It’s pretty warm for the end of October in northern Illinois. The skies are overcast and spitting a little rain as I drive up Somonauk Avenue in my small town lined on both sides with old Victorian designed homes built in the 19th century. My trusty sidekick Blu is riding shotgun, peering out of the windshield, constantly vigilant for any intruders in need of a good barking. A man walks his dog one one side of the street while a young mother pushes a baby carriage on the other. I’m headed to the county legislative center to do early voting in order to avoid possible long lines on November 3. I slowly drive by the old courthouse with a flag flying over the top. Every time I drive this way and spy the flag I am reminded of the lyrics from Bruce Springsteen’s Long Walk Home song released in 2006 on his Magic album: “That flag flying over the courthouse, means certain things are set in stone, who we are, what we’ll do and what we won’t”.

In 2006, Springsteen took aim at the Georg W Bush administration’s concepts of extraordinary rendition, black sites, the use of waterboarding and torture in enhanced interrogations, and invading a country that had nothing to do with the attacks of September 11. At the time, I never thought at some future point, these actions would be mere child’s play when it comes to a presidential administration. The stoplight turns red and I turn the corner into the parking lot near the early polling location. Most of the spaces are taken but I slide into one of the few open slots, put the car in park, leave the motor running and tell Blue, “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. And don’t talk to any strangers.”

As I approach the door, a vague memory crosses my mind of being six or eight years old and entering the polling station with my dad at the fire station right down the street from our little neighborhood. Our dad is busy, working early and late at our family restaurant everyday and doesn’t take me with him very often That’s probably why this memory has stuck with me all this time. It’s early in the morning. He must be taking me with him and then dropping me off at school afterwards. Two or three huge firetrucks are backed into their stalls. I can smell gasoline and the polish used to keep the trucks shiny and gleaming. Dad tells me to stand by the door but don’t go anywhere. I see him pickup a piece of paper, head into a small stall with a red, white and blue striped cloth curtain which he closes. The six year old me has no idea what’s happening or what he’s doing but it must be important if he’s bringing me with.

A woman’s voice snaps me back to the present. “You coming in?”, she asks as I see her holding the door open with a smile on her face. “Yes ma’am”, I reply as I hurry towards the door.

“Thank you very much”, I say as I walk past the threshold nodding my head in her direction.

“You’re welcome”, she replies as she walks towards her car.

I enter the polling room in a non descript room with government issued gray carpeting, two long buffet tables with 3 workers behind each table busily shuffling papers and typing on keyboards and several smaller tables with dividers set up for voters. I stop and wait in line behind two others. It’s busy but not overwhelming. One of the volunteers calls me over to her station and asks me my name. She asks,” Would you like a tablet or paper ballot?”

“You’ll have to take my paper ballot out of my cold dead hands” I joke in reply.

She smiles and hands me a ballot covered with a paper jacket for privacy. I make my decisions one by one and mark my choices with a cheap Bic black ink pen, I hate black ink. I walk over and feed my ballot into the voting machine. Roughly 4500 people have voted according to the tracker on this unit. I ask one of the workers if it’s been busy so far and she says it’s been steady everyday, busier than in years past.

As I head back to my car, I open the door as an older couple approach. They are holding hands and smile at me as I hold the door for them. “Thank you young man,” the lady says to me.

I approach the van and can see Blue’s snout as she peers over her seat searching for me. I wonder to myself if any strangers talked to her through the door window. If they did, she wouldn’t have been happy about it.

One my way back home, I take another look at the flag flying over the courthouse. A woman stands on the sidewalk to my right waiting to pass though a crosswalk. I stop and wave her across. She waves at me and I can hear her say thanks as I wave back, both hands at the top of the steering wheel. I know I am often times naive, but I think to myself, “Why can’t our country be more like these last few minutes: people, fellow citizens crossing paths, being kind to one another, showing basic manners, niceties and decency to one another as we go about our business. Holding doors for one another, saying thank you and you’re welcome, letting people cross from one path to another in safety, sharing a few words, in essence making things a little bit better for each other.

