Chicago Style

 

Chicago Style

 

The “Loop,” The “L,” “The Lake,” “The Front Room, “The Taste,” “LSD,” “Gangway.” “Grachki,”

Chicago has its own lexicon.

 

The “Loop” refers to the downtown business area encircled high above by electrified rapid transit tracks carrying about 800,000 riders daily in passenger cars linked together to form a train commonly referred to as the “L.”  The “L” was originally short for elevated but now this is the official name for these transit cars no matter if the tracks are elevated, at street level or below ground (subway.)

The “Taste” means The Taste of Chicago

LSD is Lake Shore Drive

Lake Michigan

Gangway is the area between two apartment buildings.

“Grachki” is my favorite. “Where did I put my garage key?”

A friend who grew up in Chicago joined a real estate company in California and when she was working on a listing, she noted it had a front room. The owner asked what the name implied. She said, “FR,” that’s front room.  “Not in LA,” he said with a laugh. That is a family room.  When in Rome….

 

“Front Room” is what some folks call a living room.

 

I came to know these words and others, and the norms of everyday life in Chi-town. I was      born there and grew up Chicago Style in the 50’s. Chicago has its own urbanity including        iconic foods, Hot Dog, Pizza Italian Beef Sandwich etc. but it is the people I remember most.

 

These were members of the Greatest Generation, their children (baby boomers, as I was) and their parents, elderly men and woman who lost life savings when banks closed and struggled during the Great Depression to feed their families when there was no work. The adults had learned invaluable lessons and gained wisdom they were all too willing to share.  All I had to do was listen. “If you do something, do it right the first time,” my dad would say. “If you have two tasks at hand, and one is more difficult than the other, do the hard one first. That way, you will have energy sufficient to do the easy one.” (Uncle Ed) My favorite was, “Without money, you are a bum.” Crude? Brutish? Uncaring? Rude? Sure, but to the point. Think about it – not having any money.  My Father did not mince words.

 

Faith, Country, Moral Values, Family Values, Honesty, Courtesy, I learned these at the kitchen table where I did my homework and my parents impressed upon me the value of a good education. I attended a parochial elementary school and later a no-nonsense Roman Catholic high school where members of the Congregation of the Resurrection taught classes. Many students thought these robed clerics were retired Marne Corps Drill instructors. Here I learned that rules were to be followed and there were consequences if I failed to toe the line. Discipline was stringent and Draconian in some respects, but I learned that life was not going to coddle me.

 

A teacher (whom I really liked) gave me some incorrect information which cost me two hours of after-school attention. When I told him about it, what do you think he did? Did he accompany me to the Office and present himself on my behalf taking responsibility for the oversight and plead for my “sentence” to be commuted? Are you kidding? All he said was, “You are a victim of circumstance.” That was more than 55 years ago and I still member his reply. Was I angry? No. Sure I was unhappy because I thought “I just got screwed” but I also realized he had taught me a lesson: You may be right, but that does not mean everything is going to go in your favor.

I always believed Fr. Istock had ice water in his veins. He taught high school Trigonometry and I always found math to be a struggle. He would often say: “Do not worry gentlemen. If you do not study and learn, it is not a problem, really. The world will always need men to spend their lives digging ditches.” How is that for encouragement? He also took all the seniors who were attending the school Prom down to the cafeteria a few days earlier to instruct them on proper conduct. He even brought out a tray of dishes to teach us appropriate table manners. “Oh,” he would add, “…when you pick up your Prom date, make a big deal about how beautiful she looks because her father just spent a lot of money on the dress, “bee Hive” and make-up..…and when you stop the car to let her out, go around the front of the car so she sees you. If you go around the back, you might scare the hell of out her.” We all laughed but it was practical advice, especially about your date.

Many years later, I learned my Podiatrist graduated from the same high school a couple of years behind me. He too had difficulty in Fr. Istok’s “Trig” class, but he had an “edge.” Fr. Istock was his uncle, and his mother would offer to make dinner for her brother if he came over and tutored his nephew.

(Some people have all the luck)

So, you came to school without a necktie? Running late? The alarm clock did not go off. Forgot? Too bad, two hours detention. Ah, but go to the Guidance Counselor and ask Mr. Kilmeck if you could fill his water pitcher, and you just spoke the magic words. When you returned with the pitcher of water full to the brim with the finest Chicago’s filtration system could provide from “The Lake,” a world of neckties appeared on Mr. Klimeck’s closet door. These were cravats from the 40’s, and decorated with hula girls, mountains, lakes, and other scenery. The choice was yours to be returned the following morning. The stigma of this oversight was also yours for the day. Fellow classmates would snicker as you walked down the halls wearing a Klimeck tie as wide as a man’s hand at a time when contemporary neckties were skinny. Oh, the shame.

 

Mr. Klimeck was well respected, especially for his military service. He was a WW II Vet - paraplegic and handicapped accessible had not become commonplace. Four students happily carried him up in his wheelchair over about a dozen front stairs before classes began and back down at day’s end. I thought of it as an honor.

 

At home, Mom taught me basic cooking skills, proper hygiene, how to sew on a button and help around the house and at the Church. I mixed concrete at age 12 for fence pole footings, learned how to side a porch and paint a garage by helping other neighbors. If there was a big project, several neighborhood men would get together. When you got to help, it made you feel you were stepping in the right direction. You were cementing more than a fence post, nailing up siding or putting a brush to a garage wall. This was a step into adulthood. My Material Grandmother would send packages to distant relatives in Poland to ease the burden of life under the Communist government and at times money as well. After she died, I helped my mother do the same and eventually I took this up on my own. I send money.

 

We recycled years before anyone heard the name. The “Rags Man” made regular trips down the alleys collecting metal and newspapers piled onto his horse-drawn wagon. We made frequent contributions. Glass jars were always re-used, sometimes to bring water to the horse; bottles returned for deposit and coffee grounds made their way into the garden – and we always had one. What could be better than fresh vegetables?

The summer breeze often carried the mechanical tones of the Good Humor man’s bicycle bells or the “Sweet Cherries, Sa-wheet corn” chants of the local peddlers of farm stand produce. There were ma and pa businesses and I saw first-hand what it was like to be an entrepreneur – although I did not know the word back then.

 

The summer breeze, however, was also not sufficient to ease the toil of trash collectors working in 90 + degree heat. (My grandmother brought them glasses of cold water. Watching these men work in sweltering heat or freezing cold or peering through the cavernous door of a nearby Pettibon Mulliken foundry on Division Street and seeing men toiling in near darkness (to make hot metals readily apparent I presumed) emphasized the benefits of education in big way. “It was hard work,” my maternal grandfather would say in Polish. He was a foundry worker for 35 years.

While I learned from I parents, teachers, and other adults, I learned from my peers as well.

There was no internet. Television was in its infancy. A computer needed its own room. Young boys typically spent a lot of time out of doors. We entertained ourselves with Kick the can, Fast Pitching, Flash-Light Wars, Hide and Seek, Sky Blue, Basketball, Tag Football, and ice skating in winter. Softball took up much of my summer. Engaging in these activities taught me how to make friends – sometimes for a lifetime. Friendships helped me build my self-esteem. When I had good friends, I felt like I belonged. I cared about them, and they cared about me.

Friendships helped me develop important life skills like having a good relationship with other people and sorting out conflicts and problems. These were skills that made me less likely to have social and emotional difficulties later in life.

For group activities where team members had to be chosen, someone often flipped a coin. If it was a baseball game, one team captain might toss a bat upside down to the other team captain who would grab it. Then the captain who threw it would grab the bat just above the opposing captain’s grip, and so on until there was only one place to grab the bat. Either you agreed beforehand that the last hand was the winner, or the opposition had one chance to kick the bat from your hand and earn the right to make the first selection.

Living in a close-knit working-class community on the West side, it did not take long before I knew the other neighborhood kids – and the degree of their athleticism became apparent. This was an important consideration when choosing sides. Do I just select my friends or weigh the decision solely on the candidate’s potential? Some boys were   good in the infield, but poor at bat. Some like my cousin John were big and consequently slow to run the bases, but if he put the ball out of the park, it did not matter how long it took him to get to home plate. At times, however, you had to decide if winning was everything and all important. You might find a kid desperate to play who seldom made a hit and fielded poorly, He always got to play, nonetheless, at least on my team. He was not the first pick, but he got a spot in the line-up. Kudos to the captains who selected him first- and taught everyone else a lesson in compassion.

“16-inch” is what we played.

This was uniquely Chicago’s brand of slow-pitch softball that caught on during the Great Depression for two very practical reasons: a bigger, softer ball did not travel as far as the standard 12-incher, so it could not be hit out of tiny urban parks like the one in my neighborhood. It could be caught barehanded, by fielders who could not afford gloves. There was just one problem. The ball, usually a “Clincher,” was anything but soft right out of the box. It was rock-hard. We hated it and did our best to beat it into submission so-to-speak. If some “moose” connected with a line drive to Third Base and you caught a new ball the wrong way, the penalty could be substantial. Each summer, Chicago emergency rooms saw an influx of walk-in patients with jammed or broken fingers, some wearing their softball jerseys. Gnarled fingers and knuckles recall longballs and losses in sandlot games long past. I know, mine do.

The word Clincher refers not only to the 120,000 hard-as-rock softballs manufactured annually by the deBeer Co. of Albany, N.Y. since the 1930s, but also to a writer’s closing sentence that effectively sums up his message. A powerful Clincher is essential to all types of writing.

Reflecting on my formative “Wonder Years,” when Continental Baking was helping me build my (strong) body twelve ways hopefully caused you to think about your early days, your style of growing up - with luck pleasantly and without broken fingers.

Did I hit one out of the park, or was that Strike Three?

 

God Bless.