I was with my sons yesterday and my oldest son suggested we go to a haunted house for Halloween. So we went. Because I’ve become my father and I almost always do things that my sons suggest we do. My sons can pretty much talk me into doing just about anything–provided that it’s not too expensive or too dangerous.
After last night, I realize that about the safest place you can be in America is a haunted house, despite its eerie appearance and all the blood and gore. I must admit that I wasn’t too thrilled about going to a haunted house since I recalled my traumatic first and only trip to a haunted house in the third grade that was sponsored by the eighth graders. We were guided through it blindfolded. I was fine until someone grabbed my hand and forced it–yes, I instinctively resisted–into a bowl of something slimy. I could feel whatever was in the bowl slithering between my fingers. A voice informed me that I was touching Frankenstein’s brain. I wasn’t really afraid. Okay, I was afraid to laugh and hurt anyone’s feelings because I wasn’t afraid after touching dead brain matter. My best friend Patrick later told me that the brains were really just spaghetti. I never went to a haunted house ever again.
Anyway, I had fun at the haunted house last night because I got to see exactly how brave my sons were. Not! They were fraidy cats! When it was our turn to go in, they insisted that I go first. I didn’t even get scared! Okay, I did get startled whenever someone slammed open a door as he or she in all his or her glorious blood gore jumped out at us. But I wasn’t really scared. Not really. I mean it was just the loud noise that made me jump. Kind of like when I saw Halloween at the show when it first came out. The movie didn’t scare me at all. Except when the entire audience of the sold-out show screamed in unison and my date dug her fingernails into my thigh. But except for those five or six times, I have never gotten scared!
Unfortunately, the White Sox season ended yesterday. But no one ever gave them a chance to even finish better than third or fourth place in their division. So, everyone–except the White Sox and their fans–was surprised that the Sox made it to the post-season. They were in first place for most of the season before slipping down in the standings, but they battled their way back into first place by playing an extra playoff game against the Minnesota Twins. They gave the Tampa Bay Rays a good fight and they lost the series to a team with ninety-seven regular season wins (not the Cubs!).
The Cubs were given a celebration rally downtown for their first-place finish in the National League Central Division. And the White Sox. ¡Nada! Not even a pat on the back!!! But alas, the White Sox and their fans hail from the much-maligned South Side. Those scrappy White Sox of 2008 are representative of the working-class, no-nonsense fans who support them. Yes, they’re a little rough around the edges, as witnessed by Sox fans who gloated when the Sox beat the Rays in game three. Yes, they berated the Cubs and their fans for being swept from the playoffs in a mere three games. But the big, bad White Sox lost in four games! The Cubs had their dream team and were supposed to go all the way to the World Series. The Sox, on the other hand, fought to win every single game. And even though they lost, their fans cheered them on until the very end.
Well, the Cubs are out of the playoffs after losing three games to the L.A. Dodgers. Even though I am a lifelong White Sox fan, I was rooting for the Cubs to go all the way to the World Series. But I did imagine them losing to the White Sox in four games. So, I am disappointed in their poor showing in the post-season after how well they played all season. This was supposed to be the year for the Cubs! And they played so well all year. The Cubs had a National League best ninety-seven wins, 636 walks, 855 runs scored, and a Major League best of 1264 pitching strikeouts. How could they lose? This has been the most disappointing Cubs season since 1969.
Independence Day has to be the most patriotic of all American holidays. For as long as I can remember, we celebrated the day by going on picnics, pigging out, playing soccer, volleyball, baseball, or badminton at a state park, city park, or at the beach on Chicago’s lakefront. My favorite part was always the fireworks.
The last few years, everyone has been more conscious about protecting our environment. So we try not to litter and not to pollute the air. However, the Fourth of July is the one day that it’s permissible (though not legal) to set off illegal fireworks in Chicago. The streets are littered by the remains of fireworks and the air quality is clearly polluted for a day or two. Independence Day is a day when hardly anyone thinks green. Some people in Chicago even shoot off guns on this day. You don’t really want to be driving around while all the fireworks are in progress. It’s just too dangerous in Chicago. On the news you hear reports of people getting shot and/or getting injured by fireworks. There are also accidental fires caused by fireworks. But that’s how we celebrate Independence Day in Chicago. I find it hard to believe that no one I knew was ever injured by fireworks.
Growing up in Back of the Yards, everyone had illegal fireworks. We knew all about how to handle fireworks safely, but we used to do everything possible that would place ourselves in the most possible danger. Only adults were supposed to handle fireworks. But my friends and I have been lighting firecrackers since we were nine. You were supposed to set firecrackers on the ground and then light them, but we used to light them in our hands and then throw them at each other. Timing was especially important. You also had to watch the others as they lit their firecrackers in order to be able to dodge any and all firecrackers that came your way AND not let your firecracker blow off in your hand. Yes, I’m still truly amazed that no one was ever even slightly injured!
