Passover Agressive

On April 7, I was invited to be part of the Uptown Writers Space monthly reading series with the timely theme, “Where’s Your Moses Now? Musings on Faith.

After sending e-mails to alert friends about the essay I would be reading at the event -- “Passover Aggressive” -- a number of people who couldn’t attend, asked to read the piece I’d be performing.


I got laughs, so I decided to post my piece, along with photos and links. Fortunately, we had a full house, likely drawn by an impressive line-up of readers that included Don Gecewicz, Jason Grunebaum, Hugh Musick,Eden Robins, Marc Smith, Megan Stielstra, and me. Here what I read:


“For this evening’s theme of faith, which is especially relevant during this week of Passover, it’s important to honor the many contributions the Jewish people have made to society. Let’s see, there’s the Torah, the 10 Commandments, the idea of equality before the law, respect for the sanctity of life, social responsibility; and a lot of other good stuff.

But for now, I want to focus on one thing my tribe –especially revered Jewish mothers like myself—have been famous for for the past 5,767 years: Guilt.

As illustration, I’ve uncovered an e-mail I actually wrote to my two daughters prior to Passover 2005. First some background: my offspring, Faith and Jill Soloway, live in Boston and Los Angeles respectively, with their children (my grandchildren) and their partners. My daughters, who I labored with for 12 and 6 hours respectively, have been away from their mother since 1990, that’s 17 years, or 6,205 days, whichever number resonates with you.


Of those 6,205 days, I’ve seen my daughters – what half a dozen times? No, I lie, about three times a year, or 51 times. Let’s see, 6,205 vs. 51. You do the math, then you can appreciate where I’m coming from with this story.

Back to Passover 2005: Faith and Jill agreed to come to Chicago for a Seder at my home and to bring with them their families - my grandchildren, and their female and male significant others.


The idea of having my daughters within hugging distance for 3 full days (That’s all they could spare. They’re very busy. I’m not complaining, but…) anyway, the idea was so glorious that I put aside the other part of hosting a Passover Seder: the shopping, cooking, chopping, china and silverware search, table setting, serving, clearing, serving again, cleaning before and after.

The crowning of each piece of gefilte fish with a sliced carrot, the precarious trip from pot to plate with steaming matzo ball soup, the overcooking of the brisket, the interminable wait through the Haggadah reading, etc. Everything I’ve escaped over the years. But I was going to do it! In fact, I got so carried away, that I invited every friend who didn’t have a Passover plan to join us. I think it’s some kind of Jewish law.


Soon enough, the reality of what I had proposed started to hit home, so I suggested to my daughters that we have the whole 40 or so courses catered.

Jill, who is the balabusta (terrific homemaker) in the family, said, “No, Mom, I’ll cook.” Sounds good, right? But all I could think of was carloads of groceries from Whole Foods, a register receipt long enough to paper the bathroom, pots and pans covering every surface of my kitchen counter top, and a clean up job to rival Woodstock. But, it was Passover, and I was going to handle it.

Here’s where the trauma comes in: Instead of staying at my home --which has two spare bedrooms decorated as shrines to my daughters, complete with photographs of them in every age and stage of their careers – Jill and her family booked a hotel for their visit.

Okay, that I swallowed. After all, Jill is a Hollywood writer and she can afford it. And her boyfriend was a really big guy who might have felt squeezed with all of us in one house. And then there’s the dog. Tommy and I own a continuously-shedding, people-knocking-over, golden retriever, and Jill has this thing about dogs. So, I accepted her decision.


But when Faith and her girlfriend said that they, too, were going to stay at a hotel, I lost it. What had I done to deserve such treatment?

Naturally, I couldn’t sleep. So at 2:29 a.m., I got up and wrote the following e-mail to my daughters. It is so sarcastic, venomous, passive-aggressive; but sweet, that I thought it deserved another airing. I have not changed one word:

Subject line: Sorry for being selfish...
Dear Daughters,
Sorry I’ve been selfish and slow to understand that you want to enjoy Chicago, and that you want your partners and children to get to love our wonderful city, too.

I think it’s a good idea for you to stay in hotels -- and near your dad would be great for him. Faithy, I’m sure you can find something close to Jilly that will be more in your price range. I understand your desire for privacy and for having your own schedules. After all, who could be more on schedule than I? A hotel will give you more peace and quiet -- less dog hair -- and put you right in the middle of the action. And it will give the cousins a chance to see more of each other.

Plan your days to take advantage of restaurants and museums, or shopping, and I can come down to meet you wherever and whenever you tell me. And Tommy and I can meet you for dinner wherever you decide. There are so many terrific restaurants here – ethnic and otherwise – you should have a chance to try them out.

As for Passover, Jilly, why give up a Saturday to shop and cook with me when you could be doing more sightseeing, or maybe seeing Grandma Belle? Many restaurants now offer Passover dinners.

We could all go to one conveniently located. I’ll start doing research; and Jilly, the concierge at the Peninsula will likely have ideas, too.
Tommy and I will pick up the tab, as it was my idea to invite you to Chicago. That way, you and your families will make better use of your time here and we’ll all get to enjoy your vacation.

I apologize for dragging this on, and for only seeing my side. I love Chicago and want you to come often. Perhaps this kind of visit will entice more trips.
I love you….


