There was another success in the effort to reconnect as I found old neighbors, the Larsons. The shock on finding old neighbors is that the image you have of them in your head doesn't match the reality of the years. That may not be true of me, I still live in the same house I've owned for 17 years, and only recently I've begun to move away from the field that I worked in for these two decades.

The children of the Larsons are in and out of college and in once case, have married. These are the same children who created a special hole in the fence in my backyard so that they and my daughter could more easily move from yard to yard. It is an Oh! My! God! Moment. It is at least comparable to the moment at Great America when you round the short bend and see the masses of people who are in line for the 50 second roller coaster ride you've been waiting for.

But this is life and it demonstrates with great power that I'm older, that the world too is older, even if it is imperceptibly changing to me. The growing up with the Larsons story most people will know from me is that annual urban tale of taking Luke and Anna to the South Side Chicago St. Patrick's Day Parade.

I don't want to go through the entire story now. Frankly the story has been told too many times. But in essence, I was the only adult and each of the children, starting with Luke, then Ceili and finally Anna, became separated from me. When I finally found them they were about ten feet from me, but in that crowd I couldn't see that far.

It is a great urban story: fathers aren't as careful as mothers, don't let your children go, etc. And, it is all true, though it ends well. It would have been a better cautionary tale if I'd never found them again. God smiles on fools.

I was thinking that it may have been 1995 when we last saw the Larson family. Jane corrected me, telling me that they visited in the last ten years. In any case, it's been a long time.

Jim, the dad, and Judy, the mom, are in Thailand doing missionary work among the prostitutes. I never met a person like Jim before we were neighbors, and would still be at a loss to point to a person who had the passion for service to others. I think a link to Jim's blog is needed here; my description of Jim's work wouldn't be adequate.

The reason I found them was that there was an old box in the garage. This was put there last summer as we cleaned out the attic. On the theory that you don't own stuff, it owns you, I've been trying to organize my life to erase the clutter that has accumulated. My nephews Dan and Michael brought down three skids of material from the attic to the garage. We are down to about ten boxes as of today, the rest have been sorted and disposed or organized.

Two papers jumped out from the box. The first was a letter from Jim Larson. As I look around the “man cave” I can't find it. It may have served its purpose and now it is lost forever.

I knew that Jim had worked in a church in the ex-urban area of Chicago. I'd thought it was near LaSalle/ Peru, instead it was about 30 miles closer, between LaSalle and Yorkville in Sheridan. With the address in hand I had enough information to start a new search. About 72 hours later and I'm writing my old neighbors again.

It is wonderful that Jim's service to others continues. It is wonderful to hear of it, wonderful and challenging to a person who has lived in the same house for 17 years.

I'd never believed in the Jerusalem Syndrome. But now I know different. It all started on a tour I took of Hollywood last week called the Dearly Departed Hollywood Tragic Mystery Tour. As we drove through Beverly Hills, our driver discussing the hows and whys of the spectacular Los Angeles deaths in ordinary looking homes I think I suffered a case similar to Jerusalem Syndrome.

You've probably heard of this ailment. It's a mental illness caused by being to close to the holy or something. The always dependable Wikipedia as a great entry on it, but doesn't discuss how it afflicts weak minds, such as mine, when in the orbit of the famous: “The Jerusalem syndrome is a group of mental phenomena involving the presence of either religiously themed obsessive ideas, delusions or other psychosis-like experiences that are triggered by, or lead to, a visit to the city of Jerusalem.”

It hit me outside someone's home. I don't even remember the name of the person. They are still popular and on some hit television show. Their car, a black Lexus, sat in the driveway. As I remember, the home had been the scene of a gruesome crime fifty or more years ago. And of course, we heard about the Black Dahlia.

I sat there looking at the car. Now it wasn't owned by Kevin Bacon, Bacon didn't even appear on the tour, but because I want to get a step closer to Kevin Bacon in degree of separation, let's just say it was Kevin Bacon.

And I sat there on the bus and looked at Bacon's car and his home and I thought just like those crazed fans who have murdered their heroes and idols. I thought about killing Kevin Bacon.

Back in my home in the Midwest, this all appears to be some flight of lunacy, as indeed it was. I was approaching the face of lunacy and looking deep into its eyes. It is lunacy to kill another human being for the pleasure of being known as a killer in the Hollywood media. But, when you're an unemployed blogger who normally writes about minor league hockey, perhaps this is the best you'll get: your shot at the big time.

Now a spectacular crime has to have some strange twists and of course I wouldn't want to be caught. So, being a Hollywood tourist is surely a good cover, provided I can escape that is.

But I figured that one of the best ways to become famous would be to kill the celebrity, that would be Bacon, with one of those plastic knives that TSA makes you take out of your carry on and then the bagel place 30 yards further into the airport gives back to you. The reason for the knives is that it is apparently some sort of sport to kill celebrities in California. I hadn't even realized this before the tour, but you know, it's California. And besides, there are loads of celebrities in California. They even work in the local supermarket bagging your groceries, I think.

“That will show you TSA” I could scream as I slowly sawed the body of Bacon surgically in two with the plastic knives they take away at the security line. Oh, wait, I'd have to drain the body of blood first.

Now you can see that already I may have fouled up my entire crime. First, I'm writing about it on a blog? I mean what the fuck is that all about. Right there Kevin Bacon is safe from me... I'll have to pick another star out. But the crime could be called the TSA murder.

“Police say the murderer wrote “TSA sucks” in the victim's blood on a nearby wall.” Scratch that. That sounds gross, though I like the idea of linking it to the TSA somehow. I've got to figure that angle out.

Second, thinking back about the Black Dahlia, her blood was drained from her body, her body was sexually molested... Oh God! I don't want to DO Kevin Bacon... Dead or alive. Kevin? You are fully released. Now I think as an actor you're okay and everything, but I have no, you know, interest in doing you.

I don't know much about Hollywood celebrities and don't even know who would be a good target now. I mean Paris Hilton? She is a transvestite right? I mean her face is almost plastic. Not interested.

I've never seen Hannah Montana and couldn't pick her out from the hordes of copy-cat girls giggling around her... So, that's no good either.

I guess the sexual thing would have to go. I'd probably need to pick up a guide on Hollywood celebrities to find a target. I'm just not that into celebrities. I'd need one that is old because the younger ones all seem to be in good shape and frankly, I'm not. It's not a good idea to do the sex thing either as it's a sure way for the police to find you. It's the DNA things floating around. I think I read about it in Dick Tracy once.

But I can still use my plastic, TSA-disapproved, knife to saw my victim in two. But first, damn it, I've got to drain all that blood.

I don't know why the blood must be drained, but the murderer of the Black Dahlia did it and they were never found. So, that seems like a good idea to me.

