It was Day 3 for us as Lighthouse Keepers in scenic Port Washington, WI. So far, this series of posts has focused on the lighthouse station itself and things that go bump in the night.
Now it’s time for me to share the bits and pieces about the wonderful folks we met while serving as tour guides at this historical site.
Visitors came from all over the world for a chance to discover more about the history of lighthouses in the Midwest.
We had travelers who made it their business to visit each and every lighthouse surrounding the Great Lakes. They were happy to cross Port Washington’s off their list.
The countless number of people we met was interesting and diverse. They came from Illinois. Texas. And Michigan.
Plenty of folks live in nearby Wisconsin towns, including Grafton, Oak Creek and West Bend.
A precocious five-year-old girl visited with her grandparents. All three climbed up and down the three sets of ladders to the tower, where they learned more about the Fresnel light and enjoyed breathtaking views of Lake Michigan.
Afterwards, the girl boldly asked my husband if he can do cartwheels.
“Nope,” he answered, “I was never any good at those.”
“Well, I’m practicing,” she proudly sang out.
More tourists came from California. Florida. And Alabama.
A professor from the local college stopped in on a whim. In tow with him were 10 of his students — all from Japan — and looking forward to accessing the light station tower. When I mentioned the suggested $5 donation for each visitor, the professor hesitated and looked over his crew, wondering how much cash he had on him that afternoon.
Was I going to be the one who denied these lovely students an opportunity to enjoy their afternoon? Not a chance. “Just give me twenty bucks for the whole crowd,” I suggested. Relief came over his face, and he promptly handed me a $20 bill from his wallet.
Our visitors were an eclectic group, but all were fun. Honestly, I can’t tell if we had more entertainment with the children or the adults.
We had a couple who intended to descend the wooden staircase that led into Port’s downtown streets.
“How many steps are there down to the main level?” the wife asked.
“105,” I noted.
She looked a bit nervous. “Oh dear, and how many back up?” she inquired.
“210,” I immediately responded.
The children who came along for the day were adventurous. They didn’t hesitate to climb the stairs to the tower. They marveled at the original “talking machine” phonograph in the parlor. They guessed at the purpose of the kitchen gadgets, which included a water pump, wire rug beater, old-fashioned toaster, and — one we all got stumped on — a metal sudser for aid in laundry day.
One lucky boy was grateful for the chance to try on one of the former lightkeeper’s coat and hat, while posing for pictures.
Finally, each afternoon ended with a visit from the locals themselves. Unlike the others, though, they mostly kept to themselves…
The Visitors It was Day 3 for us as Lighthouse Keepers in scenic Port Washington, WI. So far, this series of posts has focused on the lighthouse station itself and things that go bump in the night. Now it’s time for me to share the bits and pieces about the wonderful folks we met while…
Please enjoy this previously published post from PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST…
I wore my favorite blazer to the office the other day. My co-worker complimented me on its look.
“Thanks, but look here,” I replied. “I recently washed this jacket, but the lapel is sitting funny and not lying flat as it should.”
“Try ironing it,” my dear friend advised.
Was She for Real?!
She was trying to be helpful.
But I was aghast.
I vaguely recall ironing. Yes, I believe it was back in 1993. That’s when I finally put a stop to that bad habit.
The Ironing Room
Actually, I do recall ironing very well, thank you very much. In my childhood home, we had an entire room devoted to ironing. My mom put that loathsome task at the top of our chore list:
“I want you to go downstairs and spend one hour in the Ironing Room,” she directed.
You heard correctly. We had an official Ironing Room (hence the upper case letters used here).
It was a small room in our basement, located just off the laundry area. It had one tiny window, filled in with glass blocks. In the past, it had been used as the maid’s bedroom for the home’s first owners.
In fact, that’s how we referred to it when we first moved in: The Maid’s Room. When we’d nonchalantly mention the Maid’s Room in passing, our friends thought we were rich folks with a live-in staff.
The Poor, Poor Girl
I couldn’t imagine anyone sleeping in that room, away from everyone… not even remotely connected with the rest of the upstairs living quarters. I took pity on someone I never even knew.
I Dreaded That Room
The linoleum floor was cold. The window offered no view. I envisioned spiders popping out of the cedar closet. Or worse… a lost mouse scampering by.
Except I had to stay in that lonely room until my required time was up and I was allowed to scurry back upstairs to the bright kitchen.
Plus, I was never good at smoothing out the clothes in the right fashion. The iron was heavy, and trying to perfect a sharp crease was all but impossible for me.
Once, I ironed over a t-shirt logo and the colors immediately became scorched onto the flat surface of the hot iron.
