On the day George G. Gannon
got married, he didn’t wear a
wedding ring. Instead, he simply
turned his University class of
1952 ring around on his finger;
silver band on the outside,
ostentatious blue sapphire facing
the palm. Real classy, grandpa.
But then again, as a newly
minted Wolverine myself, such an
incident is rather unsurprising.
School spirit has always been the
University of Michigan’s most
prized commodity. Or, at least
that’s the excuse my grandfather
used to defend his slightly
unconventional tastes. We — the
students of the 21st century —
might instead chalk that up to
“The Michigan Difference” in all
it’s beautiful simplicity. Leave it
to a Michigan Wolverine to forgo
a ring on their wedding day in
favor of their class ring. What
romantics we Wolverines are.
As
a
child,
I
can
still
vividly remember holding my
grandfather’s
wrinkled,
soft
hand in my small, chubby fingers.
And oh, how I loved to play with
his class ring. I would roll the
ring round and round his finger,
and peer into that sapphire,
imagining that I could fall right
into it’s blue, mysterious depths.
I know every facet carved into
the stone as well as I know
the words to John Denver’s
“Country Roads” or the menu at
Ann Arbor’s local coffee haunt,
Espresso Royale.
Back then, his hands seemed
so big and strong, despite being
weathered with age. Even now,
though his hands are no longer as
steady, warmth and reassurance
still oozes from his grip. When I
take his hand in mine, strolling
down our familiar and beaten
Brooklyn
paths,
the
world
stops turning for a few restful
moments.
Two
partners
in
crime,
nothing was beyond us. Whether
it was ice cream with dulce de
leche sauce for breakfast or
giggling incessantly in the back
rows of church (during mass, to
my mother’s horror), trouble was
our shared manifesto. A self-
proclaimed “tough guy,” I had
him wrapped around my little,
chubby fingers.
Thick as thieves as we were
— and still are — it should have
been no surprise to anyone that
the University of Michigan is
where I would find myself a
second home. Where I went, my
jiddee – my grandfather – would
always follow.
And I always thought I knew
my grandfather well. Among
my family, I’ve always been
incredibly close to him. From
confiding in him about failed
tests, discussing the complexities
of literature and film or even
gossiping about boys (George
Gannon’s pro-date tip is to grab
some “soda-pop” or a malt at the
local diner), nothing was ever a
secret between us.
Even the things left unspoken,
we still understood. As my
grandfather
grew
older,
his
health declined. Conversations
cut
short
with
excuses
of
exhaustion,
and
a
softly
exhaled “I’m fine” never truly
deceived me of my grandfather’s
difficulties.
I
implicitly
understood everything looming
behind the silence.
Now,
the
years
separate
us, and so, too, does a new,
unfamiliar
distance
gape
between us. Yet, since stepping
foot in Ann Arbor, I feel that
I have never understood my
grandfather more. I have never
felt closer to him than I do now.
As I walk along the streets
of Ann Arbor, with its the
pothole
littered
streets
and
lamp-lit sidewalks, everything
is strangely familiar. As I lay
on the lawn of the Diag during
Michigan’s half-hearted attempt
at spring or fall, or as I plod
heavy-footed along snow banked
paths, I feel torn between a
thousand different moments, a
million different lifetimes.
Every day, I wake up bleary-
eyed in a dark dorm room. The
sun not yet risen from winter’s
darkness; the room muggy and
hot from a heater on full blast.
Every day, I trod, unbalanced,
down the hall to the bathroom.
Every day, I ungracefully pull on
layers on layers to bundle against
the warmth.
Sometimes, I stop, and I think.
I think, for a brief moment, of
my grandfather. I think of how
he once lived in the very same
dorm as I did, all those years
ago. I sit, and I wonder: Did we
have similar morning routines?
Stumbling from his bed, pulling
on his shirt backwards, hair
sticking up awkwardly like my
own curly mane? I did inherit
my dark curls, bushy and thick,
from him and my ancestors from
Lebanon. Did he slink down the
hallway at the crack of dawn and
blanket himself in coarse layers
to protect against the cold?
