Think Summer

Today is Valentine’s Day. Instead of roses, chocolates, or other tokens of affection, I’m gifting you with something cheaper, less caloric, and more heat producing: A reminder that Summer – hot, sunny, summer -- is just a tad over four months away. And with nary a break in Chicago’s 19-day cold wave, I figured photos of bathing beauties (captions provided at the end), tales of unforgettable vacations, and peeks into childhood summers gone by, might be more welcome than traditional Valentines.









First up, my summer memory: Like many Jewish Chicagoans who grew up in the 50s and 60s (see “The Division Street Princess”), Union Pier, Michigan, a seaside town about 90 miles from the city, provided our family with scrapbooks full of photos and memories that have lingered for decades.


Our annual routine went something like this: the four Elkin sisters, plus some sisters-in-law, would rent several cabins in the country where they and their children could spend a few weeks away from the sweltering city. On Friday nights, the husbands would drive up for the weekend, shed their workaday wardrobes, and join their relaxed wives and exuberant children for a quick two-day respite.


Looking back, I see me racing to meet Dad’s four-door Buick, watch it stir up a cloud of gravel as he pulls to a stop in our compound, and as soon as the motor is off, I hop on the running board to kiss his sweaty, bearded cheek.


I also recall days at the beach where we buried compliant cousins neck deep in the sand, riding my brother’s shoulders until he tossed me off into not-so-deep water, and finally, trudging back to our cottages, hot, exhausted, and sand encrusted. But it’s the Buick, and Dad’s scratchy cheek I remember best of all.

Now, let’s meet some friends who have generously shared their stories of summers past. Here’s former Chicagoan Chuck Otto, a West Michigan-based writer and communications consultant who specializes in environmental issues. Chuck and his wife, Ruth Anne, live in a tiny town on the Lake Michigan shore. This is Chuck’s contribution:


“Like many Midwesterners, I tend to hunker down during the winter months and dream of the coming summer’s vacation destination. From Nantucket to Anchorage, Santa Fe to Seattle, near or far, I’ve loved them all. To me, travel ranks as one of life’s greatest pleasures, and an absolute necessity for maintaining my sometimes borderline sanity.

“As a native flatlander, I have a special place in my heart for Colorado and the Rocky Mountains. Nothing beats those vast, open landscapes, distant mountains and blue skies. Boulder in particular, with its relaxed attitude and outside orientation, has an almost magnetic hold on me. I’ve had similarly wonderful experiences wandering the Pacific Northwest, the desert Southwest and the Northern regions of my home state of Michigan.


“As you might have noticed, my ideal summer vacations often involve trekking through woods, deserts and dunes. But I have to admit that an afternoon in a museum, humble or grand, is also time well-spent. And don’t even get me started on food or I’ll dazzle you (or not) with riveting tales of my first bowl of Southwestern green chili, a life-altering Indian meal in Cambridge, England, or that superb dinner of fresh-caught wild salmon in Fairbanks…

“I know people who have been everywhere, seen everything, and are clearly bored by it all. I pity them. I hope I always feel the sense of childlike wonder I experience from looking at maps, reading travel guides, packing my suitcase, and heading out on that next great summer adventure.”


Linda Freedman, LCSW, LMFT, PhD is in private practice in Chicago and is an academic researcher/writer, and the popular blogger, TherapyDoc. She has a more harrowing experience to share:

“How hard could this be to remember a nice, sunny vacation in the middle of the winter? Except it's the BAD vacations I remember. That's how my brain works.

“When I fell in love with F.D., we would talk about what we would do when we were married, and camping was at the top of the list. Even after we had kids.

“One summer, the older children went to camp and F.D. and I took our boys, 4 year-old and 10 months, to Turkey Run, Indiana for a weekend in the summer. By then we had a dog, too, an Airedale, only a pup. But he was BIG.

“Turkey Run's gorgeous. The best hiking path is through a very steep gorge that cuts through a canyon. What's left of a creek or a river is a little trickle of running water. When we arrived it started to rain a little. So here we are, in a gorge, and it's raining. Then it starts to pour, really pour, and pretty soon we're knee deep in a running river, not a trickling creek, and thunder's scaring the kids and lightning's crackling, lighting up the sky. Other hikers are scrambling up the cliffs, but we're handicapped with the boys and the dog. I remember water rising, rising, rising.

