Songs in the middle

TULSA - It's Sunday morning, Zach is still asleep on the floor of Meghan's apartment, but the sun's rise has kicked me awake. (I got the couch.)

Always a good time to write.

We're in Tulsa to visit Meghan. Cindy held back in K.C. because she had to work. But we needed to haul some furniture down to Meg. It's been a nice visit. Her apartment is great ... spotless, though I'm told that just 48 hours ago that was far from the case. As we drove up to her apartment yesterday, Meghan -- alerted by our phone call just minutes before -- was hurrying two massive garbage bags to the dumpster.

On the drive here, Zach introduced me to Radiohead and Oasis. (As promised, I'll get to music in a minute.) And later, while he snoozed, I took in the passing scenes -- fields burned golden brown by the cold; dots of cattle far in the distance; and beyond them, an undulating flatness of tans and light greens that extended for miles until it abruptly hit the deep, towering blue sky touched by the sun.

Beautiful.

And then I thought about the recent comments of a coworker friend, who now lives in Portland, Ore. She grew up in Omaha and is a KU grad, but was having to defend the Midwest to new friends out there who consider this patch of land "fly-over country." It's an old term, of course, often used as a joke by those who bounce back and forth like ping-pong balls between East and West coasts at 30,000 feet and prefer to not stop in between.

If I was a cranky person, I'd consider the term condescending and demeaning. But I'm not, and it's not. They should have their fun and fly over while we enjoy life below.

Interestingly, our new president hails from the midlands ... recently Chicago, to be specific. So I thought it'd be fun to focus on a few "Chicago" songs, old and new, that have caught my attention. And use them to remind the East and West coasters, who adore Obama, that it's his Midwestern sensibilities that are guiding his steady course. (Don't also forget: his mom and grandparents lived in Kansas.)

Let's start with the new -- Lucy Wainwright, the Brooklyn, N.Y., native who sings a touching song of a seemingly first, summertime visit to the Windy City. A fly-in and -out over a few days. And she falls in love with it ... "goodnight, Chicago, you are mine." Check it out.

Then there's Sufjan Stevens, whose work my son Zach sent my way. Sufjan, a Petosky, Michigan, native, has pledged to write songs honoring all 50 states, and has wrapped up two so far -- Michigan and Illinois. Both states are near and dear to our hearts -- Michigan, because of Above Water, and Illinois, where Cindy and I met and where I landed my first steady job (in Springfield).

Sufjan's Illinois collection includes a piece called "Chicago." Here's a YouTube version.

Smart, talented kid.

There are plenty of other vintage songs out there celebrating the big-shouldered city. But I'll mention just two, both of which are well-known:

First, Frank Sinatra's "Chicago" conjures memories of the '40s and '50s -- piano bars, dames, cigarette smoke and a lots of romance. Listen in.

And then there's the Chicago of the late '60s -- the Democratic Convention of 1968, the Vietnam War and the civil strife that caused unprecedented introspection as the country struggled with where it had gone wrong, and how to change course.

At the time, the Democratic Convention riots were top of mind for me, for two reasons: As we vacationed on Glen Lake in Michigan, we watched the convention and saw the Grant Park riots on TV. I was just 13 at the time, but I was fascinated by the political process. The riots, though, were a wake-up call -- a clue that all was not well with the Republic.

Second, a few days later, there was the trip home to St. Louis from the cottage. We passed through Chicago, and somehow -- I'm still not sure why -- a gaggle of police cars along the highway had cornered some folks. And a small cloud of tear gas drifted over Interstate 80. On these highway trips, I lived in the far back of our station wagon, stretched over piles of blankets we'd take to the cottage to keep warm.

Dad would always crack the tailgate window so I'd have fresh air.

On this day, though, and this time, that window sucked in the gas. And my eyes stung. I cried, involuntarily and briefly, not knowing what it was.

Only later, as I grew up in high school, did I begin to appreciate Graham Nash's call to others to come to "Chicago." And I realized the call-to-action it represented. That's why Obama's Grant Park victory speech resonated so much with so many.

(The recollection of Nash's "Chicago" also reminded me of Crosby, Stills and Nash's "Teach Your Children." As true today as then.)

You may be thinking a blog post from Tulsa, reaching to Chicago, is a stretch. In fact, not. Tulsa is right along Route 66, which famously connected Chicago to L.A. -- the midlands to the West Coast. You can still see the old Route 66 diners along Tulsa's 11th Street. Meghan's apartment is only blocks away. (I shot this photo of a Route 66 highway stone just outside Tally's Cafe in Tulsa.)

It's an arterial route that pumped life, literature, music and more into the LA. scene -- that connected the nation's heartland with our West Coast brethren.

You feel a bit sorry for those who look down on the Midwest at 30,000 feet, not missing the history and culture they know little about.

Then again, it's their choice. They should fly on, and fly fast. We can't have them blocking our sunshine and blue skies.