It Happened in Chicago – Page 2 – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

My Opa / Grandpa

Editor’s Note: This story has been reprinted with permission of its author: Ingrid Felsl (who was 9 years old at the time of writing)

My Opa’s name is Howard, and he is married to my Grandma Dorothy. Opa is very silly, but he is also very smart and has had a very interesting life.

Howard was born in 1931 at home in Roseland. That time was the Great Depression. Roseland is on the southeast side of Chicago, not very far from here. My Opa is the youngest of five other sisters. Imagine how that felt!

When Opa Howard was little, little kids had to make up their own fun. One thing he liked to do the most was to camp out at the Indiana Dunes with his family. My Opa saved all his old Batman and Superman comic books. When his three kids were young, they read them.

When he was 17 years old, Opa worked at R.R. Donnelley’s. It was a printing press.

He had eight motorcycles at one time. That must have been amazing. At the same time, he had a Rolls Royce car. That was an old-fashioned fancy car.

After he sold some motorcycles, Opa had a fire truck. They used to ride it in parades.

My mom; myself; my great-grandmother; and my Opa

Howard knows how to say “I love you” in many different languages. When I get to see him, he always teaches them to me. I know he is smart because he skipped two grades.

You might think my Opa is cool, but listen to what I have to say about him that is funny. One time for Halloween, Howard was always hot in his outfit because, back then, the kids trick-or-treated for the whole week. Since he was hot, Howard thought that wearing one of his sister’s dresses would be cooler. He wore that and was even hotter than he was before. I guess he’ll never do that again.

Another thing my Opa did when he was young is go with his friends to the back of a drugstore and steal pop bottles. Later, they would turn in the bottles and get five cents.

One really funny thing is when Howard and his friend made a fire in a garbage can in the back yard. Howard said he saw his dad coming, and they didn’t know what to do. So they started to pee on the fire. Luckily, his dad never found out.

One time at school Howard tricked his teacher. He said to the teacher “Constantinople, spell it,” So his teacher started writing Constantinople in big letters on the board.

Then Howard said, “No, I-T. Do you get it? Constantinople, spell ‘it.'” Ha ha ha ha.

When he was an adult with three children, Howard had a fire truck, remember? After he had painted it, he had some paint left over. So he decided that he would paint the kids’ dresser red. My mom says it was bright red and looked ugly. I believe her (Don’t tell Howard I said that.)

Another time Opa had got some street-yellow paint from the road workers. He used it to paint the patio furniture. My mom, grandma, aunt and uncle said it looked exactly like the street lines and was hideous. I can tell.

Spray painting patio furniture with my Opa – but using brown paint this time

One time Howard and his friend were putting up wallpaper in the hallway of his home. Guess how they put it up — upside down! So Dorothy (she is his wife) came in and said “Howard, it’s upside down!” The men said, “What?” Then Dorothy said it looked the same, so it stayed.

Now you might not think this is funny, but one time Opa left me at home. I was six years old and watching a movie; Opa was fixing a car. I got up and couldn’t find him anywhere. I looked twice. I started to cry and in a minute Grandma Dorothy came home. I told her what happened. When Howard came home, we asked him what he did. He said he forgot I was there and went to test the car. He was very sorry. I hope that never happens again.

Two years ago my Opa and Omah moved to Florida. Howard brought his favorite Indiana Dunes poster and put it up in the screened patio. The poster got torn up because the wind blew it off the wall. It got rained on and fell in the pool. Opa duct taped it up, but it fell down. He bolted it back up. Today you will see the poster torn, duct taped to the wall, and with a bolt.

Well, you now know mostly all about my Opa. You never know what might happen with him (that sounds just like me, too). But anyway, he is very nice and I love him and miss him so much. I hope I visit him in the spring. Well, that is…

My Opa / Grandpa

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

I Killed A Cicada, and I Don’t Care

For nearly a month, we had stood at the train platform, swatting at flying cicadas as they landed on our shoulders. Our tote bags. Our hair. And SMACK! – right into our faces.

I’ve had enough of ’em. I tried to be kind. After all, they’re harmless creatures… those little cicadas who only come out of the ground once every 17 years.

The first time I experienced the run of these buggers, I was 9 years old. It took me nearly one week before I found the courage to pick up one of their emptied shells. It was interesting in that it was sheer and brittle; I could easily crush the shell between my two fingers. Instead, I held it and marveled how it showed the exact shape of the insect that broke out of its cover and now took over our neighborhood.