Naturally, Jill responded immediately: “Are you crazy?” Something like that. “You don’t mean a word of it,” she said. Hmmm, you think? Well, you’ll be happy to hear we had many back and forth e-mails, phone calls, tears, etc. and apologies all around. The upshot is that the girls still came to town, Jill and her family did stay at the Peninsula Hotel, Faith and her family stayed with Tommy and me, and we ordered the entire meal for 17 people from The Bagel and What's Cooking restaurants.

Jill and my grandson Isaac wrote a Passover play (he was the baby Moses) and all of the children among our invited guests got to act out roles. A super marvelous time was had by all.


As proof, I’ve brought photos from the event. And to give you greater insight to the three Soloway women: me, Faith, and Jill, I’ve brought products of ours to sell: The Division Street Princess, my memoir; Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants, Jill’s book of essays; and a CD of Jesus Has Two Mommies, Faith’s rock opera.

You don’t have to buy them, but I did bring them all the way down here in a heavy shopping bag, and my talented daughters and I put a lot of ourselves into our work, and you likely throw money away on stuff you don’t need anyway. But don’t feel any pressure."

Jan Brady Trained My Dog

Fair warning: if you are not a dog lover or do not enjoy posts that gush about the writer’s canine, here’s your chance to opt out – no hard feelings. But if like me, you fall to your knees to caress whatever breed crosses your path, read on. (Photo captions at the end.)

Owning a dog is a relatively new experience for me. During my childhood on Division Street, we briefly owned a terrier named Sparky. But for the life of me, I can’t remember what happened to him.


And when I married and started a family, we never sought a furry companion for our daughters, Faith and Jill, because my husband wasn’t a dog lover. Evidentially I didn’t feel strongly enough at the time to press for a pet for the kids, or for me. But after my husband and I separated in 1990, I hungered for something to warm and protect me, and a dog seemed an uncomplicated solution.

The girls were still living in Chicago when their dad and I split and were eager to help me adjust. If Mom had a puppy to love, feed, and spoil, perhaps she’d ease up on her offspring, they likely figured. So Jill accompanied me to a dog show where we narrowed our choices to Labradors and Golden Retrievers – breeds that she figured would look good with a red bandana around it’s neck. (Fast forward to 2005, where on Page 96 of the hardcover edition of "Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants," Jill Soloway guiltily admits, “I don’t like dogs.” Horrors!)


The Goldens won out, and a trip to a Wisconsin breeder in my Uncle Hy’s Cadillac, with my Aunt Blos along to help choose from the litter, brought 7-week-old Sasha into my life. The puppy slept in my arms the entire trip back to my Maud St. townhouse. “This is a breeze,” I thought.

Little did I know that puppies chew up everything they can get their pointy little teeth on – from high heels to table legs to my bare arms– and also, that they pee all over the house. “What did I get myself into?” was my next thought. There I was, free and single, and saddled with a manic animal that was adorably, but purposefully, destroying my house. And, she had to be walked, daily, early, late. Had I lost my mind!


Salvation came from the oddest place: Eve Plumb, the actress who played Jan Brady in the TV hit “The Brady Bunch” taught me how to read the signal that dogs use to express their need to go to the bathroom, “When she does that little circle dance, grab her up and rush her outside,” Eve/Jan said. “Do that every time and she’ll be housebroken before you know it.” It worked. Those wise Brady’s.


Eve was in my home because my daughters had launched “The Real Live Brady Bunch” at the Annoyance Theatre and Eve traveled to Chicago to get a peek at the show. She was amused.

The chewing part of puppyhood eventually ended, and soon enough I was swooning every time I saw her adorable punim. Sasha was my companion throughout my separation and divorce and even helped me snag Tommy as a second husband. (That’s a whole other essay.)


Sasha died of cancer at the age of nine and we grieved for an entire year. Then, in 2000, after Tommy and I moved into our home in Independence Park – complete with front porch, back yard, and across the street from said park – we started hungering for a new pet. We adopted Buddy from a Golden Retriever rescue group – he was 15 months old and fully housebroken (Yea!) – and have lived blissfully with our pooch ever since.


Each morning since his adoption -- rain, shine, snow, or whatever Chicago’s weather throws at us -- Tommy and I leave the house at 6 a.m. to join other neighbor-dog combos in the park. The dogs sniff, wrestle, run, fetch, bark, and do the circle dance. Their owners sip coffee, debate politics, discuss TV and movies, review headlines, and pick up after our pooches. A lovely way to start a morning.


I’m not sure what sparked this essay, but I think it was after I was walking home from the grocery store the other morning and took the route home through the park. I stopped to pet a few dogs who are part of the 7 a.m. set and remembered how much I loved dogs and how grateful I am to Sasha and Buddy for all they have brought into my life. If you’re a dog person, you understand. If not, you shouldn’t have been reading up to here – you were warned.









Love to pooches everywhere!

Photo Captions:
1. Sasha as a puppy.
2. Sasha on our Henderson St. front steps.
3. Aunt Blos and Uncle Hy.
4. Eve Plumb as Jan Brady.
5. Cast of “The Real Live Brady Bunch.”
6. Tommy and Sasha in a winter scene.
7. Jack, owned by Molly.
8. Maggie, owned by Russ and Natalie.
9. Buddy undergoing water therapy at Integrative Pet Care with Tommy looking on. Like many large breeds (and folks in my age group), Buddy has arthritis. This regular treatment has definitely helped our dog. Go Bud!
10. Susan K. with Jessie on the left and Brody on the right.
11. On the left, k.d., Dusty on the right. These pooches are owned by Rick Karlin and his spouse, Gregg Shapiro.
12. Mindy and Mac are Sandy's angels.

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.