I Never Get Tired of the Old Fashioned 4th of July in Chicago

This crazy world stands still for a few hours every July 4th.  Actually it doesn't stand still as much as it goes back in time.  This spectacular sunrise lived up to its promise of a beautiful day.  Off we went, as we have for many years to the Chicago History Museum.  You may remember it as the Chicago Historical Society.  Volunteers with programs and little American flags greet us in the east plaza of the Museum.  Hundreds of Chicagoans and visitors of all backgrounds and ages have gathered here for 52 years to  experience an old fashioned 4th of July. 
As the children prepare themselves with painted faces and lots of beads for the parade, led by the worlds tallest Uncle Sam, the adults are treated not only to patriotic music by a real live orchestra, but also renderings by Cole Porter, George M. Cohan and a wide array of old time familiar music.  I love that the kids are being introduced to some of the oldies but goodies.

The Childrens' Parade is a real family affair, with moms, dads, grandparents and even dogs joining in the action.  Our Uncle Sam mingles with the kids and even jumps rope as though he wasn't on stilts.  I admire the parents who are setting an example of patriotism for their little ones.  I hope it sticks. 

After the parade is the "meat" of the program.  The posting of colors, this year by an honor guard of the American Veterans for Equal Rights (AVER)..  After the introduction of the dignitaries on the dais and the reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance and singing (yes - the crowd knows the words) of the National Anthem,  the entire Declaration of Independence is read.  This year, by Jim Darby, president of AVER.  He did a great job  - it is not an easy piece to read with the elaborate language of the day in 1776. 

The anthem of all the branches of the U.S. Military are played one by one as the veterans of each of those who served are asked to stand and be recognized.  I never get a picture of my husband, served in the Air Force, because I'm sitting next to him.  Maybe next year.  I did get this picture of a stunning female Naval Veteran of Vietnam, who served on a munitions ship for several years and is a proud VFW member.

There are many teary eyes as this part of the program is in progress, mine included.  We really do owe a debt to our U.S. Servicemen and Women.   It is they who preserve our right to gather and express ourselves freely.  Thank you.

As in the old days, an elected official is asked to deliver a keynote oration.  This year's was ably presented by a relatively new U.S. Representative from Illinois, Mike Quigley.  I must say I was impressed with his words, and also his humorous look into the U.S. House.  I think he will serve his constituents well.

Most impressive is the retiring of the colors-  lots of pomp and circumstance and pride in carrying a variety of banners.  The finale is a  reenactment of the Bess Brown musket firing  by the King's Regiment, Eighth of Foot. The Brits are unceremoniously whisked off the podium and the crowd is invited to tour the museum free of charge. 

This experience is well worth the effort to get over there.  Put it on your calendar for next year, you won't regret it.
www..chicagohistory.org

The Guilt Trip

It's all my sister's fault.

  Patsy and I spent a week in Tucson enjoying the sun and the company of our mother's youngest sister.  I had a few medical episodes while we were there and made the decision to leave earlier than I had hoped.  I just didn't want to be there alone and  wanted to be close to my own doctor and my favorite  NWM hospital..... funny how we chose our condo downtown to be near the Oak Street Beach and now cherish it because we can walk to the hospital.

On departure day, I actually felt just fine.  At the pool the day before, my sister (a nurse), my friend Martha (a nurse) and my old college roommate ( the mother and grandmother of nurses) had decided that I was to order a wheelchair to meet me on my arrival at Midway Airport.

 They were already mad at me for shunning most of their medical advice, so I went along with it.    I couldn't fake the ordering of the wheelchair, as my sister was with me at Tucson's one-horse, six gate airport. 

Sheepishly, I approached the  agent at the gate and asked if I should order the wheelchair for Midway or have the  attendant do it after take-off.  She said she'd take care of it.  I know she probably thought I was one of those disability scammers who will do anything to board early.  To her credit she didn't betray her suspicion that I was a perfectly healthy senior looking for a free ride.  She couldn't know that I had every intention of cancelling the wheelchair once in flight.  

I fly standby........ and didn't make the flight that my sister was on, but the next non-stop had plenty of empty seats. I buried my head in a book and killed a few hours, At boarding time, I again approached the gate to get my boarding pass.  A new CSA at the counter kindly said "I see you're getting a wheelchair in Chicago.  Do you need one to board? "   I told her I could walk just fine down the jetway and thanked her.   She handed me my boarding pass - in a blue, pre-board authorization sleeve. I tried to protest, but she was on to helping the next customer.

When they called for the pre-board  group, I took a deep breath, said "What the Hell!" and stepped up to join the line of wheelchairs, canes, walkers and a few other scammers like myself.  Okay - the third row window seat was nice.  I admit it.  As I sipped my Bloody Mary ( a travel requisite) I thought of when would be the time to cancel the wheelchair.  I read and slept all the way and we had landed before I knew it.