I heard somewhere that the body can function even after losing a lot of blood. I think there is something like eight liters of blood in the body.

Why can't we measure this in good old American units? I mean, why are we jumping to use metric for a body measure? It has to be confusing to be taking personal measurements, such as height, six foot one inch. Weight, 225 pounds. Blood in the body, eight liters. I mean isn't this exactly how NASA screwed up several of its launches, by mixing an American measure with metric?

I was talking to a woman from Australia on the trip to LA and she told me that she lost 20 kilos. I told her that I was glad she didn't put it in stone as I could never figure that measurement out. So, 20 kilos. We're trying to figure out if that is 2.25 k / lbs or is it 2.25 lbs / k?

Thank god I never tried to sell drugs. That's another industry that uses metric and mixes it with American measurement. They talk about kilos of something and then the dollar value. But when you're stoned and stupid and on the street looking for a hit do you really do the computation?

“I've got 2 kilo of wonder drug man.”

“Oh, okay, let's see, 2 k * 2.25 = 4.5” I mean if the drug users of this country can do that type of math then they should be running Wall Street.

What the hell were we talking about? Oh blood. Did you know that Bella Lugosi died in his cape? They should have buried him in it don't you think? Wait, did I get that backwards? Damn you metric system now I'm all confused.

Anyway the body is able to continue to function, according to my research on the History Channel, till it is down to about two LITERS of blood. I figured that waiting for the drain to finish would be a great opportunity, as the villain, to monologue.

Monologues, as described in the superhero flick the Incredibles, is that part of the film or comic book when the villain describes his master plan to the victim. It gives the audience a look at what is at stake if the hero fails. It always occurs at a moment when the hero is in big trouble. They are usually captured and facing some sort of devious plan for their death and torture.

I guess if I was a villain, I wouldn't want to monologue. But, since the victim is slowly dying and I hope that my Boy Scout training has taught me to tie a decent knot, they'd be secure...

So, why not monologue?

This is going to be disappointing, but I think I won't use ropes. First of all, I failed that Boy Scout rope trick thing. Yep, I never got the badge for that skill. Second, those rope burns leave nasty welts on the wrists of the dead. I know, I've heard about it when I pass through a room with CSI on.

A real smart villain would probably watch a lot of CSI because they could probably out think the police that way. I'll bet that if we took CSI off the tube there'd be a lot more solved crimes in this country as the criminals became stupid again and began making mistakes.

Back to the monologue. Why is a monologue so important in action films and comic books? I don't get why the motives of the villain don't come out slowly? Darth Vader didn't say, “hey I'm a bad guy and freedom is going to come to an end under the rule of my emperor and I.”

NO!

He took Princess Leia to Organa and asked her to give him the names of the rebel leadership. When she complied, he destroyed Organa. BOOM! Gone. No stupid monologue, action. Billions dead too.

Now that's a villain. “Comply and I still kill billions.” WOW! And no monologue either.

Can you imagine how it would have occurred if he had been a Silver age villain? Yack, yack, yack till finally the hero struggled free of their wrist manacles or whatever, then they alert all the innocent extras to flee the ship, including and especially the Teamsters as you don't want those guys mad at you when you make a movie, then Vader notices she is gone and flees and THEN the Death Star blows up.

Boring...

As I reflect on this, far from Hollywood, first, I think I'd have problems even with some 80 year old actor. Second, I can't tie a good knot. I'd need to go to the sex store and buy those restraints; don't they have a safety or something? And third, I'm just not that into the celebrity thing. I don't think reading about my murder would be interesting to me.

Anyway, you get the idea. As a potential Hollywood murderer (aren't we all?) I give a big thumbs up to the Dearly Departed Hollywood Tragic Mystery Tour. Please, check you plastic knives before you board the bus.

Good morning and Happy St. Patrick's Day to each of you. I should say, from the get go that if anyone says anything remotely racist to me today, on the order of say, "having some green beer today Paddy?" I plan to rip their liver out and eat it. Just saying...

There are some great pix from the Blackhawk Cup final at the United Center available this morning over at Jane's blog and at the chitowndailynews.org. There is an even better story about how we got those pix.

By now I think there should be a realization that Jane is a damn good sports photographer. She often stays up till 1 AM to edit and submit pictures to you for consideration. Last night, for example, I believe she finished up at 1 AM with the final pix being sent to the paper at 12:30 AM. What isn't realized is that she spent the afternoon in the ER having suffered from an allergic reaction to a medication prescribed for an infection.

As we were sitting there in the ER she was insisting that I call the United Center to be sure they don't pull our press passes for the games that night, "we'll be late... tell them we'll be late." I'm sitting there thinking "sure, we'll be late."

It ends up we were about ten minutes late. She got out of the ER, went home, got her kit and headed to the UC. There were no issues photographing the first game (women's); neither the audience nor the press care about that game. At the start of the second game we had a confrontation with another photographer. I should note that first, the glass at the UC is in terrible condition. However, holes have been cut in it to allow access to the ice by photographers. There are only a limited number of these access points, however. We'd snagged one by shooting the first game.

I was taking care of Jane, getting her water and food. Because she had an IV at the ER she was full of fluid and had to take frequent WC breaks. During one of these breaks I was approached by two agency photographers. They said they were "from the schools" and we'd have to move.

We did move, but had a few words with them. It isn't clear now and it certainly wasn't clear at the UC if we should have been forced to move by people who were not associated with the press or the schools but may have been associated with the athletic association and misrepresented themselves to gain a hole. One of the key reasons we had to move? We weren't "professionals."

By that I think they meant several things. First, of course was a slap at being citizen journalists. The second was that Jane's equipment (two Canon XTi and a Fuji) weren't "professional" level.

The fact is that I'd compare what each of us got at the UC to anything they got. (I looked at the web site for the athletic association. If that is their pix, they are good. But we get as good a shot without access. The picture of the kid in green, the picture of the losing goalie and some of the action shots required patience and an understanding of the game, which we both have. Several were from the stands. It also requires an attitude to fight for our rights, which we did about the hole; which Jane did by coming in after being in the ER.

Those two jerks? They got their professional shots and left sometime before the second intermission. They didn't need to be around for the money shots of the kids in the midst of victory or defeat. I guess, if I had anything to learn from them, it would be that professionals don't care. On to the next gig.

Not to nag, but professionalism isn't about equipment, being paid or having credentials. It is all about attitude.

I’m live blogging the WTTW presentation “Irish Chicago” which premieres tonight on WTTW-11. The show is starting at the library of the St. Ignatius College Prep. I would have thought that the best placed to start was in one of the historic churches of the Illinois & Michigan Canal. They are some of the oldest Irish related and Catholic churches in the area.

