Opening Day Isn’t The Only Sign of Spring Around Here!

March 30, 2023

The clouds are grey,
The wind is swift,
The mercury's not rising.
But Spring is here.
I know it's true
No winter's grip reprising.

You may have thought
That Opening Day
Had given me this feeling.
But that's not it
Even though it's true
Around the bases they're now wheeling

A surer clue 
Has told me that
The seasons are progressing
No more winter coats
And toss your boots!
It's for sunshine we'll be dressing

What is the hint
And how do I know
That springtime we're installing?
There on the pond
In their formal whites
Our swans have come-a-calling!

Late every March
They are sent here
Three ponds are their dominion.
In sets of two
They take command
With no anti-swan opinion.

They swim all day
On the water's top
Between their raft and their bird feeder.
If all goes well
By summer's end
Each pair will be a breeder.

They have a job
They know it well
They're not around for beauty.
The swans are here
To play the part
Of lawmen, it's their duty.

The bad guys are
The honking geese
Their droppings are unsightly
They make a mess
That soils our roads
We'd rinse clean our driveways nightly.

When battles come
Between the fowl.
It's for swans we'll be a-cheering.
When the geese do fly
Away from here
A nicer place will be appearing

So here's to spring
And swans and sun
And to the neighborhood's bright glory
The grass will green
The flowers bloom
And ahead is summer's story.

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A Friend Wants to Know About My First Job. My Story is a Tale of East Rogers Park, Morse Avenue, and “The Jewels.” How About Yours?

A prompt from the website Storyworth has asked me to describe how I got my first job. Like all such prompts, it opens a flood of memories. They are not all specific to the question at hand but all shine brightly in my mind.

We can quickly dispense with the job I held as a 13-year-old, counting shoe boxes in a warehouse for the shoe store chain my dad worked for. What family didn’t skirt child labor laws to have their kids work with Dad?

No, the first job that really counted came when I was 15, in the spring of 1971. And it came at the holiest of holies, the Jewel Food Store on Morse Avenue in East Rogers Park.

To outsiders, the center (social, not geographical) of East Rogers Park was Morse Avenue Beach. Teenagers from the North Side of Chicago, from Skokie, from Evanston, would flock to the golden sand beach with its breaking waves and nearby refreshment stand. Lifeguard towers dotted the shoreline and sunburns were the name of the game.

But if you lived in East Rogers Park, you knew that its true core was Morse Avenue itself, particularly the short stretch from the Morse El stop on the east to Ashland Avenue on the west. This was where the locals ate at cherished restaurants (Ashkenaz, Froikins, DeMars); enjoyed their sweets (Baskin-Robbins Ice Cream, Davidsons Bakery, Dutch Mill Candies); and then shopped for everything else they needed (Charles Variety, Morry’s Mens Wear, Leonard’s Juvenile). The area was a 15-minute city before 15-minute cities became woke.

And at the center of all this was “The Jewels,” the local outpost of the Jewel Food Store chain that dominated Chicago grocery stores. The store at 1425 Morse was the best and for many of the area residents the only option for weekly groceries. The parking lot was small, but that was of no consequence. Most of the clientele walked to the store and had their grocery bags delivered in cardboard boxes by two twenty-somethings in a pick-up truck (Saturdays only) or wheeled their grocery bags home in their own upright wire grocery carts. No fresh meat after 6 pm (Butcher’s Union rules), no liquor before noon on Sunday (Chicago blue laws) but everything else whenever you wanted.

How did I wind up working at such a community centerpiece at the young age of 15? As in most things in life, it isn’t what you know, it’s who you know. Julie, an old grammar school friend of my sister who was the Assistant Service Manager greased the wheels for my application as a bagger. When I applied for the job I was instructed to say I was 16–and Julie made sure no one checked too carefully.

I got the bottom-rung position, was handed a clip-on red bow tie, and began a 5-year long career that helped pay for college as I rose from bagger to cashier to service desk pro.

