I met Ryan Lavery when I was 12 and had befriended his older brother Chris at the start of junior high. Ryan was eight. As my friendship with Chris grew, I’d go over to the Lavery house and Ryan would there among the cats and the paper flowers their mother Charlene liked to collect. He was eager to please and, even then, quick with a joke. Like me, he’s the baby of the family.
Even in the oldest relationships there are gaps of information. I never asked my father why he loved aviation so much, and I don’t know what my sister’s favorite color is. And in the long years of friendships, we make assumptions about what we do not know. My mother assumes I don’t like coconut because she doesn’t like coconut. And I always thought the Lavery family had Bridgeport roots.
They seemed always to be at White Sox games and always parked at the BallPark Pub on Pershing. They worked in the Back of the Yards industrial park. And they were Irish – Char was McNally from home. The parents of Ryan Patrick Lavery must have been from the east of Halsted side of Bridgeport. Surely the children wanted to associate with the neighborhood in the same way I did – because of the family connection.
But as Ryan and I stood on my porch last weekend, with March coming in like a lion, he told me there were no family ties to the neighborhood at all. This wasn’t as shocking as, say, Ryan revealing he had a vestigial tail, but it did pull disorient me for a minute. Probably less. I also once thought the Laverys had to be Canadian because they liked hockey, watched SCTV, and, to my teenage mind that had not yet met an actual Canadian, “dressed like Canadians.”
The truth was that Ryan’s father John “Ken” Lavery owned Eastern Refrigerated Express, operating out of Back of the Yards. Delivering perishables before they expire added a layer of stress to the already profound travails of business ownership.
“He was workaholic,” Ryan said. “He was married to his work more than his family. I didn't begrudge him that at the time. It just was kind of understood. But then when you watch, you know, Growing Pains and Family Ties, you're like, well, where's my Michael Gross? Where’s my Alan Thicke?”
I only met John a few times. Had I been trying to date one of the Laverys, I would have found him intimidating. I remember him lying in bed and yelling down the hall demanding to know where we kids were going. His was a husky voice. But Ryan assured me that his father had a softer side, too.
“My comedy definitely came from him,” Ryan said. “He was a bit of a ham in that sense that he did voices and was goofy.”
And he took Ryan to White Sox games every Sunday. One of the perks of business ownership was that John was able to procure season tickets to the White Sox and Blackhawks games.
“He would just drive around the neighborhood and just know a guy and parked in his driveway, gave him some money. And just like a nod and a handshake. And I'd be like, ‘When I grow up dad, you're not gonna have to pay anybody to park in their driveway. You’ll be parking in my driveway.’”
Here was the true reason Ryan wanted to live in Bridgeport; to have a place for his father to park. He wanted the pair to be able to walk home together from Comiskey Park after a White Sox win, eating peanuts, and be proud to take care of his dad.
Ryan played the long game, and never forgot the goal. June 2003 was about to turn into July, and the lease was signed. It was the day Ryan was moving to Bridgeport. And it was the day John Lavery died from diabetes complications. Life is that way.
Ryan is getting that smoker’s voice now – maybe it’s becoming more like his father’s. We were standing on my porch again, with the gold of the setting sun making the south branch of the river look pretty. It’s strange to see a 43-year-old man standing before me and still be able to see his as an eight-year-old as well. Time is heavy and folds over itself.
We were talking again about the importance of humor in our lives. I think Ryan and I have a similar sensibility, though I call it “dark” and he prefers “thinking-person’s.” But while I inevitably get called an asshole, Ryan’s jokes seem to create for him loyal and lasting friendships. Like the one he has with me.
“I just want to make people smile first and then we can get to the doldrums of life after the fact,” he said.
You can hear Ryan talk about his relationship with his parents between 6:20 and 6:30 p.m., Fri., March. 11 on Lumpen Radio or, if you’re local, on 105.5 FM on your radio dial.
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