Farmers Weekly Review

By Michael Cleary

The first memory of George Ryan was when I was no more than 5 years old. That must have been 1968 or thereabouts. I remember it distinctly. Ryan was at our house, chatting with my dad, and I was pouring shots of Aquavit. As a point of information, Aquavit is a Scandinavian booze that can best be described as Vodka flavored with Caraway seeds. Dad always had a bottle in the freezer.

I don’t know why 5-year-old me was pouring the shots, but it seemed fairly normal at the time. Up to now, this is not the memorable part. What made it memorable was my shot pouring skills, being 5 years old, were less than professional and I managed to douse Ryan’s hand, and the adjoining wristwatch, with a fair amount of icy cold Aquavit. I was mortified of course. He took it in stride, however, probably figuring this is what you get with a 5-year-old bartender.

Over the years, our family usually spent Fourth of July at the Ryan house in Kankakee. George would grill burgers and hot dogs, dousing flare-ups with beer, and we would all walk down to Cobb Park for the fireworks. On New Year’s Eve, we were often down in the Ryan’s finished basement, while the adults were upstairs. I remember my first time hearing a Cheech and Chong album in that basement. I distinctly remember trying not to let on that I did not understand any of the marijuana references.

I won’t rehash George Ryan’s political history here; that’s been covered elsewhere in the media. But I will talk about George Ryan the man.

He had a presence that filled the room. I think anyone who met him would agree. For one thing, he had a booming, distinctive voice. Upon entering a room, you couldn’t help but know he had arrived; a booming “Hello, how are ya” to the first person he saw. A secret talent I have is I can do an uncanny impersonation of that voice.

He had a gift for making people feel seen or recognized in a crowd. Whenever I would run into him — and usually in unexpected places — he would boom, “Michael Claraday!” “Claraday” was a nickname he had for us. My dad was “Judge Claraday.” Apparently, there was some fishing trip long ago where everyone was assigned light-hearted aliases. Further details of that trip, or any reason for the aliases, were never forthcoming.

The second to last time I saw George Ryan was in 2004 at my dad’s wake. He and his wife Lura Lynn arrived without fanfare. It was, in fact, the first time I had ever seen him enter a room without filling it in his usual fashion. Of course, he wasn’t there as a politician; he was there as a friend. He and Lura Lynn stayed for the entire wake, at least 3 hours.

They sat quietly during that time, speaking to us, but not intruding in any way. I think until that moment, I had not understood what good friends they had been. He was there for us, but most of all, he was there to say goodbye to a friend. It was a touching demonstration of friendship that I will never forget.

The last time I saw George Ryan was completely random. I was having a sandwich at Manny’s Delicatessen about a year after my dad passed. We chatted briefly. The subject of my dad came up, and I said that there are days where I just want to phone him and ask a question. He told me, “That feeling never goes away.”

I choose to remember George Ryan not as a politician, but as a man who cared deeply for his family, was unapologetic about his principles and was first and foremost a good guy.

Michael Cleary is publisher of Farmers Weekly Review.