And the chance to say “I made it big on Morse Avenue!” What more could a Chicago kid ask for from his first job?

Where did you begin? Leave a reply or send me your story at chidoc@post.com

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Two Ways to Enjoy Neil Diamond’s Music: From Broadway To Des Plaines It Is Quite a Journey!

We can all agree on two things. First, there is nothing better than live music. Second, when he was in his touring prime, no one put on a better show for adoring fans than Neil Diamond. Neil could strut his way through Forever in Blue Jeans; he could preach salvation in Brother Love’s revival tent; he could raise the flag while saluting immigrants and immigration in Coming to America. And every show felt like a party. I know, I was at about twenty of them.

Most of you know that Neil stopped touring a few years ago. The progression of Parkinson’s Disease prevents him from performing the way he would want to perform.

So what’s a Diamond fan to do to hear his music live? Barb and I have explored two options in the last few months.

Last November we celebrated our wedding anniversary with fantastic seats for a preview performance of A Beautiful Noise, the Broadway jukebox musical based on Neil’s life. And this past weekend, we took a much shorter journey, to the recently renovated Des Plaines Theatre for the review I Am He Said, featuring Matt Vee and The Killer Vees.

Two very different approaches to the Diamond songbook. I am glad to say Barb and I left both shows serenading each other with Neil’s tunes. But which approach was better?

A Beautiful Noise follows in the footsteps of other bio-musicals such as Jersey Boys and Beautiful but has a unique twist. The chronology of his rise to the top of the music world is interspersed with scenes of therapy sessions between a reluctant Diamond and the psychiatrist his family insists he sees. Through the sessions, we learn how a quiet introverted young man has converted himself into an exuberant performer, while never fully conquering his internal anxieties. And as the story unfolds we experience the havoc the life of a performer may reek on their personal life.

The result is a well-performed see-saw of a musical. The music and choreography are great, but the story, while not quite a Shakespearean tragedy, competes with August, Osage County on the dysfunctional family scale. Only at the end of the show does the house really rock.

I Am He Said is a very different type of show in a different type of theatre. The Des Plaines is the love child of Ron Onesti. The theatre specializes in 60s bands (Tommy James and the Shondells, Herman’s Hermits) and tribute bands (all female versions of Aerosmith and Black Sabbath, anyone?) Barb and I usually avoid that type of tribute show like we would avoid a pandemic-causing airborne virus. But I heard an ad for the show on the radio, we had nothing planned for that Saturday night, and so we convinced good friends to join us for dinner and Neil.

In contrast to the Broadway production, I Am He Said doesn’t bother with Neil’s psychology or motivation. The 11-piece band, half of whose members are related to the 1960s pop icon Bobby Vee, get into a groove and never get out of it. Lead singer/frontman Matt Vee (who sounds more like Diamond than Broadway’s Will Swenson) gives the band some short breaks by telling a few Diamond (and Bobby Vee) anecdotes. If the stories aren’t totally accurate (The Monkees TV show debuted in 1966, not the 1970s, Neil and Barbra Streisand did go to the same high school, but they weren’t smoking buddies on the school playground) at least they are blessedly short. They needed to be short–the audience wanted to hear more music and get back to dancing in the aisles.

A few things I might have changed with the show. The performances were tight replicas of Diamond’s studio albums. It would have been cool to follow some of the arrangements from Hot August Night or other live albums. Finally, does the sing-along Sweet Caroline HAVE to be the encore? So cliche, so cliche, so cliche.

Both A Beautiful Noise and I Am He Said remind us of the joy in Neil Diamond’s music and how much we miss his live performances. Noise is a well-crafted and performed Broadway musical, I Am is a wave-your-arms and dance-in-your-seat experience. I won’t tell you which show I thought was better, but I think you can guess where I had the most fun!

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I Got Mansplained By A Woman At Pickleball. Now I Know Why Women Hate It.

