Some more about Barrington, ILL: 7th wealthiest zip code in the country among areas with populations of 20,000 or more.
Got a flavor of that back when my folks were doing house-hunting up here back in the summer of 1964. Dad had accepted a job in the math department working for Grace Wandke, the math department head, with whom he had met while doing post-graduate work at Purdue. At that time, Barrington (a unit school district - which means the high school and the grade school teacher salaries were on the same scale) had a merit pay system. Dad came here for the same base salary he was making at Streator Community High School. Very shortly he learned what "merit pay" meant, back in the day. "Merit pay" meant that when his department head told him to take lunch supervision duty, he had to do. "Merit pay" meant that when told to take study hall, he had to. In Streator, where he had been involved in unionizing the teachers back in the early 50's, lunch supervision and study hall had been negotiated to be extra duties, above and beyond teaching, and therefore, duties for which compensation was paid. But the teachers here did not have a union then. And they had all been admonished to not talk amongst each other about what salaries they made.
Mom returned from one of the house-hunting adventures and related this story to us. They had been driving deliberately around Barrington looking at houses for sale, when one of the local children called out, "Get a horse." Mom that it was the funniest thing. I didn't, for in that moment of her story-telling, I realized we were going to be poor. Because the point of most things is not lost on children. Mom tells the story of how, after we bought a house and got settled, when our family used to go out in the car to drive somewhere, I would hide on the floor in the back seat. The shame of it, oh, the shame.
One day after we'd lived here more than a year, I asked my friend, fellow caddie, and freshman basketball teammate George Harris, "What's wrong with the way I dress?" Clearly, he must have said something to make me ask. I had been talking with Becky Harlan, one of the only girls shorter than I was when I posed the question. George, bless him, answered honestly. "Ganzer, look at you. You wear tie hush puppies shoes, white socks, you button your top shirt button, your shirt collars don't have buttons, and your pants are funny."
George is the only high school friend I've had any regular contact with over the years. And I really did appreciate his honesty, because a quick survey of the situation revealed that the "dress code" amongst the cool guys consisted of: burgundy penny loafers, dark colored wool socks, tight-fitting Levi jeans -black, burgundy or light blue, that ended about six inches above the ankle, and button down collar shirts always of a single color - pink, light blue or yellow. Yes, I saw it all, and knew that I had to go to my savings account and make a big withdrawal, in order that I should be able to dress the part.
Here's the thing about high school, at least the high school I went to, or maybe it's just about high school kids. In that moment of atomic insight, I made a vow to myself, that one day, when I was done with high school, I would dress however I wanted, I would not let myself be ruled by the fashion dictates of "the in crowd."
But, of course, that was not a decision I was neither strong enough nor brave enough to make in the face of my peers and contemporaries. And if there is one thing that THIS high school kid wanted to do, it was to fit in. To fit in here. In Barrington.
Get a horse.
Hell, we GOT a horse. My sister has dreamed horses since she was in the womb. And my father tried to do one pretty nice "big thing" for all of his children. For me, it was the gift of his time. First born sons have that advantage. He'd walk me around the block talking mathematics to me, he'd talk about positive numbers, and negative numbers. At least this is the story he told me. And then the day I asked him, "But dad, isn't zero a number too?" he decided we didn't need to talk about numbers any more.
But when we moved here, to horse country, my folks decided that my sister Gay should be able to have a horse, PROVIDED ... that dad could ride it. She was so excited. Dad tells the story that, had it been Gay's decision, they would have bought ever horse they looked at, on the spot. Nope. Dad made her wait, he had his principles, and he was not going to back down here. Besides, he well knew that horses could be dangerous animals. Then they found Sputnik. That was the horse for Gay, and for dad too, because Sputnik was smart enough to know how much my sister would love him, and care for him, and how important it was that he make the decision as easy as possible. I think Sputnik was 8 when we bought him, and 32 when he had to be put down. I swear, the last five years of his life were lived on my sister's love alone.
Sometimes, love alone is enough.
And then, other times, not even love can get through.
The first Barrington High School suicide I remember might not count, because the young man had graduated and gone to college. He returned, early to the front lawn of the high school in the fall and shot himself there. He had been the president of the National Honor Society and Captain of the Golf team, and was a very attractive young man. Heather W., my then girl friend told me about it. She and he had been classmates. I didn't know enough then. I asked myself, "What kind of statement is that?" I didn't understand how the fog of depression can surround you, overtake you, overpower you, to do its ultimate bidding.
Another suicide I became aware of involved the son of one of the members I sometimes caddied for at the Jack Nicklaus gated community & private country club. The man always seemed distant, barely bearing the loss a few years later. It was a hanging. The family sold the house, and bought another one, some gated community, same private country club.
I'm 59 years old now. Have attended none of my high school reunions. Didn't even attend the 10th when I had for all outward appearances a very successful career. Nor the 25th for which I had let my hair grow long for about two years, because dammit, I might not have then had a job, or money, or a wife, or home, but by God, I had my hair. Well, at least I considered that one. But I didn't go. Because there is something, something that makes me either afraid or ashamed, or both.
These demons too must one day be faced.
Or not.
After our first year here, dad got an offer to teach mathematics and coach wrestling at Waukegan High School. The story is told that I was the only one to say, "No. Please. I don't want to move again." And this sealed the deal. We would stay. Other times, perhaps kids go from the specific to the general in the blink of an eye. And maybe that is why they seemed trapped, with only one way out.
Sometimes, not even love can get through.
In my little town
I grew up believ--ing
God keeps his eye on us all
And he used to lean upon me
As I pledged allegiance to the wall
Lord I recall
My little town
Coming home after school
Flying my bike past the gates
Of the factories
My mom doing the laundry
Hanging our shirts
In the dirty breeze
And after it rains
There's a rainbow
And all of the colors are black
It's not that the colors aren't there
It's just imagin-ation they lack
Everything's the same
Back in my little town
Nothing but the dead and dying
Back in my little town
Nothing but the dead and dying
Back in my little town
In my little town
I never meant nothin'
I was just my fathers son
Saving my money
Dreaming of glory
Twitching like a finger
On the trigger of a gun
Leaving nothing but the dead and dying
Back in my little town
Repeat and fade:
Nothing but the dead and dying
Back in my little town