Mom was not happy.
Redemption
So, there are the dreadful scenes that pop in my head when I think of ironing. [insert shudder here]
I still recall when I finally released myself from the unhappy chore. A shirt I had purchased on vacation had a tongue-in-cheek notice on its label: WARNING – Ironing this shirt is unlawful.
To be honest, I took this caveat seriously for several days before I realized it was a joke.
Indeed, I was a sick, sick woman. And with that admonition, I vowed to try to live life without an ironing board.
Update…
I’m still doing well these days. I only iron for special occasions — which are dwindling at this stage in my life, so that’s helpful.
Next weekend, I may pull the iron down from the top shelf in my closet and have a go at this beloved jacket of mine. It’s worth the effort to have the lapels lay just right.
But then I’m done for a while. The iron will be returned to a high shelf in the closet, gathering dust along with my high-heeled shoes.
Because at this stage in my life, well-worn wrinkles work for me.
Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and now… Thursday. Day Six without coffee.
And I’m ready to break.
I’ve been drinking coffee since I was 18 years old. Before there were trendy coffee shops, my pals and I would hang out at a neighborhood diner and drink coffee at night. We’d catch up, laugh at silly stuff, and enjoy our java the best way we knew how: Black.
Ahh, can’t you imagine the aroma?
All was fine and dandy until now. I’ve had to make this huge change in my life, due to the painful heartburn I’ve had for the last several months.
Rolaids just aren’t doing it for me any longer. I’d pop two of ’em whenever the familiar burning sensation ran from my stomach, up the esophagus and generally making my entire day miserable. Unfortunately, the antacids are no longer working.
This was me on a daily basis
Woe is Me
And, so, it goes. It was time to make the switch. The extremely difficult switch of replacing my morning coffee with black tea.
So far, I’ve been good. I did have a sip of iced coffee yesterday morning from the workplace. Surprisingly, it didn’t taste good at all. I threw it out.
Success was mine!
The positive take away is that my heartburn has finally gone away. About 99% of it, believe it or not! I can’t tell you how soothing it is – both mentally and physically – to not have that hot, burning feeling push through my chest multiple times each day. It really does feel good to have relief from the daily pain and uncomfortableness.
It’s Still a Hard Habit to Break
This morning I waited — impatiently— for the tea kettle to come to a boil. Then I still had to wait a good five minutes for the tea to brew and cool down so that I could sip it.
“This is bullsh*t!” I said to no one in particular.
Already I’m seeing the effects of “coffee sobriety” on myself. For example, my husband asked me to proofread an email for him. I impatiently answered, “I know, you asked me like 19 times already!” Honestly, he only asked me about 4 times.
Not very nice of me.
My Morning Commute Was No Better
This morning, I needed a last-minute gift for a departing co-worker. Running into Dunkin’ was the closest and quickest in order for me to grab a gift card. Was I taking a chance going into that delicious shop? Yes, I was. But I figured I’d be quick about it…
“Do you have any gift cards?” I asked the cashier.
“Huh?” was his reply.
“Gift cards!” I responded more boldly than was necessary.
“How much do you want on it?”
“Twenty dollars,” I stated.
“Okay, forty dollars,” said the other cashier.
“Twenty!” I reminded them (my eyes revealing my impatience).
Meanwhile, a lovely young lady was ordering a medium coffee for herself. She looked happy, holding her nice, warm cup of morning joe. It all looked so yummy. And delicious. And coffee-ish.
I frowned at the entire scene. Will I ever make it to this Saturday and make it a full week without my favorite beverage?
With courage and determination, I took my $20 gift card and threw it in my backpack.
With my head held high, I turned on my heel and left the building.
Please enjoy this previously published post from PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST…
Over the years, I’ve developed a huge crush on the actor, Jack Lemmon. I’m not sure when it first started, but I’ve been a fan of his movies for many years. So much so, I’d have married him if I had the chance.
Mr. Lemmon wasn’t exactly the most striking and handsome actor of his time. For his roles, he mostly stuck to the representative next-door-type fella. But, it’s the familiar faces that we grow to covet – those dear and sincere expressions from a faithful friend that we hold close to our hearts. They always know how to get us to laugh, too.
That’s what Jack Lemmon has becomes to me. And that’s why I have a giant crush on the fella. Why, if we were both around in the same day and age, I’d do everything I could to run across his path.
travsd.wordpress.com
It all started with one of my favorite movies: Some Like It Hot. Hailed by many as one of the best comedies, Mr. Lemmon was nominated for an Oscar as best actor in a leading role. As musicians on the run from the Mafia, Lemmon and his best buddy turned to dressing as women in order to avoid recognition.
