Fenger High School

Now if someone were to tell you that a large white rabbit intended to stop at your house with a basket of tinted eggs and candy, you’d probably think you were talking with Elwood P. Dowd, alias Jimmy Stewart. But, when you’re three years old and this extraordinary tale is being told to you by the two most important people in your young life, you accept it without question. As a reasonable adult, however, you begin to wonder how this fanciful Easter legend ever started. Rabbits don’t even lay eggs; and it took many, many years before I was willing to believe that! You see, in our family, Easter was filled with treats and traditions; and, like any kid, I didn’t want to bite “the hand that brought the basket.”

Preparations began by finding an Easter outfit. All my family and friends had seen the movie Easter Parade with Judy Garland and Fred Astaire and therefore recognized the importance of being clothed properly on Easter Sunday. Finding something stylish and distinctive to wear, therefore, was crucial. Each girl desired a new dress with matching coat and hat and longed for new black, patent leather shoes. Most of the time, however, girls I knew had to be satisfied with just a new hat. Boys despised shopping and were, consequently, grateful if they escaped with only a new cap.

Egg dying was another pre-holiday duty and an art I took very seriously. Mom boiled eggs until they were hard and then helped my brother and me mix hot water with food dye and vinegar in coffee cups, one for each color.

I usually kept my eggs in the cups for a long time so they would be smooth, bright, and beautiful. My younger brother, who was totally unsuited to producing a beautifully colored egg, didn’t really care how his end-product looked. He would gaily dip eggs into whichever cup, or cups were empty—sometimes combining two colors that clashed horribly. His favorite trick was to place the same egg in each color, which resulted in an ugly, muddy green. He happily dubbed it his army egg.

Probably my most distinct memory of egg decorating was the year my family moved to another neighborhood, and I had to attend another school. I found it difficult to make friends and was lonely. Shortly before Clean-up Week, which occurred just before Easter that year, my mom and I made and decorated forty egg-shaped cookies. She put them in a large cardboard box from Peoples’ Store, and I carefully carried them to school and into my classroom. They were an immediate hit, and making friends suddenly became easier.

When Easter morning finally arrived, it came early to our house. My brother and I awoke about 5 AM to a trail of jelly beans which led to Easter baskets filled with candy and small toys, like paddle ball, jacks, soldiers, and cars. (Once, at grandma’s house, I remember following bunny footprints from bed to basket, which I later learned were made in flour by my creative grandmother.)

After a quick examination and taste of our Easter gifts, we’d place our baskets over our arms—away from parental sampling—and search for the eggs we had colored and the Bunny had hidden.

Egg-finding was a science when I was young, and tips on finding hidden eggs were commonly shared between special cousins and friends. We learned to check under evergreens, in flower pots, behind books, and under upholstered furniture. My grandmother contributed the best hint; but, for a reason we never understood, it only worked at her house. She taught us to recognize Easter Bunny fur. “If fur is present,” she shrewdly revealed, “the Easter Bunny’s been there.” This clue always resulted in finding a carefully concealed egg.

The most ingenious strategy for locating hidden Easter eggs, however, was practiced by my younger cousin Sharon. She would rise early while her family was asleep, search the house, note the locations of the eggs, and go back to bed. She’d rise later with her brothers and sisters and amaze them by quickly finding most of the eggs. They’d brag about her success to the rest of us and predict that someday she’d be a famous detective. They were also wrong about her occupation; she became an insurance agent, which seems fitting to me.

One year, I remember my brother and I spotted the same egg at the same time and raced to claim the prize. Unfortunately, it was the one and only time an uncooked egg found its way into our hunt. The contest ended with fresh egg splattered all over our pajamas.

Another time, we searched and searched but couldn’t find the army egg. Mom finally discovered it in an old gymshoe the following June. Both smelled pretty bad.

After church and parading in our holiday finery, all of our aunts, uncles, and cousins gathered at my grandparent’s house for a traditional Easter dinner. Grandpa always made his famous shepherd’s pie, which was loaded with a variety of cheeses and deli meats—tasty, but a true cholesterol nightmare. Aunt Buddy came with pepper pies stuffed with fresh green peppers and tomatoes. My dad and I would create a three layer, three flavor cake complete with filling, frosting, and Easter decorations—all from scratch. A multitude of side dishes, a large ham, and the biggest turkey grandma could find were also prepared; it was a huge and delicious feast.

Colored eggs were exchanged between families, and mom helped my brother and I make small nests of candy for our aunts and uncles. I’ll never forget one holiday when my eldest cousin Nancy, who worked downtown at Marshall Fields, gave each of us a small, hollow egg made of white sugar and decorated with colorful icing. It had an opening at one end which revealed a tiny candy bunny in a garden of multi-colored sugar flowers. She bought them at Fields, and they were completely eatable but so beautiful that I never ate mine.

After dinner, my cousins and I would play Easter games, some of which we invented ourselves. A favorite contest was egg bowling. One hard-boiled egg was left white and rolled to the center of the room. Each of us took turns to see who could roll their egg closest to the white egg. The winners received a piece of candy, a coveted award even though our tummies and baskets were already full of sugary treats.

Other families probably celebrate the Easter holiday in ways different than mine did; but in most homes, the improbable pair of bunny and egg has a prominent role. Why have generations of adults perpetuated this implausible alliance? And, more puzzling, how did it ever begin?

The first writings connecting Easter and rabbits are found in German manuscripts of the 1500s. As the legend goes, a poor woman hid some dyed eggs in a nest outdoors as a holiday gift for her children. Just as the kids found where the nest was hidden, a large hare leaped away. The children believed that the hare brought the eggs, and their story grew and spread all over Germany. Other kids began building nests in secluded places in their homes, barns, or gardens. Boys used their caps and girls their bonnets.

German immigrants brought this custom to America but discovered that rabbits were more common than hares so the Easter Hare became the Easter Rabbit and later the Easter Bunny.

And, why eggs?

For thousands of years, people have thought of eggs as a symbol of new life, partly because they watched birds hatching from them. Colored eggs were used to celebrate Spring holidays in Ancient Persia in 3000 BC, and the first recorded use of colored eggs in Easter celebrations dates to the Christians of Thirteenth Century Macedonia. Crusaders returning from the Middle East spread the custom, and Europeans began to use tinted eggs to celebrate Easter and other warm-weather holidays.

Kids at Easter, however, never needed to know this history to enjoy the holiday; I certainly didn’t then, nor do I now. As an adult, I no longer dye and hunt eggs or play games with my cousins; but the excitement and traditions of the Spring holiday remain with me and are preserved through the next generation, my grandchildren.

I recently told my daughter Mary Beth, mother of three, what I had learned about the origins of Easter customs. After politely listening to my explanations, she was silent a moment and then declared, “I’m sorry to disagree, but I believe egg-dying and egg-hunting was probably invented by a frustrated mother. It was an attempt to hold on to her sanity and keep her bored children busy and out of trouble on a dreary, wet Chicago morning.”

Hmmmm. Perhaps she has a point.