There will always be political differences, differences of opinions, how we see the country and the world, what’s best and how to get there. But there doesn’t need to be cruelty for cruelties sake. There doesn’t need to be ugliness, a disregard for anyone who doesn’t agree or a naked need for there to be winners and losers in the equation. What we need more of is basic human decency, compassion, care and concern. It’s really not that hard.

A car behind me honks and I glance in the rearview mirror to see the driver throwing up their hands in the air as if to say, “Go you moron.” At least that’s what I would have said if I was driving that car.

As we head into a critical state and national election to determine the next few years of our nation, I am reminded of Robert Kennedy’s speech on April 4, 1968, the day Martin Luther King Jr was killed in Memphis. Bobby was on the campaign trail in Indianapolis, Indiana that day. His advisers told him not to speak that night at a planned stop fearing violence that had erupted in many major cities that day when people heard the news. Bobby disregarded his staff knowing people were there to see him and hear him speak. In the cold night, Bobby climbed up onto a flatbed trailer with a few spotlights shining down on him and said these words which were just as important then as they are now.

“What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence or lawlessness; but love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or they be black.

So I shall ask you tonight to return home, to say a prayer for the family of Martin Luther King, that’s true, but more importantly to say a prayer for our own country, which all of us love–a prayer for understanding and that compassion of which I spoke.

We can do well in this country. We will have difficult times; we’ve had difficult times in the past; we will have difficult times in the future. It is not the end of violence; it is not the end of lawlessness; it is not the end of disorder.

But the vast majority of white people and the vast majority of black people in this country want to live together, want to improve the quality of our life, and want justice for all human beings who abide in our land.

Let us dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.

Let us dedicate ourselves to that, and say a prayer for our country and for our people.”

Amen Bobby. I’ll say a prayer tonight for our country and for my fellow Americans. Hopefully at the same time, someone on the other side of the political spectrum says a prayer for me and you and all of us. We can use it.

From the time I was a child, I remember my dad drinking coffee every morning and into the afternoon. But never at the house. We never had a coffee maker in the house while my mom was alive. She didn’t drink it and she didn’t want it in the house for various reasons. Our coffee intake was relegated to the restaurant we owned for 23 years. So down to our family restaurant dad would go at 9:00am to start his first pot with our stainless steel Bunn-o-Matic industrial sized brewer which sat on the packing table next to the soda machine and iced tea container. I can still smell the aroma of fresh brewed coffee mixing with the other smells of the restaurant: industrial fly spray, the grease in the deep fry cookers, cold fried chicken in the front refrigerator, the soap used to mop the floors the night before by the closing crew.

Once the coffee was done, dad would fill up his first cup of the day using a Styrofoam cup. And off he was running with his day, a one of a kind force of nature.

When my grandparents would visit us from Phoenix every year, my grandmother Letha Hilligoss drank coffee all day. It was the first time I ever witnessed someone putting ice from the ice maker into her coffee. Knowing my grandmother was “colorful”, I just thought it was another in a long line of her idiosyncrasies. It took me a long time to realize she was cooling it off so she could start drinking faster. 

I had my first cup of coffee at the age of 18 while working for the Illinois State Board of Education in Springfield Illinois my senior year in high school. During a long, boring meeting, I found myself dozing in my chair, unable to keep my eyes open while a guest speaker droned on. Not wanting to get in trouble with our leader, I did the only thing I could think of: filling up an 8 ounce white Styrofoam cup with terrible, burnt, hours old coffee from an urn. From then on out, I was a caffeine addict and my dad had a compatriot in coffee for the rest of his life. 

We drank it all over the years. Crappy gas station coffee, well made, measured out coffee at my house, Quik Trip, Dunkin Donuts, Caribou Coffee, if in a pinch Starbucks, even though he bitched about it the whole time as being burnt and harsh. On weekends when I visited, we’d go to McDonalds to have coffee with dad’s brother, Richard Eugene, known to some as Uncle Dick, and other long time friends. 

Dad always got a 12oz. senior coffee black, which he took pride in since it was cheaper than everyone else’s. He’d exclaim, “Ryan, I just paid half of what you did!!.” If we went to another restaurant or diner, he always, and I mean always, ordered a half cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup, for two very specific reasons. One, he didn’t want to dirty up a cup under some quasi-demented idea that he was saving the environment by not having to wash a cup in the dishwasher. Somehow the fact his cup would wind up in the landfill either didn’t dawn on him or he thought that was the better of the two options. Secondly, and most importantly, he could get a refill on coffee before he left and take it with him on the road. 

