City Dweller

Have you ever been to Chicago? Forget what you know, or remembered, or saw (unless you are a history buff). My father was born in Chicago in 1935 and they lived there until my father was 6 or 7. According to him, at that point that were still some areas with outhouses. I keep trying to picture how that might have worked, but my brain keeps throwing modern high-rises into the picture, so it’s not going so well.

My father is the oldest of four children. When his parents were first married they lived on the second-floor of a red-brick house, above Anton and Raisie, in the house his grandfather had built. This was a working-class residential neighborhood; dad recalls it as “very nice” but the haze of memory can be rosy.

Next door, in a shingled, wood-frame house were the Penningtons; my father would play with their son, Connie. Their little blonde daughter was dad’s first schoolboy crush. On the other side was a family home housing multiple generations—the depression had not been kind to most in that house, and they had to band together to survive. On the corner was a pub.

During the week, the horse-drawn ice wagon would make its way down the street. The ice man would put a block of ice on his shoulder, or his back, depending on how big of a block he needed for that dwelling, and head into the houses, cutting off chunks and placing them directly into your ice box. While he was inside, the horse would move the wagon to the next house. During the summer, the neighborhood children would follow the wagon and the man, hoping to pick up ice chips to soothe their hot little mouths.

The green grocer, the butcher, and the dry goods stores were all a short walk away. Raisie went shopping every day, buying only what they needed for the day’s meals, and a few tidbits to tide you over. The milk man made his delivery to both floors, like clockwork. If you didn’t want to bake your own, the bread man delivered, as well.

A block away in one direction was KilbournPark. Across the alley were the detached garages—the streets weren’t wide enough to park on—behind which was another row or houses, and then the elevated train.  A friend lived next to the 'L'; he could see it right out the back window, at eye level. When a train went by, you just stopped your conversation, and then picked it up again when the noise stopped.

Walk to the park, turn, and head under the 'L'. Walk a block or so further, and you reach Scammon Elementary. At the time, it was a long, low, one-story red-brick school, accommodating the local children from kindergarten through eighth grade. Dad remembers the gymnasium, and the play area, and not much else. But then, he was a boy’s boy. I don’t think he could tell me what he studied, or who his teachers were, if he thought about it all day.

As my dad would come home from a hard day’s work in kindergarten, he would cut down the alley, and start to trudge head for the back stairs. Marvelous aromas would great dad as he neared the building. Upstairs, his mother, Lucille, would be thinking of lunch. Downstairs, his grandmother had treats.

Raisie with a great-granchild, wanting to fill him with strudel.

Raisie was a woman who spoke several European languages (Anton spoke at least 6 languages) but dad says she murdered English. She didn’t need very much to get through to dad. “My Sonny,” she would croon to her oldest grandson. “My Sonny,” she would say, as she reached out to stroke his small cheek. “Come! Come my Sonny!”

And my father would follow the enticing aromas and the feel of his grandmother’s arm right on into her kitchen. Warm with baking, dripping with the scents of cinnamon, sugar, flour and love. And with his bottomless little boy hunger, he would dive into plates of warm, home-baked deliciousness, and devour the wonders Raisie placed in front of him.

Cakes. Cookies. Cookies galore. And apple strudel, with a crust, says Dad, as thin as newspaper, and wafer-thin apple slices covered in brown sugar and spices. Three to a baking sheet, the extras straight into her icebox. But, for her Sonny, fresh and piping hot.

When he slowed down, Grandma Raisie would let him hike up those stairs, to his mother and his lunch. His lunch that he no longer had an appetite for. My guess is he would eat it eventually (see: bottomless little boy hunger), but oh, how his mother would complain. “Ah! Your grandmother gave you cookies again!” And down the stairs Lucille would trot for another heated discussion the proper order for feeding little bodies.

When the depression and a growing family forced a move to a rural area, Dad adapted, but never forgot his city experience. The memories are gilded by childish perspective and family love. But he has always had a yearning to live downtown somewhere. In the middle of the action. Noise, bustle, people everywhere, endless possibilities for activities to pursue. Personally, I don’t think he’d like it as much as he thinks he would. There would be no cookies every day, hot from the oven. No strudel. No Raisie. “Come, my Sonny. Come.”