Wait, after a moment we have Ellen Skerrett talking about the I&M canal. Bill Savage? Who?

“Death was omnipresent.” Spare me the tears. These guys weren’t slaves Skerrett, don’t pretend their lives were worse than being slaves. We’re starting down the road of making these guys saints.

OH BOY, the first politician. Let’s show him some difference somehow. Cullerton. How did we skip from the I&M Canal to Cullerton? Oh, his ancient relative was an I&M worker. Some discussion of how the Cullerton’s owned a tavern and also ran the ward. Okay, that’s showing how the Irish abused their power, which could be an ongoing theme of the show.

Skerrett begins to talk about the potato famine. I had to stop the show here and talk to Jane. A few facts that are being glossed over here. First, the 1847 famine was not the first failure of the crop in Ireland. Second, Ireland was exporting food throughout the famine. However the spud was under the control of the local Irish, who were living in conditions of near serfdom. They couldn’t afford and weren’t permitted to eat the food for export to England.

Discussion of the potato famine continues. The migration of the Irish wasn’t particularly to Chicago, but to more established areas and also to Canada and England. No mention of the coffin ships to Canada. Many of the Famine Irish ended up in Canada and then found their way to Chicago.

Jane is making the point that the images they are using here are some of the most disturbing of the period. That other images may present a fairer picture. Although, let me also point out that mass starvation probably can’t be imagined without some awful pictures.

Why is Skerrett being interviewed in a church?

Skerrett is talking about the migration of the Irish to Chicago in the 1840’s. Let’s be clear, the I&M Canal drove the first migration of the Irish to this area. They got their jobs here because they dug the Erie Canal in Western New York first. They were SKILLED canal diggers. The program is purporting that they were unskilled.

Oh well, who cares about facts, let’s move on…

Skerrett is not talking about the Know Nothings. Hello, anyone want to say the words Know Nothings? Next guy, is that Savage?

Okay, there was no money for the churches, so where did the money come from? Skerrett, want to discuss how the Jesuits were not necessarily the group that Irish Catholics might support? Why did they build Holy Family? Between Holy Family and St. Patrick’s, which is the parish that is most closely associated with the Irish? A Gothic Cathedral on 12th Street? I think not. Just forget about that French church (my first draft of this sentence called this church the French whore on 12th Street). Let’s talk only about the St. Patrick’s. It is a Celtic masterpiece. Wasting time dwelling inside Holy Family when St. Patrick’s is the jewel in the crown is a sin.

Okay, wait, after basically saying that the Celtic Art isn’t good enough, Jane’s take on that Holy Family bit, we’re on to a Famine Irish Artist named umm… Crystal Street? Wait, that’s an actual street name. The artist isn’t named. But we know, even though she is doing flowers, that she’s Irish because she says “I’m Irish so I love St. Patrick’s Day.” Oh boy, serve her a green beer.

Megan Williamson. Thank you. Honey, if you’re so damn Irish, where is your identity in your art? How is it expressed through your art? Lot’s of old family pictures, but not much else. Now we’re getting Williamson giving a story about Union organizing. How is this about the Irish? WHAT? The “Irish fighting amongst themselves?” Please, I can name Irish artists who have found their identity through art. This was a terrible choice. Williamson may be nice, but she is so ineffectual about talking about the Irish.

Back to Skerrett. Is she writing this thing? Stockyards. First, she isn’t a historian of the Stockyards and I don’t think purports to be. The Stockyards were mainly a German thing, right? Jewish thing? Now Savage is talking about city planning. Hello, this lack of urban planning that he is discussing was common prior to the use of refrigerated railroads.

Here we go; we’re going to talk about Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. Poor Mrs. O’Leary was demonized. Didn’t she survive the fucking fire? Oh goody, the Chicago City Council cleared her in 1997. I’m so glad.

We’re back to City hall. Foxxy Cullerton, the story told by a descendant who is still at the till. Let’s discuss how the Irish have nearly perfected the art of turning democracy into the art of nepoticism.

Alright, Jane is noting that Cullerton has the date of the big outbreak of influenza wrong. That started in 1918 in Chicago. Hey Jane, he’s a politician, he doesn’t need to keep facts straight or care about things like that. His kids will receive a legacy appointment to some political post.

“Brand naming.” What a nice way to say nepoticism. Thanks. Now I know what to call it when I have no choice at the polls.

Bohola in the St. James Cemetary of the Sag. Where is the loser known and hated as John “Sean” Cleland? They must have asked them to play for free. Gosh, I go out to the cemetery to here Irish musicians all the time. Why aren’t they interviewing Jimmy Keane? Maybe because Jimmy is an immigrant from London? Why not Pat Broders? Maybe he doesn’t meet the criteria of a Famine Irish immigrant? Toor-a-lie-toor-a-lie yadda yadda yadda.

“Underwriting” break. Must be pledge week for shit like this. $60 for the DVD? More “How the Irish saved Civilization” bullshit. But two for $100. Be insufferable and send one to a friend who doesn’t want it.

Okay, we’re back…

Now we’re at St. Xavier with Sr. Sanders? The format is apparently letterbox and it is being broadcast in 5:4 so parts of the broadcast are lost. This is another Famine Irish interview. Back to Aidan Quinn. I hope he’s Famine Irish too.

We’re doing the Peter Finley Dunne stuff. Dunne isn’t a literary giant like James Joyce. Well, take what you’ve got I suppose. About 30 seconds on Dunne and now we’re on to Capt. Francis O’Neill. Now O’Neill really is a giant of music. Let’s see what they do with this segment.

Bad start. We’re at his tomb. Someone named John McLaughlin. What is his expertise in this field? Should be Noel Rice. Okay, here’s Kevin Henry. OMG, Kevin is playing for people on bikes at the cemetery. How lucky of them that he’s out there playing that day. Skerrett should shut up about the music. She is clueless.

WHAT? Now we’re away from the most important Chicago Irish person ever, in about 30 seconds, to talk about the fucking Sox. “The Irish American field of dreams.” This is why Skerrett should stick to talking about parishes and priests.

Who the fuck edited this cluster fuck? STOP talking about the Sox. You spend 30 seconds about the music of Ireland, saved by O’Neill, for the Sox?

Skerrett is talking about St. Pat’s. Jack Wall is talking about St. Pat’s. Some meat here. I see that the artist for Old St. Pat’s used a compass. I’m disappointed. Oh, and Skerrett, the Book of Kells is pretty well established to have been created in England, not Ireland. It is Celtic, not Irish.

The photography here is terrible. Finally a picture of one of the stained glass windows. “Nothing like it in Ireland.” Oh? Does that include Church of Ireland too? I think that is a provably false statement and shows a disdain by Skerrett for the identity of non-Roman Irish Christians. Let’s say for a moment that this outrageous statement is true, why is it that Chicago produced this masterpiece of spirituality?

