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“1623 WEST VAN BUREN”

February 4, 2023
ANECDOTES, EMOTIONS, GROWING UP, PEOPLE
6 Comments

BY: JAMES F. O’NEIL

“You can’t go home again.”—Thomas Wolfe

I could see Uncle Leonard’s tavern from our front window.  If I ran to that apartment window at 1623 West Buren in Chicago, I could look east and look west.  I could see the spire of our church, Saint Jarlath’s, where I attended 1st and 2nd grades, and made my First Confession and First Holy Communion. 

First Holy Communion

Our apartment home, with the “L” in the back alleyway, where my sister and I played among dirt and old cars and just junk, our apartment is long gone out of our lives since the condemnation and razing of the neighborhood to make way for the future Congress Street Expressway.

Evicted, we made our Joad Family-like trip to the South Side, and new lives for the next ten years.  

The years preceding our exodus were filled with memoriesofatime—and writing this now (and reading it at some future time) encourages my brain synapses to fire up again and again.  There is no lack of memory brain matter from some-seventy years ago.

But about that bay window in our apartment.  (The song lyrics humming around now: “I can see clearly now the rain is gone . . . the rainbow . . . a bright sunshiny day . . ..”)  On a clear day I could see forever.  I could see Uncle Leonard’s tavern to the east, not far past “our border,” Ashland Avenue (1600 West as the Street Directory shows).

Ashland was as far as we were allowed, my sister and I.  In our neighborhood, it was the busy street to the east, too busy for the likes of young children to cross over to the other side.

“Where do you live?”  “Ashland and Van Buren,” we would answer.  On the corner, the drug store and the mailbox, two significant markers then in our lives.  Where else to get Adams Black Jack chewing gum after mailing a letter?

(I recall one incident when I was so excited about going to the drug store that I mailed the letter first—then realizing it had no stamp.  In the drug store I tearfully related my plight; I cried at the realization that there was nothing I could do except tell my mother about my young impetuousness wanting gum equals getting stamp, mailing letter, then the gum.  Good old-fashioned Catholic delayed gratification gone awry.  “Live and learn.”  I’ve not forgotten.)

And not to forget that bay window: I could see Leonard’s Tavern from the apartment.  I could see my dad’s (our) 1937 Plymouth parked in front of the tavern, stopped there after his work route.

MARTY O’NEIL AND LILLIAN SCHUMA

That tavern was a real watering hole for my sister and me as our parents frequented that place as a social club on Saturday nights.

What I remember most about Leonard’s Tavern was the painting over the bar, the smells from the “Men’s,” and the story my dad told us about the foiled robbery.

The story of General Armstrong Custer has always fascinated me in my search for “the real story.”  I didn’t know much about the cause of the conflict and the Battle of Little Big Horn.  What I learned came from the Anheuser Busch replication of Custer’s Last Fight which was displayed facing the bar.  What ever possessed my Uncle Leonard (not a real uncle but my dad’s good friend whom we knew then as “uncle.”) As a youngin in first and second grade I was ignorant of it all.

 So, there is the tragic General Custer, frozen in time, surrounded by bodies and 7th Cavalry troopers fighting to their deaths.  I would sit on a bar stool, transfixed by the glory of it all, ignorant of the truth and the stupidity of the foolhardy, but transfixed by the smoke of gunpowder, the gore of it all, riles and Custer’s sword raised, tomahawks dealing death, knives scalping, all the din of battle.

What was this reproduction painting doing in the tavern in Chicago?  I never found out why—or how it got its place.  What I am sure of is that this painting led me down a path of history and my trip through They Died with Their Boots On (1941), time with Errol Flynn.  Especially the paths of war and battles, D-Day, Saving Private Ryan, Audie Murphy (heroic American soldier), A Bridge Too Far.

There sits this kid on a bar stool, head in hands, elbows on the tavern bar, gazing at and lost in a painting, compliments of a beer company.  What a strange sight (perhaps a Steven Spielberg moment?)

While my parents were drinking, and laughing, I drank “orange pop.”  Always orange pop, never “soda.”  I don’t recall darts and dartboards, pool tables (not yet wide screen television with football or Days of Our Lives), or card playing.  Just juke box music and laughing.

