only people were spilling out of a nearby bar, raucous and obviously drunk. “I’m coming with you,” I said.

“Bring anything with you that you don’t want stolen,” Peter said Armed with his dental toolbox, my purse, and Anne’s favorite toy, we started walking. It was probably only a few blocks, but it seemed like miles to the nearest gas station. We passed more noisy bars. The gas station produced a greasy tire iron, so we felt somewhat safer walking back. But the bolts were so rusty, they stripped out. Back we went through the gauntlet to the station and called a friend to come get us. A man entered as Peter hung up. “You-all better not go outside again,” he told us. “See those guys on the corner? They’re waitin’ to jump you.” He told us he owned the station, and spent every night in his pickup just outside with a shotgun to fend off thieves. We stayed inside.

We expected the car would be stripped of anything removable when Peter went back the next day with a tow truck. But the Bomber was so old, it wasn’t tempting even in one of Chicago’s worst neighborhoods.

Peter graduated on schedule — I spent much of that spring chauffeuring patients from daycares and retirement homes so he could fulfill his requirements. (Some of his single male classmates found a patient goldmine among local hookers who didn’t work during daylight hours!) I sang my last concerts with the CSO, including a final performance at New York’s Carnegie Hall.

Returning to Springfield had been always been our plan; we never seriously strayed from it. Sometimes, though, we’d discuss staying in Chicago. There was much we enjoyed, and I could continue singing professionally. But the winter of ’79, and that flat tire erased any such thoughts. In May we loaded our things into the Green Bomber and headed south for home.

Contact Julianne Glatz @[email protected].