Did I ever tell you about the time I got locked in my bedroom closet?
It happened several years ago, on a warm and sunny Saturday morning. I was putting away my fresh laundry, starting with sorting my lingerie into my dresser drawers.
Next, I turned to my small closet to hang up the rest of my clothing. The closet was a walk-in, complete with two clothing rods on either side, with a pair of shelves overhead. Inside, there was just enough room for me to walk in, choose my clothing for the day, and even change into my outfit. Not bad for an old brick rowhouse on the far southwest side of the city.
Like the rest of the closet doors in my home, this closet door boasted a vintage glass doorknob on the outside. I admit that it was those cute doorknobs that partly convinced me to purchase my home. Another principal reason was its hardwood floors throughout the home. Sure, they were creaky, but I loved the look of ’em.
But since it was an antiquated home, I also knew to never fully close my bedroom closet door.
Since it tended to stick. And not budge.
You can see where I’m going with this.
I was inside such closet one bright and sunny Saturday morning, putting away my clean laundry, when suddenly my fiancé-to-be decided to shut that closet door.
He often tries to be funny. And he usually can manage to make me chuckle. Except this was definitely NOT one of those times.
I heard a click.
“Hey, Heidi, come out of the closet!” he taunted me through the closed door.
Within an instant, I knew I was stuck. I didn’t want to panic, but I knew the situation was not good. I had shut the door once before — from the outside — and quickly learned never to completely shut it again. You see, old wooden doors tend to swell in the summer heat. And then they become stuck.
Wouldn’t you know it, the door wasn’t budging as I tried the knob from within.
I yelled. He yelled back.
I pushed. He pulled.
My teen-aged daughter came in to help. This time, she yelled. I yelled.
I pushed. She pulled.
Again, you see where I’m heading with this story.
The two of them decided to search for a tool in my basement to pry the door open. Guess what? My collection of hardware was limited.
Next, they ran back down to the first floor, out the front door, and asked the neighbors for any tools that might help my – er – situation.
Meanwhile, I waited inside the closet. What other choice did I have?
The first neighbor immediately ran over to my house, huffing and puffing up the stairs and found his way into my master bedroom.
Problem was, he had no tools with him. This led me to believe he was simply a spectator. Which meant I was getting more agitated.
Next, the gal from the corner rowhouse stopped by. I heard her mumble something to my boyfriend, my daughter, and the spectator. Then her warning came. “Heidi, stand back!” she cried. “I’m gonna chop down your door with my ax!”
“NO!” I yelled from inside the closet. “Please don’t do that to my door!” I had images of a splintered door, a broken door jamb, and — quite possibly — blood.
The group put their heads together and decided to call 9-1-1.
Here’s what happened within the next two minutes.
(Bless you, Chicago first responders)…
Our home at the time
Two police squad cars – blue flashers on – arrived in front of my home. A fire truck – sirens blaring — pulled up on Artesian Avenue, effectively blocking any traffic from coming down the street.
By this time, the other neighbors gathered in front of my house. Typically, a couple squad cars and a fire engine will do that — especially in a tight-knit Chicago neighborhood. A group of young boys on their bikes stopped on my front lawn to gawk at the emergency vehicles. And then their eyes turned toward my upstairs bedroom window.
People pointed and asked about the commotion. “What’s going on? Is there a fire? Is someone in trouble?”
They didn’t have to wonder long. The spectator’s wife was on my front lawn, too. “Heidi got locked in her closet,” she conveniently told the crowd.
Next, I heard a number of raucous boots, stomping up my wooden staircase, along with what I imagined to be several pairs of sneakers, and some bare feet from my daughter. The decrepit floorboards had never seen so much action.
I heard a dozen or more boots walk closer to my closet door and stop. A strong male voice rang out. “Are you alright in there, Miss?” I heard from the opposite side of my closet.
“Yes, I’m breathing slowly so I don’t get any more anxious than I already am,” I called back.
“Stand back, I’m gonna pry this door open!” he ordered.
One. Two Three. CRACK!
I was released.
I stood there. They stood there. All of them. My daughter and my bright fella. The spectator and my friend with her ax. A tall firefighter, holding the pry bar he used to rescue me.
In addition to them, I counted four police officers and five more firefighters — courtesy of the City of Chicago. Just staring at me, as I stood in the closet (sans door).
I peered over my shoulder, to check out the windows which faced my front lawn. The neighbors waved. And cheered.
My face turned beet red. “Thank you,” was all I could manage.
Everyone – especially the handsome uniforms – laughed good naturedly, as they milled about my bedroom. I have to admit, having ten of Chicago’s finest in my bedroom was rather gratifying — heck, almost fantasy-like. I just wish the circumstances were a lot less embarrassing.
Truth be told, I really didn’t think the episode could get much more humiliating.
But then I noticed an errant pair of my black lace panties that had been sitting on my bedroom floor the entire time. I’m not sure how many boots had trampled over the underwear at that point. But there they lied, on the floor.
Please enjoy one of my favorite posts, first written in December 2017.
WHY IS EVERYTHING SO PERFECT?
How much longer is “Perfect” going to remain the favorite buzzword?
Because I hear it everywhere… even in settings where it may not be entirely appropriate. “Perfect, perfect, perfect!”
Is everything really that darned perfect?
That word is a lot to live up to. The Webster’s Dictionary I keep on my desk defines “Perfect” as:
1.a: being entirely without fault or defect: flawless.
I can’t take the pressure!
For example, we were in a training session at work, learning the new electronic filing procedures for the IL state court filing system.
I theorized our speaker was possibly a former military commander. She was a no-nonsense woman, dressed in business-like clothing, along with a Type A personality type that I covet.
Her crisp, staccato voice certainly had me at attention. And I didn’t want to cross her.
Presenter: “Any questions? No? PERFECT. Next slide please!”
By this time, I was afraid to ask any questions for risk of making things less than … well, Perfect .
I even abstained from the snacks they offered, for fear of making munching noises. Clearly, this is no way to live.
I’m Not Perfect…
Everyone knows I’m less than Perfect. Such as when I feed food from my plate to the dog, even though the host asks me not to do so.
