Grateful American: A Journey from Self to Service(81)
In black marker, the girl had written simply, “My Daddy.”
CHAPTER 15
Flurry of Action
The first time I met Moira’s father, things didn’t go so well. Steppenwolf had just gotten under way, and we were working out of the rented church basement. I sported a mass of scruffy hair and typically wore torn blue jeans and a raggedy T-shirt. Staying true to the 1970s struggling-artist motif, I looked pretty wild. And yes, I’ll confess, my internal self mostly focused on me, my dreams, and my big ideas.
Moira’s family lived in Pontiac, Illinois, about one hundred miles south of Chicago. At one time, her dad had worked in book publishing in New York, but they’d moved to this smaller town in the Midwest where he’d entered the real estate business. He golfed at the country club, wore suits to work, and belonged to the Union League Club, a respectable men’s organization with branches in cities around the country.
They heard we were dating, so Moira’s folks drove from Pontiac to Chicago to have dinner with us. Although we’d met before, this was the first big meet-the-parents event. They wanted to see if this kid was worthy enough to be dating their daughter.
I am sure they had their doubts.
Moira’s dad made dinner plans for us at the Chicago branch of the Union League Club. Moira and I were at different places that day, so she told me when and where to meet. After working at the theater all day, I was running late. So I jumped into the car and raced downtown, still sporting my raggedy jeans and T-shirt. I had no idea what the Union League Club was. When I showed up, the ma?tre d’ stopped me at the front door and sniffed, “Young man. You cannot enter this establishment looking like that.”
“I . . . I came all the way from the suburbs.” My voice climbed to a plea. “I have to meet my girlfriend’s parents. I’m late!”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. You need a suit jacket. You can’t come in here.”
“I don’t have one. Please. They’re Mr. and Mrs. Harris. Ask them. They’ll tell you.”
The ma?tre d’ sighed heavily. “Wait here.” He disappeared and apparently rummaged through the coatroom, because he came back with a suitcoat and ordered me to put it on. It fit tight through my shoulders and was short on my arms, but I wasn’t complaining, even when he crossed his arms and added, “You still can’t go in the front way. We’ll take you around the back.”
We walked around the building into the alley, past garbage cans and cardboard boxes. He escorted me onto the freight elevator. When the door opened at the assigned floor, he made sure the coast was clear and ushered me to the correct dinner table.
Moira breathed a sigh of relief that I’d finally made it. Her dad took one look, a bit dismayed and bewildered. Her mom bit her lip in concern. I apologized for being late and fumbled my way through the next two hours of dinner. The tone didn’t change much. When it came to my dating their daughter, let’s just say they weren’t overjoyed.
But there’s more to that story. Hang on. We’ll get to it soon.
In my office today, in our Center for Education and Outreach, we keep something we call the “Call to Action” list, which has the various organizations and causes I’ve supported since 9/11. What cheers me most is that it reflects the number of strong organizations that have come together to stand behind our nation’s defenders and first responders. We truly are a country that gives back. And I never want America to lose this drive.
The groups on that Call to Action list focus on issues as varied as the personalities of the people we help. Some initiatives directly help active-duty service members. Others support the wounded. Some shine a light on veterans’ families. Others entertain the troops and boost their morale. Still others honor veterans from wars past. Beginning in 2003, my aim became to do as much as I could, as fast as I could, with as many organizations as possible, to benefit as many people as possible. I want our nation’s defenders and first responders never to be forgotten. What follows are just a few stories from those years.
In 2005, I got a call from my buddy, actor, producer, and director Joe Mantegna. He’s appeared in everything from Three Amigos to The Godfather Part III, and we have a lot of mutual friends. And both of us grew up in Chicago. Each year since 2002, Joe has been a part of the National Memorial Day Concert in Washington, DC. He knew I was working with the USO, so in 2005 he asked me to be a part of the concert too. They were doing a segment on the history of the USO and wanted me to bring my band to be part of the segment. I said yes immediately.
If you’ve never seen it before, the ninety-minute concert is all about honoring our nation’s defenders, their families at home, and those who have made the ultimate sacrifice. The concert is free and held annually on the West Lawn of the United States Capitol Building the night before Memorial Day. Music is performed, documentary footage is shown, and dramatic readings are presented. It’s all broadcast live on PBS, and it’s one of the network’s highest-rated programs. The idea is to unite the country in remembrance and gratitude for all who have served and who have sacrificed their lives. Whether by participating or watching, we as a country can say thanks—and that we do not forget.
The logistics for the Lt. Dan Band’s participation proved tricky. We were just finishing an overseas USO tour, so we flew straight from London to Washington, DC, and promptly prepared to play at the National Memorial Day Concert. We’d only been together as a band for about a year and a half, and now we were rehearsing onstage backed up by the National Symphony Orchestra. When it came our turn to perform, we played “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and “God Bless the USA” along with the symphony—and the force of music in tribute to the troops pulsing from the stage felt incredible. An audience of between two and three hundred thousand people sat on the lawn, and another ten million watched on TV. As the size and purpose of the crowd washed over me, the reason for the event became unmistakable. We were here to say thank you. Period. When we finished our songs, I set down my bass, went to the microphone, and said a few words of thanks and encouragement for our nation’s defenders. And for the next ninety minutes I narrated different segments of the show.