I’m delighted to introduce Gretchen Hane as our guest blogger today. Born into a Quaker family, Gretchen lived in a small village in Michigan called Newaygo during her formative years. After graduating in 1964 from Earlham College (a Quaker school in Indiana) she moved to Chicago, earned a Master’s Degree in teaching at Northwestern University, got a position with the Chicago Public School system, taught there for 35 years and vowed never to live in a small town again.

Retired now, Gretchen tutors ESL at Truman College, attends the memoir-writing class I teach via Zoom, and wrote the following homage to teaching when I assigned “A Skill or Ability I am Grateful to Have” as a prompt.

A Skill I am Grateful to Have

Gretchen in her classroom circa 1968.

by Gretchen Hane

Few people can just walk into a classroom and teach. The art of teaching is learned through observation, experience and encouragement. When I reflect back on 35 years of teaching, I marvel at how this career shaped me from a shy, self-conscious young woman into a confident person in charge who could handle just about anything a bunch of adolescents could throw at me.

One does not become a good teacher overnight. Reflecting back on those first years, many times I would have given up without the encouragement of fellow teachers. Gradually I developed my own philosophy of survival: Be patient, creative and act like you really enjoy what you are doing. And Above all, really like the kids.

Working with adolescents taught me creativity and patience. It’s not all that difficult to sense if your class is with you. If they are not, sometimes you have to change your route, go in a new direction. What I enjoyed the most about adolescents was their willingness to let me know exactly what they thought — “so there, Mrs. Hane!” For the so-called incorrigibles, a private conversation outside of the classroom often worked.

My teaching career in Chicago spanned the gamut — from working with girls at Lucy Flower Technical High School for Girls on Chicago’s Westside to vocational coed schools on the north and south sides.

Each school provided its challenges, but each school taught me so much and helped me grow my own confidence. Fellow teachers taught me survival tactics. So did the students themselves.

One area where I needed help? Humor.

Everyone loves a funny teacher. It took me years to loosen up enough to make a class laugh, but that got easier. As the years passed, I got so I could tell a good joke!

I taught English for many years back in the day when each teacher could decide what their own classes might like to read. We were also given free range to have them write. We were not obsessed with reading scores.

With the new requirement that everyone in the Chicago Public School system had to have two years of a foreign language, I became a French teacher — a complete and challenging change of direction. I could speak French, but I was not a French teacher. I put my creative juices to work. Each year went better. My students may never have gotten beyond “Bonjour,” but somehow we had fun.

Toward the end of my years of teaching, French became a welcome relief from English. Why? Because it was not a subject that relied on test scores and principals’ reputations.

So, what made me a good teacher? I worked very hard, arriving at school early in the morning to get ready for the day. I was organized. Tolerating the disorder in the system was an unending chore. But most of all, I really liked my job.

Of course, in retrospect one forgets the bad days. But I really did enjoy the challenge of trying something different, of making something work. Most of all, teaching brought me out of my shyness. Over the years it has made me who I am as much as any familial or educational influences did.

And for that, I am grateful.

Hi All,

Last Saturday Beth and I spent a splendid afternoon on the shores of Lake Michigan on a breezy picture perfect, 72-degree day at Foster Avenue Beach. Beach is a little bit of a misnomer–it’s more of a really nice park with a beach, replete with soccer fields and the like. We were attending Ribicue, which is an annual end-of-summer gathering of Beth’s friends from her days in Scott Hall, a University of Illinois dorm. Well, at this point, they’re my friends, too, I’d like to think, because I’ve been attending with Beth for a good many years. 

Anyway, I was going to post about Saturday’s picnic until I had this inkling and did a search and … I already posted about it years ago. When I read the seven-year-old post I was delighted that it’s held up, and it pretty well describes the feeling of the gathering each year. The event is largely the same, though there was talk of Medicare and grandchildren that didn’t occur in 2016. But if anything, times like those spent at Ribicue seem to have grown even more appreciated over time. And so, I’m going to paste the old post below. And, to the generous grillmasters who make it all happen: Thanks again Don, Craig, and Jim!

Mondays with Mike: Originally posted September 26, 2016

When Beth and I moved to Chicago in 2003, she was hard at the business of promoting her first book, the memoir “Long Time, No See,” published by the University of Illinois Press. She was on the airwaves with the likes of Rick Kogan and, back then, The Kathy & Judy Show. The Chicago Tribune gave the book a good review, and Beth began appearing at libraries and bookstores around the city and suburbs, reading from her book.

Lots of Beth’s friends from high school and from the University of Illinois had settled in or around Chicago. After every media or personal appearance, it seemed she’d hear from one or another of them.

Ribicue, 2016.

But the first reconnection was a personal encounter. We were on the Red Line subway when this tall stranger peered down at Beth and said, “Ms. Finke?” She looked up and immediately realized it was Don—they’d both lived in Scott Hall, a U of I dormitory that was part of a complex called the six-pack. She learned Don lived on the North Side (though he’s an avid White Sox fan, and we’ve since attended several games with him and his wife). They were off and running in conversation until Don had to run—we came to his stop, and it was goodbye. At least for the moment.