It’s no wonder they stared. She has as many curves as Lake Shore Drive.
OVERHEARD IN CHICAGO
Me: “I’m not sure how I feel about taking a “girls only” trip.”
My Daughter: “It’s not like anyone’s asking you to, Mom.”
GIRLS’ WEEKEND IN ATLANTIC CITY
I first mentioned my friend Anita (a/k/a The Goddess) a couple weeks back in an earlier post. Anita is my go-to, my mentor, my friend, my partner in crime. Although we come from different cultures, we became fast friends. As a matter of fact, our differences intrigued us, since at times we made assumptions about one another. We had alternating religious views, our own unique foods at holiday celebrations, different outlooks on life. Heck, we even had vastly different hair but still managed to share hairstyling tips with each other.
But for all our differences, Anita and I also knew how to have fun together. In other words, if she came up with an idea, I was immediately on board.
And that’s exactly how it all started, back when we worked together at Winston & Strawn, the oldest Chicago law firm. We were both secretaries, working for litigators. That meant busy days and overtime into the late evening hours. Heck, a few times we pulled all-nighters in order to meet court deadlines.
When it was all said and done, though, we enjoyed the work. As well as the overtime pay. Some weeks we worked so many overtime hours, our payroll department was obligated to give us two checks on payday. It was those extra dollars in our pockets that led Anita and me to consider a mini vacation for ourselves. A treat for all the hard work we’d been putting in through the winter months. April was just around the corner, and thoughts of spring entered our minds.
“There’s an ad here in The Defender for a coach bus trip to Atlantic City for the weekend,” Anita mentioned, as she perused her daily newspaper at her desk. “If I go, do you wanna come with me?”
“Sure, I will,” my 21-year-old self said, all too eagerly. After all, what was there to think about? Mention a road trip, and I jumped at the opportunity. “Um, where exactly is Atlantic City?” I naïvely asked.
“Hmm, I’m not sure myself,” Anita admitted. “Let’s look it up in the law library. They have an Atlas map there.”
Always willing, I followed my friend down the corridor of our law firm. As always, men’s eyes followed her down the hall, since she has as many curves as Lake Shore Drive. I still didn’t know why she hung around with me. For one thing, she was eight years older than I and clearly more mature. Plus, for the life of me, I couldn’t compare with her engaging beauty. Everywhere we went, people stopped to catch a glimpse of her – yes, she is that striking.
We stopped at the law library’s reference desk. “Excuse me, José,” Anita said softly, her eyes tender and innocent. “We need to take a peek at your Atlas.”
José’s own eyes lit up at the sight of Anita before him. “Sure, here you go,” he grinned. “Anything else I can do for you today?” he suggested, as he handed the catalog to her.
He held it tighter as she tried to take the book from her hands. “C’mon, now, let go,” she giggled. Jose’s smile great broader as he flirted with Anita, while I stood watching, mentally shaking my head. How does she do it?
The next Friday evening my father drove me to Anita’s apartment; we were picking her up before heading to Goldblatt’s parking lot, where we were scheduled to board the charter bus to take us on an overnight trip to Atlantic City.
“Thanks for driving, Mr. Van Howe,” Anita said kindly, as she slid out of the front seat.
My dad held the door for her as she alighted. “Please, it’s Howard,” he insisted. As I struggled removing my own heavy bag from the back seat, Dad went on to lift Anita’s luggage from the car trunk. Anita stood by sweetly, allowing him to do the gentlemanly thing. If my father had worn a hat that night, I think he would have tipped it at her.
“Bye, Dad,” I called back, as Anita and I headed toward the bus. The coach was already half loaded with suitcases. Scores of passengers milled about, wishing good-byes to family and friends. Their excitement was contagious, as I grew more thrilled about getting away for a fun-filled weekend with my good friend.
Dad stood at his car, watching us as we waited our turn to board the bus. I turned around once more to give him a wave. “Bye, Dad!” I called over to him. Dad, standing taller than most folks, cupped his hands around his mouth, getting ready to shout to me from across the parking lot.
“Don’t get pregnant!” he bellowed, before ducking back into his vehicle.
I stood there, suitcase in hand, mouth wide open, and was at a loss for words. Anita chuckled, while several others in line peered over at me to see what all the fuss was about.
Thanks, Dad.
Finally, we were inside the crowded bus, bumping into others’ luggage, impatiently waiting for the standing passengers while they debated over the best seats. As quick as she could, Anita squeezed past others in order to snag a pair of empty seats toward the rear of the bus, so we could sit together. I scooted in first, leaving her the aisle seat. Our bags stored securely overhead, we settled in for our adventure, talking excitedly with other passengers, until we heard our tour leader’s voice on the overhead.
“Thank you, thank you everyone,” he announced, as he waited for us to settle in.
He held the driver’s microphone, waiting for everyone to quiet down. “I want to thank you all for joining us on a fun-filled weekend trip to beautiful Atlantic City, New Jersey!” We clapped politely, waiting to hear more.
“We promise you all a weekend to remember. Atlantic City has everything: casinos, nightclubs, the ocean-side boardwalk,” he went on. “In a few minutes I’ll pass out $10 in casino chips to everyone on board.” A small cheer came up from the crowd. “That’s right, these chips I’m about to hand out are part of your get-away package.”
We clapped again, encouraging him. “Finally, let’s all give a huge thank you to Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Pettigrew for making tonight’s on-board refreshments,” he went on. “Can we give them all a big hand?” He motioned toward two petite women in the front seats. The two ladies stood up, each wearing a wool coat with matching hat, complete with hatpins. They turned, smiling and nodding, while we passengers politely clapped a third time, showing our appreciation for our gracious hosts.
“Anita, what kind of trip are we going on, anyway?” I whispered.
“Knock it off, girl,” Anita whispered, elbowing my side. She clapped louder and gave a whistle for the two refreshment hostesses.
We heard the start of the engine and the driver shut the front door. We smiled at one another, as he cleared the parking lot and headed down 87th Street toward the Dan Ryan Expressway, toward the east coast. The ocean. Our weekend away.
