I like the sports where the players line up and shake hands at the end of the game. Even as we cheer or cry, we acknowledge that every victory requires that both sides take the field. We shake hands to acknowledge the beauty of engagement.
Victory today…tomorrow yet to come.
In the 100th Year Anniversary issue of the New Yorker there is a thoughtful, compelling article by the Texas based journalist and novelist Lawrence Wright. He goes deep into the story of how a group of nuns met and formed a bond with women on Texas death row. The title Sisterhood gives us a clue about Wright’s broad lens.
Both groups soon realized how similar were their lives of absence and confinement. The nuns and the prisoners accepted and were willing to learn from one another, Nice story. But Wright has more to tell.
The trip to death row is a dark one. These women are young or have been inside for a long time. So, the chaos, cruelty and physical damage came fast. Waiting for them was a twisted
“criminal justice” system. Lawyers who didn't know what they were doing or didn't care. Botched or fabricated evidence. Prosecutors who amped up the crime to almost gleefully go for the big one: the death penalty.
Here’s the question that haunts me: Do we have to live lives of silent contemplation removed from family, work, sex and love to be able to connect with the “other”? Or does ambition, competition, greed, and “worldliness” keep us in a lonely place?
For my baseball class I’m reading an essay by the great Roger Angell. He is sitting next to an old, old timer at a college game. His companion had pitched for thirteen years in the Majors when the White Sox were black and Ty Cobb was celebrated for his hitting.
As they watch, the veteran reacts to the play on the field and talks about the memories it invokes. The game is large enough for both.
I’m an old timer now too. And, I’m watching what’s happening on the field of play. To our country and our world. I remember the days I could march, could work for social justice organizations, could cherish Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie. Imagine. My life has turned out to be large enough for both.
So many years…and time stands still.
OK physics. I respect you. But please don't mess with what we love about the game. Beating out the bunt. Nailing the runner at the plate with a great throw from center field. Executing a double play or even a double steal. And yes, the occasional home run.You get the idea. The moments you never saw coming when you jump up from your seat in the bleachers or your couch at home.
Yesterday, the Sox sent Martin Perez to the mound in his first time with the team. He was pitching six no hit innings when they took him out. Analytics said his time was up. Wouldn't it have been great if he had gone all the way?
When I was between marriages, my mother decided that it was in our best interest to go together on a cruise. She reached for the gold, selecting the most elegant ship in service: the SS France. Thus, we spent two weeks among the very rich and sometimes famous.
Formal dinners featured champagne and caviar. My newly acquired wardrobe included a full length sequin dress.
Yes. There was the very slight possibility that I might have fulfilled mother’s dreams by landing the very eligible doctor from Boston. But, of course, I chose to hang around with two union bosses from the same town. Probably married. Probably using union dues. Skipped the caviar and kept ordering corned beef and cabbage for dinner. They were so much fun.
Len’s business included a warehouse. It was over on Ravenswood. One day a man came in and asked for a few minutes of his time. He represented a foundation that was working to find jobs for men who had been in prison. “We work very closely with our men. They have been through our program and are trained. We believe they deserve a second chance.”
Len thought it over, talked to the other warehouse people, and ended up turning it down.
Some time later, Len discovered that his office manager, an engaging young woman, had been embezzling small sums from the business for years.
I can’t think about one story without being reminded of the other.
On TV this morning they were talking about how people are developing “relationships” with AI generated “companions.” I don’t think this is particularly new. Except for the AI part. Remember Bill’s movie “Lars and the Real Girl”? Or “Her” with Joaquin Phoenix? In LA, I heard about people putting a blowup doll in the front seat so they could ride in the car pool lane.
One step removed — but the same idea — is our attachment to characters we “love” in the books we read. Some of my favorites are Olive Kitteridge, Ruth Galloway, and Harry Bosch.
I guess AI could set it up so our “companion” would always respond in a way you enjoy. Or, at least not cause any trouble. I’m not ready to give in.
During the 1960’s, another time of great civic upheaval, Studs’ interviews on WFMT introduced us to rarely heard people and perspectives. All in his unique voice and style.
The one person who still sticks with me is Virginia Durr. She was a civil rights activist from Alabama. Just hearing her southern accent gave me hope.
Here’s what I found about her today:
Her life spanned most of the twentieth century, and Virginia Durr had a front-row seat for the New Deal, McCarthyism, and the civil rights movement. She spent years working to abolish the poll tax and to end segregation, and her husband, Clifford, an attorney, was involved with a number of civil rights cases.
WFMT has a radio archive of Studs Terkel interviews. I’ going to spend some time with him again.
100. That’s the mind-breaking number of points scored by Wilt Chamberlain in one basketball game in March, 1962. Since there was no immediate media coverage of the game, some are claiming it never happened. Just too impossible. But Pablo Torres, the sportswriter, took the time to find and interview several fans who were there and swear the number is correct.
100. That’s the number of times my friends have probably heard me tell about my encounter with Wilt. So why not make it 101? It was on a flight to New York. I was wearing my silver fox fur jacket. I admit I looked pretty spiffy. As I walked down the aisle, a very large man wearing a purple suede jumpsuit gave me a big smile. “Nice jacket”, he said.
During the flight, the attendant announced that several famous basketball players were on board and willing to sign autographs. She mentioned Wilt Chamberlain. I wasn’t a fan back then so the name meant little to me. As I picked up my bag, Wilt came over to me and smiled again, “Nice jacket.”
It was only later that I learned of his basketball and other exploits. He claimed “romance” with 20,000 women. Ah Wilt, you never passed up an opportunity to score.
I was well into middle age before I began writing. My friend Marsha inspired me to hold out for a creative job. I listened because I was Joan Chandler now. It took more than a year on the temp trail before I finally was hired to write copy for the National Safety Council.
The salary was pitiful. But I had some divorce money and it was a start. The universe smiled because eventually the Council hired consultants to evaluate salaries and I ended up with decent money.
I enjoyed writing and producing all kinds of safety stuff. I was good at it and I got a lot done. But I was not a team player. I was impatient and had no respect for the big bosses. Others in the department felt the same. It was “The Office” way before that show ever made it onto TV.
One year, when told we could decorate our cubicles for Christmas, we found a life-size Elvis and played “Blue Christmas” on an endless loop. Tiny victories add up.
I'm still glad to see Annie and Julia. Gayle wrote a good book, Lisa is one of my best friends. Myles and I are going out for breakfast today.
March Madness is just around the corner. I don’t follow college basketball very closely and I don’t think Northwestern will get in, so I’ll just pick a team.
It was different in 2005. Illinois kept winning. By the time the whole family was in LA for Miro’s Bar Mitzvah, they were playing in the serious games. As we left for the party, my son-in-law Shelby decided to stay behind to watch the fourth quarter. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
We all clapped and laughed when Shelby, normally a very soft spoken man, came storming into the room: “They won! They won! They were way down and came roaring back!”
Illinois went on to play in the championship game. They lost to North Carolina and haven’t been back since. But Shelby had that moment of pure joy. That’s why we love the "madness" of being a fan.
My mother gossiped about Edythe’s father. “He has an unsavory reputation. He is a dentist who advertises and runs an assembly like practice.” Edythe was her father’s gal. She was poised for success.
I went off to college and Edythe went off to “finishing school.” She “married well” and settled in Virginia. I wasn’t completely surprised when years later she ran as the Democratic candidate for the Senate from Virginia. She lost to John Warner (the one who was married to Elizabeth Taylor).
I needed to be around Edythe’s confidence and determination. She never let me down.
Kenny was my best friend during my high school years. We both worked one college summer at Saks Fifth Avenue. My mother was convinced that we would marry one day. I knew nothing about homosexuality then, just that she was wrong about that. Not Kenny.
I was in Chicago, married with small children when his name caught my eye. He was Kenneth J. Lane, the jewelry designer. The creator of Barbara Bush’s famous pearls.
It was years before I saw him again. I was along on one of Len’s business trips to New York. We went to visit Kenny at his town house. His butler greeted us at the door. Kenny was friendly but he was definitely Kenneth J. Lane.
I kept track of him through the years, was so grateful that he didn’t die of Aids, but of natural causes when he was in his eighties. It was a chance for my other high school buddy, Edythe, and I to reconnect . We laughed and cried remembering Kenny ... and so many teenage times.
