My dear friend Len Strazewski died in April. Here is the obituary I wrote for him, as published in the Chicago Tribune and the Chicago Sun-Times.

Learn a little more about him:

• Vivian Richey, The Columbia Chronicle: “‘Getting a compliment from him felt like a Pulitzer’: Former Columbia professor, comic book writer Len Strazewski dies at 71.”
• Rich Johnston, Bleeding Cool News: “Len Strazewski, Creator Of Prime And Jesse Quick, Has Died, Aged 71.”
• Georgia Garvey, Creators Syndicate: “We Lost One of the Great Grumps This Week.”
• World Balloon podcast: “A Tribute To Writer Len Strazewski PRIME JSA and More.”

You are welcome to post your memories of Len at his memorial Facebook page, or at the “Tributes” section of this Haben Funeral Home & Crematory webpage. Some photos of him are shared there. A bigger selection of photos of Len, his family and friends is published here on my Google Photos site.

A memorial service was held in July at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Evanston, led by my wife, The Rev. Elizabeth A. Harding, AM, MDiv, LCSW. Musical peformances were provided by Steve Dawson and Diane Christiansen, with Melissa Bach on cello.

A recording of the service is available on YouTube; it gets underway at the 13-minute mark. Here is the order of service, with links to that portion of the service in the video.

Prelude: “Souvenirs” ~ John Prine

Welcome ∞ Opening Words ∞ Candle of Life

Readings: “Of Mere Being” ~ Wallace Stevens
“Red Skelton at the Seashore” ~ Len Strazewski

Musical Reflection: “Sooner Than Expected” ~ Steve Dawson

The Story of Len’s Life

A Time for Sharing
(Joshua Winchester, Steve Bogira, Art Foley, Betty Jo Moore, Willie Schubert, Randy Erford, Terry Jinks)

Reading: “Len Strazewski’s 3 Simple Rules for Dining Out”
~ Kevin B. O’Reilly (text)

Musical Reflection: “Summer’s End” ~ John Prine

Prayer ∞ Extinguishing the Candle of Life ∞ Benediction

Postlude: “Fish and Whistle” ~ John Prine

∞ ∞ ∞

Following the service and some refreshments at the church, many headed to Candlelite Chicago in the West Ridge neighborhood. It is a classic Chicago pizzeria, born in 1950, and it was one of Len’s favorite haunts in his final years. They even honored Len with a place on their landmark marquee, which sadly was not big enough to accommodate “Strazewski.”

Which reminds me of a story I heard about Len’s surname. Early in his journalism career, some editor said something to the effect of: “Len Strazewski … that’s an awfully long name for a byline. Have you considered going with something different?”

“Sure,” Len said, acerbic and quick as ever. “Credit me as … Biff Strazewski.”

P.S. Check out this lately published poetic remembrance by Henry Stimpson. It is the fourth poem down at this page from the “Lighten Up Online” poetry journal, and it is entitled “RIP Len.”

For Len.

Half in jest
Half as serious as a heart attack
You carefully outlined the criteria a dining establishment
Must meet to earn your business
One: It must have ample parking
Two: It must accept credit cards
Three: It must be open 24 hours a day
Every day of the year

So here I am
At a Greek diner I found in suburbia
I parked in the lot—check
I will tap my AMEX—check
It is 3 a.m.—check
Open on Christmas? I’ll have to check back

I’ve got a cup of coffee and a slice of pie
It’s a tonic that beats a beer
And I’ve got a growing list of things to do
Now that you’re not here

∞         ∞         ∞

All-night joints are hard to find around here nowadays
I guess the night owls subsist on DoorDash
And skip the chance to come into contact
With the cops and the creeps and the crazies
And the the plain-old cranks like me

Yet, I recall, that your mutant power drew them all
To your side at a diner or at a Vegas lounge
They saw you nursing a drink and felt pulled
By some strange force to tell their tales of woe
But no, they will not find you lingering
As it appears you had to go

Now it is the ghosts who must bend your ear
Yes, you are gone from us mere mortals
But fear not, dear friend—the phantoms will find you here

— 30 —

Light it up, light it up
Let’s catch a spark in the dark
Nothing to see but a ball
Glowing green, being tossed to and fro
Nothing to hear but the bugs
Beating out their bottomsong
And blissfully nothing to know, except—
This can’t last too long

You yell over the din
To tell me all about how
You’ve realigned things again
Baseball will be all over North America, you say
You looked up each metropolitan statistical area
In Canada and Mexico and the USA
And you did some weird math
To figure out where they’ll play
Mexico City’s got five teams
New York’s got a few
Some other town’s got a bunch
And Chicago still has two

“So you looked up the population on Wikipedia,” I press
“But what was the underlying source of your data?”
“What’s that?” you reply
“I couldn’t hear you over the cicadas”
And so we fall silent
Except for the pop of the ball in the glove
And it pops—boy, it pops
Ow—my hand
Eleven years old, but you throw like a man

For many long minutes we go
With nary a drop
“How many, you think?” I finally ask
“Oh, boy, I dunno—hundreds,” you say
As your throw slices the air
And you add with a laugh:
“I forgot you were even there”
You were in your imagination
And so was I
On a splendid summer night
Under a soft, black sky

