I know you think there’s something wrong with me.
You can nod your heads as you read this because a part of me wonders if there’s something wrong with me as I try to recreate my adolescent years by sitting at a dead director’s grave and writing for hours on end.
But it was this realization that struck me on a humid early spring day as I yelled it into my phone, Psychedelic Furs blasting in the background:
I refuse to forget what it was like to be a teen as I enter perimenopause.
I refuse.
It all started with a John Hughes article I wrote for Chicago Parent in the dead of winter.
I went to his hometown to take pictures, and I also went to his grave for the first time.
As I was writing about the visit, a song from my Pandora playlist started playing.
Don’t You Forget About Me by Simple Minds.
I even made a joke about it in the article.
It made me smile, but it also made me pause because I don’t believe in coincidences.
Do I believe John Hughes is communicating with me from beyond the grave?
No.
Is it strange?
Yes.
My Ohio friends arrived in February, and I was deciding where to take them because they had never been to this area before.
So, where do I take them after Portillo’s?
John Hughes’ grave
I know. I KNOW.
WHY AM I TAKING THEM TO HIS GRAVE??!!
In my defense, they thought it was cool, and they are also “children of Hughes” teenagers who grew up watching Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, and Ferris Bueller.
We also spent the weekend visiting film locations from two of the aforementioned films, and it was while doing so that the idea for the John Hughes Museum was born.
Why isn’t there one?
Then, in the midst of menopausal hell, unbelievable things occurred that I felt like were signs pointing me in the direction of a John Hughes museum.
-My husband discovered (by chance?) that John Hughes’ former home was open to the public for tours the week following my birthday for charity.
-Then, on my Facebook wall, my friend and fellow John Hughes fan Vikki shared a cool link about unknown Sixteen Candles facts, stating that the film was released 31 years ago “today, May 4th, 1984.”
And I said, WAIT JUST A SECOND! Did you just say the 4th of May, 1984? On the same day, I posted about the need for a John Hughes Museum in Chicago.
We bought those damn charity tickets to the John Hughes mansion faster than you could say SAVE FERRIS.
My husband took this photo from the car because it’s cold on Lake Michigan in April. Yes, I am writing by John Hughes’ grave. I believe he wanted proof that his wife required mental help. He was probably texting his friends and family something like, “I told her to get into the car, but she said something about James Spader and then she lost me…”
“John Hughes WOULD love my tenacity. And we WOULD tweet me back JON CRYER! He WOULD email me back Andrew McCarthy!!” I’m looking at you both. SIDE EYE.
I’m embarrassed to admit that I tweeted about the museum to Jon Cryer and Andrew McCarthy. Surprisingly, they did not respond. I’m curious why.
The John Hughes mansion tour was on a Friday afternoon. My husband and I drove to a church where we were to grab the shuttle to take us to Mr. Hughes’ former home.
A couple of notes:
-The shuttle was full of women and us.
-Women who had a good 10-15 years on us.
-We felt like we were on our way to a bridge club outing.
I felt sorry for my husband because he was vastly outnumbered.
But then I laughed at the absurdity of the situation.
For cripes sake, we were going to John Hughes’ mansion, and it was older women in capris and ballet flats.
And all I could think about was singing, “I WANNA BE AN AIRBORNE RANGER!!”
We have arrived.
Shall we plow?
I felt like we would be rubbing elbows with fellow Hughes fans, movie fans, etc. people who would be interested with the history of the home, the person who owned it.
Instead, it was filled with lots and lots of ladies who lunch.
We were told that no pictures or large bags were permitted inside this tent.
I had brought my large camera and purse, but they said, “Oh that is NOTHING, we have seen MUCH bigger, you are fine.”
As a rule follower, I didn’t take a single photograph, instead following strict instructions, taking my program book, and inhaling each room.
I enjoyed every minute I spent in this house.
It was crowded and difficult to concentrate at times, but I didn’t let that distract me from trying to focus on the man who lived here, all of the cool meetings that must have taken place here, and all of the amazing people who must have walked the halls.
I bet James Spader was a real asshole to John’s kids in this playroom!
I bet John Candy took a dump in that bathroom!
So you know, solemn thoughts.
I was told that there were pictures in the program that we were given, but I never looked at it while inside because I was taking in all of the rooms.
It wasn’t until I got home that I realized there wasn’t a single image in my program.