I read an article about people searching online for favorite items no longer in stores. Paying big money if they are lucky enough to find them. I have suffered the loss of so many small pleasures through the scourge of “discontinued.”
I still think fondly of Burny Bros. cinnamon toast bread. There was a time when Burny Bros. Bakeries were everywhere in Chicagoland. Heinemann’s too. (Heinemann’s has a small afterlife at my local Jewel.)
Long gone from my neighborhood, I was delighted one day to see the familiar Burny Bros. sign as I was walking in the loop. When I asked for a loaf of my favorite bread, the clerk said: “That’s been gone for years. When the bakery was sold to those big shots, it was the one recipe that the family held on to.”
So now, I imagine somewhere one of the brothers or a descendant is popping a loaf into the oven. I can smell and taste it even now.
Between my sophomore and junior year of college I attended Harvard summer school. On a whim my friend Edythe decided to go too. We drove to Cambridge in her convertible with my brother’s friend Stan who was a Harvard student.
It was a great time. On campus and in Cambridge you could always find a stimulating conversation. We went to Cape Cod on the weekends. We drove down to Manhattan so I could reconnect with an old boyfriend. And in between we managed to take some classes.
The class I remember the most wasn't for the content. It was because the teaching instructor was Timothy Leary. Of course that name meant nothing to me at the time. His stamp on the 60’s and beyond lay ahead.
My friend Elaine had a story about her immigrant family published in the Chicago Sun Times. It includes a great picture of the family who came to America generations ago. I am fortunate to have a more immediate immigrant in my life. Elsa Mora came here from Cuba when she married Bill. She has enriched my life with her stories and her perspective.
The men who work in my garage are from Mexico and Africa. We've gotten to know each other over the years. They make moments of my everyday life more interesting.
My cardiologist is from Romania. He loved it when I told him about Bill making a movie in his home country.
Diversity, inclusion, immigration are some of the most positive notions I can imagine. I appreciate the Sun Times helping to spread this word around right now.
I didn’t have any family members coming to the ceremony so I wasn’t planning to attend. But one of the girls in the sorority was also alone so I went to keep her company. Later we went to a few parties.
As I was leaning in to say goodbye to a friend, the car door swung suddenly against my nose. It really hurt. And it hurt driving all the way back to Detroit. It was broken.
Yes, my graduation was a breakup. All the way.
Now I am back at Northwestern taking classes for oldsters. Some of the same buildings are there, plus lots of new ones. The sorority house is long gone, but my college roommate (who remains a best friend) lives on the same street where all of us gals once lived together.
Sometimes broken things come back together again…just in a different way.
1976. The Bicentennial Year. On July 4th Kathy and Jerry hosted a fabulous party. The invitation said: Do Something You Would Do Only Once Every 200 Years.
Phyllis played the kazoo. Gertrude gave a rousing political speech. Annette unleashed her psychic powers as a fortune teller. She foretold Mitzi’s husband’s early death, but, of course, didn't tell (except to me.)
That fall Len and I dropped Bill off at college in Connecticut and drove up the coast towards Boston. I became obsessed with taking a detour to see Plymouth Rock. Having done no research, I was convinced it was a promontory easily spied by the Mayflower.
The Rock was a large stone displayed in an enclosure with greek columns. Young people wore pilgrim costumes and sold trinkets.
Boston’s celebration was much more dignified and stuck to the familiar stories. I was grateful to be in the town where it happened.
Do you remember the old Ann Sathers on Belmont? When it was a little storefront? When Ann, who was a tall, scandinavian looking woman, would greet us at the door.? The waitresses were older ladies who looked like they could be Ann’s sisters. One big family.
Bill loved the chicken. We all loved the pies. Everything was delicious. Jay’s mother ate there everyday with her boss.
When Ann died the new owners closed the small space and took over the funeral parlor next door. It seemed creepy, but that’s only us old-timers speaking.
Ann would have been so ashamed of this: during the pandemic, the politician who owns the restaurant was caught secretly serving his buddies. They called it the “Cinnamon Roll Scandal.”
The Ann Sathers on Belmont is still there and there’s another one near me on Granville and Broadway. I had a “notorious” cinnamon roll just the other day.