“We do it, make the scramble up the cliff. We dive between trees wondering if we'll be hit by lightening and that will be the end of what had been previously been a relatively nice life. Then the rain lets up. We go back to our site, get showered, start cooking because it's a Friday and we're Sabbath observant and everything has to be ready before sunset.

“I turn on the radio and hear: Tornado warning. Tornadoes have been spotted in Champaign, Illinois and are headed into Indiana, should be in the vicinity in about an hour. If you're in a trailer or a mobile home, please vacate to permanent shelter immediately.

“F.D. looks up at the sky and says, ‘No way, We've had the worst of it.’ But the sky's getting dark and it's starting to rain again, so I take the kids to the lodge to see if they have a room, but all are taken. ‘Can we stay in the lobby?’ I ask. ‘Sure, but not the dog,’ they say. I run back to the car and in blinding rain find the campsite again, and then locate F.D. We both have seen the dark cloud, watched the miserable black funnel as it passed over the area. It never touched down.

“The upshot? I don't like rain anymore, and I’m a little traumatized when I hear thunder. I'll walk in the rain, but I don't camp. Vacations? I'll take mine in the winter, thank you.”


My brother, Ron Shapiro, lives in Kansas City, Missouri, with his wife Norma (my sweet sister-in-law). Along with writing his occasional blog, Ron keeps busy with his jobs as “The Rapid Peddler,” an industrial chemical and janitorial supplier; at Allied Home Mortgage; and as a sports photographer. I asked Ron to supply a story for this photo and this is what my big brother (three years older) sent:

“Who is that guy? That's a time when I had a thin body and fat hair. Now, it's sort of switched to a fat body and very thin hair. I guess everyone has a place to escape to in his or her mind. Mine is over 20 years ago in the photo, near the water, lots of sun and happy days. I find myself going back there more often than I should. But rather than get depressed, I mentally flee to Hawaii. If I were to title the photo it would be “Every Day.’ Norma says I should stop living in the past and she's right. But when I close my eyes, my ‘Making Happy’ days start to roll as if in a film.”


Lowell D. Streiker, Ph.D., is an inspirational humorist, speaker, and author who lives in California. A 1956 graduate of Austin High School, Lowell has contributed to 40 books and his latest is “Of Boys and Guns: Childhood Memories of a Chicago Neighborhood--1942 to 1952.” Lowell offers us this essay about a much beloved summer place:

“During the summers, some kids from the block went to Riverview, the famous amusement park at Western and Belmont, about 40 minutes by two streetcars from our neighborhood. Now and then, thanks to coupons distributed by the Mom and Pop stores that ballyhooed, ‘free admission to park and (6) rides per person,’ I would go along.

“The coupons provided admission and free rides on the lesser attractions—the 70-horse merry-go-round, the slower roller coasters, the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Bump ‘em Cars, the Tunnel of Love, and the miniature train. The gang considered these ‘kiddy rides,’ fit only for ‘chickens’ and ‘sissies.’ They headed for the 35- and 40-cent rides. Their favorite was the Bobs, then America’s scariest roller coaster. Next they rode the Chutes, a fast slide down a long ramp in a 10-passenger, landing-craft-like boat into a huge pond. The resultant splash was sure to soak the riders and any bystanders!


“The limit of my courage was the Super Eli, the great double Ferris Wheel, twice the height of ordinary Ferris wheels. The operator made sure that each car stopped at the top for a minute or two, swaying in the wind, with its occupants shrieking in fear. Way beyond my terror limit was the Pair-o-Chutes, a 212-foot tall lace work of steel (originally built as Chicago’s version of the Eiffel Tower), from which couples sitting side by side on a wooden bench would free fall as a parachute canopy opened above them.”

