I am from the brilliant yellow forsythia and creamy pink magnolias
That bloomed in the spring around my childhood home
Whose long-gone blossoms I remember as if they were my own
Your host: PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST
Recently I came across a fellow blogger’s post, wherein she created her own version of the trending “I Am” poem template. You’ll find more of her lovely posts at The Spectacled Bean.
The basic poem is Adapted by Levi Romero Inspired by “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon.
Here’s mine…
I am from books from museum shops, thrift stores and left over from the library
I am from coffee from Aldi and afghan throws knitted by my mother
I am from a duplex surrounded by an arbor of pine trees
A house filled with so many plants, that I typically forget to water one or two
I am from the brilliant yellow forsythia and creamy pink magnolias
That bloomed in the spring around my childhood home
Whose long-gone blossoms I remember as if they were my own
I’m from Lithuanian sausage and potato pancakes from Grandma Martha and Aunt Elvira — Now it’s up to my mom to make them
I’m from years-long arguments and shutting each other out from my aunts
Sister
And others
I’m from “finish what’s on your plate” and “you’ll never be a dancer“
And singing Sloop John B to my dad’s banjo
I’m from Thanksgiving dinners around a long rectangular table in family basements
I’m from Roseland Community Hospital and Chicago and cakes from “Jewel’s“
I’m from learning one of my aunts died from ovarian cancer before I ever came along
She had four children and had to leave three of them with her parents after her death
The fourth child — who moved away with her father — we finally found after years of searching
I’m from spending summers at Indiana Dunes national lakeshore
From trick-or-treating in hand-sewn Halloween costumes, courtesy of Mom
I’m from dusty hat boxes filled with mementos – under my bed, in my closet, in my heart
I come across funny poems, haikus and musings from my daughter… written when she was 11 years old
At now at 29 years of age, she refuses to let me post them here
By: H. Van Howe / Date: November 2023
Now it’s your turn. Go ahead and create your own poems.
Distribute before the holidays and let your guests read their own at the dinner table.
Share with your book club buddies and host an “I Am” party.
Trade essays with your dearest friend and read aloud to each other over a glass of wine.
shorthand – noun 1. a method of rapid handwriting using simple strokes, abbreviations, or symbols that designate letters, words or phrases (distinguished from longhand) http://www.dictionary.com
It was the end of my sophomore year in high school when I registered for my junior year of classes. For a number of reasons, Shorthand and Typing seemed to be useful electives for me. Taken together, the two classes would merit one full major credit.
Other students I spoke with felt those business skills would become valuable in the future — not only for stable office jobs but also for typing up school term papers.
In the end, shorthand did become a beneficial tool for me. For example, I’m impatient by nature, so being able to quickly take notes in Gregg Shorthand makes me very happy indeed.
By the following Fall, I sat in my first Gregg Shorthand class and was already feeling intimidated. For starters, due to the seating chart being designed in alphabetical order, I was placed in the second seat from the front row. This was new to me, since I typically sat in the back of the class — either my height dictated that choice, or the fact that my last name starts with the letter V. Up at the front of the class, I felt exposed. A bit vulnerable. What if I was put on the spot and couldn’t provide an acceptable answer? There I’d sit for the entire class to see my ignorance.
Except the first day of class proved to be both challenging and exciting, since our teacher — Mrs. Lynn Sanders — ensured our class that we’d be writing words in shorthand by the end of that very first session. She explained that Gregg Shorthand replaces letters with symbols for actual sounds. That very morning, we learned the symbols for S, F, V and A.
With those four symbols, we could already write the words: save; as; save; safe; face; and vase.
I immediately fell in love with the system!
I excelled at shorthand.
Three months later, I was beginning to feel like Teacher’s Pet, as Mrs. Sanders took a liking to me. And why not? I always handed in my homework. I could read and transcribe my shorthand notes with ease. My speed that first year were over 80 words per minute… an easy grade A for me.
There was one caveat… The only fault Mrs. Sanders found with me was that I was routinely late to her class, walking in the door 4-5 minutes after her session started.
I didn’t like to be penned in with restrictions. It all started way back in grade school when we lived kitty-corner from our grade school. My siblings and I would wait for the first bell to ring before we burst out our back door and ran across the street to line up with our respective classmates. It drove our mother nuts, but we didn’t see the logic in waiting around any longer than we needed to. Rules, schmules.
