A Day at Home Depot Shines A Light On My Past

I sometimes miss the simple life.

Growing up in Rogers Park I frequently accompanied my mother on an important mission. As we walked through the neighborhood, I was trusted to carry a small rectangular piece of stiff white cardboard. The card was not a postcard or an invitation. It was a bill, our monthly chit from Commonwealth Edison, the city’s sole electricity provider.

Mom and I were not out to pay the bill. Like all of our family payments, that duty was handled by my dad, a meticulous bookkeeper who was never late meeting a financial obligation. The journey Mom and I were on was to a neighborhood hardware store, where we could present the bill in exchange for 10 light bulbs.

The bulbs were “free”; their cost was likely built into our monthly bill. At the store, we could choose from any of the available bulbs. And what was available? We had a choice of 60, 75, or 100-watt incandescent light bulbs. Standard light bulb shape, standard light bulb size, standard light bulb base. They were a perfect fit for every fixture of our apartment.

I remembered the lightbulb task this morning while standing in Aisle 1 of the Home Depot store in Northbrook. I was there because a 60-watt incandescent light bulb, one of the three bulbs in the ceiling fixture of our home office, had burned out. My goal at the store was to find equivalent LED replacements for all three bulbs.

Through more than 7 years of service, the incandescent bulb had projected a warm yellow glow through the glass base of the fixture. That’s what I was looking for as I studied about 400 shelf-feet of bulbs at the Home Depot. They were virtually all LEDs but beyond that, the variations and choices were uncountable and unimaginable.

There were long bulbs, short bulbs, round ones and square ones. Candelabra bases, standard bases, and something in between. Bright white, soft white, daylight, and plain white. There were even smart bulbs that changed colors with your mood, your music, or your appetite. Overwhelmed, I chose some daylight bulbs, assuming they would project light with a soft, sunny, slightly yellow appeal.

I was wrong. The new bulbs filled the home office with an unpleasant, glary, harsh, white light. Twenty minutes later I was back at Home Depot exchanging those bulbs and grilling the store clerk on the best bulb for my needs. We chose soft white bulbs and the soft yellowish-white light is just what I like while I sit at my desk typing this post.

We have traveled a long way since those Rogers Park days in the 1960s. Technology has gifted us a wonderful assortment of energy-efficient, environmentally friendly, and cosmetically stylish light sources. But sometimes, in our quest for progress, we lose sight of the small, simple treasures that once illuminated our lives—like a walk with Mom and a bag of light bulbs.

Mommy Vs. Marshall. Who Can Stop A Five-Year-Old’s Tears

A couple of nights ago, Barb and I shared a small nighttime crisis with our grandchildren, 5 1/2-year-old Nat and 2 1/2-year-old Molly.

Our daughter Laury and her family have been living with us recently while their home is being remodeled. Tuesday night, to allow Laury and Alex to celebrate their anniversary with a dinner out, Barb and I took over bedtime duty in our kid-friendly loft.

Getting washed up and into PJs went smoothly. Barb read a chapter from The Wizard of Oz and we followed that by singing our personalized version of the Mickey Mouse Club theme song, a tradition that goes back to when our own two children were young.

“Kids, tomorrow morning I have a special surprise for you, ” I said, as Nat and Molly took our hands and we walked to their Jack and Jill bedrooms.

“What is it?” they asked in unison.

“Tomorrow!” I reminded them.

Final bedtime preparation went swimmingly until Nat’s face scrunched up, and his rapidly blinking blue eyes fought to hold back his tears. We expected to hear him cry for his mommy, but that wasn’t his issue.

Nat had done an inventory of his “stuffies,” the stuffed animals that share his bed at night, and discovered that one of his favorites, Marshall, the Fire Rescue Paw Patrol pup, was missing.

“Where is he???” Nat moaned.

As his tears flowed with worry we searched everywhere–under the soft yellow covers; under the bed; in the bathroom sink. Marshall wasn’t anywhere. He had vanished and Nat was inconsolable.

I quickly realized that finding Marshall was a lost cause and that we needed a good distraction. I struggled to think what might calm the young boy down enough to let him fall asleep. And then I remembered my planned surprise.

“Nat, if I show you tomorrow’s surprise right now, will that help you stop worrying about Marshall and fall asleep?” I asked.

“I think so,” he whispered, wiping his tears. “Maybe.”

“Come sit next to me and we can look inside this box,” I said, gesturing to a pink file box I had unearthed in a cupboard an hour earlier.

We opened the box to find a stack of Laury’s old school photos, craft projects, letters from camp, and more.

As he saw the first picture, Nat exclaimed, “That’s my mommy!” At the thrill of seeing Laury’s memorabilia, Marshall the missing rescue dog was quickly forgotten.

We went through the box, laughing at school pictures from each grade, group shots from Banner Day Camp, and ensembles from Miss Marsha’s Dance Studio. Nat eagerly hunted for Laury in every shot. And where did we find her in each photograph? In the front row, of course!

“Mommy was so little!” Nat declared with surprise and delight.

“Yes, she was–but she grew up, and you will too,” Barb promised Nat as she pulled the covers over his tired body. “And now it’s bedtime. When you wake up, Mommy and Daddy will be home, and we will all get together and find Marshall.”

And that is what we did. It’s so much fun to make new family memories while we remember old ones!

“Welcome To Woodman’s. How Can I Deceive You Today?”

I am a savvy guy. Nigerian princes gave up asking me for money years ago. The Mexican drug cartels never got beyond a first phone call with their phony attempt to buy my timeshare in Cabo. Are you a Facebook “Friend” contacting me for a favor or a donation? I’ll make you confirm your identity before I lend a helping hand or send you my credit card number. In short, Mama didn’t raise no fool.

But Woodman’s Market…this time, you got me. I was making a quick stop at the Buffalo Grove outlet. I didn’t bother with a cart, I was just planning on picking up one 12-pack of Caffeine-Free Diet Pepsi, my latest go-to soda pop. In the beverage section, the face of the Pepsi shelf was leafed with bright blue store coupons “Save $2.00,” the coupons blared. “Buy Two Pepsi Brand 12 Pks. Woodman’s Saves You Money!”

I like paper coupons. I find them easier to use than the digital variety. I stripped one of the blue rectangles off the shelf and maneuvered a 12-pack of CFDP to a spot under each arm. Now wishing I had taken a shopping cart, I staggered to the nearest self-serve check-out aisle.

I am a whizz at self-checkout (remember, I was a star cashier at the Rogers Park “Jewels” in 1976.) I scanned the bar codes on my purchases and sent them flying down to the bagging station. I then scanned the blue coupon, expecting a $2.00 discount to show up on the check-out screen along with the standard instruction to push the coupon through the slot below the register.

To my surprise, the notice that showed up was quite different. “Coupon Not Accepted. Required Items Not Purchased.” I tried to scan the coupon again. Same message. I stared back and forth from the coupon to my two 12-packs. Certainly, Caffeine-Free Diet Pepsi should qualify as a Pepsi product! What was the hangup?

The people behind me were impatient so I waved over the store employee monitoring the frequently persnickety self-checkout aisles. He looked at the coupon, then at my 12-packs. He entered his secret store code into the register and tried another scan. The screen returned the same message. The kid mumbled that he would contact a manager and shuffled off.

I examined the coupon one more time. I finally saw what had previously escaped the eyes of the Woodman’s employee and me. A tiny picture, accompanied by the words “On Gaorade” in size 2 font, was hidden on the coupon. I didn’t want a sugary sports drink, so despite buying the required 24 cans of Pepsi product, I wouldn’t be getting a $2 savings. Me, the ever-alert, always vigilant, won’t get fooled dude, had been conned.

Barb and I shop at Woodman’s weekly and have done so for years. I am a rare soul who enjoys buying groceries there. They have a ginormous variety of products and offer reasonable prices without forcing you to purchase in bulk. But this $2 gimmick, minuscule as the dollar amount may be, ticked me off. A cheap trick. I won’t avoid the store in the future, but now when I shop there I will keep my eyes wide open.

What about you? Let me know what little annoying gimmicks you have come across.

And Woodman’s, fool me once shame on you, fool me twice—well, there better not be a second time!

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Choo Choo Chronicles: A Whistle-Stop Adventure at Des Plaines’ Iconic Restaurant”

A train horn blows. Whistles toot. A bronco named Champion bucks kids for a quarter while the aroma of french fries wafts from the kitchen. In this suburban equation, Grandkids + Spring Break = The Choo Choo restaurant in Des Plaines.

Barb and I brought our three oldest grandchildren to the landmark diner last week to welcome spring and shake off residual winter gloom. The tiny restaurant is not much bigger than a breadbox. Train trinkets fill every nook of wall and shelf space. The line of eagerly anticipating diners stretches out the front door.

There are half a dozen booths, into which owner Dale Eisenberg can squeeze half a dozen half-size diners, but we snagged prime seats at the U-shaped counter. Soon after we ordered our lunches, a train horn tooted, and an HO gauge model train pulled our burgers, hot dogs, and BLTs to a spot in front of us, where we were served by the always on-the-go staff.

The servers never rested, but none were more on the move than Eisenberg. As we waited in line, he peppered us with questions. “How many are in your party, where you are from, have been to the restaurant before? What’s the weather? And WHAT is in the brown paper lunch sack you have in your hand?”

When asked why he had removed booths that once lined the front of the restaurant Eisenberg told us “The kids couldn’t see the train from those booths I didn’t want families to take the trouble to come here, wait in line, and then be unable to see the main attraction–so I ripped them out. It may make the wait to sit down a little longer, but that’s ok.” As he spoke with us, he passed out quarters to the kids in line, giving them free rides on the Champion the Wonder Horse. We could see he didn’t want any child to be left out.

Eisenberg’s generosity extends beyond the Choo Choo. He is also President and Co-founder of the Veteran Business Project. This non-profit organization assists veterans and their families in pursuing small-business ownership opportunities. If you are interested, you can read more about the organization at www.veteranbusinessproject.org.

Our family didn’t linger at our counter spot. We ate quickly, paid the bill, and moved on. Another family quickly piled into our seats. As we left the diner we could hear the train horn blowing all the way to our car in the parking garage across the street. It was a wonderful sound.

Packed to the Raff-ters

One of the habits that Barb and I picked up during the COVID-19 pandemic was streaming TV series from Australia. The Aussies seem to enjoy family dramas with a touch of humor, and as long as our Closed Captioning is working, we enjoy them too. It is not too much of an exaggeration to say that our recent pilgrimage to Australia was sparked by all the wonderful Australians who visited our home via Amazon Prime and Netflix.

Our current favorite is Packed to the Rafters, all about a very telegenic Sydney family, the Rafters. Mom Julia and Dad Dave share their home with two of their three adult children, a daughter-in-law, and Jules’s recently widowed dad Ted. Child number three lives in the house next door with his best bud and housemate->girlfriend->fiance->wife. An equal measure of drama and hilarity ensues. We have just finished Season 2, and can’t wait to see where the Rafters go next.

And in a real-life case of life duplicating art, our Raff house is packed now too. And we love it even more than we love the Rafters!

Our daughter and her family (husband, 5-year-old son, 2 1/2-year-old daughter, 15-year-old pooch) are nomads while their home is being remodeled. The first three months were spent with our son-in-law’s parents, and now they are joining us for as long as it takes until their house is livable. How long will that be? If this were an HGTV show, I would say the renovation is in the segment just after the second commercial break–the segment in which the unexpected calamity occurs. They have been there, fixed that, and aced all the subsequent inspections. It (should be) smooth sailing from here on in.

How has it been working out so far? I think we have all made the adjustment quite well. When Barb and I built this house we went easy on the downsizing. There are enough bedrooms and bathrooms for everyone, and room to squeeze in our two other granddaughters, who are campaigning for an all-cousins sleepover.

Everyone is doing a fine job of adjusting to each other’s routines. Cooking dinners is rotated, and we have learned that our dishwasher is capable of cleaning daily loads without going on strike with a complaint of overuse. The refrigerator and pantries are overstocked, but I can usually dig out my lunch fixin’s, even if it takes an extra moment or three.

Nothing could be more satisfying than the extra time we spend with our grandkids. We are amazed at our grandson’s reading skills–and the other night I had a fascinating discussion on number theory with him. With his dad a numbers guy and his mom a math teacher, it is clear that the apple hasn’t…

Our tiny granddaughter has taken the role of family humorist. She never stops singing, playing word games, and laughing, laughing, laughing. I always preached that children didn’t demonstrate their personality until they were 3-year-olds. With the twinkle in her eyes, this one has proven me wrong.

Just like the Rafters of Sydney, we are one big happy family. There is just one feature of Packed to the Rafters we don’t want to emulate. At the end of Season 2, Julia gives birth to a midlife oops–a baby daughter. Barb has promised me, in fact, she has guaranteed me, that a similar surprise pregnancy can’t happen here. In this case, life will not follow art!

A Snowy Night In Chicago –1979

A recreation of that long, cold, walk. Photo created by Dall-E

Looking out at this snowy January day takes me back 45 years, to the very beginning of my marriage to Barb, and to a snowstorm that paralyzed Chicago. The Blizzard of January 12-14, 1979 dumped about 20 inches of snow on the city and surrounding area–and led to one cold and frigid walk through Skokie, a northern Chicago suburb.

I was doing a fourth-year medical school rotation in gastroenterology at Weiss Memorial Hospital in Chicago’s Uptown neighborhood, while Barb was early in her Occupational Therapist career at RIC, Chicago’s famed rehabilitation center, just off the Magnificent Mile downtown. Knowing that a storm was brewing, we both elected to take public transportation–a walk to the Skokie CTA station for a short journey on the Skokie Swift, a transfer at Howard Street to the main North-South “L,” from which I would get off at Wilson, and Barb continue on to the Chicago Avenue stop.

As the storm approached, I was able to leave my rotation early, and reversing my morning route, made it back to our Skokie home without incident. For Barb, the situation was quite different.

After seeing her last patient of the day, Barb trudged through the falling snow the the subway stop. Following her descent down the elevator to the platform, she found herself engulfed by hundreds of commuters, the daily regulars plus the throngs of people like her who had opted not to drive on that wintery day.

As Barb waited on the northbound platform, two, three, four trains hurtled past, overfilled with passengers and not stopping at her station. Before panic set in, Barb decided to head in the other direction and was able to board a train that took her four stations south. From here, she was finely able to board a northbound train.

More than an hour later, in the black and cold, Barb disembarked from the Skokie Swift and began the half-mile walk to our 2nd-floor walk up on Lavergne Avenue. The snow was blinding and the temperature falling rapidly. Barb struggled as she slowly made her way, huddling in doorways every few minutes to try to regain some warmth in her fingers and toes.

In the meantime, I had called Barb’s parents wondering if they had any idea where she was or if they had heard from her. In those pre-cell phone days, we were all as deeply in the dark as Barb. Finally, close to three hours after she had left the bright lights of the rehab center, Barb made it up the stairs to our apartment, home at last.

Barb vowed that evening never to take a Chicago “L” ever again. Since then we have ridden the subways of New York City, Boston’s famed MTA, London’s Tube, the Paris Metro, and Berlin’s U-Bahn. But I don’t think Barb has ventured onto a CTA platform since that frigid day 45 years ago. Some promises you keep.

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Looking Back and Wishing All A Happy Holiday Season

A little while back my friend Rick handed me an old holiday card he had received from Barb and me years ago. “We were decluttering the house while we renovated, ” he said. “We came across years worth of your cards, and thought we should save at least one for you.”

I added the card to an orange folder I keep, a folder containing a somewhat incomplete roster of all the cards we have sent through the years. This morning, I added the 2023 edition and spent much of this dreary day looking back on all the old cards, as many past memories came my way. It was my personal TBTOAS (Throw Back Thursday on a Saturday.)

The collection begins with the very first picture holiday card we ever sent. In the photo, Barb, Michael, Laury, and I are enjoying an English Tea at a small shop on Vancouver Island. The kids, aged 7 and 5, daintily raise their cups, little fingers extended, bubbling over with sophistication. It is almost impossible to comprehend that in the photo on this year’s card, a card featuring the entire family at Disneyworld, both our kids are parents, and our grandkids are now 40% of the clan.

Where has the time gone? As I look through the cards, I see it in the many photos we have selected to send to our friends every December. Pictures from birthdays, from weddings, from marvelous vacations, and from everyday life. There are reminders of beloved pets that are no longer with us and a photo that stands as a memorial to our former home in Long Grove, the home in which the kids grew up and from which Barb was so reluctant to leave.

Along with the photo cards are many of the inserts we composed to send along to let everyone know how we were all doing. Those inserts were clearly forerunners to my blogs, with the same tenderness mixed with the same tiny bit of snark. Among my favorites: A letter to a “Dear Kitty” advice columnist in which our new kitten described the past year and asked why we had so much trouble naming her; a newspaper Special Edition announcing the various roles our family would play in the (first) Obama administration; a TV Guide page listing the astonishing TV shows the Raff’s were starring in that season. All fun things to write, and along with the photos wonderful to look back on.

I hope this holiday season is being kind to you all. For all of us, our personal lives and the world around us bring challenges, but to paraphrase the late Danny Thomas, “Give thanks for the good things in your life, and give support to those who need it most”

Happy Holidays from our family to yours.

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Bagesl, Bagels, Bagels. Memories Go Round and Round.

“Should we stop for bagels?” I asked Barb on Sunday night as we closed in on the Touhy exit on the Edens Expressway. It was late, we were coming home from watching “The Lehman Trilogy” a three-hour play at Water Tower Place, and I was tired, so I stayed in my lane and sped past the exit ramp.

The store we bypassed was the New York Bagel & Bialy shop. We passed it this week, but for many years it was a regular Sunday night stop for us. That was family night, as we packed the kids into the minivan and visited my parents and aunt in Rogers Park.

Some nights my mother would cook–her Weiner Schnitzel is still one of my all-time favorite meals — most weeks we would visit a local restaurant. Bones in Lincolnwood was a consistent favorite, and it continued to be one after it was rechristened L. Woods. Or we might venture to Hi Howe for a Chinese feast (something my dad would never have consented to when I was growing up.) And no one ever complained if we drove to Wilmette to enjoy breakfast-for-dinner at the original Walker Brothers location.

Once the seniors were settled back in their apartments, we turned west on Touhy and headed for home. But nine weeks out of ten, just before we reached the Edens entrance I would pull into the narrow parking lot in front of New York Bagel & Bialy.

In those days the store was open 24 hours a day. I’d walk into a steamy miasma, the odor of baking bread filling the air. The same counter woman always took care of me, whether she recognized me I could never tell. I would ask her for a dozen bagels, balancing plain, sesame seed, and poppyseed varieties. And there was always a 13th bagel, the baker’s dozen bonus, for us to split up and enjoy on the rest of the car ride home.

I know my health is better off for my not stopping to grab a dozen bagels last week. And I am pretty sure that the taste just wouldn’t be the same as the melt in the mouth goodness I remembered from 30 years ago. But next time I am driving onTouhy or flying down the Edens I think I’ll make that bagel stop one more time.

Make that bonus bagel a sesame seed, hot out of the oven.

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Memories and Generations at the Start of a New Year

For most, Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, is a time to look ahead, to the upcoming good and sweet year, ushered in with prayer, apples, and honey. But as I davened in temple this year, I found my mind drifting, envisioning the many ages of my life and the assorted Chicago-area locales where I have listened to the blowing of the Shofer on this ancient holy day.

Rogers Park in the late 1960s. Standing with friends on Pratt Avenue after youth services at B’nai Zion Synagogue. In my mind, those services were interspersed with ones on the bleachers of Loyola Park, a small mimeographed cardboard rectangle being the ticket to admission. All leading up to the one astonishing moment when the youth leader carrying the Torah past the young congregants tripped (or was tripped,) almost dropping the sacred scroll to the ground. A stern warning to all followed; had the Torah dropped to the floor, we would all be fasting for 40 days!

in 1970, as a high school junior, I was called upon to prepare and lead a Rosh Hashana teen service. Along with my collaborator, we culled news stories and ancient fables to choose readings that would be relevant to our fellow teenagers. Fitting for those violent times, our readings related to the war in Vietnam and the tragic shootings at Kent State a few months earlier.

A few years later a college friend invited me to join her at High Holiday services at a lovely synagogue on the shore of Lake Michigan. The setting was inspiring. But this was the year 1973. Ten days after Rosh Hashana, Egypt and Syria attacked Israel to initiate the Yom Kippur War.

Twenty years later Barb and I were a married couple with young children. The family worshipped on Rosh Hashana in the old auditorium at Stevenson High School. In a bit of karma, the Rabbi was the same Rabbi who had officiated at my Bar Mitzvah decades earlier, when he was an itinerant Rabbi who had only recently moved to Chicago. In more karma, sitting in the auditorium foreshadowed my upcoming long association with Stevenson High School.

As the kids grew, so did the need for Hebrew School and Bar Mitzvah lessons. To minimize carpool time, we joined a congregation near our home. High Holiday services were scripted, lengthy, and maintained every ritual. They were everything but inspirational, and when the Bar and Bat Mitzvah’s were over, so was our synagogue membership.

A few years later, Stevenson High School beckoned once more, this time with services in the Performing Arts Center. The setting was livelier and so was the spiritual leader, a young cantor training to be a Rabbi. Accompanied by a professional choir he gave life and breath to the services. In his sermons he challenged the congregants with questions, his assistants roaming the auditorium with microphones seeking out answers. We enjoyed those Rosh Hashana services for many years until COVID silenced them.

Today, post-COVID we pray once again, this year at our son’s congregation along with his wife and our granddaughters. My favorite Hebrew saying has always been “L’dor vdor”–“From Generation to Generation.” The circle of life continues.

May all the days of your life be good ones. L’shana Tovah.

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Doin’ The Laundry, The Old Rogers Park Way

1967. The tiny commercial laundry was tucked under the Lunt end of the Morse-Lunt L stop in Rogers Park. Next door was the small variety store where the neighborhood kids would buy gleaming white rubber balls with raised stitching, the kind we would use to play fastpitch with in the schoolyard down the block.

My family’s apartment on Farwell east of Sheridan had plenty of advantages–it was close to the beach, the pier, the tennis courts, and the notorious Farwell Park bubbler — but the building was old and lacked a clothes washer and dryer, even in the musty basement.

On Monday mornings my mother would load our laundry cart, the upright type on two wheels, and pull it the 4 or 5 blocks along Lunt to the laundry. My Tuesday afternoon chore? I was to stop at the laundry on my way home from school, pay the $2.00 charge, and pull our cart, now full of clean, neatly folded clothes back to Farwell and up the three flights of stairs to our apartment.

The proprietor of the laundry was a middle-aged man, though he seemed very old to me. He spoke with an accent I wasn’t worldly enough to place. I recognized that he was foreign, just as my parents were. We would speak a few words as I carefully pulled a pair of wrinkled one-dollar bills out of my pocket and handed them to him. In the summer the heat in the laundry was nauseating, but on cold winter days I would luxuriate in the steamy warmth as I waited for him to retrieve our cart.

I was always careful to make sure no one saw me duck into the laundry. I would hope none of my friends were buying baseball cards or a candy bar at the store next door as I stepped outside to begin the trudge home. I don’t know why I found it so embarrassing, I was just doing a necessary chore, but as adolescents, don’t we find many things embarrassing?

I rarely get to Rogers Park these days. Maybe I will pack the grandkids in the car and give them a tour of the neighborhood I grew up in. I will show them the schools, the restaurants, the synagogues, and the location where my apartment building once stood. If the kids aren’t too bored I’ll include the spot under the L. And hope the fragrant steamy aroma of drying laundry still fills the air.

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Note: Further research indicates that the top photo MAY not be the Morse L station. My apologies for the error and any inconvenience.