Thanks to Chuck, Linda, Ron, and Lowell for sharing their stories. We hope our tales have managed to raise your hearts’ temperatures several degrees. If not, there’s always chocolate.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Photos Captions:

1. My friend Eve and me, bathing beauties at North Avenue Beach, circa, 1956.
2. Aunt Blos, with Cousins Randy and Renee on either side. Union Pier, 1960.
3. Uncle Nate, Aunt Jackie, Cousins Michele and Lori. Union Pier, 1960.
4. Sasha, our first golden retriever, during a Union Pier revisit, likely 1998.
5. My daughters Jill and Faith, with their friend Rachel behind them. Taken at the South Commons swimming pool, sometime in the 1970s.
6. Chuck Otto, elevated in Colorado, Continental Divide in the background.
7. Journey to Chuck’s personal Mecca: The steps of the Beatles’ Abbey Road recording studios, London.
8. Turkey Run State Park.
9. My brother Ron Shapiro in Hawaii; in the early 1980s.
10. Cover photo, “Of Boys and Guns” by Lowell Streiker
11. The Pair-O-Chutes Tower, Riverview Park. Photo by Chuck Wlodarczyk, as shown in Lowell’s book.

Gratitude Corner:

To the Chabad organization for posting my essay on their Jewish Woman website and for sharing it with their vast readership.

Happy Birthday Mom

Today is my mother’s birthday and if she were alive to celebrate, we’d be figuring out how to place 93 candles atop her cake. But Min Elkin Shapiro, the skinniest of the Elkin sisters, died in 1981 just shy of her 68th birthday –my exact age as I write this.


I’m certain Mom would not have chosen to succumb to a massive heart attack at 68, but I do know she never wanted to be “old.” As you can see from the photographs I’ve included with this post (captions at the end), my mother remained a beautiful woman throughout her life.


To be honest, she was quite vain about her good looks. Well, with her gorgeous black hair (too thin, though, and later in life she covered it with a snappy wig), startlingly blue eyes, curvy figure, and flirty smile, she had every right.


If you’ve read my memoir, you know Mom and I had an ouchy relationship. She undoubtedly loved me, but in my mind, I never measured up. I always thought I wasn’t pretty enough, thin enough, tall enough to please her. And that my brother, Ron, three years older than I, was her favored child. (Oy, what a needy brat I was back then.)



I often wonder how my mother would critique her daughter today -- with my hair its natural gray, my wardrobe ala the Gap, and my at-home attire sweats and no makeup or bra. For her part, Mom was always fahpitzed (dressed up) – high heels, Max Factor pancake makeup, cornflower blue eyeshadow, and Fire Engine red lipstick. Wait, there’s more: mascara that required a dampened brush swiped across a tiny black circle before painting her eyelashes (I watched, open mouthed, silent), plus powdered rouge.


And even in the 1940s, when Mom dished out meals in the drab kitchen of our three-room flat, she wore her Swirl housecoat, 3-inch wedge house slippers, and clip-on earrings. “You never know who you’re going to meet,” she would tell me whenever I balked at combing my hair or fixing my face before leaving the house.


Mom did live long enough to see my daughters grow up to be teenagers, but she missed their more recent successes. She loved her granddaughters completely, and blamed me for any wardrobe shortcomings. I remember when Faith and Jill were toddlers and I permitted them to dress as they wished and to leave their tresses tussled (a rebellion against my mom’s constant primping of me?), she’d say, “That’s how you’re letting them leave the house?”


Today, as she surely reads their words or catches their performances from her special balcony seat, I can almost hear her asking, “That’s how you let them talk?” Ma, there’s nothing I can do.


After writing about my own childhood in “The Division Street Princess,” I realized I knew very little about my mom’s, or her true feelings during her 25-year marriage to my dad. Oh, I wrote what I though she was feeling, but I never asked her what was really in her head during the grocery store’s tsouris, my dad’s poor health, and their money woes. And, of course, now it’s too late. Only two of eight siblings (four girls, four boys) are alive today and sadly, neither is in a shape to provide clues.


Perhaps one day I’ll write a novel and imagine what Mom’s life was like growing up in her Russian shtetl. Or how she felt crossing the ocean at age 9 for a new life in America. And since it would be fiction, I could create a happier scenario for Min. I’d give her a marvelous romance, successful career, and sunny life. And most importantly, no matter how long she’d be alive, she’s never ever look old.

Happy Birthday Mom!

