Return to Chi’ (or) I Didn’t Even Change My Shorts — part 4

At the Chicago History Museum gift shop I had purchased a Dover Press edition of Carl Sandberg’s book Chicago Poems (first published in 1916) and a unique souvenir shot glass with a metal medallion attached to one of its four squared sides. The woman behind the counter (beautiful, Nordic/Swedish, friendly) had begun to put them into a paper sack after carefully wrapping a generous layer of packing tissue around the glass, but I waved off the sack. “I’m a tree hugger,” I explained, and she graciously handed me the wrapped shot glass which I put into my front right jacket pocket, and the book which I had put into my inside left jacket pocket. I knew I’d be reading it on the train, and it was time to boogaloo back through Lincoln Park and onto Union Station. From my previous foray into the Windy City Wilds, I had learned to travel light and to return to the train station early. I didn’t want to be the 196th of 200 people boarding the southbound #305. The timing was perfect.  We arrived at 4:15 for the 5:15 departure, and there was an unexpected bonus.

En route to the bonus, a near panic as I entered the ground floor waiting area and stuck my hand inside my jacket to retrieve the ticket I had put into my shirt pocket. It was not there! I knew that’s where it would be, and the prospect of trying to board the train without it flashed before my eyes! I groped, guessing that if it hadn’t fallen out the bottom of my jacket, it might still be close to my shirt . . . . and I was right. I found it. Chances are that if I had n0t worn my vest to Chi’ from Spring’ that ticket would be blowing over the hinterland between the History Museum and Union Station. “CHEEses,” I thought to myself. “That was close!”

I arrived early in line at 4:20 with only eight or nine travelers standing or sitting on the floor. One was a late 20s fellow, sitting on the floor against a structural pillar, surrounded by about 8 pieces of luggage. He was in line for the southbound train that would depart from Gate C after mine. We talked briefly, and he asked if I’d watch his luggage for him while he went outside for a cigarette. “It’s been too long, man,” he said. “I’ve gotta have a smoke!” I wasn’t going anywhere, and I was happy to keep my place in line by his bags. He returned in about 20, a happier, satisfied man.

One thing about traveling with a guitar. I seem more inclined to talk with strangers, and strangers seem more inclined to talk with me. Hell, I could be James Taylor with a theatrical beard for a disguise. And any stranger could be an entertainment booking agent which I need badly.

About 4:45 a pubic address announcement advised all passengers planning to board the #305 who were under 18 and traveling alone and all passengers 62 or over to make a separate line at the entry portal. We would be the first to board the train. WONDERFUL!  GREAT IDEA! THANK YOU AMTRAK!          And so we did.

It was a breeze. This time I placed my bag and guitar in the overhead rack. At 4:50 I sat down in a window seat that would be fine for photography, even though it was getting too dark for any pictures. Ten minutes after I sat, the rest of the passengers came aboard. Again, every seat had been sold. The train began to move at precisely 5:15.

Among them were several disappointed Chicago Bears fans festooned with a variety of “officially authorized” NFL attire. From their long faces, it was obvious their team had lost to the Green Bay Packers. Passenger Dave was a Bears fan. He sat next to me for the next few hours.  We said all of 10 words to each other for the duration.

It was what he didn’t say to me that moved me. Early into the trip he closed his eyes and sat quietly. When a call came in on his cell, he explained to the caller he was on his way, the Bears had lost and that he couldn’t talk now; he’d call back. Not long after, a second call came. It was obviously the person he had cut short earlier. He called her Jodie.  Their 11-year marriage were coming to an end. In the course of the conversation, Dave told Jodie he considered the 11 years “wasted.” They had two kids who would stay with her. He would stay at their house until the new year for tax and accounting purposes, but he would move out in January. Several times he tried to make it clear to her that even though she had not explicitly told him she didn’t want him in her life, it was obvious to him, and he was making it clear to her it was over. He didn’t understand why she wouldn’t say it.  Conversation over. Twenty minutes later,  another phone call. One of the kids. No conversation about the coming separation. Soon after, another call from Jodie.  Dave was concerned that she would not be there at the station to pick him up. Was he going to have to take a cab? He wanted to know. I don’t know that she agreed to be waiting. It was unsettled when he ended the call.

On the way to Chi’ they announced we would accelerate to 110 miles per hour on a stretch of newly improved track. From my window, looking at the countryside, it felt like we were going 110 mph. On the return trip at about the same place, they announced that typically we would travel at 110, but not tonight. There had been an “equipment malfunction.” No problem. I was in no rush.

In the meantime, I was getting sleepy and began to worry about missing Springfield. I went to the dining car tor a can of Coke with a glass of ice and brought it back to my seat. It gave me some energy, and I knew I’d be fine.

When the train stopped at Bloomington, several passengers exited the train, and Dave moved to sit with a friend a few rows back. I now had two seats to myself, and just to experience the view from the aisle-side I moved one to the right and brought my overhead book bag down. Then I took a self portrait.
Until I had departed the train, the trip had been terrific. It went south when I discovered there was not a single taxi waiting outside the station. This was a first for me. I roamed the lot; found not one. I even asked a few people obviously waiting for a ride if they were waiting for a cab. Three polite shrugs and shaking heads and one “No, I’m waiting for my husband who is coming to pick me up.” (lucky man) I was told by station personnel that cabs often parked by the curb on Washington at the “designated (there was a sign) cab parking place.” There was no cab, but a fellow was standing there. I asked if he was waiting for a cab, and he said yes, he had called one. I am guessing he was a first time cab caller from our station because I knew cabbies park near the entrance to the station. At that instant, I saw a Yellow Cab arrive probably 200 feet from us, close to the station entrance. I said “I see a cab right now. He’s over there,” and began walking toward it. . . .

I knew I had not called it, so my first words were “May I share this ride?” The driver asked if I can called, I said I had not and pointed to the fellow walking toward us. “It’s up to him,” the driver said. After determining that the other fellow’s destination was on the direct route to my home and that he would get out first, I took a seat behind him.

The ride was a breeze. I walked the last half block from the nearest street corner to my home. I walked through my front door and glanced at my watch. 10:01 precisely.

Live long . . . . . . . and proper.

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Return to Chi’ (or) I Didn’t Even Change Shorts — part C

I awakened about 9:30 after one of the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months. The location was Peter and Byung’s office-turned-guestroom on the ground floor of their condo, a scant 15 feet from the guest bathroom with the night light above the vanity. I had said my goodnights to my hosts and their friend Chris, a delightful woman whom I thought might go out with me if two of us lived in the same city. She was so charming that before I toddled down to the guest room with a final nightcap of all the Sauterne wine I could pour into a medium-size glass without likely spilling any, I gave her a copy of my book Confluence of Legends. It was third of three I parted with during my visit, the second of two I gave away.  I was so at peace with the world that I almost forgot about the pair of shorts (Fruit of the Loom if you must know) I had packed for the excursion. I did, in fact, think of them. I considered the circumstance. I hadn’t perspired much over the last day. Everything in the shortsall area was commendably clean and un-offensively scented. “What the hell?” I said to myself. “I’ll save these shorts for Monday.” And I did

!Peter had invited me to come upstairs to their living room and read when I was ready to meet the day, explaining he is a “night person (as is Byung) and would not likely join me until pretty well into the morning. I was fine with that. While waiting, I finished the Mozart biography I had started the day before on the train. It was a small book. Peter and I were munching sliced apple and sipping coffee by 11.

Then it was time to roll. I can’t remember the names of the main roads traveled but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if Peter had not taken a liking to me when I recited at Vachel Lindsay’s house in October 2010, I would have passed to dust having never shared this vista on a Sunday morning in Chicago. I consider Peter to be the A.J. Foyt, the Mario Andretti, the Sterling Moss of high-speed driving!