Kids taunted and chase one another with the cicadas, daring to leave one on your shoulder or – worse – jab it in your face. I shuddered each time I went outside to ride my bike, hoping no one sensed my fear of the creatures.

Finally, I took it upon myself to pick up a dead cicada. Hmm… not too bad. At least it wasn’t moving around and twitching its wings. I made myself hold the little guy in order to overcome my fear.

My mom insisted that I get over my fears. “You need to get in touch with Nature,” she advised. “Anyhow, I promise that they wouldn’t return for another 17 years.” Doing the math in my head, I hoped that by the time I was 26 years old, my anxiety would diminish. My maturity would surpass my childish jitters and I’d be just fine.

I’m not sure if my strategy worked, or that enough time had passed and they went back underground. Either way, I had survived the summer of 1973 cicada infestation.

I went back to riding my bike, nurturing a broken arm (that’s another story), while singing along to Tony Orlando and Dawn’s “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Ole Oak Tree.” Yes, things were going to be just fine for the next [nearly] two decades.

1990 Came and Went

The cicadas returned in 1990, but for some reason they were not lodged underneath the mature trees in my Ravenswood neighborhood. It seems the periodical pests don’t travel much — instead, they stay where they’re “planted.”

The Summer of 2007 came along. I lucked out again, since the oldest trees in our neighborhood were several blocks over. Those streets were crowded with cicadas and – later – seagulls as they arrived to help themselves to a smorgasbord of protein-based bugs.

It’s Now 2024

Here we find ourselves again – another summer with cicadas. At this age (you do the math), my uptight attitude is gone. I have bigger issues that keep me up at night.

These cicadas, though. They’re LOUD. They are not adroit flyers. And they’ve set up camp in our neighborhood.

The other day as I worked at home, windows were wide open due to the lovely 73 degree temperatures. No humidity. Plenty of sunshine and the trees swayed from a gentle wind.

Except those darn insects let out such a shrill buzz that my ears were ringing. The fracas reminded me of watching an old movie where an ambulance buzzed by to bring wounded soldiers to a field hospital during WWII. Their blaring song that day (heck, the past three weeks!) was anything but soothing.

The continuous bedlam was enough to make me shut the windows and turn on the A/C — the last thing I wanted to do on such a beautiful spring day.

Even with all the windows in the house, I could still hear a strong blare of bugs. Was there a window I missed perhaps? Walking round the house, I saw that everything was secure. Yet the commotion was still there. Were those cicadas that boisterous that it sounded as they they were inside our dwelling?

This went on all afternoon until I finally had to take another look. And there he was… one poor little fella stuck between the inside screen and the outside window. His chirp was emphatic as he must have felt trapped (he was!) and anxious to return to his friends.

I cranked open the window and tapped the screen to loosen his grip. “Go, go now and get along!” I spurred him. It took a few times before he seemed to understand and took it upon himself to fly away.

I shut the window and relished the silence in the house. Ahh, Nature can be wonderful, right? As long as it stays outside where it belongs.

Week 3

Week 3 was upon us. As my spouse and I drove into the city to attend the Old Town Art Fair, I kept hearing a grating screech in our vehicle. A wail. A yelp for help, if you will.

I thought I was only imaging things, until we were in River North and the little bugger suddenly appeared. There he was, squashed between my seat belt and my belly. Each time I moved, he squirmed and screamed. Poor little fella.

“Leave him be; he’s cute,” my husbanded pleaded.

“Yeah, well not cute enough,” I commented once the cicada got loose and started flying around my feet. I scooped him up, rolled down the window and encouraged him to fly away. It took a few “encouragements” before he complied and flew off. Landing somewhere in Clark Street, among the taxis, pizza joints and tourist. Hopefully, he’d find a small tree and latch on. At this point, I felt he was on his own. I could no longer worry about one cicada.

Cicada shells under our backyard evergreen tree

Tuesday Morning Came About

Things seemed quieter this morning as we commuters waited for our morning train into the city. For nearly a month, we had stood at the train platform, swatting at flying cicadas as they landed on our shoulders. Our tote bags. Our hair. And SMACK! – right into our faces.

