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Each of my grandfathers worked in the Chicago area all of their working lives. Grandpa Alex made a living in the Inland Steel mills of East Chicago, Indiana, while Grandpa Kiki lied about his age and started working for Youngstown Sheet and Tube in the same city at age fourteen. They each married young, lovely young women who were, among other things, terrific cooks.
Grandma and Grandpa Kiki back in 1944
Alex and Rose Hercey had a kid and named him Robert, while Chester and Eleanor Kucinski had twins, calling them Deneen and Dennis. They ran together in the same crowd, and went to the same high school. Robert and Deneen played music (accordion and trumpet for Robert/"Bob", violin for Deneen/"Nan") and fell in love, while Dennis excelled at sports of all kind. Bob took Engineering at Purdue, while Deneen chose Nursing at Indiana University.
Soon after college Bob and Deneen got married and moved to downstate Illinois. Bob took a good job in Bloomington/Normal working for General Electric's, but left after a year for the greener pastures of Caterpillar in Peoria, where he has worked ever since.
August 15, 1967. It's been called the Summer Of Love, and while it was in full swing, my mom Deneen presented my father Robert with his first child. I wasn't very big but apparently had a pretty healthy set of pipes from the get-go, making plenty of racket and waking up the folks at all hours of the night. They decided to name me Robert, but since mom didn't wanted to get the two men in the house confused, she called pop "Bob" and me "Robin". Almost two years later to the day, my brother Randall Todd ("Randy") graced the Hercey family with his presence as well.
My early memories are sketchy, and it wasn't until we moved to our house on Tomar CT. that I experienced these events that would shape my future years.
My fascination with the Chicago Cubs Major League baseball team probably began with my Grandpa Alex, who would loyally watch the games on WGN from the comfort of his smoking chair whenever possible, and grew while under study in my third grade class taught by Sister Mary Patricia Ann, herself a die-hard Cubs Fan. For those that did their homework correctly and finished their in-class assignments properly under the prescribed time limit, the Good Sister set up a television behind a curtain where students (and herself whenever time allowed of) could watch the Cubs game. Since I loved TV, this seemed a great idea which I took advantage of often. Soon enough I was hooked, listening to the radio during school and getting to a television as soon as the final bell rang almost every day. I especially loved those night games on the West Coast, which would come on late and full of static, and fill my drowsy mind with pictures of the game. One sunny day following a thrilling Cub victory, I distinctly recall running out into the street shouting, "If they ever trade Dave Kingman, Bruce Sutter, or Bill Buckner I'll stop being a Cub fan!" Maybe not the brightest kid, but my heart was in the right place... To this day and without fail every spring training I look forward to another season of watching Cubs baseball. Imagine how crazy I'll be if they actually have a good team some year!
When not watching or listening to the Cubs, I played some sports of my own. I tried the Sixth and Eighth grade basketball teams, but managed only six points combined in both years, so ended that career early. I had much more success in Little League, and developed an unusually strong arm at a young age from playing catch with my father, whiffle ball with the Senn kids across the street, and hurling a tennis ball at the garage or Sipp School walls. Soon enough, I became a star pitcher on some teams, and picked up many trophies for my efforts.
Version One (Or, the Sappy One): One fall, mom basically told me I was going to take lessons in something, and I had until the end of December to decide which instrument. I couldn't find inspiration for a choice anywhere, and the days ticked away until finally one day in mid December, a stop motion Christmas Special called "The Little Drummer Boy" Christmas Special came on. As I watched, my heart swelled and I thought to myself, "That's it!" The beauty of the show brought tears to my eyes, and right after that show I let her know of my decision. She was thrilled that I had made my choice and bought me a Snare Drum soon thereafter.