Following my “Australian Women of the Night” post, an old high school friend reached out to give me the lowdown on his recent, very G-rated visit to Australia and New Zealand. Stan and his wife Bonnie spent an evening with Barb and me and passed on their recommendations about what to see and what to skip in the lands down under.

And then Stan asked the number one question people have been asking since I retired three months ago.

“Do you play Pickleball?”

My tennis player’s inherent negativity toward PB must have worn down because I said that while I had not yet played, I would be willing to give it a try. My former pathology associate, a woman who loves the game, had given me a PB set as a retirement gift so I was fully equipped.

At Stan’s advice I surfed through a few PB YouTube videos (there are about a million to choose from) and yesterday morning he and I met at 8 a.m. at the park district recreational center where he plays three days a week.

Stan spent 45 minutes very patiently coaching me. He did a great job going over the boundaries (all those extra lines painted onto what is also a basketball court can be confusing,) the scoring, and the strokes, reinforcing what I had learned watching the videos. Another relative newbie joined us and Stan gave her some much-appreciated tips too. Stan earned an A+ as a PB mentor.

We then joined in with other players for games on the three “easy” courts. For a first-timer I thought I did OK, making some rookie mistakes, but able to keep rallies going and win some points with a few well-placed shots.

And most importantly, every player I shared a court with was friendly and encouraging. Everyone that is, except for one person, one woman who we will call Jane. Jane wanted to teach me how to play but her condescending voice and manner were enough to guarantee that I did not listen to one word of what she said. Jane was a woman, but for the 10 minutes I had been with her, I had been mansplained.

Ladies of the world, I have new clarity on why you hate mansplaining–that tone of voice, the unnecessary commentary, the assumption of ignorance. It sucks and is demeaning.

It is possible that in the past I may have treated some women that way. Be it family, friends, readers, or co-workers, I apologize. I vow to do my best to never behave in that fashion to any person of any gender. If I slip up, please call me out on it. In a nice way.

Who’d have thunk it? Pickleball is not only fun, it is going to make me a better person!

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Breaking Bad–A Tennis Reunion

“Something about him looked familiar, I could swear I’d seen his face before.” Harry Chapin, Taxi.

“Tony this is Les, Les this is Tony.”

Joel gave us a quick introduction as we started our tennis warm-up this past Tuesday night. Tony was subbing for Nate, or for Allen, or for Kathie…I leave it to Joel to reserve the court and figure out who is playing on any given week.

Tony was a pretty big guy, hard to miss on a tennis court. He had a face I thought I had seen before, but I really couldn’t place him.

When all of us were suitably warmed up and we approached the net he asked me once again what my name was.

“Les,” I said.

Tony replied, “I don’t know if you remember, but five years ago…”

March, 2018.

Barb and I were playing with our Sunday morning tennis group. There were 16 of us in the pack, mostly regulars. We rotated through courts of mixed doubles and one court where Dick the crotchety senior tennis instructor would lead drills. In the drills, we practiced our shots while Dick made comments about our ethnic heritages, our footgear, and whichever young ladies had caught his eye that day. Occasionally he even gave some tennis pointers. Dick was that kind of guy.

I completed my half hour of drill time on court 1 and rotated over to Court 3 for my first mixed doubles of the morning. I don’t recall who my opponents were, but my partner was a relative newcomer to the group, a big fellow named Tony.

I was handling the Add side of the court, with Tony patrolling the Deuce half. We were both close to the net when one of our opponents put up a deep, lob, high enough to be over big Tony’s head. Without turning he took one step back, then another, and another.

It was on about the third step that something went wrong. As I watched from about ten feet to Tony’s left, I saw him stumble and fall backward. His arm flailed out behind him, and we all heard a crack.

Tony was helped off the court and escorted to a hospital gig. We heard through the grapevine that he had needed surgery to repair broken bones in his elbow or forearm — the rumor mill wasn’t quite sure. And that was the last I saw of big Tiony.

That is, the last until this Tuesday evening.

