It was Day 3 for us as Lighthouse Keepers in scenic Port Washington, WI. So far, this series of posts has focused on the lighthouse station itself and things that go bump in the night.
Now it’s time for me to share the bits and pieces about the wonderful folks we met while serving as tour guides at this historical site.
Visitors came from all over the world for a chance to discover more about the history of lighthouses in the Midwest.
We had travelers who made it their business to visit each and every lighthouse surrounding the Great Lakes. They were happy to cross Port Washington’s off their list.
The countless number of people we met was interesting and diverse. They came from Illinois. Texas. And Michigan.
Plenty of folks live in nearby Wisconsin towns, including Grafton, Oak Creek and West Bend.
A precocious five-year-old girl visited with her grandparents. All three climbed up and down the three sets of ladders to the tower, where they learned more about the Fresnel light and enjoyed breathtaking views of Lake Michigan.
Afterwards, the girl boldly asked my husband if he can do cartwheels.
“Nope,” he answered, “I was never any good at those.”
“Well, I’m practicing,” she proudly sang out.
More tourists came from California. Florida. And Alabama.
A professor from the local college stopped in on a whim. In tow with him were 10 of his students — all from Japan — and looking forward to accessing the light station tower. When I mentioned the suggested $5 donation for each visitor, the professor hesitated and looked over his crew, wondering how much cash he had on him that afternoon.
Was I going to be the one who denied these lovely students an opportunity to enjoy their afternoon? Not a chance. “Just give me twenty bucks for the whole crowd,” I suggested. Relief came over his face, and he promptly handed me a $20 bill from his wallet.
Our visitors were an eclectic group, but all were fun. Honestly, I can’t tell if we had more entertainment with the children or the adults.
We had a couple who intended to descend the wooden staircase that led into Port’s downtown streets.
“How many steps are there down to the main level?” the wife asked.
“105,” I noted.
She looked a bit nervous. “Oh dear, and how many back up?” she inquired.
“210,” I immediately responded.
The children who came along for the day were adventurous. They didn’t hesitate to climb the stairs to the tower. They marveled at the original “talking machine” phonograph in the parlor. They guessed at the purpose of the kitchen gadgets, which included a water pump, wire rug beater, old-fashioned toaster, and — one we all got stumped on — a metal sudser for aid in laundry day.
One lucky boy was grateful for the chance to try on one of the former lightkeeper’s coat and hat, while posing for pictures.
Finally, each afternoon ended with a visit from the locals themselves. Unlike the others, though, they mostly kept to themselves…
The Visitors It was Day 3 for us as Lighthouse Keepers in scenic Port Washington, WI. So far, this series of posts has focused on the lighthouse station itself and things that go bump in the night. Now it’s time for me to share the bits and pieces about the wonderful folks we met while…
Don’t believe the myth that ghosts can’t physically (and mentally) affect you.
Boo!
It was Day 2 of our stay at the Port Washington Light Station, and I’d already been spooked myself on our second night. As we continued settling in, I heard talk from my husband as he worried whether this lighthouse is haunted.
I started off by calmly reassuring him that the landmark is NOT taken over by spirits.
“I wish it were haunted,” I teased. “That would be fun!” Still, I shook my head at this nonsense. What could really go wrong?
And so the “fun” begins…
It’s true that I joked with him throughout the day, shouting “Boo” every so often. And perhaps a couple sinister-sounding mwa ha has have escaped my mouth. However, I truly didn’t intend any offensive or evil conjurings.
The 1860 Lighthouse itself is a lovely (and benign) museum, showcasing period furniture and containing artifacts used by keepers of the last century. I felt it was silly to even think that spooky spirits were overtaking the place.
Our 2nd-Floor Apartment in the Light Station – Simple and comfortableFloor 1 – Dining Room Floor 1 – Bedroom complete with bed warmer and chamber pot
Later that night…
Around 11:45 p.m., I awoke from a deep sleep. As my eyes slowly opened, I was facing the long corridor from our bedroom back down towards the front door of the second floor apartment. Directly in front of me was an opened closet door… a door which had certainly been locked earlier that day.
Beyond the door, a soft light shone — a light that was golden in color that seemed to take on a life of its own.
Quiet.
Stealthy.
Menacing.
That’s when I froze!
There was a presence to the space.
A feeling that’s difficult to describe.
It was as if a message was being conveyed to me.