The mood on our bus was lively, as folks happily chatted in anticipation of our destination. Anita and I talked together, imaging what our hotel room would look like, the sights we’d see in Atlantic City, and the fun we’d have. Things were going smoothly for the next 30 minutes or so, while the bus headed out of the city, heading east to head down Interstate 80.
Suddenly, a strong voice broke above the general din of the passengers. “Well, I’m all about believin’ everyone’s the same!”
It was a male voice which popped out from the darkened vehicle. Anita and I looked at one another, wondering what that was all about.
“Yep, I’m all for love one another and don’t believe we’re different,” the vehement voice continued.
This time there was no mistaking where it came from – directly across the aisle from Anita. Anita nudged my arm, wanting to break the tension. “What did you bring to wear Saturday night?” she asked me.
“Um, my blue silk dress,” I answered. Except I spoke quietly, because my heart had starting beating quicker. I didn’t know what more to say. That is, I wasn’t sure what to do. In an instant, I felt cornered in my uncomfortable seat wedged next to the window.
But this man was not to be ignored. “You ask me, everyone’s got a right to be here,” he said louder than before. Several others on the bus turned around, looking at him, then Anita, before resting their eyes on me. “You see, I’m just fine with that,” he ranted.
“Girl, we’ll just overlook him,” Anita advised. She opened a magazine and started flipping through the pages, browsing for anything to turn her attention to milder attractions. I reached down into my carry-on and pulled out a novel I had picked up from the library. I flipped on the overhead reading lights for the two of us, so we could better see our reading material.
Unfortunately, the fella across from us wasn’t satisfied and clearly wanted our attention. “Ebony and ivory, “ he started singing. “Livetogether in perfect harmony,” he sang, taunting us for a reaction.
I was getting nervous. Who was this guy? He was big, for one. And sitting way too close to us for comfort. Plus, Anita and I had nowhere else to go, as we were packed into a small bus, that barely accommodated 45 passengers. And from the looks of it, the seats were booked full. There were no other open seats that could accommodate us.
“Side by side on my piano keyboard, oh Lord,why don’t weeeeeeeee?” he went on. “Yep, I’m cool with whatever’s goin’ on in this here bus.”
I sat back in my seat, hoping to make myself smaller. I realized my body had tensed during the episode. I flipped through my book, quickly scanning the pages, but not truly reading. I was uneasy but wasn’t sure of how to handle the situation. Did I need to say something to him? I couldn’t think of anything that would appease him. I certainly couldn’t walk away at that point. We were on an interstate in Indiana, and any escape was futile.
At that point Anita had had enough of it. Her face went solemn – a rare thing, but when it happened, you’d better stay out of her way. She leaned over towards my left ear. I could feel her long hair brush my neck. “Let me take care of this fella,” she whispered.
Anita turned toward the gentleman. She crossed her legs and turned her torso toward him, folding her arms in front of her. “You wanna say something to me?” she challenged the provocateur.
Her expression said it all – Anita meant business. She gave it right back to him, daring the fella to go on with his rhetoric.
Except he avoided her gaze. Instead, he stopped singing and simply stared forward at the seat in front of him. As if nothing ever happened. Anita watched him another half minute, waiting to see if he was going to continue his taunting.
I gripped the edges of my worn book, rubbing my thumb along the spine, I could feel the soft threads of the binding. My eyes darted to Anita, who wasn’t giving in, and back toward the window, worried that the bus wasn’t going stop for several more hours.
I’m not sure if it was Anita’s stance, or perhaps the wiseguy’s wife, who sat next to him and possibly gave him a hard side jab. But that guy shut up just as quick as he started. He settled into his seat more, and I caught a side glimpse of him, and saw his hands relax, while his fingers played with the edge of the arm rest.
Anita unfolded her arms and turned back toward me. She leaned back, resting her head against the pillow-top headrest. She slowly closed and opened her eyes, giving me a reassuring gaze. It was the smile from my friend that I was now long familiar with. I felt safe. Reassured.
I gave her a small smile back, and she went back to her magazine. I turned to the right, gazing out the bus window. The evening was dark, without much light from the summer moon. I watched the car taillights, as they sped along the highway alongside us. The bus engine made a steady hum and I could feel the vibrations of the vehicle, its wheels steadily rolling toward our destination.
The soft din of other passengers continued, as I heard muted conversations, a couple laughs, a cough from a few rows back, and the sound of the crisp pages of Anita’s magazine, as she used her index finger to swipe through the pages, searching for an interesting article.
I settled deeper into my seat and pulled my denim jacket over my chest for warmth. Our bags were packed with our favorite dresses for that Saturday night. We each had our $10 worth of red chips for gambling in the casinos.
So there it was — me and my friend, Anita. The two of us were on our way to Atlantic City.
WHAT DO WRITERS (anyone, really) do with a blank page – waiting for some profound thoughts to appear before them. Ready to share their thought-provoking ideas with the world. Or somehow relaying a memorable (even poignant) story that others will relate to. Even cherish.
SIGH. That’s not most of us. Or, at least, it ain’t me.
I started this blog with the idea that I’d routinely write, sharing my ideas with others. From working in the city, living in the ‘burbs and everywhere in between, I’d confidently dash off stories or ideas that would shake things up just a bit. Or at least make people think about 30 seconds beyond the end of my postings.
Except that idea is unrealistic. Creativity comes in waves, carrying levels of energy and enthusiasm. Sometimes the story pours forth tremendously. Many times it simply drips, like an old bottle of barbecue sauce that’s been sitting in the fridge for months.
I’ve been dreading the thought of boring readers with listless prose, dull adjectives, and common themes.
Yet, isn’t that where my past stories came from? Real, everyday life? Authentic stories that hopefully others can relate with?
Yes, I will keep writing, even if I feel it’s uninteresting. I’ll push myself with a simple writing prompt…
“WRITE ABOUT YOUR YESTERDAY”
Simple enough? Yes, to begin with.
Let’s see where it leads.
Yesterday, I left my desk at 5:02 PM, giving me enough time to walk the 1+ mile trek to the Metra train station. I like to allow for a cushion of time – 5 minutes – in order not to rush as I start my commute toward the station.