But while his cohort – Tony Curtis – attempts to resemble a demure and ladylike figure, Lemmon seizes a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and runs the charade, having fun the entire way.
I couldn’t help falling in love with the actor as Lemmon made each line stand out:
Sweet Sue: “Are you two from the Poliakoff Agency?”
Tony Curtis (as Josephine): Yes, we’re the new girls.”
Jack Lemmon (as Daphne): “Brand new!”
Above: Tony Curtis as “Josephine.” Jack Lemmon as “Daphne.”
Lemmon becomes even more irresistible and entertaining as he attempts to fight off the advances of an amorous millionaire. He becomes brazen when dealing with the “opposite” sex.
Osgoodto Daphne: You must be quite a girl!
Lemmon (as Daphne): “Wanna bet?”
amazon.com
THE COMEDY CONTINUES
Leave it to Director Billy Wilder to cast Lemmon in another terrific movie one year later. Lemmon’s sweet demeanor in The Apartmentled me to believe there are caring people in this world. Playing CC Baxter in the film, Lemmon was compassionate and moralistic. When faced with turning the other cheek in order to gain his own good fortune, CC Baxter chose to stick to his principles – an admirable trait and one that makes him win the girl in the end.
Plus, how much fun was his cozy apartment, a respite from the wintry weather with its small rooms, old stove that required lighting the pilot light, and well-meaning but nosey neighbors.
It’s the type of place you could love to curl up in with a loved one on a snowy Christmas morning. Who can blame Shirley MacLaine for falling in love with him in that story — especially when he strains his spaghetti with a tennis racket.
imdb.com
LEMMON’S PROLIFIC CAREER
Years later, Jack Lemmon was just as adorable as a lonely codger in Grumpy Old Men. It was no surprise for me that he won the affections of the local beauty in that rom-com – the lovely Ann-Margret.
Jack Lemmon was nominated several times for Oscars, winning Best Supporting Actor in 1956 for Mr. Robert and the Best Actor award for Save the Tiger in 1973. Later, in 1988, he won the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Film Institute. An impressive career, to be sure.
I give Jack Lemmon my own award: Funny. Adorable. Sincere. His movie characters grab your attention and steal the show.
In 1998, my Aunt Annette passed away at the age of 77 after suffering a stroke. As my father’s older sister, Aunt Annette was the third eldest in the line of five children born to my paternal grandparents.
In her will, Aunt Annette left the bulk of her large estate to various charities supporting women’s rights and higher education scholarships. A good amount was parceled out to six of her nieces and nephews — from which I received a $5,000 inheritance.
I put the bulk of that money toward repairing the roof of our house, which was leaking profusely the past year. Damage from the rain caused me to set out empty coffee cans against the windows to collect rainwater that was spilling into the house. It was time to get this business over with.
Along with the new roof, we rehabbed the enclosed porch, turning it from a shabby mess into a cozy family room for watching television and storing our daughter’s toys.
Taking my daughter along, we shopped at Montgomery Ward and purchased a new recliner loveseat and braided rug, thus completing the room. Finally, we had a cozy space where we could watch TV, my daughter could paint on her art easel, while we gazed through new windows to watch the squirrels as they gathered dry leaves for their nests.
wards.com
With our new roof and den complete, I felt it was time to treat myself to a small vacation. I phoned my brother, who lives in Southern California, and informed him my daughter and I were coming for a visit.
California, Here We Come!
The evening before our flight, I awoke from a deep sleep. My body was first hot, then cold, as I felt the beginning of a fever coming in. Shivering from the chills, I pulled the blankets forward to cover my face.
“Why now” I groaned, realizing what was happening. A fever was taking over — right when I was heading out for a well-deserved break.
Still, I grabbed our luggage the next morning, called Flash Cab and ordered a taxi. My daughter and I were off — from Midway to LAX – to visit her uncle.
On the plane, I hunkered down, again covering myself with my jacket. Luckily, my daughter kept herself amused with one of her workbooks, as she drew pictures and letters on its pages. She was turning five the next month and looking forward to attending full-day kindergarten in the Fall.
A full day of school was exactly what she needed at that age — it would soak up her energy and provide her with playmates her own age.
My brother met us at the gate at LAX. Fortunately for me, he was in between jobs and therefore able to serve as our personal tour guide AND driver. This was a huge blessing, since I could sit back and relax without worrying about navigating through unknown territory.