The odd fact of ordering a half cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup is one of the many ways he is remembered by those who knew him. The last thing we did on the last day I saw him before he passed three years ago was have a cup of coffee at McDonalds on a beautiful, sunny Sunday morning in Godfrey, Illinois. That was the final cup of coffee I had with my dad, Robert Lee Hilligoss. 

The last cup, until recently.

A few weeks ago, while unexpectedly in the hospital, I had an “incident”. 

That’s the term an outgoing nurse used while giving the incoming nurse my updates from overnight. 

It’s amazing, and a little disconcerting, how quickly things can change. 

On a beautiful Sunday afternoon, I umpired 12 year old girls softball games. By 8:00pm that night I was having terrible pains in my upper abdomen right under my heart. 

By midnight I was in the emergency room. 

Because the pain was under my heart, and I have a family history of cardiology issues, I was more than concerned that it was serious. I even  called my daughter and asked her to come to the hospital – just in case. 

Seven hours and several tests later, I was discharged from the ER while still in severe pain and without a hard diagnosis. “Well, it could be this, could be that, we don’t know but we’re sending you home.” 

Gee, thanks a lot doc.

Throughout the next morning and afternoon, the pain remained and then slowly started to move down my right side. Knowing it was only getting worse, I went to a different, much better hospital. Walking into the second ER at midnight on Monday, I thought, “Oh, surely they won’t be that busy.” Wrong. It was packed with at least 50 people and their families waiting to get in . 

A nurse later told me it was the most patients who had ever come into their ER in an eight hour window. 

Lucky me.

Two days after the pain started, and eight hours after I arrived,  I was in an intake room at 8am. By 9:00am, they diagnosed me with gall stones and an infected gall bladder, and by 10:00am, I was admitted into the hospital. 

At 11:00am, a surgeon visited to tell me they were going to remove my gall bladder. 

Along the way, every person I encountered –  from the admissions clerk, to the nurses, to the doctors – were kind, professional, efficient and warm. 

Around dinner time, I was finally wheeled down to surgery. 

A pleasant looking, older anesthesiologist came to introduce herself and guide me through what was going to happen. 

Her last question to me was, “If something happens, is there someone I can call?”

I answered, “My son, Graham, who is 22.” 

She dutifully nodded and wrote on her notepad. She then said she was giving me some dye to work into my system to help the robotic assisted part of the surgery. 

That’s the last thing I remember happening. Lights out.

The next morning, I am lying in a hospital room with more wires connected to me than I can keep track of, machines beeping, voices out in the hallway. I hear someone talking to another close by. 

“There was an incident last night after his surgery. It was very serious. He stopped breathing for a bit.” 

I lie there half baked by anesthesia and exhaustion. 

“Are they in my room? Are they talking about me? I’m sorry, can you repeat that? An incident?? What the hell does that mean??”

 Then I remembered a moment somewhere in the back recess of my mind. I’m in the operating room. I hear a male voice loudly commanding, “Ryan!!! Wake up!! Cough!!! Ryan!!!!” 

I coughed several times.  

Did that really happen or am I imagining this?

With the quiet sounds of someone flipping my chart and feet padding on the concrete, I wake to the sun streaming through the window to my right. A series of doctors come to check on me and look over my incisions. I am cleared to eat and walk around the wing later. 

An hour later, a nurse moves me  to a reclining chair where I am allowed to sit up and drink water for the first time. 

Then I see a gentle older woman’s face to my left. “Hey, I remember you, you are my anesthesiologist.” 

“Yes, that was me. I came to make sure you are OK and in fact, that you are here today.” 

Oh. 

She tells me what had happened in the OR. 

The surgery was quick and successful. They were preparing me to go back to recovery when I gasped for air, stopped breathing, and my tongue rolled back in my mouth. 

“Things did not look good, and I said to myself, ‘Oh please God don’t let anything happen to this man. The last thing he said to me was if something happened to call his son, and I didn’t want to have to be the to make that call.’ ” 

Just like that, I could have been dead. 