I’m not a fast walker. Never was. Except now I’m of a certain age. Plus, there’s a certain knee replacement that I can always use for a valid excuse. I also know my right leg isn’t aligned with my left. In fact, the lower right leg stands out to my starboard side, rather than pointing forward like its left partner.
Don’t get me wrong… I’m not complaining. It believe it’s all part of me. What makes me – well, me.
I finished the first block and one half, as I crossed Lake Street, heading south down Clark.
And that’s where it always begins. That’s where I run into confused out-of-towners who are desperately trying to locate the CTA station.
The bus station is unintentionally hidden. Situated inside the State of Illinois building, with no decent signs pointing folks in the right direction. It’s a bit noisy there, with the El tracks running overhead. It’s also dirty with pigeon droppings at each crosswalk. Be careful where you stand, as you wait for a green light. You don’t want to wind up with bird poop on your head.
Tonight was no different from many, where an individual asked me for directions. I see the look in their eyes: they look at their phone, then the street signs, then search the surrounding area.
And the lost look stays in their eyes.
Some of them become bold. “Excuse me?” they ask. “Can you tell me where the train is to the airport?”
I point toward the revolving doors on Lake Street. “Head down there,” I tell them. “Once inside, you’ll see the CTA lines, which will take you to either airport.”
They thank me and rush off, trailing their suitcases on wheels, treasured phone still in hand, afraid to lose their lifeline.
Except yesterday’s lost stranger was a little different. There he stood with a stuffed backpack and his phone in hand. He was standing next to a sitting bus, trying to speak with the CTA driver.
But getting nowhere.
I watched his forlorn face tell part of the story. My eyes switched from him, then toward the bus driver, who sat defiantly in his coach seat, seemingly unwilling to assist. Already, I felt sorry for the poor fella, so I slowed a bit, already sensing he was lost and needed support.
He was young – probably about 22 years old, smooth skin unmarked from time or weather. His hair was dark, and his soft brown eyes showed naiveté. Already, my sense of motherhood was building up in me. “Please, please, help,” he said to me, walking closer. He held out his phone toward me, just close enough so that I could read the words on the screen.
I saw words written in Spanish. “Oh dear,” I thought to myself. “Here we go.”
It was a translation app he was using. Except the words weren’t quite making sense. My Spanish isn’t quite up to par, considering the fact that I only finished three years of the language back in 1981.
Might as well have been 80 years ago.
I reluctantly scanned his phone. My guard was up. I was downtown, after all, and I try to avoid getting too close to strangers.
“Need bus to O’Hare,” the phone read.
“Oh, are you going to O’Hare?” I asked the young man.
He looked at me but gave no answer. Didn’t he speak even a bit of English? I wondered. I recalled a few words from my first year of Spanish, hoping I wouldn’t make a fool out of myself.
“¿Donde calle?” I asked, looking into his soft eyes. Gee, I hoped those were the right words. I also worried that my thick Chicago accent wouldn’t hinder his understanding. I thought of my Spanish teacher, Senora Greensley, way back when at Morgan Park High School.
She would be unimpressed with me right about now.
Evidently, I did okay. The young man started typing on his phone and turned it toward me once more.
“Addison Street,” it read. My face must have shown my confusion. “Addison and what?” I inquired.
He punched in more details. By this time, I figured we were old pals, so I watched over his shoulder.
“Take CTA O’Hare,” popped up on his screen.
“Oh, okay! You want the Blue Line, I explained, pointing toward the building behind me. “In there,” I instructed, pointing even harder now with my finger. As if that would help the situation.
I received another blank look. I couldn’t let this kid walk away without helping him. He seemed so vulnerable, carrying his backpack, still looking lost as he took in the downtown scene around us.
“C’mon with me,” I instructed. This much he understood. He followed, as I quickly walked back to Lake Street, turned west and walked the ¼ block toward the side entrance. I thought about my Metra train that was another 9 blocks ahead for me. We’d have to make this quick.
“The signage here is terrible,” I noted, looking his way. “They need to do something about this for travelers.” He gave a half-hearted grin, and I could see relief washing over his young face. I kept up my remarks, figuring that if I kept speaking, he’d somehow understand me.
Inside the station, I pointed at the O’HARE sign. “Blue line,” I indicated.
Another blank stare.
“Azul,” I tried again. Hey, I remembered more than I thought.
Except he didn’t approach the turnstile. Once more, his phone came out. He typed his question into the app and showed me the translation.
“Need a ticket,” it read.
I glanced over at the electronic ticket booths. Did I have time to go through the screens, read all the prompts and then somehow translate them for this young man?
I did not.
I had an idea. “Here you go,” I offered, digging into my purse. I fumbled through several pockets, before pulling out my transit card. It had at least $20 value on it. I swiped the card at the turnstile for him, indicating that it was clear for him to go through.
“Azul,” I called out once more, pointing toward the sign on the wall, where an escalator took passengers to the Blue Line. I gave him an encouraging look.
He looked toward the signs, still a bit confused. “Thank you,” he called back, again showing me his grateful smile.
He really was a cute kid. I hoped he’d figure it out from where I left him and that he’d successfully find whatever it was on Addison that he was looking for. I waved once more before he walked away. A sense of pride washed over me… almost like sending my little one off to the big city for the first time. I thought I felt a tear coming on.
I headed out toward Lake Street, turning right to continue along Clark Street. My good deed for the day was done. Now, I had my own train to catch.
Memo to file: call CTA and ask ifthey’ll put me on retainer.
I looked around the room, and saw the usual favorable glances from gentlemen, as they admired my friend next to me. Always, always, always, Anita stole the show, her dancer’s legs seductively crossed as she leaned back into the bar stool. Still, she paused before answering my question.
“I TOOK A QUIZ the other day,” my friend Anita commented, as we sat at our favorite bar, each of us lost in our own thoughts. When she spoke, her intrinsic low voice always made me smile. I was slowly swirling the mini plastic skewer in my drink, while Anita mindlessly folded her paper cocktail napkin, making tiny accordion folds.
We had met after work that autumn evening, catching up after not seeing each other for well over a year. The time and separation didn’t matter. We picked right back up where we left off. It was as though we were still co-workers, from years back when we worked side by side five days a week, churning out the work as legal assistants.
We sat together each enjoying our drinks, listening to the small jazz ensemble, provided with no cover charge at the downtown bar we haunted years earlier. Tonight, we chose it again for old times’ sake – that and for its proximity between our workplaces. The prices were kept low, leading to a tavern with poor lighting and mediocre booze. The grunge was authentic – brought on by years of neglect, with a steady patronage of drinkers who appreciated its understated qualities, which included attentive barkeepers and cheap drinks.
Anita and I didn’t mind one bit. At least the restrooms were kept clean, and we were always guaranteed there’d be available seating. That was all we needed.
“A quiz?” I repeated back to my pal, watching her reflection in the mirror behind the bottles of liquor at the bar. “Tell me,” I begged. “What was that all about?”
She turned towards me, and I saw what I always knew: Anita added class to the joint. Her classic curves lent beauty to the otherwise worn-out establishment. The place had been a fine lounge at one time, evidenced by its corner banquettes covered in worn midnight-blue velvet, while the small wooden stage in the corner was decorated with the names of musicians from years past, as they autographed the walls with their names, eventually covering other old, faded signatures.
Still, it remained a place where we liked to meet for a drink after work, especially since the bartender, Spiro, kept an eye on us, ensuring we were never hassled by overzealous patrons. Of course, Spiro’s manly physique wasn’t lost on the two of us either. The proverbial tall, dark and handsome gentleman appeared in both my and Anita’s daydreams more than once.
All that, and as a pro, our barkeeper knew exactly when to make a joke, when to mind his own business, and when to replenish our glasses. What’s not to love?
I looked around the room, and saw the usual favorable glances from gentlemen, as they admired my friend next to me. Always, always, always, Anita stole the show, her dancer’s legs seductively crossed as she leaned back into the bar stool. Still, she paused before answering my question.
“So, go on,” I goaded her. “I’d like to hear this.” I tipped my glass to my lips, draining the last of its contents.
Anita picked up her drink and carelessly shrugged. “Well” she began. “The quiz was titled called ‘Ten Ways to Tell If You’re a Goddess.” Letting out a coy sigh, she shrugged her shoulders and used one hand to flip her long hair back behind her shoulders. She looked around the room, scanning to see if any new faces had arrived, while also waiting for my reaction.
“A goddess?” I said with a small laugh. “Go on, I want to hear this,” I urged, as I kept one eye on Spiro, watching him carefully squeeze cut limes into two tall glasses of tonic water.
“Well, it turns out that I checked all ten items,” Anita went on, matter-of-factly. She shrugged her shoulders, hesitating continuing. “So,” she paused, “I guess that makes me a goddess.”
As she admitted this, her lips curved upward, growing into a smug smile. A modest blush shown in her cheeks.
My friend’s smile grew, evidencing her self satisfaction. She let her eyes move around the lounge area, taking in the old memories we had of the place. It was clear she was pleased with the results of the game.
Heck, she had every right to be.
I immediately chuckled, something I did often while in her presence. “Yep, I’ll grant you that one,” I answered her, nodding my head in agreement.
Looking back at my long-time chum, I admired her self-confidence, style and charm. As always, she looked irresistible, her allure never fading. Besides the glamorous exterior, though, was a woman who was genuine.
She’s devoted to her family, her work, and her passion for dance. Anita always remained truthful with me, telling me exactly what I needed to hear – whether I liked it or not. Years before, we worked together and vacationed together, She stood up as my maid of honor for my first wedding. She was always there for me, letting me lean on her shoulder if need be.
She’s a stunning gem -- inside and out.
I looked my companion straight in the eye then. I needed to let her know exactly what I thought. “You know very well you didn’t need to take some silly magazine survey to tell you you’re a goddess,” I started. “You see, Anita, I’ve known that about you all along.”
I tipped my glass to hers in mid-air, offering a toast to my long-time friend. Our glasses kissed one another, signaling an understood commemoration between the two of us.
We each emptied our glasses, as we enjoyed the scene before up. Our handsome bartender was putting the finishing touches on a couple of martinis. His professional fingers quickly twisted the lemon peels into curls before placing one on each glass. He picked them up by their stems and set them down before me and my friend.
“These are compliments of the gentleman at the other end,” Spiro winked, tipping his head toward the left.
Anita and I both paused, caught off guard by the unexpected drinks. Then, in unison, we reached for the cocktails and raised our glasses in the direction of the generous patron. The kind stranger tipped his glass back toward the two of us, as we smiled our practiced feminine smiles, demonstrating our appreciation.
Suddenly, we felt a burst of fresh air rush in, uncharacteristically upsetting the mustiness of our favorite watering hole. Looking toward the front door, we each took a sip of our fresh martinis, watching as a small group of eager hipsters entered the lounge, their eyes eagerly taking in the genuine, no-frills aura of our saloon.
In search of their own festive libations.
Celebrating their own friendships.
Or possibly exposing and commandeering our authentic hideaway.
THE RAIN POURED DOWN steadily that Saturday, as we set out to visit the covered bridges of Parke County in southern Indiana. Our weekend trip was culminating with a few hours to view the famous bridges, most of which were built over 100 years before.
We drove the car slower than usual, wiper blades swishing back and forth with gusto. As flatlanders, we weren’t used to the rolling hills and twists and turns that came up in the roads leading to our destination. But that didn’t matter, since it was late October, and we were met with a spectacular cornucopia of fall colors at every turn.
As the rain continued pouring down, the colorful variations were even more distinctive among the soaking wet leaves. We became mesmerized, watching the gorgeous canvases before us, with intermittent farms plunked down between the rolling hills.
And the rain poured down.
We missed our turn. Somewhere along the drive, among lost GPS signals, a worn-out paper roadmap and our distracted sightseeing eyes, we missed the sign for the most direct route to the covered bridges.
Except all was well, as we turned into the small town of Greencastle, Indiana, home to DePauw University, bookstores, coffee shops, a town square (boasting a German buzzbomb of all things) and a lone antiques shop.
Parking our car on the town’s main street, we brave the weather in order to read a fact-filled plaque about said WWII weaponry — namely a German vengeance weapon — erected in memory of local veterans who successfully shot many of those same missiles down.
Next, we leap across large puddles of water, intending to duck into the stores across the way. First in our path was an antiques store, its sign glowing a bright red OPEN on that grey day.
The rain continued pouring down.
The shop’s style was typical of any small American town. Glass display windows flanked each side of the narrow doorway, with pentagon-shaped black and white tiles at its front walkway. How quaint. How charming.
We ran in, stopping at the threshold to take in the goods and to shake excess water off our raincoats.
A cheerful silver bell clanked behind us, announcing our arrival, but still, we saw no one else within the store.
“What’s with the buzzbomb across the way?” my husband called out, hoping to capture the attention of a shopkeeper who was perhaps deep within the building.
At first, it was quiet, and we thought perhaps we were alone. But several seconds passed, and we received a reply.
“That’s been there for years,” responded a raspy voice from the back. The sound of feet shuffling against the tile floor announced the fact that someone was indeed tending to business in the rear of the shop.
"Here, I got some literature on it,” the hoarse voice continued. "Somewhere..."
The voice trailed off. Still, no person appeared to go along with it.
I grew impatient and started to browse. Fiddling with my raincoat’s hood to avoid getting my face wet, I went further into the store, admiring the treasures. Set atop every shelf inside were dishes from the early 20th century dishes and serving pieces, some in colored glass, while others boasted fine hand-painted florals. These were dishes from my childhood, reminding me of warm homes with smells of Thanksgiving turkeys and Christmas cranberry sauce.
Soft footsteps came from behind, and suddenly I heard the same gruff, yet kindly voice.
“Hello.”
I turned, staring straight into the dark eyes of the shop’s owner. There he was, a couple inches shorter than I, with wispy white hair softly swept across his head and face stubble to match. He watched me with intent from behind his gold wire spectacles, framed by thick, dark eyebrows – a significant contrast from the rest of him.
He held his chin forward, anxious to greet his customers and assist in any way he could. His posture was slightly bent forward, and he wore a tan flannel shirt with criss-crossing maroon stripes. His olive green trousers were faded from wear, and his worn leather loafers blended right in with the rest of him — wrinkled yet durable.
And then, it was as if a jolt of lightning struck me.
There I was, enclosed in a musty store with any outside noises eliminated from the pounding rain. There was something about the gentleman that immediately aligned with my memories from the surroundings.
His gait and manner of speech seemed familiar. There was an air about him that reminded me of my father, or even my second cousin’s husband (a WWII vet) — two individuals from that generation who had a certain boldness about them. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it the reason for the connection, but rather sensed similarities from his deep voice and mannerisms.
After speaking with him for a few minutes, one would quickly realize the gentleman had a surplus of life experiences. The shopkeeper didn’t gloat or try to impress others. He didn’t have to. One instantly knows when meeting one of these individuals – he or she is the type of person that isn’t afraid of hard work, is glad to share stories, and is proud but not boastful of life accomplishments. They are those types of patriarchs who leave us to wonder exactly how much change and progress they’ve experienced.
They leave behind impressed listeners.
And I was not in a hurry to leave.
Outside, the rain still beat down in unrelenting sheets, threatening the front display windows, which showcased china plates, cups, saucers and platters.
The owner was anticipative that we came to call on this dreary day, explaining how he came to acquire a wealth of dishes over the years for his tiny shop.
“Here, let me show you. Just look at the bottom of this bowl,” he said, turning the piece over so I could read for myself. “These were made in countries that don’t even exist anymore," he explained. "You follow?”
I removed my glasses so I could read better. “’Made in Prussia’… you’re right!” I exclaimed. I turned it over to admire the fine work done by someone long ago.
“This bowl is about 100 years old,” he went on. “Beautiful work," he said, mostly to himself. "Beautiful,” he whispered.
The gentleman put it back onto the front counter, along with two other painted pieces. “These are going up on the plate rail today,” he said, motioning to the wall behind the cash register. “They all go up there. Pieces of art, they are.”
“They’re very nice,” I agreed.
Wistfully I picked up the second bowl, featuring green and gold flowers. It looked just like the serving pieces from my childhood, where my grandmother and aunts filled the bowls with homemade mashed potatoes, complete with pats of butter melting from the top peak. Admiring them further cemented all the memories that came flooding back.
I set the bowl down and passed through the two aisles once more, considering a crystal creamer and a pair of silver tongs, the words Made in England etched on the back. Then I recalled the pact I made with myself not to spend any money on souvenirs on this road trip. There were plenty of heirloom dishes already filling my cupboards at home.
“Well, thank you for your time,” my husband called out. “I’ll have to check on the Internet for the back story of that buzzbomb across the way.”
“Yes, thank you sir,” I told him. “You have lovely items in your store.”
“Thank you for stopping in,” the man nodded, watching us leave his shop.
We ran back across the quiet street, quickly unlocking the car and scooting into the front seats. I thought about the pretty bowls painted by hand. Once upon a time, they sat in someone’s home, removed from the china cabinet for Sunday dinners. Today they rest, waiting to be gingerly placed onto a high plate rail in an elderly gentleman’s antiques shop – a man who still appreciates their beauty.
We made a U-turn with the car and passed by the store on our way to the covered bridges. I turned my head and looked back toward the antiques shop.
There he was. The shopkeeper solemnly watched us from the front window, his gaze holding us close to him, even though we were heading further away.
Seeing his face, the guilt flooded through my core as we left. Was he disappointed that we’d left? How could he be? Since he hadn’t truly known us but for ten short minutes. Except I felt as though we had abandoned him, leaving him alone with his cherished memories, waiting for customers to stop in and appreciate his wares.
Behind the drenched window, his solemn face took on an ethereal appearance as the rainwater quickly dribbled down the storefront glass, obscuring the man and his treasures.
Washing away not only the images — but possibly the man and his memories inside.
Oh, how I loathe February. The snow is tiresome. Snow boots are a bother but a necessity, since I fear icy patches, where I might take a spill. My parka is soiled with patches of dried salt, and I don’t bother to remove it. At this point, I no longer care.
“I need to run to the bird seed store,” my husband reminds me.
“Don’t we have enough at home already?” I ask.
He doesn’t listen but instead drives to the local shop to pick up more wild bird seed.
He returns to the car. “See what they gave me for free?” he says excitedly, handing over a rectangular box. Oh look, it’s a Thermodynamic Drinking Bird – “a personal heat engine in a handy duck shape.” Just what we needed. In times like these, I like to quote Spencer Tracy in Father of the Bride…
“We were never blessed with such bounty!”
In the good old days of Classic Hollywood – wordpress.com
THE DREARY DAY CONTINUES
Our next stop is to the grocery store, to pick up a few things. I sigh from boredom, picking up my book to peruse on this colorless day.
A quote on page on page 37 makes me pause and think.
“If you are ever bored or blue, stand on the street corner for half an hour.”
Maira Kalman
Of course, she’s right. I make it a point to stop focusing on my glum attitude and instead take note of what’s happening around me.
An ambulance glides through the intersection, its siren blaring loudly. Someone is on a gurney inside, heading west to the hospital one mile away.
We pass a newly built Andy’s Frozen Custard, boasting a six-foot frozen cone in front of its doors. The custard reminds me of whipped marshmallows, with an almost pearl-like sheen, tempting passers-by.
In the Jewel parking lot, cars maneuver among high banks of dirty snow. Walking through the lot, intricate paths make us avoid frozen patches and drenching puddles. Impatiently, we wish for spring.
A young man and his wife walk toward the entrance of the grocery store. He lingers, allowing me to walk in after his wife. Chivalry and manners aren’t dead.
Inside, the store tells us we’re not alone in our thoughts of springtime. There are fresh flowers. Cantaloupe. And jelly beans.
After paying for our purchases, we start to head out the automatic door, when once again I run into the same gentleman. He waves his hand. “After you,” he insists.
I smile back, using my eyes to express my gratitude. Pandemic masks are like that.
DRUDGERY TURNS TO DELIGHT
Back in our car, I think of my daughter, who waits at my home. She stopped by this weekend for a short visit. We will re-heat the chicken tacos I made last night. She asked if we can watch an old Columbomovie together. Of course, I say Yes.
For the first time in my life, I’m working remotely from home.
It’s been months, and I sit here alone, except for listening to WXRT Radio as my companion: Fittingly, Beck’s Uneventful Days is on today’s line-up.
The advisory comes through each hour:
“Stay home as much as you possibly can.”
Staying in place. It’s getting more difficult each day.
The isolation is getting the better of me. Plus, I need to distract myself from the pervasive news.
I call my mom.
As usual, she has good advice for me: Stay Busy.
She relays a story about her own father, who found himself relocating himself, wife and five children to New York in 1942.
His mechanical expertise was needed at LaGuardia Airport, where he spent long hours working to support the war effort.
To decompress during those stressful times, my grandfather set to work on a venture of his own.
He garnered all the excess lumber he could find in those days, recycling wooden pallets and the like, in order to start his project.
He devised a plan in the backyard of the family home.
“What are you building out there?” his wife asked the next afternoon.
“I’m building you some kitchen cabinets,” was his reply.
My grandmother looked out the kitchen window the following day, shaking her head.
What she saw looked nothing like the cabinets she had requested.
To be sure, the project looked more like a boat.
The secret was out. My grandfather spent his leisure hours designing and building a wooden cruiser cabin in the backyard of their rented home.
Looking toward the future, he knew, once the war was over and his family was back home in Illinois, he would use that watercraft to cruise the bluewaters of Lake Michigan.
The time came for my grandfather to move his family back home. With the help of his buddies, they removed the panels of the backyard fence, allowing enough room to push the new boat out of the yard and onto a trailer hitch to be taken to the railroad yard.
Grandpa paid to have his prized possession sent by freight car to Lyons, Illinois – its new home.
My grandparents enjoyed their cruiser cabin for years by taking excursions on Lake Michigan.
The craft even survived damage from a fire – started when my uncle was careless with holiday fireworks. My grandfather and uncle repaired the beloved boat back to near original condition, ensuring its capacity to act as a source of recreation for many years.
Mom and her dad (my Grandpa) pose with that wonderful ol’ boat
Decades later – 1969 to be exact – my grandparents trailered their cabin cruiser by car, down to their newly built home in Lake Placid in central Florida – a tranquil location for their retirement years.
Why did my mother tell this story?
… to remind me to search for a healthy diversion.
… to remind me that it’s time for a project of my own.
My venture won’t be as large. Nor is it likely mine will last 30 years. All I need is a task to occupy my time, alleviate my stress, and influence my imagination.
I came home from shopping at Aldi a couple days ago. Actual driving and shopping took about 40 minutes. Not too bad, considering.
I spent another hour in a tizzy, washing and sanitizing the groceries once I arrived home. This was the latest trick I learned from a video on WGN, our local news station. A Minnesota doctor gave a thorough procedure of washing store-bought items to avoid any chance of the items carrying the coronavirus.
CRAZY TIMES = CRAZY ME
Have you ever heard of such a thing?
Where am I?
I’m on Earth. Listening, hoping, fearing, and praying like many others.
The washing and sanitizing is done. Food put away. Counters cleaned once more. My hands feel tight from all the soap and water, so I grab my hand cream I keep in a kitchen drawer and reapply it for maybe the fourth time this morning.
Back upstairs, to the loft where our home office is located. I work remotely all day, exchanging heartfelt messages with co-workers and laughing over silly things while we try to keep things lively and not fret over the daily news blasts.
Finally, it’s 5:00 and I log off from the computer. It’s Friday, yet somehow it seems different. No plans to go anywhere. Just stay at home. My plans include eating and watching television. Many Fridays I can’t wait to do just that. But now, everyone is looking for an outlet.
WASH YOUR HANDS!
My husband arrives home – with more groceries! Grocery shopping is his newest hobby. I think he prefers the European way of shopping – only picking up several things every few days. Except he’s forgotten the warnings I told him early this morning about picking up more germs at the grocery store.
“Look, I brought you some red wine,” he says so nicely, holding a bottle of cabernet sauvignon.
I look at him like he’s nuts. I raise my voice, “I told you not to go shopping. Stop touching that. It’s contaminated!” I run into the bedroom, shutting the door with meaning. I’m so annoyed that he’s bringing germs into the house. And who’s going to clean all that food? Me, that’s who.
Where’s my phone? I need my Calm app to meditate and decompress. The anxiety and worry plus being shut within the house for two weeks now is getting to me. I need to relax and not become upset over groceries of all things… because this is just the beginning. And we all need to get along.
COPING
The next morning my husband convinces me to go with him just for a drive. He knows me well. “You don’t even have to get out of the car,” he promised.
The first stop is for an oil change. He drives to the dealer, and I follow in my own car. This way he can leave his car, while we run errands in my Chevy.
I gave him the stink eye when he jumped into my passenger seat. “Since when is an oil change an essential errand? Couldn’t this wait?” I demanded.
“They diagnosed the funny sound I kept hearing and determined the power steering pump needed replacing.”
Okay, that’s important. I concede that it’s a good thing we dropped the car off.
“Now I just need to run into Pete’s and get milk and potatoes for my mom and dad. You can wait in the car,” he suggested.
I watch him run into Pete’s, dodging the rain puddles on this gloomy day. The skies are an ugly grey. Why can’t we at least have sunshine here in Illinois? It’s the end of March, for goodness’ sake. I grab my phone and scroll through for social media updates and news briefings. Nope, I’m tired of everything I’m seeing.
I look out the window and watch a store employee picking up trash in the parking lot. He uses a long grabber stick to snatch the junk people leave lying on the ground. He tosses everything into an empty grocery cart. Everything is soggy, making it grosser than usual. The worker walks next to my car.
Should he be that close to my vehicle? Oh my goodness, Heidi, get a handle on yourself!
I peer out my rain-soaked window and see inside his cart. Plastic grocery bags, soda containers, burger boxes. And so many latex gloves. All in the latest colors.
Across from me is a couple loading purchases into the trunk of their car. The husband wears blue gloves. Except, his wife is bare handed. What is wrong with people? Following disparate protocols is like… well, like an Independent marrying a Republican. They just cancel each other out. What’s the use in even trying?
I think back to the wine my spouse brought home and how I freaked out that he touched it. I’m losing my mind.
MOVING ON
My husband returns with the groceries for his folks and we move on. He runs the food into their house, while I sit in the car and play a brief meditation on my Calm app. Breathe. Relax. Focus on yourself. The here and now. I cannot control outside events. Breathe. Relax.
My husband finally exits his parents’ home and hops back into the car. “They should be done soon with my Honda. We can go back to the dealership and wait for it. Do you mind running by the Dunkin’ Donuts so I can bring the guys some doughnuts?” He smiles at me. Sometimes I forget how handsome he is when I’m aggravated.
It’s back to the dealership, where he asks me to wait for him just in case the car’s not quite ready. I don’t mind waiting inside my car. At least I have the radio, and I don’t have to walk outside in the cold rain. I’m immersed in my phone again, when he knocks at my window. I unlock the door and he gets back in.
“It’s nearly ready,” he said. “Boy, everyone’s paranoid and there are signs all over the place telling people to keep six feet back. I had to sign the paperwork for my car, and I reached way over to the cashier window to sign for it but had to keep my feet on the yellow tape on the floor. I tell ya, I felt like John Belushi in The Blues Brothers movie when he picked up his belongings at Joliet prison.”
I couldn’t help it. I grinned, looking out my driver’s side window so he wouldn’t see that I was warming up to him.
“Not only that,” he went on, eyes twinkling. “I was telling the guy that I had to cancel my hair appointment. I said, ‘my hair’s so long, I’m starting to look like Farrah Fawcett!’
“And you know what the kid said back to me?”
“What?” I asked.
“’Who’s Farrah Fawcett?’”
I burst into laughter.
And that, my friends, is how I’ll be managing these stressful days.
KISS: I wanna rock an’ roll all night… And party every day.”
Kiss was playing on my headphones while I was pedaling the Peloton bike earlier this morning.
I can’t lie: that song motivated me to push myself.
The sweat was bountiful.
“You drive us wild, we’ll drive you crazy.”
Wait, it gets better…
“Sweet emotion…”
Ah, Aerosmith. I pedaled faster.
The Music Stays With You
Hours later, I mentioned to my co-worker that Kiss was still playing over and over in my head.
“You’re dating yourself,” he reminded me. “But, you probably don’t care.”
“Um, no, I really don’t,” was my answer.
“Watch out, you’ll date yourself!”
That’s one idiom I find annoying.
Because I’m not 36.
And, no one would believe me if I told (lied) to them that I’m 36 years old. So there goes that idea.
I can go into all the reasons it would be nice to be 36. But, we already know what those are.
Looking Back
At the young age of 36, I had filed for divorce and things weren’t looking so hot for me back then. I was depressed. In addition, I felt like I had hit the dreaded middle age. “I’m so old!” was the cry.
Things change. So do perspectives.
If I weren’t the age I am now, I wouldn’t have encountered all these memorable experiences:
Searched for empty pop bottles and coins on the ground — enough to purchase candy for me and my friends.
Spent summer nights playing Cops and Robbers with every kid on the block, plus all those who wandered over from the next street over.
I ate casseroles, used a rotary phone to call into radio contests, wore cowl necks, and tried (but failed) at macramé.
Music from my generation is played at every sports venue we visit: baseball, basketball, hockey games, etc. My daughter rolls her eyes when I make a smug expression over this fact. In spite of this, she knows the lyrics to Kiss and Aerosmith songs. #proudmom
I was lucky enough to be part of the teenage mall scene, including Evergreen Plaza and Ford City. It was there we saw first run showings of The Blues Brothers, Indiana Jones, and countless disaster movies such as The Towering Inferno.
We spent hot summers at Navy Pier enjoying Chicago Fest. There, we caught cool lake breezes and a line-up of outstanding musicians. Joan Jett and the Blackhearts rock!
I’ll stop there. My generation can go on for hours talking about our beloved memories. Each generation has its own cherished celebrations.
Deservedly so.
Putting it all together, I can proudly say: “I’m not 36.”
PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST 