Celebrating Dad: Old Spice & Gastronomy

Sunday the 17th is Father’s Day, so naturally I’ve been thinking of ways to celebrate Dad. Although Internet and newspaper advertisers have generously offered gift ideas, I’m relieved of that particular task because my father has snubbed the holiday for the past 49 years.

Of course, Irv Shapiro didn’t intentionally skip all of those gift opportunities. I’m certain he thought himself invincible and that his three-pack-a-day Camel habit or king-size appetite despite diabetes would never catch up to him. Alas, it did, and my father died at the too-young age of 48.


Today's post not only honors fathers long gone, but also those hale and hearty -- specifically Michael Blackstone, the dad of Charles Blackstone who is the author of "The Week You Weren't Here." Following my serving, Charles dishes up his own take on the subject.


My dad’s corporeal absence doesn’t stop me from considering the sorts of gifts I’d like to bestow on Pop. For nostalgia’s sake, there would have to be Old Spice, the men’s aftershave lotion manufactured by the Shulton Company back in 1938 and still on the shelves under the Procter & Gamble label.

In the Fathers' Days of my childhood, Old Spice with its colonial sailing ship logo was always first choice. And although Chicago's Division Street and Dad’s butcher counter were far removed from the nautical theme of the product, Dad gleefully accepted my perennial gift as if it was the cleverest choice on earth.


My father read a paperback book a week (we called them pocketbooks back then), especially pulp novels. Mickey Spillane was one of his favorite authors. "I, the Jury" was published in 1947 (Spillane wrote it in six days), and it introduced his tough detective Mike Hammer.

So when Old Spice bottles started backing up on our medicine cabinet’s shelves, I would switch to a Spillane novel, or another writer with an equally gritty pen.

Now this may be odd for a Jewish man, but my dad was very handy with tools. At one point in his life, he even had a workshop. The feature I most remember about that oil-stained and jumbled cave was the row of baby food jars that Dad used as containers for nails, bolts, and screws. He would fasten the jars’ covers to the basement’s ceiling, unscrew the container when in use, and then reattach it at the project’s end. I recall thinking how clever he was; I still do.


I recently saw a Stanley 62-piece Professional Grade Mechanics Tool Set on sale for $32.90 (regularly priced at $71.99) and in my mind’s eye; I carefully wrapped the set and presented it to my delighted father. “Old Spice would’ve been fine,” he might have said. “You shouldn’t have.”

Oh, there’s many more gifts I could think of that would please Dad, but I believe I’ve just given him the very best present a child could offer: Although 49 years have gone by, he's as fresh in my mind and in my heart as he was when he opened his very first package of Old Spice. What more could a parent wish for than to be forever remembered by his princess?


Father’s Daze by Charles Blackstone

My father has always been rather hard to shop for. He just doesn’t like anything. It’s not just disdain for all things pedestrian; a lot of popular gift items are just lost on him. The only DVDs he’s ever wanted to watch—The Curb Your Enthusiasm boxed sets—he already has, thanks to me. Worst of all, since he retired nearly five years ago (“I’m not a doctor!” he's taken to proclaiming), he no longer wears anything more elaborate than Dockers and button down shirts. Not even to fancy parties. And this means I can’t give him ties.


I know, I know. Ties for Father’s Day are so cliché. Right up there with fireworks on the Fourth of July and Christmas evergreens. The tie, though generic, was always at the top of my list because it was a gift that still allowed for tradition, for whimsy, and for me to get him something that he actually knew how to use and desired—until he gave them up. And it didn’t matter if I picked out an ugly one, or one so shockingly contemporary that we both knew there was no chance of him removing it from the gift box, let alone wearing it in public.

You could always win with a tie, even when you were losing. A tie wasn’t hard to find. You could get them at the supermarket. A tie said love, admiration, and appreciation. But none of that mattered if he had renounced them.

The prospect of choosing became a little more daunting with each passing tie-free year. I got away with gag gifts. Smile, nod, thanks, back to TV. What would it take to really impress The Dad? A $200 bottle of Chateau Neuf-de-Pape?

My wife solved the problem last year. I was about to suggest we just pretend we were out of town over the weekend and skip Father’s Day entirely. That would buy me at least a year. Then, from out of nowhere, Alpana said, “Why don’t we just take them to dinner?” I immediately recognized this as the pure genius that it was. All it would take was a phone call to make a reservation. (It didn’t hurt that we were friends with the proprietor.) And I wouldn’t have to give up the chance to give a gift that would not only be desirable and useful but also showcase my personality.