Tony, I’m glad to see you are still playing tennis and still have a pretty good game. For those few minutes five years ago you were my partner, and as Sam Spade said in The Maltese Falcon when something bad happens to your partner you are supposed to do something about it. I wasn’t able to do anything back then, but if you play with us again, let me buy you a drink.

But please be careful next time you go back for a lob!!

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The Name Game Part II. Why Do You Name Your Son Lester?

Now that you know how Barb and I picked the names of our kids, it is time to face the elephant in the room. How and why did my parents stick me with the name Lester? What’s the story?

I realize that some names go in and out of fashion. Last year’s top-of-the-heap baby name could be this year’s bottom-of-the-barrel. But Lester certainly never made it big. In the year I was born (1956, a year in which Michael dominated the most popular name list) Lester is ranked #176, sandwiched between Tim and Allan. Things went downhill from there. A quick look at the 2021 list shows Michael is still a respectable boy’s name choice at #17 while Lester doesn’t even crack the top 1,000.

And famous Lesters? You can just about fuggedaboutit! While we had no trouble coming up with 25 celebrities named Michael for centerpieces at our son’s Bar Mitzvah party, the list of Lesters that you have heard of is scant indeed. No royalty, no Presidents, no Supreme Court justices, no marquee actors. (See below for a Lester quiz.)

Occasionally Lesters do pop up. I was one of four Lesters in my medical school class. Though it felt amazing, we were still less than 1% of the class. And I can’t recall much about any of the other four–we didn’t exactly hang out together.

So how did my parents choose my name? Unlike many in the Jewish faith, I was not named after an ancestor. The initial “L” was not in honor of anyone lost in the Holocaust. And I doubt my parents were thinking of the English town of Leicester (pronounced Lester) when they were contemplating their choices–although my mother did spend a year in England on her immigration journey from Austria to the US.

Family legend attributes my name’s origin to a boy named Lester in my sister’s kindergarten class. Apparently, my mother liked the name so decided to hang it around the neck of her only son. No word has been passed on as to what my dad thought about the choice!

I have no idea if this tale is true. With my parents and sister deceased I have no way to confirm its veracity. I have known one other person from my sister’s kindergarten class, a Chicago psychiatrist who matriculated in the same med school class as me. While he recalled having a kindergarten crush on my sister, he didn’t remember any other Lesters being in their class.

So I will never know the whole saga. I have no one else to ask. To paraphrase the immortal words of Paul Harvey, “now you know most of the story.”

Lester Quiz

Can you name these “Lester” celebrities? Answer in “Replies” or send your responses to chidoc@post.com No fair Googling. No prize for the most right answers!


1. A Grammy-winning guitarist who is also in the Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame
2. America’s “greatest rock critic” (real name Leslie, but known as Lester)
3. Chicago Cubs’ free-agent acquisition, he led the team to a World Series title
4. A stellar bluegrass musician
5. NBC’s prime newscaster
6. Directed the Beatles
7. A Southern state governor in the 1960s.

How Did You Choose Your Child’s Name? This Is How We Chose Ours.

“How do you spell your name?” That is a question our daughter has had to answer throughout her life. And it is all because of a conversation between me, Barb, and a dear friend. Before I tell you about it, let me tell you why I was thinking about names today.

Barb sent me an amusing article from the NBC Today Show’s website. The post tells the tale of Gabrielle, a young woman who discovered that her name had been registered with the Social Security Administration as “Babrielle.” The mistake was caused by her mom’s loopy handwriting on a hospital form following Gabrielle’s difficult delivery–Mom herself being a bit loopy from medication.

The misspelling was not discovered until Gabrielle applied for her driver’s learner’s permit. And as the article points out, mistakes like that are not rare. Gabrielle’s story was followed with sagas of other people whose names were misregistered on their birth certificates or with government agencies.

But that is not how our daughter ended up with a common name spelled in an uncommon way. Instead, our story goes like this.