One summer, one of my friends got the idea of letting a firecracker blow up in our hand. We all thought he was crazy. But then he held his open hand palm up and let a firecracker blow up in his hand. We just stared at him in amazement. Then, he dared us to do the same thing. We all hesitated, but none of us wanted to be called chicken the rest of the summer so we all did it once. I must admit that it was scary watching the wick burn down until the firecracker blew up. It was loud because it was so close to my ear and my hand did sting a lot from the explosion, but I didn’t get burned or anything.
One summer, on the fifth of July, I woke up early and I walked all through the neighborhood picking up all the dud firecrackers that I could find. I carefully collected all the gunpowder from them and put it in a lead pipe about four inches long. I put a cap on one end of the pipe and a firecracker on the other. I wasn’t even sure if this thing would blow up. But if it did, I knew it would be a huge blast. All my friends wanted to see the explosion, but I told them that they had to hide until after the explosion was over.
We had a clubhouse in our back yard at our house at 4405 S. Wood Street. I set the pipe down by the clubhouse. My plan was to light the firecracker in the pipe and hide behind the clubhouse. I only had to take two steps to duck for cover. I made sure everyone was hiding before I even thought about lighting it.
Well, I lit it, I turned to run, and I took only two steps when the pipe blew up. I barely made it behind the clubhouse for cover. That is, most of me had made it, save for my left foot. I felt the blast on my foot and at first I thought I had blown off my foot. About a second later, I heard some of the shredded pipe pieces falling on the concrete in the alley. When the smoke cleared, I looked at my foot. I was wearing low-cut gym shoes and the blast had blown off the part of my sock that covered my ankle. But I was uninjured! By sheer luck!
Now, every Fourth of July, I keep a wary eye on my sons lest they injure themselves with fireworks. Of course, I never tell them any of the things we used to do with fireworks when we were boys. I don’t want to give them any ideas!
When I lived near Marquette Park, there was a lot of racial tension. The neighborhood suffered from panic as the blacks moved closer and closer due to white flight. When my mother bought our house at 2509 W. Marquette Road, the neighbors said, with a sigh of relief, “At least you’re not black.” But we weren’t completely accepted by many in the neighborhood.
No matter where you lived in Chicago back in the 1970s, there would be someone who resented you, regardless of your race. In 1966, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had marched in Marquette Park was greeted by whites who threw bricks, rocks, and bottles at the marchers. We moved to Marquette Park in 1973 and people still talked about the Doctor King march. I was a typical teenager in that I wasn’t fully aware about the political events in Chicago or our neighborhood.
So, one Saturday in 1975, I was driving home from work at Derby Foods. When I got close to my house, all the streets were blocked off by the police and I couldn’t drive home. Helicopters flew overhead. I drove around until I found a side street that wasn’t closed. I managed to park my Firebird about four blocks from my house. I had no idea why there were so many police officers in our neighborhood, nor why all the streets were closed.
As I walked home, I could hear people chanting in the direction of my house. When I reached Marquette Road, there were hundreds, if not thousands, of people lining both sides of the street. Reverend Jesse Jackson had led a protest march, but I had just missed it. The street was littered with rocks and bottles. A black man and a boy drove up Marquette Road and people threw rocks and bottles at his car shouting racial epithets. The car sped off westbound where he was greeted by more projectiles.
I had a tough time crossing Marquette Road to get home. When I finally got to my house, there were hundreds of people standing in front of my house. I couldn’t reach my front door, so I watched until the march was over and most of the people left. My younger brother told me how he saw police officers on horses near California Avenue. Someone blew up a cherry bomb near the horse and scared it so that it stood on its hind legs. Someone kicked one of horse’s hind legs and the horse and police officer both fell. The police immediately arrested the offender.
One of my friends told me he was standing on the curb watching all the action when a little old white lady gave him a brick and said, “You throw it! I’m too old!”
When I finally got home, my mother asked me where I was. I told her that I was at work and that I had a hard time getting home. When my mother asked my brother if he was at the march he swore he was at his friend’s house. My mother didn’t believe him. She didn’t want the neighbors to think we were causing trouble. Little did she realize that all our neighbors were out there throwing things. The next day, my mother punished my brother for being at the march and for lying to her. She had seen my brother on the news near where the horse was kicked down. They had more protest marches after that, but that was the only one I saw up close.
Chicago USA 