Sometimes, I can almost see
him walking beside me. I’ll sling
my leather messenger bag over
my shoulder, careen out the
door in a bundle of scarves and
sweaters and flying papers — and
there he is, walking beside me.
An ever-changing collage of old
photos, my mind sloppily piecing
together an indecisive image of
my grandfather in his college
days.
Often, I am too sleep-deprived
and frantic in my rush to class
to acknowledge this ghost that
walks with me. But together, on
sleepy mornings, we walk into
the cold together. And with a
gush of February wind, he’s gone
again.
On Monday, Wednesday and
Friday mornings, I work the
morning caffeine rush at Bert’s.
I’m always all-smiles, sing-song
small talk and an array of self-
deprecating jokes about exams
and the cold. The café, always
busy, is a buzz of warm chatter,
pierced by the shrill cry of the
espresso machine, the smell of
roasting coffee hanging heavy in
the air.
As
I
bustle
to
and
fro,
mopping,
scooping,
dashing,
chatting, I think. I think, again,
of my grandfather. I think of how
he worked, too, in college. I think
of how he grew up scurrying
around the family grocery as a
child in Detroit; I think of how
he worked as a chef for a sorority
on campus, making ends meet
with the same brand of hustle
and bustle I do three mornings
a week. I wonder if he joked
with coworkers and gossiped in
between customer orders, like I
do. I wonder if he turned some
of the famous Gannon charm on
some of the girls he served — just
like I throw in a playful wink to
passerbys, or jokingly write my
number on the rim of a coffee
cup when friends float by.
Sometimes, as I lean against
the
counter,
hands
braced
behind me and huffing oh-so-
slightly from my endless stream
of small-talk, I see him there
with me. We slyly nudge our hats
off our heads, combing fingers
through our hair in an effort to
revive flattened curls — Gannons
have never been hat people. Of
course, in lieu of a gray T-shirt
and baseball cap, my familiar
ghost
wears
a
more
1950s
characteristic button down, and
trousers belted at the waist, with
what my mind fancies to be a
funny-looking paper-boat hat.
Then, the peace is broken by
a new wave of customers. The
line seemingly without end, like
a cruel, impossible bonus-level
of a video game. I’ll whip my cap
back on with a wince and quick
prayer for my hair, and step up to
plate at the register — my ghost
disappears.
On Wednesdays, I go out
dancing — swing dancing, to
be
precise.
Dancing
around
the ballrooms in the Michigan
League, spinning on the balls of
my feet and kicking up my skirts,
it’s as if I’ve fallen through time.
From the vintage fashion proudly
shown off by fellow dancers
and the classic jazzy tunes of
the ’20s, ’30s and ’40s to the
old-fashioned wood floors and
panelling of the ballroom, the
evening is suspended between
eras.
As I stumble though my
swing-outs in a botched version
of the Lindy Hop, I think of my
grandfather. I think of how he,
too, used to dance swing on
campus — maybe even in the
very same ballrooms. I think
of how he’d frugally save his
pocket money — just enough for
a date, he always tells me, just
enough to take a nice girl out
for the night. I think of how he
might have come dancing, weary
and tired from hours of classes
and work; I wonder if he felt
the same burst of energy, the
same jittery excitement to dance
when the music starts to play as
I do. Yes, he would have. He still
does, even though his knees no
longer let him join the dancing
fray. My grandfather has always
loved music with all his heart.
I imagine that just like me he
would have been content to never
let his feet leave the dance floor.
Some things are different, of
course. Back then, I imagine,
they might’ve had a band playing
through the night, rather than
Spotify hooked up to speakers.
I imagine students might have
dressed up for the night out; I
imagine that going out dancing
was the big night of the week.
I think of how I might have fit
in well, with that crowd from
the ’50s, as I dance away my
Wednesday night in well-loved,
second-hand red heels and a
bright orange flouncy skirt.