“I have to pee.”

There was the toilet room: “Men’s,” a dark, green room, with a ceramic trough that had a pipe running its length, constantly dripping water that ran to a center drain.  I was hardly tall enough to reach to urinate.  But I managed.  And so many troughs later, I was urinating in the same kinds in England and in other “bathrooms” in my life, with smells of tobacco smoke and urine, and wet damp floors.  And plumbing pipes dripping water.

My dad was hardly ever seen without a long sleeve shirt.  He always wore an undershirt, a “Dago-T,” with its straps and body-builder shape.  My dad had strange-looking scars on his upper left arm, scars like circles and indentations. We didn’t often see those marks, but we knew the story about how he got them.

The entrance to “Leonard’s” was on Van Buren Street, at street level.  The “joint” was part of a building above.  As you entered, there were no stairs or steps down, but a kind of ramp which led you into the bar area.

 I remember pipes or railings to hang onto as I made my way down the ramp.  Then you were there: bar, tables, chairs, talk, and drinks.

My dad had many friends, some of them on the police force.  (“Uncle” Sam Spinelli was one of my favorites.)  The story goes that one evening my dad and one of his policemen friends were going into the tavern (long before he and my mom married; he was a young man).  As they made their way in, and down the ramp, my dad’s policeman friend shouted that a robbery was taking place.  A blast from a shotgun killed the policeman.  As he fell, my dad tells, my dad went down but received a shotgun blast to his upper left arm and shoulder.  What took place after that I don’t ever remember hearing about except that he was gravely injured and nearly lost his arm.

Thus, my dad’s scars.

The tavern is gone.  After destruction, demolition, and building, the streets, like Van Buren and Ashland, do still exist and operate.  I found a map to a Currency Exchange at 1600 West Van Buren, and the Chicago Transit bus has a stop at Ashland and Van Buren, both streets being major thoroughfares in the city, major routes to the downtown area and “The Loop.”

I have some great memories of growing up, some good, some bad, some not so bad.  I have some great history, as I see it, containing narratives that are worth sharing with others.

For “No creative idea’s ever wasted.” [From the movie The Noel Diary, 2022]

©  James F. O’Neil 2023 February

“IT’S JUST AN OVERNIGHT.”

June 4, 2022
ANECDOTES, EMOTIONS, EVENTS
9 Comments

BY: JAMES F O’NEIL

“We cannot learn without pain.”  –Aristotle, Politics (V.1. 1301a, l. 28)

* * *

“It’s just an overnight,” my urologist said to me.  I accepted that after he had examined my bladder and naughty bits for cancer and for whatever prompted him to speak “There’s something there I don’t like the looks of,” after he had probed me and scoped me with the cystoscope.

Now it is easy to whine about how I got to that point in my illness and relate about the symptoms which brought me to the hospital two weeks later for pre-op.  For I was so ready for the promise of relief from pain that prostate surgery would provide.  I was prepared to “undergo the knife” (or whatever other instruments the surgical team would use).

For the next two weeks I cleared my busy retiree’s calendar of all doctor and dentist appointments, planned speaking engagements (kidding…), and prepped for a hospital overnight, followed by three or four days of rest and relaxation.  I organized my writing and reading materials, organized to be placed in the TV Room–Guest Room–Sick Room, with its queen-sized hide-a-bed, with its proximity to a bathroom.  In addition, the TV with ROKU, Netflix, Prime, and hulu, among others.

I had my supply of “diapers” and other special hygiene needs.  An ample supply.

What I never did before surgery, however, was ask the doctor what took place during the procedure.  I had no clue and never did go search the Internet or Home Medical Guide in detail, or visit You Tube for any kind of heads up on what I was in for.  I expected pain and discomfort, bed rest, medications, inconveniences, and the many hours of sleep after I came home from the hospital.  Nevertheless, I felt prepared, having complete trust in my specialist, and was making myself ready for a new medical experience to add to my list containing appendectomy, tonsillectomy, hernia, and hernia repair, two knee surgeries (with a total replacement), a gall bladder attack with a swift surgery and hospital discharge to home, and two surgeries for feet and toes.