The second picture here has been slightly retouched.

First stop on the day’s itinerary was the Chicago Zoo.
This part of the zoo is a small farm which is there to educate children of Chicago who will never see a farm: denizens of the city deep, who will never travel to rural USA far removed from a four-lane highway. I know this because Peter is a Chicago historian and tour guide for hire among other laudable attributes.
 

We parked in a free parking curbside area near the lakefront. “On a clear day, you can see Indiana from here,” he explained. I was happy to see the lake; mad a memo to self to see more of it after the weather warms.  The zoo was closed for the winter, but the walking paths we well engaged by many on foot.

From this board walk, visitors in summer rent paddleboats to putter around a large, sheltered pond close to Lake Michigan. This area is part of Chicago’s Lincoln Park.

One way to be certain you’re in Lincoln Park is this statue of Ulysses Grant on horseback close to the lake. At Chicago’s Grant Park, they boast a fine statue of Lincoln so visitors will know they’re in Grant park. This is a long telephoto pic, and I would looooooove to spend an entire morning or afternoon roaming this territory and getting close to Grant’s statue and beachfront.

Another way to know you’re in Lincoln Park is this statue of Benjamin Franklin. That’s Peter posing for a picture he probably never thought would appear in this blog. The morning was chillier than I looks here. We were walking into a moderate headwind. It was good to know that the return to the car would be helped by  a tailwind.

Mr Franklin was in good spirits. Must have been his hardy Boston lifestyle!

We were heading for the Chicago History Museum, a major attraction which should be on every visitor’s itinerary. It’s across the street from a major evangelist’s church, a beautiful brown stone complex with a sanctuary that seats about 3,000, Peter explained. He knew that the Sunday service had concluded shortly before we arrived on the museum side of the street, and he was curious about the place. So was I. There were still many attendees exiting the building after socializing, and the atmosphere was incredibly warm. Not a frown to be seen. We had no trouble entering that famous sanctuary and taking a few pictures. No one approached us and asked who we were or the purpose for our visit. Everyone was focused on their reason for being there; not ours.


I could have spent an hour photographing the sanctuary.

This is the view of the Chicago History Museum from the front of the church.

Photography inside the museum is a challenge because of  the contrasting bright lights and moderate overall ambient light. Human eyes adjust to it better than cameras, but the displays are a real “tour de force” not only of Chicago, but of the culture of the USA as well.

The woman is reading a very interesting, nutshell chronology of the land and the city. I knew the instant I saw her that I wanted to photograph her, but she was moving to the right faster than I hoped.  I neither know nor care what the door is on the right, and I know it’s a visual “ersatz element in this picture, but I did not want to interrupt her to ask her to “pose” for a picture more to the left.  I would have lost the authentic moment, and I do like how she stood at this fleeting half a second as she read the text on the wall.

My true “photo harvest” from the museum came as we approached the stairway to the ground floor.

The second picture is from the same position at the top as the first, but I stood closer to the edge to reveal the poster.

Looking back up in the direction from whence we came.

A final savoring of line and form.
Visible to the right of the fountain (closed for the winter) is the Chicago History Museum. Across the street is Ellie’s where we ate a fantastic lunch. It was terrific.

A last look at a memorable museum.

I had a train to catch (that would depart Union Station) at 5:15, and we wanted to be arrived at the station with plenty of time to spare. En route back to Peter’s car — in fact almost across the street from it in Lincoln Park — we encountered this steel sculpture, another amazing presence . . .

A pose of the wayfaring folkslinger (photo by host Peter). With Peter’s talent at the wheel, the trip to the station was a breeze.
Live long . . . . . . . . . . and proper.

Coming next on Return to Chi’ (or) I Didn’t Even Change My Shorts,  I have a picture perfect return to my home town as a sobering story unfolds before my ears. Look for it Sunday.

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Return to Chi’ (or) I Didn’t Even Change Shorts, part 2

Visiting the Windy City the second time by Amtrak is a lot easier the second time than the first.  I knew that wherever I exited the station at street level, if I turned right or left and kept the station on only my right or left side, walking around the block, eventually I’d see the familiar CVS Pharmacy across the street at one of four corners I knew I would encounter,  and that was the corner where I would wait for Peter. The night before, I had explained in a brief phone call that I had shaved off my mustache, but I had kept the rest of the manicured full beard.  It was conceivable that without that advisory, he would have driven by that guy with the brown leather jacket that looked like the one I wore last year when I visited . . . and the same guitar . . . and the same dress slacks . . . and not stopped because I was missing a vital element above my upper lip. Happily for MOI, he recognized me. The time was about 10:40. The rain was light.

One of the first subject to come up after stowing the luggage and instrument in the trunk was lunch.  Peter assumed I had eaten on the train. He wasn’t hungry and he didn’t expect to be hungry for a while. It was 10:40 in the morning and I hadn’t touched food since 7 last night. I wasn’t famished-hungry, but my body was telling me it was time for more. Even so,  I can miss a few meals, and not have to buy new pants. Besides, I had not come for the cuisine, I had come to see the city. Soon we were barreling down a major avenue in the direction of a silent auction fundraiser at a visual arts gallery/studio which had been a beautiful large home in ages past in a healthy-looking neighborhood in the general vicinity of University of Chicago.  We arrived about 11:10 when they were taping yellow silent auction forms to a wonderful variety of creations already placed. More was on the way. Peter knew Laura, the director of the event, had taken a course at this house. The arts organization that had rented it for years had lost their lease, and the auction would raise funds to help the move to a new location if they could find a new location. I felt I was visiting a funeral home before the “guest of honor” was wheeled in and the chairs had been arranged. The event  — the silent auction — would begin at 1 pm, but we were welcome to look around, even go upstairs. There was a lot to see: within and from within. Former fireplaces were focal points in every room on the ground floor. I would have loved to have seen the large portrait that must have hung above the piano room pictured here. What was his/her name? Occupation? What had happened to the painting? It’s obvious in the picture that one honkin’-big painting had presided over that room possibly in the early 40s but not likely much later.

We strolled past the piano room into the room where the wine would be shared. Everything was very much “in process.” I believe the hanging fabric was an artistic creation, but I didn’t get close enough to tell for sure.
I paused to take this picture before we drifted up the stairway to the second floor . . .
  In addition to the gift shop at that level were rooms which had been studios, maybe living quarters for artists. I could imagine being inspired by the natural light  and perhaps sitting for a portrait in the room pictured left.
The view from a window in the “gift shop” revealed a Unitarian church just down the street we would soon  walk by it on the way to building that might have served as home to King Arthur.

On the way back to the stairs, I noticed the Soft Room with the door slightly opened. It was a fascinating concept. The “no shoes” warning was an excellent touch. If we had visited on a sunny morning with a little more time, I would have taken off my shoes and gone inside.

Peter told me about the place we were walking to, but I didn’t have my digital tape recorder, and I wasn’t taking notes.  It was much more than a meeting hall on the University of Chicago campus. The few pictures I took inside will say only what they can say . . .

This was the central gathering  area. Forward here took us to a lecture hall if I remember right. To the right was a hall to other rooms and to the left was a stairway going up.

View from a landing halfway up to the second floor shows a tastefully garlanded hand railing. I imagined this space in the 30s before plastic event registration tables and folding chairs contributed a touch of garage sale ambiance to the otherwise Harvard-esque tableau. It was time to go.

