Channeling Mr. Hughes

I know you think there’s something wrong with me.
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.

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 my 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 felt like signs pointing me toward 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.
On my Facebook wall, my friend and fellow 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 May 4th, 1984? On the same day, I posted about the need for a John Hughes Museum in Chicago.

a grace full life blog — We bought those damn charity tickets to the Hughes mansion faster than you could say SAVE FERRIS.

writer sitting at John Hughes grave site — My husband took this photo from the car because it was 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.

The mansion tour was on a Friday afternoon. My husband and I drove to a church to grab the shuttle that would take us to 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.
All I could think about was singing, “I WANNA BE AN AIRBORNE RANGER!!”

John Hughes Lake Forest mansion — We have arrived. Shall we plow?

I had expected to rub elbows with fellow Hughes fans—movie lovers, history buffs, people who cared about the man who lived here.
Instead, it was filled with lots and lots of ladies who lunch.

tour of John Hughes home — We were told no pictures or large bags were allowed inside the tent. I had my large camera and purse, but they said, “Oh, that is NOTHING, we have seen MUCH bigger. You’re fine.” As a rule follower, I didn’t take a single photo. I followed instructions, held my program book, and inhaled each room.

I enjoyed every minute.
It was crowded and sometimes difficult to concentrate, but I didn’t let that distract me from imagining the man who lived here, the cool meetings that must have taken place, and all the amazing people who must have walked these 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!

Solemn thoughts, of course.

But one room really got to me: the so-called “man cave.”
I was drawn to a painting of Hughes on the mantle as soon as I walked in.
It completely caught me off guard. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
I became lost in the moment and soon realized I was crying.
I told my husband I needed to gather myself, or people would think something was wrong with me.

Then, as we moved to another part of the room, we came across an actual recent photo of Hughes.
It meant a lot to me to see that in the house because I hadn’t seen anything of him before.

We walked through the gardens, which turned out to be one of the highlights of the tour for me.

I heard his name whispered throughout the day—in the home, the yard, the garden.
Whispers… oh yes, he was the one… oh, you know, Pretty in Pink…

my shoes on John Hughes patio — My feet. On John Hughes’ patio. Wearing my Chucks. I dressed up. But no ballet flats.

I wanna be an airborne ranger…

John Hughes pool — The first thing I thought when I saw the pool: I wonder if Matthew Broderick swam in it? In a leopard-print thong.

Danke Schoen…

ladies chatting by John Hughes pool — “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.

Sloane from Ferris? — Only Ferris Bueller fans will get this.

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 their homes.
I had the same reaction here.
I wondered if Hughes thought the home was half as nice as I did.

We stood in front of his former house for about five minutes, staring, before deciding it was time to catch the shuttle back

We didn’t say much on the shuttle and just absorbed it all.

We ate lunch at Smashburger, sitting outside, when my husband gave me a gift: he sent me these photos.

Two illegal pictures from the tour.

He said it was worth getting caught for.
Mr. Hughes would agree.

The day was both cool and strangely emotional.
That night, my friend Vikki messaged me, asking how it went, and I told her I felt like 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. “Let the John Hughes Museum concept die with him.”

Then my dear friend wrote back:

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.

My midlife 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.
Let’s just say: a road trip, old friends, and a script are all involved.