A message that spoke volumes: “I’m here and stronger than you are.”
Confession time
I freaked out! It was too frightening to make a move. Who opened that door? How did that light come on?
Was it truly the Ghost of the Lighthouse that did so?
My mind raced with scenarios. Did I dare wake up my husband and cause a ruckus… thereby angering the Spirit?
Or should I text my daughter and seek her qualified opinion? Nope, it was close to midnight, so she probably wouldn’t be checking her phone.
Instead, I started Googling my fears. Quickly, I typed: open door light on ghost…
Aha!
I found “factual” evidence on the web…
“[S]pirits who can interact that powerful way with the physical world, can also do a great deal of harm to one, physically, as well. Don’t believe the myth that ghosts can’t physically (and mentally) affect you.”
Quora
Well, that settled it! Spirits were trying to scare us out of that place. I debated whether to scream first — or grab our suitcases and run down the staircase and head home to the Chicago suburbs. Either way, we were not staying put!
That’s when my husband awoke. As he rolled over, he mumbled,
“What on earth are you doing on your phone?”
“The door’s open and the light’s on!” I whispered intently. “I think it’s the Lighthouse Ghost!”
“I turned the light on,” he explained.
With that, he pulled up the comforter and went back to sleep.
With that said, it was several more minutes before I felt relief. Slowly, the built-up pressure released from my arms, legs and stomach, as I realized I was clenching my muscles the entire time.
Looking back, I realize I was awakened from a deep slumber when the presumed “ghosting” occurred. My mind wasn’t fully working. The day’s conversation about spirits and haunting must have been swirling in my subconscious, thus leading to my wild imagination.
I feel silly now. Embarrassed.
Still, I do believe spirits are out there among us.
Day 1 of our experience as Lighthouse Station Keepers
Earlier this winter ~ on a cold but sunny day in March 2025 ~ my husband and I took our annual trip to lovely Port Washington, Wisconsin.
“Port” (as it’s affectionately called by its residents) is situated approximately 20 miles north of Milwaukee and situated on the shores of stunning Lake Michigan.
Port is one of our favorite weekend trips away from the streets of Chicago and our jobs, which – let’s face it- can wear us down. Port offers small town charm with gorgeous lake views and enough peace and quiet to refresh ourselves.
Port Washington’s marina
On that last day of our trip in March, my husband insisted on driving past the lighthouse station built in 1860. I’m so glad my husband is fun, since that’s when we ran into the caretaker, who mentioned the Resident Lighthouse Keeper program.
I was immediately on board with the idea, since I’d always wanted to live in a lighthouse ever since reading about one as a child. I immediately set out to sign ourselves up for this exciting opportunity.
****************************************
Two résumés later — along with a letter of reference and background checks — we found ourselves selected to stay one week in late August.
Lo and behold, here we are today, acting as docents for this historic landmark, where we act as guides for visitors visiting the 18th century structure.
Day One started off with a quick walk into the main part of Port’s downtown for breakfast alongside the boat marina. Afterwards we strolled along the lakefront and appreciated the fresh air and views.
Walking back toward our day’s duties, we climbed the set of stairs from the main street to the lighthouse… I counted 105 steps on the staircase. It was challenging, but we did it!
At 11:00 AM my husband set out the OPEN sign and we eagerly awaited our first visitors.
Here’s what we quickly learned…
• The point of sale system is easy to use. The Historical Foundation has a $5 suggested donation plus t-shirts and postcards are available.
• Visitors are friendly and allow for our novice mistakes.
• My spouse has a gift for chat and is a natural tour guide.
• Ladder-type steps to the third floor tower with the Fresnel light are tricky.
• Views from the tower are worth it.
Stay tuned for more adventures from Port Washington.
View from the tower. I’ll provide more once I get the nerve to climb the ladders again. 😆
We from the Gen X generation love to reminisce. We grew up with a terrific music soundtrack to our lives. Think: Rolling Stones, Bob Seeger, Queen, AC/DC.
Pop culture included Civil Rights. Space Exploration. And Peter Max.
We watched the end of the Vietnam War and this country’s First Earth Day. Movies included The Godfather and the summer splash hit… Jaws.
Later, in our high school years, we quickly found and loved: Prince, Madonna, Michael Jackson, R.E.M, Billy Idol.
And we can’t forget disco’s funky hits that made us want to dance: Donna Summer, The BeeGees, KC and the Sunshine Band.
