Santa's Village, Dundee, IL
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Twelve Days of Christmas Images, #5
When I moved into my first house, like most everyone else who buys a home, I knew none of the neighbors. A few days after moving in, I answered the doorbell to find a chap in a navy blue wool hat, perched square on his head, cat-burglar style, a navy blue jacket of the type favored by Western Electric employees, blue jeans and a cigarette. "Howyadoin', I'm Bill and I live two doors down so I'm yer new neighbor and I'm sellin' raffle tickets for the fire deparment fundraiser." I invited Bill in, we sat down at the kitchen table and had a beer, and that was the start of one of the best friendships I will ever know.
I learned, in short order, that Bill was a lithographer, he worked at one of the big print houses down by Printers' Row near Cabrini Green, he was a volunteer fireman and EMT, his brother-in-law and sister lived across the street, his dad was a retired lithographer, his wife's and son's names, who was who on the fire department, the names and bio's of everyone else on our block on Virginia Avenue and he needed to get going 'cause he had to get up early to catch the very early train for work and that he was an avid fisherman. Bill reminded me of a guy I knew as a kid, a guy to whom everyone referred as the mayor of the block. Within a short time, I had met all the neighbors, some friends from college bought a house acrosse the street (eventually my cousin bought a house there, too) and everyone, except for his wife, had begun to refer to Bill simply as "The Mayor".
Over the next twenty or so years, The Mayor and I (and more friends/neighbors) would share enough adventures to fill a book. We met and adopted each other's families, and celebrated birthdays, and Fourth of July's, and Halloweens. We shared stories. We took trips together, fishing, hunting, visiting some watering holes that bore more and more stories and adventures. Some of the travels were very near to home, some took us to parts of the state that I didn't know existed.
An example of what kind of guy the Mayor was: we took a fishing trip to a Wisconsin town that I'd been going to for a number of years but that was new to him. Another friend drove so, we were without wheels on Saturday evening. The Mayor, ever resourceful, invented river hitch-hiking. Showered and changed, went down to the shore and stuck out his thumb. Got a ride within a couple of minutes.
Late the next morning, we're walking down Main Street to get breakfast, and, one after another, strangers are calling out "Hey, Mayor" and "Yo, Bill, howyadoon'". He'd been in town barely twenty four hours and already had a constituency.
The Mayor and I shared countless hours just talking, too; sitting on stools in his garage--his "clubhouse", as the walls had begun to accumulate the souvenirs of adventures, new people, old friends. There were newspaper clippings, fishing lures, photos, a fireman's hat/genuine and a fireman's hat/toy, hats, caps, a baseball helmet, maps, menus...it was like the phony memorabilia that is on the walls of comfy contemporary bar and grill type restaurants, except this stuff was all real, and there was a story behind each piece. We discussed families, and parents, and work, and labor (Bill) vs. management (me), and fishing, and women, and kids and cars and about everything else that you can imagine. Bill could talk up a storm with anyone, anytime, on most any subject. He also had weird skills, e.g. he wasn't a golfer, per se, but if you set up a bet he'd beat you. Same thing with bowling. Didn't really go bowling, unless somebody had a money proposition, then he'd kill you. Amazing.
The photo here, rescued from the clubhouse wall, is Bill with his catch after we had taken a
salmon fishing charter on Lake Michigan. Watching Bill catch that fish was an amazing thing. The stereo was playing as we trolled a few miles offshore of downtown Chicago. The sun had barely risen over the lake horizon when Bill snatched the rod in response to the captain's cry of "fish on!" and the big salmon on the other end responded with jumps of defiance, clearing the water and leaping into the glare of the sun. What made it a complete storybook moment was that the stereo was churning out "Chariots of Fire" as Bill fought the fish, just like the whole thing had been choreographed for some tv fishing show.
We drank a lot back then. I didn't know it, but Bill drank a lot, period. One Christmas, at his family celebration, he drank enough to lose control, and the particular subject of Bill's bad behavior was his favorite nephew. When Mrs. Mayor informed Bill the next day of what he had done at the family Christmas the night before, and that she would no longer tolerate the life that this habitual behavior created, the voices inside the Mayor told him it was time. He went to his first AA meeting on December 26.
I knew very little about AA, and through The Mayor I learned a lot. I no longer lived on Virginia Avenue, though The Mayor did, so the intervals between our conversations were longer, but the intensity of the discussions was strong as ever. Bill's life changed, and we talked through it. My life changed, too, and Bill was there, and we talked through it.
Each year, on Christmas Eve, after we'd return home and the children were wherever they needed to be, I'd inevitably flip on the tv, and the pope's mass from St. Peter's would be coming on. That was my cue to pick up the phone and congratulate Bill on another year of sobriety. We'd get caught up, and I'd let him know that I was proud of what he'd done, and proud that we were still friends.
One summer vacation, when we returned home, near midnite that particular day, from a great family holiday week in Mexico, I punched the messages button on the answering maching and found a number of short, pointed, "call me" messages from friends. It was too late, after midnite--not to mention several days since the messages had arrived--to start call backs.
I knew, though.
I went into the garage, where friend and neighbor Pam had piled the newspapers that had arrived while we were away. I started tearing through them, one after another, while my wife watched, silent. When I got to Wednesdays paper, the sound just came out of me, involuntarily. Bill's obituary was in Wednesday's paper. We had been a world away when it happened, unreachable, and Bill had a heart attack and died, and he was gone, and the funeral was over, and it was too late to change any of it or say goodbye or do anything other than sit on the garage step and cry, which I did.
I don't pick up the phone anymore when the pope cranks it up at St. Peter's on Christmas eve, but every Christmas I find that I need to spend a moment with my friend Bill, and I miss him.
I learned, in short order, that Bill was a lithographer, he worked at one of the big print houses down by Printers' Row near Cabrini Green, he was a volunteer fireman and EMT, his brother-in-law and sister lived across the street, his dad was a retired lithographer, his wife's and son's names, who was who on the fire department, the names and bio's of everyone else on our block on Virginia Avenue and he needed to get going 'cause he had to get up early to catch the very early train for work and that he was an avid fisherman. Bill reminded me of a guy I knew as a kid, a guy to whom everyone referred as the mayor of the block. Within a short time, I had met all the neighbors, some friends from college bought a house acrosse the street (eventually my cousin bought a house there, too) and everyone, except for his wife, had begun to refer to Bill simply as "The Mayor".
Over the next twenty or so years, The Mayor and I (and more friends/neighbors) would share enough adventures to fill a book. We met and adopted each other's families, and celebrated birthdays, and Fourth of July's, and Halloweens. We shared stories. We took trips together, fishing, hunting, visiting some watering holes that bore more and more stories and adventures. Some of the travels were very near to home, some took us to parts of the state that I didn't know existed.
An example of what kind of guy the Mayor was: we took a fishing trip to a Wisconsin town that I'd been going to for a number of years but that was new to him. Another friend drove so, we were without wheels on Saturday evening. The Mayor, ever resourceful, invented river hitch-hiking. Showered and changed, went down to the shore and stuck out his thumb. Got a ride within a couple of minutes.
Late the next morning, we're walking down Main Street to get breakfast, and, one after another, strangers are calling out "Hey, Mayor" and "Yo, Bill, howyadoon'". He'd been in town barely twenty four hours and already had a constituency.
The Mayor and I shared countless hours just talking, too; sitting on stools in his garage--his "clubhouse", as the walls had begun to accumulate the souvenirs of adventures, new people, old friends. There were newspaper clippings, fishing lures, photos, a fireman's hat/genuine and a fireman's hat/toy, hats, caps, a baseball helmet, maps, menus...it was like the phony memorabilia that is on the walls of comfy contemporary bar and grill type restaurants, except this stuff was all real, and there was a story behind each piece. We discussed families, and parents, and work, and labor (Bill) vs. management (me), and fishing, and women, and kids and cars and about everything else that you can imagine. Bill could talk up a storm with anyone, anytime, on most any subject. He also had weird skills, e.g. he wasn't a golfer, per se, but if you set up a bet he'd beat you. Same thing with bowling. Didn't really go bowling, unless somebody had a money proposition, then he'd kill you. Amazing.
The photo here, rescued from the clubhouse wall, is Bill with his catch after we had taken a
salmon fishing charter on Lake Michigan. Watching Bill catch that fish was an amazing thing. The stereo was playing as we trolled a few miles offshore of downtown Chicago. The sun had barely risen over the lake horizon when Bill snatched the rod in response to the captain's cry of "fish on!" and the big salmon on the other end responded with jumps of defiance, clearing the water and leaping into the glare of the sun. What made it a complete storybook moment was that the stereo was churning out "Chariots of Fire" as Bill fought the fish, just like the whole thing had been choreographed for some tv fishing show.We drank a lot back then. I didn't know it, but Bill drank a lot, period. One Christmas, at his family celebration, he drank enough to lose control, and the particular subject of Bill's bad behavior was his favorite nephew. When Mrs. Mayor informed Bill the next day of what he had done at the family Christmas the night before, and that she would no longer tolerate the life that this habitual behavior created, the voices inside the Mayor told him it was time. He went to his first AA meeting on December 26.
I knew very little about AA, and through The Mayor I learned a lot. I no longer lived on Virginia Avenue, though The Mayor did, so the intervals between our conversations were longer, but the intensity of the discussions was strong as ever. Bill's life changed, and we talked through it. My life changed, too, and Bill was there, and we talked through it.
Each year, on Christmas Eve, after we'd return home and the children were wherever they needed to be, I'd inevitably flip on the tv, and the pope's mass from St. Peter's would be coming on. That was my cue to pick up the phone and congratulate Bill on another year of sobriety. We'd get caught up, and I'd let him know that I was proud of what he'd done, and proud that we were still friends.
One summer vacation, when we returned home, near midnite that particular day, from a great family holiday week in Mexico, I punched the messages button on the answering maching and found a number of short, pointed, "call me" messages from friends. It was too late, after midnite--not to mention several days since the messages had arrived--to start call backs.
I knew, though.
I went into the garage, where friend and neighbor Pam had piled the newspapers that had arrived while we were away. I started tearing through them, one after another, while my wife watched, silent. When I got to Wednesdays paper, the sound just came out of me, involuntarily. Bill's obituary was in Wednesday's paper. We had been a world away when it happened, unreachable, and Bill had a heart attack and died, and he was gone, and the funeral was over, and it was too late to change any of it or say goodbye or do anything other than sit on the garage step and cry, which I did.
I don't pick up the phone anymore when the pope cranks it up at St. Peter's on Christmas eve, but every Christmas I find that I need to spend a moment with my friend Bill, and I miss him.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Twelve Days of Christmas Images, #6
While I am a South Sider, I was born and spent the first ten and half years of my life in Chicago's Bucktown neighborhood. A good portion of those ten an
d a half years was spent on my knees in the breathtaking edifice pictured at the right, St. Hedwig Church, and getting scolded or clucked at or smacked by the nun in whose charge I had been placed at the time. Mass was a six day a week event, and I still don't know how they overlooked that we didn't show up on Saturdays.
While there were holy days and processesions and celebrations of various kinds throughout the year, Christmas was obviously the big day, and no part of the big day was grander than midnight mass.
We usually went to midnight mass, and it was a tactical operation in order to get the full impact. The Wigilia dinner and the gifts and partying had to be brought to a conclusion by about 10:30 so that we could make the two and a half block trek to church. We usually took the car, and it was critical to get there on time to get the good parking spot in the funeral home parking lot across the street from the church and then get the good seats. The cavernous church building was a challenge to heat, and when we'd arrive it was usually not much warmer than outside. There we'd sit, the minutes passing like hours, the pews steadily filling until eventually it was standing room only. The assembled crowd spoke only in whispers, probably in fear that some rogue nuns would swoop in and deliver a well timed smack should anyone speak too loudly.
Finally, at precisely 11:30 (as precise as it could be in the analog world in which we lived), someone in the choir loft would loudly clear his throat, bringing total and absolute silence to the congregation for a few seconds, anticipating the beginning of the choir's performance. The silence was split by the peal of a lone trumpeter, sounding the ten notes that comprised the triumphant beginning, one time, joined by a second trumpet on the repeat, a sound that gave young me such a rush, I can feel it all these years later. The announcement was followed by the organ's first chords, setting the tune for the choir's first song. There followed thirty minutes of mostly Polish language Christmas songs, the koledy, so reverent, ranging from the heart rending, ever so gently Lulaje Jezuniu (Lullaby to Jesus) to the sing-song Pójdźmy Wszyscy do Stajenki (Let Us All Go to the Stable), all songs that I could sing even though I had absolutely no idea what the words meant. There were special handouts for the congregation of song sheets, Polish lyrics on one side, English language on the other. The congregation would sing, like you can't imagine white folks singing, a great thing as I think of it now, annoying to me then because I wanted to listen to the choir and not a bunch of amateurs. Some of the songs used the trumpets and violinists to accompany the choir and the organ. It was always my favorite when Miss Annette, the organist, would sing solo sections, as she had a clear, rich, beautiful and strong voice that to my young ears was as near as I would ever be to hearing the sound of an angel.
At midnight, the choir would sing something to begin the mass, and the best part (for me) of the evening was done.
I've been to many midnight mass celebration since--not many in recent years-
-but none ever has matched the magic of those nights from many years ago, with everyone so reverent, so happy, so in the moment of Christmas.
d a half years was spent on my knees in the breathtaking edifice pictured at the right, St. Hedwig Church, and getting scolded or clucked at or smacked by the nun in whose charge I had been placed at the time. Mass was a six day a week event, and I still don't know how they overlooked that we didn't show up on Saturdays.While there were holy days and processesions and celebrations of various kinds throughout the year, Christmas was obviously the big day, and no part of the big day was grander than midnight mass.
We usually went to midnight mass, and it was a tactical operation in order to get the full impact. The Wigilia dinner and the gifts and partying had to be brought to a conclusion by about 10:30 so that we could make the two and a half block trek to church. We usually took the car, and it was critical to get there on time to get the good parking spot in the funeral home parking lot across the street from the church and then get the good seats. The cavernous church building was a challenge to heat, and when we'd arrive it was usually not much warmer than outside. There we'd sit, the minutes passing like hours, the pews steadily filling until eventually it was standing room only. The assembled crowd spoke only in whispers, probably in fear that some rogue nuns would swoop in and deliver a well timed smack should anyone speak too loudly.
Finally, at precisely 11:30 (as precise as it could be in the analog world in which we lived), someone in the choir loft would loudly clear his throat, bringing total and absolute silence to the congregation for a few seconds, anticipating the beginning of the choir's performance. The silence was split by the peal of a lone trumpeter, sounding the ten notes that comprised the triumphant beginning, one time, joined by a second trumpet on the repeat, a sound that gave young me such a rush, I can feel it all these years later. The announcement was followed by the organ's first chords, setting the tune for the choir's first song. There followed thirty minutes of mostly Polish language Christmas songs, the koledy, so reverent, ranging from the heart rending, ever so gently Lulaje Jezuniu (Lullaby to Jesus) to the sing-song Pójdźmy Wszyscy do Stajenki (Let Us All Go to the Stable), all songs that I could sing even though I had absolutely no idea what the words meant. There were special handouts for the congregation of song sheets, Polish lyrics on one side, English language on the other. The congregation would sing, like you can't imagine white folks singing, a great thing as I think of it now, annoying to me then because I wanted to listen to the choir and not a bunch of amateurs. Some of the songs used the trumpets and violinists to accompany the choir and the organ. It was always my favorite when Miss Annette, the organist, would sing solo sections, as she had a clear, rich, beautiful and strong voice that to my young ears was as near as I would ever be to hearing the sound of an angel.
At midnight, the choir would sing something to begin the mass, and the best part (for me) of the evening was done.
I've been to many midnight mass celebration since--not many in recent years-
-but none ever has matched the magic of those nights from many years ago, with everyone so reverent, so happy, so in the moment of Christmas.
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