Sometimes milestones become tombstones. And so I say good riddance to my home phone! We have reached the end of an era!
Would you like to call me at home? Well, you can’t! At least, not on my land-line. You see, I finally cancelled my home phone service now that I totally rely on my iPhone for all of my telephone communications–not that I make or receive that many phone calls in the first place. This archaic device is slowly disappearing from homes across America. I reluctantly surrendered my land-line, but I knew I must. I have cut my umbilical cord. I am no longer tethered to my home. I am now free to roam about the world!
I’ve been paying for my home phone service for years now even though the only people who call me are telemarketers and collection agencies. And they are persistent! I still don’t understand why the telemarketers called if I never answered their survey or bought their products. Equally annoying were the collection agencies calling for Calvin Thomas or Thomas Calvin. Apparently he gave my home phone number as his and everyone believed he lived with me. I always told the caller that he didn’t live here, but they always called back.
I must admit that I never was much of a phone person in the first place. I hate talking on the phone and I hate being on the listening end of a long diatribe even more. The best way to contact me is via e-mail or Facebook. I dread the sound of a ringing telephone. Usually, it rings at the most inconvenient time, like when I’m in the shower or otherwise busy. When I had my apartment in Marquette Park, I went for about a year without a phone. I really enjoyed the privacy. If someone wanted to talk to me, they would have to physically visit me at my apartment. The advantage of this arrangement was that I got to see who my true friends were.
Unfortunately, everyone demanded that I have a home telephone in order to conduct business with me. My job, my bank, my credit cards, the utility companies, and even my newspaper. No phone number, no service. So I caved in and got a phone with minimal service. Yes, it killed me to pay five bucks per month to Illinois Bell for a service I didn’t even want in the first place. When the federal government broke up the Baby Bell monopoly, my phone bill immediately doubled for the same service I didn’t want in the first place. So how was the monopoly bad? I still don’t get it.
Well, I’m not exactly happy with my cell phone service either. It’s more expensive than a comparable land-line, where all incoming calls were free. Now I’m charged for all outgoing and incoming calls! And I pay much, much more just for the basic service. How is this progress? Thank goodness for the vibrant competition among the phone carriers! Who knows how much more I’d be paying otherwise!
So, everyone seems to be accepting this shift from land-lines to cell phones. When I conduct business, everyone asks for my cell phone number. They don’t even care if I have a land-line or not. So, I now only have a cell phone. But please don’t call me. E-mail me!
I went to Whirly Ball with my son Adam for his eighth-grade outing. Adam was all excited about this trip because he’s graduating from grade school this year. Well, I’m excited, too, if you must know.
We met in the Most Holy Redeemer Church parking lot. The bus ride was a boisterous event for all the eighth graders because they’re graduating very soon–but not soon enough for them. This would be an evening of Whirly Ball and all the pizza we could eat and all the pop we could drink.
Whirly Ball is a game like lacrosse or polo, but it’s played in bumper cars. All the kids were excited about playing Whirly Ball and so were some of the parents. Me? I had never even heard of Whirly Ball before. But I like to be open-minded and try new things. I had no choice. Adam made sure I went out and played. He also made sure I had plenty of pizza to eat and pop to drink. He insisted that I drink a beer from the bar, but I didn’t want to drink and drive the very first time I played Whirly Ball.
The father who organized the outing made up schedules so that everyone would have a chance to play. I was impressed with his organizational skills–something I sadly lack. He had all the eighth graders playing each other in every combination possible on one court and the parents playing on the other. For the last hour, parents and their eighth graders would play on the same team. An elaborate set of brackets was designed for a tournament in which one team would be victorious and be awarded a special prize.
Well, we played exactly one match of the bracket when the tournament came to a screeching halt. I wasn’t sure why the next match wasn’t starting, so I started walking back to the organizer. I saw an eighth-grade boy walking to a corner table. Then, I noticed he was crying. As I entered the main party room, everyone was noticeably quiet. Adam told me that one eighth grader’s mother, Mrs. Menke, had just died. All the eighth-grade girls had gathered and started crying. About half of the boys were crying. Many of the mothers were also crying because they knew Mrs. Menke, or Patty as they called her. The organizer made a brief announcement about the death and then led the group in a short prayer. I had no idea that she was sick and that she was expected to die.
Needless to say, no more Whirly Ball was played. No one was in the mood to play Whirly Ball anymore. We soon boarded the buses and headed back to Most Holy Redeemer. The bus was incredibly quiet. So quiet that I was afraid to ask Adam more details about Mrs. Menke’s death. He told me that she had thyroid cancer and that the doctors said she would die very soon. That’s why her son didn’t come on this outing. She only weighed about fifty pounds when she died. When we were about halfway back, one of the parents made the announcement that we would return to the church for a short service.