Here’s to serendipity. Eventually, Beth was invited to something called Ribicue. This annual event is held in September at Foster Beach, pretty much come hell or high water, though those two have caused cancellations or postponements. Don and his pals Craig and Jim—the three musketeers of the Weber grills—prep the day before and hover over the grills all afternoon, cooking up an endless supply of some delicious ribs. Their stamina is amazing, and surpassed only by the obvious joy it gives them to do it.

The rest of us guests bring salads, desserts… or nothing.

On a day like last Saturday, it’s really spectacular in a lovely, laid back way. The temperature was in the 70s, the skies were clear, a stiff breeze meant you could both see and hear Lake Michigan. The best thing, of course, is just hanging out with friends.

Beth and I always take a walk along the beach.

How do you get an invite to this exclusive event? Well, sorry, you had to live in Scott Hall on the correct floor back in the day. Or know someone who did. (I won the jackpot on that.) I’ve gotten to know—and have befriended—many of Beth’s friends from Scott. We all catch up with each other. And we compare notes about our college experiences—Saturday, two of us reminisced (in some wonderment) about living in a triple dorm room. (Those triples were more like army barracks than what we call a dorm room these days, but you know, it was good for us.)

I’ve spent more than one sublime lakefront Saturday afternoon with this crew. And I’m grateful that they’ll have me, even if I did live in Hopkins Hall, and not Scott.

I’m back from a week off work today. Spent the time traveling a little, doing nothing a little, and being productive a little. All in all, it was the break I really needed.

Our travels took us first to New York—and we got to use our TSA Pre status for the first time. Beth and I joined modernity about a month ago, and it is pretty nice. Though the whole security ordeal makes me curse Osama Bin Laden every time.

Our “it’s a small world” tale from that flight: We always get to pre-board because of Luna. (God I love Luna.) When we entered the plane both bulkhead rows were already occupied by fellow pre-boarders. Not the end of the world, but the bulkhead is best for the dog. A woman in the right-hand row piped up and asked whether the dog would be better in the bulkhead, and she volunteered to move. She did, we sat down, Beth dug into her bag and fished out a copy of one of the children’s books she’d written recently, this one about service dogs.

She turned to the good Samaritan behind us, and handed the little book to her as a thank you. The woman was audibly tickled, and then a few minutes later asked: Are you the Beth Finke I read about whose husband had Covid? (Chicago Tribune columnist Heidi Stevens had written a piece about our plight the very beginning of Covid.)

“Yes!” said Beth. “And here’s the husband,” pointing to me. “He survived!”

“I can’t believe you’d remember my name.” Our new friend then added that we might have a mutual friend. Indeed, that friend is Leah, whom I’ve known since our college days at the University of Illinois.

It was one of those little encounters that lightened the whole travel experience. And it all started with a small act of kindness.

We flew into the spacious, modern, attractive…LaGuardia airport. It’s the second time I’ve been to the renovated airport, and both times I had to stop and wonder if I was really in LaGuardia. It was a dump forever, it was worse during construction, and now it’s palatial. Well, as palatial as an airport can be.

In New York we visited friends we met through—who else—Beth. Benita was Beth’s volunteer reader during our early years in Chicago. They bonded and then we met Benita’s husband Henry and we all bonded. Native New Yorkers, they lived in Chicago for several years because Henry was a big shot doctor at Rush Medical Center. Upon his retirement, they moved back to New York to a great place in the Upper West Side, a stone’s throw from Central Park and the Natural History Museum.

That’s Hank on the left, me, Pick, and Beth during a vacation we took together in New Orleans.

We hadn’t seen each other since before Covid and it was food for the soul to be together again, even briefly.

From there we took an Amtrak train to Washington, D.C. to see our pals Pick and Hank, whom we’ve posted about more than once before. Pick and Hank have been an item about as long as  Beth and I have, and we’ve seen each other through lots of changes. Our relationships with them have become kind of that old, favorite, comfortable pair of shoes. We usually eat out once, and this time it was at a Greek Restaurant in Old Town, Alexandria, in a perfect outdoor garden and patio. And, a visit isn’t a visit unless Pick plays the piano and sings a little, and Beth plays, too.

We eat, we walk, we drink, we talk. We don’t do anything special during our visits, but somehow, every single visit is special.

Good news! Soon all of the memoir-writing classes I lead will be back in session, which means our “Senior Class” feature will be back in full swing, too.

I’m getting the ball rolling by introducing Al Hippensteel as our guest blogger today. After a long career in the printing industry, Al retired, appropriately, here in the Printers Row neighborhood of Chicago along with his wife, Donna. When I assigned “Taste” as a prompt for the Zoom memoir-writing class he attends, I was prepared for writers to come back with essays about food, restaurants, recipes, people’s interest in books, literature, music, art, clothing, that sort of thing. But Al surprised me by weaving many different tastes into one 500-word tribute to Chicago.

Al and Donna enjoy a Rainbow Cone at Taste of Chicago.

Taste

by Al Hippensteel

A week ago, my wife and I walked over to the Taste of Chicago, a summertime tradition featuring an array of food booths, each one showcasing a different city eatery.

In previous years “Taste,” as we locals call it, has been located in Chicago’s Grant Park. This year it was set in the shadow of Buckingham Fountain.

You can find just about anything to suit your taste at Taste. Donna and I headed directly to Rainbow Cone, a Chicago favorite. Orange Sherbet, Pistachio, Palmer House, Strawberry, and Chocolate. But what interested me most this year was the diversity of food and combinations, like Indian Tandoori Chicken served as a taco. Thai food served as a taco. Who knew a taco shell could turn out to be the perfect carrier for other ethnic food? Folks transporting their finger food around were always perusing their next “taste.”

Earlier, on a drive to Michigan, we stopped by a local produce stand that was having a garage sale that day. A stack of old vinyl albums was included in the sale, and my wife zeroed in on Hair, the Musical. It reminded me of the magical time when we, the youth of the late 60’s, yearned for a more egalitarian world. The songs spoke of love, drugs, and acceptance of all people: black, yellow, red, white. I’m afraid a lot of it turned out to be youthful enthusiasm: Generations that preceded us did not accept Aquarius. When we went out into the world, many of us experienced push back against our long hair, our beards, our taste in clothes.

Now, as retirees, we live in various places as elder statesmen, or is it statesperson? Some have chosen to live in retirement communities. Some choose famously large and Disney-like ones.

But our preference? Donna and I want to age in place in the high-rise condo building we live in now, near downtown Chicago. We live in a vibrant city that has more cultural stimulation, restaurants and sports events than any retirement community could offer. And guess what? I’ve realized an unintended circumstance while living here.

It’s Aquarius! If not a building filled with free love and seniors high on gummies, an incredibly diverse building of owners and renters, a constantly evolving stew of folks of all ages and stages in life. Black, brown, yellow and white — immigrants who have chosen America, college students, retired people, young families having babies. We have different tastes, different religions, different ways of dress. We share a gym, a laundry room, an outdoor swimming pool. We volunteer to tend our gardens and sort packages in our package room. Everyone is invited to social events. Even our maintenance staff gets into the act by buying donuts and coffee for special events like the annual cross-town classic when the Cubs and the White Sox, our two baseball teams, meet.

Life here in Chicago isn’t perfect. Crime is higher than we would like. Local politics can drive you crazy. The city is coping with an influx of migrants, but Chicago has long been a city of immigrants. A large vibrant Chinatown is just two miles away. Large lively Hispanic communities are close by. The largest Ukrainian community in the United States is here in Chicago, and so is the largest Polish population outside of Warsaw. We know what migrants mean to the city. It means people who will fit in and work hard. So is it any wonder we have a veritable ethnic feast of food at a festival called “Taste of Chicago?”

Beth and I spent yesterday afternoon with friends in the suburbs—breezy sunny weather, burgers on the grill, lots of great conversation and good company. At one point, those of us of a certain age bemoaned the overwhelming number of streaming services offering an overwhelming number of streaming programming.

Our friend Joe pined for the days when there were maybe five channels. And that nearly all of us watched certain shows (All in the Family, e.g.), and that it made for easy water cooler discussions. (The most popular streaming shows get a fraction of the audience of the most popular network shows of the day.)

All the “it was better back then” stuff aside, it did occur to me that in today’s America, there are very, very few common experiences. We can segregate ourselves a thousand different ways—where we get our information, where we get entertainment, where we live. And, the ranks of the generation that experienced the great depression and WWII are thinning.

In any case, it’s easier to avoid people who aren’t like ourselves than ever. And I think that’s a factor in our overall national polarization.

All this reminded me of a stint of jury duty I served a couple weeks ago. I was called by Cook County as a backup juror and as it happens, I was selected. It was an inconvenience, yes, but I’ve actually been called a few times and never have been able to serve. Because of one crisis or health issue or another, I haven’t been able to. And I wanted to.

I’ll save the details—it was a civil suit and something of a study in human behavior that, despite it being a sort of mundane matter, was weirdly compelling.

And inspiring.

I served with a woman CTA bus driver (who liked having a break from that work), a fund raiser for veterans, a U of I student on summer break, an Asian American who apologized for his choppy English, to name a few. Every one of us was respectful to one another, listened carefully throughout the proceedings, and deliberations were totally civilized. Beyond that, the County Sheriff’s officers were incredibly polite and kind over our nearly week together.

I’ve always thought mandatory service for 18 year olds would be good for the country, service where people have to rub elbows and work with people they didn’t pick out of the lineup. That’s probably a longshot; until then we have jury duty.