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Last night, as I was slumped in my favorite armchair watching some meaningless TV program when my mind wandered back to the first time television entered my life. I’d heard about it long before I’d actually been able to see it, but even the huge buildup and my great anticipation did not prepare me for that first glimpse.

My family had been invited to the house of friends who owned a TV. The adults were busy visiting, and I was in another room with the rest of the children. Against the wall stood a big dark box with a small window in its center. On that window, just for us, a “super” circus performed.

I remember that the picture wasn’t very clear and was so small that we were forced to squint in order to see the animals and entertainers. I also recall how white dots would occasionally cover the screen and completely blocked our view. To remedy this, our young host wiggled an object called “rabbit ears.” I’m afraid his actions did more to impress us than it did to improve the picture. The entire experience, however, was truly wondrous to my young eyes.

I remember, too, during that evening so long ago, that something called “test pattern” filled the screen after the show ended. Not to be thought dim-witted, I attentively sat with our friends and watched the continuing display and listened to the shriek of the test signal. I did, wonder, however, why we were doing that.

It wasn’t until years later that my family purchased a television so until that time I joined the crowds in front of appliance stores every chance I had and ooooo’d and ahhhh’d at the dark, magical box with the rest of them.

My folks used TV as a bribe. The promise of being able to watch “the fights” at a local business proved a great motivation to me and convinced me to continue my trumpet lessons.

Like the rest of the public, I was entranced by the new invention and watched anything it offered. I fondly remember the antics of comedians like Milton Berle, Sid Ceasar, and Imogene Coca.

Ted Mack’s Original Amateur Hour was always fun; he gave many performers a chance to become a star. The show seemed to feature an accordionist every week, however; and I find it hard to believe the entertainment industry was able to absorb so many masters of Lady of Spain.

Wrestling was also popular in my house, I’m now embarrassed to admit. I remember rooting for a long-haired blonde, high-spirited personality called Gorgeous George.

Most of my family loved the old “B” westerns; and night and day, cowboys and Indians raged war across our TV screen. My mom wasn’t too keen on the constant commotion but tolerated our noisy movies. One night, however, she awoke from a nightmare. A bloodthirsty cowboy, gun drawn for action, had broken through the window over her bed. She didn’t waste any time waking my dad and strongly suggesting that westerns be avoided in the evening.

Viewers, back then, were at the mercy of a show’s sponsor for no rules governed the lengths and number of commercials. The worst offender was Jim Moran, the Courtesy Man. His attempts to sell cars during movie breaks lasted for thirty minutes or more. Their length was never the same, and viewers were forced to remain in front of their television sets so they didn’t miss any of their show.

Like most children, I ran home from school to watch my favorite programs. I’ve always loved puppet shows; Kukla, Fran, & Ollie and Howdy Doody ranked at the top. In fact, I bet there isn’t an adult alive who couldn’t sing their theme songs today.

The Mickey Mouse Show was, without a doubt, my favorite program. I never missed it! I remember sitting on the floor as close to the television as my mom would allow, my mouse ears firmly in place, patiently waiting to hear . . . “M - I - C, K - E - Y, M -O - U - S - E.”

Ah, life was so simple!
 

The following compliments of Bob Banhidi:

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Venetian night wasn't always as it is now. In fact, I remember in 1958 when Mayor Richard J. Daley and the yacht club commanders came up with their lakefront festival plan. I even went down to see what he did to an evening that had lots of special meaning to me.

Theirs was a big affair. Thousands of people lined the lake shore from Monroe Street to Adler Planetarium. They were noisy and excited and jockeyed back and forth to better see the festivities. Searchlights from Navy ships and fireworks lit up the summer sky while jets of water from the city's fireboats formed an arch over the water. It was a spectacular backdrop for the parade of 300 boats which cruised along the shore.

Each ship was decked out with colored lights, streamers, and balloons. Some were even more elaborate and rivaled any float that graced Colorado Avenue during the Rose Parade. One in particular remains in my mind. It commemorated the 1871 Chicago fire, of all things, and even had a stand-in for Mrs. O'Leary's cow onboard.

It was quite a spectacle that passed before us to pay homage to all the Bigwigs on the reviewing stand—an impressive display, I must admit. I'm sure Daley and Company were very pleased with themselves.

I, however, prefer to think back to another evening with a similar theme—back to 1935 to be exact. Southern Shores Yacht Club in Jackson Park was having its end-of-the-season party, a Venetian Night. Members were asked to decorate their boats and parade around and around the lagoon; the best entry would win a trophy.

A friend of mine who had a small boat belonged to the club and asked me to come along. Since I was Italian, he thought it would be an added attraction to have me sing Italian love songs from the bow of his boat. I dressed in traditional garb, striped shirt and white pants, and warmed my vocal cords. I also invited a pretty Italian girl who I was quite interested in to come too. I was sure the setting and my baritone voice would impress her.

I remember that summer evening extremely well; it was perfect. The moon was full and bright; occasional fireworks colored the distant sky; and my voice never sounded better. Though I knew there were other people in the boat and on the shore, in my mind, I was there alone singing to my best girl.

Well, we won first place that night. Ours was the first boat to include live entertainment as part of the decor; my friend was delighted. The most important part of the memory, however, is that pretty Italian girl. Sixty years and many, many songs later, I still call her my best girl.

Just had to share this with you because many of you knew my mom and dad, and because I'm still touched by the tears that came to his eyes as I read the story to him. I knew then, I had done a good job. -Carole

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My earliest memories of growing up in Chicago were taking my mom’s hand and boarding a streetcar, bus, or commuter train for some special place. My mom took my brother and me all over the city; we knew both zoos, every museum, and all the stores on State Street extremely well. Since public transportation ran from one end of town to the other, it was easy and inexpensive to explore everything she thought we’d enjoy.

Our preferred destination, however, was the Museum of Science and Industry. It was filled with wonderful exhibits that talked, moved, or in some way involved the observer. It was such fun and so unique compared with other museums of the day that neither of us realized that we were learning too.

Usually my brother and I immediately turned to the right upon entering the museum and began our adventure with the many interactive telephone/television displays which we both loved. I most remember walking up a ramp and seeing ourselves on television. That was a big thrill. For at the time, like most of our friends, we did not have a TV in our home.

Of course my brother and I had favorites. To my dismay, he always wanted to see the electric train setup. Now don’t get me wrong, I loved playing with his Lionel at home. He had lots of tracks and one Christmas received switches so we would dream up configuations and watch the engine chug along puffing smoke from tablets he’d put into its smokestack. That was fun; but at the museum, we had no control so we’d just stand there and watch the trains go round and round and round—very boring for a young girl who was anxious to see the magnificent Fairy Castle donated by silent film star Colleen Moore.

I can still feel the anticipation I felt as we approached the dark, quiet room that housed the magnificent doll house. Looking back, I suppose the absence of sound was because it was filled with little girls, like me, who were holding their breaths in awe at the magical display in the center of the room. Little boys were probably held in check by their mothers who were also thrilled by the sight of a beautiful world in miniature.

All the rooms of the castle were well-lit, and a phone commentary was available as you made your way around the dollhouse. It explained the theme of each room, its furnishings, and the fairy tale characters pictured on the beautiful tapestries, paintings, and etchings that decorated the walls and windows. I was especially fascinated with King Arthur’s Round Table set for dinner with plates and silverware of real gold; by Cinderella’s delicate glass slippers safely perched on a small wooden table; by the hundreds of tiny books with pages handwritten by famous authors lining the walls of the library; and, in the castle’s courtyard, the Rock-A-Bye cradle precariously perched in a tree.

We both enjoyed the coal mine and the U-505 German submarine; but since each had an entrance fee, we had to make a choice. We usually alternated and saw one exhibit one time and the other the next.

The coal mine began with a ride in a shaky elevator that took us deep down into the earth—at least to a kid it seemed like it did. Then followed a bumpy journey through dark, narrow passages in railroad cars, and the illusion of being in a coal mine was sealed. After the tour, it was always a surprise to walk out of the exhibit, into the museum, and realize we hadn’t been miles under the ground. I must admit, though, I don’t remember too much about the mining explanations which were given, but both my brother and were always eager to go again.

If we chose the U-505, we first watched a movie detailing its secret capture during World War II and the astonishing discovery of finding an intact German decoding machine on the ship. This find was extremely helpful in our war effort for the Germans never learned that we were able to decipher their messages. A tour through the ship’s low ceilings and tight corridors was capped with a walk through the sleeping quarters. Small hammocks tied end to end, one above the other, lined each side of the ship. It was difficult to imagine grown men living in such confined quarters.

I’ve been riding the commuter train for years. In my youth it was called the Illinois Central Commuter Railroad—IC for short—and had the distinction of being Chicago’s first real commuter train. It was then, and is now, the popular mode of transportation between Chicago’s southern suburbs and its downtown. In 1856 when service began, it ran south to Hyde Park, a new suburb at the time. Over the years, the train continued to expand south as the metropolitan boundaries grew; and my needs did the same. As a child, I boarded at 115th Street; and today my ride begins at 193rd Street.

I never really thought about my history with the IC until the other day when I left my book at home and was forced to spend the forty- five minute ride gazing out the window. When I reached 115^th Street, my bored mind focused on familiar sights and was instantly filled with childhood memories and images.

Railroad employees, once again, sat behind barred windows in their tiny, dark offices under the viaducts. Communication was always difficult as trains rumbled overhead, but they answered questions, sold tickets, and waved customers on towards the tall, metal turnstile. Steep stairs led to a long wooden platform where passengers waited impatiently for the train, much as they do now.

A white line was painted about eighteen inches from each side of the platform, and Mom warned that it was dangerous to cross that line so, of course, I never did—when she was looking. I remember how courageous I felt as I inched my toe closer and closer to the line, into its middle, and finally, as I grew older and braver, over the line and into the forbidden area.

A long, open wooden shelter ran down the middle of the elevated platform, but it offered little protection from fierce winter winds or a scorching summer sun. Ragged advertising posters covered its walls, and both posters and walls were covered with graffiti. I caught myself wondering once more if Lulu minded that her phone number was carved into station walls all over the city.

Like the shelter, the train didn’t protect riders from Chicago’s weather. Its cars were heated in winter but usually were so hot that passengers were forced to open windows. In summer, since there was no air conditioning, the only relief from the temperature was, again, provided by open windows. Consequently, a fine dust covered everything: walls, seats, floors, and passengers.

I was fascinated by the yellow wicker seats on the train. They resembled benches but had adjustable backs allowing the conductor to move them to conform to the train’s direction. Thus, no one ever rode backwards.

The train conductor always looked impressive in his navy blue uniform trimmed with gold braid and buttons. He’d step off the train at each stop, consult his pocket watch, and declare, “Train Downtown. Watch your step.” He’d tip his hat to the ladies; and when everyone was safely onboard, he’d close the doors. The ring of his money changer and the sound of his punch continuously echoed throughout the train car as he collected the forty-cent fare and punched each ticket with innumerable holes. Small, white paper dots always littered the floor.

As a kid, I never tired of looking out the window as we rode from stop to stop; and last week, I recaptured those feelings. There are changes, of course. The doors of energetic companies like R.R. Donnelley and Pullman are long closed, and communities reflect the effects of poverty or renovation. But, Chicago’s neighborhoods look much as they did years ago. Tree-lined streets divide neat rows of brick homes, wooden flats, and family businesses. Fenced-in back yards for kids and front porches to welcome neighbors are common. Every block or so, a church steeple rises over the roof tops, usually a beacon for an ethnic group rather than a religious sect. Tall apartment buildings caught my attention, too; and I imagined, as I had as a child, scurrying down their metal fire escapes which zigzag down their sides.

The most enjoyable part of my commute that morning, however, was the trip back to the past, my past. Since I’ve ridden the IC most of my life, many of its stops triggered specific memories from my youth.

The 111th Street Station unveiled images of Junior Achievement meetings which were held in the old Pullman shops. It was curious to roam their large, empty rooms where men had built huge train cars and where we constructed simple items to sell and gain first-hand business experience.

Gately Field at the 103rd Street stop brought many enjoyable events to mind. Christian Fenger Public High School, my school, played its football games there. I recall walking between it and the field with my friends, all of us dressed in school colors and shouting about our invincible athletes. You weren’t considered a true supporter of the team unless you left the stadium hoarse from cheering for victory.

Further down the IC line still stands Mt. Carmel Catholic High School, an arch rival of Fenger. I automatically frowned as its brown and white sign came into view. Many City Championship games were played between the two schools; and to my way of thinking, the title wasn’t always won by the right team. I guess some strong feelings don’t ease with time.

Next I spotted the wide, manicured lawns of the Midway which run perpendicular to 59^th Street and the University of Chicago. Its stately Gothic buildings house one of the most respected universities in the world. Towering above all, looms the spire of Rockefeller Chapel, very near my summer workplace during my college years.

Fifty-seventh Street is the exit for The Museum of Science and Industry, my favorite museum. It was the first to introduce interactive exhibits, including tours of a World War II German submarine and a coal mine, futuristic inventions called television and phone-o-vision, and a mock barnyard where city kids could pet lambs and bunnies and watch chicks hatch.

The columns of Soldier Field and a rickety wooden trestle, now re- enforced with steel, still hover over the 12th Street/Roosevelt Road Station. The first is the setting for City Championship football contests, and the latter leads over the tracks to the Field Museum. Images of dinosaur bones, huge elephants, mummies, and Indian artifacts were awakened.

Van Buren Street, departure point for Orchestra Hall and the Art Institute is next. Both were reluctantly visited at my mom’s insistence as a child and now are frequented by choice. The Goodman Theater is also reached from Van Buren, and this recollection brought a grin to my face as I re- lived my first live stage production. The play began as two ominous witches parted the curtains, scuttled forth, and snarled and shrieked at one another. I responded quickly with an announcement to the entire audience that I wanted to go home.

“Randolph Street. Far as we go!” blared the train’s loudspeaker and interrupted my ride through the past.

“Randolph Street,” I thought, “ornate theaters featuring first- run movies and lavish stageplays, marvelous restaurants and world- famous pizzerias, famed department stores stocked with goods from all over the world, and gateway to the Loop for the southsider.”

I rose to exit the train as I had numerous times in the past; but this time, I sensed a new appreciation for the role the commuter rail system has played in my life.

As I said before, “I’m a city kid.” So, It may surprise you to learn that all it took to make me happy was sand and water. Before you get the erroneous idea that I spent my entire childhood in deep depression, let me advise you that I lived on the south side of Chicago which meant I was close to the Indiana Dunes State Park—and that fact made me very, very happy.

I wasn’t unique; everyone loved “The Dunes,” as it was called. There was no place in the Chicagoland area that provided more fun, adventure, and recreation for anyone, in any age group; I doubt I’m wrong when I say, “Kids loved it best of all!”

Preparing for a family Dunes’ outing was hectic and exciting; there was lots to do. My brother, cousins, and I had to make the difficult decision of whether or not to wear our bathing suits under our clothes. We also had to decide which toys to bring and then find them. While we took care of the important stuff, our parents crammed my dad’s panel truck with coolers of food and drinks, suntan lotion, towels, extra clothes, blankets, and various other things they thought necessary. They always took too long.

Finally underway, contests to spot the first sand dune began. We were wise enough to wait for the welcoming sign to Indiana before looking in earnest; but my dad had to field how-much-further questions from that moment on. He was remarkably patient.

The thrill of glimpsing the first sand dune was only matched by the excitement of arriving on top of the final hill before entering the State Park. From its height, we received our first look at Lake Michigan. The blue water always looked cool and inviting, and our excitement at being so close was impossible to contain.

My dad probably never noticed the beauty of the lake in the distance because the drive was always difficult. Heavy traffic and hot weather were typical—there was, of course, no air-conditioning back then. His eyes, I’m sure, were focused on that last half-mile, which was usually lined with cars inching towards the gate to pay the entrance fee. He would always echo our shouts of joy with groans.

After paying the modest fee, we entered the largest parking lot we’d ever seen—this was pre-shopping mall, remember. We would drive up and down the aisles looking for a place to park and unload our gear. Dad didn’t spend much time looking for a spot close to the beach; he usually took the first opening he saw. I imagine he’d had enough of our noisy excitement and was anxious to get out of the truck. We were eager too and didn’t mind how far we had to carry things to the beach—carrying things back was another matter.

Near the entrance to the waterfront still stands a huge pavilion that was probably built when the Park was first established. It was closed during most of my youth; but in its prime, it had showers, dressing rooms, and a restaurant. Though we couldn’t go inside of the building, we could reach the top floor by climbing numerous steps on the side of the pavillion. We usually raced up, impatient to survey the surrounding area.

Before us, as far as we could see, stretched Lake Michigan. Miles and miles of sand mountains lined its beach. Grass, wildflowers, and small trees dotted the top of the dunes and crept down their backs. We knew that beyond the sand dunes stretched thick woods with long, winding trails for us to explore. On a clear day, we could see the buildings of Chicago edging the lake on the west; and we were positive we could identify our neighborhood.

The lake itself seemed endless and was colored a variety of shades of blue; the sky reflected the brightest hue and melted into the water at the horizon. Sometimes the lake was calm and peaceful; and other times, its waves were enormous and angry. Red flags occasionally warned of strong undertows and sometimes barred swimming altogether.

The view in Fall was especially spectacular. In addition to various tans and blues coloring the beach, lake, and sky, we could see the vivid crimson and gold of the treetops beyond the dunes. The magnificent scene was unforgettable.

When we were finally turned loose to play, I headed straight for the lake. Riding waves was wonderful fun! My dad taught all of us how to jump over the small waves, wait for the big ones, and ride them to shore. We quickly learned that the largest waves provided the longest rides.

For some reason, I found sand bars fascinating. Sometimes there weren’t any to be found, but often they were far from the shore. I felt quite brave swimming through water over my head, standing up on the sand bar, and waving to amazed younger cousins on the beach.

I could stay in the lake all day. I never got cold, but my mom and dad felt otherwise. They said my lips turned blue, and I have seen pictures of me shivering and clutching a towel around my shoulders near our beach blanket. I remember trying to explain to my parents that if I stayed in the water, I would be fine. It was only when I was on the beach I was cold. I could never make them understand.

During my forced retirement (shoreline duty), I enjoyed playing in the sand with my family. We would build huge castles or dig deep pits. The castles were great to jump into once we tired of piling sand, and we’d attempt to fill our holes with buckets of water and never did understand why we weren’t successful. We also tried to dig down to China; but when we’d hit water, the sides of the holes would collapse so that task was abandoned rather quickly.

When I was older and more patient, I would sit along the water’s edge and build a castle by dribbling wet sand through my fingers to form towers. Around its base I’d construct a moat which the waves kept full of water. It wasn’t long before a large wave came along, captured my entire castle, and swept it back into the lake. Not one to give up easily, I’d begin again a little further from the shoreline.

Parents, aunts, and uncles never minded being buried alive in the sand, and we loved to oblige. We’d first make a sand pillow for their head. They would lie down, and we’d cover every inch of them—except for face and toes—with piles of sand. When we finished, our victims, to the delight of each of us, would wiggle their toes to let us know they were all right and promptly fall asleep.

I never stopped to wonder why adults were so willing to be buried in the sand; but now as parent and grandparent, I realize it was probably cool, relaxing, and, most of all, relief from the exuberant kids they had brought to the beach. If you’re covered with sand, it’s impossible to act as lifeguard, babysitter, hiker, ball player, teacher, disciplinarian, waiter/waitress, bathroom escort, referee, etc.

Hiking along the extensive shoreline was another favorite pastime. We enjoyed splashing each other, hunting for baby crabs and dead fish—perfect for frightening younger cousins—and finding colorful rocks to take home.

On our hikes, my dad taught us how to skip stones across the water. First, we had to find the right kind of rocks; we took this very seriously. They had to be the perfect size: not too small, not too large, flat, and just the right thickness. Dad showed us how to fling them with a sideward flip of the arm; and if we were lucky, they’d skim and bounce across the top of the water. Contests arose immediately. I believe my Cousin Tom held the record with a five- in-one-flip, though his older brother Junior always disputed the count.

Each visit to The Dunes also meant an expedition up Mt.Tom, the largest dune in the Park. All of us, adults and children, would gather at its base to begin. As the mountain of sand loomed above us, I’m sure that each of my cousins felt as I did: intimidated by its size and fearful of being embarrassed by failure. But, as I said before, climbing the dune was mandatory; we all knew it and met its challenge.

Mt.Tom was steep, and its sandy makeup made it difficult to ascend. We’d climb and rest, push each other and slip down. Often three steps forward resulted in two steps back. Our progress, or lack of, brought forth giggles as we struggled towards the top—much of the time on hands and knees.

My Uncle Dom was an integral part of each climb. He encouraged, teased, pulled, dared, charmed, and even carried us all the way to the top of the big sand dune. And then, before we could enjoy our accomplishment, before we could survey the land below, or before we could even catch our breath, he would grab our hands and race down the mountain. Sometimes, though, he’d merely give us a mighty push to set us off on our own. Of course, we loved it and him too!

Time and weather have worn down old Tom a bit, but the Dune continues to tower over everything in the Park and extend its challenge to climbers. I admit, I still feel the pull of that family mandate though I haven’t attempted a climb in years. I must confess, I don’t have a strong desire to do so either. Thank heavens, I haven’t visited the Park with my uncle; for at eighty, he wouldn’t hesitate to cajole me to the top of the mountain and race me to its bottom. He’d probably win.

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 The best thing about grammar school was recess. Ask anyone! Obviously, kids hated being confined, but I think the manner in which classes were conducted was also responsible. You were forbidden to talk—report cards would tattle with a check next to “Doesn’t conform to school regulations.” In addition, you had to sit up straight and never, never leave your seat—except of course, to stand at attention and recite. It’s not surprising, then, that every kid in school looked forward to those twenty minutes each morning and afternoon when he, or she, could run wildly around the playground.

It’s that school bus. I see it picking up youngsters in the morning and taking them a mile down the road to school, and it triggers memories. In my day, we walked to school. Rain, cold, or shine, we walked. Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m not criticizing the younger generation, quite the contrary. I think today’s kids miss a lot by not walking between home and school—yes, even in winter.

There’s just nothing like waking on the morning of a big snow and knowing that a bright, clean world is patiently waiting to be explored. On days like that it never took me long to hop out of bed even though I realized that my ultimate destination was a schoolroom and Mrs. Boomker, or someone like her.

I’d throw on some clothes, race to the kitchen, and gobble hot oatmeal as quickly as I could. My momentum came to an abrupt halt when I saw my mom in the doorway with a no-nonsense expression on her face. To ensure I was dressed properly for the cold, wet weather, she’d wrap me in woolens from head to toe. Pants, jacket, mittens, and mufflers were all made of this scratchy but warm fabric. According to most moms, two mufflers were necessary: one tied around the neck and the other, across the mouth and nose.

Goulashes completed the standard garb, and they were as ugly as the name implies. Everyone, boys as well as girls, wore the same kind: high, black rubber boots with several rectangular, silver buckles that fastened in front. They did keep our feet dry and warm on most days; and on others, our moms had the foresight to insist on a second pair of socks, wool of course. These were removed at school and dried in time for the walk home.

Finally out of the house, I would race to the home of my best friend Chris. Now, strange as this may sound, kids in my day never rang doorbells or knocked on doors. When seeking a pal, they would stand in the front or back yard of their playmate's residence and “call for” him or her. I mean just that. We would yell out our friend’s name as loudly as we could and as often as necessary until someone inside the house heard and answered our summons. Today, that practice probably sounds rather peculiar and inefficient, and I’d be the first to admit that our shouts weren’t always heard. But never—and I mean never—did anyone approach the doorway itself. Anyway, Chris was usually listening for me so it was never a problem; and together we’d invade the chilly, white world.

Chris and I usually started to school earlier on snowy days for it was crucial to be the first ones to trample through the newly fallen snow. Our normal winter route was a straight line. We’d cut through yards, down alleys, and along an occasional sidewalk, shuffling our feet and carving uninterrupted paths in our wake. Along the way, we’d pause often, look back, and admire our long, magnificent trail; we felt very important.

When it was cold enough, every breath we made turned to steam; and we’d find short twigs and pretend we were smoking cigarettes. We found this fascinating for some reason and would puff and puff for long periods of time. I remember Chris could actually blow smoke rings—at least, her best friends identified them as perfect circles—and we loved to watch these “rings” evaporate into the air.

Halfhearted pushes toward snowbanks or icy patches were exchanged along the way; serious shoves were saved for the trip home. No one wanted to get wet going to school, or drop their lunch or books. We needn’t have worried, however; our moms had carefully packaged us in wool and our belongings in brown paper bags.

Sometimes the snow was so high that we had to walk down the center of the street. Plowing and salting weren’t as widespread or as prompt back then. Traffic was lighter too, but we still felt quite daring trotting down the middle of the road. Some of the kids would take this opportunity to grab the rear bumper of cars and allow themselves to be pulled for a daring ride. Dads lectured endlessly against this conduct and outright forbade it, but the practice continued. I always suspected that our fathers’ intimate familiarity with the subject came from first-hand experience, but I never said so.

An important task on the way to school was noting the whereabouts of icicles and carefully monitoring their growth. The trick was to allow them to grow as long as possible before the melting process began and then break them off at their base. We loved sucking and crunching the smooth, cool sticks of ice. Freezer compartments in refrigerators and ice cubes weren’t around so we relied on icicles in winter and chips from the iceman in summer. Mothers never approved of either habit, which was probably why we enjoyed them so much.

Our moms always seemed to know that we’d be late coming home on a first-snow day. There were lots of things to do. Pushes and shoves were in earnest now, and more than once we’d find ourselves floundering in a pile of snow or sliding on our backsides over the ice. There was no fear of being hurt or becoming wet; we were so bundled that it was impossible!

For reasons parents never understood, we rarely had homework those nights so there wasn’t any need to lug books home. Our hands were free, therefore, to make snowmen, angels, forts, and best of all, snowballs. Some of the older boys threw them at cars, girls, or grown-ups. They tried to pick out someone who they didn’t think could catch them and were usually pretty successful at choosing targets.

Once, however, we saw Chris’ big brother strike a man in the chest. The man, younger than we first guessed, chased him up one alley and down the other gaining on him little by little. Chris’ brother finally escaped by hiding in a neighbor’s garage. When it was safe, he proudly returned to resume his perilous activity. Before he could finish his animated explanation of his narrow escape, to the amazement of all of us, that same young man suddenly appeared. He grabbed my friend’s brother and almost drowned him in a pile of snow. That was the end of snowball ambushes for all of us for awhile.

Another favorite diversion on the way home was a stop at Aunty Florence’s. She lived exactly halfway between home and school and always had a smile, hot ovaltine, and homemade cookies for us. When she knew we were coming, she’d time the cookies so they came out of the oven as we walked in her door. Warm chocolate chip cookies—I can almost taste them now. Remarkably, we never seemed to feel the cold or the need for warmth unless we knew Aunty Florence was definitely home.

The next-best practice was to pause in the doorway of the bakery, though we couldn’t do it too many times in one week. We’d stand in the entranceway pretending to shiver from the weather. In reality, we were absorbed in the heavenly smells from the shop. Before long, out would come the baker with a donut or cookie" . . . for energy,” he would say.

Yep! I feel real sorry for today’s youngsters, trapped on those big, crowded, noisy, heated school buses. They sure miss out on the freedom and fun of cold, snowy weather.

Heated, hmmm—actually, that doesn’t sound so bad to me. Or, is it just age talkin’?

 There are two movies I never fail to see at holiday time, and I probably watch them for entirely different reasons than the rest of the world. The first is the Reginald Owen version of Scrooge. My attention to the movie stops with the sliding scene. You know the one where Scrooge's nephew takes his turn on the ice and breaks the distance record of all the young boys.

Most comic books of the 1940s and 1950s contained full page ads for a muscle building course sold by a guy named Charles Atlas and labeled “Dynamic Tension.” Atlas’ most popular ad depicted the sad tale of a thin, unpopular weakling who had sand kicked in his face by a beach bully. After gambling a dime—as the ad suggested—and completing the course, this new man vanquished the bully; and, as a bonus, won the affection of a curvy but obviously fickle beach bunny.

Like many skinny insecure kids of that era, I “gambled a dime” and discovered that the coin produced only a description of the course. The actual cost was an additional $32.00, which few kids had in those days. Later, however, a second letter offered the Atlas program for only $5.00. Five bucks, or over a day’s pay for detassling corn, was still too much for me in those days.

Although I never sent for the course and did not even see a copy of it until I picked up one at a garage sale years later, I was always fascinated with Atlas and his ads. In contrast to the steroid bloated muscles of modern body builders, he looked both strong and athletic. One bored afternoon in college, I decided to do some research on the guy. What I found was interesting. The guy really did exist. Not surprisingly, his original name was not Charles Atlas, but Angelo Siciliano. I was surprised to learn, however, that he was nearly sixty years old when I first saw his picture and read his ads.

In the early 1920s, Atlas gained prominence by winning a national body building contest and being named the World’s Most Perfectly Developed Man. A prominent fitness expert, Bernard McFadden, sponsored the contests but canceled future competitions proclaiming that Atlas would have won them all. Atlas became a prominent model for numerous statutes, including George Washington in New York’s Washington Square Park, Dawn of Glory in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park, and Alexander Hamilton at the U.S. Treasury building in Washington, D.C. His career really took off in 1928 when he teamed up with advertising genius Charles Roman and launched his secret of body building: a mail order course on Dynamic Tension, a system of strengthening muscles by pitting one against another. Anyone over fifty remembers those cartoon advertisements promising that puny weaklings could be turned into power houses.

Not everyone believed his claims. Bob Hoffman, owner of the York Barbell Company and later an Olympic weight lifting coach, called Atlas’ system “Dynamic Hooey.” While admitting that Atlas had a great physique, Hoffman believed that the only way someone could attain Atlas-like muscles was through weight lifting. Eventually fraud charges were filed with the Federal Trade Commission. Although a transcript of the hearing is not available, second hand reports of the trial suggest that it must have been a real circus. To illustrate how weight lifting had built his strength, Hoffman performed handstands and did pushups on his thumbs. Not to be outdone, Atlas stripped off his shirt to display his rippling muscles and tore a New York telephone book in half.

Hoffman challenged Atlas’ claim that he developed his dynamic tension system by observing lions in the New York Zoo stating that he had been to the zoo many times and never seen a lion pushing one paw against another paw. On cross-examination, Hoffman asked Atlas if he ever used weights and Atlas replied, “Only to test my strength.” When he was asked how often he “tested his strength,” Atlas reportedly said, “Every day.”

However, the evidence at the hearing showed that Atlas’ students did gain muscle by following his course. Because most of his students were kids, they would probably have gained muscle simply by normal growth; apparently neither Hoffman nor his lawyer made that point. At the end of the hearing, a cease and desist order was entered prohibiting Hoffman from making public charges that the course was “dynamic hooey.” In the years to follow, Atlas’ pictures and the iconic cartoons continued to grace the back of thousands of comic books.

Ironically, even viewed with the benefit of today’s more enlightened knowledge, the Atlas Course stands up reasonably well. Today, his dynamic tension is called static or isometric exercise. Scientists have verified that exercises which require a muscle to push or pull against an immobile object to the point of exhaustion will rapidly increase strength. Isometric exercises, however, do not build muscle. As Hoffman unsuccessfully argued years earlier, progressive resistance is needed to build muscle.

In his course, Atlas stressed the importance of a proper diet; his suggested meals would easily meet the standards of a modern dietitian. Also surprisingly modern were his admonitions that rest and relaxation were necessary for muscle development and fitness.

Atlas lived to be seventy-nine and exercised vigorously well into his seventies; his daily regime included 300 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and 50 knee bends. Pictures taken of him at age seventy remarkably resemble those taken years earlier. If Atlas were alive today he would undoubtedly be gratified by the increased interest in health and fitness of people of all ages and both sexes. He would probably be even more amazed to learn that his course is still available on the Internet.

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I'm a city girl, and contrary to the image that brings to mind, as a kid I loved playing in the vacant lots—we called them prairies. One of our favorite games was playing cowboys. With six guns and holsters on our hips, we would gallop on imaginary horses attacking imaginary enemies.

You see, no one wanted to be an Indian; they were the ones who always were killed off. We knew that because we all watched lots of movies.

The one time that playing Indian was acceptable was on our family's annual trip to Starved Rock State Park. Each fall, we would load our cars with food and cousins and make the long trek downstate.

I suppose the setting and the legend of the Rock had something to do with our willingness to be Indians there. We would begin immediately. While the adults set up the picnic, we kids played hide-and-seek. The hiders would creep soundlessly to the edge of the woods and cover themselves with leaves and branches; they would whistle like birds when they were ready. We seekers would read trail signs—footprints, broken branches, bits of clothing, etc.—to track their hiding places. As I mentioned, we were avid moviegoers.

My little cousin Sharon would always hide in the same place, behind the closest tree. For some unknown reason, she fervently believed that no one could see her if she couldn't see us. Oh well, she was younger; we humored her.

After lunch my dad would gather all the kids together and tell us about the brave Illini that had been trapped at the top of the huge rock, surrounded by the treacherous Ottawa and Potawatomi, and finally starved to death—hence the name Starved Rock. His story was always filled with drama and minute details that as a kid seemed entirely plausible. None of us ever wondered how he knew all the particulars nor did we question why the story varied slightly from year to year. Dad usually relayed his tale just before we made the long hike to the summit of the rock. This guaranteed that our trek was filled with imaginary danger from the Ottawa and Potawatomi.

Quietly and carefully, ever watchful of the enemy, we would creep up the steep trail. We’d occasionally pause while cousin Junior, who was the oldest, scouted ahead or while one of us put an ear to the ground to listen. It was great fun, and we all enjoy those memories.

I outgrew playing Indian the fall I was ten; I remember it well. Near the bottom of the rock were several concession stands: food, drink, souvenirs, and one I’ll never forget. A full-blooded Indian ran an archery concession. For a quarter, you could shoot a handful of arrows at a nearby target. Confident of my ability to communicate with him, I approached, raised my right hand, and said, “How.”

The young man replied, “How ya doin’, kid. Wanna shoot some arrows?”

I guess we watched too many movies.

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My first encounter with heroic leading men, other than my dad, came from the radio programs I heard as a kid. Though each of the characters on the air had different roles in “the fight for truth, justice, and the American Way,” every one of them had the same characteristics. Each was incorruptible. Each was truthful. And, each was respectful of others, regardless of race or station in life, Furthermore, none of these crime fighters smoked, drank, cursed, or chased women. In the days of Old Radio, a hero was a hero in every sense of the word; and through them, Right always prevailed! I remember listening to the valiant adventures of The Lone Ranger, The Shadow, Superman, The Green Hornet, and Captain Midnight to name a few of the popular guys “in white hats.”

Stirring introductions always set the tone of their shows. Probably the most effective was: “Faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locomotive! Able to leap tall buildings at a single bound! Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s SUPERMAN!”

Those thrilling lines resonated across the airways, complete with sound effects, and ushered a favorite comic book hero into our parlors. (Living rooms were called parlors in my youth.)

One wonders how anyone could live up to that intro, but Superman never disappointed his fans. Three times a week, for most of his radio career, Superman battled crime in fifteen minute, serialized segments to the delight of every child and most adults. It was reassuring to a young mind that Superman would succeed over all obstacles that were thrown his way—even Kryptonite.

Captain Midnight’s adventures, also three times a week, concentrated on a very real threat of the time: world war. He and his Secret Squadron of Flying Aces from the Great War battled the Nazi and Jap enemies of World War II. Resourcefully, Captain Midnight formed the Flight Patrol and invited his young audience to join “as the dark clouds of war gather on the horizon.” He often sent covert messages that could only be read by using his secret decoder, which you were encouraged to purchase and “be the first kid on the block to own one.”

I’ll never forget the show’s first minutes: the booming toll of a tower clock; the far-off drone of a propeller airplane coming closer and closer. Finally, the plane would roar overhead—sounding like it had entered and left my own home. Then, a booming voice bellowed: “Cappp—taaiinn Midnight.” After that opening, who wouldn’t be ready to follow that man into battle or, at least, send away for his top-secret decoder.

Unlike the previously mentioned shows, law enforcement was never sure which side of the law The Green Hornet worked. He dressed in black, wore a mask, and moved mysteriously through the darkened city with his sidekick Kato. One would expect, however, that after years of leaving the crooks--literally--tied up, the police force would recognize where his allegiance lay. But once a week after each thirty-minute episode, newspaper headlines continued to scream, “Police victorious! Read all about it! Green Hornet still at large!”

The Green Hornet’s adventures were introduced with a full orchestra, heavy on violins, performing the rousing Flight of the Bumble Bee. A commanding voice would solemnly proclaim, “He hunts the biggest of all game! Public enemies who try to destroy our America . . . risking his life that criminals and racketeers within the law may feel its weight by the sting of The Green Hornet!” These were very, very effective words, introducing a very successful Crusader for Justice.

I had two absolute favorites among the many radio heroes. The first was The Lone Ranger. I clearly remember racing home from school three times a week, rushing through my homework, and patiently waiting by the radio to hear the thundering William Tell Overture. Following the thrilling theme song came the words that still unleash the anticipation and excitement I felt as a child, “A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty Hi-Yo Silver. The LL—ohhh—nn Raaain—gerr!”

As the sole survivor of an ambush by the villainous Butch Cavendish gang, the gravely wounded Lone Ranger was nursed back to health by an Indian named Tonto. Becoming firm friends, the two of them formed a pact to fight for law and order. Together, they traveled throughout the West righting wrongs and defeating outlaws. Since The Lone Ranger wore a mask to protect his identity, he was often mistaken for a criminal. No program ended without a puzzled lawman, or rancher, scratching his head and muttering aloud, “Say . . . who was that masked man?”

Cherrios and Wonderbread sponsored The Long Ranger and offered listeners many tempting treasures as did sponsors of other radio programs. There was nothing more exciting than hearing an announcer say, “Kids, get your paper and pencil ready.” Everyone knew what those words meant. For a box top, a dime, and a long wait, you would be able to purchase something truly special. Many of these items featured secret compartments or glowed in the dark.

I remember The Lone Ranger offered a pedometer, a six-gun ring that sparked, an atomic bomb ring, and a self-standing silver bullet containing both a compass and a secret compartment.

Like Captain Midnight, The Green Hornet specialized in decoders. At the end of their shows, a secret coded message would be broadcast; and unless you had a decoder, you would be unable to decipher the communication. Most messages encouraged kids to be good at school, clean their rooms, and listen to their parents. No one seemed to realize that a compartment or a code could not be very secret if every kid listening knew they existed; at least at the time, this detail never occurred to me.

My other favorite radio crime fighter was The Shadow, which was brought to us by Blue Coal. Introduced with a spooky organ theme, a deep, rich voice would proclaim, “Who knows . . . what . . . lurks . . . in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!” An eerie laugh then filled the airways sending chills down the spine of every listener.

The show was aired on Sunday afternoon; and, in our house it usually followed a delicious spaghetti dinner. With full and contented tummies, the whole family would gather on the parlor rug around the radio to listen to The Shadow’s latest adventure; and we were never disappointed. Like The Lone Ranger and The Green Hornet, law-enforcement was never sure of which side of the law The Shadow walked. We knew, however; and we also knew that The Shadow would triumph over evil with the help of his mystical ability to become invisible at will.

Long ago in the Orient, The Shadow had learned "the Hypnotic power to cloud men's minds so they could not see him;" and he used this trick to thwart villains. He was aided by his "friend and constant companion, the lovely Margo Lane," the only one who knew that The Shadow’s real identity was Lamont Cranston. Together they faced the largest assortment of ghosts, madmen, and lunatics ever heard on the air.

Radio was an integral part of life when I was a kid. Households had one radio; and together, adults and children, loyally followed their favorite heroes. These individuals became very important friends; their joys and misfortunes were sincerely felt by all of us. In spite of the fact we never saw their faces, their images, as well as their personalities, were alive in our minds.

Today, most grocery shopping is done by adults; but years ago, this task fell to kids—and it was performed almost every single day. There were many reasons why it was a daily chore; but mostly, it was because of a lack of space. Kitchens were small so storage space was tight; ice boxes were also small and unable to keep foods cool for very long; the first refrigerators had tiny freezing compartments, which really didn’t matter because convenience and frozen foods didn’t exist. So as I grew up, I was sent to the store, often.

I must be getting old.

I didn't think so until I realized my mind was wandering more and more back to the good old days. It began when I caught myself studying the kids waiting for buses to take them to school. What a great time of year to be a kid, I decided. The crisp air and autumn colors provide a perfect backdrop for sharing secrets with friends, diving into piles of crunchy leaves, and anticipating the approaching holidays. Holidays, my thoughts paused.

First comes Halloween. Costumes were thrown together with clothes found at home. I was usually a gypsy with a old dress and shawl from my mom. Costume jewelry and real lipstick completed the outfit.

Trick-or-treating never took place before dark, and no one would be caught dead in the company of a parent. We usually claimed treats both the 30th and 31st of October though some brave, greedy souls stretched the holiday into a third night. Handouts were wonderful, I remember. Mrs. Tammy usually had homemade popcorn balls, and the woman who never let us cut through her yard on the way to school always rewarded our consideration with freshly dipped caramel apples. Some neighbors made us sing for our treat, which we never liked because it slowed us down.

Thanksgiving was next and usually was celebrated in a family gathering at my grandmother’s house. It was fun to play with my cousins; but meal times, I remember, were long and boring. There was an endless parade of food, adult talk, and later, piles of dirty dishes.

The best holiday of all was Christmas. Excitement began immediately after Thanksgiving when The Cinnamon Bear episodes began airing on the radio. There were just enough adventures with Judy, Jimmy, Crazyquilt Dragon, and Paddy O'Cinnamon to last until Christmas Eve.

A trip to Marshall Fields in Chicago was a must; that's where the real Santa Claus sat. Each of us had to visit there to be sure his, or her, desires were received accurately. Fields was always ablaze with color, lights, and magic from its State Street windows to the top of what had to be the tallest Christmas tree in the world.

Hmmmm. You know, being old and looking back isn't so bad. Sure it's great to be a kid and enjoy all those wonderful holidays; but how much more rewarding it is to be an adult, draw on those special memories, and enhance the experiences of the children that are in one's life. I can think of nothing that matches the joy of watching a child as he experiences the beauty and magic of each season and holiday.

This is a good age—one that provides the opportunity to give to others and be rewarded over and over. Yes, this may be the best age yet!

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It’s true, shopping malls did not exist when I was growing up in Chicago; but, contrary to modern opinion, those who lived way- back-then were not deprived. There were neighborhood grocers and butchers; and on both sides of “The Avenue,” our main shopping area, were stores featuring household goods, clothing, and other necessities. For special items— like winter coats and graduation outfits— we had Downtown Chicago, always fun and always an adventure.

First of all, taking a trip downtown meant wearing your best clothes. My mom said “ladies” in her day wore hats, gloves, and high heeled shoes; and “gentlemen” would always wear suits, ties, and fedoras. The intervening years had modified clothing somewhat; but in my youth, dresses and suits were still considered proper attire. Consequently, when mom took my brother and me into the city to shop, I would don my best dress.

Together the three of us boarded the commuter train to begin our big adventure. We’d wobble from side to side looking for a place to sit down as the train bumped over the tracks. I remember the bench-like seats were made of yellow wicker; and most interesting of all, they had movable backs to enable the conductor to push them to conform to the train’s direction. Thus, no one was forced to ride backwards. My brother was especially fond of this feature and would run down the aisle, pushing seat backs until my mom caught up with him.

Smartly uniformed conductors sold tickets on the train. Usually they made change quickly and then became absorbed in punching several holes in the tickets. By the end of the trip, the floor was littered with small paper dots. I remember once, when I added new white gloves to my downtown outfit, that the conductor remarked to my mom that her children looked especially grown up. I beamed proudly, but my brother never heard him. He was too busy eating candy which my mom had given him to take his mind off the seat backs.

Arriving at the end of the train line, we’d follow the crowd through the underground station, up steep cement steps, and into the open air along Randolph Street. The clamor of people and traffic grew louder and louder with each step and was quite intimidating to small children— even my brother was quiet— and we held our mother’s hand tightly.

Marshall Fields was our usual destination; they had everything in their huge store. I especially loved going there for I knew the excursion would include our favorite departments after my mom purchased what she needed.

The first stop after shopping was the third floor where display tables and shelves were piled high with thousands of books on every imaginable topic. The entire floor, minus a small, dark corner devoted to stamps and coins, was filled with hard-backed books —paper-backed books were rare at that time. I remember that Nancy Drew and Bobbsey Twin books sold for sixty-five cents, which may sound like a bargain today but it took a long time for a little girl to save that much money.

The fourth floor was the toy department. Not even the enormous Toys ‘R’ Us stores of today can compete with Field’s toy department back then. There, every kind of treasure a child could desire filled the counters and display cases. I remember dolls with lovely faces, beautiful hair, and elegant dresses; exquisite furniture for doll houses, reproduced to the finest detail; and elaborate electric train systems with engines that tooted and smoked and crossing gates that raised and lowered. Clerks kindly demonstrated magic tricks, marionettes, and other wonders to awestruck children. It was a wonderful and memorable childhood experience.

My brother was usually pretty good in the toy department. Until then, he was always a problem. At one time, Fields had a baby-sitting service for shoppers; my mom left me there to play once. She remembers returning in time to hear me loudly declare, “I don’t want to be teacher. I’m Daddy’s Little Girl!” (That quickly became a favorite, family story.)

When my brother was little, however, there was no sitting service; and Mom and I had to deal with his behavior. She used cookies and candy to divert his attention from mischief; but when they failed, we often were tempted to pretend he belonged to someone else.

Lunch was also an adventure. Most of the time, we would eat in Field’s cafeteria on the seventh floor. There’d be long lines; but what was exciting to me was having a tray of my own and being allowed to choose my own lunch, with Mom’s consent, of course.

Now one would expect my brother to behave well during meal time for it’s certainly been established that he enjoyed eating. Lunch, however, was never peaceful. I suppose he was tired and too filled with treats to be interested in more food. He’d whine and fuss, and we’d be forced to gobble our lunch and leave for home. At times like these, I never understood what was wrong with walking away as though we didn’t know him— walking far, far away, that is.

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I had been to fairs before, but they were much smaller, county fairs. So, I wasn’t prepared for the sheer size of the Illinois State Fairgrounds and its parking lot. There must have been at least 100,000 cars in the parking lot; and, even more impressive to an eight year old boy from a small, downstate community, there were thousands of motorcyles.

Every fair I had been to in the past had lots of farm animals: pigs, cows, chickens, and horses. This fair was no different, except there were more of them. My father, who grew up on a farm, wanted to trudge past each stall and examine every one of them.

My mother and I quickly tired of the smells and the endless walking so we explored the huge tents filled with people hawking an incredible range of gadgets, tools, toys, liniments, and even cures. I remember the wonder drug/medicine Hadacol had a booth right next to a chiropractor; my mother bought some Watkin’s Salve for my Uncle Elmer’s rheumatism.

Much to my delight, there were dozens of free souvenirs, including paper hats, fly swatters, whistles, key chains with secret compartments, comic books, and balloons.

Entertainment was continuous. Jugglers, ventriloquists, yodelers, clog dancers, hypnotists, drum and bugle corps, bagpipers, drill teams, magicians, fiddlers, and square dancers vied for attention with Homer and Jethroe, "Sling-Shot" Parsons, and Joe Louis fight movies. It was a montage of sights and sounds.

Every imaginable type of food and snack was available from cotton candy to barbecued ribs. I remember my stomach protesting the unusual assortment on the ride home.

Best of all, there were hundreds of carnival rides and the tallest ferris wheel I have ever seen. Because we were only there for the day, there was only time to go on a couple of rides, but one was the ferris wheel. When we were on top, my dad pointed out the capital dome in Springfield. I’ve been on many rides since, and in many places; but I will always remember that ferris wheel at the State Fair.

Late in the day President Harry S. Truman appeared in a convertible surrounded by what I was told were Secret Service agents. I was confused because I thought that secret service agents were supposed to be catching spies.

My father did not like Truman and refused to even look at him. The President looked small to me, and his glasses looked too big. When he left, it was early evening; and we left too. It took us forever to find our car and exit the lot. Once we did, my father spent the next two hours dodging and cursing the hundreds of motorcycles that had decided to leave also. I fell asleep.

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