SIGH. I do enjoy daydreaming about that era.
I will readily admit those times are still so close to my heart. My friends from that generation can still picture those moments in time and feel the actual vibe that was generated.
Like others, I still feel that those memories are a mere 10-15 years ago.
Except they were definitely not!
Those times were decades ago. A different zeitgeist. A long-gone past that lives on in our recollections. I cannot deny… that life is from many moons ago.
Some days, I may feel 28 years old. Others, I feel like I’m 42.
But to truly think back to when I was young (let’s be honest!), it was a looooong time ago.
This Is How Old I Am
Here’s a sampling of how long ago those memories actually area. Enjoy this peek from the past…
This is me with the full baby cheeks. My mom looks like she hasn’t had much sleep. My older sister looks grumpy as usual. And will you check out that refrigerator?! (Or did we actually call it an “icebox” when back then?)
A few years went by, and I could get around on my own. Here I am at my grandparents’ home in Roseland, blowing bubbles with my sister, Kim. Do kids blow bubbles like this anymore? Or is it all done with a large bubble wand?
But that’s beside the point. Here, I want you to check out the TV tray with the cabbage roses on them.
And what about that PLYMOUTH? Hubba hubba.
Later that same year, my sister and I posed with our parents, Howard + Dorothy. My mom was expecting our baby brother at this time.
Folks, what do you think of the lamp from Sears Roebuck? We were a stylish family.
Adding a few more years and – VOILA – I had an adorable baby brother named Holden. I was trying to be the star of the show and show off my teeth. But it’s the high-chair that stands out here. When have you last seen one of them??
Almost one year later, we visited the Morton Arboretum on a splendid Fall day. My mom still wonders how she got us all dressed up and out the door in those days. I tell her it’s because she’s AMAZING.
My question here: what do you think of our coats? I thought we looked divine. I wish folks still dressed this way.
The Arts Scene
Both of our parents “dug” culture. Mom dressed us up and we all went to see the unveiling of the Picasso in Daley Plaza – Chicago.
We lived in the era when mothers sewed our Halloween costumes. Here, I was a princess. My sister — a drum majorette. Holden was a cowboy. And our dog Fido played himself.
What talent my mom has! Her creativity always impresses me.
Okay, some years went by and the family took one of many road trips. This time we landed in Missouri to see Tom Sawyer’s famous whitewashed fence. Again, we were very fashionable. Ahem.
Back to Reality
And here we are today — its 2025. Not too shabby, for all I’ve seen.
In fact, this past weekend, I saw an 80-year-old Rod Stewart show us his groovy moves in live concert. He’s still got it! And I’m glad I was here to see him.
Enjoy this previously published post from PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST…
This story is as told to me by my father-in-law – Bill – who always has a fond memory to recall from days spent visiting his grandmother in southern Illinois.
When I was a boy, my grandmother lived in southern Illinois in a small town named Nokomis. I visited her there every summer. In fact, I didn’t spend any of my childhood summers in Chicago. Instead, my father drove us downstate in his 1938 Dodge to visit his mother at her modest home. It was an enjoyable way to spend the hot summers, away from the crowded city and, instead, enjoying the rural life.
Since I was the only grandchild, it was natural that my grandmother doted on me. She didn’t speak much English, and consequently, I quickly learned the Slovak language from her (her native tongue). While in Nokomis, I learned to catch and clean fish, raise chickens, and collect coal in the neighboring town for use in Grandma’s stove.
I hunted for squirrels and rabbits too. My love for the outdoors grew, and I had unique opportunities that I wouldn’t find back home in my own neighborhood.
When I grew older, my parents put me on a train by myself for the visits to my grandmother. I didn’t mind going alone. I expect I was about 11 years old at the time. It was a good experience for me and helped me to be independent.
My Travel Buddy…
It was a couple years later, when I had the company of my Uncle Steve along for the ride. I can recall it was the summer before he entered the U.S. Naval service in World War II. Together, we headed to Chicago’s Union Station, where Uncle Steve and I boarded a passenger train. Once we were downstate, rather than wasting a good amount of time back-trekking from the St. Louis stopover, my uncle asked the conductor if we could hop off earlier in Coalton, Illinois (an unscheduled stop).
Back then, such a request wasn’t unheard of (times were indeed simpler). The conductor notified the engineer of our request. When we approached the town of Coalton, we could hear the train’s engine slowing down just enough. That’s when Uncle Steve and I jumped off early with our bags and waved Thank-You to the train crew. From that spot, we could see my grandmother’s house in the distance.
