What you NOT talkin’ about, Willis?!

From the Chicago Tribune: 

Sears Tower changes name to Willis tomorrow

July 15, 2009 9:38 AM

Known as the Sears Tower since it opened in 1973, the tallest building in the United States is set to change its name to Willis Tower.

The London-based insurance brokerage Willis Group Holdings will make the name change official Thursday with a ceremony at the downtown Chicago skyscraper. Willis is leasing 140,000 square feet and moving 500 employees to the building.

Keep dreaming, Willis Group Holdings. This may be a vanity perk for you, but nobody’s going to be referring to the Sears Tower as The Willis Tower. We’ve already got Urkel (the esteemed Todd Stroger.) We don’t need Willis, too…

Throwing a life away…

It’s taken me awhile, but I really am throwing a life away – my dad’s. I’ve done some cleaning already. The clothes were easy to donate, with a few things kept for sentimental value. Most of the nicknacks have been thrown and puzzled over (plastic milk caps with a small hole cut in the middle??! Many, many rubber bands?) After far too long, though, I’ve now finally gotten to the nitty gritty, his essence – the books.

I have been avoiding the books like the plague. They defined my father. A lot of them are cheap 1950s paperbacks that fall apart when you turn a page, but they were his books. He obviously spent most of his early railroad salary (pre-marriage, of course) on a ton of 35 cent books. They surrounded him in the basement. They were probably his security blanket against the world. Row after row of the cheap paperbacks, scarfed hardcovers from book sales and library discards, and better-quality paperbacks with good covers and paper for a lot of his reference books.

Pop had it all. He had pretty much had books covering every topic. I do remember telling him he should catalog his collection, but even when I was in school, the paperbacks were falling apart. The cheap paperbacks are finally getting thrown out. Before, I would have felt guilty, even though he wasn’t here. These were his books and I didn’t want to start making decisions about them. Going through the cheap paperbacks, I’m seeing cheap bookmarks (lotto tickets, used-up transit cards, the occasional newspaper article) and that tells me he really was looking at most of his books most of the time.

I used to go down there if I needed my own security blanket. I’d look at all the books in wonder and usually find at least one to distract me from the problem of the moment. After awhile, I’d forgotten what the problem was and was engrossed in the book or books. The book sanctum was a refuge for me, too, because I valued it and I felt closer to my father there than anywhere else – that was important for someone who didn’t feel close to her father.

It is amazing to see the variety. Books predicting the future from a 1950s perspective (nothing too right); poetry books; books about Freud; novels by Graham Greene; Plato’s Republic; a book about how to play chess; Mark Twain; medical and law books; lots of books about Chicago; etiquette books; Strunk and White; books about weather, trees, and wildflowers; etc., etc. 

Weeding through them has been tough, and I’ve been trying to be brutal about what gets kept. There’s way too many to keep, obviously, and the cheap paperbacks are in bad condition. The hardcovers may have more options than the trash. But that’s the next hurdle.

It was hard to start trashing the books - it is the final goodbye. He isn’t here anymore to need to be surrounded by and refer to them. I’m not interested in cheap paperbacks about poetry or science or quotations. I’m not him, but I can appreciate what he had and on occasion, be surprised what I find (the Warren commission report on Kennedy’s death?)

It’s separation and unity all at once. A parent’s death certainly is a reflective experience…

Cemetery abomination…

Illinois isn’t having a good year. The Blago mess, the Burris debacle, and now the Burr Oak cemetery desecration.

The more I hear about the cemetery mess, the more creeped out and disgusted I get. More graves disturbed, less records available. I’ve been around a few cemeteries during the past few years. I can’t imagine going to one and not finding the headstone that’s suppose to be there or seeing that it had been dug up. That’s just wrong and morally reprehensible. It does give some comfort to know that a relative or friend is in a spot where you can find him or her if you want. Cemetery offices are suppose to have records to help if you can’t find them. This one might as well have taken a torch to its records to cover its sorry a@#(%&!

It may be a little creepy, but I used to bike over to the cemetery where my mom’s mom and dad were laid to rest and talk to them. It made me feel a little better that they weren’t here if I could talk to them (ironically, my mother couldn’t go anywhere near there, and of course, isn’t too far away from them now.) I used to tell my grandparents about what I was doing, how school was, complain about their daughter, or just tell them I missed them and wished they had lived longer. Of course, they had 12 other grandchildren, so it wouldn’t have been as if they would have been able to spend a lot of time with me. It just would have been nice to have older points of view to refer to and people who might have given me some unique information about my mom.