Dear Ms. Skerrett, I will take you to places in Ireland where there is a deep Celtic art expressed in a spiritual venue.

Now, Skerrett is proposing that the church EMPOWERED women by allowing nuns to run institutions. Hello? What type of bullshit is this? Sister of Mercy? Were they the one’s who showed concern about your twitching as you lay on the floor from their beating?

The seeds of racial tension were sowed in the workplace? If you grew up in my parish, one the West Side, Skerrett, you’d know it had a home in the church. Hmmn, I’m realizing that we skipped over the post Civil War period, if not the whole Civil War. I guess the IRB and other Republican organizations that were here, the Irish dead in the Civil War, they shouldn’t be missed. As one Irish person told me, “you Americans have no culture.”

A too brief discussion of Studs Lonnigan.

Now a discussion of Second City. Is Second City associated with the Irish? I’m a bit lost. What is happening? We’re on to the best Irish pub in Chicago, Chief O’Neill’s. Is that the connection? I’m still lost here. Jim O’Malley gives a poor me story about how if his grandmother had held on to some patent he’d be rich. Okay, so what? This segment from Studs Lonnigan to the break is terrible.

Break time. Let’s have a drink.

Whoa… we’re back.

Bridget is second to Patrick in the pantheon of Irish saints? Well, that’s a bit of opinion. Oh wait, we’re back into shaking down subscribers.

St. Clement’s. In this program there is a fascination with the church and its relation to the Irish in Chicago. Can we discuss how the church attempted to erase the ethnic differences between people, refusing to recognize ethnic identity and needs?

I think we’ll call this segment, the erasure of the Irish identity by the church and politicians. The Irish women are the strong ones. I actually like this woman starting the next segment. She actually knows what she is talking about. There is a matriarchal aspect to the community. Would the program like to explain why a group of farmers in a misogynistic culture would put women in control? Perhaps it was something about the American identity or culture?

Morgan Park is the most Irish neighborhood of Chicago? Wait, they’re in Beverly? What about Mount Greenwood? This is very confusing.

OMG, they’re putting Pat Roche out there. Mark Howard looks old. Thirty seconds for Roche. About the same as for O’Neill. This is poor editing. Roche getting 30 seconds is about right. Why not more O’Neill?

Now some West Side Irish. Nice, the worst part of being a cop is “having to live in the city.” Doggie, doggie, doggie, just leave, we won’t miss you.

We’re onto to the St. Patrick’s Day parade. The original parades were neighborhood events. Why was that destroyed? Mayor Daley. “By putting the parade in the center of the city you assert the central identity of the city,” or something like that. Okay, let’s be clear, Daley killed the neighborhood parades because he wanted control of the thing. That destroyed the essential Irishness of the parades. They became things of unions and politicians, not of the community. They moved from being an expression of the culture to being an expression of the Power of the Daley family.

Now they are creating the myth of St. Richard the Daley. He was a devotee of Robert Moses. He used the creation of highways, federal urban renewal money and public housing to make the city one of the most segregated cities in the US. He destroyed the cultural roots of the Irish and anyone else who he didn’t like.

Now they are skipping over the Hamburg Club, which they mentioned earlier. Daley was a member of a gang. GANG MEMBER.

Another pol. Everyone is so deferential to him. Tunney. An alderman. How is Tunney expressing his Irish identity? Working hard? Yep, and do you know why? Because everyone else is a bunch of lazy no goods. Especially the gays. Whoops, he’s gay!

Okay, if this wasn’t so poorly done, it would actually be comical.

Savage, “every Irish home had three pictures, Jesus, JFK and the Pope.” Heard of any Jewish Irish people there Savage? You’re talking about politics, should know that there was a Jewish mayor in Dublin. Not to mention that a lot of Irish are not Catholic.

Back to Mark Howard. Mark could you discuss why these are the best girl dancers? What happens when one isn’t quite a good enough dancer, but still loves it? What happens to her? What happens to their hair? Is it natural for little Irish girls to have curls and red hair, because the girls in the class in your basement don’t have either?

He looks injured. He isn’t moving. What is up? Oh wait, he is moving. But he is moving slowly.

Break time. Time for a drink!

Gaelic Park. They start talking about the GAA creating Gaelic Park. This is the second Gaelic Park, the first on the near West Side. WOW 50 acres? I didn’t know that!

It’s nice to see people at Gaelic Park on the Board who have been there so long. I know, new blood, but also continuity.

John Devitt in Palos Hills. More nonsense about how great the Irish are. A missed opportunity here to talk to his children who he identifies as Irish. How do they express that Irish identity? That’s the big failure of this program. No attempt to have people express how are they Irish. Why allow these people to say they are so much better than others because they are Irish? Good god! Rich bullshit.

Now we’re back to Williamson, the artist in Wicker Park. Now a cut to the cops who wish they lived elsewhere. Now to the North Side Irish Center. Nearly 35,000 items in the library, 34,000 of which are Ireland by Leon Uris.

WAIT! The Commitments. HA! But they denied their Irish identity. They finally expressed their identity by being rejected and finding success. They miss one of the great local artists, Michael Flattley. He could provide some insight on being Irish and also a local. He could discuss how he used his identity to find success. Did they try to talk to him? I know he is hard to talk too.

Stupid St. Patrick’s Day stuff. The South Side parade is the only true Irish parade I’ve ever seen in the city. Some father’s started it? Really? I thought children started it? Could be another myth. Let’s see if the program discusses how the community uses the parade to organize house parties and so on. This is the real strength of the South Side parade.

Nope. I guess they don’t know about that.

Ouch! Too many stereotypes. Savage is trying to wrap it up. The program could have been a history of the Irish in Chicago or it could be a program about the Irish identity in Chicago. It tried to do both and fucked up. PASS ON THIS TRASH.

I'm back, trying to write to now 50,000 hopefully by the end of March. Of course, I have a head start of about 18K words from January.

The first challenge was to write 30K words by the end of January. I made it to 18.6K words and stopped about a week short of the end of January realizing that I had made a mistake somewhere. The “hero” of my story had done something that was easily explained. I had to go find the error and explain why everything had happened.

By the time I'm ready to show people the copy, this won't happen at 18.6K but somewhere else, probably in the low 20K area.

So I added a thousand words today, as well as leaving a snarky comment about the death of the Rocky Mountain News on the media blog.

I'm getting sleepy. The morning started, as it often does when I write, by waking in the pre-dawn with an idea rattling around that demanded to be put into words. So, I'm short sleep and still need to write another blog entry. Uggh!

Larry is a street person living here in Chicago. His thing was to steal newspapers and resell them at “L” stops. He was on crack, he had eyes as big as Jamie's, which is to say he had orphan-Annie eyes. Whatever reality Larry was living in, I didn't want to share it and yet, there he was, living in my newspaper warehouse.

He'd been invited into the warehouse by the ever trusting Al Martin. You know the logic: he's a newspaper thief, he's on crack, he'll steal everything he can to sell for more crack. Let's give him a key to the warehouse? That's how he ended up in the Paulina newspaper warehouse. Paulina was a hole. Actually there was a hole in the roof. During rain storms, the water from the roof, about the size of a football field, poured through this hole. We survived by moving the newspapers away from the hole. But that's another story.

So, along with the huge rat colony in this warehouse, they made donuts in there by the way, we enjoyed the company of Larry. He showed up, broke the door lock and we couldn't get rid of him.

I'm told that there is some sort of mental disorder that causes people to decide to spread their feces. I can tell you from having had it done to a WC I wanted to use, that it creates a mark of territory. Sort of like some animal marking its territory: you do not want to deal with it.

So Larry did that to us at the Paulina warehouse, the men's room became his room. There are no words I can use to describe the sight and smell of human feces spread all over a wall. We abandoned the building (it was torn down and condos replaced it.) and moved to newer digs on Fullerton. We thought we'd left Larry and his feces wall behind, the agreement being that no one was to tell Larry where we'd moved.

We were not even done celebrating when Larry showed up at the new digs. Al denies to this day that he told Larry where we moved.

Now at this time, we hadn't yet connected Larry to the feces on the wall. As you can imagine, we had another, more colorful name for this... phenomenon. But, within a short period, the new men's room sported the same colorful stain.

It began to connect when I donned a haz-mat set of clothes (they were thrown away after this incident) and cleaned what the cleaning crew ignored. Then I faced down Larry and Al. I believe I had some moral authority, after cleaning up this situation. When I was finished, Al just looked hurt. Larry, who I threatened to arrest if he ever returned, he left. And, bingo, no more feces on the wall.

So, I was considering this long ago situation as I cleaned up after Jane's cats. She is ill this week. And the cat's welcomed me to their world by doing a Larry in the litter box. No greater love have a man for a woman than to clean up after her cats.

Jane has been chaperoning me around the city. The van, as pictured, is deep in snow. It's sort of like the annual rite of resurrection. For the past several winters, I've allowed it to get buried in, then as it thaws it comes out of the white shroud and miraculously roars back to life.

Monday morning and the sky is that winter blue that says it is going to be bitter cold outside. Jane has the day off for Rev. King. We'll probably try to slip off to the Conservatory for her mid-winter sanity break. Later, we need to find the fireworks. After eight long years, the nightmare comes to an end tomorrow.

When this guy started in office, he didn't frighten me. Granted his election was a stain on the history of the country, there was such an uproar, that I figured he wouldn't be able to be an effective leader. During the summer of 2001 he became irrelevant. Then the madmen attacked the West. That was when he used the power of the military to kidnap people, slip them away into the dark, torture them. People in this country who should have known better, including our useless Congressman, now the White House Chief of Staff, were frightened of challenging him.

He developed software to listen to our calls, he developed laws to strip our rights. At one point, as Jane was doing one of her protest things at a public event, I explained that the country had slipped. “One of the goof balls around you will hassle you, maybe physically assault you” because of your political views. She was really depending on me to defend her and I pointed out that first, I'd do it automatically, but that I was older and would be hurt. And second, political speech was under attack. The police would send my ass to jail for protecting her. The guy who attacked us would be considered a hero.

If he hadn't overplayed his hand, attacking a country for weak political reasons and with a poorly thought out plan of exit this might have continued. People would have gone along and felt protected and safe while freedom was whisked away to be beaten and tortured in the dark corners of this country and the globe. The excuse would have been that it was only happening to “bad” people.

His inability to connect to people, his creation of a bubble of reality, his lack of awareness all seemed to come home to roost in August, 2005 when his political appointment of Michael Brown and his dismantling of FEMA led to a failure of the system when Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. No, we were not attacked by a foreign power. A hurricane demonstrated that the country had wasted nearly five years and billions. It was that wind that finally knocked down his house. What safety was there in this administration? We could survive a tropical storm and still die, waiting for it to answer the phone.

That he pursued economic policies that were doomed was evident early in his administration. Enron should have been a wake-up call that platitudes about market self regulation are just that. Enron happened early in this administration, and he could have blamed it on the Clinton's and been justified.

But, despite Enron, he pursued economic policies meant to dismantle market regulation throughout the economy. The final wake-up call for all but a minority of the country has been having their jobs threatened, their values of their homes and investments crash.

So, we'll celebrate tonight. And hope and pray for something better: a resurrection of the American spirit.

The 30/30 project is back on track, after I spun my wheels for a few days wondering where the story was going, it made a huge leap forward and is on target for 30K words by the end of the month.

Meanwhile, outside the cold is continuing to freeze the city. Nice Pix of the bike I discussed in another post for everyone to consider. There's a good wind outside today and more snow expected. How deep do you think it will get on that bike?

A bit of sadness here. One of our favorite rock bands had a HUGE blowout fight last night. I'm talking of course about PSYCHO NEIGHBOR. I'm not sure they have the FaceBook page up yet, but these guys are terrific.

Anyway, last night, one of the two female vocalists was shown the door by two other members of the band. Right in the middle of a gig too! I mean, what are the chances of that happening? Kim, who is known to smash up furniture and is just a generally destructive rocker in the image of the WHO, was threatening the vocal abilities of the young lead, Mel in the last month as the band expanded beyond its traditional list of cover tunes.

Now I don't know the whereabouts of Adam, the percussionist, but apparently there was an on-stage argument about missing the beat and artistic license. It didn't end well for Kim, always a favorite of mine and, I believe, one of the key forces for the creation of the band too. As Brian, the strong silent type guitarist, went along with Mel. There were tears of rage and all that rock stuff. More as I get word of what really happened.

HA! I just noticed that Jane changed the opening picture! I had to study it for a moment to realize what it was. Here's a clue, look at the traffic layout.

We have hit the week of cold. Right now, with the sun shining, I'm certain it is below zero (or for those of you using the Celsius scale, -19), with a howling wind. I can see the snow blowing off my neighbor's roof and into our yard.

Our yard, which Jane and I describe as the nicest rooms in the apartment, are snowed in. They are still the most beautiful rooms in the apartment. Brian left his bicycle locked to a post in the yard and when I last looked, about two minutes ago, the snow was as deep as the hubs. It is an irritant when I'm out there with the new electric snow shovel. But it is a strange thing of beauty from my normal vantage point, behind the curtain wall on the porch.