By the time I started high school, my bad habits were already in place. For the most part, Mrs. Sanders and I got along quite well, and I thought I had her eating out of the palm of my hand.
Until that one afternoon when Mrs. Sanders made a telephone call home to my mother. She asked my mom to ensure that I start arriving on time to my morning class. Naturally, my mother agreed with her.
The next morning, my mom insisted that I catch an earlier bus to school — an outrageous idea to me. Yet there I found myself walking to the bus stop 30 minutes earlier than my usual practice. I mumbled and grumbled to myself the entire way in.
That morning I was one of the first students at the classroom door. When our teacher approached with keys to unlock the door, she slyly winked at me. “Good morning everyone,” she smiled.
“Good Morning Mrs. Sanders,” we chorused together.
I rolled my eyes and headed toward my seat. Truth is, though, I still liked her.
Mrs. Sanders always believed in me.
“You can do it!” was her favorite phrase. And I believed her. She had so much faith in my abilities that she sent me downtown to participate in a shorthand contest hosted by the City Colleges of Chicago. And, of course, I couldn’t let her down.
A couple weeks later I hopped onto the Dan Ryan Flyer (CTA’s Red Line to you younger readers) to make my way downtown for the shorthand transcription competition. Not entirely sure of where the Loop College was located, I got off the El when I saw a sign for the Marshall Field’s building. At my age, I had no clue where I was going. I asked several strangers on the street for directions, but no one could assist. Finally, a police officer pointed me in the right direction.
I ran toward the college and entered its lobby filled with unease. Out of breath from running, I stopped at the front desk. “Do you know where the shorthand competition is?” I asked in a trembling voice. My shyness certainly had the best of me that morning.
Ninety minutes later, I walked out of that school holding a plaque for taking third place. I couldn’t wait to tell Mrs. Sanders!
My shorthand skills stayed strong while I was in school. Mrs. Sanders even arranged for a reporter on our school newspaper to write a short column about my experience at the contest. I blushed. Yet I still keep that winning plaque today.
Big dreams soon dashed…
One year later, I graduated and set my sights on landing a super-duper secretarial post in downtown Chicago, where I could utilize my extraordinary shorthand skills.
One of the first real jobs I had was working for the oldest law firm in the city: Winston & Strawn. Winston had impressive partners and political connections. I felt confident that I could be successful in its demanding legal environment. After all, didn’t I once win a shorthand contest?
During the first week of employment at Winston & Strawn, I found myself filling in for a partner while his secretary was on vacation. He called me in his office to dictate a letter. “Here’s my chance to shine,” I told myself. Unfortunately, once I started transcribing my notes, I became stuck on a couple of words. (Please understand, dear readers, that the faster a stenographer writes, the sloppier their work becomes.)
I didn’t have anyone nearby to ask for help. It was all on me, and I couldn’t figure out those two darned words. Mrs. Sanders had taught us to rely on our memory when we ran into this type of situation. But since I was a novice in the legal industry, I wasn’t having any luck with typical legal jargon.
I thought I’d be a bit silly and lighten the mood in that austere office environment. I went ahead and typed what I thought my notes read: shop class. There! I handed him the draft letter, hoping he’d get a good chuckle and handwrite in the correct words.
He was not amused.
That’s supposed to be “separate correspondence,” the attorney barked at me.
Clearly, he wasn’t in a joking mood.
Even today’s notes gave me trouble
Fifteen or so years went by. I was successful in my job. And (most) of my shorthand was transcribed with positive results. That’s when I ran into a friend from high school, who sadly informed me that our Mrs. Sanders had passed away.
I was surprised to hear that depressing news. Mrs. Sanders was only in her 50’s. What happened? Was she ill? Except there were no more details available.
Mrs. Sanders was a wonderful and inspiring teacher. I know she also taught English, where some of her pupils didn’t view her with the same rose-colored glasses. To me, however, she was strict for a reason. She wanted her students to push themselves beyond their limits and excel.
Therefore, today’s post is dedicated to you, Lynn Sanders. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for pushing me to do my best. Thanks (a lot!) for calling my mother and putting an end to my lateness.