When you have a 4-year-old, it’s expected to take them to Disney Land. In fact, I had several co-workers who insisted that taking my kid to Disney was a requirement. They teased me in the office, as I didn’t understand the need for such a visit. Why, these folks even set up separate bank accounts just to save funds for the compulsory vacation to the Magic Kingdom.
Since we were close to Anaheim, California — and my brother promised to drive – I relented and accepted the fact that we’d spend the day with Disney and the gang. I crossed my fingers and wished myself well and free of any lingering fever that I first felt a few days earlier.
The Best Laid Plans…
We arrived at the parking lot of the amusement park, where I promptly got sick. Right there on the hot California asphalt.
“You know, we don’t have to do this today,” my brother encouraged me.
Still, I assured him I’d be alright and the three of us set off for a splendid day at the Magic Kingdom.
“You’re not getting into this teacup ride with us,” my brother warned, as we approached the entrance to Disney’s classic ride.
He motioned for me to wait on the sidelines, where I could watch the two of them as they went ahead without me. I didn’t have much say in the matter, so I followed his instructions.
Sitting in a giant pastel-colored teacup, they spun round and round, laughing between themselves. I took pictures on the side, minding my Ps and Qs and willing myself not to get sick again.
Next stop, we waited in line for 45 minutes to take a safari ride. Once on the boat, my daughter was less than content since by then we were worn out from standing in the high temperatures. Slowly, the afternoon was becoming less fun.
Snapping pictures of the safari creatures, I quickly realized I was making a great effort to take pictures of plastic animals. “What am I doing here?” I asked myself. Why was I creating a stir out of molded synthetic critters, set out to make me believe I was on a real-life journey to the wild jungle? With that awkward thought, I returned my camera to my backpack.
The end of our Disney adventure was coming to an end. The three of us headed toward the main entrance, trudging along with exhaustion and burnout from a long day at the park.
Inside the Magic
That’s when it happened — my four-year-old tripped on the brick walkway, directly in front of Disney’s landscaped entrance, with its WELCOME sign spelled out in a rainbow of vibrantly colored flowers and grass. Right there at the so-called Happiest Place on Earth.
My daughter was tired.
She cried.
And then she screamed so everyone could hear…
I DIDN’T WANT TO COME HERE TODAAAYYYYY!!!
By now, other guests were watching us with sympathy. I had no more patience myself. I was sick with a fever. Out of money. And I just wanted to get back to my brother’s apartment. Grabbing her hand, we scooted out of there quickly.
“C’mon. Let’s go!” I ordered to my sobbing preschooler. We marched toward the car in the vast parking lot. She was still grumbling and I was more than ornery.
Now, you might say I wasn’t in line to win the title of Best Parent Of The Year. Especially since I was never the kind who socked away money to throw down at a theme park. I simply didn’t understand the overblown hype over such an excursion.
You’re probably correct in your attitude about me. But to me, there was one silver lining to this unfortunate episode. Because I figured I’d fulfilled my parental duty. And never again did I need to return to the Happiest Place On Earth.
All kidding aside — we really did have a MARVELOUS day! Here are pictures to prove it. Here’s hoping my Aunt Annette would have approved.
This is what authors go through as they face the dreaded Writer’s Block.
Objective: Come up with an idea — a compelling story to share with others. Grab their attention. Start gradually and then finish with a BANG! as you leave readers wanting more.
Yep, that’s the key to successful prose. Bonus points if readers click LIKE, SHARE and COMMENT. We writers love feedback in any way, shape or form. Heck, even the negative comments are welcome. “Bring ’em on,” I say!
So Why Am I Suddenly Writing About A Couch?
Today’s story is about a simple couch. Why a couch? you may ask. The answer is simple. I ran out of stories to share here.
In desperation, I reviewed old NOTES on my iPhone. There was a note to myself, written in 2023, that mentioned “pink couch from Rhonda.”
What can I possibly write about a couch? I thought to myself, more frustrated than ever before.
Here’s the Story…
It wasn’t part of my Master Life Plan… but suddenly – in May 2000 – I’d found myself in the midst of a divorce and without proper housing for myself and my six-year-old daughter. One year later, in May 2001, I purchased a home for the two of us. It was situated on a quiet residential street in the West Beverly Hills neighborhood.
A 900 square foot two-story home provided us with a main floor, two upstairs bedrooms and a bath, basement with laundry, a backyard with room for a garden, as well as a one-car garage.
The only thing missing from our home was furniture. And pots and pans. A shower curtain and bath towels was high on my list. Even the everyday items we all use but never give much thought: cutlery, dish soap, oven mitts and cleaning cloths. Yep, it would take a while before I accumulated the typical sundry items for our new abode.