So we took them to Papillion, a charming eight-table French place, tucked away on Brown Street in downtown Skokie. Chef Danny regaled us with asparagus soup and beautifully marbled steak and soft shell crab and lobster medallions and a festive array of coronary-inducing cheeses. My dad ate like an emperor, or a pro-wrestler. Volnay and Pommard flowed into us like we were tributaries. We ate and drank and enjoyed the beautiful early-summer night. There was even a festive crème brûlée at the end. You can probably guess who got the first—and last—spoon.


At the end of the evening, my dad, the last to leave, stumbled out sated, impressed, touched, and, I can only hope, adequately loved. If he remembered tonight for even an hour longer than he’d remember having received a carbon-dioxide-powered corkscrew or pair of Bose noise-canceling headphones, I could consider this Father’s Day a resounding success.

“You’re a good son,” he said to me, after draping a leaden arm over my shoulder.

“And you’re a hard dad to shop for,” I returned.

He couldn’t deny it. I didn’t want him to.

(Photo above: Michael Blackstone is pictured with his wife Linda and daughter Maya. Taken in Normandy, 2002.)

Happy Father’s Day to Dads everywhere!



¡Muchas gracias!
To Andrea Telli (pictured on the left), manager of the Humboldt Park Branch of the Chicago Public Library; José López, executive director of the Juan Antonio Corretjer Puerto Rican Cultural Center; Billy Ocasio, 26th Ward Alderman, and Ann Bishop (on the right) professor, the University of Illinois Graduate School of Library and Information Science for inviting me to be part of their marvelous June 9th event, "Historic Memory and Literary Tradition in Humboldt Park: The Intersection of Puerto Rican and Jewish Experience."

I shared the program with poets David Hernandez, "The Urban Poems;" Eduardo Arocho, "The 4th Tassel;" and members of Café Teatro Batey Urbano; as well as authors Hazel Rochman, "Against Borders: Promoting Books for a Multicultural World;" and Carlos Quiles and Josefina Rodriguez, "Memorias de Josefina.


And another bow of gratitude to Maddi Elga Amill (photo), owner of Books Plus Publications for making my book available for purchase at the event.

Obsessions: The Bag Lady, The Pen Freak, and The Bone Collector

If you’re wondering what to get me for Mother’s Day, I could use a bag. Not to worry, I’m not talking about one of those obese leather designer bags, or the tiny jeweled ones shaped like animals that ring up at $3,000. I’m talking backpack or messenger bag – tops sixty bucks.

Wait. Perhaps I should be clearer. I don’t really need a bag; I already have more than a dozen. And that’s not counting the handful I’ve already bequeathed to others or sold on e-Bay. It’s more like I can’t stop myself from acquiring more and more and more -- trying to find the perfect bag. That one bag, with the ideal dimensions, correct number of compartments, durable material, nifty design. It’s an obsession.


But I’m not the only one with an odd compulsion. Husband and wife contributors, Kevin Davis and Martie Sanders, let us in on their strange collections, too. Kevin is a Chicago-based journalist and author whose book, “Defending the Damned: Inside Chicago's Cook County Public Defender's Office,” was released from Atria Books in April.










And Martie is a Chicago actress who is currently rehearsing "Criminal Hearts" for Apple Tree Theatre's summer season.

But first, my own backpack/messinger bag nuttiness: I’m not sure why I prefer to strap a 30-pound load on my back, or weigh my right shoulder down with an equal burden, rather than opt for a leather purse more appropriate for someone my age. But I have a theory: I’m the sort of a person who lives her life in “what ifs.” What if I wind up somewhere – let’s say a doctor’s office, emergency room, police station, or other setting where a wait is inevitable, information is urgently needed, and data must be recorded? I’m prepared.

Clever me will have stuffed on her person: a paperback book, cell phone, iPod, electronic and paper address book and calendar, water bottle, snacks, pens, pencils, marking pens, highlighter, lined notebook, cosmetics, mirror, Advil, Tylenol, Gas-X, Band-Aids, wet cloths, digital camera with extra batteries, Post-it flags, a Chicago street directory, and a rubber-banded batch of The Division Street Princess postcards.


Before you chuckle at the above list, consider the answer my daughter Jill gives to those stumped by my refusal to stow my gear. “Why doesn’t she park her bag at home, in the car, or with the coat check?” they’ll ask, shaking their heads at Jill’s loony mother.

