If you’ve followed our blog for a while, you know who Wanda Bridgeforth is: She’s witty, she’s talented, she’s 93 years old and she’s been attending the memoir-writing class I lead in downtown Chicago for a decade now.

When Wanda was growing up on the South Side of Chicago, her mother worked “in private family,” which meant mama lived at the houses she took care of. Wanda lived with one relative one week, a friend the next, and sometimes, with complete strangers.

Your positive response to last Thursday’s post motivated me to share another essay from a writer in one of the memoir classes I lead, and this time, we’ll hear from Wanda.

Wanda at her 90th birthday party with her fellow writers in our Renaissance Court class.

My classes are taking a short break after Labor Day, and for their final assignment I asked writers in Wanda’s class to imagine they could have a guarantee that one specific person would read their memoir. “Who would you want that person to be?” I asked.  “Why? What do you want to say to them?”

Wanda was born on October 20, 1921, and she’d like a guarantee that her descendant born closest to October 20, 2021 will read her memoir.

”I pass my memoir essays to you,” she says in the opening of her essay, urging her unknown reader to read her essays carefully and discover the many conveniences that were unknown in her own day. “You will see how we LIVED without them, and hopefully you will realize the contributions we made to ease your life.”

A savvy young 74-year old writer in Wanda’s memoir-writing class has started a blog called Beth’s Class where she publishes essays she and fellow writers from that class have written. You can link to the Beth’s Class blog to read Wanda’s entire essay, and in the meantime I’ll leave you here with her powerful — and beautifully written — conclusion:

I have tried to present some of the struggles we had, the indignities we endured to make the world a better place. The Civil Rights Movement. The right to vote for all. Equal education. Lifting of covenants to ensure the right to equal housing.

You will see the many advances we achieved. There is still much to be done and I hope you will be inspired to pick up the torch and work for more equality and greater opportunities for the generations that will follow you.

I challenge you to find humor in life, meet it head on, not take yourself too seriously, love your fellowman whether he loves you or not.

LIVE and LOVE LIFE to the FULLEST,

Above All:

BE AT PEACE WITH YOURSELF!!!

Okay, I admit it. Asking writers in my memoir-writing classes to choose any photograph they want and describe it to someone like me, who can’t see, was pretty self-serving. Thing is, though, the writers came back with pretty remarkable stuff!

I’m having my husband Mike post the photo writer John Simmons chose here. Before you read on, stop and guess where this photo was taken. Just a quick guess:

If you guessed Chicago, you must live here. In class, listening to John’s words, I was sure no one would ever guess this photo was taken in the Windy City. “If I were to drop a plumb from our balcony, you would hear a splash as it enters the Chicago River.” That’s his first line, and that’s how close he and Mary Jo Field, the woman who took the photograph, live to what he described as the “storied river that was once a receptacle for garbage, toxins, and raw sewage — and maybe a few of Al Capone’s enemies.” That’s all in the past now, John says. “Today the river is almost as pristine as the baptismal font at Saint James Cathedral.”

John continues his piece by comparing living on the river to living in a vaudeville theatre. “The scene is constantly changing,” he writes, describing how he might see a Seagull flying low on a reconnaissance mission, then a resident Canadian geese squadron making its way along the western bank, and then a powerful barge navigating the turn by the Chicago Tribune plant. College rowing teams practice on the Chicago River, too. “In the late fall when it is still dark around seven o’clock in the morning, I sometimes catch a glimpse of eight men rowing in perfect unison so silently its almost eerie.”

Having set the scene, John then starts describing his photograph: three sculls idling on the water directly under the Grand Avenue Bridge while coaches in aluminum boats beside them shout instructions from bullhorns. “It takes enormous exertion to move these boats at top speed,” John writes. “The fact that the crews are at rest wearing their blue sweat suits with a white stripe suggests there is chill in the air.” He continues:

At this time of day, the river seems to have a silver hue from the reflecting sunlight of the late afternoon. You hear a clanking sound each time a car passes over the Grand Avenue Bridge, a classic built in 1913. It got a fresh coat of rustproof paint that is almost the color of burnt amber and glistens in the dying sunlight. The bridge spans the river, which is about a wedge shot from one side to other.

John’s research for the piece told him the Grand Avenue bridge is 270 feet long and is known as a bascule bridge. “I guess that means it opens by lifting both sections, something I have seen, but rarely.” He describes two quaint little clapboard houses painted in green trim at each end of the bridge and assumes they housed the bridge master. “A base of concrete and red brick supports the western end of the single span bridge,” he writes, taking note of a gray sedan, the only vehicle crossing the bridge when the photo was taken. “If you look closely you can see two white gates in the vertical position, signifying the bridge is open for business.”

