Voices

Sometimes, Michele and I celebrate our wedding anniversary over dinner, other times, over breakfast. Today, with a light snow reminiscent of the flurries that met us a couple over 40 years ago, it was breakfast. The thing about this time of year is, there’s always a mix of golf, baseball and basketball on. I’m pretty sure the brother-in-law I didn’t like took control of the TV at my parents to put golf on, just a few hours before we all left for the big event. I can’t remember what tournament it was, I can barely remember him, a man who did not do right by my sister Betty. I drove to the wedding, located in a hotel just behind the Merchandise Mart. That means the radio would have been on to a White Sox game, Harry Caray behind the mic. I can barely remember the sound of the voice of a man who did not do right by all those players he badmouthed. I miss Ed Farmer, whose voice I have no problem recalling, so much I find it hard to listen to Sox games on the radio now. No disrespect intended, D.J. and Len. I seem to recall other anniversary breakfasts, with the radio on, but not like today when I listened to Northwestern play Florida Atlantic in the NCAA Men’s Tournament; college basketball isn’t really my thing. No, right now, it’s echoes of Jim Durham calling a jumper by Scott May. That would have to mean an early Sunday afternoon. I mean, who has breakfast at night? Or maybe it was David Greenwood.