I feel for all those people that have realized that their loved one isn’t where they were suppose to be. Sure, the loved one’s dead, but at least there was still a physical place where their physical body was so the survivors could go and remember or mourn or laugh or whatever. Graves are for the living. Maybe we should all try and visit a little more to make sure they’re being taken care of and to think of some good or funny memories.

The soulless, cruel people responsible for this desecration should pay for what they did and I hope they do – on earth and off of it.

Genetic interests?

As noted in the post before this, I love History Detectives and watching the latest season has inspired me to transcribe a tape I made of my uncle this past April. It was a 45 minute interview, I’m on page 18, and I think I’m about halfway through the tape, finally. It’s taking a lot longer than I thought. But rewinding and rewinding and having time to review what I wrote and what was discussed so far is having its benefits.

My uncle has been asked primarily about my father’s family, with a great emphasis on my grandfather. Grandpa died when I was nine. I think I remember seeing him about three or four times tops at my aunt’s house in Berwyn, where he resided after he sold the family home in Chicago around 1965 or so, after my grandmother had died. Grandpa, like my dad, ruled my aunt’s basement. I remember seeing him down there in his recliner with his books, just like my father liked staying in his recliner in our basement with his books. I just didn’t get to know my grandfather. I asked my dad if he ever came over to our house, and after some thought, he realized his father had only come to our house once and was complaining about some dog barking constantly (which, of course, was one of my dad’s “pet” peeves) – I have no idea which dog that would have been. But my dad said after that, he never came back.

So my uncle is providing a little more background for me. I tried to get some of the more mundane details of when my dad, aunt, and uncle grew up. What did they all do at home? What did they listen to on the radio? As I’m going through the tape, I’m really being struck about how curious and smart was grandfather was (as was my uncle). Since I started getting introduced to history and social studies in the third grade, I’ve always been interested in these topics. That has never left me. According to my uncle, my grandfather read a lot of US history and military history and world history books. He knew a lot about history and was always reading. My father read a lot of history books and military history books. I haven’t gotten to the portion of tape about my grandfather’s father, but I think he was reading a lot history books, too. He was also curious.

I don’t think it’s ever been proven that there are intellect genes, but the similarities here between four generations are striking. Not that my other family branches don’t have some brains, but my paternal side consistently is interested in history and politics and current affairs (my grandfather listened to a debate show every week on the radio and made the whole family listen.) Even the political leanings have been consistent through the generations.

To me, it has to be more than a coincidence. In a weird way, it’s oddly comforting to know that my interests, which a lot of other people don’t share, were the interests of my ancestors, and that intellect, curiosity, and interest in history have remained alive through the generations of our family, even though most of them are gone. My uncle’s son also has these traits. So thanks for the genes, pop, grandpa, and great grandpa (and I suspect great great grandpa, too)!

Memories of hospice…

Yesterday, I found out one of my friends is going to be dealing with what I dealt with eight years ago – a father in hospice. The two situations differ – her dad’s been sick and hasn’t had much improvement for awhile, my dad was a bit sick, but bike riding and buying stuff with coupons two weeks before. Her dad will have inpatient hospice, mine had it at home. But hospice is hospice. It means that’s it. It means prepare to say goodbye.

Since I’ve had the experience, she’s turned to me to hear my impressions and pick my brain on what else needs to be done. It’s a little easier when the shoe is on the other foot. I’m not dealing with the situation from a raw emotional point of view anymore, hiding in the basement to vent away from him to try and grasp what I was unexpectedly was facing. With some thought, I’ve started to recall the details of that time, what happened, what I had to do, what decisions I faced. Again, easier now to rattle off about coffins, service details, obituaries, and wills.

But I’m finding residual old emotion being dredged up, especially about the actual hospice experience. It was only about 10 days, but it felt like it was forever and it felt extremely surreal. I’d never had to care for someone before and I’d never seen anybody die. My mother died in the hospital. And it wasn’t just anybody, it was my dad – the man who I had had a turbulent relationship with since I was five years old. Here I was, taking care of him at the end of his life since his wife, my mom, wasn’t here to do it (I know she would have had had a difficult time with it…and I hate to say it, but I think I was the stronger person, regardless of the emotion.) I had to try and make my father’s last days as pain-free and pleasant as possible. I had to try and bring in a few people to say goodbye to him, as well as make sure he talked to a few people while he could. I didn’t understand then how quickly he would deteriorate – if I had, I would have made sure his brother came immediately. By the time he was able to come, my dad wasn’t conscious. Watching my dad turn into skin and bones and fight to hold onto his dignity (this was extremely important, as it was with my mom when she was dying) was sobering and sad. Yet I had to hold it together for him.