  The Smart Museum of Art, also on campus was next.  It was the highlight of the day.  I could have spent two hours here solo with a camera, pen and paper for taking notes.  The incredibly spacious lobby — big as Texas — featured a coffee shop with baked snacks, table and chairs. I seldom eat when I can avoid eating, so I had coffee, and it was excellent.

This is the view of the lobby. A welcoming greeter is behind the desk on the right, refreshments behind him and tales and chairs in the center area. The large mural is a black & white composite photograph from Czechoslovakia (if I recall correctly)  created on a  fabric hanging that came together from four separate pieces, each about as big as Vermont. The photo above shows natural color photograph.  The mural is very interesting; lots going on  For the fun of it I created a colorless rendition from my original.

This is the ‘grey scale edition.

By fully saturating the picture with my computer’s photo software, I “hyper-colorised it.

I gave the same treatment to a closeup of one of my favorite parts of the wonderful mural.                                                                   The following photos are shared for the most part with no information about the art. I was floored, knocked out, by the variety and quality of what was displayed . . .

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Here, my friend and generous host Peter reads about the table and chairs designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.   It was approaching 2:15: time for lunch.

Here’s the view of the opposite side of the enclosed yard as we departed for the excellent walk back to the car. There were people on the sidewalks walking places. No one got in the way. Faces were focused forward . . .                                                                                                  

       a closer view

Peter recommended a place called Steak & Egger. I was in no mood for breakfast, but I was game for anything but a filet of sole with the name Floursheim embossed into it.

Located in a former very high traffic location during the industrial age, the territory around was still busy after becoming home to many newcomers of Mexican and Spanish origin. Even so, the menu was in English. It reminded me of a Steak & Shake with a long counter overlooking the major part of the cooking area and surrounded by a wide “U” of tables and chairs. There was a lot of convivial patter and chatter, smiles everywhere and surprisingly busy for mid-afternoon. I was absolutely delighted with Peter’s taste in restaurants! After a delicious fried chicken special with mashed potatoes, string beans and a nice dinner salad. The owner kindly wrapped the thigh and breast I had not eaten in aluminum foil. I intended to savor the leftover for dinner  after I returned to Springfield. I honestly and truly recommend Steak & Egger to all friends and amigos y amigas visiting Chicago with time to find it. Peter took my picture outside before we headed for his condo about 4:15. You see here a satisfied man!
After unpacking at Peter’s and Byung’s I sat in on some Ph.D candidate students’ informal gathering with Professor Byung whom they addressed by her unmarried last name — Professor Soo, I believe. They were all deep into paperwork and final projects. most planning  to graduate next year.  The field was school administration. The friendly repartee between professor and students was as between colleagues focused on great mutual affection and respect and shared goals. After the conference, the students departed and friends began arriving for the Christmas party where I had been invited to play and sing.

It was a most terrific Christmas party!

Live long . . . . . and proper.

Next time on “Return to Chi’ (or) I Didn’t Even Change Shorts” our hero and his exceedingly kind host Peter visit Lincoln Park, the Chicago History Museum and during the long day’s journey into night, I listen to a marriage come apart as my seat mate argues with his wife about their coming separation on his cell phone. Stay tuned.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

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Return to Chi’ (or) I Didn’t Even Change My Shorts, part 1

I had been on the train to Chicago about two hours before I toot the first picture.   The burned out  building across the track from our stop at Pontiac, Illinois  was typical of the mood of the rainy, dark and drab morning since leaving the Springfield Amtrak station at 6:32. The land tells a tale of woe in winter. The one ray of sunshine that entered my picture was a young woman who boarded the coach class car a few minutes after me, who approached as asked if the aisle seat beside my window seat was taken. “It is if you would like to sit in it.” is what I should have said, and whatever I said worked because  she sat down. From that point on, as the Number 305 began to roll, I knew I was one of the luckiest passengers on the train.

I was in no rush to be chatty, and neither was she; a good thing.  Thanks to the rainy sky and hour of the new day, the whole car seemed hushed. A few passengers, obviously aboard since St. Louis or before had taken advantage of the seats with spare empties and stretched, to occupy both in blissful slumber through the night. There would be ample time for talk in the coming 3 1/2 hours. I glanced peripherally in her direction as she pulled out a Sports Illustrated, thumbed through it, stopping to read an article, it seemed, then looked over some papers from a computer printer. This took about an hour and a half.  I stared out the window at the darkness, mildly perturbed that the seat was positioned awkwardly behind the closest window. To take pictures when the sun rose to the occasion, I’d have to lean forward. It was really going to crimp my modus operandi, but as the light began to creep into the morning, I knew I wasn’t going to photograph anything significant anyway with the rain drops all over the window. There was no point in gazing into the dark so I began to read a small biography of Wolfgang Mozart I had brought for such a glum circumstance.

My trainmate sat still, eyes closed, no doubt, dozing. I know this because people don’t open their months slightly when they are meditating or feigning slumber. When I first noticed, her head faced pretty much forward, but over the miles it rolled to her left. I know this seems crazy to confess, but I felt I was watching something sacred as she slept. I glanced at her probably five times over that quiet hour, and never for more than a few seconds at a time. I didn’t want her to awaken to see me watching her. After her nap we began to lob remarks back and forth, and gradually began to converse. The entree to what would be civil, convivial patter for the rest of the journey was my asking her, “Are you a dancer? I noticed you reading the Sports Illustrated when we started, and I thought you might be with a ballet or something.”

No, she was not a dancer although she volunteers for an arts organization in Quincy, Illinois where she lives and works. She was coming to Chicago to go shopping and take a break from the home town. We chatted about Quincy and the times I had enjoyed there when on the road selling Encyclopedia Britannica. I was surprised she had not yet visited the Quincy museum, across the street from what used to be the Lincoln-Douglas Hotel where I used to stay, now a home for senior citizens.  I introduced myself; told her my name is Job and asked her first name.
She was Anna Lee. BEAUTIFUL name! Later, after we had talked awhile, I asked if I could take her picture. She said “yes.”

When I boarded the train, I had put my laptop computer carrying bag in the overhead luggage, but had placed my guitar, soundbox to the bottom and neck up, between my legs. Eventually, it entered the dialogue as I explained I was going to entertain at the Christmas party of some Chicago friends, Peter and Byung who had been visiting the Vachel Lindsay home State Historic site in 2010 when I was featured speaker at an event there.

As we rolled along I snapped a few pictures of the scenery outside, but my heart wasn’t in it. The weather was not my friend.  I recognized a lot of the scenery from my trip last year when I spoke, recited and sang at Chicago’s College of Complexes, thanks to the invitation and hospitality of my new friends Peter and Byung. I took probably three more pictures, and, two days later,  after reviewing them, decided none were fit to share.

As the train began to pull away from the Joliet station, I remembered to call Peter to let him know I was this far into the trip so he could start out for Union Station to meet me curbside by the CVS Pharmacy, I dialed his number.  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . .   and discovered no answer and no voice mail! DANGIT! Peter had lost his cell phone and had told me earlier in an e-mail he’d be borrowing his wife’s on Saturday morning. I called her number five times. The only result was that I learned, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his charming wife, Byung, had not set up voice mail! I had noticed Anna Lee using an Android or something like it earlier, so I asked if she could access e-mail with it. She could. And did. I gave her the information and we found Peter’s e to me in which he had given me Byung’s cell number. YES (surprise!) I HAD copied it correctly! I tried a few times more. NOTHING! Back to Anna Lee . . . Could she go back to that e-mail from Peter since all his e-mails include his home and office phone numbers. Maybe he had found his phone and didn’t tell me. . . . I called both numbers  . . . twice! No joy.  Anna Lee suggested she could e-mail him a note to call me on my cell. At least I would answer it. So we e-mailed him something cryptic with my cell number. . . . . . . . And in five minutes or so my phone rang.  WHHHHEEEEEEW!

