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.

Michigan Avenue looked ghostly on Saturday, April 4, 2020. Click on the image to watch the eerie cab ride.

As our friend and neighbor Al Hippensteel puts it, I’ve been on a kind of blog sabbatical. Hope to get back in the rhythm starting today.

Three years ago this past April, after six days in the hospital and three days in a City-run covid isolation hotel, I got a cab home from Chicago’s Streeterville neighborhood back to our Printers Row condo.

I took a video of that dystopian ride. Little did I know things would get worse before they got better.

The lockdown was bad enough, but a couple rounds of George Floyd riots (yes, there were also constructive protests—the looting and violence were riots) left a “Dawn of the Dead” air to Chicago’s once vibrant streets and businesses. Shattered glass, boarded up stores, and lonely streets.

The day after the May 31 looting in 2020. Plywood was too late for the SRO Sandwich shop, which never reopened. That awning is the entry to our building.

It’s been a long, arduous slog, and we’re still not exactly where we were before the pandemic (and likely never will be), but I’m happy to report Chicago has found its legs and is running hard again.

During the lockdown and beyond, I’d say that we city dwellers had it the hardest. Why? Because every place one could choose to live carries tradeoffs. For example, small town life offers peace, quiet and a sense of intimacy. But that can sometimes mean too peaceful, boring, and everybody in everybody else’s business all the time.

City life—as Beth and I have been lucky enough to experience—means drinking from a fire hose of cultural and sporting events, but also enduring the blare of sirens, the thundering L trains, daily reports of violent crime, and much less green space.

During covid, there was no tradeoff for us. We lost what we came for 20+ years ago. There was no jazz at Jazz Showcase down the street, no Chicago Symphony just blocks away, no SummerDance at Grant Park. No nothing.

Dearborn Street, outside our front door, this past Saturday during Printers Row Art Fest. (Click to enlarge.)

It was bleak but we improvised, having impromptu meetings in our little park just outside our door. Sitting in parkas next to wide open windows at Half Sour, our favorite watering hole, when it was freezing outside, seeking camaraderie as well as hoping against hope that it would help the place survive. Buying gift cards at Sofi, the Italian restaurant downstairs in our building, and maybe not using them right away (or at all) as a way of keeping it off life support.

Sometimes I wondered if it would be worth it, this trying to stick it out thing. Over the past few weeks I can, relievedly, elatedly, report: Damn right it was.

Taylor Swift, the Pride Parade, NASCAR, Beyonce, Lollapalooza, Ed Sheeran all in a month—a bunch of stuff we don’t do but that brings energy one can feel. (And in NASCAR’s case, hear.) Jazz Showcase has more programming than ever, including a Monday evening summer residency by the Chicago Jazz Orchestra, a splendid big band. We took one of those in a couple weeks ago and then the next week we headed to Symphony Center to see Ben Folds in concert with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, one of the most moving, stirring performance of any kind I’ve seen anywhere, on any stage. (Their rendition of the Psychedelic Furs “The Ghost in You” was bring-you-to-tears beautiful.)

Our friend Nancy had her birthday party in a beautiful spot on a beautiful night. (Click image to enlarge.)

Last Friday night we cabbed up to Montrose Beach and Harbor to celebrate a friend’s birthday on a sublime, lakefront evening replete with puffy, peach-tinted clouds against the skyline. And this weekend our Dearborn block closed for the Printers Row Art Fest, with Lit Fest coming in September.

Chicago faces, as it always has, serious problems in addition to its gleaming skylines, beautiful public lakefront, and cultural gems.

Like I said: It’s a tradeoff, and one I’m proud and privileged to make.

Last December, Beth posted here about a couple of children’s books she wrote for a series on disabilities sponsored by Easterseals. She penned two of the books: “What is the Americans with Disabilities Act?” (2^nd-5^th grades) and “Service Dogs” (3^rd grade). They turned out great and besides being distributed by Easterseals chapters and other agencies, they’re available from Cherry Lake Press and at Target.com.

Well, Beth did well enough that Cherry Lake Press—the publisher in the partnership—asked her to write another book, this in their “Itty Bitty Bio” series. True to its name, each book is a brief, digestible biography aimed at young readers. In this case, Beth and other authors with disabilities were asked to identify a role model with a disability, and to craft an “Itty Bitty Bio” on that person.

Beth chose Jason Benetti, the terrific play-by-play  announcer for the Chicago White Sox. That’s his day job—but he moonlights as a national announcer for multiple sports on Fox Sports, too.

Benetti was born with Cerebral Palsy, nearly died, had umpteen surgeries, has a limp, a wandering eye, a strong baritone voice and he’s absolutely fantastic at his job. So Beth picked a good one.

Fortunately, he was generous enough to do a Zoom interview with Beth, and a few days ago we received advance copies of “Jason Benetti: My Itty Bitty Bio.” It’s cute as hell.

As of August 1, you can purchase it from Cherry Lake Press, or from Target.com.

For a good explanation of the books, check out this TV interview with a representative of Easterseals MORC on the Detroit CBS affiliate:

Finally, FYI: Benetti is remarkably honest and insightful about what it means to achieve what he’s achieved while having a disability–and he teamed with the Cerebral Palsy Foundation to do a creative and thoughtful animated series called Awkward Moments with Jason Bennetti. Check it out below:

The two memoir-writing classes I lead in person are both starting up again this week after a month-long break. I don’t give writing prompts during breaks, but I encourage writers to write about whatever they’d like and read it at the first class of the new six-week session. Mel Washburn came back with this fast-paced, impressionistic vignette about college life in the early 60s and generously offered to let me share it here with you Safe & Sound blog readers.

Back to School

by Mel Washburn

Early in September 1963, I travelled 340 miles from my family home in Kentucky to northern Indiana.

In Kentucky, I had worked all summer – three hot and humid months – as a laborer for the City Department of Streets and Sewers – shovels, hot tar and jack hammers. I sweated like a pig

When I got to Indiana, the weather was cool. The leaves on the trees were changing color. The air was dry and fresh. It smelled like Autumn, and I loved it.

I was eighteen years old, a college sophomore, a fraternity member, a competent Bridge player, and adept at throwing a frisbee. I was in a good place, with good people. In the year ahead, I would learn new things, have new thoughts, and work on becoming the grown-up I was meant to be.

The evening of the first Monday of that school year, I sat down on the couch in my room and began to read the Shakespeare play we’d been assigned by Professor Baker, who was known to give surprise quizzes early in the semester, just to keep us on our toes. Sometime around midnight I fell asleep over my book. When I woke up the next morning, I had sniffles and a sore throat. Nothing serious, but it took the thrill out of Autumn.

Six days a week, I went to class, then to the library to study, then to the frat house for dinner and cards. As a sophomore, it was my duty to harass the fraternity’s first-year pledges, and I did so, with unbecoming zeal. I also wrote and directed our fraternity’s scatological entry in the Blue Night sketch competition.

In the months to come, President Kennedy would be assassinated, and I would drive all night with some buddies to attend his funeral. My hometown girlfriend would write that she was in love with someone else, and I would lose several nights’ sleep over it. President Johnson would declare a war on poverty and sign the Civil Rights Act. The Beatles would appear on Ed Sullivan.

At the end of the school year I went home to another summer of working on the streets and sewers. I also searched, unsuccessfully, for a new girlfriend. That summer, three civil rights workers were murdered in Mississippi, and Congress passed the Gulf of Tonkin resolution. I got a letter from my fraternity brother, Dave Kendall, which he had written in pencil on a sheet of toilet paper. He was in a small town in Mississippi, working to register Black people to vote, and the sheriff had locked him up in jail.

In September 1964 I returned to college for my Junior year. Dave Kendall was back, safe and sound, from Mississippi. The air was cool; the leaves were changing color and it smelled like Autumn. But I wasn’t thrilled. People like Kendall were doing important things, while I was just a school boy who played bridge and could read Latin. It didn’t seem like enough.

I really don’t much like it when Chicago takes a major public space like part or all of Grant Park out of public commission for events like Lollapalooza or, this past weekend, NASCAR’s Chicago Street Race. And I never trust the numbers that the organizers or the city provides in terms of economic gain—they’re notoriously overstated.

They typically don’t account for the economic activity that gets displaced: the people who avoid downtown who would otherwise have come down for dinner or a concert.

I also spend my working days to lower greenhouse gases from buildings, so burning fuel for fun ain’t in my wheelhouse.

So it might not make sense but I have to confess: I enjoyed the goofy NASCAR thing this past weekend. It might be because I’m a bit relieved that it’s over and while there was one casualty, it was an accidental electrocution of a contractor. That’s not cool but we feared worse could happen—a crash into spectators or worse, and what we all fear these days when there are big crowds—a mass shooting.

But it’s also because I’m a casual racing fan. Watching the drivers figure out a track that wasn’t a track so much as a driver’s nightmare was fully interesting—these guys were really good.

And because I met several really nice people from NASCAR who were here in Chicago working the event. Also symbolically, it was heartening that somehow Red Staters and Blue Staters could not only get along, but have fun together, for at least for a few days.

Beth and I watched TV coverage and what struck us both is how excited the announcers and commentators were to be in Chicago. The production crew had done its homework—they peppered airtime with bits of Chicago history and trivia. They raved about the food and the views and it seemed like they were sincerely tickled to do something so different and new. And cameras are always kind to the Chicago skyline and lakefront, even on an overcast day.

Chicago is a stunning city, with all its warts, and it was gratifying think about all those people who’d only heard about the warts getting a chance to see it shine.

It was also fun to see the folks who didn’t buy a ticket—but who were curious—find ways to peek in. For example, the distinguished Spertus Institute for Jewish Learning and Leadership operates in a beautiful, multifaceted building on South Michigan. On a Saturday stroll I noticed their outdoor roof space was absolutely packed. Other rooftop decks were also popular perches.

And hearing the TV announcers calling “and now they’re coming down DuSable Lake Shore Drive” instead of they’re “coming down the back straightaway” was a hoot. My favorite comment regarded spotters. Spotters are race officials stationed at key corners and other spots around the track. If something bad happens—like a crash or a spinout—they’re on their radio immediately and a caution flag will come out, telling the drivers to slow down. At one point, one of the commentators—Dale Earnhardt, Jr.—casually commented that, “The turn 6 spotter is on the roof of Chicago Symphony Center.”

I know that might abhor some people, but I just got a kick out of it.

Overall, even with the rain, NASCAR pulled off quite a feat—as did the Chicago Police and Streets and Sanitation crews. What I feared would be an absolute shit show turned out to be a nice surprise (in my estimation).

It still doesn’t change my mind about taking Grant Park out of commission for events, but it could have been worse.