That’s when my friends and family stepped in. My best buddy at work provided me with dish cloths and linens for the kitchen. (Thank you, Carrie!)
My parents donated a brass bed. Two Oriental rugs. And a black iron bench which I still covet and use to this day.
Dad and I – Moving In Day – Circa 2001
Then there was my cousin Rhonda and her husband Mark, who gladly gave me their second-hand pink velvet sofa. I recall Mark was a bit embarrassed about handing over a well-used couch.
There were a couple stains on it and the armrests were worn — the mark of a well-loved piece. But I still saw its charm and envisioned the piece sitting in my new living room. I was thrilled to receive it.
For one, the price was right (Free!). Plus, I had always admired the rose-hued sofa in Rhonda’s living room. The velvet material was cozy and comfy, while the lovely color was pleasant on the eyes. With its rolled arms and tufted back, one of my friends remarked that it could pass for the couch from the FRIENDS television show.
couch.com
Everyone Has Sofa Memories They Can Share
Although I never gave that passed-down couch much thought over the next few years, I can now think back and recall fond memories when the sofa took center stage in the front room of our home.
It was a couch where my daughter and I watched The Blues Brothers movie over and over again.
It was the divan where a couple gentlemen callers sat… before I sent ’em packing.
It held multiple members of my family and friends, as we celebrated Christmas. Birthdays. Report cards with lots of A’s.
There were numerous happy times. Some somber moments. And a few sad endings.
My daughter + my father on said couch – Circa 2001
All Good Things Come To An End
It finally came to the point where I had some extra dough and chose to purchase a new davenport and loveseat for my living room. Thus, it was Good-Bye to my Friends Couch… but Hello to my new ones from La-Z-Boy Furniture!
It was out with the old – literally – as my reluctant neighbor and I dragged the family couch out the back door, down the steps, across the grassy yard and finally into the back alley.
The next day was Garbage Day in my neighborhood, and I knew the fine workers at Chicago’s Streets and Sanitation would quickly pick up the couch and give it a proper disposal.
Except The Unexpected Happened
The next morning, I drove out of my garage and proceeded down the alley as I headed toward my commuter train. There I saw it — the pink FRIENDS couch — sitting outside and adjacent to the back entrance of a local bar.
Apparently, the folks at the bar liked the couch as much as I did. They must have come across it the previous evening and decided to salvage it for their own use. Therefore, it became part of their “outdoor patio,” if you will.
It was an area where the bar’s patrons gathered for a smoke. Typically, they used cast-aside folding chairs for their purposes. Except this dewy morning, my rose-colored velvet couch sat in the place of honor in the rear parking lot– among the gravel and Dumpsters.
Although it was a forlorn scene, the couch still seemed to hold its tufted arms high, as it sat among empty beer bottles and cigarette butts. That piece of furniture refused to be shut down.
All I could do was sigh and shake my head. Truthfully, I was happy they kept the fantastic tradition going on that beloved ol’ pink sofa. Plus, it added a bit of class to the back alley, so I kept my mouth shut and kept driving.
My daughter and I were discussing regrets the other day. Specifically… cooking and baking regrets.
They might more appropriately be called failures, since many of those remorseful hours spent in the kitchen turned into disasters for me.
I reminded my daughter of the time back when she was four years old and I tried out a new recipe for a side of rice. To this day, I cannot recall what ingredients went into the dish. I couldn’t tell you if it was overcooked or undercooked.
Possibly it was the spices I tried that gave it a peculiar taste.
Whatever the reason, at dinner that evening I was told in no uncertain terms by my preschooler:
“You need to work on this, Mommy.”
Unfortunately, my rice did not resemble this
My Daughter’s Skills Outweigh My Own…
My daughter’s talent outperform my own. Funny how this works, since I’m the one who initially taught her to cook.
Of course, she has more patience than I do. Plus, she was enrolled in both baking and Italian cooking courses when she was registered for day camp. Who knew an 11-year-old could produce such amazing treats!
Her cupcakes are to die for!
Still, I Keep Trying…
Last year my husband brought home 4(!) boxes of Count Chocula cookie mix. Since he didn’t want to help me assemble the cookies, I was left to my own devices.
After the first box, I gave up trying. I don’t think you can blame me.
The Next Holiday Came…
It was early December and, as my Aunt Grace used to say, I got a bee in my bonnet.
Thinking I could save some $$ and bake on my own, I set out to mimic the White Fudge Covered Oreos. Here’s a version of the authentic Oreo cookie, which makes a special showing each holiday season:
OREOS – Perfectly frosted and yummy!
Now, take a look at my creations. Or, what I call a lot of hard work for nothing:
NAILED IT!
Not All Is Lost Though
I’m not giving up hope. I’ve just learned that it’s best to stick to the basics. No more trying to use a rolling pin, since I can never get the dough at just the right thickness.
No more following intricate recipe instructions just to amaze my friends and neighbors. To be honest, I’m just trying to impress myself. It’s time to let go and keep it simple.
Now, my cooking is kept unassuming. I give you: Brats in beer.
Yum
I give you my chocolate cake:
Simple and humble
Dare I say… NAILED IT!
Thank you for reading – Please SHARE and SUBSCRIBE
Even Dave Portnoy agrees Chicago’s deep dish is da best!
Chicago offers so many types of tasty food choices. The restaurants entice us with their culinary wonders. Everything from pizza (of course!) to Italian beef sandwiches to hot dogs. Those favorites and more make Chicago a go-to place for delicious eats.
I’m not going to go into the finer side of dining. For instance, the city boasts steak-houses with mouth-watering cuts of beef. There’s Asian cuisine. Eastern European dishes. Mediterranean delights featuring seafood and fresh vegetables lovingly seasoned with oregano and fresh lemon.
Oooh, the list can go on and on.
Skydeck Chicago
We all have our favorites. For example, one afternoon my brother phoned me at work…
“I’m catching an afternoon plane from Orange County airport to O’Hare,” he announced. “Can you meet me for dinner tonight at Pizzeria Uno?”
“Of course,” was my immediate reply. After all, what was there to consider? Any other plans I had for the evening were scratched. After all, my brother was coming to town. And I couldn’t resist a deep dish pizza baked in a black pan with high sides to hold in all the goodness.
Uno’s unique crust does it to me every time. Of course, the sausage and melted mozzarella cheese sitting under a layer of tomato sauce makes it all blend together into a rich and delicious delight.
Looks like it’s going to be a two-slice night!
Even Dave Portnoy agrees Chicago’s deep dish is da best! One Bite Pizza Reviews
So Much To Choose From…
I once dated a fella who was born and raised in Chicago. Trouble was, he moved to Minnesota and immediately started missing his old favorites.
When he’d visit me in Chicago, we had to make stops at White Castle. Connie’s Pizza. Bruna’s Ristorante (one of my favs). The Palace Grill (another favorite). It was a food free-for-all the entire weekend he was in town!
When I complained that I had to slow down on the restaurant menus since my jeans were getting tight, he argued that he had to grab all his favorite foods while he was in town. “There’s no places like this back in Minnesota,” he assured me.
Chicago Is Tops
Chicago’s beef sandwiches are so extraordinary, FX even created a television series – The Bear – based on the allure of those savory, iconic meals. Sure, the TV show won 11 Emmy awards. But what truly brought viewers to watch the program in the first place?
The BEEF SANDWICH!
Eater Chicago
My Mom Is No Different
Last summer my mom visited for a few weeks. It’s no secret she loves her Italian beef sandwiches. Since she moved to Florida in the early 2000’s, she has yet to discover a comparable joint that will compare to Chicago’s tender juicy local favorite, filled with just the right amount of seasoning and a gravy-soaked bun.
We picked her up one evening, after she’d spent a couple days visiting a dear pal of hers.
“Hey, Mom,” I offered. “We’re gonna stop for a bite to eat on the way home. Are you interested?”
“Oh, I’m not hungry,” my mom wearily replied from the back seat of our car.
“Okay, but we’re stopping for Italian beef sandwiches,” I slowly teased her.
Mom quickly sat up in her seat. “Well, okay, let’s go!” she sang out.
Since I know better than to interfere with my mom’s wishes, we headed straight to the nearest restaurant, replete with the standard fast-food menu. Italian beef. Hot dogs. Fries. Pepper sandwiches. Italian sausage.
And I’m happy to report that Chicago’s classic fare did not disappoint us that evening.
I still loathe getting up in the early morning hours.
I still wear gym shoes while commuting to the office.
I still brown bag it most days.
And I still drink my coffee black.
September 4.
September 4.
September 4.
“Why do I keep repeating that date over and over in my head?” I asked myself yesterday. “What is its relevance?”
This morning it clicked. Yesterday – September 4 – was my work anniversary. It’s been 34 years. September 4, 1990 was the exact date.
Or, 300 years, as I like to tell folks who still ask.
Some Things Have Not Changed
I still loathe getting up in the early morning hours.
I still wear gym shoes while commuting to the office.
I still brown bag it most days.
And I still drink my coffee black.
Widescreenings.com
Ch.. Ch.. Changes
Of course, we all know the changes that have occurred over the last three decades. Technology has taken off like a rocket ship, and we’d better be holding on to its contrails, or we’ll be left out of the loop.
Here’s What I Remember…
Our law firm had five floors of office space at the time. Each office was filled. Each desk in the corridor was taken by an Assistant (Legal Secretary as it was called back then).
Mailroom personnel made approximately five daily runs on the floors, collecting inter-office mail, courier packages, FedEx envelopes. Our number one mail item was business correspondence, typed on embossed stationery with a watermark. We creased them into the standard business tri-fold and placed them within a No. 10 envelope — also embossed our our law firm’s logo.
Items were delivered to each and every one of us. A daily bulletin was printed and distributed, covering the day’s news, the court docket, and personal news such as work anniversaries or congratulations on a co-worker’s newborn baby.
Smokers Unite
There were no rules for smoking. If your co-worker smoked next to you, you dealt with it. Truly, the smoke wasn’t too bothersome, since we were all used to it permeating our space.
A few years later, smoking laws went into effect. Our employer dutifully complied by reserving two smaller offices to be used for lighting up.
Quickly, the walls inside those tiny rooms lost their white paint color and took on a dull yellow hue. The doors would open and one could watch the smoke tendrils waft through the air and wander outside into the corridors.
I myself utilized those smoke rooms. Not to have a cigarette break. Instead, I chatted with my smoking friends and shared a laugh with them while we caught up on the latest gossip. Good times.
youtube.com
We Hobnobbed a Lot More
We walked through the corridors, saying Hello to those we passed. We utilized the elevators and stairs often, as we had to visit a colleague on a different floor in order to have an in-person discussion.
We retrieved courier packages from the front Reception Desk. And we visited the Duplicating Department often, waiting on urgent faxes to slowly roll off the fax machine.
In fact, I recall a survey was once distributed — on paper! — to each office worker:
The Firm is re-assessing its business resources.
Do you require two fax machines on each floor?
YES □ or NO □
It appeared we all marked YES, since three weeks later, additional fax machines appeared on each floor. Such technological progress! What joy to be had!
We Talked — and Laughed — Often
One afternoon while in the office, a tune ran through my head, over and over on a loop.
Don’t you, forget about me Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t Don’t you, forget about me
“Who sings that song from The Breakfast Club movie?” I asked several of my co-workers. “It’s driving me nuts trying to figure it out!”
Quickly, that inquiry became the Question of the Day in our office. It was our diversion. Our relief from the mundane. It was how we entertained ourselves during an 8-hour workday.
Since we didn’t have Google, we wracked our brains trying to recall the artist group who sang that catchy tune.
One girl finally gave up and phoned a friend, who happily supplied us with the answer…
Earlier this month, I was diligently working at my desk when my husband of 12 years phoned. “How about we go to Navy Pier this weekend?” David suggested. “It’s Chicago Navy Week and the USS Constitution is going to be there!” he announced excitedly.
The USS Constitution — a/k/a Old Ironsides — is a U.S. Navy ship built in the late 1700s. As the oldest commissioned warship afloat, its current home is in Boston Harbor.
Photo: Navy Times
This ship has special meaning for both of us, since it’s where my husband proposed to me… right there on the deck of the huge vessel. So, naturally, his suggestion sounded sweet and romantic.
Still, I was a wee bit skeptical. “Is the USS Constitution still seaworthy?” I asked him. After all, Old Ironsides was built in the late 18th century!
“Yeah, it’s all good!” he promised.
How could I say No, when he was so full of enthusiasm?
Unfortunately, I felt a bit lazy about going downtown…
What kind of wife am I? To be honest, I didn’t relish going back downtown on a Saturday after a full week of commuting to Chicago from our suburban home. The drudgery of the train, the traffic, the people, the motorized scooters, etc., etc. You get my drift.
Still, I said YES to him. Just like I did when he proposed back in 2011.
“Let’s take the Metra train downtown,” I suggested. Since my husband adores trains, I thought it would be nice for him to finally ride the Metra — it would be a first for him and let him experience the hustle and bustle of commuting on the train.
We decided to take the BNSF Metra line, which has a train leaving each hour toward downtown. Since neither of us were familiar with BNSF’s Cicero Avenue train station, we looked for a pedestrian cross in order to wait on the south end (city-bound) platform. Strangely, we found no signs pointing us in the right direction and there was no way for us to cross over.
“Sometimes they come in on the opposite track, especially on the weekends,” I explained. “Let’s just wait here since there’s no where else to go.”
And so we waited, donned in sunhats and doused with plenty of sunscreen. My husband was fired up about taking the commute, and we eagerly waited on the lone bench at the station.
We heard the train’s whistle as it approached the station. Once it passed the blind curve, however, we were in shock to see the train was using the opposite tracks. As there was absolutely no pathway in sight, we couldn’t figure out how we had made this incredible mistake!
And so we stayed glued to that bench, watching as the train heading east into the city approached on the southern track.
I felt so stupid! And embarrassed. “What the heck do we do now?” I cried.
“We’ll simply wait for the next train,” David said good naturedly. “It’s only another hour. Hey, what else were we going to do today?”
“Uggghhh!” was my only response.
After the train went on its merry way, we walked the perimeter, once more searching for a way to the south platform. Eventually, we found a small ramp, leading toward Cicero Avenue. From there, we walked about 1/4 of a block and came upon a pedestrian tunnel. It was this very tunnel that led to the other side of the station. Well, there you go!
Union Station – metra.com
Fast forward to the city…
Eventually, we found ourselves downtown at Union Station. By this time, it was close to 11AM. From there, we couldn’t decide whether to take the CTA shuttle to Navy Pier, or simply walk along the River Walk. It was a lovely day, so we decided on the latter, since we were both up for a walk.
Chicago’s River Walk
Except my knees weren’t happy with my decision. It’s been a rough year for them, having endured my second knee replacement last winter. Recovery has been sluggish and painful.
Still, we walked over a mile and made it to Columbus Drive, just west of Navy Pier. By now, my mood had gone downhill and I had enough. “Let’s take a taxi from here,” Dave suggested.
“I’m not moving from this corner!” I cried. “Anyway, there’s no taxis to be found.”
Luckily, we spotted the CTA bus stop for the shuttle to Navy Pier. You know the one I’m speaking of… the one we could have easily grabbed 45 minutes earlier just across the street from Union Station. We decided to wait for the bus.
My knees weren’t budging and neither was I. We waited another 20 minutes for that crowded bus and gladly got on, each hanging onto the overhead straps since it was standing room only.
It’s now 1:00 PM and we’re finally at Navy Pier
Except we’re really not there yet. The traffic into the pier was horrendous. It took another 12 minutes for our bus driver to maneuver her way through the throngs of vehicles, all headed in the same direction. After all, it was the same day as Chicago’s Air and Water Show, which always brings thousands of people to the city for this astonishing event.
Once we were off the CTA bus, we walked (I limped) the length of Navy Pier, all the way to its eastern most tip. That’s where the ships were alleged to be on this bright sunny day. Except for one important thing…
There were no ships to be found.
“Where’s the U.S. Constitution?” my husband wondered out loud.
I wondered some things myself, except this is a PG-rated post and I aim to keep it that way.
By this time, the sweat beads were rolling down our faces due to high humidity, causing the sunscreen to burn our eyes.
“I’m sitting right here on this stoop,” I announced to him. Both my knees were shouting out in pain. On top of that, my big toe hurt. I sat on my shawl, not wanting to burn my bottom, crossed my arms and plainly showed my disappointment. Oy veh, what a day for me!
Yours Truly
“Well, we can at least stay for the air show,” proclaimed my patient husband.
And to that, we did. We watched a stupendous show from the U.S. Navy pilots, as they swooped across the city, showcasing its skyline.
They roared directly over our heads, dangerously close to the brick tower of Navy Pier. The pilots made breathtaking moves across the water, supplying their audience with exceptional prowess and tremendous courage.
Now you see ’em… now you don’t!!
After the show ended, we found a kiosk selling — of all things — Lobster Rolls! I regret to say that day’s sandwich was nothing like the tasty and oh-so-wonderful fresh lobster roll we shared back in 2011 near Old Ironsides in Boston.
I won’t bore you with the rest of our commute home, but I can say we were much more successful on the way back. We took the CTA shuttle back to Union Station and unexpectedly ran into David’s brother and his galpal. From there, we shared a four-seater on the train and shared details from our excursions into the city.
Forgive my finger covering the lens. Bonus points for the port-a-john in the background.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to see the U.S.S. Constitution,” my dear husband apologized later.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “The best part of the day was that you wanted us to tour the ship where we got engaged. It’s a very romantic gesture on your part. And that’s what I appreciate the most.”
By the way, I also appreciated a cold draught at the end of the day.
So, really, who’s complaining?
Certainly not I!
Update: We eventually learned the “crew” of the USS Constitution was in town that week… not the actual ship… LOL
PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST 