Part 10 of the Unrelenting Saga of a Boy from Chicago: Wanderings

 34. The Pleasure of Moving about Aimlessly

 I suppose I should write something about the wanderlust that gripped me.  Wanderlust—that’s a good word.

In the old days if a person was curious about a word, the ultimate authority was the Oxford English Dictionary, sized at 20 thick volumes and these days priced at $1215 on Amazon.  I, however, have the microprint edition of two massive volumes which, when I bought it years ago, cost a lot less that twelve hundred bucks and came with a magnifying glass.  Even better, the marvel of electronics has today given me a little clicker thingy with which I can go searching the internet until, out of the millions of definitions, I find one I like.

So it is that back in the mists of time, people used the Old English word wandrian to mean "move about aimlessly, wander” and lust to stand for “pleasure.”  

So it is here that I will write about wanderlust, the pleasure of moving about aimlessly, as I experienced it.

I decided one morning that I would ride the Montrose Avenue bus to the eastern end of its line, near Lake Michigan.  It would be the first of my longer ramblings out of the neighborhood, and it would be memorable because I chose a miserable, lousy, freezing-cold day.

Anyway, off I went, grabbing a window seat on the curb side of the bus so that I could get a glimpse of the Chicago River.  For certain, the Chicago River is no Nile, no Mississippi.  Downtown in the Loop the Chicago River does have enough width and depth so that excursion and pleasure craft can plod through it.  But out here in the hinterlands, as I was soon to see, a glimpse of the river equals an eyeful.

On the bus a bridge showed up, and then we were on it, and then we were off it on the other side, and I had glimpsed the Chicago River, at least the part of it that flows in this area of town, and what I glimpsed was a murky, narrow canal.  Later I learned that I had not seen the river proper but a fork or a branch, I’m not sure which.

I was doing this in April, the off season.  It was cold and windy when I got off the bus at its turn-around point on Marine Drive.  I had the place pretty much to myself.  No one was in the water (whitecaps and rollers)—no surprise there.  A few people were walking dogs, and some sturdy souls were out on the sand, strolling, while doing what is a common activity in Chicago, leaning into the wind.  I walked to the harbor, took in one quick view of the boats, and decided it was time to go home.

Some of my aimless roaming wasn’t so aimless.  I needed an innertube for my bike, and I could have bought one close to home.  But the Montgomery Ward catalog showed one, and there was a Monkey Ward catalog store near downtown.  To the fine people at Montgomery Ward, it’s not a store but a “Catalog House.”

A Milwaukee Avenue streetcar took me to Montgomery Ward’s Catalog House, located along the North Branch of the Chicago River, which looked a lot like the same murky, narrow canal I could see miles to the north.  I placed my order and hung around, awaiting someone to appear with my bike’s inner tube.  Soon someone did, a man who handed me a box and ushered me to a booth where I could sit in a chair, place the box on a table, and “examine my purchase.”

“Examine my purchase?”  What’s to examine with an inner tube?  I was being treated like a prized customer, not some off-the-street high school kid.  And I really couldn’t tell if the inner tube was any good unless I pumped air into it, and I didn’t see a compressor or an air hose and air chuck anywhere around, so I told the man it was fine, paid my money, and left.

One the way to and from Montgomery Ward’s, the streetcar rolled through one of the largest Polish enclaves in the world.  For block after block after block, the people, the language, the newspapers, the shops—all were Polish.

My favorite place on any streetcar ride was the back platform where people got on and where the conductor collected fares.  Even though the back platform was noisy and drafty, quite a few riders liked to stand back there, and talk was louder and more animated there than in the main part of the car.

In the Polish neighborhood, I couldn't understand a word of the conversations that floated around the back of the streetcar, but I was impressed.  Awed is probably a better word.  Here were these people, uprooted from their homes, but they had brought a piece of their homeland with them.  What did it take to do that?  I wondered.

For the price of seven cents adult fare, up from the three cents I paid when I was under thirteen, the Milwaukee Avenue streetcar took me through Little Poland, a foreign land but safe because it was on the North Side.

I also rode the Milwaukee Avenue streetcar the other direction, to its turn-around point at the far northwestern corner of the city limits.  Here the streetcar trundled slowly around a small semicircle before heading back to Little Poland. 

At the turn-around point there began a stretch of something that was pure genius when it comes to urban planning, one of Cook County's Forest Preserves.  In the laying out of a great city, the powers that be had set off land to be left untouched.  This land, stretches of dense woods along the Chicago and the Des Plaines rivers, became the Forest Preserves.

Indian tribes had lived among the trees that became the Forest Preserves, and it was still easy to play Indian in the woods and along the river.  Families and troops of Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts held outings in the Forest Preserves.

Near the end of the Milwaukee Avenue line were two other popular sites, a toboggan run and a large public swimming pool.  In the summer, on hot nights, I would come to the pool and splash around to cool off.  In the winter my friends and I would rent a toboggan at the warming hut and—yelling and laughing—career down an icy run to slide to a stop just sort of the trees at the end. 

From the end of the streetcar line, I walked alongside the winding North Branch of the Chicago River, following the current toward the heart of the city.  Sometimes the North Branch had plenty of water; other times it was so shallow that a person could step across it on rocks that jutted up from the bed.  And it was hard to think that this was the same river as the murky green canal I saw elsewhere.  Here, when I walked across the river on rocks at its shallowest places, I could look down at my feet and see the bed, shiny pebbles glistening in the water.  

Suburbs to the left, the city to the right, millions of people out of sight.  In the woods, it was hard to imagine a great metropolis a mile or so away, just beyond the edge of the trees. 

Still, there were artifacts.  Not animal bones cast off by a tribe of Indians after a great feast, but instead a beer bottle here, a condom there, remnants of a modern-day tribe known as the Indifferent Slobs.

After a walk of about four miles, I arrived at Gompers Park.  At Gompers Park, I took the Pulaski Road streetcar south to my neighborhood.  Gompers Park was named for Samuel Gompers, founder and long-time president of the American Federation of Labor; Pulaski Road was named for Casimir Pulaski, a Polish nobleman who fought for the American colonists in our revolution.  The Irish ran Chicago, but the unions and the Poles were not about to be overlooked.

Incidentally, I could've stayed on the Pulaski Road streetcar for another half hour and been in the South Side.  That, of course, was taboo.

I should mention that I was a “primitive” hiker in that I had no special equipment that is commonplace today.  I wore the same clothes that I wore to school, with loafers or sometimes gym shoes on my feet. I carried no food or water; if there was such a thing as a water bottle, I probably didn’t know about it.  I simply stepped out my front door and went.

I also did some of my aimless moving about on a bicycle. When I was fifteen or thereabouts, a neighbor boy and I took off on our bicycles for a ride through northern Illinois. This was a stupid boy stunt, for our supplies consisted of nothing more than a little money and a blanket each—no water, no food, no map—we obviously suffered from common-sense deficit disorder. Three days after leaving home, we were back, having eaten wherever we could buy food, and sleeping at night in the open, a great adventure for a couple city kids.

As my mother said, I had ants in my pants.

Chow Time

When it comes to eating, I made these jaunts on the cheap.  Supper at home was the meal of the day, unless I had money.  When I could afford it, I’d treat myself to a burger at a White Castle, but that wasn’t always for certain because the closest White Castle was on Addison in the 3200 block, sometimes off my route for the day.

Incidentally, a white Castle is still there today, same place, all these years later.  I recommend the bacon jalapeño cheeseburger; that’s my favorite, and I’m still here, all these years later.

But where I really liked to eat when I was on my own was at one of the street vendors.  You saw these at many major intersections on streetcar and bus routes, a man standing by his cart.  Steam billowed up from the cart signifying the presence of hot dogs, or at the cart across the intersection, hot tamales.

I would get off the streetcar at Montrose and Milwaukee, order my favorite deluxe cuisine according to my adolescent palate—a hot dog with onions, mustard, and relish—and sit on the curb or in the doorway of a nearby business to eat it.  At that moment, that was all in the world I needed. 

I don’t want to get too carried away here because something better came along.

One night, two other boys and I, having finished our duties at the factory where we worked, were walking along Belmont talking about getting something to eat.  They stopped, turned to me, and asked if I ever had had pizza. 

Ahead of us was a neon sign: “Pizzeria.”

I answered No to their question, and we went in.  They ordered from a woman at the front who was punching keys on the cash register and answering the phone.  We paid and sat in booth near the back where a man was throwing dough into the air and sliding pans into and out of an oven.  Our order came, and we ate it.

God!  It was delicious!  Two kinds of hot—hot out of the oven and spicy hot—far tastier than the skilletized dishes I got at home.    

As I wrote earlier, I don’t want to get too carried away, but it really was a great experience.

From: chicagomag.com/city-life/9-stereotypes-about-chicago-that-are-no-longer-true/

“We eat deep dish pizza: When Jay Leno broadcast a week of the Tonight Show from Chicago in the 1990s, one of his gags was a hotel that left a deep-dish pizza on the pillow instead of a mint. Yes, deep-dish pizza was invented in Chicago, allegedly at Pizzeria Uno, which opened on the Near North Side in 1943. And Chicago is still the capital of deep-dish, the staple offering not only of Uno, but of Lou Malnati’s, Giordano’s, and Gino’s East, to name four tourist trap restaurants. 

“Most Chicagoans prefer thin crust, tavern-style pizza, which has its own Chicago origin story: here pizza was served mostly in taverns, often as an enticement to drink alcohol. Since taverns didn’t have silverware or plates, the owners sliced the pizza into little squares, which could be set on napkins. Chicago tavern owners hand-rolled their dough, instead of hand-tossing it, eventually using mechanical sheeters, which produced an even thinner crust.”

35.  Moving about Aimlessly with Max

Max introduced me to a part of the Fox River Valley more rustic than the built‑up area around Elgin.  Max was a year older than me to the day.  We met in high school band.  He was the American‑born, adopted son of German immigrants.  He and his parents were Turners, members of the Turnverein, a German athletic and social club.  The Illinois Turners operated a summer resort on the Fox River.

During summer vacation, Max and I would spend a few days at his parents' cabin at the Turner resort.  To get there we rode the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad, getting on at the Irving Park Road station near our homes.

The Northwestern operated coal‑burning, steam‑powered locomotives.  These were black behemoths that sported a menacing cowcatcher up front, a bell and whistle near the smokestack, pipes and tubes for lubricating oil and sand for traction, and enough wheels and pistons and connecting rods and sundry other gadgets and mechanisms to make a person wonder how the whole thing worked.  Truly it was an engine with a personality. 

The engineer always seemed to be leaning out his small window, his jaw set in square lines, his eyes staring straight ahead, his hand on the throttle or brake or whistle rope or bell cord.  At his side the fireman furiously shoveled coal from the coal car into the flaming maw of the boiler.

The Northwestern was peculiar in that its trains ran on the left side of the road; it was a “southpaw” railroad and the only such railroad in the United States.  This subject came up from time to time in articles in Chicago newspapers and in books about the railroad.  These sources never explained why the trains ran on the “wrong” side but presented two theories: (1) the early British influence in financing and planning the original line, and (2) an unplanned growth when the original single‑track line was converted to double‑track.

The train that Max and I took quickly left the city and its northwestern suburbs and then rolled across farmland; the train passed through Barrington where my maternal grandparents had operated a dairy farm.  Our destination was Fox River Grove, a village famous for the Norge Ski Club's international ski jumping contest.  The area around Fox River Grove was strictly rural, with pleasant country roads great for ambling along on a warm summer day.

At the Fox River Grove station, Max and I got off the train, walked a short distance on a paved road, then cut across a farmer's pasture to get to the Turner resort.  This shortcut fell under the heading of stupid boy stunts, for rumor had it that the farmer kept a bull in his pasture (we never saw the bull).  At the Turner resort, we would spend several days lolling about in the sun, swimming in the Fox River, and indulging in other useless activities.

My parents were more housebound than I was.  My mother seldom left the house other than to go to work, do the family shopping, or go to the Household Finance Company office where she made the monthly payment on the current loan.  My father was more mobile, going to ball games, and taking me to union meetings with him.  On the occasional Saturday when he worked, he would invite me to eat lunch with him at Pixley & Ehler's, a well‑known cafeteria in the Loop.  If I wanted to kill an entire Saturday when he was working, I went to the factory with him.

Watching him work fascinated me.  At one end of a long table a spindle held a bolt of cloth.  He would grab the end of the cloth by hand and walk the length of the table, the cloth unrolling from its bolt, billowing up, then slowly settling on the table.  At the far end of the table he would reverse his steps, now using his hands to smooth wrinkles out of the cloth as he walked back to the spindle.  There he would take a large scissor, cut the cloth off its bolt, and begin all over again, often putting a bolt of a different color on the spindle.

He seemed to glide back and forth alongside the table, not paying much attention to what he was doing, maybe chatting with another employee.  And while I was distracted by his effortless movements, the pile of cloth rose.  Soon it was time to overlay the pattern onto the cloth, then cut the cloth.  Cutting was done with an electric knife resembling a jigsaw.  The blade whirred up and down, close to his fingers that held the cloth flat.  After decades as a garment cutter, he still had all his fingertips.

Occasionally, during the summers of my years at Belding, my father and I went to the Montrose Avenue Beach for a swim. We were an odd couple on the beach, the scrawny runt of a kid and the short, potbellied, gray‑haired man.  While I splashed around in the shallow water, he waded out until the water got too deep for him to walk in. Then he flopped onto his back and floated, his white, round belly sticking up out the water, looking like some sea creature about to breach.  

36.  Confessions of a North Side Snob

Every place that we lived in Chicago was on the North Side, that is north of Madison Street.  Madison Street established not only a geographic dividing line but also a baseline of urban snobbishness.  That is, Chicagoans who lived north of Madison Street looked down upon Chicagoans who lived south of Madison Street.  For all I know, people on the South Side felt that those of us on the North Side were the dregs of the earth.

 In my youth, the North Siders whom I knew boasted about their pleasant neighborhoods and looked down upon the South Side as being mile after mile of shanty Irish and slum‑living blacks, the “smoked Irish.”  If someone mentioned to a North Sider that a black belt existed north of Madison Street, the response would be, well, that's true, but it's small, not nearly as large as the one “down there.”

North Siders tended to ignore the South Side's fine residential areas, beautiful parks, and world‑renowned institutions—the Museum of Science and Industry, the Illinois Institute of Technology, and the University of Chicago.

Those are nice places, a North Sider would say, but they are “down there.”

If someone mentioned to a North Sider that a heck of a lot of white folks, besides the Irish, lived on the South Side, the response would probably be “So what?”

You see, we North Siders were like humans everywhere:  Facts bothered us.  Facts were things to be ignored unless they served our purpose.

When a definite, well‑defined need arose, travel in the South Side was acceptable.  Here “a definite, well‑defined need” means that there was simply no other way to do it.  For instance, a school‑sponsored field trip to the Museum of Science and Industry was okay, although I'm sure that a lot of North Side parents wished that the museum was not “down there.”  And anything to do with airline travel back then necessitated a trip to Midway Airport, several miles southwest of the Loop, “down there.”

Or like when my sister’s first husband died.  The body was brought from Elgin to Chicago so that the proper services could be conducted in the Irish neighborhood—on the South Side—where he grew up.  My parents and I went to the funeral.  He might have been Irish and a South Sider, but he was also family, so we were obligated to go.

A North Sider need not fear eternal damnation for going to Soldier Field, the Field Museum, or any of the other recreational and cultural sites in Grant Park.  Though technically in the South Side, they were in the Very Near South Side and considered by us elitist North Siders to be stimulating islands of plenty in an otherwise impoverished wasteland.

The streetcar fare and a transfer also took me via streetcar and el to downtown.  A ride on the el was dispiriting.  Trains roared and clattered by apartments, so close that you could look in through the windows and see people going about their lives amid the racket.  Because the trains ran day and night, I wondered how the occupants got any sleep, how they had any privacy.  In truth, they had little, except for those who nailed plywood on their windows, shutting out the light, and turning their apartments into urban caves.

Because I didn't like taking the el downtown, I often rode a Northwestern train.  The price of a train ride, about fifty cents I believe, was steeper than the el trip, but the train got downtown a lot faster.  The ride ended at the Northwestern's Madison Street station, a giant granite edifice covering three blocks and just outside the Loop. 

Hundreds of thousands of workers, shoppers, and tourists passed through the Loop each day, people from all parts of the world and all parts of Chicago.  Chicago's boosters liked to say that if you went to the Loop and stood at the intersection of State and Madison Streets long enough you would sooner or later see everyone you knew.  That's stretching a point, of course, but it's not stretching a point to say that if you did stand where State and Madison cross, then as today, you would be standing at the center of Chicago's universe.

The city's financial district—a world banking center—is three blocks west of State and Madison, near city, county, and state administration buildings.  Three blocks east of State and Madison is Grant Park, Chicago's “front yard”; a short stroll through Grant Park takes you to the shore of Lake Michigan.  Many of the city's most important cultural and historical attractions are within easy walking distance of State and Madison.  Stores on State Street offer some of the best shopping in the world.

To me, the North State Street part of the Loop was one of the best places in the city.  There was a South Side to the Loop too, but I thought that it looked dark and ominous.  That was sheer bunk, of course, for the entire Loop was dark and ominous.  Tall buildings blocked out sunlight and created gloomy canyons.  Canyon walls echoed the incessant din of el trains, car horns, emergency vehicle sirens, and all the other noises that swarms of people create.  Sandblasting equipment hissed and grated day after day, cleaning away the coal-ash grime that built up on canyon walls. 

Ah, but the Loop’s North Side!  The Chicago Theater was on North State Street, the Oriental Theater a half block off.  Besides showing movies, both theaters featured stage shows with famous movie and radio stars.  There were too many times that I sat in the balcony at the Chicago Theater, laughing at Jack Benny or Victor Borge or some other comedian, when I should have been sitting attentively in class at Carl Schurz High School. 

Marshall Field's huge, gleaming, brightly lighted department store was also on North State Street.  As I saw it, Marshall Field's was a gigantic wish‑book, floor after floor of window‑shopping and the greatest book department in which I could lose myself for hours.

Basically, I frittered away a lot of my time in the Loop, just as I frittered away my high school years.

***

Oops! SHUCKS! Gosh! GEE WHIZ

Sorry, but no memoir excerpt today.    Please check back next Monday, June 27.

***

Part 9 Of the Memoir of the Generic Old Man: "On to High School; the Family Mule"

 28.  Party Time 

In the real time of today, Christmas 2021 has come and gone, and with it a nudge to write something about the holidays in the Paxson household on Tripp.  That’s easy to do. 

It’s easy to do because our Christmases were modest, largely influenced by a shortage of money, and largely devoid of much to write about.  I don’t remember ever having a tree or ornaments hanging about.  My parents and I did exchange gifts, on Christmas Day.  As a child I received toys; later I got items of clothing.  What I gave them I have no idea.  

I also had a birthday party, after I pestered my mother for one.  My friends were having birthday parties, and I wanted one too.  I was about seven or eight at the time.  Her response was one, and only one.  She took an afternoon off work and we had my birthday party.  It was well-attended and fun.

29.  A Job!  A Real Job!! 

In June of 1946, when I was finishing elementary school, Eddie K told me that I could get a job as an usher at the Rivoli theater. 

Eddie K was a classmate at Belding and a member of the boys-only group that hung out at the corner store. Eddie and his parents were unique among us: they were immigrants—all the way from Turkey. 

When Eddie told me about this job, I was then picking up a small amount of money by delivering a neighborhood shopping news once a week.  Being an usher at a movie theater would pay more and be a “real” job, a step up.

“I'm only thirteen,” I said.  Something stuck in my mind about having to be sixteen to legally get a job.

“I am too,” Eddie said, “but they hired me.”

He introduced me to the owner, who didn't bother to ask how old I was.  A busy man, he curtly told me that he couldn't hire me unless I had a Social Security card.  My mother, from getting her own Social Security card, knew the drill.  She took me and my birth certificate to the Social Security office. There I got my Social Security card and went back to the Rivoli and was given my uniform and shown the storeroom where I could change clothes.

I now had a job, a job where I got paid while watching movies!  Okay, I wasn’t hired to watch movies, but most people took care of themselves to find a seat and didn’t need my services.  It was the first of several jobs that I held during high school.  Of them, being an usher at the Rivoli was the best.

At a wage of fifty cents an hour, the minimum wage at the time, I believe, I had to help people down an aisle or station myself at the door and take tickets.  Otherwise, I stood around, gawking at all the movies I wanted, four hours a night, two or three nights a week, and eight hours on either a Saturday or a Sunday.  And if I saw a double feature twice, my mother couldn't chew me out:  I was just doing my job.

Except for the owner and the projectionists, men in their fifties, the crew was young.  The manager, the assistant manager, and the woman who sold tickets were in their twenties.  The girl behind the candy counter and another usher were in their late teens.  My classmate and I were just about to go into high school.

We were not only young, but full of fun.  During gunfights in the Westerns, the assistant manager would walk down the aisle shooting a cap pistol over his head.  Once a month we'd pile into a couple of cars after closing time and have a late-night picnic in a nearby park.

Cops came into the theater regularly, getting in for free.  Most of them were plainclothesmen who'd flash their badges at whoever was taking tickets.  In uniform or not, they sat for a while, maybe to rest their feet and watch the movie, but usually to look for child molesters and men who exposed themselves.

Despite the presence of cops, nothing was done about the Rivoli's two boy ushers.  Either there was no minimum age requirement to work, or a big city's political machine turned its back on the law so that a kid could get a job.  The way Chicago operated in those days, the latter was probably correct. 

30. “Billy, people like us don't go to college.”

Summer came to an end, and I kept working at the Rivoli, not giving a whole lot of thought to starting high school.  My mother took me aside.  She told me that I could handle high school however I wanted, that it would be the last of my education.

“There's no money to send you to college,” she said.  “Besides, Billy, people like us don't go to college.  Our families never have.  It's just something we don't do.”

I was simply too much of a child to question her statement.  It reflected an old way of life, one that said college was strictly for the upper class, but I never once questioned that way of thinking. 

Driven by my mother’s motivation, I started high school. 

31.About Schurz

The high school for our neighborhood was Carl Schurz.   Although only thirty‑six years old in 1946, Schurz was a school already rich with traditions.

Its sports teams regularly won city and regional titles.  Its band, orchestra, and chorus earned “Superior” ratings in competitions against similar groups from other Chicago‑area high schools.  The school's musical groups entertained Chicagoans with concerts, operas, and a Christmas‑season performance of Handel's Messiah, complete with a pipe organ, a prized rarity for a high school.  During World War I, shop classes made equipment for the Red Cross and hand grenades and trench torches for soldiers.  During World War II, 151 Schurz graduates were killed in combat. 

And there was Carl Schurz (1829‑1906) himself, a man of achievements on two continents.  In Germany, Schurz led a student movement during the Revolution of 1848‑49, served as a staff officer in the revolutionary army, and engineered the daring escape from Spandau prison of Gottfried Kinkel, an intellectual leader of the revolution; this last was an escapade of personal heroism that placed Schurz at great risk. 

In the United States, Schurz became a lawyer, a journalist, and an active and very visible member of the Republican Party.  He served as President Abraham Lincoln's minister to Spain, as a general in the Union Army during the Civil War, as a Republican Senator from Missouri, and as Secretary of the Interior under President Rutherford B. Hayes.

The school named after him was in the main a three‑story building with a center core section five stories high.  Over the years, wings had been added until the whole thing sprawled out over several blocks.  The building was so big that although the main entrance was a mile from our house, I could shave a quarter of a mile off my walk to school by entering through a back door.  That was something worth thinking about during Chicago winters.

Bill, in high school

When I went to Schurz, the school had an enrollment of 5,000 students; during World War II, enrollment had peaked at 8,000.  Wartime classes were held in shifts and in buildings off campus.  After the war, a part of the building was set aside for returning veterans who had not finished high school.               

32.  On to High School

It was the fall of 1945, and I was a freshman at Carl Schurz High School. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica, Schurz, the man, “pressed for high moral standards in government in a period of notorious public laxity.”  In other words, he was out of sync with his times. 

In my own way, I was out of sync with what my contemporaries expected of me.  For my freshman year at high school, I registered for French.  I was told by my friends, no, no, no.  Spanish is easier.  I went to gym classes and was told by my friends, no, no. no.  Take band; you’ll get out of gym, and you can get to go to football games free.

Well, I stuck with French, because I hoped to learn something about my mother’s background.  As for the gym-band dilemma, I knew nothing about music or football, but I was told that the band teacher would take care of teaching me how to play an instrument, and even if I didn’t know or care about football, in band I would be at the games spending Saturday afternoons with friends.

Therefore, at semester break, I signed up for band, dropped out of gym, and all was settled.

Overall, the transition from elementary to high school was painless.  School was still school, only now in a different building.  I still walked to school, but now instead of just crossing the street I had seven blocks to go—step out my front door, turn right, and seven blocks later go in a back door at Schurz. 

The walk to and from school was something that I liked.  As a nonathletic, uncoordinated runt, walking was a physical activity that I could do well.  I even developed the exercise of trying to lengthen my stride by going heel to heel from one sidewalk expansion joint to the next. With a ruler I measured the distance between expansion joints as thirty inches (assuming I remember correctly); if I could make my stride that long, I’d be in a class with one of my radio cowboy heroes, who was tracked across the prairie by desperadoes measuring his stride. He escaped; I never got anywhere near that long-legged.

Chicago being Chicago, the weather during my twice-daily walks could have been something to contend with, but it wasn’t.  No blizzards, no torrential downpours, no blasting winds—at least not in my memory.   The only foul-weather experience I remember is one morning the fog, and fog was rare in the Windy City, was so dense I could not see across Irving Park Road.  A streetcar came gliding by, its lone headlight appearing and vanishing in the eerie mist, like a light bulb floating past. Somehow or other I got across the street.

Schurz had a dress code—for girls:  they had to wear dresses except for one day a year, posted on the school calendar, when they could wear slacks or jeans.

Boys were ungoverned in the matter of what we wore, and I decided the time had come to assert myself.  I started to wear blue jeans.  In our group, I was the only jeans-clad boy, and I caught a little flak about it.  But, hey, it’s high school, time to move on. 

 

33.  I Was a Mule on the Third Rail

My sister, Verdalle, was having disastrous luck with men.  Her first husband had gone into the hospital to have his appendix out, then died there of pneumonia.  Her second husband was hauled off to prison for evading the draft.

At the time that the FBI arrested her second husband, Verdalle was the mother of four children ranging in ages from infancy to seven years old.  With her husband gone, she and her children depended upon county welfare and relatives for support.  The Paxsons of North Tripp contributed packages of canned goods and clothing.  These had to be taken out to my sister's house in Elgin.

Because my parents were far more home‑loving than I was, it became my responsibility to transport our care packages to my sister.  I took the third rail.

The third rail was the Chicago, Aurora & Elgin Railroad (CA&E), an electric, interurban line that served communities in the Fox River Valley of northern Illinois.  It was called the third rail because it drew its electricity via a metal shoe that rode on a rail laid next to the rails on which the train's wheels rolled.  Other electric‑powered trains used overhead trolley poles and wires such as those used by streetcars and buses.  Besides being called the third rail, the CA&E was also known as “The Sunset Line.”  That nickname came about because the trains took homeward‑bound commuters west, into the setting sun.

I had recently turned fourteen when I became the family mule, loaded down with shopping bags, which in Chicago were called “Polish luggage,” “Irish luggage,” “German luggage”—choose your immigrant nationality.  On the appointed day, a Saturday or Sunday, I took the shopping  bags and rode the streetcar to the el and the el to the Wells Street stop in the Loop.

The el's Wells Street stop was also the Chicago terminal for the CA&E, which used el tracks in the city.  In all it was a simple matter to get off the el, take a few steps across the platform, and be in the CA&E terminal.

This terminal was a miniature version of a large railroad station.  The ground floor contained a restaurant, newsstand, checkroom, telephones, and a barbershop.  Upstairs, at the same level as the El platform, were the ticket office and waiting room. 

Rail travel can have a certain amount of romance connected with it, but when you rode the CA&E out of Chicago you had to wait for the romance.  During the first few minutes of the trip, the view was of grimy brick structures—office buildings and factories towering ten or more stories above the tracks, blocking out sunlight.  The brick walls gave way to an urban trainside of alleys, the dingy back ends of apartments and businesses, and the unkempt backyards of homes.  This same sort of dismal scenery continued in the city's western suburbs, where the train descended from the el tracks via a long ramp to ground level. 

At Wheaton, a little more than twenty miles from the Loop, the CA&E split its line.  Tracks going on from Wheaton fanned out toward towns in the Fox River Valley—Aurora, Batavia, Geneva, and Elgin.  The train that I took rolled northwest toward Elgin.

Now we were in open country, and the view out the window improved immeasurably.

Pastures and meadows and groves of trees undulated with the gently rolling landscape, which was spotted here and there with farmhouses and barns.  The crowds and concrete of civilization were left behind.  Cows and an occasional horse were the chief residents of the landscape, which would be green much of the year and pristine white after a fresh snow.  The scenery was meant for poets and painters. 

As the train neared Elgin, the tracks veered north to run alongside the Fox River.  In Elgin, the first stop was National Street, near the Elgin National Watch Company's factory, a major business for Elgin and the nation.  When I was growing up, it seemed to me that every one of my Elgin-based relatives had worked for the watch company at one time or another.

A nearby historical marker provides commemorative info: “From 1866 to 1966 this site was occupied by the Elgin National Watch Company. This was the first watch factory built west of the Alleghenies and grew to become the world's largest. During its lifetime over 60 million 'Elgin' watches were manufactured here. The building was highlighted by a 144-foot-tall clock tower containing dials with numerals three feet in length—a foot longer than those of London's 'Big Ben.' Located nearby was an observatory built for astronomical time determination before the advent of national standards. The observatory is now used as a planetarium by School District U-46. (Erected 1989 by The Elgin Heritage Commission and the Illinois State Historical Society.)”

After leaving the National Street stop, the train rolled a few blocks north to the end of the line, at Chicago Street.

From the Chicago Street station, I toted the shopping bags to my sister's house.  When my visit with her and her children was over, I walked the few blocks to my Aunt Elsie and Uncle Carl's house, or Elsie and Carl drove over to my sister's and picked me up.  After supper with my aunt and uncle, they drove me to the CA&E station where I caught the next train to Chicago.

Until these visits, I never had any real relationship with Verdalle or Elsie and Carl. My parents rarely traveled, and it was up to me to go to the places I wanted to go, either alone or with friends.

***

Part 8 of the Memoir of the Generic Old Man: "World War II on the Home Front; the Cubs Down the Drain; Life Goes On"

 24.  My Father's Vices; Or, Prohibition Begins at Home

My father's one point of vanity was his hair.  He seemed not to notice his short stature or his potbelly, but he did pay attention to his hair.  Its fine, white strands billowed out luxuriantly, as though shampooed and blow‑dried a couple of times a day.  Because the tonsorial technology of the blow‑dryer was years in the future, the way his hair looked had to have something to do with the special nature of it and his particular way of taking care of it.

“Massage your scalp every day,” he often told me, continuing: “A barber told me that if I massaged my scalp every day I'd have a full head of hair all my life.”

He told me how to take care of my hair and how to play ball.  If he was home when I played softball across the street, he would walk over and silently watch, then later coach me on how to improve my play.  Here he was facing a lost cause, for I have some of the blood that coursed through the veins of that legendary German family of failed athletes, the von Klutzes.

16-inch softball   In the playground we played softball.  That’s what we called it, softball, but it was a special kind of softball, played with a ball so big—16 inches in diameter.  That’s a lot bigger than the ball you’d see in softball games elsewhere.   With a 16-inch softball, gloves aren’t used, and hitting for distance is difficult. And after the ball has been used in a few games, it’s so soft that the sport is also known as mushball. 

16-inch softball dates back to a game played at the Farragut Boat Club in Chicago on Thanksgiving Day 1887.  It’s remained popular and has its own leagues, hall of fame, and museum (and a lot of coverage on the internet).

Not to worry, though, because I got plenty of rest when my team was at bat.  Rarely did I get a hit, so rarely did I have to tire myself out by running the base paths.  And when I did get on base, I was in a land so strange to me, so foreign, that my excursions around the infield provided welcome comic relief, a respite from the serious aspects of the game.

Worse, I did not understand the game and had no real interest in it.  Here I let my father down horribly, for baseball was his all‑consuming passion.  If he could not get to a game, he would listen to one on the radio.  Years of financial distress did not seem to upset him, but a botched double play would cause him to mutter and curse under his breath. 

The Chicago Cubs were his team.  He knew by heart the players' records, and he had a  mind's‑eye picture of the dimensions of Wrigley Field, the Cubs' home grounds.  It wouldn't surprise me one bit to learn that he'd moved to Chicago just to be near the Cubs.  In fact, one place that we lived, Dirty Six North Ravenswood, was within easy walking distance of Wrigley Field.

One summer he found a gold mine.  The Rock‑Ola juke box company operated a small stadium on Irving Park Road, an easy streetcar ride from where we lived.  A women's professional team played night games there, so night after night he was off to Rock‑Ola stadium, often taking me with him.  Once he even convinced my mother to go.

