Brad's hometown

January 31,2019
“Pizza with a Clinton High Maroon”

            Here it is. “Clinton, Illinois, founded in--” Whoa! Sorry, about that. You caught me doing a little research on Brad Meyer’s hometown. It was founded in 1835. And, don’t ask why towns get “founded.” Established, created, started… Only two-year olds say “founded.”

            Brad’s hometown was thunked up by two important guys who stopped in the middle of the prairie in Central Illinois to get a drink from a creek. After a few gulps, one guy commented on how the area would be a good place for a settlement. About 200 years later, 7200 people are living in and around the spot where two men took a drink. Should’ve named the town “Crickwater.”

            The town was called “Clinton” in honor of the dead Governor of New York, Dewitt Clinton. It might’ve been named after the Illinois Governor, Joseph Duncan, but he was still alive at the time. Weird how some things happen.

            My curiosity about Clinton was stoked by a recent visit with reporter, photographer, food-critic, and friend Brad Meyer and his charming wife Nancy. She’s a doll. Brad, not so much. Brad invited Kay and me over for homemade pizza, because he’s a nice guy, and because it was his turn. You see, Kay and I recently had Nancy and Brad over for meatloaf. They felt obligated, and I could do nothing to shake them from that premise.  

            By the way, Brad made the pizza. He chunked a wad of dough on a giant cookie sheet and then smashed it flat. He then baked the thing until the crust was crispy. Then he spread on the sauce, chunked on the sausage and then cheese. Lastly, Brad layered that bubba with pepperoni so thick that you couldn’t see the white of the mozzarella. That pizza beat meatloaf all to pieces.

            We ate on the covered deck out back. Brad had his gas burning fire-pit in the middle, surrounded by deck chairs. It was the perfect night for a cozy fire and good pizza. By the way, I was with Brad when he bought that fire pit from some guy in Atascocita. Brad could’ve bought a new one for what the guy was asking. Brad eventually made the man see reason. One of those offers he couldn’t refuse, which led to Brad and I getting no help loading the eight-ton fire-pit into his truck. My doctor told me to come see him if I thought the bulge from my hernia began to look too hideous. It was enough that he was concerned.

            During the Pizza feed, I picked up on some good stuff about the Meyers. Way back when, Nancy sang in a country western band. Brad said she was great. Of course, he didn’t know her back then, but he has since heard her sing. Kay and I haven’t, because she refused to perform. She said she just loved the song “Make the World Go Away,” just not enough to sing it for us.

            Brad can’t sing. He’s not that good an actor, either. He was once coerced into playing what he thought was a small part in a local movie. He was on a set getting info for a story about one of Chuck Walker’s movies, when Chuck, the Olympian boxer, handed Brad a script and told him to memorize a few paragraphs for an upcoming scene. Chuck figured that an acting role would give Brad a better slant when writing his article.

            I happen to know that Brad Meyer is great on video, radio or in front of an audience if he’s allowed to say whatever comes to mind. But if he has to memorize something to say, he bombs. At such times, I can’t keep a straight face.

            It was shortly after the story about his movie debut, that Brad and I started a discussion on our childhood days. I love childhood so much that I refuse to leave it. Brad told me about being born and raised in Clinton, Illinois. I had to stop him during his “being born” story, but thoroughly enjoyed his stories about his hometown.

            Brad was raised in a small town, named after a dead Governor of New York. Remember? I was raised in the suburbs of Pasadena, Texas, which was named after Pasadena, California, which got its name from the Chippewa word meaning “crown of the valley.” (I don’t know how many locales in this country have names derived from Native Americans. Bound to be a bunch.)

            As kids, Brad and I both pretty much played the same outdoor games; went to the hometown theatre on Saturdays, where we both saw “The Tingler.” A real live Tingler was released in my theatre, and I was so scared that I cried and my big sister, Lynda, had to put her arms around me. And I was 18! (That part’s a joke.) Brad didn’t cry because he didn’t have to worry about a real live Tingler climbing up his leg.

            All in all, it was a great evening, capped off by me tripping over a step on my way to the kitchen. I experienced one of those three minute falls where my mind goes from “I’m okay. The only thing hurt will be my pride.” to “Oh, my goodness, I haven’t made funeral plans!”

            I recovered from the fall, but it was close. Brad was a bit worried, but only because he feared a lawsuit. Unfortunately, I didn’t break, bruise or dislocate anything. If I had, I would now own Brad’s gas fire-pit. And, I assure you, he’d have to find someone else to deliver it to my house. That thing weighs eight tons if it weighs an ounce.

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