Mondays with Mike: Printers Row at its best     

It’s late spring going on foggy London town here in Chicago—it’s been warmish, it’s been coldish, and it’s been foggy the last few days, sometimes all in one day.

But that did not stop the Printers Row Lit Fest from its appointed duty.

The view on Friday night, everything’s ready to go.

It used to be called the Printers Row Book Fair, a tip of the hat to our neighborhood’s rich past as a center of printing and publishing. The festival started in 1985, when this neighborhood was, by all accounts, a lot different. But the renaissance had begun in earnest by then, and the Book Fair was a great way to let everyone—well everyone who loved books and writers—know that the area was trending up.

The Chicago Tribune bought the fair lock, stock and barrel back in 2012. There have been changes, good and bad, including the name. The only thing I like about Lit Fest vs. Book Fair is that our dear departed Hackney’s used to outfit bartenders and servers in T-shirts emblazoned Get Lit each year.

Beth and I have been here 15 years now and lots of our friends predate us by years, and despite the changes, there is a familiar, comforting rhythm to it all every year.

As early as Thursday, tents, tables, and other equipment are dropped off in the little park under our unit’s window. Dearborn Street and the parallel Federal Street and Plymouth Court are closed by dawn. No cars, just the sound of aluminum tent poles being unloaded onto the pavement. It’s sort of like an industrial wind chime.

By Friday evening, all the tents—which provide cover to an absolute menagerie of specialty and used book stores, niche publishers, academic publishers and authors’ guilds—are up and ready for Saturday morning.

All the while: No cars. We walk with abandon, and without the sound of vehicles. Whitney and Beth don’t have to wait for the light to change to cross Dearborn.

The kids’ area is in the park right under our unit.

On Saturday morning Dearborn is teeming with bookies (I know, but I’m stealing it for just this one time). They wander the vendors in between speaking sessions at local venues by famous people like Joyce Carol Oates and Frederik Backman.

Our less famous Beth Finke has given several sessions at past festivals but this year she had no such responsibility, and that lack of responsibility made this past weekend nicer than most. Along with neighborhood friends, we participated in what’s become a Saturday evening tradition. The Lit Fest closes up for the day at 6 p.m. but in the little park where they hold kids’ events and have kiddie rock music during the day, the management leaves out some tables and chairs. Now, some of the chairs are of the tiny-for-toddlers size, but our own camp chairs fill whatever void there is.

We fill the chairs with ourselves, and the tables with some cheese, Italian meats, and whatever someone decided to make—which this year included some roasted vegetables and homemade chutney.

The view from my camp chair Saturday night. Wish I could share the sound.

There is also wine and beer which we try to enjoy clandestinely so as not to disturb the peace.

And we blab into the summery (usually) night and just watch the lovely little fountain we sit by, the sound of which can be heard in the absence of the usual vehicular din.

I wish I could bottle that feeling, and I’m glad it hasn’t gotten old.