Boy, last Monday sure feels like a long time ago. What a week.

If you haven’t seen this ad yet, give it a watch. Very clever.

Having finally gotten my blood pressure down, I’m not going there. Instead, let’s talk about the happy subject of dogs. And the complex subject of race. Bear with me, there is an intersection here.

Start with dogs. Back in December WBEZ aired an episode of 1A,  a news magazine show produced by WAMU in Washington, D.C., that was devoted to the great growth in pet ownership, especially dogs, during the pandemic. It’s a pretty good listen.

Overall, pretty interesting stuff, including discussion about how Rafael Warnock, the Black pastor who won a Senate seat in Georgia last week, was running a successful political ad featuring him and his pet Beagle. Apparently there are perceptions about certain breeds being white-people dogs, including Beagles. And that there are notions that idealize the loving relationships that white people have with their dogs while sort of dismissing that possibility for Black people. It’s a little bit of a stretch, but one of the panelists made a pretty good case.

In any case, the Beagle ad must have worked. (It’s brilliant, by the way.)

The program included several panelists, including Laurie Williams, a certified dog trainer who happens to be black. Jen White, the host, asked the trainer, “Can dogs be racist or biased?

A funny question maybe, but the trainer said she is frequently asked by white dog owners whether their dogs are indeed, racists, because they’re agitated when they’re around Black people.

“They don’t know what race is,” Williams said about dogs. “They know what they are familiar with. The best thing to do is for people to get out, and let their dogs be around other people.”

Williams says that when a white client says they think their dog is racist, she asks, “Well, how do you feel about Black people?” And typically,  the client is taken aback — before realizing there are no Black people in their inner circle, and therefore their dog is rarely around Black people. The trainer encourages those clients to broaden their inner circle in order to better socialize their dogs (and perhaps themselves, though she didn’t say that in so many words).

And I concluded that, on this score, I’m like the dogs the trainer talked about. That is, I routinely find myself in situations that, if I’m honest with myself, would’ve made me uncomfortable back when we moved to Printers Row in 2003. Like being the only white guy on a packed subway car. Having an honest and difficult conversation with Black friends at the bar. I thought I was fairly enlightened about race back in 2003, but I wasn’t.

I’m still working at it, but I’ve come light years, simply by living with, working with, and talking with Black people routinely. And also, from the rich oral histories that Beth’s Black memoir writers are good enough to share.

To be clear, Chicago is renowned for its segregated housing (as are many cities) but I’ve never lived a more integrated day-to-day life anywhere. That’s partly a numbers phenomenon—30 percent of Chicago’s population is Black. Our particular zip code includes roughly 20 percent Black residents. (Nationally, Black people comprise 14 percent of the U.S. population.”

So, an old dog can learn new tricks, and I’m still learning.

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.