Okay, all was set. No worries.  I gave Anna Lee my “Balladeer For Rent” folksinger card, and to my surprise and delight, she gave me her business card with an e-mail address.  As the train entered the dark part of the station, slowing to a stop, Anna Lee rose to get her luggage, and asked if she could pass me my laptop case. “Absolutely,” I said, and reached into one of the pockets, removed a copy of my book Confluence of Legends about my visit to Urbana, Ohio where I read a Vachel Lindsay poem and played/sang folk songs.  I explained I would wait for most of the passengers in our car to depart before following with my bulky guitar thanked her profusely for being such terrific company! She indicated the same satisfaction from our serendipitous encounter and went happily down the aisle.

My laptop case was full of my books: the afore-mentioned Confluence, plus Minstrel’s Ramble: to Live and Die in Springfield, Illinois and Bear’ sKin, two of my  three poetry books and Springfield Aviation from Arcadia publishing. I had also brought copies of some Vachel Lindsay poems (I recite what I’ve memorised at the drop of a hint) and the Mozart biography. In one pocket were my hair brush, a bottle of after-shave from a grocery store. I had forgotten my toothbrush and toothpaste, though I had brushed before leaving Springfield. Finally, I had packed a pair of clean shorts, Fruit of the Looms, for the return trip the next day. I needn’t have bothered.

The trek into the station up the escalator and over to the CVS to wait for Peter was a breeze, in light rain. I would have been as happy to be walking in magnificent downtown Chi’ if it had been raining cats and dogs. I had packed light, I had my guitar, some great memories from the trip with Anna Lee. I was looking forward to seeing Peter and Byung again. I wasn’t merely Springfield folk slinger; I was frikking James frikking Taylor! I was a frikking STAR! I was absolutely where I wanted to be!

. . . Coming next on “Return to Chi’ (or) I Didn’t Even Change My Shorts” part 2: I meet Peter and tour an art house preparing for a silent auction and the FABULOUS MAJOR University of Chicago Art Gallery!

Live long . . . . . . . and proper.

 

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Visitor From an Advanced Planet

A friend from an advanced planet visited my home and my city last weekend. His name is Peter Pero, and the advanced planet is Chicago, which is my way of saying “it’s another world.” I know because I visited the city, his home and his charming wife Byung earlier this year when I was invited to share the story of Springfield poet Vachel Lindsay, his poetry, my poetry and s0me of my songs at Chicago’s College of Complexes, a club for citizens who like to think and learn. It was a fab weekend, I wish to bejeebers I could visit and perform there again, and if anybody’s interested, the full story of my visit can be found in my Honey & Quinine posts around March of this year. Peter wanted to learn more about the Lindsay fanatic, my city and  my aviation museum.

Friday night we had dinner at Casa Real on North Grand, not far from Abraham Lincoln Capital Airport. The place was packed, and noisier than some jet engines I have stood next to. The food and service were excellent. After, we drove to a Shop’N'Save across the street and bought a few six packs of Michelob Premium Amber Ale. There was most of a gallon of Carlo Rossi Burgundy already at home in case that proved insufficient.

Peter was impressed with my collection of vinyl records. They seemed as rare as arrowheads to him. He was delighted to find my Phil Ochs album “All the News that’s Fit to Sing” in the rack. Phil was a passionate folksong writer/performer whom Peter remembered when Ochs sang at the Art Institute of Chicago some weeks before he committed suicide. Peter had not heard Ochs’ song “The Thresher” which I’ve been playing and singing since about 1968, and it was as much an education for him as his memories of the man were for me. I introduced him to one of my fave musician songwriters who lightened the sky like a Roman Candle and sadly faded to oblivion: pianist Biff Rose. I saw Rose twice on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, bought all three of his albums and mourned is sorry fade to ignominy. We listed to all three albums, plus some Basie, The Dillards, a Mike Nichols and Elaine May comedy album; also part of an album by Southern regional comedian Dave Gardner (who played Springfield’s Lake Club in the 60s; my father met him when he visited Roberts Bros. downtown to buy some clothes). The evening was a hoot, and it was a late night for the both of us: lights out about 2:30.

I respect the wishes of my house guests in the main — the worst exception being “Lenore” of the spring of 2009. I could write a book consisting mostly of my regrets about that wonderful encounter that went south faster than the Titanic, but with no permanent fatalities beyond the death of a dream. I’ll spare you the details –  and Peter recommended commencing the rest of the morning at 9:00 am. I was happy to oblige, but my morning commenced in my home office at 7, which is late for me.

A visit to the restored Lincoln-Herndon Law offices downtown was item #1 on the day’s itinerary. Unfortunately, the place was short-staffed, and the one person there was in he middle of a scheduled group tour. We heard him advising the gentleman at Tinsley Dry Goods souvenir shop, accessible through an open door at the back of the visitor orientation area on the Law Offices’ ground floor. Tinsley is a terrific gift shop for anyone seekiln’ Lincoln. We looked around; nothing lightened our wallets.

We went next door to Prairie Art Alliance’s Gallery II, delighted it was OPEN a little after 9:30 and equally delighted to encounter my friend, manager Jennifer Snopko at the welcoming desk.

Jennifer Snopko, proof positing that not all works of art hang on walls

I had not been there since playing and singing at their First Friday gallery reception, and it was great to see so much new art.

Peter Pero, visitor from an advanced planet at Prairie Art Alliance Gallery II.

watching tourists from other planets outside Gallery II

view from the front desk at Gallery II

With the permission of their chaperones, the young ladies outside Gallery II posed for Obewan Cameraguy.

The group tour was still underway upstairs at the LHL Offices, so we boogied across the street and half a block south to

 

 

The Golden Frog Cafe, which, sadly ceased operations seven days after our Saturday visit, offered some terrific souvenirs, among them this.

The Golden Frog where the creative thinkers group Writers Bloc was certain to be in session. Since I must work most Saturdays, this was my first opportunity to visit the new meeting venue.. The writers are all long-time friends of mine, and it was great fun to introduce my friend from an advanced planet.

We enjoyed a light breakfast and coffee, all prime chow and caught up with the peoples’ lives. Peter wisely decided to try a third time to visit the Lincoln-Herndon under-staffed Law Offices while we natives jabbered away in the usual way, and he returned later appearing satisfied with  his good fortune visiting the upstairs main event over there.  He was just in time to savor, following his return, the sounds of Bossa Azul, a local “bossa and jazz” trio I am happy to call friends.

Bossa Azul at play (and song) October 20 at The Golden Frog Cafe.

briDEEP, briDEEP, briDEEP

We stayed for a set of their scintillating strains before taking off to the airport.

Peter visits the Research Room at AeroKnow Museum

AeroKnow Museum is best seen in daylight. Yes, there are lights there, but daylight is the best time to see the six rooms upstairs. We were also less rushed than then previous evening when he arrived, parked his car for the entire visit  in the free parking lot, and I became host and tour guide in my pickup truck.  He seemed to appreciate the collection. Too bad he doesn’t live closer to Springfield. A friend who might want to help is a terrible thing to waste.

considering a model of a Japanese torpedo bomber in the Kits Room

It was at that point that the battery in my Sony Cyber-shot ran out of juice. To give it time to recharge, we departed for lunch at the restaurant Galery II’s jovial Jennifer had recommended for Peter’s first HORSESHOE SANDWICH (choice of meat on open-faced toast — white, whole wheat or rye — and smothered with french fries and an incredibly well-prepared cheese sauce), a Springfield landmark like Lincoln and Lindsay. The Brickhouse is located on west side of 5th Street between Adams and Monroe. Jennifer was absolutely RIGHT about their horseshoe sandwich. There were many customers, but the ambiance was commendably quiet, absolutely terfiic!  I was blown away by the sprinkling of chive on the top and the mildly “warm” seasoning of the sauce. I am not a hot sauce fan, but I totally enjoyed the treatment of the sandwich. It was too “hot” for the visitor from an advanced planet. When he asked for a simple lettuce salad, our server brought an AMAZING production of greens and a plethora of additional items (carrots, olives . . . all sorts of salad “fixin’s”) Peter was knocked over by its appearance, and so was I. He didn’t even want dressing on it; just wanted it to tame the seasoning of the cheese sauce. He gave half of it to me, which went home in a “doggie bag,” and I enjoyed it with dressing, with dinner Sunday night. I can’t wait to go back to The Brick House for another horseshoe.

We returned to the airport to retrieve my camera with battery charged, and then it was back to town to tour the Illinois State Museum.

outside the entrance, a happy surprise

 

I don’t know WHAT this is, but it was great to see the words of Springfield poet Vachel Lindsay and the artistic creation of my friend Felecia Olin!

information about the creation at the base

It was as interesting as always, and Peter was impressed.

posing with a creature that was native to these parts, even before Abe

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Then we drove out to Washington Park to hike off some of the horseshoes we were digesting.The walk was excellent. Lots to see and photograph.

 

 

 

 

 

Foreground: Peter Pero. Background: Washington Park’s Thomas Rees Memorial Carillon during the annual PumpkinFest.

 

 

 

 

 

view of the carillon in late afternoon

 

Peter and inspiring sculpture

My friend Felecia Olin was having a one-woman gallery showing at The Pharmacy (visual artists organization) Warehouse,, walking distance from my home. We walked over there and spent about an hour. Because my Cyber-shot was out of battery again, I took my Canon EOS 20D SLR with a telephoto lens. I knew I would photograph everything  at atleast 70mm and up to 300mm, it was my only choice, and I thought it would be  great fun to play with it. I was right.

Around the gallery, people come and go, talking of Feliciangelo. (Sorry TSE)

 

a painting by Springfield artist Felicia Olin

 

visitors to FeliciaWorld, a terrific event

We walked home drank more ale on the front porch. Joining us was my guitar. We serenaded the lawn grubs for about two hours in the perfect autumn-crisp air and turned in early.

The next morning I occupied myself in my home office for two and a half hours waiting for 9 am, and it was time well spent. Then we walked over to my favorite breakfast restaurant a few blocks away and enjoyed another fantastic meal before heading out to the airport where Peter was reunited with his car, and he motored home to an advanced planet.

The visit was great fun. I felt like I was on VACATION.  As soon as Peter can find me a place where my songs and poetry — and reciting Vachel Lindsay’s poetry — are welcome for the cost of train fare, I intend to return north, and Peter hopes to bring an aviation enthusiast friend to Springfield, probably next year.

Thanks again to Peter Pero for the memorable visit and to you, the cherished reader of Honey & Quinine for reading this post. If you are into poetry, guitar, aviation or Lincoln and want to visit my town and stay at a semi-famous house where a visitor from an advanced planet slept two nights on a parlor sofa, let me know. I’d likely love to welcome you too.

Live long . . . . . . . . . and proper.

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Approaching 65 — #25 — I Don’t Believe Laura Bush

On Facebook today I encountered a nice picture of Laura Bush, whom, you may recall, married the son of a man I admire and respect: George Herbert Walker Bush. With the picture was text of something she said, “I have always been proud of my country.” With the picture and quote was an exhortation to “Click ‘Like’ if you believe Laura Bush is a great American.”

Right from the “giddyup” as her husband might say, I did not believe her. To believe her, I would have to believe that during her lifetime . . .
Laura Bush was proud of the dogs and police that assaulted hundreds who stood up in Montgomery, Alabama for their rights as ordinary citizens of her country. . .
Laura Bush is proud that tens of thousands of soldiers, sailors and airmen and probably hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians died because two of her country’s wars in the years since the Korean War were fabricated on a foundation of lies.. . . . . . .
Laura Bush is proud that “cronyism and, good old boy politics” taken to new depths by President Obama’s predecessor make Richard Daley Sr., Huey Long and Marion Barry look like Mother Theresa.
Laura Bush is proud that a national presidential  election can be made null and void by a court whose constitutional dictum does not permit court action to play a role in deciding outcomes.

I could go on . . . . . . .

If Laura Bush is proud of her country, she is the Blagojevich who believes her husband innocent — not because she doubts he did what he did, but because of the principal of the thing. It’s not patriotic to speak out against evil, just as it was not patriotic to try to change Lieutenant William Calley’s mind before he and his platoon slaughtered an entire village of “slopes” in South Vietnam. It’s patriotic not to ask about the stench wafting through the countryside from the new “prisoner of war camp” near Belsen. It is not patriotic to call into question a presidential candidate’s real LOVE for defenseless doggies.

I have been proud of my country most of my few days short of 65 years. I was proud when Dwight Eisenhower was elected President of the United States of America. I wore an “I Like IKE” button all the time at Lawrence Elementary School. I was proud of my country when any US astronaut flew in space and particularly during the entire Apollo program; when  President Lyndon signed the civil rights act into law; whenever American athlete medaled in the Olympics; when Egypt’s Anwar Sadat and Israel’s Menachem Begin signed a peace accord brokered by our nation’s diplomats.

I could go on . . . . .

Laura Bush is a “great American” the way my new sofa is a “great house,” the way Robert Frost’s wife was a “great poet”, the way an easel is a “great painting.” Laura Bush, Hillary Clinton, Mary Todd Lincoln, Anne Boleyn were – and two still are — major contributors to the story of their countries and to their spouses. All are complete, marvelous examples of important lives lived well — okay, except for Anne. In terms of being a “great American” I suggest Laura and her sisterhood are not “the fire” but they are an all important, essential fuel that made the fire bright.  I will not declare Laura Bush a “great American,” but I say honestly and sincerely that she is a very nice American.

And if she HAS ALWAYS been s proud of her country, I still “like” her in my own way. I hope you do too!

Live long . . . . . . . . . and proper.

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Approaching 65 — #11 — Growing Pennies in a Burgundy Bottle

When I took the last sip of Carlo Rossi Burgundy in the duplex I was renting in about 1989, I had no inkling that I”d have that bottle with me in a duplex I owned 22 years later. It moved when I moved: from 326 S. MacArthur to 521 S. Glenwood to 1213 Interlacken to 428 W. Vine, and today it moved to my WELCOME Room office of AeroKnow Museum at the airport.a bottle of good cents

a bottle of good cents

It came to the airport  because the thought of someone breaking into my home and stealing this investment of time and memories was more than I wanted to live with. At best the burglar would have taken it. At worst, he or she would have dropped it to the floor from where it sat on my bedroom chest of drawers since 1997 and left me to filter the valued metal alloy from the shards of broken glass — pretty much what I’ve been doing recently, metaphorically speaking, as I approach the big SIX FIVE.

It came to the airport also because putting every penny I brought home from purchases here and there was not filling the bottle fast enough for me. I was determined that I would not go to a bank and exchange a $20 bill for the equivalent in pennies. That would be cheating.