And here’s the part of John’s essay that had me totally convinced no one seeing this photo would guess in a million years that it had been taken in Chicago. We’re known for crime, the lakefront and skyscrapers. Not riverfronts! “If you look through the bridge you can see redbrick townhouses, fronted by well-mowed green grass and a pedestrian walk where the local dog population enjoys a bit of fresh air, always on leach to comply with the covenants of condominium association.” Thanks to you, John. I can just picture this scene!

Growing up, the telephone was central to my family’s daily life. In the early days we had what was known as a “party line.” Essentially, you shared a connection with other households—if you picked up, you might hear their conversation instead of a dial tone, and you’d have to hang up and check later.

Eventually, that ended, and we had our own dedicated line. I still remember our number. I also remember being aggravated that my mother, an elementary school teacher, would be on the phone endlessly. Some of it was her propensity to talk, but a lot of it was her being a good teacher—she made herself available to parents of her students, and they took full advantage.

I remember being home sick from the first grade, and my mom staying home with me. I was lying on the couch and we were watching As The World Turns and Walter Cronkite came on to announce that President Kennedy had been shot. A little later, we learned the president was dead, and my mom was on the phone with her mother. “And now we have that SOB Johnson,” I clearly recall her saying.

As I got older I would call my friends to arrange to do whatever we did back then. Sometimes we’d talk at length, though I can’t remember what we talked about. And I remember, staring at the phone, picking it up and putting it back down, until finally I mustered up the courage to dial and ask a girl out for a date.

When I went away to college, the phone calls to home, to high school friends who went to college elsewhere, were somewhat precious – they weren’t cheap. The same was true after I moved to Washington, D.C. to take my first job.

Today, I rarely have a real conversation on the phone. It’s usually a brief confirmation of some arrangement already communicated via text or email. Even at work, it’s the last resort—except for the painful modern phenomenon, the conference call.

Beth and I still have a land line. We kept it for all these years largely because Beth’s mom, Flo, had a hard time hearing via a cell connection.

That was partly age and compromised hearing. But, as this terrific article in The Atlantic explains, it was more because, well, cell phones stink at being phones.

I hope you’ll read the article—but in brief, the point is, as advanced as our smartphones are at digital stuff, they are a quantifiable step back in quality when it comes to voice transmission. For one, they don’t cover the full audio spectrum that we need for a conversation. For another, the connections aren’t nearly as reliable as old fashioned wire. And finally, something basic—they’re not full duplex, which means, in plain terms, that two parties can talk at the same time.

I don’t expect we’ll go back to land lines, and having long, heartfelt phone conversations. But the article was a reminder that often, when something is gained, something else is lost.

I just got word that in honor of the 25th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act, the Frank Lloyd Wright Trust is offering special tours for people with disabilities free of charge in 2015. Who knows? Maybe these Chicago ADA presentations I’ve been participating in are really making a difference!

Robie House

The Frank Lloyd Wright Trust is an ADA 25 Chicago program partner, and three of the special tours will take place in Frank Lloyd Wright buildings in Chicago: the Frederick C. Robie House, The Rookery Building lobby and the Emil Bach House. The Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio in Oak Park, Ill., will be offering a free special tour, too. More information on these four buildings:

1. Frederick C. Robie House (Frank Lloyd Wright, 1908-10) A masterpiece on 5757 S. Woodlawn Ave, Chicago is said to be the most innovative and forward-thinking of Wright’s Prairie houses.
2. The Rookery Building Lobby (Frank Lloyd Wright, 1905) is described as a “dramatic and stunning remodeling” of Burnham & Root’s original design. At 209 S. LaSalle, it’s just blocks away from our apartment in Chicago.
3. Emil Bach House (Frank Lloyd Wright, 1915) is a Prairie house at 7415 N. Sheridan Road in Chicago. I’d never heard of this one before, but The Frank Lloyd Trust says it “looks toward Wright’s future stylistic direction.”
4. Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio (Frank Lloyd Wright, 1889/1898) is where it all started –t he birthplace of Wright’s vision for a new American architecture, and it’s just an el ride away at 951 Chicago Ave, in suburban Oak Park, Ill.

The American Sign Language tour date for the Rookery Building Lobby is Wednesday, September 23 at 1:30 pm, the Emil Bach House ASl tour will be on Sunday, October 4 at 9:30 am, and the Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio ASL tour is on October 2, at 12:00 pm.

Touch tour dates :

• Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio on Saturday, September 19 at 4:30 pm
• Emil Bach House on Thursday October 8 at 2:15 pm
• Frederick C. Robie House on Sunday, October 25 at 4 pm
• The Rookery Building Lobby on Friday, November 6 at 12:30 pm

I’m told space will be limited on these guided tours, and that if you want more information, you should contact Laura Dodd by phone at 312.994.4005 or by email at ldodd@flwright.org.

In some of the presentations I give, I try to point out some bennefits of being blind: I bring my dog along wherever I go, I walk arm-and-arm with friends when I want, and I can’t judge people by what they look like. Soon I may be able to add one more benefit to that list: I got to touch Frank Lloyd Wright artifacts when I toured his buildings!

Soon after we moved from Urbana to Chicago, Beth connected with a great local organization called Blind Service Association. Among other things, it provides sighted readers to people who need stuff read. Beth needed stuff read, and truth is, I needed to have her have stuff read—because I can’t keep up with it all.

Now, you might be thinking great literature, poetry, or the like. But no, what Beth and lots of people who are blind really need read are bills, instruction sheets, miscellaneous snail mail, the printed flotsam and jetsam that isn’t available online. Some also need help filling out forms, balancing checkbooks and addressing envelopes.

So the volunteer readers are a game lot. One of Beth’s first volunteers was a Bronx-born, Yankee-rooting, retired public school teacher who’d followed her physician husband to Chicago. Benita and Beth hit it off right away. And though their reading dates dwindled over time, they continued to see each other socially. I eventually met Benita and her husband Henry, and we always shared lots of laughs, great conversation, and usually some good food and drink. The two of them made the most of their time in Chicago, choosing not, at least in my company, to bemoan not being in New York. Memorably, we watched game 2 of the 2005 World Series with Benita and Henry on the big screen TV at their apartment, all hooting when Scott Podsednik launched an unlikely walk-off home run to give the Sox a 2 games to none lead in the series.

Our walk in NY included a visit to the enormous statue of Teddy Roosevelt in front of the American Museum of Natural History.

Last Thursday evening we found ourselves again in Henry and Benita’s living room. I sipped on a fine cocktail mixed by the good doctor. Only this time, their living room was in New York’s Upper West Side. Henry retired awhile back and the two of them returned to their roots.

Our generous hosts treated us to dinner at a neighborhood favorite and the next morning we convened for the best lox and bagel ever at a place called Barney Greengrass, a deli that Henry’s father used to go to. Our friends live across from the American Museum of Natural History (you know, the Night at the Museum one), and a block from Central Park. Benita and Henry led us on a glorious hike through the park, we passed the Delacorte Theater, stopped at the frog pond, crossed to the East Side . . . I think I could grow to love New York.

The best part, though, was simply Benita and Henry’s company. Witty, well traveled, well-read. It’s just good being together.

Benita rode with us on the Subway to Penn Station to see that we were on time for our Amtrak to Philadelphia. Two notable things about that: I didn’t think there could be a more poorly laid-out terminal than Chicago’s Union Station, but Penn Station is in the running. And, Amtrak was on time and we were in Philly before we knew it.

We checked in at the Philadelphia Racquet Club, the headquarters for the wedding we’d be attending. The vaunted institution clearly had seen better days, but it still exuded all that clubby “let’s play a game of squash “ atmosphere.

Then it was a couple blocks to the rehearsal dinner for the wedding of my god-daughter, Sasha. Well, technically, by rites of the Serbian Orthodox Church, she is my Kuma—but that’s another story.

I hadn’t seen her in years and years. I had, however, stayed in touch with her mother, whom I have known since I was a teenager. Rebecca and I were fast friends and partners in crime through high school, and during summers when we were home from college. What we had in common was restlessness, a raw hunger to get out there in the world and see what we could do.

We talked culture, politics—and I’d hang out at her house where her father would pick apart my political arguments. If I equivocated, Mitch was quick to say in a Humphrey Bogart voice, “The problem with you is you have your ass in two chairs. You gotta get your ass in one chair, pal.”

Meanwhile, Rebecca’s mom Mildred would bring me food and then more food.

At Sasha’s and James’ wedding, there was much music and just as much dancing.

Through those years, Rebecca and I  helped one another stay sane. Over the decades, our lives meandered in very different directions but somehow we never lost touch.

The rehearsal dinner was full of conversation and a bunch of happy people, as was the wedding—held in a Greek Orthodox Church (a Serbian one wasn’t handy). James the groom and his family are of Scottish descent, and his people wore some pretty spiffy formal kilts.

The reception? Great food and drink, and one-of-a-kind music: A brass band. Comprised of Philadelphia Philharmonic Orchestra players. Playing Balkan music. Phenomenal.

I’m told the reception went till 3:30. We didn’t make it to that hour.

We were up and wide awake, however, the next morning. As it happens, Sasha’s new husband is a Quaker. And so we were off for a Quaker meeting to mark the union of James and Sasha. It was my first Friends meeting, and it may not be the last. It goes like this: You sit. You shut up. You contemplate. Quietly. And if you are moved to share something, you stand and say it, sit back down, and continue contemplating.

It was perfect. I thought about those times at Rebecca’s house some 30 years ago. I thought about her parents, and how I had seen their faces in the faces of their children and grandchildren all weekend. I thought about how if someone had told me and Rebecca back when I was 18 that one day we’d be in a Friends Meeting celebrating her daughter’s wedding, we would’ve been dumbfounded. I thought about the magnificent old trees in Central Park, and the frogs.

And I thought about all of our wonderful friends.