Photo Captions
1. Min and Irv’s engagement photo.
2. Their 1932 wedding photo.
3. A 1950s Division Street scene with (left to right) me, Dad, Mom, Cousin Estherly, Aunt Etta holding Cousin David, Aunt Rose with a shy Cousin Jay and Cousin Norman next to his mom.
4. Dad and Mom in the second row above Cousin Bobby, the bar mitzvah boy. Note Mom’s off the shoulder dress.
5. My brother, Ron, adorable in this toddler photo.
6. Ron again, age 19, in the Army.
7. Mom with baby Faith.
8. Mom with baby Jill.
9. Mom with her second husband, Joe. Although he was much older than Mom, he outlived her by several years. Despite the smiles, this marriage was unhappy. I think.
10. Mom and me, likely the late 1970s.


Gratitude Corner

To blogger South of the Loop for her Jan. 16 “Meet the Author” post where she gives me a thumbs-up review for my Dec. 2, 2006 Newberry Library appearance.

Odd Jobs

In 1952, at the age of 14, I got a work permit and my first job ironing dresses at a Milwaukee Avenue clothing store. Forty-seven years later, after retiring from my PR career, I signed on for a seasonal job at the Gap on Michigan Avenue. Those two odd jobs – all those many years apart – had one thing in common. I was lousy at both of them.


Wait. That’s not exactly true. There were some things I was good at in my Gap days. I arrived on time, absorbed my daily informational meetings, memorized the 10 Principals, dutifully wore Gap merchandise, didn’t grumble when it was my turn to fold and re-hang clothes in the fitting room, kept my eye out for sticky-fingered customers, and cheerfully moved from Denim, to Khaki, to Fleece, to Dressy.

But at the end of each day, I could barely shuffle to the subway. After standing or walking the floor for my entire shift, every aged bone in my body complained. By the time I made it home, I would sink to the couch, motion to my husband for a glass of Chardonnay, and wonder what I had gotten myself into.

During my three months on the job I never took home a paycheck, instead spent every discounted dollar on Gap clothing. That’s why to this day, you’ll still find me in my uniform: black t-shirt, boot leg denims, Steve Madden kids-sized boots. Courtesy of my oddest job.


To learn if others had similar odd job experiences, I asked several friends to share their stories. First up is Jimmy Carrane, co-author of “Improvising Better” and host of Studio 312 on Chicago Public Radio. He’s also taught at The Second City, Annoyance and IO-Chicago. Jimmy’s next “One Day Improvisation Workshop for Everyday Folks” is Saturday Feb 24th, from 11 a.m. - 4 p.m. in Andersonville at 3 Pear Studio at 5219 N. Clark Street. For info, write to jcarrane@aol.com or call 773-528-0433. Jimmy’s story:

“Two things actors desperately need - to be recognized and to make the rent. This job was neither. It was a birthday party for the CEO of The Fruit of Loom Company. The hosts needed four actors to go to his posh Streeterville condo, dressed like The Fruit of The Loom Guys and sing Happy Birthday. I don't remember exactly what piece of fruit I was, but since I was short and fat at the time, I know I was not the Banana or the Grapes. Let's say I was the Apple. I don't want to sound bitter, but the fat guy is always the Apple.


“The condo was in a very fancy building near the Drake Hotel, and in those days I was not taking elevators, because of my claustrophobia, so I walked up the 11 flights of stairs in my Apple costume and tights. When I got to the place, the self-important caterer shoved me into a room with the three other actors as if I was a piece of, well, fruit.

“Two hours later, the caterer let us out and took us to the living room to sing Happy Birthday to the CEO. The room was filled with Chicago royalty. People like Kup, his wife Essie, Neil Hartigan. Celebrities I had only seen on TV or read about in the newspaper. I had never been so close to these kind of powerful people, and at the same time, disguised as a fat Apple, felt so far away.”


Tony Brooks has a happier story. Tony (that's him in the middle of his beautiful family) has been a contributing journalist to sports magazines since 2005 and specializes in profiling sports legends in his “Where Are They Now” publications. Here’s Tony’s contribution:

“In 1981, with a political science degree in hand, I went to work at an Investment Banking firm, and oddly enough, 26 years later, I’m still there. But the real odd job came in 1995 when a mother of one of my Sunday school students asked me to recommend a good high school for her son. I had a few opinions, but told her I would do some in-depth research. To my surprise, I could not find any books on Chicago-area quality high schools. So, with the confidence of having been an Honors English student and a decent writer, I self-published a book called The Ten Best High Schools in the City of Chicago.