— 30 —

“I feel like I’m gonna die!”
You shout with glee
Signaling that I’ve pushed you hard enough
At the top of the arc, it must feel
As though you will float away
Like a birthday balloon
Leaving far behind the sign, zip-tied
To the swing set, that reads:

PLAYGROUND CLOSED
UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

Yet here we are, breaking the rule
Masks in pockets
On a January Saturday in the deserted park
Our potentially poisonous breaths
Visible in the freezing air
Before drifting harmlessly away

“I feel safe!”
You yell
That’s my cue to resume
The work of shoving you with such force
That you just might get blasted
Into the stratosphere on a path for the half moon
Hanging lazily in the early evening sky

240,000 thousand miles away
Gray and grim
Freed from the weight of our world
The man in the moon
Hasn’t got a drop to sip
And no virus to escape
No harsh word to let slip
Nowhere for fear to take shape

He has nothing to do
But reflect the sun’s light and
Inspire jealousy in the world below
Where a boy who knows dinnertime’s soon
Screams, “I feel safe!”
And so we are
Until further notice

— 30 —

My dad was born yesterday, 70 years ago. A lifelong die-hard Cubs fan who reared me to be the same, he taught me to keep score and to watch out for the hit and run.

When the Cubs went up 3-1 against the Marlins back in ’03, he shelled out for Champagne. Game six came the day after he turned 54.

Finally — after the College of Coaches, Brock-for-Broglio, 1969, 1984, letting Maddux get away — the National League pennant was close at hand. Then we endured those soul-crushers together and kept the bubbly corked.

I waited a couple of years before drinking the Champagne to celebrate with my then-wife Karen the first pennant win for her hometown Houston Astros. Pa was not happy about that one.

“Dad,” I said, trying to explain, “we can’t wait around for the Cubs. Even Champagne goes bad eventually.”

So how could I ever forget where Pa was on that overdue November night when Anthony Rizzo squeezed Kris Bryant’s toss for the final out?

Well, he sat alone in his bedroom, tucked neatly inside of a plastic bag, nestled in an urn with a lovely Oriental pattern that his wife had picked out. In another room, she watched a soap opera on TV.

Die-hard Cubs fan, indeed, for more than 24,000 days. He died, hard — small cell carcinoma of the prostate — 190 days short of tasting the ultimate victory and embracing his only child.

For blocks around, the black and yellow towers
Soar above the construction site
Approach to hear the cacophony
Of grinding, hammering, shouting
Men at work

Look up for a glimpse of their project
Come closer and the view ahead’s obscured
By tarpaulin-shielded, chain-link fencing
Come closer yet to find
Not all is opaque

See the upturned earth where the new building
Will have its foundation
The broken-up rock and concrete that
Will be carried away
See immense machines marching and
Men at work
In their hard hats and reflective gear
Work gloves and blue jeans

This morning’s kindergartners
Scattered the playground at summer camp
Letting the sand slip through their fingers
And the cool wind ruffle their t-shirts
Grinding down their temporary towers
Hammering away at invisible inventions
Yelling away, but with their reasons
Deeply engaged in the earnest business of
Children at play

Back at the work site
Look about to find
A bald-headed old man
In a beat-up windbreaker
Use the fence to steady himself
And discover a spot
Where two posts
Are imperfectly joined
To offer an unimpeded view of
Men at work
That leaves the old-timer
Shining the ecstatic beam of a
Little boy

— 30 —

It’s been nearly a month since the birth of our second boy, Simon. The doctor notes that he is coming along quite nicely, thanks no doubt to the well-balanced diet provided by chef Mama Elizabeth. Lucas is learning all about what it means to be a big brother and performing splendidly in the role.

Simon emits many amusing noises and seems not quite yet sold on this whole being-on-the-outside thing. I don’t blame him one bit. As Randy Newman sings, “It’s a jungle out there.”

So who knows what adventures await? We’ll just have to hang on tight and enjoy the ride.

Stay up to date on Simon’s progress (at least as much as can be told with photos) at this password-protected website. Friends and family, please send your request for access to the address below:

Sunlight shimmering on the river water
Leaves me squinty-eyed on a Chicago summer day
The only kind that’s worth a damn in this dreary town
The ladies in their floral dresses
And the men in their short sleeves
Walk briskly toward their midday destinations
While the tourists carefully trace their steps
Speaking in foreign tongues and consulting
Their pocket computers

I take a spot near the Wabash Avenue Bridge
To sip my coffee and let the sun hug my skin
What a lovely day to feel so bereft
An architectural tour boat wades into view
And the guide tells about the building
Where I work, and I wonder whether to wave
It seems like the neighborly thing to be
One more welcoming sight, another
Connection across the skyline

“Yes, I see you down there,” I think, and raise my arm
To offer the gentlest, friendliest wave I can conjure
The nonchalant sort that doesn’t beg for notice
Or require any response
But up there go one, two, three hands
Threading the summer wind with their fingers
“Hello,” the hands say as the boat parts the waters
And their owners’ faces become the backs of heads
Yes, they saw me standing up here
With my back to the glass and steel

– 30 –