The air was thick with tension, fierce whispers bounced between the huddled groups hunched in corners, scribbling on notepads, heads in hands; all waiting, waiting, waiting for some word, some sign. It was hard to believe they were there after so much anticipation, sitting now in churned anxiety, the future uncertain and no way of rushing it.  It was too much for one and tears began. Before long, others joined  (there were lots of girls). It was not a happy night for any of them and dread loomed.

Who could have expected this?  After weeks of discussion about what to do, tense and sometimes emotional decisions about who would do it, late night meetings about how it would be done, what order to do it in, what placement in the lineup, it all came down to this:

Would TOOU or Megan McDonough be singing “Leaving On a Jet Plane” at the Mudaco Talent Show at Crystal Lake Community High School in the year 1970?

This was not a minor question nor a minor event. Mudaco (Music Dance Comedy) was the premiere talent show of the school year and we, TOOU — The Organization of Us — viewed it as a pivotal performance to cap a year of folk singing success and that song, “Leaving On a Jet Plane,” was our signature number. To have it snatched from us moments into dress rehearsal was unfathomable. By a girl who no one in that school could possibly compete with, a girl who was a bona fide celebrity by virtue of having won the WLS “Big Break Contest” at 14, subsequently scoring a record deal, then just continuing on in high school as the gorgeous guitar slinging, singing/songwriting phenomenon with her soulful eyes and long, swinging brunette hair, and well…who could compete with that?

Not me. Not us. We were from a another planet. Like the “Glee” geeks without the choreography. The Organization of Us, or TOOU as we were acronymically known, was just a loose band of earnest teenagers originally gathered to folk-sing along to the new and somewhat controversial “folk Mass” about to debut at St. Thomas Church in Crystal Lake, Illinois.  It was the vaunted Summer of Love, 1968, with its ubiquitous mix of flower power, draft card drama and lentil-soup fueled protests against the Viet Nam war, and TOOU became safe harbor for those of us too young to fully embrace the hippie lifestyle but aware enough to rebel against…something. Launching the Folk Mass with its banging guitars, bouncing energy and unconventional repertoire would have to do. So while my oldest sister marched with political fervor in her John Lennon glasses and Janis hair, I spent that summer reveling in Summer Blonde, Sergio Mendes and my first boyfriend. But more than anything, that summer I fell in love with this eclectic group of singers and guitarists who met in the church basement to pound out folky versions of “Holy Holy Holy” and the “Our Father.” That boy I liked was one of the movers and shakers and I was lucky enough to have him and the vocal chops to move up quickly in the TOOU performing hierarchy. It was an unforgettable summer.

Our success with the folk Mass, which ultimately became the most attended service at the church, led to a burgeoning slate of outside engagements, not least of which was our first non-secular gig at some business or school event (can’t remember).  As if breaking out of church mode wasn’t heady enough, it was also our first paying gig…$50 to split between a group of 15 or so. And we were delighted. I think it was then that we realized we needed a name; we couldn’t just be the “St. Thomas folk singers.”  We needed a moniker, something with heft and buzz. It’s my recollection that I came up with the very era-centric name of The Organization of Us. Or maybe I just came up with the rather clumsy acronym TOOU, but whatever the history, the name stuck. Before long we were performing at parties, beach gatherings, other church events, anywhere we could squeeze into a corner or a picnic table and start singing. TOOU became a formidable performance behemoth that sometimes included up to 25 kids, many of whom played guitars, tambourines, penny whistles and various other percussion instruments and, quite frankly, we took up so much space we simply began to require bigger venues!  There were the performers from my family – sisters Peg, Mary and me and, in later incarnations, brothers Paul and Tom. There were the O’Reillys, 14 siblings, most of whom could sing like birds, all of whom were enthusiastic performers: Chris, Beau, Cecelie, Gloria, Dorothy, Beth Ann, Jamie, well…there were lots of them, some of whom joined later.  Then there was our guitarist extraordinaire, Pete Swenson, who we’d force to play “Classical Gas” as often as we could because he was simply brilliant at it. His sister Patti, Ken Polnow, Andi LeBlanc, Wendy Treptow, Karen Tefft, Tom Mooney, Joe Haase, Kent Tarpley; Cris Vosti. Occasionally Ed Csech would show up with his rocker edge and cigarette smoke and I’d sing songs like Simon and Garfunkle’s “The Boxer” with him. He played 12 string better than anyone I ever knew, then or now. People came and went (check the many names under these photos), it was an ever-fluid line-up, with some of us — the core group — always there to anchor the show. And with our excellent musicians, clear voices, and tight harmonies that stacked up high, sweet and all Phil Spectorish wall-of-sound, we were often very, very good.