And now, all of a sudden, I’m revisiting this time in my life and finding I don’t remember certain details. I’m coming to the conclusion that I blocked out certain things, either on purpose or subconsciously, in order to get through the experience. As in my childhood, I was expected to be strong enough to handle my father’s weaknesses, so I guess my beginning and end with my father were bookmarked with obligatory strength.

I hope I can help my friend. I hope I have already. But I’m now trying to steel myself to deal with these dredged-up emotions. Hospice care may allow the person to die at home and not a hospital (in my dad’s case), but the caregiver has a tough experience before, during, and after. I’m being reminded of that now…

History Detectives – the cure for the genealogy blues…

I’ve been seriously working on my genealogy for nine years. The past few, I’ve been in and out of fervor. If a wall ends up being bricked, that’s a downer (last year.) A new record with new info, that’s a motivator. I taped my 78 year old uncle two months ago and got some new info, despite the fact that I’ve been hitting him up for family stories for a long time. Sometimes it takes something being said in just the right way or a different approach.

I need to transcribe the interview and follow up on it, and I’ve been a bit lazy. Never fear, History Detectives is here! Thank goodness my favorite PBS show is back! All it takes is one cool segment to get my genealogy blood pumping. Last night, it was a piece about study guide/poem booklet that a man in Chicago had in his collection. The Detectives figured out it came from a Creole school from the 1850s in New Orleans. Searching the census microfilm and pulling out some old attendence books from the school got my eyes blinking and head thinking. It was a very fascinating story. I think it takes some “fresh meat” to get me recharged, and History Detectives always is grilling it up.

I can’t wait till next week for more motivating stories. I’m going to be doing some tape transcribing this week. Thanks, Dr. Detectives!

Is curiosity really valued?

A local journalist, John Callaway, passed away last week. Watching a tribute show to him today, all of his colleagues at WTTW’s Chicago Tonight praised his intellectual curiosity. They all admired the trait and said it defined him. The man started at the Chicago City News Bureau, where you had to even confirm your mother’s quotes before you printed them (Mike Royko was also an alum.) Callaway was the quintessential old school journalist. Who, what, where, when, and why – the typical curiosity word.

I’m familiar with that word. I find I also have intellectual curiosity and have used “why?” a lot. I genuinely like to know. I have since I can remember being alive. I never outgrew the two or three year old question. Maybe “why” sometimes goes over the line, but I always want to know the underlying story. What prompted fill-in-the-blank? Or who prompted it? I find that “why?” is often an uncomfortable question for a lot of people. Either they never thought about it or they know and don’t really want to explain the real story – it’s too personal.

I’ve definately had this happen to me. Why? can be seen as loaded. Supposedly innocent intellectual curiosity is often seen with suspicion. Whether the questionee figures it out or not, I often can surmise “why?” myself. I’m sure I’m not always 100% right, but I’d be willing to bet that I’m right more often than I’m not. That’s another reason why? isn’t welcomed. The person can sometimes tell I already know or probably know (oh, you know who you are! I doubt you’ll be reading this, though, because you never really wanted to know why!)

The point is that for maybe old school journalists, why? is celebrated. For nonjounalists like me who are just curious, it often isn’t…and I am finding that like many new-school journalists of today, I don’t ask why? anymore. It’s too much trouble and too painful. I guess this is just another area where I’m a misunderstood throwback…

The reality of the ’70s good girls…

On the television screen, they looked so well-scrubbed and all-American. Many tween and teen girls (like me) looked up and admired Valerie Bertinelli, Barbara on One Day at a Time, and Melissa Gilbert, Laura on Little House on the Prairie. Both shows were typical 70s fare of family and lessons. The families were a little different, but the lessons were always there in a half hour or an hour…and these two actresses were often the ones learning the lessons. They were good girls on their respective shows.

Both actresses have now written books. Since I admired Valerie Bertinelli from the show and, of course, her weight struggle, I bought her book, “Losing It,” and read it last year. I haven’t read Melissa Gilbert’s “A Prairie Tale” yet, but I have seen a promotional interview about it and read an excerpt.

I identified with these two actresses in the 70s. They played good girls struggling with boys, peer pressure, and of course, life lessons. They were playing written parts, but I was learning from their acting. I was still learning that half hour/hour tv shows fix everything by the end of the show (I should have figured that out being the Brady Bunch devotee that I was…) and that doesn’t happen in real life. I was at an age (the dreaded puberty) where I needed as much as help as I could get and I turned to these actresses portraying girls I admired. I hate to say it, but I think I sometimes got more out of these shows than I did with my own parents. I was breaking out, I was too fat, I had a crushes on boys in school (every grade, there seemed to be a new one…and it never did me any good.) I wanted to be Barbara Cooper, thinner than me, pretty with long brown hair and tight jeans, with boys crushing on her. I wanted Laura Ingalls’ feistiness. So I kept watching the shows. Unfortunately, I never got those qualities, but I still enjoyed the shows.