Five minutes later, our painter was happily painting our laundry room while singing along to Air Supply …
Your host: PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST
Photo: Vocal Media
Blood, Sweat and Tears. That phrase comes in handy when you’re delving into a lot of grueling work. But when it comes to home improvement projects, I’d like to amend that to read: Blood, Sweat, Tears and %&*$$.
This year’s home project focused on replacing our kitchen floor tile. It was outdated and broken in a couple places. After considering new tile for a couple years now, we knew we had to bite the bullet and spend some serious bucks to have the original floor torn up, removed from the premises, and replaced with a beautiful dark grey stone.
Even our laundry room was getting new tile (and a new washer and dryer — think more $$).
As soon as the workers arrived to lay down the new floor, my hubby realized it was also time to paint the kitchen walls. Now was prime time to ask a painter to handle that task. After all, everything was moved out and stored into the living room.
You know how one thing leads to another with these types of things. My hubby felt now was also the time to have the “wood guy” come to replace the baseboards.
The Costs Were Adding Up
Finally, we were nearly done with the project. The painter convinced us to use white paint in the laundry room (previously a pale blue). We were fine with that color choice.
Hubby and I planned it out. He’d stay home and work remotely so he could be available if the painter had any issues. Off I went to my job in downtown Chicago. I truly didn’t want to be around in that messy house any longer than I had to be.
Then I Received The Phone Call
My husband grumbled that he and the painter were at odds over the painting progress. The two of them had argued over the sanding and whether it was smooth enough. They disagreed over whether the white paint was actually covering the former blue paint. Back and forth they went, each getting on each other’s nerves.
I couldn’t understand why the two of them were cantankerous about the entire task. To me, it seemed to be a clear cut project: sand, paint and add another coat.
Except the two coats of white paint didn’t seem to be enough. The painter and my husband had a heated discussion regarding a third coat. Apparently, the painter didn’t think it was necessary.
“But it’s clearly bleeding through,” my husband pointed out. “You can see the blue walls behind it.”
He then pointed out some unsatisfactory sanding the painter had performed. “I want this done right!” he complained.
Unfortunately, the painter must have been having a bad day too. “Look here, it looks alright to me!” he countered. “See here, it’s as smooth as can be,” the painter insisted.
Long story short, the painter relented and gave our walls a third coat of white paint.
I’m So Glad I Missed the Drama
When I returned home from work that evening, my husband was upset over the project.
“Look at the laundry room and tell me I’m not losing my mind,” he insisted. “I can still see the blue showing through the white. We need another coat of paint!”
He was correct. The white paint had failed to cover the old blue.
“We’ll just have to call him back in,” I said.
“I’m not having anything more to do with that guy. He kept saying I was being too picky and that I was seeing things that weren’t there. I’ve had enough of him — go ahead and call him yourself! ”
“I will!” I answered. “I can’t understand why you’re both so cranky. Just get out of the house when he returns, because I don’t want to be here and have the two of you arguing. ”
Time To Crank Up The Music
The next day was Saturday and I texted the painter, explaining how the paint needed yet a fourth coat. Two hours passed before he replied: I’ll be there within the hour.
When he arrived, he wasn’t smiling. Quickly, I explained the situation. Luckily he agreed with me.
“I’ll give it a fourth coat and be outta here within an hour,” he grumbled.
I needed to do something quick to relieve the tension. Earlier that morning, my husband had been streaming Air Supply love songs, and I couldn’t help but sing along with those mellow tunes from the early eighties. Would the same music help to warm up the painter?
I pegged the guy to be in his mid-sixties. Doing mental math, that would put our painter at about 23-24 years old when Air Supply was consistently hitting the top ten in Billboard Hot 100 songs. Those songs would bring back memories for him — back to his heyday.
Photo: Last.fm
It Was Worth a Shot
I placed my Sony speaker on the kitchen counter and selected Air Supply from my Spotify app. What do you know, five minutes later, I could see our painter rolling the laundry room walls while he hummed and sang along to Air Supply …
“making love out of nothing at all… making love…💜💜💜”
It seemed to be working. Nonchalantly, I turned the volume up just a bit, thereby amplifying the music as well as my scheme. I’m so sneaky.
Song number two came on…
“even the nights are better… 🎵🎶 … now that we’re here together.”
I watched him work in our laundry room, as he dreamily rolled and applied a fourth coat of white paint.