Then came Mudaco, a kind of primitive “American Idol,” with the prestige and excitement to attract every star-struck, exceptionally talented, marginally talented, freakishly not talented but always entertaining high school ham to its roster and we were right there at the top of the list.  Also at the top of the list? Yep. Megan McDonough. I didn’t know Megan well; in fact, I barely knew her at all. She was royalty. You have to understand: WLS was the premiere rock station in Chicago with DJ Dick Biondi and his playlist of songs that made every kid within the broadcasting area dance around dining room tables, and that WLS had given Megan McDonough a prize. A big prize. She got a record deal with Wooden Nickel Records. I sang Peter, Paul and Mary songs in a church. She was quite literally of out of my league and I knew it. But it was high school and what she had in fame we had in sheer numbers and so we both carved our niche and peacefully coexisted in the fertile folk-rock zeitgeist of the times.  Until that Mudaco.

Here’s the thing about “Leaving On a Jet Plane.”  We sang it at every gig, we sang it with a variety of harmonic components, we sang it well. To this day, if I’m anywhere near my mother and a guitar, she begs me to sing it for her.  I usually do.  And that year at Mudaco, TOOU was to sing two songs: one I can’t remember; the other: “Leaving On a Jet Plane.” Our headliner. We rehearsed it ad nauseum, we honed it to a spit-shine finish and suddenly, late into dress rehearsal and one night before the big performance, we were informed that Megan McDonough, the big ticket item of the show, had decided to sing — you guessed it — “Leaving On a Jet Plane.” There are no words to describe our horror.  This was our song, our signature number, our literal musical identity as a group.  Why didn’t Megan just sing one of her hits?  One of her original songs? What the hell? THIS WAS HUGE.

Much tense negotiation ensued, lots of copious high-school-girl weeping, more mature discussion of what we could perform instead; the adjustment period was savage but we were trying to be troupers.  Then word came down: Megan was willing and prepared to sing a different song. “Leaving On a Jet Plane” was all ours. The erupting roar was shattering.  We were beyond grateful. We were emotionally exhausted, exhilarated, and we kicked “Leaving On a Jet Plane” ass. I don’t remember what Megan sang; it was probably on the radio before we got to the 10:00 Folk Mass that Sunday.

We went on to perform at the McHenry County Fair’s Talent Contest that summer, all funky cool in our god-awful 60′s patterned jump suits and jumpy-jittery stage moves (you should see the tape from which this picture, above, was pulled!) and on that stage, we were the stars…we snared first prize in front of a crowd of family, pig farmers, 4-H kids hugging their ribbons and our many fans from all over McHenry County. It was a seminal moment of sweet victory, one that is unmatched in its youthful, exuberant joy. For some of the group heading off to college, it was a last, perfect performance. For those of us remaining, it was a feat we would never replicate. Though we continued throughout the next year, it felt like the original incarnation had peaked and the younger kids that came in and took over ultimately formed their own version of TOOU.

When I left for college the next year I continued my folk-singing ways for a while, most notably with the folk/country trio of me, Fred Koller and my dear friend, Fred Rubin. It was with these fellows that I did my first recordings, cutting two memorable tracks with the titles “Rome Didn’t Fall In a Day” and “Our Love Is Just Like an Old Pinball Machine (the Kind That It Don’t Take Much To Tilt”)…I never did get copies, which is unfortunate; I’m sure they were impressive!

From these folky beginnings I embarked upon my enduring career as a singer over many decades (even now occasionally finding my way to a microphone), one that included musical theater, 50′s rock, 80′s new wave/soul and, more recently, singer/songwriter blues rock.  And it remains that TOOU will always be the irreplaceable starting point. The moment of realizing what it felt like to bond so deeply and musically with a group of like-minded artists. To experience the rush of opening my mouth and letting sound and breath and emotion pour from inside and be heard by a welcoming audience…it was, and is, a feeling like no other and one that compelled me for the next 30 years.