“For more than 20 years, I had suppressed my desire to write before finally taking that first major successful step for that perplexed mom. Also, I have always wanted to write about former Chicago star athletes and “where are they now?” stories. Four years ago, when my uncle Lemuel T. Smith Jr. (a former star basketball player at St. Elizabeth) passed away, this passion was ignited and for the last two years, my new on-the-side job has been freelance sports writing. I’m a regular contributing journalist to The Chicago Sports Review and Black Sports The Magazine. In the February edition of the Bear Report Magazine, I will have my first article published about catching up with former Chicago Bears football players. Life is good, and so are Odd Jobs.”


Susan Stone is a well-known storyteller, teacher of the art, and a published author who has been honored with many awards. She offers us two looks at her odd jobs:


“A graduate degree in theatre didn't help me get a job. I was 22, living at home and decided to waitress for the first time in my life at a family eatery in Skokie. I schlepped platters of burgers and fries, salads, and corned beef sandwiches in a crowded, noisy, bustling restaurant.

“Every day we’d get a ‘bank’ to make change and every evening we’d return the bank and keep the remaining money as our tips. But I regularly came home crying because I had no tips, likely giving the wrong change (math not being my strong suit) to my customers. Once, I could’ve made some real money when I slipped on a wet floor and contemplated suing. Instead, I quit.

“In my current profession, I have a ‘biggest nightmare’ story that could serve as an odd job. I was hired by the Chicago Botanic Gardens to tell scary stories for Halloween. I put on my best witch duds over layers of sweaters, and was seated on a truck with hay (aka a hay wagon), which was actually a very noisy tractor-type truck. It was a dark, freezing, sleeting October night. I stood on the first car of the flatbed truck with lights glaring in my eyes, blinding me. I held a microphone in my shivering hands and bellowed stories over the grind of the motor to an audience who couldn’t see me or the passing garden scenery. I don't think anyone could hear the tales. A nightmare gig for Halloween.”


Jill Stewart is president of Stewart Communications, a public relations and marketing communications firm that works with organizations focused on health care, housing, community development and other important issues. Jill’s Odd Job story follows:

“Maybe this is a common experience; maybe it was unique, but it sure was memorable. I was 18 and had just finished my freshman year in college. I had been a retail clerk the previous summer and was looking to make more than $1.60 an hour, the current minimum wage.

“For six days (after the five-day training period), I sold encyclopedias in Akron, Ohio. Each day at 2 p.m., we met in downtown Pittsburgh (my hometown) outside the building where we had been trained. We were then driven in a van 113 miles to Akron. At approximately 5 p.m. we were dropped off on a street corner in a residential neighborhood with a sample book and the driver’s promise to return at 10:00 p.m.


“For five hours, I pounded the pavement, knocked on doors and when admitted, told my prospects of the wonders of the American People’s Encyclopedia by Grolier Publishing, complete with the transparencies and overlays.

“I sold exactly one set of encyclopedias (“only a dime a day”). Qualifying for the payment plan involved having a working telephone number and only one of my prospects made the cut.

“My boyfriend – beside himself about the job’s safety – talked me out of continuing.

“The experience played to my entrepreneurial spirit. It played to my ability to sell and persuade, and not surprisingly those traits showed up later in life when I started and ran my own business.

“But times have changed. I don’t regret selling encyclopedias. The experience gave me a lot of stories, and insights about myself. But I cannot imagine allowing my own 18-year-old daughter to do the same thing in these very different times.”

Gratitude Corner


To Kelvyn Park High School's Career Day for introducing me and "The Division Street Princess" to its students (pictured).


To alumni magazines from the University of Illinois Chicago and its Master of Urban Planning and Policy Program for featuring us in recent publications.

Words to Live By?

At sundown on January 6, in memory of my father’s death, I’ll light a Yahrzeit candle and let it burn in its special container for 24 hours. Then, as tradition suggests, I’ll use the candle lighting ceremony to reflect on Irving Eugene Shapiro's life. I’ll recall Dad’s easy smile, salesman’s charm, and barrel body. But mostly, I’ll remember his infamous declaration: If I can’t eat, I’d rather die.