Not going to lie, I felt cheated.
The only nod to John Hughes was a loop of The Breakfast Club in the “rec room.”
But there was one room that really got to me.
The so-called “man cave.”
I was drawn to a painting of John Hughes on the mantle as soon as I walked into the room.
It completely caught me off guard, and as I stared into it, tears welled up in my eyes.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.
I became lost in the moment and soon realized I was crying.
I told my husband that I needed to gather myself or else people would think something was wrong with me.
Then, as we moved to another part of the room, we came across an actual picture of Mr. Hughes, one that was much more recent than the previous one.
It just meant a lot to me to see that in the house because I hadn’t seen anything of him before.
We did get to walk through the home’s gardens and take pictures there.
Which turned out to be one of the highlights of the tour for me.
I did hear his name here and there throughout the day.
In the home.
In the yard.
In the garden.
Whispers…..oh yes, he was the one….oh you know, Pretty in Pink…
Pink.
My feet.
On John Hughes patio.
Wearing my chucks.
I dressed up.
But I did NOT wear ballet flats.
I wanna be an airborne ranger……
The first thing I thought of when I saw this pool was, I wonder if Matthew Broderick swam in it?
In a leopard print thong.
Danke Schoen….
More bridge club ladies.
” You know Judd Nelson signed my boob back in 1985 in Poughkeepsie during a press junket for St. Elmo’s Fire. And I wasn’t wearing any underwear, ladies.”
Titter, titter, titter.
I SWEAR TO GOD THAT WAS WHAT THE LADY IN THE WHITE HAIR WAS SAYING.
Allegedly.
Then the lady in the pink jacket piped in, ” yeah, well he smacked my ass on the way out”
Oh, that was way too much fun.
WHAT??
OH LIVE A LITTLE.
Only Ferris Bueller fans will get this.
DON’T TELL ME THIS ISN’T A SIGN.
As we walked through the mansion’s many halls, I told my husband, “I feel like we’re passing Blaine, Steff, and Benny with every turn.”
It’s strange how he made his money from that film and yet here we are. He was Benny, Steff, Blaine…
Like when Andie drives through the neighborhood in Pretty in Pink and casually remarks that the people who live in these mansions probably don’t appreciate the homes they live in.
I had the same reaction to the former home of the man who wrote the line in the film.
I wondered, as I looked around each room, if he thought it was half as nice as I did.
We stood in front of his former house for about five minutes, staring at it, before looking at each other and deciding it was time to catch the shuttle back to our car.
But first, let us to take a selfie.
I was kind of hoping we would see his ghost in the background.
No such luck.
Damn.
We didn’t say much on the shuttle and just took it all in.
We ate lunch at Smashburger, sitting outside and eating burgers and fries when my husband gave me a gift.
He sent me the photos below:
Two illegal pictures from the tour.
It was the best present.
He said it was worth getting caught for.
Mr. Hughes, I believe, would also agree.
This day was both cool and strangely emotional.
That night, my dear friend Vikki messaged me, asking how my day went, and I told her that I had a feeling that I had spent the day with John Hughes, if that makes sense.
“I think I’ll write one more post and then drop it,” I replied. Allow the John Hughes Museum concept die with him.”
Then my dear friend wrote back one of the best paragraphs I have read in a long time:
I have been reading this over and over and not wanting to respond until I had the right words. I don’t think I will ever have the right words. But you cannot give up on this idea. I agree with his movies being his museum also. But he defined our teenage years. There is no one that cannot relate to his characters. If you truly feel a museum may not be the route to go, then why not a John Hughes festival every year? It makes total sense how you felt like you spent the day with him. I truly believe HE chose to spend this day with you. There is a reason you found about this tour. Once in a lifetime opportunity ….? Maybe. But it’s one that you got to experience fully.
I think I read and re-read that probably ten times.
When I walked into his house that day, I could hear rumblings of…… sixteen candles even among the little white-haired bridge club interior decorator ladies. breakfast club sspsss sspss sspss sspss ssps sspsssspss….even those ladies were taken aback.
My mid-life crisis may be foolish, a pipe dream.
But, in any case, I will not give up.
You won’t believe what I have in store for you.
Let’s just say a road trip, old friends, and a script are all involved.
Discover more from A Grace Full Life
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
A Grace Full Life 