When Barb was pregnant in 1984 we had no difficulty conjuring up baby names. We knew if we were having a girl we would name her Lindsay, and if we were having a boy he would be called either Brian or Michael. One moment with our firstborn and we knew we had a Michael on our hands.

But two years later, when an ultrasound told us a daughter was on the way, the trendiness of Lindsay had come and gone. We struggled to find a suitable replacement. Day after day, the nurses caring for a post-C-section Barb asked us for our lovely little girl’s name–and we looked at our feet and said we weren’t sure yet.

The day before Barb’s scheduled discharge, her long-time friend Lysie stopped to visit. Hearing of our predicament, she offered “How about Laury. I think it is spelled L-A-U-R-Y.” Barb liked the name, and remembering a pizzeria on Broadway and Foster which I was sure was spelled Laury’s, I agreed. With the situation resolved, the next day we brought our Laury home.

Sadly, we lost our friend Lysie to breast cancer just a few years later. And the pizzeria (it was actually named Laurie’s, not Laury’s) was the site of a gang killing in 2012 leading to its closing. Those are true tragedies.

But Laury has her unique name and I hope that despite all the questions about the spelling she enjoys her distinctiveness.

Now if only I could only keep auto-correct from changing “Laury” into “Lori” every time I try to type my daughter’s name…

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Our Australia New Zealand Trip May Be Rated X. Find Out Why!

Now that Barb and I are home from our family-flavored week of fun in Orlando we are looking beyond the simulator adventures at Disney and Universal towards authentic thrills on our post-retirement journey to Australia and New Zealand. We have researched online, chatted with travel agents, studied cruise line brochures, and read the literature from two guided tour companies we have dealt with in the past, Tauck Tours and Abercrombie & Kent. Despite our efforts, we are no nearer to piecing together our Perfect Month Down Under than when we started.

To try to resolve the issue I gave Google an audible request to once again search for “Tauck Tours in Australia.” Perhaps I was mumbling, perhaps there was too much background noise, or perhaps I was drooling over the thought of a Vegemite sandwich, but for whatever reason, my iPhone misheard me, and instead of searching for Tauck Tours it did a (very thorough) search for “Talk to whores in Australia.”

Shazam! I was given a whole new outlook on our future plans! Now admittedly, I had not anticipated talking to ladies of the night (or in Oz is it “ladies of the morning”?) on our trip. I don’t believe I have talked to hookers on any previous vacation. In fact, it is doubtful I have ever intentionally talked to one, at home or abroad. But this seemed like a Google challenge.

So did I dare to click on any of the provided links? With no wish to be immediately harangued with ads for every sex product under the sun, and no desire for Russian scammers to reveal my prurient searches to friends, family, and co-workers if I did not send them $10,000 worth of bitcoin by the end of the day, I decided not to click my way through to any of the beauties that I knew were just one small mouse click away. I let the opportunity pass.

I am sure that we will make our voyage sometime in the next year. By land, sea, or air we will see the wonderous sites of Australasia, from Melbourne to Wellington, from Ayres Rock to the Marlborough Wine Region. But have I passed up the chance to say to a stunning Ozzie Prozzie, “G’day Mate. Can I slip another shrimp on your Barbie?”

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In Memory of Lin Brehmer and Dr. Rebecca Blank. After Every Loss We Must Fight For More Wins. Please Read To The End.

Last July, my post was centered around the newly public cancer diagnoses of Lin Brehmer and Rebecca Blank. As everyone in Chicagoland knows, Lin, our local WXRT radio legend, succumbed to prostate cancer last month. This week, we learned that Dr. Blank, the incoming President of Northwestern University, has passed away from her “aggressive” cancer, which I have seen classified as pancreatic cancer.

Sadly, my campaign for a moment of radio silence in honor of Lin fell on deaf ears. Too many readers let me know that “dead air” was the last thing a radio pro like Brehmer would have wanted. My next request will be for NU’s men’s basketball Wildcats to win a few games in the NCAA March Madness Tournament to honor the University President who never got to be. Go Cats!

Prostatic cancer and pancreatic cancer are the two diseases that took my father and my sister. Each year tens of thousands of other Americans die of these two scourges. A thimbleful of DNA gone wrong, a pinpoint of genetic material led astray, and a person’s life and sometimes lifespan is indelibly altered.

I am not an eternal pessimist. All cancer news is not negative. Progress is being made in the multi-faceted battle against the disease. The very genes whose alterations begin the malignant process are now targets for therapies that can halt or reverse the course of the disease. Surgery and radiation treatments have become more focused in an attempt to minimize patient side effects and avoid damage to surrounding tissues. In fact, better treatment along with earlier diagnoses and a decrease in smoking rates have given us a remarkable 33% drop in cancer death rates over the last 30 years.

My friends with cancer histories are fighting strong and proud. This week I bowled with a prostate cancer survivor and played tennis with a kidney cancer warrior. I aspire to play half as well and be half as optimistic as either one of them. And my dear wife is 11 years past her melanoma diagnosis and treatment. I look forward to a day when all cancer patients can celebrate the same successes.

Those of you who know me well are aware that for many years I have been involved in the SEA Blue/Zero Prostate Cancer Walk and Run for Prostate Cancer Awareness. My involvement continues this year. If you are thinking of Lin or someone in your family who has been affected by prostate cancer and want to help prostate cancer patients please support our cause by clicking this link. (Please be aware the donation process currently only works from mobile phones. It does not work on desktop computers or tablets.) Any and all donations are appreciated.

And if you are a Northwestern alum and want to recognize Dr. Blank, a memorial fund exists at the University of Wisconsin, where she served as Chancellor for nine years.

The fight goes on!

1971. Carole King and Romance Were In The Air

It was May of 1971. The spring of Carole King — the spring of Tapestry as it climbed the charts towards #1.

I first met her at the Bismarck Hotel, a downtown landmark, and the site of that year’s Kinus, our Chicagoland youth group convention. It was Friday afternoon, free time before that night’s Sabbath celebration, and a time for wandering the hotel halls and greeting friends from as far away as Milwaukee.

I don’t remember what pack of mates I was roaming with or who her companions were. We came across each other somewhere on one of the hotel’s upper floors and began a conversation. What did we talk about? Who remembers, though I am sure it was whatever 15 and 16-year-old boys and girls talked about with each other on a first meeting in the days before social media.

She and I paired up, maybe others did too. We found ourselves in someone’s room (hers? mine?) kissing on the bed as It’s too Late tinnily played on the room’s clock radio.

She lived in Pill Hill on South Side, I was an East Rogers Park kid too young for a car or a driver’s license. Getting together was tough, so it was a special treat when she told me her family was coming to my neighborhood to visit some acquaintances and she would come along. We could have a date!

The special Saturday night came. I picked her up at the apartment her folks were visiting, and then we walked to a FunFair at a neighborhood park. We returned to her family’s friend’s place at about 11 pm, to be told that the family had driven off to visit other friends in Skokie, and would I mind driving her there? I was stunned and stumped.

We walked out of the apartment building. I still had no car, no driver’s license, and certainly not enough money for a cab. In desperation, I looked around on the street and realized a slightly older buddy, the proud owner of a gleaming golden Mercury Cougar, lived close by.

We walked down the block to my friend’s apartment building. Not wanting to ring the bell and awaken his parents, I stood below his bedroom window and tossed some gravel against the dark window. A light came on in his room, the window opened, and I explained my predicament.

He came downstairs, drove us to Skokie, and returned me to my apartment building. He refused any payment, but I remember dropping a few dollars on the front seat for gas money.

That summer at youth group camp she told me it was over. I moved on, and she already had.

A few years later she called me. I drove out to see her once, but we never saw each other again. For that romance, it truly was too late.

The above was written as a response to the Storyworth prompt “Who did you date while in high school?” Thanks to my associate Ken Beck for subscribing me to Storyworth!