My life could have ended in the operating room surrounded by trained, experienced professionals and the best equipment in modern medicine. 

It’s as simple as that. Life or death on the flip of a coin. 

As easily as I am typing these words, my kids could have been without me, sorting through my personal items left behind, sifting through the practical side of my affairs. My brother could be the last man standing out of the five members of our nuclear family. 

I later asked the nurse if it was normal for the anesthesiologist to check on patients the next day. She looked stunned at the question. 

“No,” she said, “that’s not normal.” 

That compassionate woman had come to check on me out of the goodness of her heart, knowing how close it had been. 

She wanted me to know that even though she was doing her job as a highly skilled medical professional, in the end we are all just humans looking out for one another. 

My nurse, several months pregnant but still doing her job in an incredibly professional, warm manner, put a menu down in front of me and said I could order anything I wanted. 

“Wait a minute, I just had my gall bladder out,” I said. 

Anything I asked? That menu is specific to your surgery you silly goose, if it’s on there you can have it. 

I ordered scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. 

Oh how badly I needed coffee since I hadn’t had any in 2 days. 

Thirty minutes later an older lady brings me a tray of food, sets it down in front of me and touches my arm gently. She calls me “baby,” and asks if I need anything else. 

“No, ma’am, this is perfect. It’s probably terrible hospital food, but given how hungry I am, it tastes nearly perfect.” 

I take the lid off my coffee, add sugar and cream and stir it with my spoon clanking on the side. 

As I raise the cup to my lips I quietly think, “If dad were still alive, he would have been here with me this whole time.”

He would have driven up once he knew I was in the hospital. 

He would have sat with me asking the doctors and nurses questions, pestering anyone he could. 

He would have seen me off to the operating room and been there when I woke up. 

He would have demanded I order two cups of coffee – one for me and one for him. One more cup of coffee with Bob. 

As I set the cup down and looked around, I could feel his presence as clear as day, just as he next to me in the car on one of our many road trips. 

He was there with me in the hospital room. 

He – and my mom – were  with me in the operating room, looking over me. 

That’s why I was here in this room drinking coffee on another sunny day. 

They made sure of it.

Sorry pop, they don’t have any Styrofoam cups, just the real deal. 

One more cup of coffee with Bob. How about a refill?

Ryan Hilligoss, June 2, 2025

“Not all that is to be learned can be taught in the classroom, and so we take to the open road.” Douglas Brinkley, The Magic Bus

Have you ever stopped to consider how many miles you have driven, ridden in a car or trains, flown in an airplane, or walked? I’ve done some rough calculations based on the vehicles I have owned or used for work: I’m close to three million miles driven and another two million riding, flying and walking. Now I am considering all the possible things I could have done with that time: earned a medical degree, learned seven languages proficiently, read most of the Western Civilization canon, learned stand up comedy and maybe written the novel that’s been bouncing around in my head for the last 10 years. I came by it honestly, having ridden with my mom and dad countless times, short and long distances starting with the ride home from Springfield Hospital to my first home near Lake Springfield back in 1974. Our family moved to downstate Alton, Il in the summer of 1977. Mom drove us back and forth to Springfield to see our grandparents and aunt countless times, 90 miles each way back and forth. Dad’s family moved to Phoenix in 1970 and we drove the 3,000 mile roundtrip several times when I was younger. The town names mentioned in Route 66 popularized by Nat King Cole and Chuck Berry are etched in my mind with memories of dusty trips long ago: Joplin, Mo, Oklahoma City, Amarillo, Gallup, New Mexico and Flagstaff Arizona.

So it’s not shocking that I have done the same with my kids Graham and Rory during their lives. Living in northern Illinois and having family down state has led to countless trips over 20 years with the kids in tow, strapped in their car seats playing with toys, watching countless movies on 12 inch portable DVD players, sleeping and watching the corn fields roll by with fruit puffs and Cheerios under their feet. The miles and years have rolled by and now my kids are 20 and 19 years old, both on their way to becoming the adults they will be, hopefully taking the good things they’ve learned and experienced and leaving the bad behind where they belong.