Version Two (Or, the Lazy/Get Back at Mom One): One fall, mom basically told me I was going to take lessons in something, and I had until the end of December to decide which instrument. I couldn't find inspiration for a choice anywhere, and the days ticked away, with my mom asking me more and more frequently what choice I would make. She was really pushing piano since we had one sitting in our family room, but I thought that was too much effort to learn, what with having to use all ten fingers. Then, one day in mid December, a stop motion claymation-type Christmas Special called "The Little Drummer Boy" came on. As I watched, it hit me. "What could be easier than snare drum? No confusing notes to read, and if I could just learn how to play 'rum-dum-dum-dum-duuuummm' maybe she'd get off my back. Plus, the noise of a snare drum will just drive her nuts!" I told her later that week of my decision, and she tried like hell to change my mind, to no avail.
Either way you cut it, after Christmas vacation I was taking weekly snare drum lessons from a private instructor, and eventually learned to enjoy it as I got better. Of all those years of training, the only lessons I remember were the paradiddle and variations thereof, and the drum roll. It took me weeks to learn them, but I still incorporate these basic techniques in my playing today.
I was around pool at a young age as well. "Grandpa Kiki" was a bit of a pool player, and owned his own billiards table at their house in Hammond Indiana. When he retired and took Eleanor to Florida, he gave the table to my father, which we put in the basement. The sound of racks of pool balls being broken which came up through the floor intrigued me, but I was too small to play. One day, my Grandpa thought it was time I learned, so he sawed off a cue for me, put me on a stool, and let me mess around. I didn't know if I was left handed or right handed, but played more often as a lefty and grew to be pretty decent over time. My dad used to give me five shots to his one, then four, then three, then two, then one day many years later I actually could play him straight up and give him a game. He usually won pretty easily, but after I went to college, where I played often, I came back to his place with a vengeance and handed him his lunch. He was happy to see his college tuition money going to such a worthy cause as my billiards education (not!), but still beats me a fair number of games whenever I go back to their house.
Bergan was fun, and I was lucky enough to hang in a variety of circles so I got exposure to a lot of different people and activities. I continued to play drums every morning before school at band, played baseball with success afternoons following school, and got involved with theater at night.
Before too long, about seven of us formed an offshoot Dixieland band called, originally enough, "The Bergan High School Dixieland Jazz Band". We played retirement homes mostly, which worked out well for everyone. They were happy to hear somebody playing songs from their youth (though we suspected their abilities to hear what we were playing), and we were happy somebody was willing to listen to us while we learned how to play our instruments. Plus, we'd get a free meal as the retirement homes unfailingly would offer us a chance to stay for dinner and spend time with the residents. Though we were pretty awful at first, we got better with practice and played for a number of years actually making good money under the name "River City Ramblers".
By the end of sophomore year, my schedule was too full and something had to go. After painful agonizing, I made the choice to leave organized baseball behind (despite the development of a wicked curve ball) and concentrate on music and theater, much to the surprise of a lot of people. Soon, this commitment paid off with a quantum leap in my ability to play drumset as well as a new desire to develop my voice. Though I never actually sung in the productions, preferring to drum in the pit orchestra or be Stage Manager backstage, I often would "sit-in" for literally anyone who didn't show up for practices. Much to the annoyance of classmates, I would roam the halls between classes singing some song from "Godspell" or a Beatles tune I couldn't get out of my head. Eventually, people realized I wasn't going to stop and learned to deal with me...
One of my best high school memories regards the trip several members of my class took to Europe following my Junior year during the summer of 1984. As part of an effort of my outstanding Spanish teacher Seņora Young, we undertook a two week excursion from Granada, Spain, along the Mediterranean coast westward (including a day long trip past the Rock of Gibraltar into Morocco), up to Madrid, then to Versailles and Paris, then finally past the White Cliffs of Dover into the English mainland of London. I got a chance to practice my four years of Spanish, meet tons of interesting people, and see tremendous sights along the way. I highly recommend Spain to anyone with the chance to travel as it is beautiful, historic, and full of inspirational people.
Actually, the only drawback of the trip was me missing Ryne Sandberg hit not one but two home runs two tie the game against arch-rival St. Louis off of none other than Bruce Sutter. The Cubs went on to win a magical regular season National League East title, only to lose to San Diego in the playoffs. We now refer to that last loss as "Sunday Bloody Sunday".
