Browse Tag

history

Chicago’s Waterfall

IMG_5529

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

IMG_2479

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.