 I unbuckled, picked up my purse and sat up in anticipation of a long wait while those in front of me retrieved their obnoxiously huge "carry on" items from the overheads.  It didn't happen.  They were all the wheelchair people in front of me and they didn't move.  I was up and out in no time.

 As I thanked the pilot for the smooth landing and stepped off the plane, a young man said,"Mrs. Crawford, my name is Javier and I have your wheelchair."  I gave it another "What the Hell!"  and sat in the chair and leaned back while Javier skillfully maneuvered me up the jetway and into the terminal.  We whizzed past the moving walkways and I looked up guiltily at the  mobs of people walking, pulling bags and waiting in lines. We stopped  only so I could buy a bottle of water (so I'd have tip money).   When we got down to the baggage claim, I told Javier I was okay to get my bag and go.  He leaned in and said, "If I stay with you out to the curb, you can cut the taxi line because of the wheelchair."  You guessed it......"What the Hell!"  Javier grabbed my bag, pushed me to the front of the taxi line and I was home in record time.

I still feel a little guilty when I think about that trip,  but I keep hoping my band of nurses will force me into a wheelchair again the next time I fly. 

"What the Hell!"

Just Don't Ask Me.

Don't ask me:                                              

• If I prefer the pink or the purple
• What movie I want to see
• Where I want to go to lunch
• What time I want to eat
• Whether I want my bangs a little shorter
• Who should win DWTS
• Why I hate to shop

I have spent a lifetime making decisions.

   In the early years it was.... what to wear, who to date, what classes to take, how to solve for "x",  who to support for student council, whether or not to smoke, how to choose real friends, how to get a summer job,  how to pass botany,  what classes to cut, how to sneak out of the dorm, how to sneak stuff into the dorm, who to marry, who to invite, what to wear.

As a wife/mom it was.....what to wear,  how to cook, what to cook, how to stretch a dollar, how to bathe a baby,  how to potty train a kid, how to retrieve a dime a kid has swallowed, how to keep a kid safe, how to safely cross a street with a bunch of kids, who to let ride in the "way back", whether to get a dog, how to potty train a dog, how to keep a dog safe from a bunch of kids, how to fix that

many heads of hair every morning, how to juggle a job and night school and a bunch of teenagers, how to keep a bunch of teenagers from peril, how to keep the family car safe from a bunch of teenagers, how to detect when they: smoked, drank, snuck out of the house,  how to plan and
enjoy all those weddings, what to wear.

As a career person it was.....what to wear, how to relearn to type, how to tell debits from credits,  how to interact with adults in groups, how to get promoted, how to help customers, how to fit in the cooking and cleaning with the day job, when to keep my mouth shut at meetings,  how to express my ideas at meetings, what community groups to support,  how to plan corporate parties and events, how to write strategic plans, how to meet goals, who to mentor, who to promote, how to survive a truly horrid boss, how to drink the kool aid without gagging,  how to fit in at "headquarters",  when to tender my resignation, what to wear.

Now I'm retired.    I know I can wear my keds and khakis and polos and crew necks everyday and it doesn't make a damn bit of difference.  Kids and corporations can make their own way in life.   I am tired of making decisions.  You decide.

Just, don't ask me.

Looking In The Rearview Mirror From 2013

One hundred years ago both of my parents were born.  If they had been here in 2013 we'd have had one big party.  Sadly, many of their peers and siblings would not have been around to celebrate with us.

Fifty years ago I experienced two big losses.  My father died of Camel cigarettes and airplane fumes.  He worked for American Airlines right out of high school.  They were flying prop planes back then.  I remember flying in them.  Imagine all the things we take for granted today that he never

experienced or knew about.  Two of my children have now lived longer than my dad.  He would have loved all the grandkids.......our place in Arizona.....and Patsy and Jan's beaches.

We also lost the first president for whom I was able to vote.  I remember sitting in my college dorm watching the debates (they were pretty civilized back then.)  He was the one who inspired me to get active in politics.   I thought of him when I canvassed for Obama in Iowa a few years go.  I also remember the day he was killed.  We lived in a Quonset hut on campus with no television or telephone.  Joe was at work at one of his many jobs and when he showed up at home in the middle of the day I knew it was not good.

  We high tailed it out to Grandpa Jack's and stayed glued to the television for hours (actually days.)