My father smoked a little in those days.  When Chicago's weather permitted, he sat on the front porch in the evenings, smoking his pipe or a cigarette or two, nodding at passersby, and just relaxing by staring off into the distance.

He liked to eat uncooked ground beef.  My mother would buy round steak at the butcher's and grind it in a hand‑cranked grinder fastened to the sink.  No sooner would the ground beef be in the refrigerator then he would grab a handful and munch on it.  Words such as botulism weren't in his vocabulary, or, if they were, he didn't worry about them. 

As he grew older he developed the condition that magazine ads euphemistically referred to as “getting up nights.”  His solution was to keep a coffee can under the bed to use as a chamber pot. 

Baseball was okay, to my mother's way of thinking.  She could also put up with my father's smoking and his eating raw ground beef, although she repeatedly warned him that his love of uncooked meat would kill him.  As for the coffee can‑chamber pot, she reacted to that by wrinkling her nose and making a face when he carried it into the bathroom in the morning to empty it and rinse it out. Those things she could tolerate, but she could not tolerate his drinking.  

Although my mother could smile and laugh, she was in the main a gloomy person who never seemed to have any fun.  To her, the idea of a man enjoying the company of other men in a saloon, well, that was something that just couldn't be possible, couldn't be tolerated.  Besides, drink cost money, it was against the tenets of Christian Science, and it was the ruination of my sister's life. 

For a long time, my father's drinking pleasure consisted of having a few snorts in a saloon on the way home from work, maybe a couple of nights a week.  I never saw him drink at baseball games where beer could be bought in the stands, and I don't remember seeing him drink in the homes of friends or relatives who served alcohol.  He did not go on benders, and I don't remember ever seeing him drunk. 

Still, he drank, and my mother would have none of it.  Her hatred of alcohol and the damage that it brought would have fit right in with the temperance movement started by reformers in the nineteenth century.  Temperance, however, is the wrong word, for there was nothing temperate about people in the temperance movement.  They demanded total abstinence from alcohol.  So did my mother. 

My father thought he had found a way around the problem.  He would abandon the saloon and drink at home.  Quart beer bottles were popular in those days, and quarts of beer began to appear in our refrigerator. The sight of the bottles set my mother off something fierce.  Whenever the bottles showed up, an argument always ensued, my mother dominating it and overruling my father with “Don't argue with me, Walt!  I know I'm right!”  Then she began breaking his bottles in the sink, and as the glass shattered and as his suds disappeared down the drain, all he could manage to say was a plaintive “Now, Lou. . . ” 

Shades of Carry Nation, the 1890ish star of the temperance movement.  Nation, armed with a hatchet, would enter a saloon and set about to destroy the place—chopping up furniture, breaking the mirror behind the bar, and smashing bottles. 

Washing beer down the kitchen drain does nothing to slake a man's thirst, so my father resumed stopping off at a saloon on the way home from work.  In retreating to this sanctuary, he would be in the company of other men, some friendly, some happy, some sad, some obnoxious.  Whatever mood they were in, at least they didn't break his bottles. 

I honestly believe that at this point my mother was doing her best to ignore the problem.  Still, she couldn't help but crack occasionally, like the time one afternoon when she and I were standing in front of the house chatting with neighbors when my father came home.  “Walt,” she snapped, “take a look at yourself!  You can't even walk a straight line!” 

Our neighbors turned to stare at my father while my mother continued her harangue:

“You're drunk!  You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” 

My father's usual poker face snapped to an expression of shock and dismay, but he said nothing.  Well, of course he was staggering.  He wore cheap shoes, and he'd been on his feet all day at work.  And it's not stretching a point to say that he'd been on his feet as a cutter for a half century—he was in his late sixties when this happened—and his aging legs had a right to be a little wobbly just from wear and tear.  But in my mother's eyes, he was drunk. 

The call of the saloon continued to beckon, as it did one day after I'd been in the air force for a year.  I was home on leave, and he and I left the house to run errands.  At one point, he spied a saloon and darted inside, telling me over his shoulder that he wouldn't be long.  He didn't invite me in, for I was under twenty‑one, the legal drinking age in Illinois.  When he came out, we continued about our business, eventually returning home, sharing an unspoken agreement to say nothing to my mother about the detour. 

He eventually did quit drinking, just as he quit smoking.  Both habits went by the wayside about the time he retired, as a matter of economics.  Neither he nor my mother had enough retirement income to pay for frivolities, so my mother's long temperance crusade came to an end. 

 

 25.  Someone Gave Me a Book!

There it was—The Road to Oz, by L. Frank Baum.  On my bedside table.  A book, a book of my very own!  I was reading a lot—comic books and, when I got a library card, any kind of adventure, Western, or mystery tale. But now I had a book of my own. 

The Road to Oz is the fifth of L. Frank Baum's Land of Oz books and was originally published in 1909.  The full title, in the style of the time, tells more than you need to know: The Road to Oz: In Which Is Related How Dorothy Gale of Kansas, The Shaggy Man, Button Bright, and Polychrome the Rainbow's Daughter Met on an Enchanted Road and Followed it All the Way to the Marvelous Land of Oz.       

So now I had my first book, my very own book.  A quiet, reserved kid, I lost control.  I read my Oz book and reread it, sometimes finishing a reading of it, and returning to the front to start all over again right away. 

Sad to say, I have no idea who gave it to me.  And over the years, the book did not survive our moves.  It’s gone.

Baum died in 1919, twenty years before his Oz story made it to the screen in the movie The Wizard of Oz.  I didn’t see the movie then.  I was in my Western-movie years, and Oz was not on my approved list of shoot-‘em-ups.

But I have since seen the movie, and I recently read a library copy of the book that so enthralled me years ago.  Good entertainment all around.

 

26. “Don't Ya Know There's a War On?” 

Attack on Pearl Harbor; Declaration of War 

On Sunday morning, December 7, 1941, the Japanese navy staged a surprise attack on the United States naval base at Pearl Harbor, on the Hawaiian island of Oahu.  For two hours, Japanese pilots bombed and torpedoed and strafed, reducing America's great bastion in the Pacific to a shambles.  Six battleships anchored at Pearl were disabled; two others, the Oklahoma and the Arizona, were destroyed.  Many other naval vessels were sunk or disabled, and 149 airplanes on the ground were destroyed or damaged.           

The next day, while Chicagoans were reading Tribune accounts of the previous day's attacks, President Franklin D. Roosevelt appeared before Congress to ask for a declaration of war.  In a session that lasted only an hour Congress voted for war on Japan.  