At this time in the blog I concede there is nothing artistic about the process, I do not intend to write a poem or folksong about it, proclaim the name of Cheeses (when I talk to myself I call myself Cheeses as in CHEESES, that was stupid of me!), talk about restaurants, silver dollars,  Facebook, how much I love Chicago or Fort Monroe or Ft. Wayne, Indiana or Manitowoc, or the Shymansky family (my sister Dorothy’s side) Johnny Appleseed or Vachel Lindsay, Virginia, Washington, Wisconsin and yardcare. I’ve been ticking off these items on my categories list so I can suggest to readers this post is about them . . . . . and thus court additional readers who pay attention to blogs when these categories are mentioned. NOW . . . . . . . where was I?

the bottle and the barefoot boy with cheek of tan

Oh, yes, I remember. . . . The photograph of the boy behind the bottle is of the same boy ahead of it when the picture above was taken.  If I was three years old, the year was 1950. I will post more about the picture as I approach September 5. Suffice to say now that I show that picture to darn near every visitor to AeroKnow Museum. My goal, starting this morning, is to give visitors who don’t care to share heavy dough-re-mi with the museum will lighten their pockets of pennies. I want to fill this the bottle by my birthday.

There’s a nearby donation jar for those who care to be extra-nice with larger coins and folding money.

So if you find yourself of mind and spirit to see this bombastic enterprise in the weeks ahead, please bring pennies. The dollars . . . . almost . . . . won’t . . . . matter.

Live long . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and proper.

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An Interesting Encounter with the Vachel Lindsay Association

Soon after I became a member of the Vachel Lindsay Repertory Group, I discovered a poem Vachel had written that delighted me with its humor and outlook. It was called “A Curse for the Saxophone.’ I shared the poem with Group leader Lee Nicholson (nice fellow!) who explained we could not read the poem for audiences  because the Vachel Lindsay Association (VLA), which supported the Repertory Group  (did at the time; status unknown now) did not approve of it. He didn’t say why, and I could not imagine why . . . and I have a pretty good imagination. Not long after that, for a reason that has nothing to do with the Group or VLA, I began reciting “A Curse ‘ ” as a solo reciter instead of a reader in a group of readers, and audiences responded enthusiastically to that poem and the almost 50 more I’ve memorized and continued to recite “at the drop of a hint,” since. Two or three times a year, I also recite Vachel’s “The Congo,” the only Vachel poem I know that is not permitted to be recited in his beautifully restored home. I have maintained my membership in the Association gladly. Early into my reciting around Springfield and surrounding area, as I attended VLA’s annual meeting held that year at the new Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library,  I congratulated my friend Lee Gurga, a world-famous haiku writer and expert whom had seen me recite Vachel’s poetry.  I congratulated him for his new service as an Association board member and said someday, I would like to be so lucky. I’ve not forgotten the four words he said, smiling, when he replied.

“You’d be a natural.”

It’s been at least 10 years since that conversation, and time has demonstrated that I am far less a “natural” than Lee thought. But the fact that someone I respected (and others whom I’ve respected over the years) thought me worthy, gave me confidence I had not had before, an affirmation that I had more to offer to those who love the man, the legend and the family. In the meantime, I’ve maintained my membership in the Association, attended the annual meetings, photographed them, continued to recite Vachel’s poems and the story of his life. In 2011, I shared Vachel at Urbana University at Urbana, Ohio. This year I have been invited to share Vachel at the College of Complexes (a lecture series) in Chicago,  the Knosh & Knowledge Club in Springfield and the P.E.O. Chapter E O, also in “Springpatch.” In Chicago, I was asked to speak for 45 minutes, and they didn’t ask me to cease for an hour and a half. They kept waving me on, but it was getting late, and  the owner wanted to close the restaurant, and let his people go . . . . home.  Every time I recite my poems at an open mic or party, I recite one or two of Vachel’s as well.

The P.E.O. Chapter meeting was an excellent example. A woman who had been in earshot when I recited at the Knosh club asked me to share “15 minutes” at her other club’s luncheon gathering in a private home on Springfield’s posh west side. At first, I agreed to arrive in time to recite and talk for 15 minutes, because I didn’t know I’d have a lot in common with the organization’s members as described to me by their contact liaison who had called and invited me. As the date drew closer I changed my mind and asked if I could enjoy the lunch as well. I was told “of course. We’d love to have you.”

I changed my mind because I realized I could talk a lot more about Vachel if I came for lunch, and it would give the ladies more time to get to know me, and I, them.

So I arrived on time: at noon sharp on a sunny April 12. Tables were set in two rooms, and at my table, I was asked to recite something light by Vachel, and I gladly did. The lunch was delicious and the ladies were attentive, smiling and gracious! The best thing I did that Thursday was enjoy lunch with them. My reciting was gravy, or icing on the cake; just as sweet.

They introduced me early, and as I jabbered  past 25 minutes, not paying much attention to the time, they asked me to continue, and I  did. Instead of presenting for 15 minutes, I presented (including question and answer time) for 45 minutes.  We shared warm thoughts as I prepared to return to my employer, and as I began to pull away from the curb, a club member waved me down.

“We didn’t want you go get away without a check,” she said, smiling, and put the folded document into my hand.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I had a fine time without it.”

“We insist,” she said as I put it into my shirt pocket, and shared a few departing “THANKS.”

I didn’t even look at the check until this morning. Things are ragged at my employer as they are half the time (I’m observing; not complaining. I know I’m lucky that anyone wants to employ me) and after an unexpected minor truck repair (putting new light bulbs into most of the rear lights and one in front) earlier this morning,  I really needed some bucks for groceries. So I picked the check up from my dresser and looked at it. Here is what I saw . . .

Surprise!

Obviously, I can’t cash the check. I’m going to try to borrow some dollars from my employer, though I’d rather be paid.  (It’s been two weeks. It’s TIME!) and even if he doesn’t there is enough soup and half a loaf of bread in the kitchen to carry me until Tuesday.

The check tells me something about how part of the innocently unknowing public at large perceive me as a part of the Vachel Lindsay legacy to our community. When I offered to share pictures I had taken over the years with the Association when I’m elected to serve on their board, the president accused me to trying to sell my cooperation.  Pretty sad, really.I’ve shared pictures and more with them for more than 10 years, and they never had to ask. I wanted to make a point with the VLA president, and I did.

So the next time I visit the Vachel Lindsay Home State Historic Site at 603 S. Fifth Street, I will give site administrator the check and ask her to pass it onto the Association.

The affirmation, innocent though it was, by the public who knows nothing of the story “behind the seen” is worth the loss of a week’s worth of grocery money. There is another net gain . . .

I can recite “A Curse for the Saxophone” and “The Congo” any time anyone asks me to share them. Perhaps that is the greater gift from this interesting encounter.

Live long . . . . . . . . . . and proper.

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Visit to a Toddlin’ Town — Part 7

Union Station waiting room, Chicago, Illinois

My friend and host Peter Pero moved through the traffic from Jane Addams’ Hull-House to a parking lot almost across the street from Union Station like A.J. Foyt on his way to his third win at the Indianapolis 500! We were extremely lucky. He carried something and I carried something up to the vista captured in the picture above. He directed me to the distant doors in the middle of the vista, we shook hands and the most gruelling part of the weekend trek began.

slightly retouched

On another day and time, sans luggage packed with books and a guitar, I would pause to photograph much more of the station than I’m sharing here, and I’m sure that’s okay with most readers because this has been a heck of a long series of postings.

slightly retouched

The walk to, and beyond the doors pictured below and the descent via escalator to the train boarding area beneath the streets of Chicago was a “walk in the park.” I knew I was on the verge of running late despite Peter’s free-wheeling acumen. I would be in one continuous motion except for stops of a few seconds to take the picture that follows this sentence . . . . . . l.  until I arrived at the line of passengers waiting to board the train south on track 16.  Yes, if you know “Chattanooga Choo Choo” as I do, it would have been more poetic to say “track 29,” but I’m running an honest blog here.

on my way to the escalator down to waiting trains on the other side of these doors

The large lighted boards showing the stati and track numbers of departing trains helped. Just the same, I asked who I would soon come to know as the future in-laws of a younger man with his girlfriend (their daughter) who had come to say goodbye as he returned to college in Bloomington-Normal. Conversation came easily. Glancing at the form-fitting hard-shell case clutched as though ’twere a bottle of single-malt Wild Turkey (which I could have used, but not until I was seated on the train), he said, “So do you play guitar?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “I played last night at Lincoln Restaurant in the city. Do YOU play?”

“A little,” he said.

“If we find empty seats close to each other, maybe I can hear you play, and vice versa,” I said

As he nodded in the affirmative, the conductor examining his ticket began explaining he’d have to go have his ticket “checked at that counter over there” — or words to that effect. Soooooooooooooo, he embraced and lightly kissed his fiancée (No time for passion. Heyafterall, her parents and I were watching, and besides, they’d see each other again come Easter break), he semi-sprinted to that counter over there (or words to that effect), and I didn’t see him again.

My real challenge came after the conductor examined my ticket and  instructed me to  proceed to my car.  It became a schlep of epic proportion. As I walked with a few other passengers (at first) down the outside of what appeared to be an endless train,  my camera strap, hanging from my neck for many of the past 24 hours, began to really “grate” on me. Nearly every car with an open door had a conductor who examined my ticket and motioned me on down the line.  When the fourth or fifth conductor, seeing my physical distress with all my gear and my obvious anxiety told me there was no need to rush, I continued to walk at a forced, brisk clip. I didn’t believe the conductors. I was not going to slow down until I had planted my luggage and guitar where ever the heck they wanted it deposited and sat down in an empty. . . . .frikking. . . .  SEAT! Toward the end, I didn’t even raise my eyes higher than door level of the next car. I didn’t want to see the end of the train because I knew it would only disappoint me, being so frippin’ (not as bad as frikking, and I like the alteration here) far away.  . . . . .Finally I reached the right car, was directed to deposit guitar and luggage on a shelf in a lower-level baggage area, and find a seat. This I did gladly and continued up the narrow stairway.

The car was pretty full already, and I realized this was not the time for caring a rat’s behind where the heck I sat. Still, I was carrying a camera, and I was hoping for a window seat. . . . . I got lucky. It was the last time I would get lucky until I exited the train. I saw a young woman, 24 maybe, sitting next to the aisle on her right with an empty window seat on her left. I was too tired to turn on my “convivial spigot” so I settled for “tired cool guy with a beard.” My guitar was not in sight. “Is this seat taken?” I asked, pointing to the empty beside her. When she said “No,” I replied, “May I sit here?” and she said “Yes.”

Okay, so I must concede her “Yes” was the zenith of my luck on the trip and also the end of it.  She rose and stepped into the aisle to let me sit down and re-seated herself. Across the aisle and one row back were four of her friends, all young women and all apparently returning home from the weekend in Chicago. During the next 20 minutes as the train remained still, more newly boarded passed by, looking for empty seats. The car conductor instructed a woman a few rows forward to stow her coat in the carry-on shelf above to clear another seat. Over the public address system, a voice informed us the train was completely sold out. There was not an unaccounted for seat from stem to stern. WOW!  During an occasional lull in the trans-aisle banter, in conversation that could not have been more strained on her part if you had forced it through an oil filter, I learned she was a dancer that had performed with her associates at a Chicago event, and that they were all returning to Springfield. My tone of voice in these three- to seven-word blurts of tempered curiosity (me) and condescension (her) set the tone for the waiting 200 miles of motion southbound.  We would not say a word to each other by the time we were halfway to Joliet.

After the trip I decided she was not condescending; she was indifferent.

somewhere between Union Station and Pontiac

I was okay with that. I had my window seat but nothing to read. The book I had purchased at the Chicago bookstore — Charles Bukowski’s Post Office was in my bag downstairs, I remembered, and I was not about to leave my seat.

where most of the memories linger

lingering memories, slightly retouched

The first 60 miles or so were okay. Taking pictures was now my reason to live. My eye were focused to the left, to the outside, alert 100 percent of the time on opportunities for good pictures. This got a little “old” after a while. Friends of the dancers visited from their assigned seats forward and aft.  Happy talk, young woman talk. My mind wandered. I had no pen and paper, and that was okay too. The light was starting to fade, and I was in no mood to wax poetic. The most exciting part of the journey south, which occurred soon after I took the picture above, was when I stood up to take off my brown leather jacket.  It stayed safely under my legs until I arose to exit the train.

desolation rows

What touched me most from the view as we rolled out of the metro area — a view I had seen the previous day, but not so well since I was not in a window seat the day before — was the depressing wasteland: acres of truck trailers, hundreds of them probably not fit for the road, rusting away, junkyards, abandoned industrial areas. rubble and debris, broken limbs. backsides of abandoned warehouses with rotting equipment  . . . . a clickety-clack litany of woe.

How likely is it that the entrance to Hell is located near a railroad siding? Pretty good, I'd say.

Then not far from the last vestige of metro rot, a distant quarry or something that looked like it.

distant quarry through the railside brownery

I took several pictures of the panorama, and the picture above was the only one that came out at least as “passable.”

A brief improvement in the outlook south of Joliet, compared with what I had seen to that few moments, even the wind-driven electricity generators looked good.

The gray became blue and soon after. . . . the first wind farm I had ever seen.

Amtrak station, Pontiac

I had missed this view of Pontiac station on the way into Chicago, even though I was facing the east horizon both times, sitting on the right side of the aisle going up and the left side of the aisle coming down.  A little later I glimpsed Atlanta, Illinois, a small village near McLean, south of Bloomington. I had visited Atlanta, and played guitar and sung two or three Memorial Days and recited poetry in its beautiful octagon Carnegie library and written about its restored old-time grain elevator and  murals on the walls of some of the buildings.  As I had journeyed north the day before I even saw the red grain elevator. Going south,  I glimpsed that wonderful Carnegie library. I knew a train went through the town, but I never realized it was an Amtrak train. What memories and friends I shared in that village, so many long and distant years ago!

This could have been near Fargo, North Dakota. Instead it was a snowball's throw south of Bloomington-Normal; not a felicitous portent of things to come.

The weather began turning serious-bad south of Atlanta. I could just about smell Springfield even though we hadn’t passed Lincoln, 30 miles north of home. Even though the train was still north of Lincoln I was frippin HOME. This was my turf which I had known since I drove a 1966 Ford 2+2 Mustang up to Illinois State University to spend time with my paramour Sylvia Lytle. At this stage, I can name names. For all I know she was departed from this orb by the time she was 23. Who they HEY cares?

Coming in through the purgatory part of Illinoise's Capitool . City, an anonymous patch of eye-rubble with bricks and hints of humanity for company nearby. This picture was not retouched. The scenery looked like this for real.

The fatigue of the journey gave way to the thrill of seeing MY TOWN from the train, seeing familiar buildings and intersections as I could not remember seeing them, even though I have Amtrakd to Chicago four times. I was simply never so absorbed in observing as I was this day with my seatmate. And you know something? I don’t blame her a bit. What the heck does a 20-something say to a 60-something? More power to her and her happy compatriots. Bless them all, every vibrant vivacious one. As she rose to exit first in the aisle, I did thank her for the window seat, and she said I was welcome.