Today was an improvement. There were quite a few dead ones on the ground. Do they die I their own? I wondered. Or were they explicitly stomped to death from frustrated commuters? We may never know. Yet somehow it was a bit sad to see the dead creatures. Overall, they’re harmless. Yes, they can be loud and annoying. But really, they’re simple insects who are just doing their “thing.”

I arrived to work just before 9:00, setting down my heavy backpack and the ice-cold coffee I had picked up in our break room. I was ready for another innocuous day at work.

Until I felt a squirm. And something that seemed a bit crunchy. And a bit icky and off-putting.

Could it be? And, yes, I could sense it. It was. A cicada. Hitching a ride inside my blouse. Right alongside my bosom. Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!! I let out a scream.

I swatted that cicada with my left arm and it landed on the carpet beneath my desk. I wasn’t going to take time to search for a magazine or newspaper to swat it. Nope, this time I used my sandal. And I gave it a good STOMP to let it know how I feel.

The dead bug is in my trash can now. It’s the first one I’ve ever killed. With great relief, I can return to my computer and start my day in an environment devoid of any creepy creatures crawling inside my clothing.

Except now I’m left wondering what Mother Nature thinks of me.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST.

It All Matches Up

Friends who hang out together dress alike. It’s like they’ve become twins and insist on wearing the same matching outfits.

Marie Claire – (Image credit: ACE Pictures/REX/Shutterstock)

Years ago my sister made an interesting comment:

Friends who hang out together dress alike. It’s like they’ve become twins and insist on wearing the same matching outfits.

Was she correct?

Do we set our sights on those that already mirror our own selves?

I asked my sister for verification, to which she immediately pointed at me and my galpal. Yes, there we were… both in our blue jeans and boho blouses, hoop earrings and sandals. When you looked at the two of us, we even wore the same shade of lipstick. When we realized our “twin-ship,” we immediately laughed at ourselves. What sort of image were we projecting to the world, in our corresponding Saturday clothes?

Had we started out as lookalikes… or was this something that gradually occurred over time? Or was my sister correct? Do we wind up matching one another as friends? Family members? Even lovers?

This first-hand example had me thinking. Do we gravitate toward others who provide a prime replica of ourselves? While navigating life, do we lean in toward those who seem to meet our speed?

This question came up in a Diversity in Life class I took at Roosevelt University. Raising my hand, I suggested that while we should always strive for diversity, many of us initially (while unintentionally), seek out those who are a reflection of our own selves. My professor insisted that I was being less than fair minded. I argued that it’s human nature to seek those that we match.

This type of following others starts early in life. For example, girls tend to group together on the school playground, while boys are inclined to join with other boys.

We connect with each other based on hobbies, backgrounds, personal values, religion, finances. This initial connection brings us together, where we form bonds based on shared interests.

Does this mean we cannot be more diverse and open minded in our alliances?

Of course not!

So what’s my point here today?

ANSWER: There is no point. I merely think it’s hilarious that my sister correctly pointed out that those of us who hang together also tend to dress alike.

Today’s lunchtime pics demonstrate this interesting phenomena:

Twins

Meanwhile, this woman is unique and lovely.

She reminds me of Carrie Bradshaw from Sex in the City…

or Audrey Hepburn.

And I’m lovin’ it!

WHAT SAY YOU?

Thank you for reading PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Me and My Mop

Each year I look back and determine the best purchase I made for myself that year. For 2023, my O-Cedar Mop Two-Tank System takes the prize. Let’s back up a bit… the full name is O-Cedar EasyWring RinseClean Microfiber Spin Mop with 2-Tank Bucket System.

And it’s fantastic.

The cleaning bucket comes with two tanks: one to hold the cleaning solution mixed with hot water; the second tank accepts the dirty water. There’s a foot pedal and mop wringer built right in, relieving my having to wring out a dirty mop with my hands.

Truly a life-saver for me. It’s something I’ve been searching for my entire life.

This sort of statement may sound a bit dramatic. Poor girl… the highlight of her year is a mop of all things! Yet it’s true.

My obsession with clean floors most likely started when I was 17 years old. That’s when my mom decided one of my weekly chores was to scrub the kitchen and dining room floors while on my hands and knees. There I was, every Thursday after school, lugging a heavy bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush to get the lousy job over with.

But first I had to sweep the floor, removing bits of dust, food crumbs, the dog and cat kibble surrounding their respective food bowls. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.