As promised, he was finished in less than one hour. By now, Spotify was playing Reminiscing by The Little River Band. He never did mention the music, but instead he spoke to me in a very friendly tone. While I thanked him for his work, our conversation turned to the fact that our water line was on the fritz ever since the workers installed the new kitchen tile.
My painter — we were good friends by now — took a quick peek at the situation. Next, he pulled out his mobile phone and consulted with his plumber friend.
“Heidi, I’m gonna run to Home Depot and get the parts you need,” my new buddy offered. “I’ll be right back.”
Okay, I felt the tiniest bit guilty. The poor guy was putty in my hands, but I owe it all to the music. I almost felt sorry for him. But then I realized I did him a favor with all the lovey-dovey songs, which I’m sure brought back coveted memories for him.
I handed the painter a very generous $$ tip before he left. He waved good-bye from his van, and I think he even tipped his hat at me. It was a good afternoon.
Later That Same Day…
When my husband returned home, he was both surprised and pleased.
Looking at the freshly painted walls — now a lovely, crisp shade of white, I could tell he was finally content with the work. He was also impressed that our filtered water line was in service once more.
“Tell me… what went on here today?” he inquired.
“Not too much,” I winked, playing the innocent. “I was just being my super sweet self.”
He gave me a hard look, realizing I wasn’t giving him the entire story. I knew I had to confess.
“I simply gave him the ol’ Air Supply treatment.” I shrugged. “Works every time.”
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 LadyIncident. 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.
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.
“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.
Photo – Chicago Magazine
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.
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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Back in the early ’80s, my pal Nan and I spent an afternoon at the Federal Reserve, hoping to learn more about job opportunities for ourselves, as we were nearly finishing up our last term at business school.
Nan had a connection at the Reserve — a friend of her folks from the Beverly neighborhood. It was he who was good enough to give us a tour of the Reserve and also introduce us to those in charge who may have some sway in pulling strings to get each of us a job.
He was a nice fellow, but for the life of me, I can’t recall his name or what he looked like. I do recall tidbits of our conversations though. It went something like this…
Him: “Did you girls go to the Southside Irish parade last weekend?”
Nan smiled: “We sure did… it was great!”
Him: “You bet it was! Me and my pals checked out every bar on Western Avenue. It was an awesome time. In fact, I didn’t get back to work until this morning!”
Later that afternoon on the train ride back to Beverly, I naively asked Nan… “If he went to the parade on Sunday, why didn’t he get back to work until today? I mean, it’s Thursday already!”
Nan winked at me. “It was a good parade!” she laughed.
‘Nuff said.
Which brings me to another parade story. Fast forward 20 years and I found myself living back in Beverly, with a house conveniently located on Artesian (one block west of Western Avenue). The nice thing about the house was its location to shopping, transportation, the Beverly Art Center, and walking distance to several parks.
What was also interesting about that house was the commotion that passed by it every year in mid-March. It all started the Saturday afternoon before the parade officially began, when folks would start slowly cruising down Artesian, searching for an open parking spot. If they got lucky and found room, the driver would park his or her car. But just as quickly, another car behind would pull up, while the driver in the original car jumped into the second car, and off they sped.
Quickly I figured out the sneaky maneuvers… these people were pre-parking before Parade Sunday, when parking up close to the Western Avenue parade route was impossible.
A few of my neighbors were a little miffed over our block being taken up by strangers’ cars. For the most part, it didn’t bother me, since I had my own garage, where my car stayed quietly until the annual shamrock shindig was complete.
After living on Artesian for over five years, I was more than educated as to what went on during the parade. Parade-goers started early, as I’d notice early in the morning, just as I took in my Sunday paper and sipped from my first mug of coffee. The first few fellas to march past my house at half past seven always carried a cooler on their shoulders. Nothing like starting early. By then, I was sorry I hadn’t added a wee bit of Bailey’s to my cup of joe… just to get me in the mood.
As the next two hours went by, one might have thought the Western parade extended to Artesian as well. The sidewalks were filled with individuals dressed in their Southside Irish jackets or any other green-hued apparel they could find. The males sported tweed caps, while the females wore navel-exposing t-shirts, as they shivered in the 50 degree weather. Mardi Gras beads ruled the day, along with KISS ME I’M IRISH buttons tacked onto every moving part.
