A Green Beer Miracle

Living in a Body

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A Green Beer Miracle

Episode 11 -- The Night that Made My Existence Possible

Hal Walker

Mar 19, 2022

Hi. It’s been another week of living in a body and this is “Living in a Body.” My dear mother is my guest writer today! Please click the play button to hear mom and me narrate the story with original music. (11 min) Thank you so much ~ Hal

A Green Beer Miracle

I love the creative process… especially when it works in my favor. Living with severe chronic illness, I’m not particularly fond of my current circumstances, but there’s a part of me that trusts the unfolding. Today’s episode is full of perfect timing and exquisite unfolding. It’s a story on top of a story of outlandish serendipity. (Tell your serendipity story here) My mom joins us as a guest writer today to tell her story. As her son, I get to get a big reminder that my mere existence is a true miracle. I mean, c’mon… what are the chances?!

Truly, I’m grateful for any of your feedback about this publication.

I lost a couple subscribers last week and one of them commented, “I love Hal and pray for his recovery ❤️‍🩹. It’s just too sad.” I was grateful for the feedback and I realized that it was time to lighten things up a bit this week. :)

My first thought was that I would tell the story of how banakulas came into my life. It’s another awesome story of being in just the right place at just the right time. So, on Tuesday, I began my writing with another discussion of how timing has played such a significant role in the unfolding of my life. I started to tell the amazing story of how my mom and dad met in Chicago on St. Patrick’s Day and then I paused, “…WAIT, I should ask my mom to tell the story in her voice.” Then I looked at the calendar. “Today is Tuesday, Thursday is St. Patrick’s Day, Friday is my parents anniversary and on Saturday, my mom could be my guest writer for episode no. 11! The timing couldn’t be more perfect!” I reached out to my mom with a text and she agreed. Once again, at the last minute, my mom saves the day.

Janet Trostrud Walker is an artist, a mother, a grandmother and the 90 year old matriarch of the Walker Family. I’m so pleased to have her as a guest today on “Living in a Body” to tell us the story of the night that made my existence possible.

Mom and I talking a zip on my Yamaha Vino 125

Today, I read several Facebook posts that disparaged one of my favorite holidays. They wrote, “Eradicate St. Patrick’s Day!” “I detest this holiday!” “It’s just a parade of drunks!” I, on the other hand, cherish this March day for it’s great significance in my life and the life of my family. Here’s my story:

63 years ago, I was working as a designer at Scott Foresman Publishing in Chicago. One fine St. Patrick’s Day evening, my co-worker Judy and I left a party on Lake Shore Drove to stroll down Rush Street in search of a bar serving green beer. As we passed Gus’s Pub, I nudged my friend and suggested that we go in and meet some of the advertising execs who hang out there. With all the partiers dressed in green, singing, dancing and drinking tall glasses of green beer, it looked like the right place to hang out for a bit before heading back to our Near North Side apartment.

We walked in and sat down at the only vacant booth in the bar. We didn’t have to wait long for two handsome guys to join us at the table. We exchanged names and made small talk for a few minutes, but I wasn’t getting my hopes up. I was guessing that they were probably married or divorced with kids. As we sat there chatting, a tall, sandy haired, tweed-coat-wearing gentleman walked by our booth and caught my eye. I was intrigued by his quiet and sensitive demeanor. Impulsively, I poked Paul (the guy next to me) and called his attention to this attractive man. For some unknown reason, Paul then called out to the stranger with a random name, “Hey, Harold! My friend wants you to join us in this booth!” Without hesitation, the tall, quiet man came over and sat right across from me. Incredibly, he informed us that his name was indeed, “Harold.” After we all expressed our disbelief of this coincidence, the others headed for the dance floor. Harold and I were left sitting alone at the table.

I was wearing this soft orange top when I met him. Interesting that I still have it and that my granddaughter pronounced it….after 60 years….very hip!

Harold soon moved to the seat next to me and we began the “what’s your line” dialogue. “Are you a teacher?… In advertising?… Do you live around here?” Then, out of the clear blue, he asked, “So… how old are you?” “Twenty one,” I lied. He responded that I was too young to be in a place like this and then he asked me to dance. After a couple dances, he mentioned what a shame it was that I was so young. In all my youthful charm, I inquired, “Well, how old should I be to satisfy you?” He hesitated and answered, “27?” I was startled and amazed that he had guessed my age exactly. I think he was quite pleased. Harold was 33 at the time and he certainly didn’t want to be robbing the cradle. I think that our compatible age was the first sign that we might be a good fit.

At about 3:30 in the morning, we finally left the bar and walked down Rush Street to my apartment on West Superior Street. As we walked, suave Harold suddenly took off ahead of us and began dancing a Scottish jig! We’d only known each other for a few hours, but that dance closed the deal for me. I was smitten with this guy.

We invited him up to our second floor apartment where he soon asked me on our first date. When I returned from my two week ski trip to Sun Valley, Idaho, Harold and I would go together to a Chicago Symphony Orchestra concert!

How telling is it that we, in part, credit this book, “*Tragic Sense of Life”* to the existence of the Walker family?

In a momentary lull in the conversation, Harold walked over to browse the books on our bookshelf. He chuckled with delight, “This book! I love it. ‘Tragic Sense of Life’ by Miguel de Unamuno! Whose book is this!?” The truth was that neither Judy nor I could claim the book. Neither of us had any idea how it had gotten onto the shelf! Though I never read it, I give partial credit to this book for the creation of our amazing lives together for almost 60 years.

When it was time to go home, our new acquaintance introduced himself as Harold Walker, Jr. He said that he was a pastor to Presbyterian students (UCM) at the University of Chicago. Apparently, he had been returning from a World Council of Churches meeting in Evanston when he took a detour to check out the green beer at Gus’s Pub. He also told me he was raised in Birmingham, Alabama.

Upon my return from skiing in Idaho, we enjoyed a few dates around Chicago. On one of the dates, Harold told me he would be traveling to Italy that summer for six weeks. He was going to see his newly-married brother, Bill, who was a Navy lawyer, stationed in Naples. I was so afraid that this amazing guy would slip away to Italy, forget about me and then we would never see each other again. However, when he asked me to take care of his car while he was gone and then when he actually gave me the keys to the car, I was at peace. I knew that our relationship was meant to be.

For many years, we laughed each time Harold reminded me that I was the first date that he had ever picked up in a bar. We’re convinced it was fate. A year and a day later on March 18, 1961, we were married at the United Lutheran church of Oak Park, Illinois.

This week, H & J would have celebrated their 61st wedding anniversary.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for listening. Thanks mom for being such an awesome guest writer. Have a good Saturday and I hope you enjoy living in that body of yours. I’ll try to do the same. Let those stories unfold, alright? Bye. Hal