Nineteen years ago I lost my mother.  I can't tell you how many times over those years I have reached for the phone to share some news with her.  I regret the times I made fun of her for watching Golden Girls - little did I know I'd grow to love them too.  She would be so proud of all of her ten grandchildren.  They were a big part of her life, and she theirs.  I still use her wooden spoon and her teapot and we all use her mother's pierogi recipe that she shared with us.  Christmas always brings her to mind.  Nobody could eat enough to make her happy.  I think she'd be satisfied on that point in 2013.

Five years ago I retired from a job that I had loved for  30 years.  I miss most of the people I worked with, resent the last boss I had who made my decision to retire easy, and stay in touch with many of the colleagues who enriched my life.  Retirement is great.  Never bored, no regrets and many thanks to the hard working people who worked for me and made me look good.

We have had many joys and losses during this year, as well.  When I look back at the end of 2014, I hope it will hold more joys than losses.  I wish only good health and happiness to my family and friends.  A little bit more peace on earth, a lot more sanity in Washington, a lot less crime in my city.  Most of all - may we all wake up breathing each morning and just be nice to each other.

Practice Makes Perfect... and other old adages

We spent a few pleasant  hours today at Millennium Park watching the Grant Park Music Festival Orchestra rehearse for tomorrow's  concert.  It is always fun to watch the musicians perform in their shorts and flip flops - knowing that tomorrow night's audience will see them in their casually elegant black and white ensembles.

We had a crazy mixed up summer, so this is actually our first time at the Pritzker Pavilion this year.  Hoping to make up for that from now until summer's end.   We've been enjoying the Grant Park Orchestra since the 1970s when it was a well kept secret over at the Petrillo band shell.  We could always spread out and enjoy the music, the wine and the food.  That is kind of hard to do in the seat structure today, so these day- time rehearsals are very special in that they are not crowded and we can bring our lunch once again.

Today was not my favorite kind of music, but exciting nonetheless.  I always learn something new from the wonderful docents who speak during the union-mandated breaks in the action,  Today I learned the difference between a soprano and a tenor saxophone.  That being said - saxophone music is an acquired taste.  Many of the others there were really into it.  I was listening and reading my New Yorker.  I stopped to watch when the famed solo sax player, James Carter joined the orchestra.  He is not only a good musician, but a showy performer, moving with ease between the tenor and soprano saxophones before him. 

After the rehearsal, we stuck around and were lucky enough to see the Detroit born Carter, Roberto Sierra, the Puerto Rican composer who wrote the Concerto for Saxophones And Orchestra, and Carlos Kalmar, who was raised in Uruguay and is our Principal Conductor putting their heads together.  It was a very spirited conversation and I would love to have been a fly on the wall as they discussed the performance of the piece.  Smiles all around.



A large group of Chicago Park District day campers joined the audience when the soloist took the stage.  They were extremely well behaved youngsters and appeared to enjoy the music.  When the rehearsal ended, a trumpet player and a violinist from the orchestra came down to the seating area and held a lively,  interactive  session with the kids, talking about the orchestra, the study of music and their own special instruments.  That made for a  heartwarming and uplifting end to a pleasant visit to the park.

What I Learned This Weekend

Had an activity packed weekend and learned  (or confirmed) a few things.  It's never to late to learn.

• There is hope for the future when a 13 year old and a 6 year old demonstrate intellectual curiosity.

Hebrew is written right to left.

Trader Joe's has the best brownie mix on earth.

WGN Radio (confirmation) should stand for World's Grossest Nonsense.  The only intelligent conversation taking place is from Lou Manfredini, to whom I listen even though I'm never going to fix anything for the rest of my life.


Some of the most civil people in the world volunteer at the Newberry Library.

The face of the Newberry Book Fair is shifting.  As bookstores disappear and people gravitate toward electronic reading devices, the number of fiction, mystery, romance and sci-fi book donations is shrinking - leaving those real book lovers like me disappointed on our finds in those genres.

Free speech is still alive in Bughouse Square.

Cooking Mexican food (confirmed) from scratch is messier and more work than Thanksgiving Dinner.

If it wasn't for the BBC,  Saturday night American television would be irrelevant.

And finally.  CONFIRMED.  If you live in Chicago you can never safely put away your winter clothes.

Let The Games Begin!

 

         Today was the first day of the Farmers' Market at Daley Plaza.  It really  put me in a summer mood. No coat, no long pants, plenty of sunshine and lots of my favorite things. I went for asparagus and bagels and wound up with all kinds of other goodies - honey, bread, cheese.  The crowd was upbeat - almost a party atmosphere.  I guess I'm not the only one who is tired of winter.   I rode my CTA chariot home to deposit my treasures in the appropriate places and headed for the Oak Street Beach.

I got my first pre-beach hug of the season from Carlos at the Drake and headed for the tunnel.  I worry that the ceiling is going to cave in along with one or more  of  the thousands of cars driving over it every day.  Come on - Park District - get with it.

Happily, the murals escaped graffiti over the winter.  A few touch ups and they should be okay.  Bruce, the massage guy, needs an eyelift on his likeness (though not in real life.)

Marcia and I stayed until the bitter end.  I even stuck my toes in the frigid, but clear water.  The measure of success for today is threefold.

• My bathing suit fit
• I could get up out of my chair on my own
• I got up the ramp without a backache

Oh how we lower the bar on success as we age.

Now it's time to sample some of that bread and cheese and roast the asparagus for dinner.
Happy Summer.

Great Expectations

Wednesday was a day filled with expectations.  Here's the scorecard.


Expectations Exceeded:

We had an appointment at Fidelity to update some of our records.  We fully expected to have to endure a meeting with some slick young product pusher.  Imagine our surprise.  There were two of them and they were young.  They were also knowledgeable, personable and very respectful of our wishes not to make a lot of changes to our account.  Their follow up was superb. We would now be open to their suggestions for changes to our account.  GRADE:   A +

Expectations Met:

There is never a doubt that Mariano's will provide us with good food at fair prices and with the best of service.  Their employees  love ( or are trained to act like they love) shoppers and are helpful at every turn.  The meat and produce are exceptional.  We decided to go big and stock up and ask for delivery.  The charges are somewhat high and the time for delivery a little longer than promised and one item didn't make it to our home, but the delivery guy was so apologetic and helpful, that all is forgiven.  GRADE:   B+

Expectations shattered and dumped into the abyss.

 

 

  We have loved the Chicago Shakespeare theater since the days back at the Ruth Page Theater.  We really don't mind classic theater set in modern times.    Rigoletto set in Vegas in the 60s was good.  The music was true and the performances stellar.  This production of Julius Caesar was violent, noisy,  and populated with jerks - set in Washington, D.C. in modern times.  That would have been okay.  What wasn't okay was the bad acting, the inability to project voices and the NOISE, NOISE, NOISE.   I pity the poor ushers who have to endure this night after night.  I question why Ms. Gaines would put her reputation on the line with this inferior product and why it got generally okay reviews.

 

 

GRADE:  D-  The only reason I didn't give it an "F" was that the woman sitting next to me was delightful and the bar service at intermission was great.

 

 

So much for Wednesday expectations.  Take that, Miss Havisham.

 

 

  

 
 

The Dilemma

“#$@%.  It’s still there. Damn it all to hell you %^$#.  I know you’re there.  **%$#@….go away!”

As my kids faced an imaginary monster, named Chunky, in our basement several times a year, many years ago, I face this very real monster several times a day, every day. I have survived raising six kids, the deaths of loved ones, giant jackasses in the workplace, two great recessions, two terms of “W”, the promised rapture a few years ago and the recent Mayan end of days.  Why then, is this a challenge?

I’m a procrastinator by nature and a terrible housekeeper.  That being said, I am amazed that since emptying a big house – garage – attic – basement and all, and downsizing to a condo, I have managed to limit the amount of clutter that surrounds me.  The one exception is my monster… the bedroom closet.  Every day it confronts me with its ugly disorder and forces me to grab my clothes and run. Because of its size, this closet has become the repository for all things labeled “I’ll deal with that later”.

 It is the boxes of photographs, including the ones I salvaged from my mother’s own closet when she died over a decade ago.  I really ought to throw them out because once I am gone nobody else will care about them – they’re not digital. Both of my aunts who could help me identify long gone relatives have macular degeneration – so I can no longer ask them to help.

  It is also the assorted paperwork that was so darned important to keep, that I don’t even remember what it is.  Then there are the boxes of mementos that I’ve set aside for my kids and will one day really ship out to them.  I want to relieve the sense of loss they are suffering without their old little league shirts and their 3^rd grade class photos.

 Did I mention the 20 years of tax returns?  And the documentation to back them up?

            I am holding on to a pair of shoes with high heels that I can’t wear now – high heels always make your legs look great – and who cares?  Add a Pendleton suit that I just know I will need on that someday when an old colleague calls on me to impart my banking knowledge as a paid consultant. Banking has changed and so has my body.  I cannot bear to face trying on that slim, fitted suit to discover that it can no longer be buttoned and is wildly outdated.

Gaze upon my colorful supply of gift wrapping paraphernalia that I should give away.  We no longer shop for gifts – we write checks.  Ditto what’s left of the box of sand dollars that I collected from the Gulf of Mexico and lovingly bleached and polished for my grandchildren?  I have a few that have not been distributed – and keep meaning to pack and ship the rest of them.  They were little kids when I collected them and now they’re college kids whose friends would LOL were I to actually deliver them.

Glance through the box of assorted items that really need repair at a jewelers.  The bullet that came through my office window that I want to make into a pendant, one of the kids’ baby cups that needs the handle re-attached and the one I am saving for the first grandchild of my oldest daughter. My favorite bracelet needs the clasp fixed. I also have the costume jewelry – both mine and my mothers, that I was going to divide among my granddaughters to use to “play grown up”. You guessed it – they’re all grown up.

Need medical supplies?  I have two back bolsters that helped me through a herniated disk, assorted bottles of crap that I ordered from the TV – all guaranteed to make me live longer- and a lifetime supply of diabetic testing needles.  I had forgotten I had a heart monitor and a pedometer for my walking and treadmill days.  Somehow they got on the same shelf with the heating pad, the incontinence aids from the hospital, a navy blue arm sling  and three old Mickey Mouse watches that need new batteries and resetting.  Rolled up in the corner of that shelf is the Velcro fitted heavy weight belt that was supposed to be worn while active to restore my waistline to 21 inches.

Whatever messy picture you are getting of this closet is absolutely correct, and then some.  I know that with a scanner, a box of big garbage bags and a shredder I could knock this sucker out in a few days.  I really want to.  This is not procrastination – this is the dilemma.

I keep saying to myself, “I really need to clean this closet out before I die.  I don’t want to be embarrassed. And… I don’t want my kids embarrassed when they have to sort through this stuff.”

 Therein lies the problem:

 If I don’t clean it out, I will  have this  closet as a future project and final embarrssment.

If I do clean it out,  the powers that be might take it as a sign that I’m ready to die.

What do I do?

 

 

Four Thanksgiving Weekend Football Conversations

#1.  Facebook with my writing coach and hero.

Somebody needs to tell me why I should give a rat's hinder about football.

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  Lynn S. Crawford Because you like to see grown men who make more money than teachers, firefighters and police combined bashing each other in the head in expensive uniforms and equipment that changes weekly so the uniform companies can make as much money as the sponsors of these asinine grunt sessions. Got it?

  22 hours ago · Like

 

#2.  Thanksgiving Day host to the assembled guests:

 

" We need to say grace.  Where are the kids?"

 

Someone answers:  "Watching the game."

 

Someone else:  "Which game?"

 

Host:  " It doesn't matter.  Thanking God for our blessings is the only game that matters."

 

 

#3.  Neighbor to me:

 

"Think about that poor U of A quarterback.  His last college game and he blows it in the last few minutes of the 4th quarter.  He will carry that with him for the rest of his life."

 

Me to neighbor:

 

"Think of our great-nephew.  His first week in Afghanistan and he is shot and has to kill his shooter. He will carry that with him for the rest of his life."

 

Neighbor to me:

 

"Okay, I get your point."

 

#4.  Me talking to myself.

 

Me.  "  I can't stand it.  Joe is watching USC vs Notre Dame.  My mom told me not to hate anything or anyone.  I strongly dislike both these teams."

 

Me: " Why USC?"

 

 

Me:  "Try being at the U of A in the 50s in the Western Athletic Conference and having the arrogant, self centered Trojans coming to your so-so stadium and lording it over you.  Arggghhh!" 

 

 

 

Me: "Why Notre Dame?"

 

 

 

Me: " Try living in a town where grown men have the Notre Dame fight song as their car horn and/or doorbell sound.  Try living with the ND wannabees who wear the gear and prance around like the ditsy, self important leprechaun. Gives me the heeby geebies."

 

So, knowing that Joe is rooting for Notre Dame, I decide to go along - but only because of Uncle Dave and Uncle Vince.  (You'd need to know them to understand.)  At least Uncle Vince might sneak me into heaven for my one night love of the Fighting Irish.  Uncle Dave will just hoist a brew to thank me.

 

Having made that decision - I have also decided to retire to the living room and continue reading my book.  I can find out the score later. I don't really have to watch it.  Next week I can go back to rooting against both of them.  Life is too short.  Prioritize.

 

 

Jersey Shore Memories

This is an excerpt from the second of  my beach stories. The working title is New Jersey Beaches, Part II, High School.   It is much longer in its entirety and actually is a true adventure story.  I have chosen only a few paragraphs to post.  Names have been changed to protect the innocent. The boardwalk in Seaside Heights is now just a memory.  How sad, that Sandy left such devastation.

.............. When school ended we headed to the Jersey Shore, Seaside Park to be precise.  My mother and sisters and I would head for our trailer with the nifty bunk beds and the minuscule kitchen. They didn’t call them mobile homes then and the one we had couldn’t have moved if we had wanted it to.   Dad came on the weekends.  We were a short run down a sandy lane past the real beach houses to one of the most beautiful beaches I have seen in all my travels.   There, life took on a whole new dimension for me.

Our cousins,  who were sisters, were our neighbors at the shore.  They came from the wrong side of a big town and went to a tough school. Their high school had a lower set of standards and tolerated behaviors different from those at Chatham High School.  They were a little wild and very street-smart and they talked funny.  One would ask “Why we goin’ home so early – it ain’t even 10:00?” and her sister would respond “Don’t make no difference to me.”

 They were so different from my Chatham friends that I loved hanging out with them. Time flew by and our skin darkened and our hair lightened as we enjoyed the beach with our families all day. Sandy bologna sandwiches from earlier years were still a lunch staple, but the wax cartons of birch beer had been replaced by bottles of soda that we would religiously gather up at the end of the day to return for the two cent deposits. We’d spend it later playing ski-ball at the boardwalk.

  After the sun went down we headed for Seaside Heights and “the boards.” I can still imagine and crave the taste of Jersey Shore pizza. A piece was huge with an airy crust full of bubbles and the most delicious toppings of sausage and peppers.  We washed it down with milkshakes and ended the night walking around with French fries in a newspaper cone sprinkled with malt vinegar and lots of salt. 

 In "The Heights", without my mother and little sisters, it was easy for me to step into the rebel without a cause mode and hang out with the wrong crowd which, of course, included my big city cousins.

Our routines rarely varied and, except for weather glitches, life was literally a day  at the beach. At the shore my cousins were the top dogs of the boardwalk scene. The boardwalk crowd consisted of the townies who worked in the restaurants or helped run the carousel or the Ferris wheel on the boardwalk. Add to that, the summer people who weren’t rich and were shunned by the popular crowd on the beach who hung out with the lifeguards in their Jantzens.  Had I lived in a real beach house and not in the trailer, I might have been part of that crowd.

Because I liked my cousins and they didn’t mind me tagging along, I followed them to their turf. I was clearly a minnow among sharks – a position that was unnatural for me.  I ratcheted up my makeup and shortened my shorts and wore my hair up to fit in.  I learned to swear, and to flirt with the greasers who hung out on the boardwalk just looking for someone to take to that night’s beach party. Beach parties consisted of a big bonfire, a lot of beer and no responsible adult in attendance - everything our Chatham mothers warned us about. It made summer a lot more exciting and naughty and just a little dangerous.

To be continued................

 

Someday I'll publish the whole series of beach stories, starting from childhood to today.  (As soon as I finish cleaning out that one last closet.)

Is Anything Still Real?

Reading the papers today got me thinking and blinking mad.   Read about the Hollywood and TV set designers brought in to Tampa to "create the illusion of a likeable Mitt Romney".  He is what he is.  Let it go.

Next - in the business section a two page profile of a guy who gets paid to write phony, positive reviews for self published authors.  He is making a fortune and he no longer believes ANY  reviews that he reads.

How about the phone app that lets you send yourself a phony phone call so you can lie your way out of  a date?  Just be honest and walk away.

Political campaigns are buying Twitter followers to pump up their perceived popularity.  Don't blame the guys selling the followers - it has become a hot market.

The Polish store in Lincoln Square is trying to pass itself off as German to better appeal to the locals.

My bank changed its ethnic name to an Americanized version.  Who are they kidding?

I get numerous Facebook and Linkedin requests to connect with people with whom I have no connection and don't even know.  Guess what they are up to?

I did run across a profile of someone who is for real.  She is a 73 year old Chicago triathlete who actually admitted that her second place finish in the last triathlon was because there were only two contestants in her age group.  She is going out today to better her record.  I wish her well.  In the article she decries how kids nowadays all get trophies at the end of the season even if they didn't win anything.  Homework projects that look like the parents did them also irk her, as they irk me, as well.

http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2012-08-26/features/ct-tribu-remarkable-ann-smith-20120826_1_firsts-ann-smith-insurance-business

  Hers is an inspiring story of firsts, hard work and grand results.  I recommend you read it in today's Tribune  in the Sunday section- well - at least they aren't still calling it the magazine, bcause it isn't really a magazine anymore.

See what I mean?  Nothing, well, almost nothing, is real anymore.

Don't Mess With My Space

Today I  got mad enough to sit down and write about it.   I've been leaving my footprints on the southeast corner of the Oak Street Beach for decades.   My beloved piece of the beach was  a refuge where I could read, do crossword puzzles or just veg out.  In April and May it was pretty much me and the seagulls.  After that is was me and my beach friends or my kids.  In September and October it was back to blessed solitude.   It has gradually been getting more populated, probably a result  of a combination of the economy, the lack of crazed volleyball players and, sadly, the violence at North Avenue.  More and more young families are now Oak Street beachers.  We welcomed them and their $1000. strollers and their crazy excess of beach toys. 

 It was okay when Bruce the "massage guy" set up shop at the head of the boardwalk.  He's a good guy and his clients quietly enjoy their therapy under his awning.  It really wasn't okay when Anthony put up the restaurant, but we learned to live with it because it was classy and actually had good food.    We made fun of his prices, but we liked him and his staff. Also, he was so kind to the elderly Gold Coast grandmas who loved his Sunday buffet.  The city did not renew Anthony's lease and instead gave it to a well connected restaurant group who has turned it into a gaudy, cheesy overpriced concession stand.  Then came the vendor with the outrageously priced rentals of lounge chairs and beach umbrellas.  Taking  up good beach space and practicing sporadic hours - that's good business?

Today was the last straw.  I got there before my friend, Marcia.  I settled in, opened my crossword puzzle, oiled myself up and sank into my chair. I got about 30 minutes of solitude.  Then they came..... the tourists including the foreign ones with no clue about protocol or courtesy, the locals with their abundance of pricey toys, and about a million 20 somethings who belong many beaches north of here.  They set up too many volleyball courts, tossed around too many footballs in high traffic areas and displayed way too much skin (and flab).

The so called restaurant started some amplified "music" that interfered with my brain - was trying to complete a crossword puzzle and read a book.  Then I finally got it. 36 years of sacred space down the drain.  It happened gradually, but today it hit me smack in the face.  Oak Street is turning into North Avenue - or even worse - Coney Island

HELP.

Man Vs. Machine

Technology is amazing.  The electronic voice instructed me to" Please proceed to register 8."  I did as I was told.  I unloaded the contents of my basket onto the counter.  The young, artistically tattooed cashier started scanning my $80.52 worth of items and bagging them.  All this while engaging in a lively and flirtatious conversation (gripe session) with the young, artistically pierced cashier at register 7.  I swiped my credit card, followed the prompts, signed the box, picked up my three expertly balanced bags and proceeded to the exit.  There was no eye contact, no "hello", no "goodbye", no "Thank you for shopping at Walgreens,"

Next time, I''m not going to do what I'm told.  I'm going to wait for register 1 where a gentle, older woman -with a sparkle in her eye and who works from a seated position,  will greet me, engage in conversation and thank me sincerely.  It may take a minute longer than register 8, but I'll feel better and hopefully, so will she.

Faith Restored - In The Lyric Opera And Mankind

After leaving a breathtaking and mostly perfect Aida at the Lyric, we jumped on the #20 bus to Michigan Avenue.  The crowd at the bus stop was bigger than usual.  The bus, which is usually empty, was packed.

The crowd on the curb waiting for the bus were geezers with Aida programs.  The packed masses on the bus were 20 somethings from all races, ethnic groups and fashion groups. Some were coming from the Hawks game, some probably from work or other activities.

As  the geezers started to enter the bus, the 20 somethings started jumping up out of their seats to give them to us.

I used to say, "thanks, but it's a short trip."  Now I say, "thank you and thank your mother for raising you the right way.

Chicago Lyric Opera.   Redeemed.

Chicago's young people.  Admired.

Rinaldo - Skip The Opera - Listen At Home - Better Yet, Take The Bus.

We have never left the opera early.  Not until last week.  Rinaldo by Handel.  Beautiful music at times.
Act One:

Repetitive, very Handel-like.  Sort of like an organ recital with costumes and special effects.
Can't appreciate counter tenor voices.  Everyone sounded alike - men and women - come to think of it they looked alike too.
Intermission One:
Decided over champagne that we'd leave at the second intermission.
Act Two:
Finally, some action and some male voices - well, one bass voice.  A superb vocal and dramatic  performance by Elsa Van Den Heever as the evil Armida ended with a bang.  Really, a bang.

It almost made us change our minds about leaving at intermission. Well, almost.
Intermission Two:
We left.  Walking into the balmy Chicago air.  Yes, balmy.

Act Three:
The #146 bus home. 
Stage right. Obese Lesbian couple PDA being observed by a Judgemental Geezer in a suit with a chamber music program in his pocket. An old fart hitting on a young woman with crutches. 
Stage left.  No English spoken here VERY LOUDLY.

Center stage.  Frantic woman with suitcase madly searching for something in her purse all the way up Michigan Avenue.  Bicycle messenger not able to load his bike without help from driver.
Hmmmm.  I see an Opera in this bus drama.  Really, see what we'd have missed if we had walked.  Really.
Skip Rinaldo and take a bus ride.