But what the heck! The sun was shining and we were all tired of Chicago winter. If we were lucky, the ground even joined in by popping up small spouts of tulip leaves and purple Crocus. Needless to say, everyone was happy to be outside, yelling to one another, singing, sipping and generally enjoying the first signs of springtime.
That particular year, my daughter and I invited a few friends over. My pal and her two daughters arrived with a large platter of corned beef sandwiches, courtesy of County Fair. Along with our homemade oatmeal cookies and Irish soda bread, we had more than enough to serve ourselves.
Our group stayed near the house, where we could easily view the parade from my backyard. However, we knew from experience that the more interesting parade was on my own front sidewalk. It was evident the passing families with their wagonload of kids had every intent to view the parade. For the other groups of young adults, it was a different story. It seemed many of them were determined to drink themselves under a table before 3 o’clock that afternoon.
The morning went on, and my new beau — Dave — stopped by that morning as well. Being raised in Cicero, he was no stranger to shenanigans from neighborhood folks. Still, he was awed by the sheer number of people strolling past my tiny home.
Dave became even more bewildered when an overserved gentleman suddenly decided to take a nap on my front lawn. The poor fella wore an authentic knit sweater and plastic green hat, along with countless green and orange beads draped around his neck to add to his festive attire. He lay his empty beer cup in my grass, turned a few times like a tired dog, and plopped down on my front lawn chair.
Dave watched and chuckled before he attempted to wake the guy up. “Hey buddy, you doin’ okay?” he asked, shaking the man’s arm.
We received an incoherent response from the gentleman. He was breathing fine, but nothing he mumbled made any sense to us. He ignored us completely and dove into a deep slumber in the chair, head tilted to the side, eyes closed. Meanwhile, his jaunty hat stayed perfectly perched atop his slumbering head.
This unexpected scene gave Dave had an idea. He ran up the two front steps and into my house. Dashing inside, he had grabbed my digital camera and was already back outdoors before I knew what was happening. I approached the front door, and watched the scene unfold…
“Step right up, everyone! For just five bucks, you can get your picture taken with the drunken leprechaun!” Dave shouted to passersby.
A couple of girls stopped and giggled. “Why not?” they agreed, before forking over a ten-dollar-bill to Dave, who slipped the cash in his front pocket.
By now he was incentivized to continue his scheme. “That’s right, good people! Take your picture today with a genuine drunken leprechaun,” he barked. “Only five dollars and you’ll have a souvenir to cherish forever.”
Wouldn’t you know it, his scam was making money, hand over fist. It seemed everyone walking by truly loved the idea. Groups of friends laughed at the situation before they each took a fiver from their pockets and handed it to Dave. Each individual would crouch next to the sleeping drunk, while Dave snapped a picture. I simply stood there watching, wondering if I had hooked myself up with a con man from the town of Cicero.
Ultimately though, the rest of us girls felt compelled to take advantage of the day. “Grab the plate of sandwiches,” my friend called to our daughters. “And the desserts too. We’re gonna sell them for ten bucks apiece!”
The girls followed instructions and in less than 30 minutes they had over $200 among themselves, simply by selling sandwiches, cookies and soda bread to the hungry strangers. When the last of the food was sold, they walked back into the house, all equally proud of the fast money they earned.
They were followed in by Dave, who was grinning from ear to ear. He had a wad of cash in his hands and just kept laughing to himself over and over.
“What’s so funny?” my pal and I finally asked of him.
“Five bucks apiece for a photo with the drunken leprechaun,” he giggled. “Thing is, none of those folks are ever returning to pick up their photo!“
Kim [left] in the dress of the hour. — Me on a better day.
This post is dedicated to Mom, who celebrates her birthday tomorrow. Happy Birthday Mom!
When I think back to my childhood, it’s filled with memories of outfits my mom had crafted on her Singer sewing machine. Her work was varied, from dresses for me and my sister to window dressings, Mom had it all sewn together.
Mom first learned to sew in her high school Home Economics class. There, the students were taught how to provide balanced meals for their families, manage a budget, maintain a healthy home and, of course, learn how to work a sewing machine and turn out fashionable, creative designs one would be proud to wear.