Today I wonder – after a lifetime of morning scale readings, measuring spoons, diet books, and weight-loss schemes – is it genetics, my own sloth and appetite, or was it Dad’s pesky proverb, that charted my preoccupation with poundage? And are others similarly swayed by pronouncements by loved ones? To learn, I queried a few friends and submit their contributions:

Karen Carpino (pictured below), president of Karen Carpino Design, a Chicago-based firm that provides Interior Design, Home Staging, and Model Home Design, offers this:

"Mon puo fare piu buio della mizzanotte, said my dear Italian aunt, Mary Ungaro. English translation: ‘Darker than midnight it cannot get.’ Whenever I'd be in a dilemma I could count on Aunt Mary to offer these words. However, over the years I've discovered that sometimes life can certainly shade darker than midnight. And although she's gone for many years, I find her phrase pop to my mind when I'm in a crisis, large or small. You see, I've come to realize this old Italian proverb (and Aunt Mary) have done their job on me. The gift in these words of my ancestors is what I've found most precious in life - hope, always hope.”



Jerry Gleicher (pictured left) is a sales representative with On Time Promotions a Morton Grove-based distributor of promotional products that serves clients locally, nationally and internationally.

(Jerry's company produced the jazzy aprons my family wore in this photo shown below that was taken at Women & Children First bookstore.)


Jerry says his dad’s words of wisdom actually served him well:

“My father, Paul, always told me, It doesn't matter much what you sell so long as you sell lots of it. Another of his favorite phrases was, If you never had a chance to steal, that doesn't make you an honest man.

“My dad owned a small gas station on the corner of Division and Paulina, and his words and work ethic motivated me throughout my life. ‘Be a good husband, father and grandfather,’ he said. And I think he’d be proud of me in that aspect of my life.

“Dad’s been gone for 30 years and my older children and all of my nieces and nephews still talk about him. He was the first person I knew who could make you think you were the number one person in his life. After his death all of his grandchildren claimed to be his favorite and could prove why.

“I only hope the people in my life will remember me as lovingly as they do my dad.”


Robb Packer, (shown in this photo with Joya Fields on his left and Iris Nelson on his right), is the author of "Doors of Redemption: The Forgotten Synagogues of Chicago." He offers this tale:

“When I was a little guy in the 1950's and my family was about to visit friends or relatives, my dad would make sure we had a little something to eat, because you never know. I would always ask my dad, ‘what do you mean, you never know?’ He wouldn’t answer, but would just tell my mom to make something.

“Years later he explained it all by telling us the family legend of the unforgiving meal: Back in the late 1880's, my grandfather was invited for dinner to an uncle's house. This being an unusual occasion and my grandfather and grandmother not having many invitations (they were newly married), they gratefully accepted.

“They prepared for the evening by dressing in their finest Sabbath clothes (the uncle they’d be visiting was very wealthy), and arrived at the appointed time to find everyone sitting around drinking coffee, nibbling on cakes, and smoking cigars. Somehow he got the idea it was for dinner, not just an evening of chatting.

“And ever since that time, until my dad passed away, we never left for an evening at someone else’s house without first having a little nosh. Because you never know.”


As for Jim Passin, (photographed here as a young lad) president of Jim Passin Productions, a company specializing in Documentary, TV Production, Computer Graphics/Animation, Post-Production, Original Music, and Digital Photography, here’s his story:

“It's New Year's day. My wife, her sister (Minga The Dark), and I wait for friends to drop over for the traditional New Year's Day celebration featuring delicious blintzes (made by Minga), applesauce (also delicious, made by my wife, Nancy), and Champagne supplied by our guests. Hopefully that, too, will rest pleasantly in the delicious category.

“I have, this year, only one resolution: to loose weight. One would think I'd have more. I stopped smoking, years ago along with most other fun things, and find that as time passes, I can find fewer and fewer things to give up or that ever needed giving up or changing in the first place. Another resolution might be to stop thinking of myself as perfect. This is hard to do. Those who know me will undoubtedly snicker about now.

“Yet, today is indeed a signal year in the arc of my life. It marks the last day of carefree seasonal gorging. There's my birthday, Thanksgiving, Presidents' Day, Flag Day, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year's Eve, New Year's Day, and anyone else's birthday, anniversary, casual dinner or bar mitzvah I might attend. These are all good and fully certified occasions for gorging. Also, most any other time when food is present. On this account I tend to agree with Elaine's father.

