Recently, I was thinking about my first trip to Chicago. Actually I think it was my 2nd trip as I have a vague memory of visiting my Aunt Sis and Uncle Joe when I was a wee tot - I'm not sure. Seems they lived in or near the city in a small apartment. I'm sure they will chime in to verify.
Anyway, my first trip that I truly remember was when I was 12. I rode the train with my grandmother from Chattanooga all the way to Chicago Heights, where Sis and Joe picked us up. They lived just southeast of Chicago proper - around Gary if memory serves. I was excited about my first (and only) cross-country train trip, but I don't remember much about it other than a lot of countryside.
Sis and Joe had a nice ranch house in a nice ranch-house kind of neighborhood. They had a neighbor who's daughter was a Playboy bunny - Chicago being the home of the Playboy club, that seemed quite a big deal. I have a couple of vivid memories of this trip - one is that my cousin Jackie had a "Creepy Crawler" machine. Now, if you've ever heard Jeff Foxworthy's take on the toys he had as a kid, such as the wood-burning kit and lawn darts, the Creepy Crawler machine should be right up there on the list of "what the hell were they thinking". This was a metal mold that you squirted goo into, plugged it in and waited while it cooked the goo at about 1000 degrees into rubbery squiggley bugs and worms. It was fun! And there is no way you could get away with giving a child one of those today without being charged with child abuse. They've just taken all the fun out of being a kid.
The other memory is of the day that my aunt and grandmother wanted a day to themselves, so they dropped me off at school with Jackie. The school evidently didn't take to kindly to being asked to enlighten me with the wonders of a big-city education. They called Sis to come and fetch me. It was the first time I ever heard the word "asinine" used in a sentence.
Of all those fun memories of my first real adventure in the big world, there is one that really didn't take hold for several years. My 12-year-old mind didn't grasp the gravity of the situation, or that I was smack in the middle of a historical event that would become part of our American history. A trip to the Chicago area would just not be complete without a visit to the city itself. And we planned to drive into town one day, but for some reason, it was deemed unsafe to do so. You see, this was the summer of 1968, the summer of hate which followed the summer of love (1967). This was the year of assassinations and riots, of the Chicago 7, Black Panthers, and the Democratic Convention in Chicago. And I was there - well almost.
I find it somehow fitting that I now live in a city that those many years ago fostered fear and hate among Americans; this city that I now find so warm and safe and peaceful. Gary, Indiana is now not a place I would feel particularly comfortable, but that's the sort of change comes from urban sprawl. It's hard to imagine riots in the streets of Chicago now, but it's not out of the question. We never know when we'll find ourselves in the midst of a "summer of hate", which is why we should always find ourselves in the midst of a "life of love".
I'm sure I never thanked Sis and Joe for allowing me to invade their home for those few days, so thanks, Aunt Sis and Uncle Joe, and cousin Jackie! By the way, you wouldn't have that Creepy Crawler thing tucked away in the attic somewhere, would you? My grandkids and I could have a blast with that!
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
big O
It's a rare night in Chicago. Very cold, which is not rare for January, but very clear, which does seem to be rare. I've not seen as clear a night in a long time. I'm accustomed to clear nights in Alabama, when it's not hazy in summertime, or rainy in wintertime. I miss those nights when you can walk outside and look up to see millions upon millions of stars. The kind of night that makes you ponder the vastness of the universe, the improbability that there wouldn't be other planets out there full of life and love and wonderment. Nights where you just know the human tendency to think this is the only orb floating around with inhabitants must be the most insanely selfish, narcissistic notion possible.
Just as insane, however, may be my belief that I have a protector in the night sky. I've believed in him for years, and my belief gives me comfort. It's a childish thought, and I know that. To me, though, it's no different than believing in a gray-haired old man in the clouds who loves humankind, but only those who swear allegiance to him. An all-powerful being that hates and punishes those who prefer to hold to a different theology. But, enough of spirituality and my personal thoughts.
My protector is as old as civilization and known to peoples throughout the ages and around the world. But he's mine, and he's special to me. So, to walk out on my balcony on this cold, clear night, in a city where stars are not visible, and look up to see Orion smiling down on me was an unexpected blessing. I looked, and there were no other stars to be seen. Only the broad shoulders, the belt, the legs I know so well. I've missed being able to see him low on the horizon, coming out to check on me. I've missed greeting him with a "hey there, big O" and smiling, thinking in my fully aware but naive way that he was smiling back.
I can't say why he appeared tonight, and why I've never seen him here before, but I'm happy that he's there, even when I can't see him. It's a matter of trust - much like any religion and it's God; I know he's there even when it's cloudy, or the city lights block him out. I know he's there, and if I want to believe he's watching over me, where's the harm? It's all about what's inside anyway. It's all about self-awareness and holding on to something that makes you feel connected, that makes you feel that whatever you want to be possible, is possible. If you find something that works for you, grab it, and don't let go.
Just as insane, however, may be my belief that I have a protector in the night sky. I've believed in him for years, and my belief gives me comfort. It's a childish thought, and I know that. To me, though, it's no different than believing in a gray-haired old man in the clouds who loves humankind, but only those who swear allegiance to him. An all-powerful being that hates and punishes those who prefer to hold to a different theology. But, enough of spirituality and my personal thoughts.