And So, Another Summer Goes By…
We enjoyed that season together before my uncle was deployed — fishing and hunting were favorite past-times for both of us. As is typical, we made a good haul and had plenty of fresh meat and fish for our meals.
My grandmother stored our skinned rabbits on her back porch, ready for stewing and preserving. When it was time for us to return to Chicago, Grandma wrapped up a dozen or so rabbits in newspaper and packed them away in an old suitcase for us to enjoy at home.
It was much later that same afternoon when Uncle Steve and I were seated on the crowded train when we both noticed spots of water on our knees. We didn’t know what to make of those suspicious droplets. Finally, glancing up toward the overhead luggage rack, we realized our suitcase was leaking.
The rabbits were thawing out!
Uncle Steve immediately signaled the conductor to come over. In a nervous tone, he asked how much time we had before the train reached Chicago. I kept my 13-year-old mouth shut and willed the train to move faster.
It was warm on the train — I certainly don’t recall any air conditioning back then — and we had several more stops until we were home free.
We made it to Union Station without further incident. From there, we hurried out of the station into the humid summer evening and anxiously waited for a bus home.
All in all, we had a pleasant visit with my grandmother, but we were exhausted when we arrived home. Like most travelers, we just wanted to change out of our travel clothes and roll into bed.
But regrettably, we still had an exceptionally soggy suitcase to unpack before doing so.
The other day we ran out of tartar sauce at home. I know this is a big deal for my husband — since he loves the sauce whenever I make fish for dinner.
No problem… I recall watching my Grandma Martha whipping up her own version of tartar sauce when she was visiting us. She grabbed the mayo and pickle relish from our ‘fridge, stirred them together, and we had the tastiest, tangiest sauce for our dinner that night.
“Wow, look at you, Grandma!” I cried in teenage-like wonder. “How do you know how to do that?”
Grandma chuckled. “How do you think things are made? You can do it yourself and not bother with buying everything pre-made.” She shook her head and went on with her dinner preparations.
Needless to say, I was impressed!
Grandma taught me other things as well.
During my high school years, typing and shorthand were part of my curriculum. Since she once worked as a secretary for the airlines, Grandma had some advice for me. “Now, remember,” she advised. “Speed will come with time and practice. For now, be sure you focus on accuracy while typing.”
Of course, I can’t say I liked this advice… since I typically like to rush through things. But we all know she was correct… exactness is critical, especially since taking time to go back and correct my typing mistakes took unnecessary time.
Grandmas are good for reminding of these fundamental practices.
I adore a solid IBM Selectric!
I also learned a bit about dating from my grandma.
“You know, I kept dating other fellas even after I got engaged to your grandfather,” she confided to me one afternoon. “I figured I wasn’t married yet, so I still had every right to see other men.”
“Grandma!” I gasped. I could only think of my kind grandfather, who had no idea (or did he?) that his fiancée was still kickin’ it with other gentlemen.
Grandma just smugly smiled to herself. Even though it was many moons ago, I could tell she was satisfied with her decision and that’s all there was to it.
Grandma was full of surprises.
Another time — years earlier — our grandparents came to our home to “babysit” us while our folks vacationed in Germany. One evening, as my sister and I sat up late on a school night watching television, Grandma came downstairs in her flannel nightgown. What did she have in her left hand — of all things?? … a wooden rolling pin!
Immediately, she started chewing us out for not being asleep in our beds. I started laughing at the irony of her raising the rolling pin over her head, threatening to use it on us. Do people really use those things? I thought to myself, giggling over the scene enfolding before us.
But Grandma didn’t find it funny one bit. Still waving the rolling pin, she chased me and my sister until we ran upstairs and out of her rage. I guess Grandma wasn’t messin’ with us that evening.
pic: Dreamstime.com
Grandma was a good cook.
Like most grandmothers, my grandma was a good cook. Our entire family loved her homemade potato pancakes, Lithuanian sausage, and a bowl of steaming sauerkraut. My mouth waters each time I envision those delicious meals at her table.
Grandma make some kick-ass orange juice as well. When we’d visit her home in Florida, she’d get up extra early to squeeze oranges for us, using the ripe oranges right off the tree in her backyard. Talk about FRESH! I can’t begin to explain the difference between fresh-squeezed juice and something from the grocery store. There’s just no comparison!