Other declarations of war aligned nations around the world as members of the Allies or the Axis.  The Allies consisted of the United States, Great Britain, China, France, the Soviet Union, and forty‑five smaller nations.  The Axis powers were Germany, Italy, Japan, and six smaller nations.  Among the Allies, Communist nations found themselves in bed with democracies as a matter of expedience.  Both ideologies had a common foe:  Adolf Hitler. 

The Allies saw Hitlerism—the view of Germans as a super race who would control the world by annihilating the Jews—as a dark force that had to be destroyed.  Japan and Italy—in their attempts to conquer more land—were not seen as being as threatening as was Hitler.  As a moral crusade, the aims of the war were reduced to one—to rid the world of Hitler.

As for the Japanese, they were thought of by many Americans as being sub‑human, racially and  physically inferior.  We called them Japs, not Japanese.  Anti‑Japanese hysteria was so great that in early 1942 the federal government forcibly moved 110,000 Japanese‑Americans, about two‑thirds of them American citizens, from their West Coast homes to inland detention camps; they lost their homes and jobs as a result.  Germans and Italians living in this country were not similarly treated.

 

A Faraway Thing 

Viewed from the safe vantage point of the Paxson household on North Tripp, the war was a faraway thing.  

While American fighting men were dying overseas, the turmoil of warfare at home meant nothing more serious than living with shortages and rationing.  Coffee, sugar, some canned goods, butter, nylon stockings, and meat became scarce; ice cream was limited to ten flavors.  Shoes were rationed.  And, horror of horrors, the government even went so far as to ban the use of metal in lobster forks, bird cages, asparagus tongs, hair curlers, spittoons, corn poppers, cocktail shakers, and beer mugs! 

On the home front we saved old newspapers and magazines for waste‑paper drives, and we flattened tin cans to give to scrap‑metal drives.  The nation's auto manufacturers switched from making cars to building airplanes and tanks during the war, so new cars weren't available.  Tires and spare parts were hard to get.  People tended to baby their cars so that they would last. 

Movies, newspapers, and magazines ran home‑front slogans: 

            Time Is Short.

            Remember Pearl Harbor. 

World War II passed our household by.  We knew no one in the war, and scarcities and rationing were minor inconveniences.  My most vivid remembrance of home life during World War II was watching my mother sit at the kitchen table and mix margarine.  

Margarine, sold because butter was hard to come by, was white when it came out of the container; to make it look yellow like butter, my mother stirred in a coloring agent that was sold with the margarine.  It was said that the only reason margarine was not sold yellow was because the butter industry objected. 

During the war, the subject of conscientious objectors came up in our household.  These people easily won the support of my father, for he was a pacificist and descended from Quakers.

When newspaper articles criticized conscientious objectors, my normally quiet father explained their position at great length and outspokenly defended them to me.  They had a right to their view, he emphasized, and they shouldn't be criticized or punished for it.  It was one of the few times that I ever heard him express an opinion.  It was also one of the rare instances where he felt a subject important enough to try and educate me about it. 

We learned to use a new form of currency—ration books and ration coupons.  When you bought a rationed item, you handed over cash and ration coupons.  If you were a child then, someone might give you a nickel or a dime, but never a ration book.  

In the main, World War II struck a patriotic nerve, and anyone who complained was likely to get a snarled response: “Don't ya know there's a war on?” 

Complaining was the loudest when it came to gas rationing.  Because the Paxsons of North Tripp didn't own a car, gas rationing didn't inconvenience us.  But many Americans, honest people at heart, became very creative where gas rationing was involved. Gas coupons were issued in A, B, and X denominations.  An A coupon went to pleasure drivers who were allotted three gallons per week.  A B coupon went to the driver who used a car to go to work or as part of work; the holder of a B coupon was authorized gas based on the number of miles driven per day.  An X coupon was good for an unlimited amount of gasoline and went to operators of ambulances, hearses, taxis, buses, or other for‑hire vehicles; ministers, physicians, surgeons, veterinarians, and nurses; most government officials; passenger cars used for commercial purposes such as messenger service or the hauling of materials, tools, or work crews. 

When these rules were announced, the national purpose immediately solidified.  Practically every driver figured out a way to qualify for a B or an X coupon.  Moreover, an honor system was used, and no one checked on compliance.  Justice prevailed, to some degree that is, for public opinion forced many of the hogs to surrender their B or X coupons and put up with three gallons a week. 

Some people put their cars on blocks.  Others formed carpools.  Although coupons were supposed to be good for only the vehicle described on the front cover of the ration book, that stricture didn't stop many Americans from illegally pooling their ration books and using one car for a pleasure drive in the country or to the mountains.  And where gas was the scarcest, motorists would get in line behind a tank truck and follow it to a filling station.  

To most Americans, the war was brought home mainly by the movies.  Movie theaters showed newsreels, documentaries, and feature films that offered war‑oriented entertainment, enlightenment, inspiration, patriotism, and propaganda.  The sight and sounds of combat never really hit home, however, for the federal Office of War Information instructed film directors to limit movie scenes of death or injury.  

On many a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, I sat in the Rivoli theater on Elston Avenue, the war being played out before me.  With the Marines I was in the mud of Guadalcanal, and with the Air Force I was yelling “Bombs away!” over Germany—my Milk Duds and popcorn going down as fast as I could chew. 

Besides movies, one other reminder of the war was a Gold Star family who lived a block from us.  In their front window hung a small purple banner containing a solitary gold star.  The star represented a son who had died in the fighting. 

Another contact with the war was a boy named Kenny, big for his age, a young man of about seventeen when I knew him.  Early in the war, Kenny had dropped out of elementary school and lied about his age to join the Merchant Marine.  The Merchant Marine was the civilian fleet that carried war supplies through waters infested with enemy submarines. 

Near the end of the war, Kenny returned to Belding to finish elementary school.  He'd seen the world and was years removed from his classmates.  When he did deign to talk to mere boys who were still wet behind the ears, he regaled us not with stories of being shelled or torpedoed but with tales of sexual conquests of exotic girls in strange places.  He also talked of the wonderful power of Spanish fly, a potion that, he said, would make a girl do anything for you. Truly I learned a lot more at Belding Elementary than I really had use for. 

27.  1945—Quite a Year

What a Year!  The president died.  World War II ended.  The Cubs made it to the World Series.  And I was (I guess) in puberty. 

Death of the President

By early 1945, the Russians were defeating German forces in eastern Europe while other Allied armies drove Nazi armies back from the west.  In the Pacific, the fighting drew closer to Japan, and B‑29 Superfortresses began making mass incendiary‑bomb raids on Tokyo. 

Then, on April 12, 1945, President Franklin D. Roosevelt died of a cerebral hemorrhage.  Roosevelt had been president for so long that it was hard for most people to imagine anyone else in the job; he seemed to be immortal.  Yet his death was not a surprise.  He suffered from heart disease and high blood pressure.  Photographs taken about the time of his fourth inaugural three months earlier showed a gaunt, sickly man; his eyes were sunken, and the magnificent smile was missing from his careworn face. 

To someone taught, at school but not at home, of the many great things that Roosevelt did, I was saddened by his death.  And I was shocked to hear a neighbor say that she hated him and was glad he was dead. 

Those were the reactions that Roosevelt got.  Many Americans loved him because of his economic policies and social programs; to these Americans he was George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and St. Augustine rolled into one.  To others, those who saw in him the death of the Old Order and its laissez‑faire capitalism, he was a combination of Machiavelli and Judas Iscariot.  Despite how people saw him, he was a leader of his people through times when they needed leadership, the Great Depression and World War II. 

Roosevelt's successor was his vice president, Harry S. Truman.  Truman was a Missouri native who had been an artillery officer in World War I, an unsuccessful owner of a men's clothing store in Kansas City, a county judge (a position similar to commissioner in states other than Missouri), and Senator from Missouri.  He never finished college but was a voracious reader and probably one of the most well‑read presidents this country ever had. 

He was quite a change from Roosevelt.  Where Roosevelt had been imperious and aristocratic, Truman was ordinary.  Where Roosevelt looked like a president, Truman looked like the failed haberdasher that he once was.  Where Roosevelt had been eloquent, Truman was blunt, outspoken, and given to rough language when lashing out at his critics. 

Possessor of a strong personality and a fighting spirit, Truman was criticized for being undignified and loved for being an honest, straightforward man of the people.  Whatever he was, he was also president at one of the most crucial moments in United States history.  His first full day in office was Friday the 13th. 

V-E Day 

While the Axis powers in Europe were collapsing in ruin, horror, and despair, representatives of the Allied nations met in San Francisco.  Their purpose was to prevent anything like World War II from happening again.  Out of their meeting came the United Nations.  And as the United Nations came into being, the war in Europe ended: 

                                           V‑E DAY TODAY!

                         UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER SIGNED

                                   Chicago Daily Tribune, May 8, 1945 

That was the end of the war in Europe as reported to us by newspapers, radio, and the movies.  What the media didn't tell us, however, was of a super‑secret project that had been in existence for several years. Over 1939‑1940, the United States had started work on an atomic bomb.  Nuclear physicists knew that atomic fission—splitting an atom—was possible and could yield the deadliest and most powerful bomb ever made.  The grave danger was that the Nazis would produce atomic bombs and give Hitler what he wanted, the power to conquer the world. 

American research on the bomb continued, and on December 2, 1942, a group of scientists working under the stands at Stagg Field at the University of Chicago achieved a major breakthrough:  They were able to control a chain reaction, the almost simultaneous splitting of uranium atoms, needed to make the bomb a success. 

Work on finishing the bomb itself started in May 1943 on a lonely mesa at Los Alamos, near Santa Fe, New Mexico.  In early July 1945 the completed bomb was moved to an air base at Alamogordo, New Mexico.  There it was detonated on July 16. Work on two more bombs was rushed forward while the United States demanded Japan's unconditional surrender. 

The Japanese ignored the ultimatum, so Truman ordered the bombs dropped.  One hit Hiroshima and killed at least 70,000 people including every man in the Second Japanese Army.  The other bomb fell on Nagasaki.  There about 40,000 people died in the blast.  Thousands of others in both cities later died of burns or radiation poisoning. 

As devastating as the explosion over Hiroshima was, it caused fewer civilian casualties than the B‑29 fire‑bombings of Tokyo.  To continue the war with conventional weapons meant that bombers would have to wipe out one Japanese city after another.  The devastation would have been far more complete than the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. 

V-J Day 

Had the atomic bombs not been dropped, a bitter invasion of Japan would have been necessary.  Invading troops would have faced a 2‑million‑man Japanese army and 5,000 kamikaze (“divine wind”) suicide pilots.  Battles would have been protracted and fiercely fought; a long conflict on Japanese soil would have left wounds that time could hardly have healed. 

Moreover, on August 8, Russia had declared war on Japan, and Russia's partnership in a conquest of Japan would have meant that Japan would be partitioned as happened to Germany. 

                                         GREAT WAR ENDS!

         Chicago Daily Tribune, August 15, 1945

 

According to the Tribune, news of the Japanese surrender reached Chicago late in the afternoon.  By ten o'clock that night, a half million people had poured into Chicago's Loop, or tried to make their way through the mob to get there.  They shouted, they sang, they laughed, they danced, and they had a hard time getting drunk.  Immediately upon public announcement of the surrender, saloons closed their doors.  But with the saloons open or closed, the entire nation took two days off to celebrate! 

 

Doing Time on My Way to Puberty

On V-J Day, I was doing time in a church camp at Naperville, a Chicago suburb.  My status in the family had changed.  I was no longer a latchkey kid, at least during summer vacation.  I was still often home alone when my parents worked, but this summer, I was at that great age of twelve pointing toward thirteen, and something had changed.  I doubt that I knew much about puberty or hormones, and I was abysmally girl-shy—afraid that if I touched one, she’d shatter into a thousand fragments or turn me over to an enforcer and I would be shamed beyond belief.  Truly, I was in the forefront of social distancing.

So this summer and each summer until I finished high school I was consigned to some form of organized, supervised activity.  Often I did time at one of the day camps operated by the Chicago park district.  One summer I lived with an aunt and uncle in South Bend, and another I stayed with my sister and her family in Elgin.

But on V-J Day I was at a coed church camp operated by the Presbyterian church in our neighborhood.  We played a lot of volleyball and did artsy-crafty stuff, and we kept our rooms clean.  That was where I excelled, for I won an award for having the neatest room.  You see—that’s me:  While the other boys were learning about girls, I was wimping around with a dust cloth in my hands.

The year wasn’t ended yet. 

The World Series: Life Goes On 

And then there was October 1945, when the Chicago Cubs faced the Detroit Tigers in the World Series.  In Detroit, Chicago won two out of three.  The Series moved to Chicago, where Cubs fans began gloating about home‑field advantage.  Detroit, however, treated Wrigley Field as home turf, winning games four and five.  In a real squeaker that went twelve innings, the Cubs won the sixth game 8‑7.  The Series was tied. 

For the seventh game, time stopped in Chicago.  My father said when he came home that night that the whole city seemed to slow down as if people all over Chicago were doing nothing but listening to the radio.  At Belding, classes were not given a chance to slow down but were outright canceled while the game was being played. 

Students and teachers filed into the auditorium.  There we sat and listened to a radio placed on a chair at the front of the room.  And there we slumped lower and lower in our seats as the Cubs went down the drain 9‑3.  In Belding's auditorium on that fine autumn afternoon, I learned the lesson that applies to the hapless, long-suffering Cubs or any other calamity:  Life goes on.

 ***