There can be no doubt, either, that the curtain wall is worth every penny spent.

My car, the 2000 Silhouette van, is also snowed in, caught up to the hubs in the snow. I put a luggage hauler on it to pick my brother up, that was two weeks ago. Together, with the snow, I can see the van and it's huge block of snow tower into the sky above the other cars.

Ceili returns to school next Tuesday. I'm continuing to progress on my 30/30 challenge. Though there hasn't been much traction in the last few days.

Ceili and I used the excuse of the terrible weather to undertake yet another tradition of the winter. We usually associate it with January, rather than Christmas, but the whole thing is about renewal of the spirit, of how death is conquered and sacrifices made for the greater good. So, we traipsed off, in the bitter cold yesterday, to take on the Chicago Transit Authority and the Botanical Garden.

The Chicago Conservatory was designed by Jens Jenson, the famed architect and opened 101 years ago. For as many years as we've lived in Chicago it has been the center of at least one winter trip. You arrive in a frozen world of snow and ice. The breath floating about in whispers. Inside, you remove your coat and take in the green warmth and humidity.

What a great break from winter.

In the past two or perhaps three visits I've come to appreciate a significant difference between the way Ceili perceives the world and the way I do. I'll be staring at the iron work, watching the light spill through the leaves and onto the water. I'll notice how from a certain spot Jenson allowed you to see across an entire room, to take in the water, the trees and how the skylights provide a grey background. You forget where you are, it is transcendent.

Ceili will point at something, sometimes literally under my nose, and expound on that little thing. A flower or a stem. She'll wander under a canopy and see a single flower dangle there, above our heads. She is more into the details, while I'm taking in the forest.

I force myself to try to appreciate the world as she sees it. Wow, it is really different. This visit is a reminder to me of the wonder of having raised this person. Here is a fundamental area of difference between us. She sees details and I take in the depth. Ying and Yang.

Yesterday, as we entered the new four elements display, she took out a sketch pad to draw something she saw. I sat down and allowed the visit to wash over me. I refer to it as gorking the moment. I just want to undertake to allow my senses to take everything in, without attempting to filter them or categorize them, so that later I can try to recreate the moment when I write.
As adults we lose some of the perspective of wonder. This is one of the moments in the year when I force myself to adopt another's view or to simply abandon that adult perspective. This is truly a thing of great wonder. Jenson was a genius.

So, I watched as an older man, holding the brim of his baseball hat, wandered through. He looked surprised and in a hurry. He wasn't sure what the two of us were doing, sitting a few feet apart, and actually out of sight of each other, but he didn't want to intrude. Some mothers were playing in a play area just around the corner, with their children. They were discussing insurance of all things. I don't think they ever even realized we were there listening.

The light from a pond, something about the size of what we've discussed putting into the backyard, shown up from beneath the surface. The streaks were sharply delineated and formed a rough cross while the light itself broke through the surface to underlite a huge leaf. There were smells of wet clean dirt from the mist, sounds of water falling from somewhere. The rock below moved a bit. It wasn't bolted down. Eventually I turned away from the children and the water and concentrated on a relatively blank cement wall. The paint was peeling and some vines were reaching for it. Of course, once Ceili showed up, she immediately noticed something that had eluded me, a single plant had flowered on this concrete object.

“It's wet,” she said. I asked her if it was sweet. She tasted the pollen and said it was very sweet.

Then I laughed and said it was poisonous too.

And in those moments, the ending for the 30/30 hit me. It will be sad, not triumphant. First clue to what is a sports story.

I need to figure a way to put a pond in the yard. It is a tight fit, but Ceili loves Koi, loves to draw them and I think she needs that to “own” the yard. I think, too, that I need it. I think having this thing around could be something that allows me to draw on my creativity too. I think I'll encourage spiders to live there too. There is something about seeing the silk catch the light that intrigues me.

Last month my editor at the ChiTownDailyNews had talked to me about some exercises to break writers block. A simple one that I used immediately was to sit and start writing without editing for a set period. I was to write as fast as possible and not to look back at typos or grammar errors.

I tried that exercise and the result was first, the computer ate the running consciousness piece (it is gone forever) and second I started writing the series of articles about Sam Zell's shrinking ice berg. I really felt it was a good series and I'm sorry it wasn't given greater attention by my own publication or the public.

The other exercise he suggested was that a writer take on a 30/30 task. That is, to write 30,000 words in 30 days-- on one subject. That's a thousand words a day. I guess like most people who write, I have an idea for something in my head. And I decided to pursue it.

So, now, nine days into the new year, my resolution was to write 30/30, or actually, because January has 31 days, 31/31. After nine days, I'm at 12.6K. I took yesterday off due to a migraine. But, even with that, I'm more than a third past my goal.

Jane says she wanted to be in it, although she has no idea what I'm writing about yet. I guess I should have told her that my first non-fiction short was racy? The story is developing and I'm excited. The main characters are in place and the first story line has been developed (there are several that I'm weaving together.) I don't know when it will be ready for review, but I am real excited. This exercise is working. The computer is storing this great story.

I've often told Jane that a good editor makes your work even better. And a bad editor destroys your work. Geoff helped me past the writers block and into a new field of writing: fiction. And he did it with a few words of patience and encouragement. All of my blogging has picked up speed. I'd say he's a damn good editor.

New Year's Day here in Chicago. The Hawks v Wings game today was sort of the centerpiece of the day with Kim and Ron C stopping over with their ferrets. Jane and I published a real nice series of articles about the game on the chitowndailynews. Unfortunately, we weren't able to sell the article.

Geoff, picked it up at the chitown, but we were hoping for more.

I'm going to try to write 31K words in January on a single subject. That's an average of about 1K words a day. I'm making the numbers so far, I hope I have something good when it's all done.

And finally, I used my old hockey blog, Sit Down and Shut Up, to live blog the Winter Classic today. So, lot's of writing today and for the next 30 days.

My sister, Winnie, was asking about our holiday traditions. It gave me some pause. I guess the things we consider traditions on Cullom are things we just naturally do, but particularly at this time of the year. There aren't any Advent calendars here.

For many years we had a dinner at the Berghoff. After it closed to the public, we did some dinners in the house. But these always seemed to be forced events. We've had some great dinners this year, unplanned but great feasts.

What I think we did that was different, though, was readings. This year we read Damon Runyon's “Little Miss Marker.” Jane said it was turned into a movie starring Shirley Temple. I seem to remember that too.

In previous holidays we've read from James Joyce Dubliners, “The Dead” is a great holiday piece with a lot of depth, as you'd expect from Joyce. The Dickens novel “A Christmas Carol” was popular around here for many years. It is also a time of the year when people have a lot of time off. We've done film marathons around the house.