Pic: Spruce Eats
Grandma had a lemon tree as well. She took the fresh-squeezed lemon juice and used it when making her beloved lemon meringue pies. Mmmm! That tartness hit just right on your tongue. A bite of that creamy dessert had the perfect amount of sour, with sweetness to balance.
What a delight that was!
Oh, how I miss it.
But most of all, I miss her.
Myself, Grandma Martha Johanna, and my daughter on Grandma’s 99th Birthday
Please enjoy this previously published post from PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST…
I wore my favorite blazer to the office the other day. My co-worker complimented me on its look.
“Thanks, but look here,” I replied. “I recently washed this jacket, but the lapel is sitting funny and not lying flat as it should.”
“Try ironing it,” my dear friend advised.
Was She for Real?!
She was trying to be helpful.
But I was aghast.
I vaguely recall ironing. Yes, I believe it was back in 1993. That’s when I finally put a stop to that bad habit.
The Ironing Room
Actually, I do recall ironing very well, thank you very much. In my childhood home, we had an entire room devoted to ironing. My mom put that loathsome task at the top of our chore list:
“I want you to go downstairs and spend one hour in the Ironing Room,” she directed.
You heard correctly. We had an official Ironing Room (hence the upper case letters used here).
It was a small room in our basement, located just off the laundry area. It had one tiny window, filled in with glass blocks. In the past, it had been used as the maid’s bedroom for the home’s first owners.
In fact, that’s how we referred to it when we first moved in: The Maid’s Room. When we’d nonchalantly mention the Maid’s Room in passing, our friends thought we were rich folks with a live-in staff.
The Poor, Poor Girl
I couldn’t imagine anyone sleeping in that room, away from everyone… not even remotely connected with the rest of the upstairs living quarters. I took pity on someone I never even knew.
I Dreaded That Room
The linoleum floor was cold. The window offered no view. I envisioned spiders popping out of the cedar closet. Or worse… a lost mouse scampering by.
Except I had to stay in that lonely room until my required time was up and I was allowed to scurry back upstairs to the bright kitchen.
Plus, I was never good at smoothing out the clothes in the right fashion. The iron was heavy, and trying to perfect a sharp crease was all but impossible for me.
Once, I ironed over a t-shirt logo and the colors immediately became scorched onto the flat surface of the hot iron.
Mom was not happy.
Redemption
So, there are the dreadful scenes that pop in my head when I think of ironing. [insert shudder here]
I still recall when I finally released myself from the unhappy chore. A shirt I had purchased on vacation had a tongue-in-cheek notice on its label: WARNING – Ironing this shirt is unlawful.
To be honest, I took this caveat seriously for several days before I realized it was a joke.
Indeed, I was a sick, sick woman. And with that admonition, I vowed to try to live life without an ironing board.
Update…
I’m still doing well these days. I only iron for special occasions — which are dwindling at this stage in my life, so that’s helpful.
Next weekend, I may pull the iron down from the top shelf in my closet and have a go at this beloved jacket of mine. It’s worth the effort to have the lapels lay just right.
But then I’m done for a while. The iron will be returned to a high shelf in the closet, gathering dust along with my high-heeled shoes.
Because at this stage in my life, well-worn wrinkles work for me.
Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and now… Thursday. Day Six without coffee.
And I’m ready to break.
I’ve been drinking coffee since I was 18 years old. Before there were trendy coffee shops, my pals and I would hang out at a neighborhood diner and drink coffee at night. We’d catch up, laugh at silly stuff, and enjoy our java the best way we knew how: Black.
Ahh, can’t you imagine the aroma?
All was fine and dandy until now. I’ve had to make this huge change in my life, due to the painful heartburn I’ve had for the last several months.
Rolaids just aren’t doing it for me any longer. I’d pop two of ’em whenever the familiar burning sensation ran from my stomach, up the esophagus and generally making my entire day miserable. Unfortunately, the antacids are no longer working.
This was me on a daily basis
Woe is Me
And, so, it goes. It was time to make the switch. The extremely difficult switch of replacing my morning coffee with black tea.
So far, I’ve been good. I did have a sip of iced coffee yesterday morning from the workplace. Surprisingly, it didn’t taste good at all. I threw it out.
Success was mine!
