I am pleased to introduce Howard Marks as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. The essay he wrote when I assigned “My Grandfather’s Job” pays homage to his maternal grandfather for exposing 12-year-old Howard to the merits of quality journalism. After graduating high school, Howard studied at the University of Illinois-Chicago and became editor-in-chief of the student newspaper. From there he worked at the Chicago Today, the Chicago Tribune, and then the Reader’s Digest in New York City. He received a Master’s Degree in Journalism from Northwestern University and worked for the late Sen. Chuck Percy (R-IL) and was an appointee at the US Department of Agriculture in the Ronald Reagan administration before retiring.

With memoir-writing classes meeting via Zoom now, Howard is able to participate from his home in Washington, DC. We feel lucky to have a pro like him with us!

by Howard Marks

Picture of Abe (Pa) Prohovnik taken in 1946 with four grandsons who later served as helpers at his West Side newsstand. Howard, today’s guest blogger, is being held in Pa’s left hand. He’s the one with a patterned shirt and mock suspenders.

My maternal grandfather, Abraham Prohovnik, was 23 years old when he immigrated to the United States in 1904 hoping for a better life. As he was affectionately known, “Pa” had lived in an area of Poland controlled by Russia. Like many in his family, he became a master baker and found himself conscripted into the Czarist Army. Legend has it that the officers so loved his tasty and moist Russian black bread that at the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War of 1904 they ordered him to accompany his unit when it was dispatched to the Manchurian front. Fortunately, he wisely deserted and escaped from Russia by bribing border guards. The war was a killing field for the Russians, and, of course, Jews were unjustly accused of secretly collaborating with the Japanese enemy.

Pa made his way to Hamburg, where he boarded a passenger ship for Montreal and traveled first class across the North Atlantic. Amongst the 10 percent of European immigrants who bypassed Ellis Island, Pa resumed his journey via the Grand Trunk Railroad and entered the United States at Detroit.

Finally arriving in Chicago, he lived with a first cousin, his sponsor. Pa’s wife Sarah and their first-born son joined them soon after. On July 7, 1916, he became an American citizen, requiring him to renounce any allegiance to Nicholas II, Emperor of all the Russias. The family prospered and eventually owned a string of eight bakeries in Chicagoland and northwest Indiana. By then the family had grown to three daughters — including my mom, of blessed memory, and two sons. They all lived above the main bakery on Maxwell Street and Halsted — Chicago’s famous immigrant marketplace.

Then the Great Depression hit.

Pa was forced to sell the bakery, but he later took up a second career that changed his life — and mine, too. He bought a newsstand at Jackson Boulevard and Pulaski Road on Chicago’s West Side. Although in his seventies, he sold newspapers seven days a week, arising at 5:00 am each day. He worked on Saturday nights, too. The four male cousins in the photo above served as his helpers. At age 12, I was introduced to a world I never knew existed: the excitement of the newspaper industry.

Before the internet, most Chicagoans got in-depth news from the likes of the Tribune, Sun-Times, and Herald-American. The Sunday newspaper was the most coveted of the week. What bedlam! Bundles of Tribunes were tossed six feet on the sidewalk with a thud from the back of a delivery truck that only slowed down, but didn’t stop. My job was to stuff the main print edition with the Sunday supplements. Two more editions were to arrive that evening plus one more the following morning.

After working at the newsstand for more than two years, I decided I wanted to be a newspaperman. Never would I dream that I would work for two of the newspapers I sold. Pa was still selling newspapers in 1958 when he died at age 79, while on the dance floor for his Golden Age club at his synagogue in Chicago’s Austin neighborhood. Thanks, Pa, for taking on a second career and thus launching my exciting career in journalism.

The other night we and neighborhood friends were socializing in a distanced way down in the little park next to our condo building. We got to talking about our families, and one friend wondered out loud whether she’d ever be able to talk to certain members of her family again. “It’s like we live in different realities. I don’t know where to even start.”

The view of Printers Row Park from our seventh floor window. It was once a parking lot ticketed to be a high rise. But the locals fought city hall and won: we got a park instead. Thank goodness, because it’s been an oasis these past months.

I grew up during the peaks of various 1960s flashpoint Anti-war protesters, hard-hats who liked to beat them up, civil rights activists, the sexual revolution, feminism, you name it.

It was tumultuous. And often nasty. Bad enough to blow apart my mom’s side of the family. Italians hold grudges. Not me, of course, I’m only half Italian. The other half is Serbian, which isn’t exactly a counterweight. But it wasn’t as bad as today.

In my adulthood, I used to routinely have earnest discussions, some of which can be characterized as heated arguments, with people I disagreed with. But we always drew a line. I thought it was good for me, and hoped it was good for them. The implied basis of our conversations seemed to be, “I completely disagree, but since I know you and I respect you, I need to hear you out.”

That’s mostly gone. Everyone is armed with talking points and a quiver full of derogatory names that they launch early, stopping discourse before it starts. It’s not just within families, either. I have very good friends with whom I used have substantive discussion about anything and everything. We have treated our conversations with kid gloves; politics is the third rail. And that dynamic seems to put a wet blanket on the conversations we do have. I miss it.

I’m trying to keep those days in mind in the hope that we are able one day to talk directly with each other about issues and our viewpoints, unmediated by talking heads on cable news. I need to think we will, because for this country to get back on track, we’ll have to.

Sometimes it’s hard to imagine how it’ll get better.

But then again, if Justices Scalia and Ginsburg could be close friends, maybe there’s hope.

Over the years, many writers in the memoir classes I lead have self-published their work. Until now, only two had found independent publishers:

• Hanna Bratman’s collection What’s In My Head was published by Blue Marlin Publications in 2011, and
• Anna Perlberg’s The House in Prague was published by Golden Alley Press in 2007

And now there are three.

Sound the trumpets! Regan Burke’s long-awaited memoir In That Number has been published by Tortoise Books! Many of you know Regan from her Back Story Essays blog and the guest posts she’s written here. In my book Writing Out Loud I describe her as “a civil rights activist who writes colorful life stories and sparkles when she laughs.” There’s a lot more to Regan than that, though, and she’s generously inviting all you Safe & Sound readers to get to know her better at the virtual book launch for In That Number. Here’s all the information you need – look for me there!

Regan Burke’s “In That Number” Virtual Book Launch
With
NPR/WBEZ Reporter Monica Eng

Monica Ng will talk with Regan about the book.

Skyline Village Chicago Zoom Event

Wednesday October 21, 4:00 pm

Register here for Zoom Book Launch

Pre-order book at Tortoise Books, or Reganburke.com

In that Number, by Regan Burke

I highly recommend this wise and wonderful memoir about politics, about families, and then politics of families. Regan writes like an angel–and sometimes, even better, like the devil.” — Rick Perlstein, Author, Historian and Journalist

I could not put down this memoir. It is a tale of redemption and rebirth. Regan Burke writes of all the pain of growing up the daughter of two alcoholics and well-dressed grifters “who didn’t pay their bills, lied, and cheated, but still had cocktails and hors d’oeuvresevery night before dinner.” Her story is that of the Baby Boomer generation from sex, drugs, and rock and roll to various political campaigns in Illinois and finally to the Clinton White House and beyond. In That Numberis a touching narrative of survival, loyalty, and compassion from a woman who has seen it all.–Dominic A. Pacyga Author of Chicago: A Biography

Regan and Bill!

Publisher’s Note
A unique hybrid memoir, Regan Burke’s In That Number chronicles one woman’s struggle to find grace and peace amidst the chaos of politics and alcoholism. It’s an important public book from a longtime Democratic party activist, one whose beliefs led her from protesting the Vietnam War at the Lincoln Memorial to working inside the White House-a woman with fascinating firsthand reminisces about everything and everyone from Woodstock to Vladimir Putin, from The Exorcist to Bill Clinton, from Roger Ebert to Donald Rumsfeld. It’s also an intimate and revealing private memoir from a woman who spent a harrowing childhood being raised by shockingly dysfunctional parents-a roguish naval-aviator-turned-lawyer-turned-con-man father and a racist socialite mother-and bouncing from house to house to luxury hotel, trying to stay one step ahead of the creditors. (And not always succeeding.) It’s an entertaining and ultimately heartwarming journey from private schools to the psych ward, from hippie communal living to the corridors of power to the pews of church, and through the rooms of twelve-step recovery to the serenity of long-term sobriety. More at ReganBurke.com

Regan Burke is a political operative from Chicago. She’s worked in the campaigns of Adlai Stevenson, Gary Hart and Bill Clinton; Michael Madigan’s Democratic Majority of Illinois and was the Executive Director of the Illinois Democratic Party. Regan retired from David Orr’s Cook County Clerk office.

For more information see Reganburke.com

When remarkable people die, obituaries remind us of why they were remarkable. For me, I always learn something new and, often, illuminating.

In the case of RBG, that included a particular case she took on behalf of a man (though best known for championing women’s causes, she represented many men in their fight for equal treatment, too). When his wife died in 1972, Stephen Wiesenfeld applied to the Social Security Administration for its survivor’s benefit. He wanted it because it would help him spend more time with his young son.

Men, however, were not eligible for the survivor’s benefit—the flip side of gender discrimination and stereotypes of gender roles. Ginsburg eventually argued the case in front of the Supreme court, then all-male, and won the decision decisively. She and her client remained close friends ever since.

That story reminded me of how much the fight for equal rights for women has enriched men’s lives, and how it also freed men from gender stereotypes. It’s OK to be a stay-at-home dad today. Men can get maternity leave. Men can watch their daughters compete in sports. Men don’t always have to be the tough one. Men can be present when their children are born, for crying out loud.

And it reminded me that there is nothing radical about seeking equality under the law, and that Notorious RBG was anything but radical.

Reading about the arc of Ginsburg’s career also called to mind the life and work of one of her predecessors, Thurgood Marshall. Growing up, I knew him primarily as the first Black member of the Supreme Court. But just as rich is the story of his legal career before his appointment. My friend Marland, an attorney himself, taught me about how, leading the NAACP’s legal team, Marshall won cases around the country that brought down discriminatory and racist practices. (One of those was Brown vs. Board of Education.)

RBG’s obit led me to read up on Marshall, and I was gratified to learn that, when President Clinton nominated Ginsburg to the Supreme Court in 1993, he had this to say:

“Many admirers of her work say that she is to the women’s movement what former Supreme Court justice Thurgood Marshall was to the movement for the rights of African Americans. I can think of no greater compliment to bestow on an American lawyer.”

Thank you Justice Ginsburg, rest in peace.

I am pleased to introduce Karen Fontaine as our Saturdays with Seniors guess blogger today. A Professor emeritus in the College of Nursing and Psychiatric Nursing at Purdue University Northwest, Karen has three children and three grandchildren. ”I am fortunate to be part of a racially diverse family,” she says. Her son Jean-Marc is a carpenter at the University of Illinois, her daughter Simone is an MD in Champaign-Urbana, and her son Marcel is a stock transfer agent in Chicago.

Today’s guest blogger Karen with her daughter Simone.

“My daughter is 6’1” tall,” she says with a laugh. . “I look like a midget next to her!” Two of Karen’s grandchildren — Danielle and Christopher — are in the medical field, the third, Simone’s 6’7” son Jaycee, is flying to Finland next week to play professional basketball there. “We are really excited for him.”

In the memoir-writing class at The Admiral, Karen took the prompt “Learning to Read” one step further and wrote an honest and enlightening essay about learning to read lips — and faces. She generously agreed to let me share it here.

Learning to Lip/Face Read

by Karen Fontaine

I was born with my hearing loss, but it was not diagnosed until adulthood. There was a lot of hearing loss on my mother’s side of the family. My brother’s daughter had hearing aids by the age of four, and my son needed speech therapy by age three. As a child I had enough hearing to learn speech, but still. It’s amazing to me that no one identified my hearing loss. Not even me.

In high school, I couldn’t figure out how my friends knew the words to popular songs. Little did I know that the only way I could learn the words was if the groups appeared on TV so I could lip read when they sang! I never consciously set out to learn how to lip/face read. I think I just improved at it as my hearing steadily decreased.

Only 30% of English can be read on the lips. The rest of the communication is inferred from the context, movements of the face, and expression of the eyes. It takes inordinate concentration to lip read and it is a matter of filling in the blanks and guessing.

I find myself exhausted after significant lengths of time spent talking with others. I often have to remind my husband to give me the context when he suddenly starts talking. Other barriers include hands in front of one’s face, mumbling, talking quickly, talking with little lip movement, accents and mustaches.

During my 33 years as a professor, my students were a great help. Those in the front of the classroom would restate questions from people in the back. I also moved around the room a great deal in order to connect with students. Faculty and committee meetings were a nightmare. People often talked at the same time and I seldom knew what was happening.

But I persevered.

Zoom has helped me in meetings. People don’t wear masks while they’re Zooming, and I can see everyone’s face and lips. I can’t always see people’s lips when we are sitting around a table in face-to-face meetings.

However, even with Zoom, it can still be difficult to participate. I can’t always tell when a person has stopped talking. I fear I might interrupt someone, so by the time I have decided that it is time to jump in, someone else has already started talking. You will notice I am fairly quiet during Zoom meetings!

People are an important part of my life. Helen Keller said “Blindness separates people from things; Deafness separates people from people.” That is a powerful statement of what it is like to be deaf. I miss so much, but I keep trying to stay connected.