She responds, “After the Armageddon, when we’re all living on cots in the high school gymnasium, my mom will be the most popular person in the place. She’ll be surrounded by desperate souls, offering to trade, bribe, or beg their way to her backpack.”


My other daughter has an equally sanguine view of her mother’s schlepping system. In fact, Faith wears one of my forsaken bags on her delicate frame and awaits others I toss on the discard pile.






Now, let's hear from Kevin Davis, who says he took most of his notes for his new book using black ink Papermate Fine Point pens. He titles his contribution, “Awash in a River of Ink”:

For someone who does most of his writing on a computer, I have an absurdly huge collection of pens. I cannot stop hoarding them. I have a sickness and think I need help.



I shouldn’t really call it a collection. It’s an accumulation. There are hundreds, maybe as many as three million pens in my house. I never counted. I cannot resist taking free pens from hotel rooms, offices, seminars or promotional booths at street fairs.

I pick pens off the floors of coffee shops, on the train or the bus. I have enough ink to copy the entire contents of the Chicago Public Library–including every branch and bookmobile.

My collection includes all genres of novelty pens, most of which are rarely clicked open or uncapped. Among my favorites is a green, torpedo-shaped, soft rubbery Zyrtec pen I got from my Mom, who gets tons of these from the pharmaceutical reps at the doctor’s office where she works. She also gave me a pink Ultram ER pen (extended release tablets).

I have a pen commemorating Robert Ebert’s Overlooked Film Festival from 2002, an American flag pen from a video store, one from a Bangkok hotel and a blue light-up pen from a lawyer friend. I have never used these for writing anything.

Most of these pens sit hidden and untouched. I store them in old coffee cups, in desk drawers, shoe boxes, art boxes, on my nightstand, in my car glove compartment, inside jackets and coats, briefcases and backpacks. I shall never be without one. Or five. Yet I continue to buy more pens because I can never find the right one, that perfect pen that combines grip comfort with a smooth, rolling glide, even ink flow and a sharp finish. I recently bought a box of “Office Depot Rubberized Barrels” for everyday use. Not bad. But not perfect.

Maybe it’s time to go with the flow. There’s no reason for all this plastic and unused ink to sit around. I should treat pens like my most frequently used writing tool: my computer keyboard. Squeeze the life out of it. I will type until the keys are worn, coated with enough crud and dead skin so that I can’t see the letters any more, or they get stuck or break. Then I buy a new one. It’s time to drain some ink and flick some Bics.


Now Martie Sanders shares the story of her scary stockpile. Watch for her solo monologues in Live Bait Theater's "Filet of Solo Festival 2007," and for the fall show of the Sweat Girls, a group Martie co-founded. Listen up:

I collect bones, but only bones I find. Ribs, vertebrae, skulls. I consider seashells bones, too. And cobblestones...and beach glass. I suppose my bone collection could be defined as intriguing objects that won't disintegrate in my lifetime. It wasn't until well into collecting that I learned you are really not supposed to take a bone from its sacred resting place. Since I lived so many years completely ignorant to this, I'm hoping the Gods will let me live a few more.

I guess my bone collection is my mother's influence. Among my mom’s many collections is an expansive gathering of animal-themed art and tchotchkes. Upon visiting my childhood home, one of my friends said "Wow! Have you ever tried to count the number of pairs of eyes in your parents home? It's boggling!"

But I suppose my mother's biggest collection is quirks. And "quirks" being just as expansive by definition as "bones." Mom loves oddball people, bizarre food, mystical experiences, and wacky jokes. She has been known to gather all of these in the same setting and call it "a party."

When one of the deer skulls I found needed a place to weather and sun to get rid of its gamey stench, I decided to bring it to Mom's backyard. As I was traveling by plane to get back to Detroit, I had to pass through the airport’s x-ray baggage check. I got stopped. The guards were alarmed by the skull -- probably wondering what kind of psycho travels with a head in a plastic Jewel grocery bag. "It's for my mom who's an anthropologist... uh archeologist,” I lied.

And really, it was for Mom because she unflinchingly gave my deer skull a respectable shrine in the sun. As the two of us posted the skull on a stick above Dad’s prized bed of tulips and daffodils. It looked so "Lord of the Flies" we giggled, just imagining Dad's reaction. Which eventually was, “For God's sake. What the hell is that in my flowers?”


So dear readers, spare your pity for Kevin’s, Martie’s, and my harmless afflictions and instead fess up to your own assortment of irresistible whatnots. We’ll start with my husband, Tommy, and the packages of golf balls he’s unable to pass up.

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.