The positive take away is that my heartburn has finally gone away. About 99% of it, believe it or not! I can’t tell you how soothing it is – both mentally and physically – to not have that hot, burning feeling push through my chest multiple times each day. It really does feel good to have relief from the daily pain and uncomfortableness.
It’s Still a Hard Habit to Break
This morning I waited — impatiently— for the tea kettle to come to a boil. Then I still had to wait a good five minutes for the tea to brew and cool down so that I could sip it.
“This is bullsh*t!” I said to no one in particular.
Already I’m seeing the effects of “coffee sobriety” on myself. For example, my husband asked me to proofread an email for him. I impatiently answered, “I know, you asked me like 19 times already!” Honestly, he only asked me about 4 times.
Not very nice of me.
My Morning Commute Was No Better
This morning, I needed a last-minute gift for a departing co-worker. Running into Dunkin’ was the closest and quickest in order for me to grab a gift card. Was I taking a chance going into that delicious shop? Yes, I was. But I figured I’d be quick about it…
“Do you have any gift cards?” I asked the cashier.
“Huh?” was his reply.
“Gift cards!” I responded more boldly than was necessary.
“How much do you want on it?”
“Twenty dollars,” I stated.
“Okay, forty dollars,” said the other cashier.
“Twenty!” I reminded them (my eyes revealing my impatience).
Meanwhile, a lovely young lady was ordering a medium coffee for herself. She looked happy, holding her nice, warm cup of morning joe. It all looked so yummy. And delicious. And coffee-ish.
I frowned at the entire scene. Will I ever make it to this Saturday and make it a full week without my favorite beverage?
With courage and determination, I took my $20 gift card and threw it in my backpack.
With my head held high, I turned on my heel and left the building.
Please enjoy this previously published post from PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST…
Over the years, I’ve developed a huge crush on the actor, Jack Lemmon. I’m not sure when it first started, but I’ve been a fan of his movies for many years. So much so, I’d have married him if I had the chance.
Mr. Lemmon wasn’t exactly the most striking and handsome actor of his time. For his roles, he mostly stuck to the representative next-door-type fella. But, it’s the familiar faces that we grow to covet – those dear and sincere expressions from a faithful friend that we hold close to our hearts. They always know how to get us to laugh, too.
That’s what Jack Lemmon has becomes to me. And that’s why I have a giant crush on the fella. Why, if we were both around in the same day and age, I’d do everything I could to run across his path.
travsd.wordpress.com
It all started with one of my favorite movies: Some Like It Hot. Hailed by many as one of the best comedies, Mr. Lemmon was nominated for an Oscar as best actor in a leading role. As musicians on the run from the Mafia, Lemmon and his best buddy turned to dressing as women in order to avoid recognition.
But while his cohort – Tony Curtis – attempts to resemble a demure and ladylike figure, Lemmon seizes a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and runs the charade, having fun the entire way.
I couldn’t help falling in love with the actor as Lemmon made each line stand out:
Sweet Sue: “Are you two from the Poliakoff Agency?”
Tony Curtis (as Josephine): Yes, we’re the new girls.”
Jack Lemmon (as Daphne): “Brand new!”
Above: Tony Curtis as “Josephine.” Jack Lemmon as “Daphne.”
Lemmon becomes even more irresistible and entertaining as he attempts to fight off the advances of an amorous millionaire. He becomes brazen when dealing with the “opposite” sex.
Osgoodto Daphne: You must be quite a girl!
Lemmon (as Daphne): “Wanna bet?”
amazon.com
THE COMEDY CONTINUES
Leave it to Director Billy Wilder to cast Lemmon in another terrific movie one year later. Lemmon’s sweet demeanor in The Apartmentled me to believe there are caring people in this world. Playing CC Baxter in the film, Lemmon was compassionate and moralistic. When faced with turning the other cheek in order to gain his own good fortune, CC Baxter chose to stick to his principles – an admirable trait and one that makes him win the girl in the end.
Plus, how much fun was his cozy apartment, a respite from the wintry weather with its small rooms, old stove that required lighting the pilot light, and well-meaning but nosey neighbors.
It’s the type of place you could love to curl up in with a loved one on a snowy Christmas morning. Who can blame Shirley MacLaine for falling in love with him in that story — especially when he strains his spaghetti with a tennis racket.
imdb.com
LEMMON’S PROLIFIC CAREER
Years later, Jack Lemmon was just as adorable as a lonely codger in Grumpy Old Men. It was no surprise for me that he won the affections of the local beauty in that rom-com – the lovely Ann-Margret.
