I don’t know much about football, but I do know this: the Chicago Bears are playing the New Orleans Saints later today.

The Quarter was joyous.

I’m kind of a Saints fan. My appreciation for that team started during a 2007 vacation. Mike and I happened to have been in New Orleans 14 years ago on the weekend the Saints beat the Philadelphia Eagles in a playoff game, and before, during, and after the game, the sidewalks in the French Quarter were packed. People were singing in the streets. Makeshift parades rolled down Toulouse, Royal and Rampart Street. In Jackson Square, street musicians played “When the Saints Go Marching In” over and over. And over and over. And over.

It wasn’t Mardi Gras. It was football.

The win that day meant the Saints would head to Soldier Field the next week for the NFC championship game against the Bears. “It’s just like old times,” our bartender laughed. She meant, of course, that it was the way things were before Hurricane Katrina. The hurricane had hit over a year before, but People down there still referred to the disaster in everyday conversation. B.K. and P.K. Before Katrina, Post-Katrina.

I asked the bartender how her life had changed since the hurricane. She used to tend bar Uptown, she said. That place is still closed. But she felt lucky. She only had to leave town for a month after the levee failure. And when she got back, her landlord didn’t raise her rent.

When we visited our favorite jewelry store in New Orleans, the owner told us her house had flooded, she and her kids had to move into her sister’s place in New York, and her marriage ended up in divorce. Her employees had scattered to places like Arizona and North Carolina. They weren’t coming back.

And yet, she said she felt lucky. When she and her children returned to New Orleans in October, her old landlord said it’d be okay to rent her store space month to month. See how business goes before committing to staying. She confessed she wasn’t a football fan, but she was glad the Saints were winning. People were coming into her store. And they were happy. Buying things. And during her exile in New York, her kids went to private school. They got free tuition. “You know, because we were Katrina refugees!”

At our favorite bookstore (not exactly a hangout for football fans) the guy at the counter said business was up. There was a buzz in town. He hadn’t seen it like this since B.K. Before Katrina. “Go Saints!” he called out to us as we picked up our bag of books and headed outside.

That playoff win wasn’t enough to make the people of New Orleans forget the empty storefronts. The boarded-up buildings. The desolate, abandoned 9th ward. The friends who have left. Or have died.
But for one day, in New Orleans, the sun was shining, the streets were full, and things were looking up. Everybody felt lucky to be there – including Mike and me.

When we returned later that week to our Printers Row neighborhood here in Chicago, I told our Hackney’s bartender the reasons I’d be backing the Saints in the upcoming game against the Bears. Things have been so horrible down there, I said. New Orleans needed something to cheer about.

“Oh, brother, Screw that!” he said. Actually, he used more colorful language. And then he went on. “I am so sick of that, the whole country backing the Saints because of that hurricane,” he said in disgust. “C’mon, Beth, How about Chicago? We had a fire!”

I had to laugh.

This year is the 150th anniversary of that Great Chicago Fire. And this year, every city with a NFL football team has fans looking at empty storefronts, boarded-up buildings, desolate and abandoned neighborhoods. All have friends who have left. Or have died. So who to root for in 2021?

All of us.

I am pleased to feature Ann Parrilli as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. Ann joined the “Me, Myself and I” class last year when we were still meeting in person at the Chicago Cultural Center and continues writing — and reading — essays while that class meets via Zoom. Here she is with an essay about a city creature who stole her heart.

by Ann Parrilli

At peace.

I was clipping along on my daily walk when I saw, maybe 10 yards ahead of me, what looked like a hat on the sidewalk. A wrought iron fence ran along the left side of the walk — I’d be able to hang the hat there so the owner would see it the next time he or she passed by. I was almost on top of the object when I realized it was not a hat.

It was a dead squirrel.

My first instinct was to move it off the sidewalk so it wouldn’t be set upon by a dog looking for a playmate or, worse, a coyote looking for a tasty appetizer.