It was kismet recently when Graham called me to ask if I wanted to go to Amherst, Mass to see one of his favorite bands, Have A Nice Life, play a show in the small college club they first played 25 years ago when they got started. Well……three things:

1. The date of the show was the day after a golf fundraiser event I had signed up to attend in New Jersey for a friend of mine. Four golfers were needed for the scramble and I’ll be damned, I still needed a fourth. Who better than Graham who is a much better golfer than I’ll ever be. Two fathers playing with two sons in honor of another son and father.
2. After having taken Graham and Rory to see many concerts over the years including Ringo Starr, Beatles tribute artists, Jimmy Buffet and Bruce Springsteen, this was the first time he had asked me to take him to see a band he liked.
3. After having travelled many times to see bands I love, who was I to say no to such a request.

An agreement was quickly determined. If he would play golf with us on Wednesday somewhere in the swamps of Jersey, I would get him to Amherst for the show on Thursday. Airline tickets were secured, concert tickets were in hand ($30 a piece, what a bargain!!!!), accommodations were arranged with friends, a small gathering was planned with local friends for one evening and interesting stops were plotted out along the way. As the date drew close, Graham closely watched the havoc occurring everyday at our flight destination, Newark International Airport. The radar and communications system went down and back up frequently, communications with planes were lost for 90 seconds at a time, and near misses between planes on the runways. Phone calls were made and a decision was made: ixnay on the airways and let’s take to the open road. Instead of flying to New Jersey, renting a car and driving up to Massachusetts and back to Newark, we would drive from Illinois through Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut and Massachusetts and back again. 850 miles from Illinois to northern Jersey, 200 miles to Amherst and 1,000 miles back around with a stop in Cleveland, Ohio.

Things we learned along the way:

-Never eat a Denny’s attached to a Flying J outside of Dayton, Ohio under any circumstances, and according to Graham, never eat at Denny’s…period….no matter where you are

-Driving hundreds of miles in the rain is stressful and not enjoyable. Driving through rain for 5 straight days is unbearable even for an experienced driver

• Driving in New Jersey is an experience for first timers. Is this one giant lane or two lanes and where should I be driving?
• New Jersey is the only state in the Union where you do not pump your own gas.
• Wawa is a weird name for a convenience store chain but has the best soft pretzels in the world
• Graham is not a fan of the processed ham product known as Taylor Ham/pork roll depending on where you are from…too salty…and he doesn’t don’t care if Mick Jagger has a sandwich named after him featuring ham, egg and cheese on a Kaiser roll
• There is no statue of Lebron James in downtown Cleveland despite what google says…I repeat…no statue of Lebron James…yet

• Downtown Cleveland is beautiful at night despite the swarm of insects called midges along the lake and the perimeter of The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
• If you want decent Mexican food, do not go to a neo Mexican restaurant and order shrimp and grits.

Leaving north Jersey on the Garden State Parkway, it’s one large metro area, one town after another passing by, skirting New York to the east. It’s mid morning on a Thursday so traffic is bearable as we crossed the Hudson on the Tappanzee bridge, passing an exit for Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown just north of the city with Manhattan way off in the southern horizon. We drive through parts of Connecticut, see the skyline of Hartford and into western Massachusetts with it’s thick vegetation and leafy neighborhoods. We check into the hotel for the night, have dinner at Chipotle and head into Amherst which is a nice, quiet college town with three bookstores within 2 blocks of each other, churches, a town square and students walking in the cold rain.

The venue is a small club near campus. We drive by looking for parking and see 50 people lined up anxiously waiting to get in. I tell Graham if we crank up the band’s Earth Mover song and slowly drive by, it will give some good mojo and they might play it for the first time in years. He gives me the skunk eye and says, “Don’t you dare.” Have A Nice Life has released a handful of albums, had a nice career and plays to 5,000-10,000 fans at shows and festivals. Tonight is very different. Two friends met in college, started a band, wrote songs and recorded an album and started a 25 year career. Tonight they are back home where it all started, in a small, dark club with capacity for 250 fans. We park and walk a few blocks in the rain. The bouncer at the door gives me an over 21 yellow wrist band without even looking at my ID…..hey!!!! There’s a chance I’m not of age. No wrist band for Graham, two months shy of his 21st birthday. The club has a low ceiling, dark lighting, couches ring the entry area and outer wall near the bar. I’m not the oldest person in the place but close to it.