One of the first items Mom made for me and my sister was a pair of matching dresses. The simple pattern followed the mod trend at the time (circa 1968). The dresses were made from a jersey material of a dusty rose, with a grid of muted grey lines creating a soft pattern. The design was straightforward but striking: a shift dress with a knee-length hem, long sleeves and a narrow collar band.
Mom fitted the dresses to suit us girls perfectly, and the two of us couldn’t wait to wear our new frocks. We didn’t have to wait long, since the very next day Mom instructed me to don my new dress. She helped me into a pair of white tights (which I loathed) and buckled my black patent leather shoes onto my two feet.
“Where are we going Mommy?” I asked.
“I have a PTA meeting,” she quickly replied, leading us toward the front steps of my sister’s grade school.
We entered the oversized doors and proceeded to the cavernous school auditorium, filled with the echoes of chattering mothers. Given it was 1968, that morning’s group consisted of females only, dressed in their best: dresses, stockings, high heels and handbags. Some even sported a matching hat. As always with these PTA meetings, my ears were overwhelmed with the cacophony of excited exchanges and laughter taking place. The mature voices filled my small self with a heavy mix of unintelligible sounds – conversations I couldn’t quite decipher at that time in my short life.
My brother and I followed our mother to open seats, several rows back from the stage. She chatted with the other parents, while I swung my legs over the edge of the wooden seat, wondering how long this gathering would take. My mother reached over and smoothed out a couple wrinkles on my dress. “I need you to sit still and keep your dress looking nice,” she reminded me. Somehow, I knew this meant I wasn’t going to enjoy the program ahead of us.
Two women stopped by us. “Dorothy, we’re ready for her,” one announced. Mom bent her head in my direction. “Heidi, go with those women.” I looked at her, at the women, and back to Mom. “It’s okay, go ahead,” she prodded.
One of the ladies took my hand and escorted me through a side door. Inside, we climbed a short set of stairs, arriving backstage, where I saw another whirlwind of PTA women, all with more excited chatter amongst themselves. I watched as heavy drapery curtains swished back and forth as groups of women and young girls through them.
The entire situation was foreign to me but seemed even more odd when my sister suddenly appeared backstage as well. “C’mon, Heidi,” she mumbled, and grabbed my hand to follow her. I stumbled after her and noticed she was wearing her new dress as well, along with the same white stockings and stiff shoes.
“Where are we going?” I cried out. “Shhh… it’s our turn,” she hushed me, raising her forefinger to her lips.
Still holding my hand, she led us onto the auditorium’s stage. There, I found ourselves facing the entire members of the PTA audience. All I could see were smiling female faces, expectantly looking up at the two of us – my sister and I – all alone on stage, except for one woman standing to our left, behind wooden a podium.
My confusion only grew from there.
“These are the daughters of Mrs Dorothy Van Howe,” I heard Podium Lady begin. Okay, I knew that was right. But where was my mom? I couldn’t see her nor my brother in the sea of heads filling the auditorium seats.
“Blah blah blah blah blah,” the announcer went on, using a microphone. I gave her a look of disapproval. What business did she have talking about my mother? I looked over at my sister. She was slowly turning around in her new pink dress, while I stood steadfast in my tight shoes, wondering what the heck she was doing.
I heard a few giggles from the floor. “Heidi, turn!” my sister hissed at me. I gave her one of my best glares, but she ignored me and continued turning around in circles, while I heard more murmurs from Podium Lady.
“Mrs. Van Howe followed a Butterick pattern, blah blah blah.”
My sister confidently turned to her left, to her right, and finally posed with one hand on her hip while she faced the audience straight on. My agitation grew. What was she doing here on stage with me… wasn’t she supposed to be in her classroom? More importantly… why were all these ladies staring at us?
The lady at the podium continued. “The dresses are blah blah, with a knee-length blah,” she announced to the crowd. Immediately I knew I wasn’t fond of this woman. She didn’t give a hoot about my wishes. “How did this woman know about my new dress, and what business was it of hers anyway?” I thought to myself.
More giggles arose, as my face slowly turned the same pink shade as our twin dresses. That spurned me on. I relented and did what I was told: mimic the actions of my older sister. I figured she was in the second grade, so she must know what she was doing. She turned. I turned. She smiled at the ladies, I smirked at them. What other choice did I have?
Finally, applause came from the audience. Podium Lady gave us a dismissive nod, while my hand was grabbed for the umpteenth time that morning and my sister led me back toward the staging area.