I almost fell out of the exit door. The camera and luggage were shoulder-strapped round my heck, and the guitar seemed as big as a pair of snow skis. I caught my balance on that goofy, miniscule (for MY feet) boarding step and I returned to terra firma in standing mode swiftly strode through the station and into a cab with a friendly driver. The gear rode in back.

Less than 10 minutes later, I was home. I deposited my gear by the front door and returned to the street to take the picture below. Once inside, I doffed my leather jacket and reached into an inside pocket to investigate the source of the lump I had felt since donning the thing as we arrived in Springfield.  Out came the Charles Bukowski novel Post Office which had been in arm’s reach for the entire trip home. I’ll write more about the novel later here at Hon’ & Qui’.

Home sweet home at a long trail's ending.

The trip had been the most fun as I’ve had since I was 63, almost a year to the day before the trip just described,  when I visited Urbana, Ohio to read and recite poetry and  do a little picking and grinning. I’ve written about that trip here at Honey and Quinine.

Thanks again to Peter and Byung Pero, the College of Complexes and the fine citizens of Chicago for allowing me the privilege of sharing so much of your wonderful, toddlin’ town!

Live long . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  and proper.

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Visit to a Toddlin’ Town — Part 6

a last look back, leaving Lincoln Restaurant, March 3

I’m an early riser when life and I are simpatico.  I would rather miss 10 pm to midnight than 5 to 7 am. Peter had suggested that if I awakened early (He planned to rise at the crack of 9.) I should go for a walk in the neighborhood and enjoy the feel of the territory. Sorry to report I did not, partly because I concluded if there were a way for me to get lost within two or three blocks of his condo, I would find that way, and I would never make the train back to Springfield. So I lay in bed a few hours, tried to think my way back to sleep and waited for sounds of stirrings upstairs.

Peter Pero of Fillmore Street

We were fast out the door and into the neighborhood, aiming for breakfast at one of the two nearby eateries.  We walked past the first, Stax Cafe on West Taylor Street because it looked packed. When we saw the line coming out of the front door of the other, we returned to Stax, an excellent choice.
I had my camera, but took no pictures. We were seated quickly, and it was obvious the joint was jumping. Our waitress, whose father works in Springfield, was as professional as they come. The place was more polished than the shoes of a battalion of US Marines!  It was pricey — $30 for two breakfasts, I treated my host — but it was worth every cent. I would return in a heartbeat.

brownstone promenade

fascinating railings on an old, old apartment building

close up of the front of the old apartment railing. Note the Sunday newspaper on the front porch.

This huge building was part of the Hull-House social services complex engineered and administrated by the legendary Jane Addams who had known Vachel Lindsay well in the early days of his national fame. She parted ways with him when the Springfield poet refused to protest US involvement in The Great War, later known as World War I. Peter explained efforts to establish several ethnic-specialized museums in this complex are underway. It would be a perfect venue for distilling and preserving Chicago's rich cornucopia of diversity and pride. I hope it succeeds!

Before driving off for more touring, I wanted to take some pictures from Peter and Byung’s rooftop, praying the light would be right. We had visited the previous late afternoon but the sun was retiring west. I did not want to look into a rising sun; wanted it to be on my back and thus, on the skyline I knew would be waiting.

Skyline from a rooftop. This picture has been slightly retouched.

the Toddle Town Troubadour "up on the roof"

not retouched

I had hoped to see something close to the streets that Vachel knew when he was studying at the Art Institute of Chicago which I photographed the day before.

Peter drove to Paulina at 17th, close to an elevated train on a route Vachel might have taken to school when he had the fare. Peter estimated it was about a two hour walk from this corner to the Institute.

Some day, in warmer weather, I intend, I hope with a Vachel enthusiast friend or two, to Amtrak back to Chicago, take a cab to the Art Institute and then, following a city street map, walk to Paulina and then straight south to see how far we can walk in two hours. I figure that will give us a decent idea of where Vachel lived from April 1901 to June 1902.  Who knows, I might meet someone along the way who knows about Vachel’s life at that time and can direct me to the specific building where he lived, if it’s still standing.

a Polish-Catholic church that Vachel would have seen, perhaps toured if he had walked past this intersection of 17th at Paulina.

A person obviously part of the church staff nodded, giving me permission when I asked if I could take a few pictures from the back. I thought on entering, "Gee, this is the kind of service I'd expect to see on a SUNDAY! Then the thought hit me: it WAS Sunday! Vachel Lindsay might have visited this church, maybe attended a few services here.

For decades, the church served predominantly Polish parishioners. On this day, it was obvious the language was Mexican. Note the sign on the wall remains Polish. Perhaps the Mexican newcomers are learning Polish as a second language.

What history! Absolutely amazing! Who needs to tour the world across an ocean? So much of the world waits for those who care to share it in Chicago!

Two big surprises I did not photograph. The first was the gift shop down the hall probably 30 feet from the sanctuary. A great variety of souvenirs and religious “gear” were sold there including a metal coin commemorating the church’s 100th anniversary. It was only $5, and in retrospect, I SHOULD have bought one; I could afford it. But I am neither Polish, nor Mexican, nor Catholic, nor of institutionalized faith, though I’m still on the books of a local Methodist church.  I bought a postcard for $2 instead. The second surprise came as we were leaving to walk back to the car. Several people with mini-vans were setting up tables on the sidewalk by the church. Peter explained that worship makes parishioners hungry and thirsty, and a little sidewalk mercantilism is common in the neighborhood. I’ve not encountered this in my sheltered corner of the world.

Near the church, a flock of pigeons landed on the sidewalk near us. Peter suggested they were hoping for a handout from departing parishioners across the street, or maybe from the bearded galute with the fancy camera taking pictures.

Okay, you two hungry, feathered picture hogs, you made it into my story. Fly safely, and God bless you!

Heading back to the car I saw the elevated train stop and had to take a picture.

El stop less than a block from the historic church.

Next on the agenda was a return trip to Jane Addams’ Hull-House. To save some money for parking, we found a place curbside a healthy hike away and took a short-cut through the campus where I took the following pictures . . .

campus housing

campus sculpture

The copper placard on the sculpture shows years of sky-borne precipitation.

This photo of the placard has been slightly retouched for easier reading.

We arrived a few minutes before noon so we visited the University’s student union. Peter had completed post-graduate studies at UC (or is it UIC?).

Noon came soon, and we returned to Hull-House to be greeted by Rachel at the front desk. She pushes a button to let the less-dangerous-looking strangers in to see the house . . . and explained no flash photography is permitted inside.

the front parlor downstairs

looking down the stairs from the second floor

Weaving was taught to women seeking employment skills in the "loom room" upstairs. The house is focused more on the teaching of the history of the women's labor movement than replicating every room as it would have looked at the zenith of Hull-House services.

Informative, well=produced presentations were key elements in much of the meticulously maintained upstairs.

Jane Addams' death mask of face and right hand

also upstairs

Jane Addams' bedroom

another way of sharing the earlier photograph

The Guillows model airplane kit manufacturer had a connection to Hull-House and thus merits presence in the gift shop.

Peter talks with the gift shop person.

We were getting short on time. After this picture was taken, Peter and I walked “with all deliberate speed” back to the car and headed for Union Station. Before going, I learned that Rachel, who was so convivial at the downstairs front desk, had never heard of Vachel Lindsay. I told her I had included his poem about how pronounce his uncommon name in my book Confluence of Legends, and promise to mail her a copy when I returned to Springfield. Less than a week after saying goodbye,

I did!

Coming next to “Visit to a Toddlin’ Town” . . . . a perfectly timed return to Union Station and the “sold out” train ride home. Stay tuned.

Live long . . . . . . . and proper

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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