I finished tenth in my class with a final semester surge, and won a bunch of awards including "Most Musical", but none more distinctive than the class "Son of the Revolution" given out by the American Daughters of the Revolution for excellence in all phases of life.
The fall of 1985 my body headed south, but not far, to the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana, where I went to study Broadcast Journalism. It seemed like the only job I could think of to have was sitting at Wrigley Field, right next to Harry Carry, looking out over the green grass of home.
Random luck placed me in the most unlikely of places: Allen Hall, the international residence hall on campus. I was placed on the ground floor, a dorm floor like no other, called since the latter 70's Ground South, home of a tight-knit band of kids intent on expanding horizons. We had musicians and engineers, architects and actors, computer science types and biology students alike. Our diversity made us strong, and in a matter of weeks I knew the names of all 66 people on the floor. We did everything together: flag football, cards of every imaginable type, and night clubbing just to name a few. After my second year, they booted us out and turned it into a girls' floor, but the seeds of lifelong friendships had been sowed.
My friend Chris Curry and I joined the world's most successful college radio station, WPGU 107, The Home of Rock and Roll. (Don't look for it, now it's called 107.1 The Planet and I can't listen to three songs in a row without having to change the channel.) He moved up the ranks quickly and became Station Manager at one point, while I took a slower path, hosting the 1950's-1974 show Past Tense on Sunday nights using all LP vinyl. By the end of college, I had gotten the prime 12-3pm Lunch shift and beaten all comers at my time slot in the area in the Neilson Ratings. People still remember me as "the radio guy" from those days, recalling the two and a half hour marathon of Jimi Hendrix I went off on, or one of my Grateful Dead sessions, or even the Peter Gabriel lunch which contained the best song transitions I ever made. We jocks went by the slogan "We love great segues!" and spent New Years Eve's at the station cranking up our favorite albums.
At this time I continued to hone my drumming skills, practicing daily and sitting in with a number of bands. The music scene in Champaign-Urbana has always been strong, but does go through phases. In 1990, the end of an era came to the town when the hugely popular Otis and the Elevators called it quits. They were the band I really wanted to drum for - great songs, strong characters with stage presence, and the ability to re-invent their songs every performance rather than rehash their hits. Their passing hurt everyone involved, but provided an opportunity for me to move in, pick up the pieces, and create a group from the ashes.
That band became Organic Advisor, a power trio made up of Jim Bury on guitar and Mark "Toupee" Zehr on base in addition to myself. We sold out our first compact disc (recorded at Private Studios) and follow up cassette effort (both also feature the considerable talents of trumpeter Jeff Helgesen). Not only were we comfortable as musicians, we were great friends.
Eventually, though, the call of the "real" world took its' toll on the band. Toupee got a job in the Pacific Northwest fighting for the environment, and though our next bassist Greg Garrison was a superior musician and strong songwriter, Jim was required to leave the area to continue his medical career as a resident in 1995. We kept playing to enthusiastic crowds, but with less frequency than any of us liked.
While Jim and Mark searched their souls for career inspiration, so did I. Using Norman Vincent Peale's book "You Can If You Think You Can" and the hugely popular career advice book "What Color Is Your Parachute?" as guides, I embarked on a introspective journey that led me to computers as a logical choice for a career. Though I had little experience with computers outside of word processing on a Mac, I felt comfortable with my choice and bought a computer to experiment with a few months later.
After interviewing with a number of CEO's in the computer industry, I thought it best to go back to school to get a technical degree and find a job in the field for the experience. Coe-Truman Technologies answered my call and hired me to take advantage of my versatile skills, and my over four years there taught me much about the computer industry and professional customer service skills. You can see what's been happening in my work life by checking out my current resume or going to my work section.
By the summer 1997, I decided it was time for a change. Twelve years in Champaign-Urbana was about enough, and after several visits I too experienced the charm of the Pacific Northwest. Though leaving a bunch of great people was tough, I take comfort in the fact that they are still there wishing me well and I look forward to meeting up with them again someday... Who knows, after visiting me in Portland (and some already have), they may feel as compelled to move here as I did!
My 1997 pictures page takes a look at the year I left the MidWest...