Jane loves the hockey movies, “Youngblood,” “Slap Shot,” “Mystery, Alaska.” So we did that a few years ago. We added several movies to that group, “The Rocket,” “Slap Shot 3,” this year and “The Chiefs” last year.



Looking through this hockey stuff, it appears the only movie we don't have is Strange Brew. Gift idea?

Myself, I've always enjoyed adventure. Michael Pallin has done a number of series including “Around the World,” “Pole to Pole,” "Full Circle" and his new series on the Europe. These were great to watch over the holidays that included some time in the hospital.

There are more of his adventures on line, too, that we haven't seen. This much better stuff than Rick Steves. And, of course, dropping another hint for a gift idea.

There was also the great Michael Apted “Up” series. When the new Up is released, we bring ourselves up to speed on the various members of our generation who we've followed. And, then we discuss whether we are most like Tony or Susan...

As I think about it more, there was also the "Father Ted" year. I'm sure Jane and Ceili will remember other things we watched or read too.
This season Jane and I purchased the “Irish R.M.” series. We've finished about half the series already. If you're not familiar with it, it is the story of the final years of the Hiberno-English Aristocracy, before the first World War ended that style of life.

In any case, this goes all the way back through my marriage with Anna. Between reading to each other and settling in for a winter night to catch up on our films, we've managed to fill many long winters through the years.

I can never figure out whether the animals can talk to you on the midnight between the 23rd and the 24th or the midnight between the 24th and the 25th. Anyway, I missed the first date, I was sacked out. Another headache struck. There have been a string of them this fall.

I hope you enjoy our oak tree. It is the second year we've used it. We have an artificial tree. The tradition here was to decorate it until it fell over. Little did I realize I was dealing with the queen of tree decorating. Jane's December decorating turned into these forced marches. We had to finish the bloody tree. The fun of Christmas turned into I am tired and don't want to deal with it anymore as we tried to put up my numerous decorations, Jane's, her mom's, her aunts, her 3rd cousin (once removed).

I'm sorry, I know the Danielson's are reading this too. But it was way over blown. It was the result of all the decorations for several generations, on both sides, coming home to roost.

We'll return to a traditional tree again. But not this year.

I described this to my sister-in-law Sallie Z. as our conceptual tree. I think you see what I mean. It's just some slats that are crudely put together with the lights. I like it. It is perfect for a small city apartment. In addition, I think it reminded us of what was important about this holiday.

The storm that has been battering the US all week finally seems to be passing us. There's about a foot of snow in the yard. The electric snow shovel I purchased at the start of the season has died, already. A new one is sitting in the living room to take its place (perhaps I should wrap it?)

I called cousins in Ireland earlier in the week. Susan S. told me it was mild, with temperatures about eight C. I told her I'd trade her straight up, her eight C for our eight F. LOL. Sunday and Monday were about the worst of the storm. We've been hiding in the apartment. It got so bad, we had to make a food run on Wednesday, as the fridge and freezer were empty. With the holiday, Ceili coming in and more weather possible, that was a problem. So BIG food run on Wednesday.

On Monday Jane and I met at Wrigleyville with the manager of one of the rooftops to shoot pictures before the game next week. If you don't know what game, come back here next week.

It was one of the glorious winter days when there is NO cloud cover. The sky was bright blue and the shadows were sharp on the ground. Of course it was also seriously cold. We had to climb some scaffolding on their bleachers to shoot the best shot. From up there, about five stories up, the wind whipped across Wrigley Field. I was able to get the shots, but it was tough conditions. We'll put a skyline shot here when Jane has a moment.

We really need this story published somewhere besides the ChiTownDailyNews, so keep your fingers crossed. (It will be in the CTDN too). The fact is we're having problems with the kids who are running the PR departments at the Bhawks and the Wolves too. They've never worked professionally before, have no idea how stories are sold, and like to say NO. The result is our blogs are suffering, our readers are suffering and we're getting pissed off. Having some published material should help change things next season.

Still another contact with a long lost. Jim G. and Jenneine R. wrote a real nice card to us. I've missed them. It was a friendship that sort of suffered about the time Jane moved to Chicago. There were so many friendships from that time that have suffered. Writing to Jim and Jenneine, I described one aspect of what has changed as the elephant in the living room. It is one of the bad karma things that should have gone well that turned into a negative instead and now everyone becomes defensive discussing it. Hopefully there will be more friends coming forward and more elephants identified. This is one elephant I wouldn't mind killing.

I'm still looking for my college friend (I'm going to break one of the rules of the blog and put his full name here in hopes he Googles himself. Maybe he can find me?) Robert E Foster of the US Army Corp of Engineers, Eastern Illinois University and Cedar Lake, IN. (Those tags should help him find this easier).

Honest to god, I'm about to give up on this guy. He moved to Connecticut, married and disappeared. Bob, if you read this, leave a comment with your contact information. I approve all the comments, so it won't be read by your enemies, or whatever. LOL. We need to catch up. Jack and I have some great whiskey and stories for you. (I believe Jack has some great cigars too. LOL).

That would be a great Christmas gift. Preferably this year, but next year is okay too.

The strange new act of Googling your own name is humorous and disturbing too. When I do it a person in New York comes up who embroiders vestments for the clergy. And, he is well known in that area. Amazing. Jane's love of embroidering and my name. My pen name (Patrick Kissane) is basically owned by me, so that is pretty cool. But, I've got to work out the Lou Grant stuff. I don't want Lou around anymore. We're discussing how to let him go, you know, lay him off. LOL Another victim of the downturn in newspapers.

Oh Shakespeare, how would you deal with multiple personalities and identities today?

Anyway, Jane and I hope everyone reading is well. We wish you a Merry Christmas, unless you're in Ireland. Then we wish you a Happy Christmas. As well, a healthy, prosperous and happy New Year.

Merry Christmas!

Well, here we go again. A second cold this winter. Thanks Jane.

As the red head and I hunker down, again, for a sneezing, blowing, watery eye, dry lipped Sunday, I thought it might be nice to put together a sort of holiday letter to family or about family. I've never, ever done one of these things, so watch out.

The job hunt has changed directions. It would be a fool's errand to try to put together anything in the private sector at the moment. Besides which, the years of work seem unappreciated by the former employer. Going back to the drawing board makes some sense.

It is the one continuing worry here. Thankfully we are financially secure with unemployment, but that won't last forever. At some point in the process, before the Oregon trip, I discussed with Tim M of the Econ department at my undergrad school the idea of teaching workshops on the subject of creating business plans.

As I have time, I'll update the Linkedin profile so that it represents the new interest and discusses why this is a good idea for me. Tim explained that there was an even better idea, namely that four year colleges often hire people like me to teach courses as adjunct professors.