Many from the group went on to artistic careers, though I’ve lost track of most. Cris Vosti, now Cris Carroll, is a brilliant writer whose blog (http://cris-cafeimagine.blogspot.com/) is truly one of my favorite reads. Many of the O’Reilly clan continue in Chicago music, art and theater; Google any one of them and surely there’s a play being put up or a record being put out.  Jamie O’Reilly, singer extraordinaire, keeps me posted on events and her very active role in Chicago art and women’s issues (http://www.jamieoreilly.com/); I hear the talented Mr. Pete Swenson is still playing guitar with her and many others. Some of the members that followed, particularly my brothers Paul and Tom, have also gone on to amazing careers, Tom as a successful actor and director (“Everwood,” “Parenthood,” Brokedown Palace, etc. - www.tomamandes.com) and Paul, who teaches theater (Columbia College in Chicago), and writes and performs on stages all over the midwest. I don’t know what Ed Csech is doing these days but I hope he’s still playing that guitar. As for my college folk era mainstay, Fred Rubin, he had a tremendously successful career as a writer/producer of many hit TV series (“Family Matters,” “Diff’rent Strokes,” “Night Court,” “Step by Step,” etc.), some of which he cast me in and still pay (small) residuals.  He is now a respected speaker and screenwriting instructor at UCLA. With a killer sense of humor and a penchant for comedy, he makes frequent appearances on www.oldjewstellingjokes.com.

And Megan?  She became Megon (with an “o”) at some point and continues to have a stellar career as a songwriter, performer, actress, etc., appearing in venues around the country (though still very much based out of Chicago), both acting and singing.  Her lengthy discography, from that first Wooden Nickel album to her latest CD, lays proof to her enduring talent and I suggest you visit her site:  (www.megonmcdonough.com).

As for the events of that night, I’m probably making too much of it, maybe I don’t even have the facts straight. I doubt Megon remembers me or TOOU or the details of the drama and odds are, if she does, it holds no special memory, just a simple change to her set list. But it stuck with me. It was gracious. She was the famous girl who generously conceded on a song, the same girl who would later open up for John Denver and probably got to sing “Leaving On a Jet Plane” with the man who actually wrote it.  We’re both grown women now and have enjoyed our separate careers, but I see her as a compatriot of sorts, a fellow traveler on this journey we artists take.  It’s a good one, a hard one, sometimes one that turns out far different than we imagined, or ends too quickly, or leads us in directions we were not expecting to go, but it’s a journey that’s always an expression of some essential part of who we are…which is why we take it in the first place.  And when, on this twisting, turning road, we meet fellow travelers who touch a chord for one reason or another, it just seems worth a nod.

Let’s review the First Amendment, shall we? It reads: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

It does not say we get to yell “fire” in a crowded theater. Joke about bombs in an airport. Prevent a law-abiding religious community from building a mosque. Verbally assault callers to a radio talk show or throw around racially insensitive language without repercussion. The First Amendment assures us of many protections but it is not specifically designed or intended to give carte blanche to ill-mannered, bigoted, and socially clueless people to be hateful and idiotic. Oh, they can surely be those things – let Freedom ring – but our great Constitution is not the safe zone for all manner of misbegotten behavior.

There are two purportedly First Amendment hot buttons flaring at the moment. Let’s start with the mosque protests:

I get the nuances. We all do. 9/11 impacted the world but no place more than New York and no people more than those who lost loved ones. But the lost loved ones included people of every race, creed and color, including Muslims, so what’s the real issue? Beyond nuance, there is no explanation to protest this building other than bigotry. None. You can use the We Must Be Sensitive to The 9/11 Families Card but it sags in the middle. Do the 9/11 Families really need us to become narrowminded bigots to assuage their grief?  I don’t think so. This specious argument is just sheep’s clothing on a gnashing, snarling point of prejudice: Muslims blew up the World Trade Center, therefore all Muslims are bad (i.e., terrorists, almost terrorists, parents of terrorists, funders of terrorists…) and these bad people and their religion will remind the 9/11 families of those who took their loved ones’ lives and so we must be sensitive to that potential and prevent all Muslims from any representation near anyone or any area affected by 9/11. Really???  That holds water? Taking that logic a step further, it would stand to reason, then, that since American terrorist Timothy McVeigh was a declared Christian, out of deference and sensitivity to those families who suffered losses at the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City, NO CHURCHES OR CHRISTIAN CENTERS SHOULD BE BUILT ANYWHERE NEAR THAT HALLOWED PLACE. But there are nine churches in the area. Nine Christian churches near the building bombed all to hell by a Christian man. I don’t see anyone lined up waving placards about spitting on graves or screaming about First Amendment rights to protest those wily, destructive Christians. But apparently it is acceptable to denounce, vilify and discriminate against an entire Islamic religion based on the acts of the fanatical few.  And the First Amendment should protect your right to do so. Hmmm.

