College Days

Here is a poem I wrote recently about one of my good Aquinas College friends. One of my clear memories of Andy was his Volkswagen Beetle.

One day Jackie, now my dear wife whom I met at Aquinas, and I were out driving and she spots a Volkswagen Beetle. "Look" she says, "There is a car just like Andy's - only white". I laugh and Jackie says "What?". About two minutes later I spot a VW bug and say, "Look, there's a car just like Andy's - only red!" Another minute passes, a green VW goes by and I again repeat the phrase. After a few more my right shoulder is starting to ache from the pounding.

That was when I learned to be, how shall I say it? - more discrete. Instead of announcing each passing VW I would just chuckle quietly to myself. It worked. Now feeling bad for me Jackie started pointing out Andy's huge fleet of mystery cars.

A couple of years after graduation we attended Andy's wedding. A few weeks prior to that he got in a bad car accident, different car I'm sure, and the wedding was the last I saw of him. About 5 years ago however I received a friend request on Facebook from Andy. My initial reply, as you can appreciate from the poem below was, "Andy - You still got that music box?"

The Accordion

Andy had one of those last names
that ended in C H I C. We both
attended a Catholic college on
the West side of the state, but
Andy was an Eastern Orthodox
guy from DEE TROIT.

This was in the late sixties, early
seventies and Andy drove around
a blue Volkswagen Bug which carried
all his worldly possessions, including
his portable music box, white keys
and silver buttons framing a large
black chamber of moving air.

He loved all the current music of course.
On New Year's Eve Andy would record that
year's top 100 hits from W D what ever
onto another music box, this one running
a half inch of dark brown tape from one
six inch reel to another, speakers blaring
Mo Town and Chicago during parties held
in our rented house, or softly lulling Andy
to sleep later while sitting in his favorite
reclining chair.

And yet, when we went to someone
else's parties, Andy would bring
along his childhood companion.
When enough kegs were tapped and
drinks were mixed and if Andy was
feeling in the mood he'd saunter out
and grab from that little car's trunk
the pathway to another dimension.
Andy would role up his sleeves, ignite
the tip of one of his Marlboro's, close
his eyes and start playing that old
Jewish tune, Hava Nagila,
softly at first, then a bit more urgent,
then faster and faster until every slightly uptight
Catholic in that house were clapping and singing
and dancing in circles.

When the last note finished and the cheers
died down Andy would thank all who
bothered to say something nice, strap
his music box tight, glance over at me
with a look that said "Time to go"
and we would head back home, me to my
waiting bed and Andy to his chair of
worries, comforted once again by the low
sounds of harmony and brass.