I can already hear those people who remember me from St. Peter Canisius saying “hey professor.” Yep, that was my nickname back when. I don't remember what caused that. I think it was an interest in science that was killed by a high school teacher. Shame on her.

It turns out there is a very small market for independent people writing business plans. That work usually is performed by a company's lawyers or accountants. However the inquiry did discover there was an interest among colleges in people who have business world experience, in working with undergrads. After lots of work with the grad school and the undergrad school, I began putting out resumes last week.


Things continued to melt down in the state this week. The arrest of his royal hindness on Monday being an obvious sign. It is hard to see how the State of Illinois can cleanup its act. Normal people are saying thank god for the US Attorney. The Governor's crimes have been known for years.

Why don't we just vote him out of office? I suppose that in retrospect, Judy Baar Topinka was the better candidate two years ago. I really don't remember how I voted. I suspect I voted for Topinka, but can't remember.

The GOP has simply disappeared locally. Congressman Rahm Emanuel, who is becoming the White House Chief of Staff, had a Republican opponent. But the man was handily defeated.

That's unusual. Blagojevich is a typical response to the dominance of the Democratic Party. He would be far more comfortable as a Republican. But, how can you get elected as a Republican? This isn't to say that all Republican's are crooked, but to say that his policies were more in line with the GOP, BTW.

So, the Democratic Party has people who really have Republican world views locally. (Fast Eddie Vrdolyak is another good example). How to get the party healthy enough to run under its own banner?

The scandal is causing all the rats to scurry for cover. Hopefully people will remember the scandal in two years and begin electing new blood. Look, Daley, Stroger, Lipinski, Madigan, Blagojevich (and Mell), Jackson. All of these current political family names willed their political power to their offspring. This is a terrible situation for democracy. Each of those names, BTW, Democratic.





I wanted to put some more pix up from the Oregon trip. They are on a slide show on the kitchen screens. I just love the pictures of Ceili, Ceili and Kaitlin together. Working with our friends Mike and Nancy, Jane got their slide show together a few weeks ago, it led to our finally getting our slide show together too.

All these great photos from years back are coming up. At one time Ceili took one of our first digital cameras out and shot pictures throughout the neighborhood. Lots of things I've never noticed.

Of course, I noted how much Ceili has grown into a beautiful woman. Adam, our neighbors son, is now in high school. Danny turned into a little jerk and thankfully moved away.

Between Anna's initial push and Jane's final push, the rear yard has been transformed. I'll take some credit for the hard scape ideas, thank you. There are great shots of our egg “hunts.” The old siding, the peeling yellow paint on the garage...

From time to time I meet Kim as she heads out to work in the morning. I kid her that the men in the building are thankful that the women are supporting them. I know it irritates Kim. And I love her for that. Brian reminded me that he moved into the building ten years ago October. I was digging through the garage, throwing out old papers and found his initial application for the apartment.

He's become a friend. His son and now his step-daughter, have grown here. And it has been wonderful.

While Kim has been freaked out that there are only two payrolls paying for everything. I think Brian and I, who both went through divorces while living here, have been through worse. Things will be okay.


Finally, no Florida trip for us this year. The story of why we have a house in Florida needn't be discussed here. For the first time in about five or six years we decided to use the place, and it won't work out. So, Christmas in Chicago again. Yea!

Our last visit there we managed to take in a night launch. Ate some great seafood... Our plans this time? Take in a launch and eat some great seafood. Progressive huh?

November 19-- New film by people who brought us Once

The people who brought us “Once” are out with a new film, Eden. I’ve seen the trailers. Okay, I’m hooked on Irish film; I want to see it. Once was an outstanding independent film that I hope everyone had the chance to see. Unfortunately, no screening dates for Chicago yet. Here’s the website.

November 19-- Looking toward Thanksgiving

The end of the fall, the cool weather. It all adds up to time to put away the outdoor furniture. What a terrific summer and fall we’ve had. The redesign of the yard has brought both families into the space and into contact with increased frequency. Guests, even those who are visiting on either side, are enjoying the yard. It has been a win/win for everyone.

Jane has said the garden is a work in progress, a way to embrace life with hope of seeing how things will turn out. I’m delighted in the rear area work. It is really great. The front area, as I wrote some days ago, still needs some work.

And we need to continue to clear out the “stuff” in our lives. There have been a lot of things that happened this past year. I think we can enter next week with a clear head about what we’re most thankful for. Still more projects to deal with, but I’m really happy with what has happened to us this year. And while the yard is just a symbol of that renewal, it is an important and visible sign of success.

November 14-- New hope arrives in an unusual form

It’s always time to play catch-up with posts. There’s been something going around. I caught it while at my nieces wedding in Oregon three weeks ago. It, and the drugs I’ve been taking to deal with it, have messed up my sleeping, made me forget appointments and been a drag to deal with.

But, it seems to be at the end of its run now. And good news, the City of Chicago installed the tree we ordered early in the summer for our parkway. The tree is a type of elm. The Dutch Elm Disease was responsible for the death and destruction of many of these trees over the years, so that a generation of children does not know the joy of playing under an elm tree in the heat of summer.

It seems hard to remember why we named towns and streets after elms. They have disappeared from our lives. We were able to order the tree through a program with the city. Unlike the standard city program, which provides the next available tree, this program, which is also free, allows you to name the type of tree to plant.

We choose an Accolade Elm. We actually received a Pioneer or Patriot Elm. (There is a difference. I’ll correct this later). Looking on-line, there doesn’t seem to be any pictures of elms that aren’t protected by law. Well imagine a tree growing to 50’ to 60’ in height. The limbs start about 8’ above the ground and grow in a vase or V shape into the sky. The leaves look like arrowheads, about 2” or so. They have serrated edges and are not exactly symmetrical. And the bark can have a texture all its own. That’s an elm.

The planting makes clear that an early garden plan I had for the parkway needs serious work. The city planted the tree off-center, so that there is a space for another large plant, if we want, to its east. Still, at this point in the year, with the winter coming in, we have new hope in our parkway. And that is good.

(As I was writing this, I looked up elms in wikipedia. Now the old tree was a sugar maple. It was a magnificent tree that stood taller than our three-story frame three-flat. I’m guessing that was about 70’. Looking at photos of maples, I see the round bottom and a pointed top. I never really noticed a pointed top on our tree; it was just a round beauty. The new tree should have a definite V shape to it.

The wood from the maple has been stored in a woodpile in the yard. I’m hoping to use it for an art project. In the meantime, it makes for great firewood. The wood has a wonderful sweet smell and burns slowly.

It is also interesting to see that the elm, like the oak, is venerable. It was the Liberty Tree, the Treaty Tree and the Washington Elm. Cool.)