In my years, I have had sufficient days spent in a hospital and have had to slide over from a hospital bed to a surgical table: “One, two, three. . .”  I have had my trips in hospital elevators, down hallways and through No Entry doors to arrive in freezing cold operating rooms, with distinctive bright lights, beeping sounds, and muffled voices of gowned and masked nurses, and others.  Down those hallways with neon-fluorescent ceiling lighting, under one, and another, and another.  Turns and doors and more turns and more doors.

Then, once on the table, after the Q & A by anesthesiologist, oxygen tube into the nose, the familiar-to-all, from experience or from living with Grey’s Anatomy, The Resident, ER, and so many other St. Elsewhere TV episodes and movies, “Take a deep breath through your nose,” or “Count back from . . .”  “Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety. . .”

Then nothing.  Except time passing outside the body.  Then, until, “Mr. O’Neil. . .”

* * *

“Mr. O’Neil, are you in pain?”

* * *

“Mostly thirsty.”

The surgery did not go as expected; I was returned to the hard black surgical table the next day for a bleeding fix-up.  Unexpected collateral. 

. . . four nights, sleepless nights, uncomfortable nights in a hospital bed . . .

“You’re going home this afternoon.”  I arrived home, Transportation by Son.  Into the Sickroom.  Into the home bed.  “Ready.”  For sleep-rest, and some Netflix.

Not so fast: It did not last.  Shortness of breath.  Days passing.  Weakness, to the point of crawling. 

A trip to the ER, there a CT scan and EKG.  The usual routine for heart attack.  The ER doctor said, “Good news and bad news.  It’s not your heart.”  And?  “Pulmonary embolisms in the lungs.  You’re being admitted.”

Collateral damage.

Thus began the journey of 41 days and overnights of hospital-patient life, including 12 days of re-hab in a nursing care facility.

* * *

“Just an overnight” became days with tests, blood draws, blood transfusions, medications, specialists, sleepless nights (but mostly tasty food when I was up to eating). 

Then depression and boredom.  (I read nothing from my Kindle or from my magazines.  I would watch television late until I couldn’t see, then fall asleep until the 3 a.m. and 6 a.m. “Mr. O’Neil, could I please have your date of birth?  I need to take some blood.”  My left arm was pin cushioned.  Some techs took blood from my hand between my knuckles.  Ouch!

* * *

“Orthostatic hypotension.”  I was a lump, a sack of bones, losing weight, with no one fixing me or making me better, I thought.

Finally, out of bed into a recliner chair—a true milestone.  I could even walk a few steps, weak, but willing to go.  And then, after, the hospital (and insurance company) deemed it necessary for me to exit my private room, and be discharged.

I was stable and prepped to go.  A new adventure beginning with a wheelchair ride into a wheel chair ambulance to my next place for recovery.  The experience in the nursing home rehab facility was a coda to all I had been through.  The staff worked wonders, getting me to Occupational Therapy and Physical Therapy.  “I can walk!  I can walk!” 

I could walk.  I could wash.  In addition, I could eat!  Oh, the meals!  At 7:30 a.m., 11:30 a.m., 5:30 p.m.  So much–too much–good food, and soup twice daily.  The twenty pounds lost during my hospital stay were regained: My muscles were beginning to re-assert themselves. 

I could walk—with help and safety belt.

Soon I was homeward bound, with cane and walker furnished by Home Health Services.

I made it!  “Going home!”  Ah, sweet words.  “Going home,” there to “re-cover.”

* * *

Anything I write more or tell about my time hospitalized is redundant (and getting boring).  My memoriesofthetime come and go, drift into my consciousness, spend some time, then drift away the way they came.  I’ll never say I do my best to forget; I simply forget some details not to be commentated upon.  Sometimes I can hear myself “It was horrible.”  Or, perhaps, “How did I ever endure?”  I did.  And it was horrible at times.  Boredom.  Pain.  Malaise.  Ennui.

I was bolstered at times by my “De profundis” (my heartfelt cry of appeal expressing deep feelings of sorrow or anguish), or “This too will pass,” despite a cardiologist’s exclaiming “What’s going on here?!”  In addition, “We can fix this.”

So I got fixed enough for home.  “Just an overnight” are words with a dimension of meaning I never knew existed for me. 

I shudder a bit when I hear “Just an overnight.”  I am confident, though, that “this, too, will pass.”

© James F. O’Neil  2022

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“DON’T TELL! IT’S A SURPRISE!”

September 3, 2021
ANECDOTES, EMOTIONS, EVENTS, PEOPLE

BY: JAMES F O’NEIL

SURPRISE: An unexpected or astonishing event, fact, or thing; to occur to with a sudden feeling of wonder or astonishment, as through unexpectedness; to come upon or discover suddenly and unexpectedly; to cause someone to feel amazed at something unexpected; a feeling aroused by something unusual or unexpected; feeling unusually alarmed or delighted [from American Heritage College Dictionary].  “Unexpected” or “unusual” can be divided into SURPRISE: sudden wonder or disbelief, unanticipated; ASTONISH: overwhelming surprise; AMAZE: astonishment, often bewilderment; ASTOUND: shock, or unprecedented in one’s experience.  (Is it all clear now?  Were you surprised at your last surprise?  Is that sur-PRIZED, or sup-PRISED?  Hmm.]

FAVORITE BOOK

THESAURUS EXERCISE: Copy the following into your speckled notebook for next Friday’s spelling quiz.  SURPRISE!  (Just kidding.): astonishment awe wonder shock nonexpectation unforeseen  godsend  miscalculation  unexpectedness  abruptness jolt precipitance  marvel  amaze  astound  flabbergast  stun  startle  stand aghast  miraculous  catch unawares  taken aback  unbargained for confounded  wondrous  incredible  suddenly  magical  without notice  remarkable  breathless  mirabile visu (“wonderful to behold”).

* * *

“The only thing that should surprise us is that there are still some things that can surprise us.” –Francois de La Rochefoucauld

“And to my niece I leave . . .”

I heard those words at the reading of my Grandma Schuma’s will.  I was in 11th grade.  The niece was my mother.  The Grandmother was really my Grand Aunt.  My Uncle Joe was really my Grandfather.  My real Grandmother Anna had died long before.  Grandma and Grandpa raised my mother as their daughter.  I didn’t know this Family Secret  until I was a sophomore in high school.  SURPRISE!  The reading of the will and the word “niece” was a real “shocker.”  I never thought of my mother as a niece.  And my Uncle Joe?  He was never my Grandpa . . .  And as far as  I was concerned, my mom and Aunt Em were still “sisters”  and not cousins . . .  That’s another story.

“A Scout is never taken by surprise; he knows exactly what to do when anything unexpected happens.” –Robert Baden-Powell (founder of Boy Scouts)

“It’ll just take a moment.”

I always locked my bike when I went into the public library.  This time I was only returning books to the Ogden Park Public Library near our home on Chicago’s South Side.  I wheeled my bike into the bike rack–unlocked–and ran up the stairs.  In a flash I was inside, in a moment, putting my books through the Return slot, and was out the door.  SURPRISE!  No bike.  Gone, in a flash.  Wham!  In the chest!  Heart-stopping bam!  What to do? tears covering eyes of reason.  Went inside, blubbering.  Park policeman came.  I made some kind of report.  I walked home, seeing ever crack in every square of every sidewalk.

Over a year later, the bike was recovered.  I walked a long, slow walk to claim it at the park police station.  It had been stripped clean: I recognized the frame and the tires and seat.  I gave thanks, and rode home, teary-eyed, remembering too well, “It’ll take just a moment.”

“Do not always expect good to happen, but do not let evil take you by surprise.” –Czech Proverb

“In sickness and in health . . .”

“We want as many children as we good Catholics can have.”  “SURPRISE!  It’s a healthy boy.”  “Don’t plan to have more than two children: you are Rh+ and your husband is Rh-.”  SURPRISE.  “We want to have as many children as we good Catholics practicing birth control can have.”  Two . . .  “SURPRISE!  It’s a healthy boy.”  The end.  The beginning . . .