Up front a small stage holds the equipment, maybe a 10×20 stage with a large screen behind the drum kit. Crippling Alcoholism, the opening band comes out, a singer, bass, guitar and drums. About 50 fans crowd the front edge of the stage. I put my ear plugs in and can’t understand a word being sung. An abstract, Ralph Steadman like drawing is on the screen while the singer screams in agony. Agony of what I don’t know but he’s in pain, whether physical or emotional, and so am I. The opener is thankfully done after 6 songs and Graham takes his merch out to our car with one last request, “Let me know when they are coming on.” The opening act gets their gear off stage quickly and HANL members get theirs on just as fast. This is a special show on their home turf before heading to Europe for a run of festival shows. The band wastes no time in getting ready: drums, bass, two guitars, keyboard and percussionist assemble with another person running the visuals on the screen. The band assembles quickly and I call Graham telling him to move his ass. The club is at capacity but there is plenty of room so I drift to the back to give the real fans space up front which gives me the opportunity to listen and watch from a safe distance.

As a child and young man, I was very fortunate to have parents and older brothers who loved music and took me to see many concerts big and small. They opened my eyes and ears to all kinds of music, some I liked immediately, while some took me a while to appreciate: Neil Diamond, ZZ Top, Springsteen, Barry Manilow, Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton, Wayne Newton, yes, that Wayne Newton, thanks to my aunt Glenda. From there I ran with it and developed my own tastes in music that have grown into jazz, country, Americana, southern rock, R&B, old school rock and roll, gospel and everything in between. Not that there is a need for any band to be labeled or pigeon holed but my own description of Have a Nice Life is heavy rock, David Bowie experimental space age, prog rock, heavy synth, etc. Graham advised me to listen to their first album Death Consciousness prior to the show. I hear touches of Bowie, James, Smashing Pumpkins and others but it’s their own sound and style. I look around and see the joy and appreciation on the fans faces. Graham stands by me for a time but then makes his way up close to the stage where he almost takes a boot to the face from a passing crowd surfer. Every time the singer leans into the crowd, people grab at him, touching his head and yanking on his t shirt. The lead singer has a headache and in a touching moment, asks his wife to bring him two Advil from the front pocket of his backpack.

The music is not something I would have found on my own, but I like it and will listen more and take it all in on my own in time. What brings me joy is seeing the faces of the crowd, including my son, as the band launches into the finale, a song called Earth Mover which they apparently haven’t played live for some time. The small club, the fans, the rarity reminds me that this is what it must have been like for Springsteen fans to see him and the E Street Band back in the day in small clubs or what it would be like for them to play at the Upstage in Asbury Park and play Lost In The Flood or Wild Billy’s Circus Story in an intimate setting.

The lead singer is done for the night as he wraps a towel around his neck and heads to the back room. The guitar player shakes hands with the fans and takes a picture of the crowd. He turns to the curtain in back, pleading with the leaders to come back out for one more song. It is not to be. The lights and house music come up signaling their night is over, a second show follows Friday night. The crowd trickles out buzzing with chatter. The bass player who minutes ago was dripping with sweat as he bounced around the stage for 90 minutes is leaning back against the wall smoking a cigarette and asking the people nearby where they are from. He looks like Rainn Wilson, Dwight from The Office, in a heavy beard and army jacket. Fans walk by unaware that moments ago this same guy was bouncing side to side on stage.

We walk into the dark, rainy night, find our car and drive back to the hotel. I’ve driven a million miles with Graham in the backseat, me looking at him grow up over the years through a narrow rear view mirror. The years and miles roll by and my baby boy has turned into a strong, intelligent, kind, caring and determined young man with a wide open road in his future. The music may change, but the beat and rhythm are steady, The story remains the same. Whether it’s my parents listening to Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry, Neil Diamond or me listening to Bruce, Chris Stapleton, and Jason Isbell , or Rory listening to Harry Styles and Bob Marley or Graham listening to Have a Nice Life, the draw of the beat and the words of the singer are constant. The years and miles roll by, the name of the bands may change but the music plays on, the song remains and the road goes on forever.