Sometimes, I imagine that
it’s my grandfather I’m dancing
with instead. I close my eyes,
and for a moment 2019 slips away
— the music and the movement
takes over. Together, we dance
for a moment in a timeless
bubble, neither in my time, nor
in his. He always said he wanted
to teach me to dance. I imagine
that it’s my grandfather coaching
me though the fast kicks of the
Charleston. We may never be
able to dance together in real
life, but I can have this moment.
Later, as midnight closes in,
I’ll triple-step my way across the
softly illuminated diag. I’ll dance
playfully, teasingly around the
block M. I’ll tip-toe across the
stone benches, swing along the
steps of Hatcher, and twirl my
way past Angell. I revel in the
intimacy of the night. This dark,
unknown world after sunset
that seemingly only I know —
here, I dance across more than
a century of precious dreams
gifted by The Sandman. In the
quiet of the evening, I hear the
buzz of activity of students
from years — from eras — gone
by. Lover’s embrace under the
engineering arch, friends scurry
from the library, dancers, like
me, blissfully straggle home.
This
moonlight
world
is
the collision of timelines. The
entirety of campus, of Ann Arbor
itself, is steeped in nostalgia.
The city is practically dripping
in
memories
—
good,
bad,
beautiful and ugly. It is easy to
reminiscence when gazing at the
block M, sitting in the Michigan
Theater, or walking through
the Michigan League. But the
truth is, these memories are
everywhere. One only has to slip
beneath the thinly veiled surface
to find these carefully nurtured
moments and lifetimes.
Thousands of students before
us
have
walked
along
our
campus. Thousands have filtered
through these very same halls,
trudged
stubbornly
through
snow-storms,
and
dragged
themselves
through
exam
seasons. Just because they leave
does not mean their presence is
no longer felt. Rather, I imagine
that within the very foundations
of
the
University
lie
the
experiences of these travellers
who have passed through and
beyond Michigan’s walls.
I
often
reach
into
this
veil, beyond the demanding
excitement of the everyday to
the depths of the past. It’s true
that one should not dwell too
long on what has happened,
and instead look to the future,
but for me, it has provided
comfort. My grandfather, who
I love unconditionally, is now
more than that — more than
a “grandfather.” As silly and
obvious as it may seem, he is
also a person, one who I finally
have had the pleasure to become
acquainted with. By accessing
the well of memories held within
the heart of the University
and its campus, I have come to
understand and identify with my
grandfather, George G. Gannon,
so much more. I have come to
understand, as cliche as it is,
what it means to be a Wolverine.
Now, when my byline prints
“Madeleine Virginia Gannon,”
I bring those memories — that
nostalgia — with me. I invoke
the memory of my grandfather,
of the Gannon name, in every
article I write. I add to this
collection of memories with
every morning I wake up to the
Ann Arbor sunrise, and every
night I fall asleep to that clear
and bright Michigan moon.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
b-side
Thursday, February 21, 2019 — 5B
Inheriting the Wolverine
name across generations
MADELEINE GANNON
Daily Arts Writer
MADELEINE VIRGINIA GANNON / DAILY
B-SIDE SECONDARY
The sign, “Ann Arbor: A Book
Lover’s Town,” is located on
the corner of N. University and
State St., right across the street
from Walgreens. After pointing
out the sign to a number of
people in the course of the past
week and a half, I realized that
it hides: In its inert position and
monochromic
color
scheme,
“Ann
Arbor:
A
Booklover’s
Town” remains tucked away
from prying, curious eyes. I
picture students and workers
hurrying
past,
their
heads
down, focused on their phones
or their Airpods in, lost in
Ariana Grande’s “NASA.” It’s
an iterance of go, go, go. There’s
not enough time to stop and
observe. It makes sense. After
all, they’re not tourists.
I remember standing right in
front of that sign, donned in a
charcoal coat, a polka-dotted
blouse and red lipstick. My
coat, which had once served me
well for my 37-second trek from
my Honda Accord to my high
school in Nebraska, didn’t fare
well in the Michigan winter.