So it’s interesting to read/hear from the actresses who were playing these roles and their real life struggles (karma - Jamie’s Crying from Van Halen has just streamed on Kcdx.com…) Valerie met and dealt with alcoholic Eddie and Melissa got pregnant by Rob Lowe (I think after the show) and lost her baby, plus had her own bout of alcoholism. From her writing, Valerie seemed to be somewhat like Barbara Cooper, a good girl, but she had her adventures pre-Eddie, met Eddie Van Halen, and then really started having them! I was listening to Van Halen in the 70s, so hearing about her take on the band was another fun/sobering read.

I’m guessing the two women wanted to set the record straight. I think Valerie has succeeded (and I admire her now more a 49-year-old given what she’s been through than as a 15-year-old fairly new actress.) I’ll probably read Melissa’s book, but growing up in front of America on a family show must have had plenty of pressures.

I think I’m blogging about these two books because the shows were so intertwined with my life and once again, have caused me to pause to revisit my childhood from an adult perspective…my reoccurring theme. The reality, though, is I’m still that 70s good girl.

Pop…in all his glory…

Next year, I may pull out one of my dad’s many letters (he left behind the carbon copies.) There’s some interesting gems in there. But since I’ve been busy with yet another flooded basement (thanks, five inches of rain on Friday), I haven’t had time to peruse the copies. Instead, I’ll just mention some random thoughts about my father…

Quotes:

“We’re used to hardship.” This from a depression survivor. Context – if I got through the depression, you’ll get used to fill-in-the-blank. Of course, fill-in-the-blank was always nothing in comparison, which was always implied.

“We never goeth.” Multiple meanings on this one. Pop never did want to goeth…much of anywhere. He preferred sitting in his chair in the basement, perhaps watching PBS, more likely reading a quotation book or typing a letter (with the carbon copy) to some “lucky” recipient. The other meaning, which he got from his pop, was why bother going to bathroom? It takes too much time and interferes with things that need to be done. Tongue in cheek, of course!?

…And the related “Why should I go to fill-in-the-blank when I have a toilet here?!” Interesting, because “he never goeths” Another grandpa holdover…

Interests…

A bowl of vanilla ice cream after every dinner – A known holdover from his childhood of getting homemade ice cream.

The World at War  – The World War II veteran constantly watched this show, over and over and over. After seeing a lot of it the first time, with lots of black and white footage of gunfire, I didn’t need to see it again. He did.

Getting fill-in-the-blank on sale, plus having a coupon for it - This really got him excited. He was ecstatic (a rare thing for him) when there was no limit and he could use the coupon a lot or had a lot of coupons.

My Fair Lady soundtrack – I think he wore out his vinyl copy. I heard this music incessantly when I was little. Everytime I hear Get Me to the Church on Time (which isn’t too often), I immediately think of him and the lyrics automatically are pulled out of archival storage. I’ve known those lyrics since I was five…scary…

Conducting – Pop loved to help conductors conduct. His favorite symphony was Dvorak’s New World. It’s impossible to hear it and not see him conducting…

“Helping” out with homework – He saw it as help and, in theory, it was. Only problem was being the helpee. At least five books would appear around 7 about the problematic topic/subject and by 9 o’clock, they were all suppose to have been read and have solved the problem. I doubt that ever happened and major irritation would then commence…

Messing with fairy tales – This one pop shared with any lucky three-, four-, or five-year-old – he just tried it out on me and my sister. Little Red Riding Hood would go hang with the seven dwarves or would prick her finger on the needle and fall into a deep sleep. It took me a few confused years (mom wasn’t a fan of this routine) to figure out what he was doing. But most little kids would get incensed that he wasn’t telling the story right. He always thought that was hilarious.

Lipton Tea – continually, constantly, with the ever present stains on the bottom of his cups. Mom wasn’t thrilled with this interest, either.

That’s just a little taste of my pop. He was a character. Happy Father’s Day, pop. Say hi to grandpa.

Weather rant

It has been raining for four hours straight – not predicted. Enough with the rain already. Nearly 2 feet of rain so far this year…GRUMBLE. The crab can hopefully go burrow back into the sand soon…if it isn’t too soggy…