My protector is as old as civilization and known to peoples throughout the ages and around the world. But he's mine, and he's special to me. So, to walk out on my balcony on this cold, clear night, in a city where stars are not visible, and look up to see Orion smiling down on me was an unexpected blessing. I looked, and there were no other stars to be seen. Only the broad shoulders, the belt, the legs I know so well. I've missed being able to see him low on the horizon, coming out to check on me. I've missed greeting him with a "hey there, big O" and smiling, thinking in my fully aware but naive way that he was smiling back.
I can't say why he appeared tonight, and why I've never seen him here before, but I'm happy that he's there, even when I can't see him. It's a matter of trust - much like any religion and it's God; I know he's there even when it's cloudy, or the city lights block him out. I know he's there, and if I want to believe he's watching over me, where's the harm? It's all about what's inside anyway. It's all about self-awareness and holding on to something that makes you feel connected, that makes you feel that whatever you want to be possible, is possible. If you find something that works for you, grab it, and don't let go.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
happy 2011
Last night as I was watching the birth of 2011, I naturally reflected back to the birth of 2010 and years prior. There are few new years eve's that I actually remember - not because of my intoxicated state and wild party hats and horns (that was just last year), but because they're mostly uneventful for me. The crowning of 2011 will be remembered because of where I am, not because of what I did. And that seems to be a recurring theme.
When I was married, most of my NYE's were spent alone, or sitting at a table watching everyone else kiss while my then-husband was on stage singing Auld Lang Syne. I think only once were we out for the evening that he was not the entertainment, so it was usually a depressing sort of time for me. Mostly, I stayed at home with the kids, knowing that midnight wasn't bringing anything special anyway, so why go to the trouble?
My post-divorce NYE's have mainly been alone, trying to stay awake - or not - counting the evening as a blessing because I didn't have to work the next morning. For most of the past 10 years, the days from Christmas Eve to January 2 have been time off from work, which is always something to be thankful for. This year is no exception - because of unused vacation days, I've been off work since 12/22, and don't return until the 4th. Still, it's not long enough and the days have flown by like birds I've tried unsuccessfully to catch and hold.
The most memorable NYE is 2008-2009, which is the year I quietly cried at midnight while listening to my mother gasp for each breath as she lay dying. I volunteered to spend the evening at her bedside so that my brothers could spend the time with their families. If I'm being honest, I cried not so much for her as for myself, spending what should be a joyous occasion in a hospital with someone who, had she been conscious, wouldn't have known who I was. I was jealous of those who were, as the clock ticked over to the new year, having fun and being loved, surrounded by people who, if they weren't quite coherent it wasn't because life was slowly leaking away from them. It was hard enough to have seen my mother lose the recognition of her family and friends while keeping the vibrant enthusiasm she had for life, but to hear with each struggling breath the tick of the death beetle and sit helplessly by, and on such as symbolic evening, was almost too much. All I could hope for was that father time would take her with him and he passed by, which he eventually did.
This year, as 2010 gave way to 2011, I found myself feeling thankful that I am here, that I know those I love, that I have memories good and bad, that I am capable of new adventures, and that I have more of life ahead of me. I know that it could end at any second, but it's not obviously eminent. My daughter is not at my bedside praying that relief come soon for us both. Rather, I have a new life to welcome into the world in a few months, a year of new experiences ahead, and the hope that all who I know and love will find that 2011 brings much joy and opportunity. My life, however simple, is good. That's all I need to take with me into a new year.
When I was married, most of my NYE's were spent alone, or sitting at a table watching everyone else kiss while my then-husband was on stage singing Auld Lang Syne. I think only once were we out for the evening that he was not the entertainment, so it was usually a depressing sort of time for me. Mostly, I stayed at home with the kids, knowing that midnight wasn't bringing anything special anyway, so why go to the trouble?
My post-divorce NYE's have mainly been alone, trying to stay awake - or not - counting the evening as a blessing because I didn't have to work the next morning. For most of the past 10 years, the days from Christmas Eve to January 2 have been time off from work, which is always something to be thankful for. This year is no exception - because of unused vacation days, I've been off work since 12/22, and don't return until the 4th. Still, it's not long enough and the days have flown by like birds I've tried unsuccessfully to catch and hold.
The most memorable NYE is 2008-2009, which is the year I quietly cried at midnight while listening to my mother gasp for each breath as she lay dying. I volunteered to spend the evening at her bedside so that my brothers could spend the time with their families. If I'm being honest, I cried not so much for her as for myself, spending what should be a joyous occasion in a hospital with someone who, had she been conscious, wouldn't have known who I was. I was jealous of those who were, as the clock ticked over to the new year, having fun and being loved, surrounded by people who, if they weren't quite coherent it wasn't because life was slowly leaking away from them. It was hard enough to have seen my mother lose the recognition of her family and friends while keeping the vibrant enthusiasm she had for life, but to hear with each struggling breath the tick of the death beetle and sit helplessly by, and on such as symbolic evening, was almost too much. All I could hope for was that father time would take her with him and he passed by, which he eventually did.
This year, as 2010 gave way to 2011, I found myself feeling thankful that I am here, that I know those I love, that I have memories good and bad, that I am capable of new adventures, and that I have more of life ahead of me. I know that it could end at any second, but it's not obviously eminent. My daughter is not at my bedside praying that relief come soon for us both. Rather, I have a new life to welcome into the world in a few months, a year of new experiences ahead, and the hope that all who I know and love will find that 2011 brings much joy and opportunity. My life, however simple, is good. That's all I need to take with me into a new year.
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