“However, if I still want to be able to look down and see my shoes, among other things, my heart tells me that it is now time to let go of gorging. I used to think that a day without a good gorge isn't worth living. But lately my wife's words have been ringing in my ears, A day without fruit is a day not worth living! She says this often. It is her mantra. Words to live by indeed, by gum! So, I enter the New Year and to those 'words to live by' I might add my own: Never eat anything bigger than your head. This will be my mantra.

Q: Is it still OK to gorge on fruit?
Happy New Year!”


Now that we’ve heard from my friends, I think it’s time to retire my dad’s questionable words of wisdom and instead remember the blessings he passed on it me: his love of family, passion for books, lust for life, and exuberance for Chicago and its characters. And when I strike the match and light the wick to honor his memory, that’s what I’ll hold dear.
Then, I’ll head over to Smoque BBQ, our neighborhood’s newest restaurant, and order a sliced brisket sandwich with fries on the side. And as I savor each juicy bite, I’ll imagine Irv relishing the very same delicacy in the heavenly hereafter. Enjoy, Dad, enjoy.



Gratitude Corner:


To the Chicago Tribune for naming one of the best books of 2006.



To Quill for featuring me on page 165 of their office supply catalog. (Today I am a pencil, stapler, etc.)



To Maryann Mullan for choosing my memoir for her book club’s December discussion topic.



A deep bow to all, and to everyone else who made 2006 a year to remember for my book and me.

Chanukah Blog Tour 5767

I have a troublesome habit: I pick up young women. Sometimes on the street, lately in cyberspace. Am I a predator destined to be a “Dateline” exposé? Or simply a pathetic Jewish mother, with two grown daughters living cross country (Boston and L.A.), thus forcing me to latch onto any friendly female facsimile?


Okay, cutie, you figured it out. Delightful Amy Guth, who is my latest quarry and author of “Three Fallen Women,” asked me to be part of this meme (I had to look it up, too.) and answer her eight questions. So here are hers, plus my responses:

1. Quick! You must turn a plate of latkes into an upscale gourmet
delight (as if they aren't already?). What would you add to them to dress them up, flavor and/or garnish them?
Salsa, because I’m taking Spanish language classes at Dígame school in Logan Square and want to include as much español en mi vida como posible. (Corrections welcome.)

2. What is the dumbest thing you've ever heard anyone say about
Chanukah?
That they don’t know whether to spell it your way or this way: Hanukkah. I think I prefer yours, with the ch-growl.

3. What's the best possible use for olive oil?
Frying chicken. My favorite food in all the world.

4. Settle it once and for all. Latkes or hammentaschen? Which to you
prefer? What about pitting the winner of that contest against
sufganiyot?
Can’t I have all three? This blog is making me hungry.

5. What's the best way to mix up a game of dreidel?
Ask my daughter Jill who has invented a new game called “Ultimate Dreidel.” (See previous post.)


6. My novel, Three Fallen Women, shockingly enough, is about the lives of three women. Which three women would you like to have over this year for latkes and why?
I’d like to resurrect from the dear departed, my three favorite female jazz vocalists: Billie Holiday , Carmen McRae, and Nina Simone. I figure that by now, the chanteuses could use a bit of sustenance. But someone else would have to be in the kitchen to do the peeling, grating, squeezing, stirring, plopping, and frying. Of course, I’d ask full-of-life Leah and OrienYenta to join in on the party. (You’ll have to read their Tour posts to find out why they won an invitation; but be sure to check out Amy's blog to find links for all of the Tour contributors.)

7. Other than Three Fallen Women (har har), what book do you think would make a great Chanukah gift this year? What book would you like to receive as a gift this year?
Voo Den? Answer to first part: Jill Soloway’s “Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants,” and to the second part, Amy Guth’s, “Three Fallen Women.” And although you didn’t ask, any videotape from Faith’s Soloway’s productions would make a great Chanukah gift. Though I’m not so sure about “Jesus Has Two Mommies.”

8. What bloggers didn't participate in Chanukah Blog Tour 5767 and you
think should have?
Hillary Carlip, Jill Soloway, and Danny Miller (he already did his post, but this is an extra vote for my favorite blogger). Scroll down my blog and you’ll see contributions by all three.

Happy Chanukah to all!