That’s Brad at a New Year’s celebration at Hackney’s in 2014. Rest in peace, dear friend.

Hello from Beth. Mike and I got some tough news yesterday — we learned our friend Stephen Bradley Gillaugh had died from lung cancer yesterday morning. We always referred to the Notorious SBG as Brad,” and I hope this posting of a blog Mike wrote about him ten years ago will give you a glimpse of why we loved –and will miss – Brad so much.

Me and Brad and Roy

by Michael Knezovich

Our favorite neighborhood watering hole and restaurant – Hackney’s Printers Row – draws us frequently (probably too frequently) because it also draws an eclectic, articulate, smart, accomplished and just-plain-nice group of folks from the neighborhood. Attorneys, artists, architects, research scientists, computer programmers, linguists, stock market mavens … you can learn a lot sipping a beer at Hack’s.

One of the Hackney’s denizens Beth and I have learned a great deal from is Stephen Bradley Gillaugh, who goes simply by “Brad.” Brad moved to Printers Row – from Los Angeles – to retire after a long, illustrious career in the art world. He worked for decades in NYC – at the Museum of Modern Art and at the famed Leo Castelli Gallery. Later, in LA, he managed a big corporate art collection (when corporations used to have such things). Brad doesn’t brag, but over time (and libations) Beth and I have gotten lots of inside chatter of his first-person encounters with the likes of Rauschenberg and Warhol and…even Truman Capote. (I’m not telling, so don’t even ask.)

We also learned that Brad has a fantastic art collection displayed right there in his own apartment. And get this: he has so much art that some of it has been left in boxes and shipping tubes. Why, you ask? Because there is no room in his apartment to display it.And so Brad, one day, decided to go through his forgotten works. He found prints and drawings by Roy Lichtenstein, Roger Brown, and other notables. But instead of framing them, he’s gone on a generous donation campaign, giving them outright to friends in the neighborhood.

Thanks to Brad’s generosity, this hangs in our living room.

Including us.

He had us over one evening to select from his overage. I took a fancy to the one he’d guessed I’d like — a print of a poster Lichtenstein did for the 1967 Aspen Winter Jazz Festival. It now hangs in our living room.

And I love it.

So much so that in 2012 it inspired me to visit the Art Institute of Chicago to take in the Lichtenstein Retrospective that runs through September 3. It turned out to be a terrific show—but it was all the better because I walked the gallery with Brad.

Along the way, I learned that Lichtenstein was a kind, even-tempered man, not the stereotypical high-maintenance hell-raising artist. He did drawings – studies – that became the basis of his paintings. He didn’t sell the drawings (many of which are in the retrospective), but “around the holidays,” Brad says, “he’d come into the gallery (Castelli) and give them to staff as gifts.” One of them – a study of entablatures – Lichtenstein gave directly to Brad, signed with a personal note.

I learned that Lichtenstein was easy to work with — as opposed to another prominent artist, who, Brad says “traveled with an entourage and would go through two bottles of Jack Daniels every time we set up a show.”

Two of my favorite people: Brad and, well, I think you recognize her.

I learned that Brad had actually handled one of the sculptures in the Lichtenstein exhibit ( it’s a big, metal art-deco-ish piece called “Modern Sculpture with Glass Wave” if you take in the show). Brad pointed at it and groaned, saying only that it was “god-awful heavy” to move around.

And for those of you who know Lichtenstein and may be thinking Brad…Brad…no our Brad is not THAT Brad. But I’m glad he’s our Brad, and I marvel at the people Beth and I are lucky enough to call our friends

That was the view from my hotel room.

Two weeks ago I was exploring Mexico City, acting the tourist after three days of work meetings. My phone tells me that on Monday, Sept. 12, I took more than 25,000 steps, covering 10+ miles. Every bit of it was worth it.

I work for a non-profit—and like other non-profits, our board of directors meets regularly to do things that boards do. But to shake things loose — to do some blue-sky thinking — the board invites some staff members to join them for the annual board retreat. The agenda is all about everything that isn’t business-as-usual – more of a “what if?” exercise.

This year, we held the retreat in Mexico City largely because one of our esteemed board members, Lourdes Melgar, lives there and served as a sort of unofficial host. It was an inspired choice of locations, because being in a grand, richly historic setting that was unfamiliar to most of us seemed to energize and set free our discussions.

About Lourdes — she’s got some energy chops. From her bio:

Lourdes Melgar, Ph.D., is a nonresident fellow at the Baker Institute Center for Energy. She is also a research affiliate at the Center for Collective Intelligence at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where she was the 2016-17 Robert E. Wilhelm Fellow.

From February 2014 to July 2016, Melgar served as Mexico’s deputy secretary of energy for hydrocarbons and was a member of Pemex’s board of directors. She was Mexico’s under-secretary for electricity from December 2012 to February 2014, during which she also served on the board of the Federal Electricity Commission. 

Paddleboats on the lagoon in Chapultepec Park.

Anyway, I’ll spare you more work details and say that Mexico City is as grand a city as any I’ve visited in the United States or Europe. I knew little about it save for childhood recollections from the 1968 summer Olympicgames that included what was then an unbelievable long jump record set by Bob Beamon and two African American medalists–John Carlos and Tommie Smith–flashing the Black Power symbol from the awards podium. It caused quite the stir.

Beyond that, I had the usual kind of chauvinistic American view of it and all things Mexico. I think to many Americans Mexico means either all-inclusive stays at beach resorts or drug cartels and crime and corruption. Or the place people flee to come to the United States.

Welp, not exactly.

I saw just a sliver of this giant metropolis, but it was enough to be awed by what a sophisticated city it is, and by the incredible history of Mexico that I learned about during my visit.

Mind you, it’s a big city, and like lots of big cities—including here in the United States—neighborhoods run from the opulent to the ragged and poverty-ridden.

But oh my. Here are a few touristy highlights:

The entrance to the museum.

• You’ll hear this from anyone who’s been to Mexico City but you must visit the national museum of anthropology and archaeology. It’s about the grandest of grand museums I’ve ever visited. The richness and complexity of the history of Mexico is mind-boggling. And the way cultures/societies supplanted and subsumed others, again and again, provides a nice sense of how on one hand, what we do is important, and on the other, it’s but a tiny data point.
• The museum is one of several set in Chapultepec Park, a lushly green and sprawling expanse that is twice the size of New York’s Central Park.
• Another park near our hotel was Lincoln Park. As in Abraham. There’s a statue of him — and he faces directly across from a statue of Martin Luther King.
• Speaking of lush, we stayed in the Polanco neighborhood, which is affluent and not necessarily typical. Flying in and then walking around on the ground, Mexico City is strikingly green. As in oodles of mature trees and vegetation and parks.
• Food. If you go, have lots of it. My highlights were street tacos al pastor, shaved off the spit in front of my eyes. Also barbacoa to die for. And…we had dinner at a great French restaurant.
• Drink lots of water. Mexico City sits at over 7,000 feet above sea level. The air is dry and thin, so take it easy for a couple days.
• The elevation makes for an extremely mild and pleasant climate. I experienced low 70s every single day for a week.

Adios!

In Lincoln Park, you can rent radio control boats.

That’s Harper in his Seeing Eye graduation picture.

Last week we got word that Harper, the lovable yellow Labrador who saved Beth from being hit by a car years ago, passed away. He was 14.

 I chronicled Harper’s heroism in real time in a blog post—I hope you’ll take the time to read (or re-read) it. He really was a hero.

 Speaking of heroes, our friends who have taken Beth’s retired Seeing Eye dogs all should get Purple Hearts. They get terrific canine companions, yes—but the dogs are at the back end of their lives. To Randy (Dora), Nancy and Steven (Hanni), Chris and Larry (Harper), and Elisse (Whitney)—thank you for your generosity and for making parting with Beth’s dogs happy retirement parties, rather than sad goodbyes.

With that I’ll turn the blog over to one of Harper’s humans—Larry, who has his own poignant story that, as fate had it, would intertwine with Harper’s. After Harper and Beth’s near miss with a car, Harper experienced a sort of canine PTSD. Harper simply would not guide Beth more than a block from home. As it turns out, Larry—a Vietnam war veteran—understood Harper, and vice versa. With that, I’ll let Larry tell their story:

Harper came into my/our life at just the right time. I had mistakenly decided that I would retire, having convinced myself that I didn’t have the desire or energy to do the resume/interview thing again.

The problem with that thinking was that I have used work as a narcotic in my life. If I worked 12, 16 or 18 hours a day I could sleep through nights that would otherwise be the playground of the bugs and demons of my military and childhood experiences. When Harper came to live with us, I had run through all of the home repair projects that I had been using to keep me busy, and had become a raving insomniac. Harper arrived disoriented, and I had the impression that he also had demons that he was confronting.

When Hanni (on the left), met Harper (on the right), and Whitney with her back to the camera.

Chris worked with him during the day showing him that it was ok to relax and walk and sniff. At night Harper and I would sit in the dark, each, I’m sure, thinking “What is he thinking about, what is keeping you awake tonight?” At first he would stay in his bed with me watching as he would slowly drift off into a sometimes fitful sleep. I started to realize that I was drifting off first, sleeping in my chair, only to wake up to see a big yellow dog staring at me as if to say, “OK, now what?”

As the months rolled by, Harper became more comfortable in his new surroundings. I was sleeping more, and he was now sleeping in our bedroom—mostly in his bed. Sometimes he would sleep on the floor next to me. He would wake me up by laying his big head on the edge of the bed on those nights that my dreams were not so nice.

Harper was never one to be hugged, yet he loved to have his back and butt scratched. He loved to play the game of “find it,” where Chris would have him sit in the kitchen and then hide treats throughout the house and have him find them, encouraging him to “find it Harper, find it.” He loved the game or maybe it was the treat; regardless, I loved it.

Harper always met us with a wagging tail; I believe he loved people. If Chris and I got too heated in our breakfast conversation, he would come and stand between us, as if to say, “Is this really necessary?”

As we got older he became more and more uncomfortable with thunderstorms. We all spent some sleepless nights listening to thunder and rain. Nothing in my life has had as much meaning as those rainy nights when I was sure that in some small part I was repaying Harper for the nights that he helped me get through.

Yep Harper was a special guy, and will be missed.

Mark your calendars: the 37th annual Printers Row Lit Fest is next weekend! This year’s two-day literary extravaganza in Chicago takes place on Saturday and Sunday, September 10 and 11. The fest features close to 150 presenters, And I’m one of them.

Date: Saturday, September 10
Time: 11am to 11:45 a.m.
Location: Grace Place (637 S. Dearborn St.), 2nd Floor
Program: Unlocking Memories and Uncovering Stories

Chicago author Beth Finke interviews two writers from the memoir-writing classes she leads to find out how they managed to get their stories published as children’s books while sheltering in place during COVID.
Bindy Bitterman, author of children’s book “Skiddly Diddly Skat” and Sharon Kramer, author of children’s book “Time for Bubbe” in conversation with Chicago author Beth Finke

Bindy Bitterman and Sharon Kramer will sign books at Grace Place after the presentation — Printers Row Lit Fest is sponsoring a short book signing for them right there. Meanwhile, Seeing Eye dog Luna and I will hightail it to a table across the street in front of Sandmeyer’s, our favorite local bookstore to chat with passers-by and sign books for any and all interested bookworms.

Sandmeyer’s first honored me with a spot at their table way back when my children’s book “Safe and Sound” was published and Printer’s Row Lit Fest was still called Printer’s Row Book Fair. This year they’ll have copies of “Safe and Sound” available at our table for Luna and me to sign, along with my memoir “Long Time, No See” and my most recent book, “Writing Out Loud.”

September 10, 2022 (Saturday) noon to 1 p.m.
Booksigning
Chicago author Beth Finke
Sandmeyer’s Bookstore
714 S. Dearborn St.
Chicago, IL 60605
312-922-2104

It can make a person feel downright proud, living in a neighborhood that devotes an entire festival to books every year. If you’re free on Saturday, September 10, 2022 consider coming down to Printers Row and checking out the hood. And our 11 a.m. presentation there on September 10, too, of course.

I’m all for electrification. For houses, for cars, appliances, lawn tools, tractors, trucks, you name it. That’s how we reduce carbon and and climate change.

But not electric scooters. Or “electric bicycles.” (A motor-powered bicycle is, to me, a contradiction in terms. Hence quotes.) Really, it’s like ill-behaved dogs and other pets—it’s not the vehicles that are the problem, it’s the riders/drivers.

Here in my neighborhood, the use of the electric scooters, electrically-aided bicycles, electric skateboards, and things I can’t even describe—has exploded post covid. And like post-covid behavior on the roads, somehow rules and norms have gone out the window. I live on Dearborn Street, where several years ago Rahm Emanuel in a fit of goodness constructed a beautiful protected bike lane that one can ride all the way from our neighborhood to the River North neighborhood.

But if one does, one must obey the traffic lights and other conventions. Which ain’t happening.

It has become a common occurrence for one of our neighbors to yell at bicyclists riding on the Dearborn sidewalk parallel to that aforementioned bike lane, squeezing through passages that have been narrowed by sidewalk cafes.

For those of you who remember “Breaking Away,” I dream of the stick in the spokes scene. He didn’t deserve it. These people do.

It’s totally inconsistent, which makes it hard on pedestrians and drivers. Right now I see bicycles on sidewalks, in traffic even though there’s a bicycle lane readily available, and, hallelujah, others using the bike lanes.

I see scooters in all three avenues, too.

If you look at promotions for these electric things one of the funnier claims is that they’re good for the environment. Um, probably not. Batteries require resources and making them isn’t a pretty, clean process. So we’re doing that instead of asking people to, you know, walk. Pedal. Push off. A little more exercise would be good for all of us.

Anyway, like a lot of stuff I imagine that regulation and legalities will catch up and help remedy the matter. In some states and localities, the rules are clearer than others. And that is as it should be. The suburbs are a very different environment than where I live. But right now I see bicycles on sidewalks, in traffic when there’s a bicycle lane readily available, and, hallelujah, using the bike lanes.

And I wonder, if I’m a pedestrian and I get struck by a bicyclist or scooter, are they liable? Do they have insurance (answer is likely no).

I also see a nice source of revenue here. Just station bike cops all over and start handing out $50 tickets. We’d get a boost and it’d probably fix the problem in 3-6 months.

And then of course, the ambulance—er, scooter—chasers will probably jump in at any time now. And, maybe that’s not a bad thing.