Then, on a lighter but no less specious note, there’s Dr. Laura.  Oh, Dr. Laura. Dear Miz Schlessinger. The radio “therapist.” The doctor of physiology. The woman who introduces herself as “my son’s mother” (her teeth grind while saying “feminists” and she’s stated that Planned Parenthood is a radical organization, so it stands to reason she’d consider a woman’s procreative status the truest form of feminine identity…I got tired just writing that). Odd that someone so possessive of her maternal role with its requisite job description of mentor/teacher/model should so consistently behave in the rude, inconsiderate, arrogant manner that would surely get a kid sent to time-out tout de suite. If the son I mothered ever treated people with the disdain and disrespect she wields as a matter of course, I’d consider myself a parental failure and him a permanent resident of his room.

But maybe that’s what just happened. Miz Schlessinger has finally been given a societal time-out.  The Listening Public has finally reached its tipping point with her spouted lunacy and has yelled “ENOUGH!” and so she’s headed for the corner to calm down and potentially learn a lesson. But lo and behold, instead of taking it like a woman, this exemplar of moral certitude has gone constitutionally postal, ranting to Larry King about how she needs to quit radio to have the freedom to exercise her First Amendment rights since “I don’t have the right to say what I want.”  My God, I thought when I heard that, what on earth haven’t you said that you’d like to?? I shudder to think.

The fact is, Miz Schlessinger has been given free rein and made a fabulous living saying and doing pretty much exactly what she pleases, with little regard for the emotional impact, particularly on her ambushed callers.  The to-do list on her microphone must read something like: insult their intelligence, diminish their problems, cut them off rudely, promote conservative agenda in lieu of true therapeutic assistance, yell like a raging mother, condescend, treat them like idiot children, patronize, be passive-aggressive…oh, the list could go on. I have often wondered why, oh why, do these people actually call and put themselves in line for her abuse and humiliation? How desperate do you have to be to publicly avail yourself of the ministrations of Mean Girl Mommie Dearest when a true therapist would actually have your well being in mind rather than their own agenda?

Miz Schlessinger has disingenuously co-opted the very real issue of free speech to defend her behavior and justify her “I’ll take my ball and go home” pout. Fitting for a woman of her arrogance.  Let’s be clear: where real free speech is being squashed, may the Constitution be held high. In this case, please, doctor, step away from the Bullying Pulpit, sit down, shut up, and learn some manners.

I’m thrilled that Dr. Laura’s leaving radio; the listening public and those vulnerable callers will be better off for it.  I hope the mosque in New York gets built and caring Muslims can practice their faith and show their inherent compassion as vital members of our community. Let’s respect our Constitution by saving it for those issues that deserve the weighty power of its thoughtful amendments.

To squander it on rude and racially insensitive talk show hosts and placard-waving religious bigots seems like a big, fat waste of our very precious rights.

You’d think he had no manners.  No sense of decorum or courtesy.  He must surely be rigid and bitter, certainly xenophobic; he shows signs of anti-social behavior and is narrow-minded to a fault.  No debate is allowed, differences are shunned or punished, and a loving, open heart is to be derided as naive and disloyal.

You know who I’m talkin’ about. I’m talkin’ about God. In his many names. Allah. Christ. King of King. Lord of Lords. Good God Almighty.

Or at least God as presented by the good folks who brought us the Crusades, the Salem Witch Hunts, terrorists, Magdalene Laundries, my grade school principal, centuries of oppression, honor killings, legions of war, the Left Behind series, addled priests, and the “family values” platform, just to name a few examples. It’s not news that God is the purported muscle behind all these shenanigans but if I were God, I’d be damned embarrassed  by now (if, indeed, God can “damned” about anything).