I did not have my latex Covid gloves with me at the moment, so my overriding second instinct was to play it safe and not touch it. I paused long enough to appreciate how the color and texture of its fur blended into the sidewalk in an uncanny composition of man and nature.

I walked on with that picture in my head. Twenty yards on, I turned back. Feeling foolish, and a little heartless, I pulled out my phone and took a picture of this arresting still life. He was a beautiful specimen. I knelt down on one knee to look closer. He looked well fed, with a thick and glossy coat. His closed eyes were bordered by feathery eyelashes that matched his variegated coat , a rich mixture of grey, white and amber. His ears were erect, ready to detect any danger. His back legs were muscular and flexed. It was as if he had fallen while still intent on landing on a branch just slightly out of reach.

I must have been there close to the ground quite a while. When I tried to stand up, I had to unfold myself in sections. An hour later I was startled to find myself at my front door. How did I get there? I don’t remember anything about that part of my walk. My mind was elsewhere.

Throughout the evening I would occasionally look at the picture I’d taken that late afternoon. He really was a beautiful creature. I slept fitfully that night, and by the time daylight crept into my room I gave up trying to rest. I knew what I had to do.

After gathering gloves, trowel, a low stool and remnants of a soft cotton sweatshirt I used to wear in my underheated San Francisco apartment, I resigned myself to be forever known in my neighborhood as “that crazy squirrel lady” and set off pulling my cart behind me.

The morning was pleasantly still and sunny, the kind of day that makes everything a bit easier. Arriving at the site, I found my furry friend lying peacefully under his tree. A kinder person than myself had moved him off the sidewalk to the comfort of grass and fallen leaves. What a relief to see he had not been disturbed by a predator.

It didn’t take long to dig deep enough. After lining his grave with my shirt, I gently lifted him into his forever home. He curled gracefully into the contours of the walls, much like, I imagined, he would have in his own nest. He looked at peace.

And, finally, so was I.

Every December the publisher of my book Writing Out Loud asks me to write a year-end holiday message to send out to people who subscribe to my newsletter.

Click on the image to sign up for my newsletter.

But this past holiday, I had writer’s block. Who wanted to think hard about 2020? What would I write about? Conference presentations that got cancelled? Visits to elementary schools that didn’t happen? Friends and family members I haven’t hugged since February? Baseball games we didn’t go to? Life without music concerts? No live theater? No Summer Dance? How I managed to survive all that?

Wait. Surviving it all. Precisely what I’d write about. And now, in hindsight, I could credit blindness for helping me through. Newsletter subscribers were rewarded with the longer version of this story. For you blog readers, the following is an excerpt. Happy New Year!

Let me be clear — the fact that I am blind is not what helped me cope. Being blind is somewhat problematic in a pandemic. Social distancing, for example, can be difficult. Hard to judge what six feet is. Seeing Eye dog Luna and I do our best.

The thing that helped me cope this year is the experience of going blind. Three decades ago, I survived a similarly scary year. 1985 was the year I lost my sight. Like 2020, a year of loss and limitations.

And lessons learned.

Some of those lessons? Slow down. Ask for help. Be brave. Be resourceful. Learn new skills. Help others. Make mistakes, and learn from them. Be grateful. Focus on things you can do rather than fret over those you can’t.

Simply put, allow life-altering events to do just that: alter your life. The skills I learned the year I lost my sight all came in handy when Mike was admitted to the hospital in March this past year with the COVID-19 virus:

• Luna and I were alone, on our own, for ten days. I wouldn’t have made it through without her, and I’m grateful to the Seeing Eye for her training.
• People contacted me to see if I needed help, and I answered honestly. I could use some food! Far-away friends and family charged meals-to-go at local restaurants, and neighbors volunteered to pick up my dinners and deliver them to our condo.
• I got more adept at using VoiceOver (the speech synthesizer that comes with every iPhone) to text and answer the phone when Mike called, or when caring doctors, social workers, friends and family contacted me to see how he was doing.
• My part-time job moderating this blog for Easterseals National Headquarters saved me from feeling lonely. Public policy, special education, health care, funding – all extremely important issues during a pandemic. My work there kept me engaged, and I am grateful my job continued, working from home.
• Before he got sick, Mike had been taking Luna out for her nighttime “empty” of the day. Now, just like when I was losing my sight, I had to be brave. I donned a mask and disposable gloves every night, and assumed bad guys were staying home during the pandemic.

