum? Do we want that? It says that they have other things, too.”

I smiled. “We do, Mom. That’s just what we want.”

“But what is it?”

“Basically, it’s Chinese for appetizers, or small dishes. There are lots of individual items. Each order is just a few pieces. Everyone who wants to try something eats a piece or splits it if it’s big. You order a bunch of things and try stuff. I have a lot of tips on what’s good and what’s not. I mean, it’s probably all good, but I bet you need to be Chinese to appreciate some things. Or, grow up eating like someone Chinese.”

Dad laughed. “Like Point Beer, Helen. Or beer cheese curds. If you’re not from Wisconsin, forget it!”

Angie and I led the way, getting a table for four. Seeing a waiter with a tray disappointed me. I love steam carts! Alas, not on a weekday night.

We took over, and by we, I mean me. Angie’d had Dim Sum, but only with Frank, and while she knew she loved it, and what her favorites were, that’s not as helpful as knowing what to avoid.

I spoke with our waiter and ordered jasmine tea for everyone. Mom sniffed at it first. “That’s ... different.” She sipped. “Oh! But it’s good!” I also asked for forks. Mom and Dad wouldn’t get chopsticks down, and I figured I wouldn’t claim knowledge yet either. Angie could, but she was fine with a fork.

Then I started ordering. Har gao. Shumai — several kinds. Barbecue pork buns. Sticky rice. Pork in pastry. Trays arrived. Mom looked at it all, blinking. “What is that? And that? I don’t even know what to do with it all! That looks like bread, at least. So maybe I know what to do with that!”

“That’s a barbecue pork bun, Mom. It is bread, but in the center is barbecue pork.”

“Well, I’ll split that with your father.”

“And those are har gao. That’s shrimp in a dumpling. It looks weird the first time, but you like shrimp, so you’ll like it.”

“It all looks so different and exotic.” She bit into a har gao. “Oh, but this is good! I thought it’d be all ... I don’t know. Slimy!”

“I think everything here is something you’ll find you like, Mom, Dad. If you don’t, that’s fine. That’s the whole idea. Sample. Eat a little of stuff. If you don’t like it, well, you’re not sitting with a plateful of it to stare at.”

“Really interesting, Son.” Dad bit into a shumai. “It’s a bit like a ravioli. Sort of. And it’s good!”

Angie and I coaxed them through the meal, and by the end they were converts. “I wonder if they have this in Houston?” Mom asked.

“There’s a big Chinese area downtown, and a growing community down west of Meyerland,” I said. “Chinese, Vietnamese, and other Asian countries. I bet there’s at least some.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I know a couple of Chinese kids at school. And you know Connie is Vietnamese. Vietnamese food is quite different from Chinese, but good, too. Anyway, we talk about it.”

That and I’ve been eating dim sum for over twice my current age.

We ended dinner with sesame balls. Mom was, again, unsure of the idea of bean paste as a dessert. But she wound up enjoying it. “Hey, these are pretty good. I can’t imagine beans as a dessert!”

Pleasantly stuffed, we headed back to the hotel. Tomorrow would be a big day.

When we got there, we had a message waiting. Gail and Allie would be there.

Angie looked up, snuggling. “That was so much fun, big brother! My feet are dead, and the Art Institute is a ton of walking, but, still. Wow. And that dinner, watching Mom and Dad. You blew their minds!”

“I’m glad, though. They’ve wrapped themselves in a Midwestern-food, conservative-Christian, boring, workaday suburban lifestyle. It works for them, and I’m not trashing it just to trash it, but there are times to just break out and try stuff.”

“Yeah. Definitely. This has been a blast so far. And now that it’s happening, I can’t wait to see Claire and Gail and Allie!”

“And I’m looking forward to meeting them!”

“You’re always interested in meeting girls.”

“Well, duh. Of course! But there’s only one girl I want to go home with on this trip.”

“You’re sweet. I’ll let you stay.”

“Good!”

“Goodnight, big brother.”

“Goodnight, little sister. Happy almost birthday!”

June 25, 1981

I shifted a bit of blond hair apart and brought my lips to Angie’s.

“MMmmmmm” She woke, wrapped her arms around me, and kissed. Soft and warm, sweet and loving. Not starting anything, but not putting out any fires either.

“Good morning, birthday girl.”

“Good morning, big brother. Thank you!”

She grinned, hopped out of bed, and tugged her top off.

“Um ... Ang ... what’re you doing?”

“Getting dressed. Birthday suit!” I laughed and watched, wiggling my eyebrows. She dropped her panties and slipped right back into bed. “Comfy!”

“I don’t think they’ll let you wear that outfit to the Art Institute, sis, even though you are a work of art.”

“Spoilsports. Heck, it’d be fun, just to see people’s faces.”

“I’d sure watch.”

“Duh!”

Dad parked the car in a garage near the Howard ‘L’ station and we got out. He bought us tickets, and we went out on the platform. Angie was bouncing.

“I know it’s just a way to get somewhere, but most every time I took the ‘L’, it was to go do something fun. And it is again.”

Dad smiled. “Hey, same for me! I’m looking forward to it!”

“Me, too. I’m glad you kids wanted to do it!” Mom added.

The train pulled up, we hopped on, and then sat and watched the city go by. Angie pointed at things again. I watched her more than what she was pointing to. Smiling, eyes shining, face glowing.

We arrived at the right stop and got off, headed down to street level, and walked a couple of blocks, crossing Michigan Avenue to reach the concrete lions that guard the museum’s entrance.

I’ve never been to many of the great art museums, but the Museum of the Art Institute of Chicago is up there. A vast collection in a variety of styles and media. Many works that are easy to recognize. Grant Wood’s ‘American Gothic’ is there. So’s Edward Hopper’s ‘Nighthawks’. In fact, you can see both at the same time. Over in the Impressionist collection — magnificent, and one of my favorites — Seurat’s ‘A Sunday on La Grande Jatte’ shares company with several of Monet’s ‘Water Lily’ paintings.

It’s the museum a fun-loving Ferris Bueller drags his friends to in a movie that Angie and I both love. We can’t wait for it to exist again in our world.

It’s big and tiring. And Angie and I planned to conquer it. So, naturally, we split from the parents again. We’d rendezvous for a light lunch, but otherwise, they could enjoy their favorites and we’d try to see as many things as we could.

I hadn’t counted on Angie. And that’s a good thing. Angie wanted to see everything. She also wanted to see things in detail. We dawdled. Read the information cards. All the cards. Every single one. We discussed Seurat, Renoir, Monet, Toulouse-Lautrec. And, of course, the classics as well, Rembrandt and crew, but we spent less time there because, hey, neither of us liked Renaissance art as much as many people seem to. However, we dawdled over the American Impressionists, particularly Mary Cassatt, one of my all-time favorites. Angie found it quite amusing that I could not only name a female painter, but point to her works and claim her as a favorite. Hey, I don’t even know what she looked like, but as an artist? Top-notch.

Angie had, in her estimation, roughly the same aptitude in the visual arts as a monkey throwing paint. To be fair, that matches my estimation of a lot of modern art. I’m only a little better at creating art. But we could both appreciate it. And Frank liked to take his daughter here for a visit from time to time, which made this an extra-special place. Occasionally she’d point to a painting and attribute some comment to him, and I’d give her a hug.

So we didn’t conquer it. Not even close. But we found a lot of joy in the hours we had, and we vowed to come back together and make another attempt. Though I knew we’d have to plan multiple days, because we’d always find excuses to linger over our favorites first.

We decided not to use the cameras except for a few where we’d pose with a painting, ‘cuz you can always buy pictures of paintings. We decided together that we wanted a large art book as a souvenir. That amused Mom and Dad, especially that we were both willing to forgo other things if it were an issue of cost. We could also both flip through it and point to specific works as the reason for the book. So, we got a big, heavy book Angie volunteered me to lug back. Happily so, too.