I’m not comparing atrocities — the Crusades were way worse than Prop 8 or my heinous year at that all-girls Catholic boarding school — but there’s a throughline to all this that’s inescapable. An equation that goes something like: God’s Supposed Mandates=Hateful/Bigoted/Intolerant Behavior. A non-Catholic at the wrong end of history ends up on a rack. School children are blown to bits because the two Gods of Ireland can’t tolerate each other. A guy shoots an abortion doctor because God demands it. Young men and women are convinced by Allah to make themselves bombs and kill hundreds. A politician implements dangerous public policy because God said so. Somebody else’s God said some guys can have lots of wives and some of them can be 14; another, that sex is hell-worthy if marriage isn’t involved, dancing begets wanton behavior, women must wear burkas and 52% of Californians should vote to deny basic rights to gays (seems a lot of people’s Gods do not like the gays). God, in his many incarnations, is clearly a very opinionated (and cranky)  fellow.

But what God purportedly mandated to all these different people and various factions over the centuries is based on information that has been passed down and recorded by Man, Human Being Man, and, as such, includes interpretation, spin, distortion, opinion, contradiction, misunderstanding, and personal perception. Much like the Telephone Game. By the time “cats and dogs like to play together” goes from little Susie down past ten kids to Bob, it sounds something like “fat hands oughta pray in heather.” Odds are, by the time notable mandates traveled from God’s mouth to various ears, they’d similarly been through a many-centuried filter of personal interpretation…the Telephone Game as presented by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John; Angel Gabriel, Moses, and Muhammad; TV evangelicals, parish priests, rabbis, mullahs, and street corner poets. I just think if we’re going to burn witches, cut off children’s noses, fly planes into buildings, hate our neighbors and vote for discrimination based on God’s Telephone Game, we might want to reconsider our intuitive definition of morality.

Everyone claims to have God on their side but in a many-sided battle that’s mathematically impossible. So who’s right and how can we know? And I really want to know because beyond the aforementioned horrors, I’m beyond weary of all the name-calling, button-pushing, pundit pounding, blog baiting, brow beating behavior that passes itself off as public discourse. It seems essential to solve the conundrum but here’s why that’s difficult: Everyone has their own God, they love their God, their God is precious and, more than anything, THEIR GOD IS RIGHT. About everything. And yet all the various and opposing Gods hanging around these days — and for time immemorial — don’t seem to get along, don’t seem to agree on much of anything, particularly the really important stuff, and so you’ve got the combustible situation of Godflagration. Or, in other words, All Hell Breaking Loose in the Name of God.

NOT ALL THE GODS CAN BE RIGHT. If God 1 says “global warming is just a lotta hog-wash” and God 2 says, “Human beings are destroying their planet and need to wake up,” which God is right?  What about God 3 who says “I made every human being as they are, love and respect each other without prejudice,” and God 4 says “I love everyone but homosexuals, who are an abomination and don’t deserve equal rights,” where do you go with that?  Then there’s God 5 who sees the beauty and integrity of every religion and God 6 who’s really pissed off because law-abiding Muslims want to build a center with a prayer room somewhere near Ground Zero. There are too many Gods in the kitchen and the broth they’re dishing up is a mess.

I can’t speak for the world but when did we become a nation of narrow-minded haters? People who hold God and religious beliefs as armor to push against any opposing viewpoint with intolerance?Really want a scare? Scan the comments under any online article today about anything controversial and you will see the bilous, hateful, bigoted, often terrifying viewpoints of anonymous believers of God (well…their God) and you’ll know, right there, that convincing those kinds of narrow minds that they might have missed the whole damn point of God is all but futile.

Discouraging, but I remain hopeful nonetheless. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking but I want to have faith that we as a nation, a world, a community, a collective, a village, can find some accord, a balance of sorts; at least a modicum of tolerance for each other. Perhaps we can put aside dogma and really embrace that old chestnut that still resonates in its wisdom and simplicity: “Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you” and “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” The Golden Rule. I’m told God mandated those ideals as well.

Say what you will about God, believe or not believe, believe how you believe, believe whatever God you wish to believe, but that Golden Rule? It belongs to all of us and whatever Better God came up with that, he’s got my vote.

[And, yes, I did use the male pronoun for the sake of literary simplicity. Got an issue with it? Scream quietly to yourself and leave a civil comment.]