I was flanked by my parents
and siblings, with my mother
urging, impatient and cold, to
go inside and eat.
“Yallah, Sarah. Yallah,” she
called out, holding the door to
Mama Satto’s half open. “We’re
hungry.” I had just enough time
to read the last line: Borders is
opening on Main Street. Next
to it, a shot from 2011, when
Borders
closed,
bittersweet.
I snapped a picture, my nails
chipped and fingers bit by
the
cold,
collecting
quirky
pictures of the University and
Ann Arbor like they were rare
Pokémon cards. In my arsenal,
I had more than 20 pictures
of the Law Quad, including a
scribble of stick figures on the
edge of the wall — aesthetic, I
thought — and, of course, the
quintessential
photographs
in the entry of Nickels Arcade
and under the sign of the
State Theater, “Howl’s Moving
Castle.” If I wasn’t already
endeared enough to Ann Arbor,
“Howl’s Moving Castle” was
that final proverbial brick. Ann
Arbor’s history with books
was just the cherry on top. It’s
true — in my college search,
outside of Niche and U.S. News
& World Report, I’ve spent
an
embarrassingly
long
time
looking
at
websites
that
ranked
the
best
college
libraries.
The Michigan Law
Library
appeared
every time, and I
added
an
asterisk
beside the University
of Michigan to signal
its edge.
I was rearranging
the photos in my
head,
planning
which ones to post or
make into a collage
on Instagram (this
was the time before
Instagram
had
the option to add
multiple pictures at
once). I knew what
I was going to say,
my college hopping
coming to a close:
I’m ready to be a
Michigan Wolverine.
Flash-forward
four
years
and
Ann Arbor is like a
revolving door with books: Each
year it seemed as if another one
would exit, and in its place,
something else will arrive.
Infatuated with the crinkly
feel of used books and the
dusty, dreamlike atmosphere
of bookshops, I had coaxed
my friend Katherine the year
before, another bibliophile, to
go bookstore hopping with me.
“It
would
be
like
an
exploration
of
Ann
Arbor
itself!” I enthused. I wrote
a list of all the book-stores
in the area, including a few
unconventional ones like Crazy
Wisdom
Bookstore
&
Tea
Room, Vault of Midnight, Aunt
Agatha and even the Ann Arbor
public library. I was amazed
at the specificity of books, and
how so many of my favorite
things — coffee, books and
cats — could exist in the same
space. And no book-voyage
is complete without a trip to
Dawn Treader — Its outside
book-display is a staple in my
memories of Michigan and
Ann Arbor. When I ventured
to Aunt Agatha’s the next fall
in a quest to find Christie’s
“ABC Murders,” however, I was
shocked to find that the store
was permanently closed. It was
a signal of the ever-
changing landscape
of Ann Arbor and
books,
paving
the
space for something
new.
The
very
first
sentence
from
the
sign on the corner
of
N.
University
and State St. reads:
“Ann Arborites have
always bought books,
borrowed
books
and
had
private
libraries.”
And
even
with
the heavy loss of a
bookstore. Whether
the
Ann
Arbor
Library Association
in 1838, Borders in
2011 or Aunt Agatha’s
in 2018, Ann Arbor
has always had and
always will continue
to have a dedicated
relationship
with
books. Even though
the bookstores may
leave, the books stay.
Now, almost exactly four
years later, I’m snapping the
same photo. And despite my
new winter coat and new life
experiences elbow-deep into
college, my relationship with
books has remained.
FILE PHOTO / DAILY
Ann Arbor is a town for
those that love to read
SARAH SALMAN
Daily Arts Writer
B-SIDE: BOOK REVIEW
I was rearranging the photos in
my head, planning which ones
to post or make into a collage
on Instagram (this was the
time before Instagram had the
option to add multiple pictures
at once). I knew what I was
going to say, my college hopping
coming to a close: I’m ready to
be a Michigan Wolverine.