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Chicago

Shoes, Checkers and Gumdrops

I have many fond memories of childhood in 1950’s Chicago and a few of the more vivid ones revolve around a strange collection of politically and socially incorrect neighborhood men who would gather in my Uncle’s garage. I didn’t know their real names as they all had nicknames given to each other years before, since they must have known each other for a long time.

They were a motley crew who would gather together in the afternoon and I would see them on Saturday when I visited my cousin, who lived within biking distance. They may have gathered on other days, but it is only then that I saw them. They were Gramp’s friends.

When my cousin and I would finish our day of biking and playing, we returned to his house for something to eat and would head to the garage to see what the old men were up to. My aunt would not step foot in the garage and sometimes brought our sandwiches to the door and we would go get them.

Gramps, my cousin’s grandfather, lived with my Uncle’s family and had pinups of Betty Page and other women lining the garage walls, the most famous, of course, being Marilyn Monroe. It was the first time I ever saw women without all their clothes on. Being eleven years old, I wondered what the attraction was and by the following year, I found out.

More interesting to me than a collection of semi-nude women were the male sexagenarians assembled around a table playing pinochle or some other card game, and sometime during the afternoon, checkers.

There was “Gumdrops,” a lanky man with bad teeth always eating from a box of Mason’s Dots or Jujifruits and was prolific in stories about women. “Women are like Jell-o,” he would say, “it’s fun to watch them wiggle.” Another idiom I didn’t understand at the time.

There was “Checkers,” an average looking guy except for unruly hair and a a few missing teeth in front which would affect his speech as his tongue raspberried through the openings like Daffy Duck. Yes, he liked to play checkers and sometimes brought his box and board over with him.

Then there was “Shoes,” who received his nickname deservedly. Shoes was retired from the sanitation department. In those days, workers were simply known as garbagemen. He would always save the discarded shoes that fit him which were tossed out by others. Sometimes he would have the soles or heels replaced and then had, virtually, a new pair of shoes at little cost. He was known for never having to buy a pair of shoes since the day he started work. Shoes, having ulcers, would drink a half pint of cream (which he usually got from my uncle) before doing shots with the others.

Finally there was “Gramps,” the only guy there with grandkids (although all of them were divorced as I recall). Gramps was my Uncle’s father and regardless of whether we kids were around, could not complete a sentence without adding a few curse words for emphasis.

It was these men, on a Saturday afternoon, who let us sit and watch and listen, and learn. We learned about women, we learned new words and we learned a bit about life. Certainly not the best role models, but they were real, they were honest and straightforward and they answered questions we kids would be afraid to ask anyone else.

In a way, they inspired me and, to their credit, I still remember them fondly.

The Dork Side

Back then, they weren’t geeks or nerds, they were known as dorks, and I was one of them. I became a dork at age eight when my parents moved the family to a new part of the city from a two bedroom apartment at Fransisco and Diversey to our new home near Austin and Belmont on Chicago’s northwest side. It was a new neighborhood, new kids and, most traumatic of all, a new school. “You’ll make new friends.” my parents said. But what they didn’t know is that I would make new tormentors: the school bullies. So I prepared for my first day, of a mid-3rd grade transfer, at St. Ferdinand Catholic School.

On a bright and sunny morning I stood in front of thirty boys and girls my age in a white shirt, blue clip-on tie and neatly pressed ribbed brown corduroy pants, the kind that make funny noises between your legs when you walk, as Sister Mary Humiliation announced to the class who I was by mispronouncing my last name. I was doomed, and would suffer from that error my entire grade school experience.

If you ever transferred to a new school, you get the idea what my problems were. Kids can be mean. I was an outcast and, in order to survive the daily harassment and push and shove dares from the school bullies, I learned how to use humor. If I could make them laugh, perhaps they wouldn’t beat me up so often.

I became, basically, the class humorist or clown. Always a joke or funny story outdoors and responsive funny faces and gestures in the classroom. I made few friends in that school and the few close friends I had lived on my block and attended a nearby public school.

Eventually, by eighth grade, I had gained recognition as a story teller and funny guy and was told by several of my departing classmates at graduation that I would be missed while giving me a final punch in the arm approval. The ordeal was over. I was graduating. I was relieved. I had survived.

The experience did lead me down a path of writing. By sixth grade I was writing short stories and poems based on my experiences. I wrote fictional accounts where I dealt with the frustrations and anger I could not express any other way. It was a great outlet for my feelings and still is. I don’t remember all the stories, or what ever happened to them, but realize they were amateurish and perhaps better they did not survive, but they were a start.

Although I had been selected by lottery as one of the lucky ones to attend the new and prestigious St Patrick’s High School, I turned it down an went to Steinmetz. I did not want to deal with what I considered sadistic teachers (Brothers they were called) who could slap and punish you, in an all-boy environment of repressed individuals and former class bullies. How I accomplished this without my parents finding out was a bit of maneuvering and dodging.

High school was on the horizon and I wondered what would be in store. Would I run into new bullies to deal with for four more years; would I hopefully meet new friends, and would there be intimidating and condescending teachers? I would soon find out. But I knew, whatever lied ahead, I would be prepared with an arsenal of jokes, humorous anecdotes and a good pair of running shoes.

For Three Cents, Chocolate

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Back in the 1950’s when I attended parochial school we had a morning milk break. Every day, around eight am, the guy from Twin Oaks Dairy delivered a cargo of half-pint bottles of milk to the school. And, every day, those little bottles of milk rested in their cases until around ten am, before the nun would allow us to drink them. This was not a good idea in the winter when the cases stood alongside the radiator near the back of the room.

It never was a good idea for those kids who stayed at school for lunch because they had to wait until noon before they could drink the milk and it was always warm no matter what month it was, although during the winter you could claim hot chocolate as a benefit.

The cost was two cents for plain white milk and three cents for chocolate per day. Money was collected every Friday and if you forgot the money, you went without the next week. No one would spot you the cash, ten or fifteen cents, so you went thirsty.

The bottles had a foil type lid and I would puncture the top with a sharp pencil to make a small opening and then use the pencil to make a small hole in the straw, keeping it above the milk line, thus mixing the milk with air so it would last longer as I sipped it. Unfortunately, this action would shortly produce a follow-up series of burps which amuse my fellow classmates and netted me an occasional rap on the knuckles by Sister Mary Yardstick.

Since I lived a short distance, I went home for lunch every day and mom would have a sandwich ready according to her menu of the week which consisted basically of either baloney and cheese or peanut butter and jelly on Wonder bread. Except for Friday when it was grilled cheese. In the winter months the sandwich was accompanied by a bowl of Campbell’s Chicken noodle or chicken rice soup. And there was always the tall glass of chocolate milk made with Bosco syrup. By eighth grade I was a choco-junkie.

We got an hour for lunch so I ran home, which took less than five minutes, so I could hurriedly eat and then go into the living room to watch the lunchtime frolics on TV. Mom would not allow eating in front of the set worried about crumbs on the carpet or, perhaps, that I might laugh at the cartoon and choke. There may have been a stronger chance of that happening as I wolfed down my pre-show food.

There were four channels available in those days and three of them had lunchtime kids shows. I would watch Lunchtime Little Theater, Two Ton Baker the Music Maker or Uncle Johnny Coons. So, after a morning of science, religion and arithmetic, I spent the noon hour watching Uncle Bucky, Uncle Ned (Ned Locke of Bozo’s Circus fame) and Aunt Dodie (later replaced by Aunt Jeannie) in their striped outfits and straw hats as they sung ditties on the piano and showed dancing bug cartoons.

Uncle Johnny Coons also would eat a sandwich with us kids, tell us not to sit to close to the TV and, dressed in his pith helmet and explorer garb, relate stories and, ultimately, show outdated film shorts and, occasionally, a dancing bug cartoon.

Two Ton Baker, a large man dressed in pirate clothes, sat at the piano playing ditties about life such as “I Like Stinky Cheese,” “Poor Little Petunia,” Fuzzy Wuzzie was a Bear,” and other educational songs. He was supported by a talking parrot and Bubbles, the porpoise and he had a side-kick pirate pal who brought out Two Ton’s lunch for him and ,while he ate, we watched more dancing bug cartoons.

Since I could only watch one show at a time, there was no remote control back then, I sat close to the TV so I could manually switch channels when the bug cartoons came on (which I had seen numerous times before) catching portions of each show’s live action performances.

When the show was just about over, I kissed my mom goodbye and raced back to school to continue the day’s studies in history, more religion and geography. This was a bit difficult at times to concentrate as images of a 300 pound pirate, dancing bugs or corny vaudevillian type acts were still fresh in my mind and conflicted with learning about the origins of the universe (which, of course, was created).

I dont know if any kids still come home for lunch any more and watch TV. With all the channels now open and with the computer and internet, things are certainly different. Some days, when I make myself lunch and sit down at the TV set, all I get are commercials and swear I finish eating before any show comes back on.

I miss the fat pirate and the folks in strange garb, playing a honky-tonk piano and showing dancing bug cartoons. I do, however, still eat baloney and cheese sandwiches but with a beer instead of chocolate milk, which is no longer available for three cents.

The Milkman Cometh

When I was 13 years old, in 1958, I worked the summer with my Uncle George on his home delivery truck for Bowman Dairy. This was back in the days when you could have home delivery for many things, until safety became a real issue.

Uncle George would pick me up around 5 in the morning and we would ride over to the dairy distribution point where he would load the crates of milk while I chopped ice to place on top of the bottles.

Milk (including chocolate), cream and orange juice were checked off my uncle’s list as he placed them in the truck, followed by me chipping the ice off larger blocks to fit in the crates. We also placed a few larger blocks of ice on the side ledge in the truck to chip off more as the smaller chips melted. The interior of the truck was insulated and it was cool inside while we drove around in the summer heat. This was before air-conditioning was perfected and available for cars and trucks.

By 6am we were on the street and deliveries began. I dont remember in what neighborhoods we delivered because most of the stops were in the alleyways up the rear porches of the apartment buildings. We would get the person’s order off a list my uncle had, load a wire basket and haul the order up the stairs. I placed the items either to the side of the door or between the screen door area. Sometimes there would be a note requesting an extra quart of something for next time. I would ring the bell or knock on the door and then scamper down the stairs.

Deliveries were made 3 times a week so folks usually ordered quarts of milk unless they had a lot of kids, then it was half gallon bottles. If Uncle George saw someone sitting on the porch or out in the yard while he was delivering, he would go over and talk to them about the benefits of home delivery, explaining it was only a few cents more for the convenience. This was before all the Quickie and gas station marts.

There were a few local neighborhood mom and pop stores that were on the list and we would deliver six or eight ½ gallons, and ½ pints of chocolate milk. We usually got our donuts while in the store. George had a thermos of coffee and he let me have a ½ pint of chocolate milk.

The following year, my cousin, who was a year younger than I, replaced me on his father’s route. It was only fair, but I missed the early morning rise and grown up feeling I experienced riding with my uncle and the talks we shared during my summer vacation in his ice-cooled truck.

I wanted to help Uncle George increase his business, so I came up with the idea of colored milk. After all, cows eat grass so why not green milk? Chocolate milk was brown so why not red or yellow too? So one afternoon I got some food dye and created green milk. I thought it was cool until I showed it to mom.

She became a bit upset and when my dad came home he informed me I would be drinking the entire half gallon before anything else. When my uncle heard of it, he laughed and stated that maybe they should make colored banana or strawberry milk. He should have acted on that thought! A few years later, uncle George switched jobs and began delivering ice cream. I liked the idea of him stopping by the house weekly and dropping off ice cream bars.

One evening, Uncle George revealed why he chose milk and ice cream delivery. He had been taking courses in refrigeration maintenance and repair and now, after several years, he was going into business for himself servicing the equipment he had become familiar with.

I admired my uncle George and had the opportunity to tell him so before he died. He was a people person. A bit rough on the edges but always with a joke or story to tell. He treated people, including us kids, with respect and never talked down to us. I told him that riding in the truck with him that one summer and getting to know him better, was one of the best experience I had as a kid.

Although Uncle George always worked in the cold, it was his personal warmth that brought him success and made him my favorite uncle.

Chicago’s Waterfall

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When I was a little tyke, my mom would take me on the bus, during a hot summer’s day, up Diversey avenue to Pulaski Road to spend an hour or two at the Olson Rug Company Waterfall.

So indelible on my mind, the waterfall, built by company workers during the Great Depression, drew me later on as a twelve year old, to bike my way to a place where my fantasies could wander as I daydreamed about pirates and Indians (the falls had totem poles and full sized carved statues of Native Americans in full dress); coves and caves greeting me as I wound my way along paths of Birch wood railings and bridges.

Along with the rock gardens fenced with stones retrieved from the Chicago Fire, the Olson Waterfall held an attraction for me that has never been duplicated. It was my quite place, a refuge from the confusing years of pre-teen and early teen angst. It was a beautiful spot to reflect which I often visited, and I wasn’t alone.

I would ride up the sidewalk, lock my bike in the rack provided and walk down along side the factory passing a popcorn machine, whirligig man, pop and ice cream wagons and an array of sidewalk tables and chairs until I came to the main attraction: the waterfall.

It was a day in the park. Employees from surrounding factories and businesses sat on the edge of the grass eating their lunch; kids, like me, running and walking along the paths, up and over the falls while shouts of “popcorn” and the cries of babies carried in the breeze, mixing with the quiet, soothing sound of water rushing over the rocks and into the pools and coves below.

Many times I climbed to the top of the falls, stood on the birch wood bridge and peered over into the pools below, catching the glitter of pennies, a few nickels and dimes, and wondered if I could grab a handful without being caught. I never attempted the deed realizing these coins represented the wishes of others. I tossed a penny or two although have forgotten what was wished for, or whether the wish was granted, but it doesn’t matter because, as a kid, it was the dream, the hope that was instilled in your heart when the coin was tossed.

Occasionally I would wander over to the side of the falls and peer into the little hidden cove in the rocks, where deep-blue painted cement at the bottom gave the water an idyllic tropical color. I thought about rolling up my pants and wading inside to find a secret passage to hidden pirate treasure but again, never fulfilled my whim, afraid of being discovered and barred forever from my Land of Imagination.

Even in the winter, especially during the Christmas holiday season, The Falls and expansive front yard were transformed into a wonderland for kids as Olson would decorate the entire area with lights and displays. Although the water was turned off, at night the place was aglow with colored lights and a Santa who flew back and forth across the falls in his sled and reindeer. It was a mystical wonderland of lights, huge candy canes, snowmen and decorated trees providing its contribution to the Spirit of Christmas.

Sadly, the Olson waterfall is long gone, replaced by a parking lot and any evidence of what once was has been bulldozed and buried under a carpet of asphalt. Every so often I remember those times as a child when my imagination grew, my dreams were nourished and my confusion as an adolescent were temporarily given a rest as I listened to the water gently swirling in the pools of blue in a little oasis of plain old escapism alongside a factory on Chicago’s northwest side.

Silver Threads

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I was born in June, 1945, a few months after Harry Truman became president and just before the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. Yep, I came into this world at the tail end of World War Two and the dawn of the Nuclear Age. A house cost $10,000; a good car, $1,200 and gas was 16 cents a gallon. Annual income was a whopping $2,500.

Getting old encompasses the knowledge that the things you remember are obsolete, demolished or in a museum. Memories of childhood appear on historical documentaries and the comic books and toys you bought for a dime are now worth hundreds of dollars at auction. And, young ladies call you sir.

Candy bars were a nickel, soda pop was a dime and a quarter a week allowance purchased penny candies at the variety store – always located near the school. You could purchase two malted milk balls, a licorice whip, little colored sugar dots on paper or two Mary Janes (peanut butter candy; not whacky tobacky) for only a penny.

Television was black and white and, before my family purchased one in 1950, I remember my dad taking me down the street to the appliance store where he would watch wrestling, along with other neighbors, on the TV displayed in the window. Some folks even brought chairs! Keep in mind there were only about 7000 sets in the U.S. In 1945 and, by 1950, were becoming an entertainment necessity.

When we got our own TV in the early 1950’s, I watched Ding-Dong School with Miss Francis who taught me how to finger paint. I still remember the old test pattern that had a Native American at the center with a Maltese style cross extending to the end of the screen. This pattern preceded the daily broadcast which usually began around 4pm with Howdy Doody. At night, we would gather and watch Mr Peepers, Our Miss Brooks, I Love Lucy and Jackie Gleason over a big heavily salted and buttered bowl of popcorn, made on the stove, not in a microwave (which would not be invented for decades).

There were individual stores along Diversey Parkway: grocery, meat, bakery, fish, a tavern and Zappa’s variety store on the corner (more on these later). When you purchased items at the grocery store, they were pulled along the counter by a manually operated wooden rack rather than conveyor belt. There were no bar codes and the Drug Store had a soda fountain.

Weapons in school meant pea-shooters, rubber bands and paper clips, and discipline at home was more severe than a trip to the principal’s office. I went to a Catholic school and the nuns could whack you with a ruler or their bare hands if you got out of line. Students wore uniforms and “under God” was not yet added to the Pledge of Allegiance.

Milk was delivered to your home in glass bottles, which, when emptied, mom washed out and placed on the back porch. Knives were sharpened by a guy who walked down the alley with a pushcart ringing a bell; there was the Rag Man, who would shout out, “rags-old iron” as an aged horse pulled the wagon over the cindered alleyway. Alleys were not paved until much later. There were door-to-door vendors such as the Fuller Brush Man, The Watkins extract salesmen, Electrolux vacuum cleaners, the neighborhood Avon lady, Encyclopedia Britannica, and doctors made house calls.

My mom would wash clothes in a wringer washer located in the basement, the kind that had the two wooden rollers attached to the top rear of the machine. After washing you would pull the clothes through the wringers to get rid of the excess water, then she would hang everything outside along the rear porch of the apartment building for the entire neighborhood to view my underwear, unfurling in the breeze like small white flags.

Speaking of flags, every Fourth of July my dad would buy fireworks – skyrockets, spinners and major explosive devices from the vendor who set up shop in the vacant lot near our building. We all gathered there later in the evening as he would set off the remainder of his display for the neighborhood kids.

Being 70 years old, there are a lot of memories and some of the more precious are those of childhood when things were a bit different. But not that different for there were still fears and crime and injustice and things that plague us today. The biggest difference is that we had no instantaneous communication, no internet, no cell phones. Basically, we were kinda uninformed. We didnt know all that was going on except what was read in the newspapers, heard on the radio or, later, seen on TV.

Growing up in the 1950’s, for me, was a time of blissful ignorance and occasional discoveries and incidents which would eventually play a role in my becoming an adult. I never had the opportunity to share many of these stories with my son. I hope to now share them with you. Peace.