“One of the greatest discoveries a man makes, one of his great surprises, is to find he can do what he was afraid he couldn’t do.”  –Henry Ford

“SURPRISE, Loser!”

I have a notebook filled with Loser Letters, those “Sorry, Charlie” or “We regret to inform you” or “Another candidate has accepted the position.”  I’m not sure why I keep them, for it’s been a very long time for Loser Letters.  I applied for my share of grants and scholarships and degree programs as others have done.  And I have received the “And the envelope, please.”  “Nope.  Not this time,” in so many–sometimes many–words.  I kept trying, up to a point in my career of forty-nine years.  And that was that.  “Wait!  Princeton University is advertising for . . .”

“The moments of happiness we enjoy take us by surprise.  It is not that we seize them, but that they seize us.”  –Ashley Montagu (1905-1999)

“Some good stuff . . .”

“SURPRISE!”  “It’s your 80th Birthday Party!”

“SURPRISE!”  “You got accepted!”

“SURPRISE!”  “They called and offered you the job!”

“SURPRISE!”  “It really was your appendix!”

“SURPRISE!”  “They approved your loan!”

“SURPRISE!”  “Oh my gosh!  That’s my new typewriter!”

“SURPRISE!”  “She said Yes!”

“SURPRISE!”  “The house is now yours!”

“SURPRISE!”  “You’re taking the Honor Students to Cambridge!”

“SURPRISE!”  “They want you to tell your story on WBEZ!”

* * *

© James F. O’Neil  2021

“I NEED A NAP!”

July 6, 2021
ANECDOTES, EMOTIONS

BY: JAMES F. O’NEIL

“I HAD A NAP BUT NOW I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM OR WHAT YEAR IT IS.”——qtd.  from tumblr

* * *

I have noticed lately, especially now that I have walked slowly and arthritically past the 80-year milestone, that I am craving a nap more than I was ever aware of before.  In fact, I hear myself talking to myself, “I need a nap.”

Around 11 a.m., I hear myself repeating that “Need-a-Nap” mantra.

“At the end of the day, the mantra is meant to bring you back to simplicity.  We live in such a complex world that it’s easy to get lost in all the details.  Mantras can help you circle back to the simplistic approach to life and focus on those things that inspire you and truly make you happy.” —Chopra 2021.

Now talking aloud to oneself at 11 a.m. is usually all right, but pre- or post-Covid-19 it is not such a good idea.  It draws a lot of attention, and stares, from those not in need of a nap, mostly the young.  I find my wife, however, is my best audience, agreeing, as she holds her second or third cup of coffee of the day.

The day: When does it all begin that I require a nap?

A day, as we know it, begins at midnight or 12 a.m.  We sleep away already part of the day at night.  My “day” can begin when my ROKU is turned off, ending my viewing pleasure of some Netflix, Hulu, Prime Video, Disney+, or Apple TV+ program, usually about 1 a.m.  So, I am tired, and I go to bed, to sleep.  My dear wife is already fast asleep.  At her feet, the cat.

Our cat is a good sleeper.  Mostly.

Now our days begin when he wants them to: play time or hair-ball, or walking and purring on my wife, whom he adores; our days begin when we have medical appointments, when the garbage pickup days occur (soon after 8 a.m. on Tuesday and Friday.  “Don’t put out the garbage the night before.”  Rats, racoons, coyotes, possums…) Most days begin at 0700 or even 7:30 a.m.

This may come as a shock to those who think that retirement or growing old means sleeping in until nine or ten every day, as portrayed in some fantasy movie.  Not so!

“I Need a Nap!”  Even AARP and major health establishments shout out “Take naps!”

When I was growing up in Chicago, I had to take a bus and an L to my high school.

CTA

I don’t recall often sleeping on the trip to school.  I was mostly studying.  But in the afternoon (or evening after an after-school event), I would definitely “nap.”  But that was not a nap (even though occasionally I would sleep past my stop).  No,

“A nap is a short period of sleep, typically taken during daytime hours as an adjunct to the usual nocturnal sleep period.  Naps are most often taken as a response to drowsiness during waking hours.  A nap is a form of biphasic or polyphasic sleep, where the latter terms also include longer periods of sleep, in addition to one single period.”