Jack Lemmon was nominated several times for Oscars, winning Best Supporting Actor in 1956 for Mr. Robert and the Best Actor award for Save the Tiger in 1973. Later, in 1988, he won the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Film Institute. An impressive career, to be sure.
I give Jack Lemmon my own award: Funny. Adorable. Sincere. His movie characters grab your attention and steal the show.
We all have our own methods for navigating our daily lives — this includes commuting to and from the workplace.
Be it train, bus, ferry, car or good old-fashioned walking, we must know the tricks to get us past the hurdles, the surprises, the challenges that we face almost daily.
My spouse has his troubles as he navigates the tri-state each morning on his way to work. I worry about him, as other vehicles cruise right past him and he’s already doing 70MPH. Yet, this stress is typical for most of us before we even arrive at our workplace.
A little over one year ago, I started taking a shuttle bus between Chicago’s Union station and my office building. The first six months went well, until a replacement driver was thrust into play.
He’s a mild-mannered fellow, and I don’t mean to throw him under the bus [pun intended]. Problem is, he’s a very timid driver and that’s not something you can be when driving in Chicago’s Loop — especially during rush hour.
He once turned the bus and rolled up onto the curb. Hey, this happens to the best of us. Except he didn’t come down from the curb — rather, he kept driving with his port-side wheels running along the curb for another half block. Somehow, he didn’t seem to be bothered by this episode.
He also drives very slowly and hesitates when there’s a stale green light. Rather than taking his opportunity and crossing the intersection, he slows down and eventually stops at a yellow light. Because of this habit of his, there were a few times when I caught my evening train by the skin of my teeth.
And I’m not happy when I’m frustrated.
I SEARCHED FOR ALTERNATIVES…
Fed up, I realized it was time to find alternative options. Fortunately, there are many available choices in this City.
youtube.com
I TURNED TO THE CTA
I found CTA’s No. 156 LaSalle bus takes me very close to my office. Plus I’m saving at least $40 per month with the bus vs. the private shuttle. Two positives for me!
A third positive occurred when a slight bus detour went into effect due to bridge repair work. Now I can hop on/hop off the CTA bus since it stops right across the street from my building. How lucky is that! For once, I’m hoping construction work takes a very long time.
TROUBLE ENSUES
Sure. This was all going quite well with the CTA. That is, until they change their departure schedules at whim. In the morning, I’ve missed a few buses, since the departure time had been amended and the bus leaves two minutes earlier than what I expected.
My frustration builds…
One evening, I was waiting for the bus around 5:15PM. There I was, happy as a clam that I only had to cross the street to get to the bus stop. Two other commuters waited along with me, as we stomped our feet and wiggled about in order to keep ourselves from freezing in Chicago’s sub-zero temperatures that week.
Imagine our surprise when the 156 bus swooped by us, as the driver clearly took the incorrect route and sped right past us down a different street!
THIS IS WHERE STRATEGY KICKS IN
I uttered a few words which I will not repeat here. However, all was not lost. I “quickly” trudged back to my building and caught the 5:15 shuttle to Union Station.
Discussing this new route with my co-worker, she had troubles of her own. It seems the bus driver on the detour was unaware that he should stop at the temporary detour stop. Even as she jumped up and down on Clark Street and furiously waved her arms, the driver sailed right past her — not once, but twice! — on a frigid January evening.
She and I made alternative plans. We now catch the bus two blocks further down, where we know the driver should not miss us. It’s not something we look forward to in the cold weather, but what choice do we have??
THINGS ARE NEVER PERFECT
I took my 156 bus this morning, and all went well. I pulled down the “stop cord” as we approached my destination. I made my way toward the front of the bus and readied myself to alight at my stop.
Except today’s driver just kept on driving — no slowing down — no hesitation whatsoever.
“I need to get off here, please!” I called out.
He said nothing. But he did swing his bus over the corner, where I alighted for the 99th time this year and made my way to the office.
I guess I shouldn’t complain too much. At least I have options for transportation. Plus, I’m saving $$ overall. I always consider the fact that I’m utilizing my brain cells in a positive manner, as I maneuver and strategize my way through the city — morning and night. At this point in my life, keeping my cognitive skills in order is imperative to me.
So, if commuting doesn’t keep you on your toes — nothing will.
PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST 