From the Archives – September 20, 2004

I own five or six hundred books at most, since I’m not as interested in owning as reading them. I’m prone to recycling with friends, giving to the Salvation Army, and generally keeping books I might have to move to a manageable level.

But yesterday afternoon I wondered what book I have held onto the longest. Which one had followed me more places than any other? It isn’t something one can positively determine from the publishing date; rather, I looked for inscriptions on the flyleaf from the books’ givers. In the meantime, I was rewarded with a variety of memories about the givers themselves.

The book that took the title of having hung around the longest belonged to Robert Louis Stevenson, he of Treasure Island and Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde fame. This book, called A Child’s Garden of Verse, was published originally in 1885.

From the handwriting on the inscription, I see that my maternal grandmother, Anna Catherine Bannon McDonald, gave me this book in 1950, when I was a mere six years old. I also see the scribbles I put around her words, as if I were decorating them while learning cursive in second grade.

Given its age, A Child’s Garden of Verses is in remarkable condition. The hardback cover is a bit ragged, but the spine holds strong. The illustration on the front is faded, but still recognizable. And inside are the poems that R. L. Stevenson wrote almost 120 years ago. I enjoy them still, and I enjoy as much the fact that my grandmother, who has joined Stevenson on the other side, thought enough to add her own dedication over half a century ago.

From the Archives – June 17, 2013

Where I live in southwestern Michigan it’s time for fruit and veggie stands to crop up, almost as plentiful as weeds but much more appreciated. Already asparagus has come and gone, and now it’s strawberries’ turn.

For the past week or so, we have been inundated with the homegrown, sweet, red fruit.  Within walking distance of my home is a patch where you can pick your own or purchase quarts of ready-picked beautiful berries.  However, I came by mine free via a friend who got more than she could handle.

So Earl and I have been eating strawberries for almost a week.  Tonight, we had them for dinner.  Under the adage that “Life is short so eat dessert first,” we dined on strawberry shortcake as our entrée.  It was delicious and also reminiscent.

We recalled that Earl’s mother made strawberry shortcake using those round spongy mattress-like things you buy at a supermarket.  I assume she added the requisite berries and whipped cream and did the entire thing in about five minutes.  He loved every bite back then.

My mother, on the other hand, was a purist. Well, almost a purist.  She used hot biscuits with butter as her base.  I must admit she didn’t make the biscuits from scratch, but I never noticed.  What I did notice was that her strawberry shortcake blended a warm buttery taste with a cold sugary flavor topped with whipped cream. And I make mine the way she did.

Which is what I did tonight.  We sat on the patio in the cool evening and ate our dinner and recalled our mothers’ methods.  I suspect both would have approved, even if neither of them would have offered dessert for the main course.

From the Archives – August 11, 2007

I pulled into the South Shore Health and Racquet Club this morning, intent on getting my daily dose of exercise out of the way as quickly as possible. As I climbed from my car, a cheery voice said, “Hi.”

I looked up to find three women standing by the car next to mine. I’d casually noticed them as I pulled in, but had no intention of socializing. But when someone addresses you, even with a casual “Hi,” it’s rude not to return the greeting. So I did. The woman who’d spoken initially walked toward me, holding a camera in her hand.

“We’re wondering if you would take a picture of the three of us,” she said. I looked from woman to woman to get a clue as to why they wanted a photo in the middle of the parking lot. They appeared to be a little older than I, all neatly coifed and smiling.

The woman continued: “We’re here for our fiftieth reunion at Benton Harbor High School. We all graduated together in 1957.” She asked my name, and I gave it. In return she introduced herself and the other two women. Between the reunion’s organized events, they’d come to play tennis, although only one of them had played regularly since graduation. She sported the tennis rackets on her arm. The other two were just along for the ride.

The three of them squeezed together to fit in the camera’s viewfinder. I took my time, and managed not only one picture but two in hopes that at least one showed them all at their best. As they posed, I asked if they’d kept in touch since high school. Oh, yes, was the answer; every five years they get together.

My duties done, I went on my way, but I felt honored to be part of a fifty year celebration. My own fiftieth high school reunion is a mere four years off, and I honestly can’t say I’ve done a good job of keeping up with anybody from Mount St. Mary’s Academy. I’ll have to work hard between now and 2011 to be included in a group photo, even if it’s only one of three women laughing in a parking lot.

From the Archives – April 25, 2005

It was merely coincidence this afternoon that I entered the local supermarket just as the high school, which is exactly across the street from the store, let out for the day. By the time I gathered the couple items I’d come for, the entire supermarket was awash with youngsters who hardly looked old enough to be shopping without parents. But I chalked that up to my more mature age, which causes young people to appear even younger than they probably are.

The supermarket has a Starbucks just inside its door, and usually when I go for my latte, the students are in school. Besides, I never imagined high schoolers had been introduced to coffee creations; but there they were, ten deep waiting for their turn with the barista. While they stood, some of the girls helped themselves to the free samples as if they were meant to be lunch. Finally, the barista said, “You’re supposed to take only one free sample per customer.”

The students weren’t particular rowdy, but it looked as if they’d claimed the market as their hangout between the last class and the time they had to be home for dinner. They pushed the tables in the little cafй together, swigged colas and coffees, and demolished a large bag of potato chips in record time. Bookbags and their contents were history for the moment.

The girls flirted, while the boys punched each other in the shoulders. As more and more students streamed in, those already there greeted them as if they’d been separated at birth. I noticed people my age looking at the group, but I couldn’t read any conclusions from their carefully modulated facial expressions.

At first, I told myself I’ll never shop here again at three in the afternoon. But as I thought about it, I recalled my own high school days and Ellsworth Drug Store, which my friends and I invaded every day in a similar fashion. Ellsworth’s didn’t have tables to push together, and the proprietor wasn’t as patient as the Starbucks barista seemed to be; but it was the same ritual. We hung around Ellsworth’s corner and flirted and shoulder punched, all the while eating some snack or drinking some pop. It was an audible and collective sigh of relief at being released from the school routine.

As I walked to my car and the exuberance of youth receded in the background, I smiled.

From the Archives – November 27, 2015

Today is the real Black Friday, even though retailers have been touting it all fall. And even though I already have my shopping done, I’m still perusing catalogs. But it’s not for more gift ideas. It’s for laughs.

I love sweatshirts with pithy sayings, and there’s none pithier than what is found in “Catalog Favorites.” So when you return from fighting the masses at Target and TJ Maxx, sit down and enjoy a chuckle.  I’ve culled them for you.

“Never laugh at your wife’s choices.  You are one of them.” “I can explain it to you, but I can’t understand it for you.” “I’d grow my own food if I could only find bacon seeds.” “Nurses – We can’t fix stupid but we can sedate it.”

And, finally, “Exercise?  I thought you said extra fries.”

I probably would never spend money to wear one of these sweatshirts, but I do enjoy a good smile.

From the Archives – January 15, 2016

My favorite Caribbean island is St. Maarten because it represents what collaboration can do.  Sixty percent of the land belongs to the French with the capital at Marigot.  The other forty percent belongs to the Dutch with the capital at Philipsburg.  The cruise ships dock here. It’s the tiniest island in the world inhabited by two different countries.  There is no border between them and no visible antagonism either.

Over the years, I’ve kayaked in the French side, learned to ride a Segway on the Dutch side, and generally loved the scenery, the people, and the cuisine on both sides.  If I were to spend time on one Caribbean island, rather than hopping from one to another via a cruise ship, it would be St. Maarten.

Tradition has it that a Frenchman and a Dutchman divided the island by means of a walk-off.  However, the Dutch side was founded in 1763 and the French side was founded in 1767. So there is some confusion here.  What isn’t confusing is that St. Maarten has everything: fantastic weather, great sailing conditions, two different cultures, spectacular food, miles of sandy beach, and a unique zoo that features plants and animals that are indigenous to the Caribbean.

And while the Dutch prefer the guilder as their currency and the French prefer the Euro, the US dollar is accepted everywhere.  What could be easier?

From the Archives – July 17, 2007

When my sons visited two weeks ago I served Pepperidge Farm’s Chocolate Decadence for dessert. It’s a rich chocolate layer cake with equally rich chocolate frosting between the layers and gobs of shaved chocolate on top. We all enjoyed it.

But, since we had had a hearty meal that night, there was about half a cake left; and we never got around to finishing it before my sons departed. Yesterday, I found it languishing under a tent of tinfoil in our refrigerator. I didn’t really have to look to see Chocolate Decadence was way past its prime. As a courtesy, however, I asked Earl if he wanted any before I pitched it.

“No thanks,” he said. “But don’t toss it. I’ll take it to the office. Those animals will eat anything.”

“Are you kidding?” I replied. “I’m not sending stale cake to your office. What would your co-workers think of me?”

“They wouldn’t care; they eat anything,” came the retort. Back and forth we bartered about what to do with the cake. Finally Earl said, “If you won’t let me take it to the office, then at least let me put it on the lawn for the critters.”

I was about to object, but then I remembered that Earl has fed the squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, and opossums that share our land more than one treat. There was the leftover salad that disappeared in the proverbial eye’s wink. There were the dried French rolls that became some animals’ midnight snack. There was the watermelon we didn’t like; but some four legged creature did, although it left the rind. The only thing that didn’t disappear was some soup I brought home from a local restaurant.

“Fine,” I said. “Pitch it out there. But if it is still sitting on the lawn in the morning, then will you agree to put it in the garbage.” Earl nodded affirmatively as he grabbed the cake plate. “And,” I added, “I don’t want the plate left out there.”

So Earl did his thing, dumping the Chocolate Decadence on the lawn and bringing me the plate. He wore his confident smile as he handed it over. This morning, the cake was nowhere to be seen. Which just proves one thing: Those animals will eat anything.

From the Archives – March 15, 2013

Even if you don’t own a cocktail table, you might want to own the cocktail table book titled Lost Chicago by David Lowe.  It’s a masterful collection of photographs and prose on Chicago architecture that has seen the wrecking ball.

To quote from the dust jacket:  “Chicago was the birthplace of American architecture.  The balloon-frame house, the iron-and-steel framed building, and the skyscraper were all born there.  A partial list of the city’s architects reads like a roll call of genius: Louis Sullivan, Frank Lloyd Wright, Dankmar Adler, William LeBaron Jenney.”

However, Chicagoans have little sense of history when it comes to razing the buildings in their midst.  Perhaps they believe newer edifices promise a better view of tomorrow.  Still, one only has to read Lost Chicago to realize that some of the city’s great architectural treasures have fallen prey to this philosophy.  Indeed, one of the city’s great architectural photographers has been lost too.

Lost Chicago covers the city’s architectural development from its first settlements prior to 1800 to 1975, when the book was published.  It includes many rare photographs and illustrations, all in black and white; and this approach enhances both the sense of history and the beauty of the buildings under study.

Many of them were magnificent, particularly those built after the Great Fire of 1871. By then, the city’s reputation for innovation and excess had grown, and those who could afford it rebuilt their homes from the ashes with this in mind.

For instance, after the fire, Richard Morris Hunt, who was also architect to the Vanderbilts, designed a new home in the near South Side on Prairie Avenue for Marshall Field.  Completed in 1876, it cost $250,000 and later was the first residence in Chicago to be outfitted with electric lights.  George M. Pullman of railroad fame and John B. Sherman of Chicago Stock Yards fame also had opulent residences on the same avenue.

Today Prairie Avenue is a ghost of its former self, as all three homes and most of the others on the street were systematically demolished over the years.

North Siders fared little better.  Cyrus McCormick commissioned a grandiose home on Rush Street, which was completed in 1879.  It was demolished in 1955. William Borden’s mansion on Lake Shore Drive was built in 1884 and torn down in the early 1960s in favor of an architecturally uninteresting apartment building.  Potter Palmer’s house, also on Lake Shore Drive, lived from 1882 to 1950.