The eighth graders had the day off from school for the funeral, but any student who wanted to attend the funeral could also take the day off. I went to the funeral with my sons Adam and Alex. I didn’t know Mrs. Menke, but I always saw her at school activities. I felt that I should go to the funeral to be with my sons who were affected by her death. The church was full of family, friends, students and teachers from Most Holy Redeemer and Brother Rice High School, where she taught. The church was quite full. The funeral procession was also exceptionally long for the short drive to St. Mary’s Cemetery in Evergreen Park. Her whole life seemed to revolve around Evergreen Park and according to the speakers at the funeral mass she was incredibly happy. Unfortunately, her life ended at age 47.
The funeral is a ceremony to honor and to pray for the deceased. But funerals are also for the living, to remind us that you and I must also go the way of all flesh. So, live each day as if it were your last.
I regret to inform you that I have changed my vacation plans for this summer. I will not see you again this summer even though I have enjoyed visiting you in the past. Nor will I be visiting Arizona anytime soon.
I’m sorry, but I will not be celebrating the Fourth of July in Arizona as I have in previous years. I really enjoyed your Independence Day celebration in Phoenix! I was amazed at the diversity of the throngs of people waving American flags and feeling oh so patriotic! As I recall, about 90% of the visitors to the park that day were brown and had black hair and brown eyes. Many of them spoke English, Spanish, and/or Spanglish. We were all there for the common purpose of celebrating independence from imperialist England. Everyone was thankful to be living in America and no one asked or cared if they were citizens (not even the authorities). It was a peaceful and joyous day of celebration. No one cared or even thought about the fact that Arizona was once part of México. Everyone was just celebrating America!
I wonder how your Fourth of July celebration will turn out this year, since I will not be there. How many people do you think will show up now? I wonder. I look forward to someday visiting you again. Hasta luego.
Patriotically yours, David Diego Rodríguez
P.S. I once visited the London Bridge in Lake Havasu City, Arizona. Is the London Bridge now a legal resident?
Sometimes I think my house is haunted. I’ll be sitting at home alone, and for some strange reason, I’ll hear someone walking up the stairs of my front porch. I’ll wait for someone to knock or ring the doorbell. But no one does. When I look out the front door, there’s no one there! This has happened to me several times. Once, I hurried to the window when I heard the first footstep. I was so sure I would see whoever was coming up the stairs. But again, there was no one there. That was scary! Of course, I’d get scared if I saw the police or fire department at my house, too.
I tried to forget about the footsteps on my front porch. But then, one day, my son told me he was home alone, and he heard footsteps on the front porch. He thought I was coming home, so he went to open the front door. But no one was there! He said he heard the footsteps on several occasions, but this was the first time he told me. He said it felt creepy. He also told me that sometimes when he’s home alone on the first floor, he hears footsteps upstairs. I told him that sounded scary, but I didn’t admit to him that I had also heard the footsteps upstairs. I’m beginning to believe my house is haunted.
I’m not a fraidy cat. Really, I’m not! But sometimes eerie things happen around me. Things that scare me. Especially when I’m all alone, after dark. One night as I was sleeping, I was roused from my sleep by someone talking. Did I mention it was dark? Well, it was so dark because the streetlights were out, so I was really scared. As soon as I woke up, the talking stopped. I was beginning to theorize that the ghost didn’t want to talk while I was awake. But then I realized that I was talking in my sleep again. I got scared for nothing!
When I used to live in Marquette Park, I used to go running early in the morning before I went to work. Some mornings I ran at about 5:00 am. It was always dark when I ran. Running at that time was good exercise for me because sometimes the drunks coming home from the bars at that time would swear at me because they thought I was crazy for running so early in the morning. Sometimes, I got to do other exercises besides running. Some drunks were so personally offended by my running that they would throw beer bottles at me, and I would have to dodge them. My morning runs were never boring.
But that wasn’t the spooky thing I wanted to tell you. Usually, there was no one out when I ran in the morning. Occasionally, I would see a family, a mother, a father, a son, and a daughter, all dressed up like they were going to church or a fancy party, waiting for the bus. I would only see them when I ran eastbound on 71st Street. They would be standing on the corner of 71st and Sacramento, waiting for the bus. I mean no one ever waited for the bus there at that hour dressed like that, especially not an entire family.
The very first time I saw them, I just caught them out of the corner of my eye. At first, I thought I was just imagining the family, but when I turned my head to get a good look at them, there was no one there! I had just imagined them! But wait! When I turned my head forward again, I saw them out of the corner of my eye again. This really creeped me out if you know what I mean. I just kept running and tried to forget about the family waiting for the bus. And I forgot about them for a while, but then I saw them again. However, I never saw them when I looked directly at them; I could only see them out of the corner of my eye, and only when it was dark.
I told a few of my friends about my vision. Most of them laughed and said I was crazy. In fact, no matter what I told these friends, they always told me I was crazy. Some friends, huh? So why did I tell them in the first place? I just had to tell someone. I didn’t want to go to my grave withholding this secret from the world. Finally, I told someone who thought that maybe I saw the ghosts of a family who was killed on that corner, perhaps in a car accident. I thought it was possible, but I don’t really believe in such things. Of course, I wouldn’t rule it out, either. Just to be on the safe side, I never ran across the street near the bus stop where the family stood. Over the next few years, I would see this family periodically when I ran early in the morning. A couple of years ago, I saw them while I was driving eastbound down 71st Street at about 5:00 am. I’ve just learned to accept their presence and move on with my life. I wonder if they’ll ever catch the bus they’re waiting for.