By then I was almost near tears, and I ran down the stage steps, searching for my mother in the crowd. I saw her beaming smile, while my brother sat watching me wide-eyed, wondering why his sister was starting to cry.
Sensing my discomposure, he too became agitated. His eyes widened, while his nose twitched and his mouth shaped into a grimace. I watched as his face turned mauve (close to the color of my new dress), and he burst out crying. A loud, sympathetic cry for his big sister. He wasn’t sure what had happened to me that set me off, but he wasn’t going to let his sister cry alone. That morning, his support meant the world to me.
Our mother sighed and turned to her friends, laughing with them. She shook her head and drew a handkerchief out of her handbag, carefully drying our tears and soothing our nerves. I sat down, not bothering to smooth down the back of my dress. Let it get bunched up and wrinkled on the pull-down seat. I didn’t care any longer. I sat, arms folded, and waited for that ridiculous PTA meeting to come to an end.
Luckily for me and my mother, that was my first — and last — PTA-sponsored fashion show.
“Howard, you need that fire truck,” Norm counseled him.
“Dorothy will wring my neck if I come home with a fire engine,” Dad returned.
“C’mon,” Norm urged, grabbing his keys off the bar. “I’m drivin’.”
This is a passage about a man named Norman. Let me re-phrase that… Our Dear Friend Norm.
Norm started out as a friend of my father’s — they met when theyboth worked as pressman at R.R. Donnelley’s — The Lakeside Press. Donnelley’s was once a giant in the printing industry, churning out Chicagoland phone books, Sears catalogs, Sears Wish Books, magazines, sales circulars, and more.
Norm and Dad eventually began to carpool to work together. Norm lived just one Chicago neighborhood west of ours — in Mt. Greenwood. On countless weekday (and weekend) mornings, Norm drove toward our home in Beverly, where he picked up Dad before they drove together to work.
Like most carpools, the fellas shared the driving duties. Sometimes Norm drove his car, with Dad in the passenger seat. Sometimes Dad drove his car. For the most part though, Dad’s cars left a lot to be desired since they weren’t the least bit luxurious. I remember one winter in the early ’80s when Norm had had enough of driving in Dad’s dingy yellow beater with no working heater.
Norm didn’t mince words with his cohort: “I’ll drive myself to Donnelley’s until you work out your car situation.”
I once had the fortunate opportunity to join Norm and Dad’s carpool, for about three weeks back in ’82. I had just graduated high school and landed a temporary job downtown on south Michigan Avenue. Dad told me I could ride with him and Norm… they left at 6:40 a.m. sharp, since their shifts started at eight.
For three weeks, I sat in the backseat, while Dad and Norm took turns driving. They had their routine down… take Halsted north to 87th Street, head east and hop onto the Dan Ryan. Keep in the local lanes, since their exit was at 22nd Street.
The two men didn’t talk too much during the car rides. I remember Norm read from a huge book he brought along, while Dad navigated the side streets. “I don’t think that old guy ever sold one newspaper,” Norm remarked, watching an elderly gentleman standing in the middle of 87th and State, holding a stack of Chicago Tribune newspapers in one arm — the Sun Times in the other.
“Hmm,” Dad replied, looking from the paper vendor and eyes back on the road.
That was about the extent of their morning conversations.
Norm was pretty hip, though. Cooler than Dad — or so I thought at the callow age of 18. For music on our car rides, Dad chose classical music on WFMT radio, which I found quite dull. One morning I tried listening to WLS — Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger was playing. Except Dad promptly turned the dial back to his favorite channel.
“Howard, what are you doing?” Norm cried, winking back at me in the back seat. “That’s the number one song this summer!”
“Achh!” Dad replied. The radio stayed tuned to Dad’s favorite station.
And that was the gist of our morning drives.
Eventually, I reached the end of my short stint at my downtown job. That night I indulged one too many times in plates of brie and crackers being passed throughout the office party room. Glasses of champagne were available. LOTS of champagne.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to say No to the cocktails. The next morning, as I joined Dad and Norm in our daily carpool, Dad warned Norm. “Don’t mind Heidi this morning. She’s a little off her game since last night.” I simply groaned in the backseat, as it seemed Dad hit every pothole on the way in. Norm chuckled at my plight. “Next time invite us along,” he advised me with a grin.