I proceeded to scrub the floors, making sure I did a thorough job, so I wouldn’t disappoint my mother. I was proud of my work and wanted to bask in my progress. That’s also just about the time when I became the vexatious person who consistently warned others: ”Get off the floor! I just cleaned it!”

How dare they walk on my clean floor. Couldn’t they just avoid the kitchen for the entire week and let me enjoy my hard efforts? The nerve of them.

The cleaning on my hands and knees continued into my adult years. It was all I knew. Get down there and get the gritty dirty and grime. The only way to do it was by suffering and having dark brown spots on my knees to prove it. Ah, yes, I was the martyr who endured the nasty job but was happy with the end results.

In fact, my preoccupation with clean floors became a bit ridiculous. My brother was the first to notice my compulsion, and he quickly pointed it out to me.

While visiting my brother and his two roommates in California, I immediately was repulsed by the looks of their kitchen floor. Let’s just say it needed some attention, what with the who-knows-what spilled on it and left to harden in its place. The floor was filthy in my mind, and it felt gross just walking on it.

So when the three of them were all at work during the day, I took it upon myself to run a bucket of hot soapy water. I gave their floor a good scrubbing on my hands and knees. I finished off with a mop I found in the garage, going over everything a second time for good measure.

My hands became red and sore as I wrung out the sullied mop. Yet, I was determined that their kitchen floor would be scoured by the end of the afternoon. In that, I was successful, as the three roommates praised my efforts and thanked me for cleaning.

Meanwhile, unkind thoughts simmered in my head, as I wondered just how long it would stay clean. Would any one of them ever take the initiative to clean it again? UGHH! I didn’t even want to think about it.

My preoccupation with floor cleaning stayed with me. Years ago, I invited a group of neighborhood mothers and their preschool children over for lunch. When some food crumbs fell on the floor, I quickly apologized to the other mothers. ”I’m so sorry! I ran out of time this morning and never got around to washing my floor,” I explained, hoping they’d forgive me.

One of my guests tsk-tsk’d at me. “Anyone who cleans a floor before preschoolers come over is just stupid,” she remarked.

To that I kept my mouth shut. Instead, I glared at her with steely eyes — hoping she’d catch my silent but scathing reaction to that awful comment she just made.

Boy, I really needed to lighten up.

Offended look Stock Photos, Royalty Free Offended look Images ...

Years passed, and my rheumatologist advised me well after I suffered from a torn miniscus in my left knee.

“But I have to get on my knees in order to clean my kitchen floor,” I pleaded with her.

“Get a mop!” the doctor bluntly ordered.

There went my days of martyrdom. No longer could I suffer merely for the sake of knowing I had clean floors. Because no one else cared but me.

And now I’ve finally found my perfect mop. The O-Cedar is a pleasure to use, as I swish it around my kitchen and bathrooms floors while listening to Spotify. I’m smiling and my floors are shining. All without the struggle that really was pointless and went unrecognized.

My brother still likes to tease me about my fixation on floor cleaning. Once he asked me why I avoided a certain McDonald’s restaurant. He couldn’t figure out what could set it apart from other McDonald’s.

“Ew, the floors there are disgusting!” I pointed out. “Everything is so sticky around the soda machine, where customers drip their sweet drinks all over the floor. I can’t stand it.” I shuddered just picturing the scene.

My brother gave me a look. “Mmhmm,” was all he said, as he arched his brow.

Still, I stood my ground on the argument for a clean floor. A tidy floor should be a top priority for everyone. I folded my arms in response and sighed, realizing that some folks just don’t get it.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Giving Away Santa’s Adornments

There aren’t many kind words spoken about my first husband.

And I aim to keep it that way.

But in the spirit of Christmas, one positive story regarding the ex-spouse came to mind.

It’s a fine tale. One filled with generosity, love and best wishes for children. It has all the sentiments and tenderness one expects for this season.

The Story Goes…

The year was 1985. It was mid-December and Chicago already had its fair share of snow on the ground. More was expected that evening — just enough to make things more slippery and wet. And to snarl up the holiday traffic.

My boyfriend at the time (for today’s purposes, we’ll call him Kent) was enlisted in the Marine Reserves. As part of his duties, he and his buddies were stationed at the US Marine Corps Mobilization center on Foster Avenue on Chicago’s north side. The enlisted men were there to assist with the annual Toys for Tots drive… a holiday tradition wherein local motorcycle enthusiasts load toys and gifts onto their bikes and participate in a holiday parade down the wintry streets of Chicago.

That year, the parade ended at the Marines’ Mobilization center, where hundreds of children waited to meet Santa Claus and receive one of the many gifts that were donated by generous souls.

As luck would have it, Kent was chosen that afternoon to play the role of Santa Claus. One of his superiors handed him Santa’s suit, along with all the bits and pieces that go with: stuffing for the belly; hat; white gloves; black belt with lustrous gold buckle; a garland of bells to create merriment.

Kent gladly changed out of his fatigues and into the Santa suit. He spent time fitting the trimmings onto Santa’s clothing. Finally, he looped a long white beard and moustache around his ears. A jaunty red hat completed his cheerful ensemble.

“HO HO HO!” Kent bellowed loudly, trying out his deepest Santa voice.

He grinned, knowing he was in for a special occasion. An evening of meeting excited boys and girls and making their Christmas a bit more special.

The festivities went on for a few hours. There was music, along with cookies and punch. A decorated holiday tree stood at the front of the hall, alongside which sat Santa’s reception chair, where Santa (er, Kent) took each child one by one onto his lap and asked them what they wanted for Christmas.

“HO HO HO!” Kent repeated for two hours. “Merry Christmas!”

His throat grew hoarse. His face was soon itchy from wearing a false beard and moustache. His feet grew sweaty as he wore the heavy black boots that came with the job.

None of that mattered, as he saw the myriad of responses from the children he lifted onto his knee. Some were shy. Others knew exactly what they wanted and weren’t afraid to ask. A few merely wept from fear of the oversized Kent dressed in bright red, and they reached for their mothers’ arms.

The event finally neared to an end. Except as he looked around for more gifts to hand to the remaining few children anxiously waiting in line, Kent realized there were no more toys beneath the Christmas tree.

He looked at his superiors, who merely shrugged. They were out of ideas. Being gallant marines, they all realized they couldn’t turn away any single child without making their evening special.

That’s when Kent immediately knew what to do.

He removed the furry red hat from his head. “Say, how would you like Santa’s hat?” he offered to the next “customer” in line.

“Oh yes!” the small child cried out. “I’d love that.” She left Santa’s chair grinning from ear to ear, clutching the red hat to her chest.

The next child came and Kent extended his garland of jingle bells. The boy was ecstatic as he returned to his family. “Looky here!” he shouted, shaking the strand of merry makers. “I got Santa’s very own jingle bells!”

Next the belt with shiny gold buckle came off.

Mr. Claus’ gloves.

Even the big black boots.

And finally, the fuzzy white beard and moustache.

Santa’s accoutrements were gladly given to the wide-eyed youngsters.

By then, Kent’s secret was out. He was a Marine merely dressed as Santa Claus for the occasion.

Except the children didn’t seem to mind.

“Those kids were more tickled to receive a piece of Santa’s clothing,” Kent happily relayed to others after the event. “They showed more emotion and joy versus the children who merely received a toy.”

Indeed, the children were celebrating the fact that they had a personal connection to Santa. They were proud owners of something that was an integral part of Mr. Claus. They went home that evening filled with triumph, along with a great story to relate to their friends.

It’s possible that Kent was the one who went home the happiest that night. As he maneuvered through the sloppy streets of Chicago, the messy weather didn’t bother him at all. His evening ended on a lighthearted note, due to the children’s reactions.

After all, he realized the tiniest gestures of genuine caring can bring contentment to so many.

Himself included.

MERRY CHRISTMAS.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

The Sesame Bagel Lady

Your host: PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Dunkindonutscatering.com

Several years back I sat on a CTA bus. Across the aisle from me were two women — two I saw most days of the week as we commuted to our office jobs.

She Was In A Tizzy

Woman No. 1 was angry that day.

“I stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts this morning,” she started.

“Mmm hmm,” Woman No. 2 nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“I ordered a sesame bagel for my breakfast,” Woman No. 1 went on. “Except when I went to the counter to look for it, they told me they’d mistakenly given away my bagel to another customer.

“And that’s when I wanted to kill someone!” she sputtered. She was clearly infuriated.

Woman No. 2 just nodded in agreement. .

I, meanwhile, wondered what could have brought on such a heated and bitter reaction. Not only that, but I wondered how Woman No. 2 seemed to immediately agree with Woman No. 1’s outrage.

A bit frightened at this unfolding, I shook my head and looked the other way.

To this day, I still think back to that funny episode, which I now refer to as the Sesame Bagel Lady Incident. I promised myself to never get to that point. Clearly, she was having a bad morning. Nowadays I can relate since menopause can cause unpredictable emotions. One minute you’re doin’ just fine and the next… well, one innocuous remark will set you off.

Silly stories like those can lighten my mood and morning commute. Yep, the Sesame Bagel Lady still makes me chuckle. When I find myself becoming irritable over innocuous events, I remind myself not to become the Sesame Bagel Lady.

Except these days I feel bad for laughing since there’s so much disturbing turmoil and death happening.

Today’s news spoke of a local incident, wherein an irate landlord accused his Muslim tenants for the controversy in Israel these past few weeks. The landlord stabbed the female tenant and her six-year-old son.

The mother is expected to survive.

Her son has died.

Let That Sink In For A Moment

This is the point of the story where many stop reading and try to catch their breath. Try to take it all in. Try to make sense of it all.

Except there isn’t any sensibility to be had.

This was done at the hands of someone who couldn’t control his anger.

His fear.

His irrational hatred.

This news is disturbing. In fact, there’s no adjective that could fully describe these horrific times. I stopped reading the news articles. I didn’t want to read any longer. Nor listen to a podcast. And surfing Pinterest was out.

Everything else seemed so silly and pointless. Because I wanted to focus on at least one of the many victims from this month. And today it was that little boy. He deserved that much. He deserved my tears and silence, while I sat on the train and stared out the window.

I watched the drab scene from my commute through the city. Train tracks. Box cars. Graffiti. A bit of morning sun defrosting the early morning chill.

The Morning Commute Must Go On

I opened my Dunkin app and ordered the usual: Medium iced coffee. Black.

Decided to add a sesame seed bagel. Untoasted. Cream cheese on the side.

Arriving at the Dunkin shop, I immediately noticed my iced coffee was made with cream. Lots of it.

I was agitated. “I ordered a black iced coffee, please,” I urged the cashier.

She took it back and made me a fresh one — no cream this time.

I finally arrived at my desk. Reaching into the Dunkin bag, I pulled out the sesame bagel. It was toasted dark and smothered with cream cheese, which by now turned warm and gooey, melting all over. Exactly not how I ordered it.

Frustrated, I tossed it in trash.

But in this crazy upset world, I was willing to let go of today’s sesame bagel hassle. Instead, I turned back to my keyboard and started my work.

Here’s wishing you all a good day…

Thank you for reading — PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

What Makes October So Beautiful?

“The Joys of Commuting” Series

Your host: PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

I love Autumn. Especially October. It’s the crisp, cool air that makes the days more comfortable.

The colors are fantastic… full of warmth and coziness for this special season. Shades of color bring comfort, especially in their different variations.

For example, purple hues are scrumptious at this time of year. Think of raisin, plum, wine or eggplant.

Or how about a burst of gold: pumpkin, butternut squash, amber.

Then we have the reds: cabernet, maroon, scarlet.

Ooh, I love ’em all!

I thought of those brilliant colors as I walked to work on Monday. I was quite comfortable in my navy raincoat with its cozy plaid liner — just the thing for Fall.

I wanted to record the world around me that day — with its magnificent blue skies and puffy white clouds above me. Everything was quite gorgeous.

So I took pictures. Lots of ’em.

But that’s when I realized that color wasn’t necessarily the only perception I was having. There was extra brightness from the sun as the skyscrapers reflected the morning rays back into the surrounding scene.

I saw flowers. Trees. Water.

Birds. Bridges. And boats.

There were parades. Marching bands. And smiles.

And even a frown or two.

What does it take to make October so beautiful?

As I slowed my steps to take photo after photo, I knew that the camera was capturing more than COLOR. It was recording a stunning morning in the City of Chicago. In the month of October.

That’s when I started editing my roll of pics. If the color were reduced, would they still hold their visual impact? Would October still hold its exceptional distinction?

I believe they can.

Here’s proof….

October ’23

Autumn trees

Graffiti

Scenes from staging of the Columbus Day Parade,
held Monday, October 9.

Poor Girl Is Ready To Get This Over With

A bit anxious to get things started

Patiently waiting for their turn

Practicing before their big moment

So, what do you say? Do you love October as well?