Conversation With A Chicago Cabbie

It is the day of the Michigan and Arizona primaries.  I am loaded down with groceries and can't walk the 4 blocks to the bus.  Cabbies don't like to pick up people carrying grocery bags.  They want people with luggage.  Finally a strikingly handsome cabbie with a well tended beard and a beautiful, bright orange turban not only picked me up, but also helped load my groceries in the back seat.

I notice a Ron Paul sticker in the back seat on the notice that lets you know who to call with compliments or complaints.

Me:         "You know someone put a Ron Paul sticker in your cab?"

Cabbie:   "Yes, ma'am.  Yes I do."

Me:        "Okay, just wanted to make sure you knew."

Cabbie:  "Know why I leave it there?"

Me:       "Why?"

Cabbie:   " Driving a cab makes you a student of people.  I have been studying all those  guys.  Ron Paul.  He is the only one who isn't lying to us."   

               
Me:          "Thanks for the smooth ride and the clean cab.  And I think you're right about Mr. Paul."

Cabbie:    "Have a great evening." 

.....As he helped me unload my groceries from his cab. 

Surprisingly pleasant interlude.  Yes, I gave him a great tip. I take back everything I've said about cabbies in Chicago.  Well, almost everything.

Keys Disease Defined

Keys Disease
___________________________________________
From Lynnkipedia - a totally bogus free encyclopedia

   Not to be confused with Locks Disease

Keys Disease (Clavis Morbus) is an infectious, but rarely fatal, disease affecting humans ( homo sapiens). It is believed to be air borne.  In some instances felines (cats) especially the feral variety are affected by or may be carriers of the disease.  The infection causes several days of euphoria and high excitement, followed by malaise and an indifference to time commitments and obligations.

Keys disease is a severe plague on organized activities and the ability to move projects ahead at any rate of speed.  In its most infectious state it is capable of totally destroying the concept of a deadline.  Most susceptible to contamination are boaters, fishermen, sunbathers, lap swimmers, conch lovers and just about anyone who wanders below mile marker 126.5 on the Overseas Highway, also known as U.S. 1 in the farthest southeast reaches of the United States.


Causes/ Signs and Symptoms
______________________________________________

Ocean breezes. intense sunshine, abundant fishing and a party atmoshere are thought to cause Keys Disease.  Some researchers are studying the part that coral reefs may play in the proliferation of the disease.  Although there is evidence that Native Americans came to the Keys as early as 3000 B.C., it was not until the 16th century that others arrived there.  The first settlers were Spanish fishermen who came from Cuba, a mere 90 miles to the south.  There is no documentation of Keys Disease in those early days.
The earliest symptoms can be traced back to the days of Ernest Hemingway.  Many of those affected have outward symptoms of "Hemingway Wannabe", which is most often contracted by over the hill retired men from the Midwest. Other symptoms include uncontrollable urges to sing "Wasting Away in Margaritaville" with a longneck in hand and a plate of deep fried something or other in front of you.

Clinical Signs
__________________________

Bare Feet, often with ankle bracelets and/or toe rings
Unshaven faces on men
Over- sized sunglasses on women

Deep tans, often with creases around eyes and mouth
Tropical or Harley themed tattoos
Absence of timepieces
Ignorance of national political news

Treatment
_________________________

Treatment must take place on the mainland.  There is no effective way to fight Keys Disease while actually in the Keys.  For short term treatment, a trip to the craziness of Miami traffic may provide temporary relief.

Long term treatment must involve travel to the North or Midwest, preferably during a snow storm, and for longer lasting results, a blizzard.



Prognosis
___________________________

Unfortunately, the only permanent cure for Keys Disease is abstinence from travel on the southernmost reaches of U.S. 1. 

Fortunately, since the disease is not fatal, periodic travel to the Keys is not physically or mentally life threatening and may, in fact, prolong life for those who expose themselves prudently.

I Have Keys Disease. Re-Posting to Compensate. Keys Disease Definition to Follow.

http://lynncrawfordsays.blogspot.com/2010/02/jewels-of-atlantic_21.html

Debate This.

Monday's Tampa debate was the worst of the lot.  The Mitt and Newt show that Brian Williams allowed for the first interminable minutes was a travesty.  Talk about a schoolyard spat between two petulant brats.

The only two grownups in the room were Rick and Ron.  Thank heavens they are gentlemen who chose not to twist and shout about being ignored by NBC.

  We get who these people are.  Does the phrase "familiarity breeds contempt" sound appropriate?  Maybe we are ready for some "absence makes the heart grow fonder" time.


NO MORE DEBATES.  And whomever takes credit for the Super PACs should be run out of town on a rail.  I fear I am out of words on this subject.  So are the candidates, but they just keep talking anyway.  There's got to be a better way.  Any ideas?