I suppose this all started when I was a little boy and my mother used to scare me so I would behave well. She would tell me scary things to prevent me from doing something I wasn’t supposed to do. I would hear my mother’s voice scolding me, even when she wasn’t around. Once, when I was riding my bike, I knew exactly how far I could ride my bike, but I decided I would cross that imaginary line. Immediately, I heard my mother yelling, “¡David! ¿A dónde vas?” So, I turned around expecting to see my mother. But there was no one there! I had only heard her voice! And I was so sure that I had not imagined my mother being there.
Of course, my mother told me that if I stayed out after dark, I might not get back home. Alive. Ever. She didn’t want to have to worry about me coming home late, so she told me if I stayed out too late la llorona would get me and I would never come home again. La llorona, according to my mother, was a dead woman who wandered the land looking for wayward, disobedient children to take as her own; she had killed her own children, so she would never rest in peace until she found her own children. This was scary stuff for a ten-year-old! Anyway, one day, I was at my friend’s house until after dark. I was scared because I knew la llorona would be looking for me. As I was walking home, I kept a watchful eye for la llorona. Suddenly, some boys who lived on my block ran past me, yelling, “Run! Run!” I was sure la llorona was chasing them! But I just froze dead in my tracks. Just then, I felt someone grab my arm from behind! I knew I was a goner. La llorona had caught me! I regretted not listening to my mother when I felt that cold icy hand grabbing my arm.
Then the grip on my arm tightened and I heard a male voice say, “Run! You were supposed to run!” I looked back and I was being held by a Chicago police officer. I was out after curfew. “Run!” he said. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to run when you see the police? Run!” So, I ran home and never stayed out past curfew again!
I went to visit one of my old haunts today because I had a taste for Al’s Italian beef. While eating my Italian beef from Al’s Beef and trying not to drip on my shirt, I looked across the street and saw Mario’s Italian Lemonade. The sign wasn’t up yet, but I’ve been there so many times that I know exactly what frozen delectable delights this summer haven offers to the sweaty throngs on a hot summer day. People like me, with absolutely no will power whatsoever, will stuff themselves at one of the restaurants on Taylor Street and then go to Mario’s for Italian ice. So now that I’ve gotten myself all worked up, I can’t wait till Mario’s opens on May first.
And just for the fun of it, I thought I would cross the street and take a picture of Mario’s Italian Lemonade stand to post on Facebook before I went to teach my last Spanish class of the day at UIC. I took a couple of pictures with my iPhone and started walking back to UIC. Suddenly, I hear someone yelling, “Mr. Photographer! Mr. Photographer!” I look back, but I can’t locate who was yelling through the crowd on Taylor Street. As I’m walking back, I see a man in a blue shirt waving at me. I’m not sure, but I have this strange feeling that I’m about to walk into trouble.
The man asks me, “Did you just take pictures of my place?” “Uh, yeah,” I said nervously. “Are you from the newspaper?” he asked. “Uh, no,” I said, confused. He wanted to know why I was taking pictures of his place. I began to wonder, too.
Apparently, someone from some newspaper was coming out to take pictures of his Italian lemonade stand for a feature article and he thought I might be the photographer. I was flattered because this was the first time I was ever confused for a photographer. My faithful blog readers who have seen the pictures I’ve posted know exactly what I mean.
Well, I must admit that we had an interesting encounter. He introduced himself as Mario, the actual Mario in the flesh, owner of Mario’s Italian Lemonade stand. As a lifelong Chicagoan, I can truly say that I was in awe as I shook the hand of the purveyor of Chicago’s best Italian ice! He was curious as to why I took pictures of the stand. I was too embarrassed to tell him that I was going to post the picture on Facebook. Then, right at that precise moment, a brilliant idea crossed my mind. I would write today’s blog entry about Mario’s Italian Lemonade! But I didn’t tell Mario! I still couldn’t get up the nerve to reveal my true intentions.
I asked Mario if I could take his picture in front of his stand, and he agreed smiling happily. As we walked back, he asked me if I was Hispanic. When I said I was Mexican, he said he could tell. He said the secret of his success was his wife, who is Mexican. It turns out her family is from Guanajuato, México. He smiled when I told him my father’s family was also from Guanajuato.
He posed willingly. However, I think he was a little disappointed that I wasn’t a photographer from a newspaper. As I was taking his picture, I told him that his stand looked strange without people standing in line. He agreed and said he couldn’t wait to open.
I can’t wait either. I need an Italian ice. Right now! I hope you like lemons if you go there. You see, no matter what flavor Italian ice you order, –watermelon, pineapple, whatever–they all have lemon inside. And that’s exactly what I love about Mario’s Italian ice!
Chicago USA 