It isn’t only the homes of the rich that have vanished.  If it were, one could possibly excuse the trend toward demolition, as homes from what might be called a “Castle Complex” era are less in line with today’s lifestyles.

Train stations, parks, places of worship, hotels, monuments, auditoriums, theaters, restaurants, and movie palaces have all disappeared too.  The list is long and no building was safe if someone wanted the land it stood on for something else.  In recent years, this included Maxwell Street, the Illinois Central Railroad Station, and The Oriental Theater.

Try to imagine what the city would be like if Grant Park or Lincoln Park suddenly disappeared and a giant mall combined with automobile dealerships and boxy buildings took its place. Worse yet, what if someone tore down the famous Water Tower to build a Dollar Store?  If these thoughts make you shudder, then you have a sense of the loss author David Lowe conveys so well about other local landmarks.

Finally, the cover of Lost Chicago serves as a memorial to Richard Nickel, the photographer whose passion was photographing buildings slated for the wrecking ball.  Ironically, he was hard at work inside the Chicago Stock Exchange when the demolition crew showed up and razed the building not knowing Nickel was there. The photographer did not survive.

The cover photo of the Chicago Stock Exchange was taken by Nickel that fateful day in 1972.

For fascinating facts about a Chicago that no longer exists, written in an academic style that isn’t the least bit boring, and for the amazing photos author David Lowe amassed, Lost Chicago receives 5 stars.

ISBN 0-517-468883

From the Archives – November 2, 2015

For the uninitiated, it’s National Novel Writing Month, an annual event among writers and wannabees that’s about writing a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. The math works out to 1,666 words per day.

I’ve done this project twice, once in 2005 with my two sons and once again about five or six years ago with a St. Joseph friend.  Both times were challenging, because the word count haunts you.  Skip a day, fall behind, you can lose momentum. At the same time, it’s exhilarating to have written the first draft of a novel in such a short amount of time.  I know because I’ve written two other novels that have taken me years.

NaNoWriMo was created in 1999 by Chris Baty in the San Francisco area.  Since then it’s morphed into a fall ritual among writers around the world. There is a website and a ton of information on social media about how to join the group and stay motivated.

One of the most beneficial tips is that this is about quantity over quality. So it isn’t about perfect prose or elegant editing.  In fact, Baty, who’s written a book on the phenomenon, recommends that you never look back at what you wrote the day before.  You don’t try to eliminate inconsistencies or accidental changes in tense or even plot discrepancies.  You just write.

In a small way I try to do this with my blogs. I write what comes to mind for a few minutes and then return to edit the material before going “live.”  I didn’t think about it until now, but perhaps I have NaNoWriMo to thank for the past eleven years.

From the Archives – July 3, 2008

I’m going on record as changing my mind.

I’ve always been a purist where book clubs are concerned. That is, if you join a book club and the assigned book for next month isn’t something you want to read, you should do it anyway. One reason to join a book club is to broaden one’s reading interests.

But yesterday I went to my monthly book club meeting, having purchased the book in question but also having read only 17 pages. According to my former philosophy, I should have not attended, because I hadn’t finished the read in question. According to my current philosophy: well — if others in the group don’t bother to read the book, why should I?

I’ve been a member for only a few short months, but what I’ve learned is that reading the book is not necessary for participating in a viable discussion. Some of the club members read the book cover to cover. But others visit online sites to learn about the book’s reviews or to expand their knowledge by learning about the context in which the book is important.

I don’t know about other book clubs, but the one I’ve joined seems to be comprised of intelligent women who have opinions based on facts that may or may not have come from reading a certain book Many of them are well-traveled; many have had professional careers (although most are now retired); many are open to new ideas.

So I am trying to join them by revising my opinion that one must read the assigned book to participate. Maybe one just has to learn something about the subject involved, be it fiction or non-fiction, to contribute to the whole. I’m not sure, but I’m willing to give it a try.

P.S. Yes, this is the first day that I’ve done a double entry. Since I don’t write every day anymore, I’ve decided that — when the spirit strikes — I’ll write double. Maybe even triple. Who knows?