As days went on with Mike still in the hospital, I started ending my email and text responses by asking that, “If you pray, please pray for us. If you think, send good thoughts our way.”

They did. It worked.

After ten days away, Mike came home. And that’s when it dawned on me. I hadn’t been home alone at all: all those people thinking about us helped us through. In its own upside-down way, 2020 has taught me what a gift it is to love – and be loved by – people so much that we ache to be with them in person. I’m hopeful for 2021, a year of good health, happiness…and hugs.

I had the week after Christmas off,  and I took advantage of it by spending a few nights at Starved Rock State Park. I needed some nature time outside the city, and Beth needed me to have nature time outside our condo.

We’re together a lot in these times.

As I finished packing on the day of my departure, I ran through my myriad pills and discovered I’d run out of one of my prescriptions while I was away. I booked a refill and picked it up around noon.

Would you like a bag?” the pharmacist asked. I said no, and stuffed the prescription into my right jacket pocket.

On the way back I stopped at the market for something that Beth needed, and I stuffed it in the other jacket pocket.

I got home, gave Beth her stuff, picked up my rental car, threw my bags in the car, and I was off. About an hour out, I visualized the two books I wanted to bring with me…sitting on the ottoman at home. Which is where they still are.

About the same time, my phone lit up—I didn’t recognize the number, and besides, I was driving, so I didn’t pick up. When I stopped for a break, I checked my voicemail. I hit the play button and heard a gravelly voice and dialect reminiscent of Louis Armstrong. Between the audio limitations of his cell phone and my cell phone, it was difficult to understand what he said, but I heard the word “prescriptions.”

I figured it was a wrong number until I checked into the lodge and unpacked. I reached into my pocket to put my new prescriptions into my toiletries bag and…no prescriptions. Uh oh. Finally the light bulb went off: Lloyd, who’d left the message, had found my prescriptions. I hoped, anyway.

I called back, but the voicemail said leave a message for a woman named Pat. I went ahead and left a message, and within minutes I got a call back. It was Lloyd again, and this time we could hear each other better. He had indeed found my prescriptions and he wanted to know how to get it back to me.

I learned two things: My jacket pockets aren’t deep enough to hold anything much more than a glove. And, for better or worse, every prescription has my phone number and home address. And a stranger now had both.

One thing to know about our Walgreens: It’s at a hub of the elevated Orange and Green Lines, and to the Red Line subway. It’s also a major bus hub. And so, an assortment of what my parents used to call “characters” congregate on Roosevelt. It’s never threatening, but I’ve taken to calling it the Star Wars Cantina. It’s a bit of a gauntlet to walk through with guys selling loose cigarettes and panhandlers.

And  I’m thinking, Lloyd’s one of those characters. And I got worried until…I realized that this man could’ve thrown my prescriptions in the trash. But he took the trouble to call me on his grandmother’s phone. And I felt a little remorse for thinking, even for a moment, the worst.

I thought about asking Lloyd to bring the prescriptions back to the store, but really, I wanted to thank him personally. So, we greed to meet Thursday, the day I returned, at the Walgreens entrance.

That morning I called to confirm that we’d meet at 1 pm. “I’m taking the train,” Lloyd said. “I’ll call you when I come up the steps from the Red Line.”

I went early to grab another scrip at the drugstore—this time I said yes to the bag.  I hung out outside, watching street life. I eyeballed the Red Line stairs and eventually a heavy-set guy with a phone in his hand emerged from underground.

My phone rang and I waved to him without picking up the call.

He walked toward me with a slight limp. As he approached, he said, “Mike?”

“Yeah, Lloyd?”

We broke the rules and shook hands.

I thanked him profusely—and it was sincere. For one, I needed the pills—I was out. For another, it was a three-month supply. So, if I circled back and the insurance wouldn’t pay, I’d be out a fair amount of cash. And finally, the guy went out of his way for me.

He handed me my prescriptions, which I immediately put into the bag I’d gotten from my latest pickup.

And I handed him an envelope to thank him for his time and effort, something he’d not asked for.

And that was that. We said goodbyes and exchanged Happy New Years. I walked north, and he walked around the corner, headed to the Star Wars Cantina on Roosevelt.

Thanks to the generosity of the artist, Bill didn’t have to live without this painting.

I am pleased to Welcome Bill Gordon back today as our first Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger for 2021. Born and raised in Kansas, Bill lived all over the country during his nearly 50-year career in library and association management. When he retired in 2002, he was the Executive Director of The American Library Association, located here in Chicago, and has called Chicago home ever since. Bill, 84, says life so far has been “a great adventure.” Lucky for us, he enjoys sharing his colorful life stories through his participation in our Monday Village Chicago memoir-writing class. Aware that writers had been spending an inordinate time at home in 2020, I asked them to choose an object they have in their home and write about it. Meeting on Zoom allowed writers to show the chosen object on video as well, and today we are delighted to share Bill’s essay and photo here to wish you all a new year full of good will, new friendships, hope and happy surprises.

by Bill Gordon

In 1996, the planners of the annual conference of the International Federation of Library Associations and Institutions invited me, as the Executive Director of the American Library Association, to be one of the primary speakers. The Conference would be in Amsterdam, one of my favorite international cities. How could I say no?

All my travel arrangements were made and paid for by the Federation. My accomations were in a stunning boutique hotel constructed by combining eight seventeenth century buildings. By then I had been in Amsterdam many times, but the city offered always new places to explore — streets, museums, cafes, the famous red light district, and, of course, art galleries. From the time I had any disposable income I started buying art that “spoke” to me and that I could afford, even if just barely.

Every spare moment from the conference found me wandering the streets and neighborhoods of the city. Late one afternoon walking through an unfamiliar neighborhood, I was caught in a downpour. To get out of the rain, I dashed into the entryway of a building…which turned out to be an art gallery!

The gallery was closed, but I was captivated by the paintings on display in the windows — all by the same artist — Gerti Bierenbroodspot. Throughout the night I could think of little else but the paintings I had seen.

Bierenbroodspot’s paintings drew me back to the gallery, where I admired the group of paintings on display. The series was titled NUDO and was a collection of eight paintings of nude men. There was nothing prurient about the paintings. They were classic in an unusual way, with vivid dashes of color and a reverent, yet bold, treatment of the male form.

One of the paintings especially “called” to me, but it was marked $6,000. Way out of my price range.

On my final day in Amsterdam I wandered back to the gallery to see “my” painting one more time. As I entered the gallery a bold female voice called out, “Who goes there?” The voice, as it turned out, belonged to Gerti Bierenbroodspot, a handsome strong-looking woman of an uncertain age.

We began to talk, first about her art, then about me, then about her career and her life and her studio in Tuscany. She invited me to tea. We talked some more, and so long that she invited me to dinner at a nearby café. After walking back to the gallery, I pointed out my favorite painting.

Knowing how much I wanted it, she said “Buy it!”

“I can’t afford it!” I said.

She asked, “Can you live without it?”

Acknowledging the obvious, I said “I’ll have to.” We hugged and reluctantly parted. I had to return to the U.S. the next day

About two weeks later I was in my Chicago office when I received a call from the mailroom letting me know that a large wooden crate had arrived addressed to me. Assuming it was some sort of promotional display from a vendor, I told the mailroom clerk to hold it. “I’ll check on it at the end of the day.”

Much to my surprise, it was “my” painting, in a beautiful gold frame, measuring 37 by 52 inches. Written across one of the slats on the crate was the word “SERENDIPITY.” The note attached to the painting said, in an impressive scrawl, “Enjoy this gift for the rest of your life from one who knows you will: Gerti Bierenbroodspot.”