I never attended kindergarten, never had a special time-out when I and my classmates lay down on soft cushioned material, covered myself with some kind of blanket or “woobie” and took a siesta-nap.  My two boys-to-men had the napping experience in pre-school and in kindergarten.  Those experiences prepared them for family camping outings or for other napping occasions “nestled in mosquito nets, nothing above but dark night sky and stars ever so clear.  No soft meditation music to help fall asleep, only the howling sounds of wild coyotes out in the desert, and the muffled thundering sounds of big-gun field artillery conducting their fire missions off in the distance.” —US Army Veteran

afghanistan cot for nap

Except for my own naps, those of the children I taught in the Head Start Program in Minnesota summers, in a time long ago, were most pleasant.  Sixteen little bumps resting after morning activities, playground, lunch, finger painting, and then the need for rest and time out before snack, before departure.  Quiet time for me and my aide to gather our breaths.  Ah, nap time.

In time, I dozed off–certainly during faculty meetings or at boring convention presentations (perhaps some conferences even required a return to my room for a “nap” after lunch. . .).  I might have “napped” before teaching some night class, or “napped” before attending an evening faculty function.  These and other like examples become noteworthy as respite, relief, or calm.

Now my nap, our naps–“Wanna take a nap?” –can occur soon after the morning weather with Julie Marquez, two pieces of Martin’s raisin bread toast, a Halo mandarin orange, one to three cups or coffee, one apple fritter or Boston cream donut, or any combination of these.  Perhaps Frosted Mini-wheats or Honey-Nut Cheerios?  And then the local and world news events.

10:30 a.m.

Garbage Picked Up (Tuesday and Friday)

11:00 a.m. Nap Time

(Too hot and muggy to take the cat for a walk.  Maybe tonight when it’s cooler?)

CAT ON LEASH

* * *

“Are you tired?  “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a nap,” she said.

* * *

“I’m worn out watching all those National Geographic films.  I’ve emptied the oceans; I’ve dug around Egypt; I’ve climbed the Andes Mountains.  I need a nap.”

* * *

A nap.  A blessed and sacred event.  Well, not really, but something we do look forward to, do need, do miss if we don’t get one.  A special time.

The special time is any time, between 11 a.m. and 7 p.m.!  That’s right: 7 p.m.  Sometimes a long doctors’ clinic afternoon requires a late nap, before supper and evening news.  Sometimes a condo board meeting that began at 10 a.m. and adjourned at noon: a cold refreshing McDonald’s shake before a nap is the perfect remedy to heal the stresses of board budgets and owners’ complaints.  Ah, an afternoon nap.

As you can see, there is no set Head Start Nap Time, like 1:30 p.m.  We are flexible nappers.  We can nap anytime–and anywhere.  The best place, though care must be taken lest the body think it’s bedtime, is on the bed, with quilt covering feet, temperature set at 74-76°.  Next is the living room, sure to have cat-company.  The TV room has a couch for reclining, with accompanying cedar chest for feet and sit-up short nap, or doze-y nap, with one eye on the TV. 

But I have the most Special Place, the two-position recliner.

MY FAVORITE RECLINER

I kick back, settle, relax, and doze.  And if I am lucky, I’ll have a purring feline with me for an hour or so, curled in comfort on my lap.  I cannot, however, nap too long in the chair.  My back tells me when it is time to get up and move around, so a two-hour nap is more than enough.  A good nap, with dreams (!); and with air conditioning, an excellent nap.

And so it goes.  Each day beginning so differently, with catwalk, breakfast, doctors’ appointments, humidity, garbage trucks, coffee stimulation (or not), or a variety of other obligations or choices for the day (early morning blood tests?  Did I mention those?).  And we think about where we might be able to have nap time set aside.  Yes, that is true.  It’s like family planning, dinner planning, or planning for the rest of the day. 

Or, often, the day will simply proceed, and we will say aloud,

“I NEED A NAP!”

© James F. O’Neil 2021