Thank you for reading — PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

THE JOYS OF COMMUTING SERIES – Quiet Car Police

“This is the Quiet Car!” she announced to the guilty pair in the upper berth. “No talking!” she warned, shaking her finger at the man and his daughter.

It’s another fun day on the Metra train. Where the Quiet Car Police take their jobs very seriously. Such was the case just the other day from one such self-appointed “Officer,” who makes it her daily duty to shush fellow passengers.

In case you’re not a train commuter, the Quiet Car was enacted several years back to ensure a designated car with quiet space for riders. Usual rules include: no conversations with others or via cell phone. Typical stuff… nothing too difficult to maintain.

DISCLAIMER: Of course, you’ll hear this story from my own point of view. After all, it’s my blog and I’ll write what I choose. Fair warning: I can be a snob. But most of you already know that about me.

Now, it doesn’t matter that I never cared for the woman to begin with. I’ve thought about saying Good Morning to her several times, except she makes absolutely NO eye contact while we wait on the platform for our morning train. Plus, she’s always scowling.

Nope, she just doesn’t seem approachable.

Plus consider the fact that she wears bright yellow Crocs shoes, which — to me — are hideous enough already as they are made from polyethylene vinyl acetate (“PEVA”). Yuck — Just trying to pronounce polyethylene vinyl acetate is enough to make my mouth frown. Her shoes (slippers to be more exact) are not only ugly, but they are a glaring yellow color. Which, if you ask me, just doesn’t suit a downtown commuter. She looks like Daffy Duck wearing those gaudy things.

Back to my story. I got on the Metra’s Quiet Car and sat in my usual spot on the main floor. I barely noticed the other usual passengers, including a gentleman and his daughter who ride the train each day. One can determine he’s an attorney due to the logo embroidered on his laptop bag.

He and his daughter seem like decent folk. Well dressed. Hard working. You get the picture.

Said daughter apparently had an issue with the strap and buckle on her sandal. Said father leaned over and tried to help her adjust the buckle. It seemed they were having a bit more trouble than expected.

“You’ll be fine for now,” he told his daughter. “I suggest you take it straight to the shoe repair once we reach downtown,” he advised.

Said daughter nodded and returned to scanning her iPhone.

Except this is when Miss Self-Designated Quiet Car Officer (a/k/a Crocs shoes lady) got up from her seat and marched over toward the talking pair. Steam was already coming out of her ears. Boy, I could tell this one was gonna be a doozy! I sat back and watched.

“This is the Quiet Car!” she hissed to the guilty pair in the upper berth. “No talking!” she warned, shaking her finger at the man and his daughter.

The berated gentleman , however, remained cool and cordial. As his profession demands, he was unwavering. “Put your earbuds back in and go sit down,” he succinctly advised. “You’ll be just fine.”

Clearly, this woman was still put out. “This is why I sit on the quiet car!” she insisted, her shrill voice raising. “To have peace and quiet!”

By now she was shaking with fury. She grimaced and pouted her lips at the father and daughter duo. Except they weren’t intimidated with her dirty looks.

She had no choice but to regress. With that, she waddled back to her seat. Ooh, this was getting fun.

And that’s where my arrogant self came in. Because, truth be told, I was experiencing a bit of schadenfreude with this whole situation. I never was a fan of the Daffy Duck look.

“And take your gold ducky shoes with you!” I chuckled to myself, as I watched her retreat in complete defeat.

Of course, I didn’t say it to her out loud. After all, it’s the Quiet Car… Plus, that woman seriously frightens me.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

“It Happened in Chicago Series”

Fonzie and The School Wastepaper Basket

The year was 1974, and I was in my first semester of fifth grade at Sutherland School, located in Beverly on the far southwest side of the City of Chicago. I was 10 years old, and my favorite subjects were reading, geography and boys.

It was nearly 3:00 that Tuesday afternoon in our schoolroom. I kept one eye on the clock on the wall and started gathering my books, each neatly covered with a brown paper grocery bag. I wrote the title of each book across the homemade book cover: Geography; Math (yuck!); Science (yuck again!). I’d lug all three home to help me complete my homework, which I studiously implemented all while sitting in front of our television set.

Tuesday just so happened to be my favorite day of the week since Happy Days was on at 7:00 that night. I looked forward to that evening, so I could watch my beloved television show and sigh over the ultra-cool Arthur Fonzarelli in his leather jacket. Then there was Potsie, the well-mannered chum of Richie Cunningham. They were two (much) older dark-haired gentlemen who I found quite adorable.

Even at my age, I knew those Hollywood types were out of my reach. Knowing that and being pragmatic, I learned to set my sights on boys in my own class.

By mid-September, I had already scoped out my current crush for that semester. The lucky fella’s name was Christopher — a tall and lanky 10-year-old himself, with light brown hair, green eyes, and a devilish grin. What’s not to love?

“If only he’d notice me,” I thought to myself. I was certain we could have a wonderful romance – whatever that consisted of at our immature age. I had already learned Christopher was a fan of Fonzie. So, we had that in common. It seemed to me we were already starting off on the right foot.

I daydreamed about the two of us, riding our bicycles to the hobby store or swinging on the swings in the schoolyard. We’d help one another with our homework, just like Richie Cunningham did with his best girl on Happy Days. By the time we’d reach eighth grade graduation, we would be voted Cutest Couple by our own peers. Ahh, pure bliss.

I was knocked back into reality when our teacher announced it was time to wrap things up for the afternoon. The school dismissal bell rang at 3:15 every afternoon and we had only a few minutes left before we were free from the bondage of school… at least until Wednesday.

That meant it was time for teacher’s helper of the week to walk up and down our rows of desks, as he carried the standard-issued green metal trash can. It was our opportunity to toss out any unwanted papers (and contraband chewing gum).

This week it was Christopher’s turn as teacher’s helper. My palms sweated as I waited for my crush to pass by my desk with the trash can in his left hand. Due to my last name starting with a “V,” I sat in one of the very last seats in class. This meant by the time he got around to me with the wastepaper basket, it was nearly filled to the brim with crumpled sheets of notebook paper.

My Pragmatism Kicks In

I never understood why the other students crushed their worksheets into a ball. Doing so just took up more volume within the trash can, causing it to overflow onto the floor at the end of the day. I clicked my tongue to myself. “Such a waste of space,” I thought as I shook my head at their ignorance.

Christopher stopped short at my desk.

“Trash!” he called out loudly, breaking my sensible thoughts.

I looked up into his clear blue eyes. Trash! What a meaning he gave to the word.

I ripped out several old worksheets from my 3-ring notebook and dropped them – unfolded — into the side of the can. They fit in quite nicely, I thought, lying flat against the side and not taking up any extra space within the receptacle.

Christopher looked into the basket and back to me. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Crumple it up!” he ordered, narrowing his eyes.

I was amazed at how quickly the anger crept in as he furrowed his brow.

Gee, he sure was dreamy...

I furrowed my own brow and shot back at him. “Why?” I boldly asked.

His turquoise green eyes glared at me with incredulity.

Christopher jerked his hand, motioning toward the receptacle. He was astounded that I couldn’t see the obvious break in pattern of trash pick-up. For a few seconds, he was stunned and grasping for words.

“Be– because it’s trash!” he insisted, taken aback at how obtuse I was.

I looked down at the full bin and then back up at my guy. “But it’s in the trash can,” I explained, again locking eyes with him.

I let my argument sink in, letting it marinate for a second.

Christopher hesitated, not knowing how to respond. His feet shuffled beneath him, as if they themselves wasn’t sure whether to move onto the next pupil or not. He looked down at my flat sheets of paper that disrupted the usual design of mass waste.

He finally gave up and walked away. “Ughh!” he cried, shaking his head. He headed toward the next pupil, who would certainly follow the unspoken rules of our 5th grade classroom.

I watched handsome Christopher continue his walk along the row of wooden desks — toward the good students who did as they were told. Where no one else would interrupt the due course of the afternoon trash pick-up.

“There goes our first date,” I regretfully thought, turning back to my geography homework. I mentally kicked myself in my geometric-print polyester pants.

I took another look at the clock on the wall. Now it was mocking me. Tick tock, tick tock . It seemed to slow down with each click. For me, the minute hand couldn’t move fast enough on that most unfortunate afternoon.

My world turned sullen. I rested my chin on my schoolbooks and waited for the bell to ring. “Fonzie or no Fonzie,” I brooded. “Tuesdays are no longer my favorite day of the week.”

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Thank you for reading — PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST. Don’t forget to SUBSCRIBE for more posts.