I should stop for a minute and describe Norm. My dad was tall. Norm was even taller. I’d peg him at somewhere near six foot, four inches. Imagine a cross between Tom Selleck and Hal Linden. I’m sure you can picture it. Yessiree, the females took notice when Norm walked into a room. I was no exception.
Norm was a great friend to Dad. They worked together, joked together and drank together. It was Norm who convinced Dad he wasn’t crazy when my father announced he wanted to purchase a 1939 Mack fire truck.
“Howard, you need that fire truck,” Norm counseled him.
“Dorothy will wring my neck if I come home with a fire engine,” Dad returned.
“C’mon,” Norm urged, grabbing his keys off the bar. “I’m drivin’.”
The next afternoon, Dad drove home his fire truck, with Norm in the co-pilot seat, working the siren button on the truck’s floorboard. They were a sight to behold, as my younger brother and I watched, dumbfounded, as the two of them drove down our street in Dad’s newest purchase. Siren blaring, neighbors staring. Dad and Norm happy as a couple of eight-year-old boys.
Dad and R.R. Donnelley Colleagues – enjoying the fire engine
Norm was a generous soul. So generous, that he and another buddy managed to drop off a 12-foot replica of the Eiffel Tower in our backyard. They didn’t ask for permission, since the donation came about about 1:30 in the morning. The two had been out and about when they “found” the metal tower and were certain that it belonged in Dad’s backyard. This time, free flowing beer may have been involved.
Mom found the statute the next morning, when she came down at 6:00 AM to make the morning coffee. There the giant statute sat, in the middle of our yard, bold as could be. “Howard!” she called upstairs. “I think someone left a package for you.”
Dad couldn’t be more tickled. So much so, he kept the Eiffel Tower right where it was and went so far as to wrap it in colorful Christmas lights in December. It made a for a festive beacon in the winter season.
Eventually, Dad retired from Donnelley’s, and their carpooling days ended. He and Norm managed to continue their friendship outside of work, even going so far as to buy a boat together so they could enjoy the waters of Lake Michigan.
Several years later, Donnelley’s shut down its Chicago operations. Norm (and hundreds of others) were left without jobs. Norm was struck hard, since he had a family to support: a wife, son and two daughters. He took a bold step and changed careers. He went back to school and earned his realtor’s license, and foraged a successful path for himself.
I was one of the lucky ones to call Norm my realtor. When the time came for me to find a new home for myself and my six-year-old daughter, I called on Norm. It was an honor to have him escort me through different homes, as he was patient and took the time to determine my housing needs: good schools, close to transportation, parks, shopping.
There was a particular condo he showed me that still sticks out in my mind, 20 years later. My daughter and I met Norm at a residential building, where he brought the keys to the condo unit for sale. We entered the front door of the home and stepped from the foyer into the living room.
Across the length of one entire wall was a mural. This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill painting of a bucolic country scene. Instead, it was a full blown rendering of the owner, as she lay completely naked on a fur throw. I can definitely say the woman wasn’t the least bit modest. And the fur throw did nothing to shield certain images.
Out of the three of us standing in that steamy room, I wasn’t sure which one of us felt most uncomfortable. It was rather strange, standing there with my father’s handsome friend, along with my young daughter.
Norm was the first to blush. “Umm, let’s check out the kitchen area,” he suggested, as he walked away. “I’m outta here,” my daughter announced, and she followed Norm into the kitchen. I took one more glance at the womanly figure before me. The artist didn’t miss a thing. Not a single thing.
I turned and joined the others in the kitchen, where I found Norm and my daughter opening and closing cabinets, turning on and off the faucets and even discussing the finer details of upgrading to granite countertops.
It is now 20 years later. Unfortunately, my mother called with the sad news this week: Norm had passed away. I was struck dumb when I heard the news about a vibrant, hardworking and caring individual. It was as if a final chapter had closed. First my dad. Now Norm. Two friends together once more.
There are so many ways in which to describe this wonderful person. Handsome, funny, intelligent.
Practical joker. Boater. Proud Union member. Family man.
These are my stories of Norm. Friend to my dad. My family. And myself. My family will never forget him.
Thanks Norm. Rest in peace. And say hello to Dad for me.
PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST 