I am pleased to introduce Bobbie Turner as our featured “Saturdays with Seniors” blogger today. A self-taught artist and award-winning educator, Bobbie grew up on Chicago’s West Side, and after graduating with both a BA and an MA from Roosevelt University she taught children in the creative arts in Chicago’s Rockwell-Maplewood area.

Bobbie was just a teenager when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.was assassinated, and she generously agreed to let us publish a recollection of the looting that erupted in her neighborhood back in 1968.

Compassion in a Box

by Bobbie Turner

People were crying, standing around in disbelief and sorrow as we stood there looking at all the destruction in our close-knit neighborhood. Smoke filled the air. Glass everywhere, fires burning on blocks that once housed shops.

The occasion marked more than the death of a christened leader, but the death of family universal. No trust, betrayal, slaughter, disrespect, visions of slavery, Jim Crow, assassination, starvation, no resources. Ravaged hearts ripped as the bullets all but ripped off the head of a leader, the Drum Major of Peace.

A clip from MLK’s last speech.

“Mr. Louie” as we called Mr. Leonard, the store owner of the only full market facility in our neighborhood, was stunned by the damage. Color was washed from his face, ghostly white. His eyes filled with something, but I didn’t know what it was. Pale purple rose like a fountain; first his hands, then wrist, and after a few moments, his face and head.

“Oh, Mr. Louie, we are so sorry… We tried to stop them…They weren’t from around here… We begged them to stop…Then somebody threw something through the window, and that was it.”

Mr. Louie, a short slightly stocky Jewish man, was one of the kindest persons in our neighborhood. His small grocery store was an oasis, a jewel, our beacon of hope. In short, he fed the people in the area. There was no A & P….no National Foods in our area, just Louie’s, and boy, were we thankful.

I often wondered how Mr. Louie stayed in business; he extended credit to just about everyone. When I made grocery runs for some of my neighbors, they would tell me to tell Mr. Louie to put “it on credit” or give me a balled-up note with a message to pass to him. He would look at the note and start filling the order. Usually, it was a request for sandwich meat and bread.

I marveled as I watched Mr. Louie take out a tin box. This is where he kept his files, credit files on note cards. He would write down the amount that was owed on that person’s card. It was understood that payment would have to be made before the debt was over-extended. Sometimes Mr. Louie would tell them what was owed. The way he told them was with kindness, understanding, and respect. Everybody owed him. Many loved him.

Mr. Louie helped save lives with a tin box full of compassion. On this dreadful night, our neighborhood died along with Mr. Louie’s grocery store. Louie decided not to return.

Life has never been the same.

A photo on Mike’s Monday’s with Mike post this week left friends asking me whether or not Seeing Eye dog Luna has a hard time finding the front door to our apartment building now. Glass doors and windows have been boarded up ever since looters broke into two businesses on the first floor Saturday night.

Our front door is being held open in this shot, but it, too, is covered by wood.

Luna has had a lot to deal with since coming home to Chicago with me from the Seeing Eye school at the end of January, 2020. My broken wrist, sheltering in place, Mike hospitalized with COVID 19, social distancing, us wearing masks, and now…the lootings. She’s been riding the storms magnificently, though; she hasn’t forgotten her lefts and rights, still stops at corners during walks and guides us safely around physical obstacles in our way. And now, with so many neighborhood buildings boarded up and storefronts all looking alike, can she find our door?

Yes.

Luna and I take two long walks a day around the neighborhood, I always wear a mask, and she always guides me right to our boarded-up front door when our walks are over. I’m not so sure she detects it visually, though. My guess is she does it by smell. An article in Wired last year about how difficult its been to come up with a robot with olfactory skills points out how many years ”humans have prized dogs for their tracking abilities” and how “police and armed forces have long used them to sniff out bombs, drugs, and bodies.” Humans rely on vision to navigate the world, the article says, but a dog is motivated by scent. More from the article:

All this adds up to a revelation not just about dogs but about the physical world itself. Smell, it appears, is sometimes the best way of detecting and discriminating between otherwise hidden things out in the world

So while I can’t see the door, and I can’t differentiate one boarded-up building from another by my sense of touch, Luna sniffs it out and leads me to the right door handle every time.

And once we get home, thanks to the bravery and hard work of our condo staff and our terrific condo board president throughout these trials, she and I and Mike can feel safe and sound.

PS: Guide dogs are not trained to stay six feet away from others, and the Seeing Eye has developed anew infogram with suggestions on how to help us social distance and stay safe. Check it out and feel free to share with others — thanks.

Early last week I had a great experience involving, of all things, my broken upright bass. It was ripe to write about, and I thought I had today’s post in the bag.

Oh well. I was just feeling like we might be starting to get a handle on the covid thing, and then all hell broke loose.

Well, it didn’t break loose. It came out.

The two best things I’ve read so far about the riots is this piece by Steve Chapman.

And this by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

Sunday (yesterday) morning, after a night of helicopters and sirens and weird sounds and marauders, Beth woke up before I did. She was going to take her Seeing Eye Dog out for Luna’s morning constitutional but was smart to first text our friend Sheila, who always takes an early morning walk, about neighborhood conditions. Sheila warned against the walk—the debris was still a problem when she was out.

So, Beth waited, and together we took a short walk to let Luna do what she does. We returned Luna to the apartment then, and Beth and I set off to explore.

Oy. It was bewildering, heartbreaking, infuriating and completely logical at the same time. It’s like your brain is one of those old newspaper comics that you put silly putty on and then stretch in different directions.

Several businesses on our little block had been hit hard. SRO (Standing Room Only), the sandwich shop on the first floor of our building, was one of them. Its cash register was found, destroyed, in our little park. SRO continually plays a satellite jazz station and pipes it to the sidewalk. Beth uses the music as a homing device. It is staffed largely by hardworking and courteous people who happen to be Hispanic. It’s not just a business. It’s part of the fabric of our block. The 711 on the first floor of our building was pretty much cleaned out. Kasey’s, the bar across the street that’s been closed by covid, had been busted open and looted. Beth and I visited Kasey’s back in 2002 when we were scouting Chicago neighborhoods to live in. Bar Louie, a chain joint, and, of all places, a knitting-focused shop called Yarnify, also had been busted open. Go figure.

It was the same for the Ace Hardware a block away. The Ace saves our neighborhood from the horrors of big-boxes like Home Depot. The damage went on for blocks and blocks. Our friends reported that they watched from their apartment windows as vans pulled up outside of the Ace and one of the independent stores called South Loop Market on State Street to load up.

During my walk with Beth yesterday we headed down Dearborn two short blocks to Floradora, a local store located in the historic Monadnock Building north of our apartment. We have (well, mostly Beth has) struck up a friendship of sorts with Floradora’s owner. Looting was the last thing on our minds Saturday morning when we headed to the store looking for a gift for a friend—Beth called in advance, described what we were looking for, and the owner readied a set of choices before we got there. We did a curbside selection and pickup of sorts and walked back to Printers Row to deliver the gift.

Floradora was a lovely store in a lovely space. This is what it looked like the day after our visit.

It was a staggering, sobering experience. Which is maybe the point.

During our walk we also gained an inspiring sense of community. By the time we hit the street yesterday, say 10:30, to take Luna out, there was no glass on our block. I learned later from our condominium board president that he and a slew of folks from the neighborhood had decided on their own to show up with masks, brooms, dustbins and bags at 6:00 a.m., when the overnight curfew expired.

By the time we got outside, the sidewalks were clean. But the Sweeper Corps kept going to adjacent blocks, doing their sweeping all day.

Last night, most of our block was boarded up—some to cover broken windows, others,  to avoid them. Happily, we had a quiet night.

Before.

After.

Meantime, about my upright bass. About a year ago, after years of not plucking it, I decided to give it a spin. I started tuning it…and that simple act had broken the scroll/pegbox.

When my stimulus money arrived, I decided, finally, to use it to get my bass repaired. I did some research and the first to reply to my online request was Chicago Bass Works. Andrew and I had a back and forth email exchange, and he guessed he could fix it for $200 or $300. We sort of hit it off virtually, and along the way, I told him we didn’t own a car, and I told him about my covid experience.

“I’ll come and get it,” he said. “I gotta get out of the house, anyway.” When he arrived, I wrestled the bass (I’m out of practice) to the sidewalk outside our building lobby.

Andrew, wearing a mask, met me. “You doing OK carrying that thing?” I suspect he didn’t really need to ask, given my panting. I asked, “Where are you parked?” He said he would take it from there.

Two days later he emailed to say he thought this bass could be saved. He’d repaired it, tuned it, and it was holding. He would return it the next week.

On the day he was to return it, I got a voice mail. “Call me,” was all it said. I did. Bad news: The repair let go. Fixing the bass now would cost more than it cost in the first place. He was sorry. He was on the way to deliver it back to me.

After a quick talk with Beth, I called Andrew back to let him know he could keep it if he could find some use for it. He was still en route and he said he really didn’t have any use for it. We hung up.

He arrived minutes later, got out of the car and handed me a check for the full amount I’d paid in advance.

“I’d like to pay you something,” I said. “No, keep it,” he insisted. “When you can, use it to go out and hear live music.”

“And I was thinking about it—I do some work for schools maintaining instruments. I might be able to use it for parts. No need for you to lug it back to your apartment, I’ll hang on to it.”

I asked him about his Chevy Volt, we had a nice conversation, and I said “Goodbye Andrew.”

“Take care of yourself,” he said.

Chicago River piling. By Anthony Bruck. Click on image to enlarge.

Late last year our friend Laura was planning a trip to Paris to celebrate the arrival of 2020. (Remember when we could do such a thing? Remember when we thought there’d be  anything to celebrate about the coming of 2020?)

She decided to buy a camera — you know, a camera without a phone — so that she could travel and take pictures without the temptation of checking her phone for email or texts while on vacation.

That really stuck with me.

I like taking pictures — I started during journalism classes in college and strayed away during adulthood. When newfangled phones came out with cameras, I — in fairness, like many others — wondered why anyone would want to take a picture with their phone.

Welp. Over the past few years I found myself snapping pictures like the old days — except with my phone, not my trusted film camera of yore. That’s been fine but shooting with a phone has never been all that satisfying. And yeah, when it’s out of my pocket, I’m distracted by email, texts, or whatever.

With baseball absent and the world essentially closed, I knew early on in this quarantine siege that I’d have to find another pastime. And so, inspired by our friend’s idea, I endeavored to get a camera. I reasoned that, as I am wont to do in such quests, I would get consumed by the effort, and that it would fill some time. Plus, it would give me something to look forward to: taking walks with my phone pocketed and the camera around my neck.

I wrote in an earlier post about the generosity of our neighborhood friend Anthony — he loaned me one of his cameras to play with to get a handle on what might suit me best. Over our weeks in quarantine he’s responded to one question after another about cameras, about technique, and about digital photo processing. It’s been a lot of fun and I’ve learned a lot.

Anthony had also pointed me to some online resources. And lordy, the rabbit holes I went down. Every night for weeks, usually after Beth had retired for the evening, I pored over web sites, reviewing specs and lurking on user forums. (Anthony prefers the use of fora for the plural of forums. I’m sticking with forums).

There is something narcotic about going into deep consumer mode. It’s no accident: marketers invite us to identify with our purchases. You know, if I buy a professional level piece of equipment, I can be a professional. Or if I don’t buy high-end equipment, I’ll be selling myself short. If I buy this, I won’t be able to do that, but if I buy that I won’t be able to do this.

It’s like this for every industry. Motorcycles. Electronics. Camping equipment. My God, camping equipment. You can’t just buy a tent, it’s a defining decision!

During my camera quest, I recalled a passage from a novel called The Sportswriter. Author Richard Ford reminded me that consumer culture has been this way since long before the Internet and Amazon and Zappos. Ford  describes the protagonist and his wife grieving after the tragic death of their son and immersing themselves in the world of … catalogs.

From the book:

“During that time—it was summer—we spent at least one evening a week couched in the sun room or sitting in the breakfast nook leafing through the colorful pages, filling out order blanks with our Bankcard numbers (most of which we never mailed) and jotting down important toll-free numbers we might want to call.”

“I had animal-call catalogs, which brought a recording of a dying baby rabbit. Dog-collar catalogs. Catalogs for canvas luggage that would stand up to Africa. Catalogs for expeditions to foreign lands with single women. Catalogs for all manner of outerwear for every possible occasion, in every climate. I had rare-book catalogs, record catalogs, exotic hand-tool catalogs, lawn-ornament catalogs, catalogs from Italy, flower-seed catalogs, gun catalogs, sexual-implement catalogs, catalogs for hammocks, weather vanes, barbecue accessories, exotic animals, spurtles, slug catalogs.”

Frank, the protagonist, goes on to explain the allure:

“…there was something other than the mere ease of purchase in all this, in the hours going through pages seeking the most virtuous screwdriver or the beer bottle cap rehabilitator obtainable nowhere else but from a PO box in Nebraska. It was that the life portrayed in these catalogs seemed irresistible.”

Like I said, the marketers know what they’re doing, whether it’s in pixels or ink. And for the past few weeks I’ve kind of enjoyed being led along. I wanted my quest to last because I needed something to do besides watching covid reports or comedy shows about covid before I went to bed.

Years ago, I would’ve fallen for it all, probably bought something that ultimately was a lot more capable than I am, or simply more than I needed.

But like it or not, I’m older now. I ended up with a simple, elegant, and lightly used gem. It is not the latest or the greatest. In fact, I found pictures on the storage card dating from 2011. But it suits me to perfection. And I’ll tell you what it is …

… in some future blog post.

Meantime, I’ll leave you with another sample of our friend Anthony’s photography. He took it this past weekend on a long walk in downtown Chicago.

It gives me something to, well, shoot for.

By Anthony Bruck.

Gretchen and her granddaughter Adara.

I am pleased to introduce Gretchen McCann as our featured “Saturdays with Seniors” blogger today. New to Chicago, Gretchen joined the Thursday memoir class last summer and continues writing — and reading — essays while we meet via Zoom.

Born in New England, Gretchen was raised in California, graduated from Berkeley and met her husband, Skip, in Washington, D.C. during the heady days of LBJ’s Great Society program. They raised their family in Philadelphia, where she worked as a freelance editor and publicist for the Philadelphia Youth Orchestra. When it came time to downsize, Gretchen and Skip found a home in Chicago around the corner from their son and his family. She says her toddler granddaughter,  Adara, “provides the joy in sheltering at home.”

Life’s Little Lessons

by Gretchen McCann

I couldn’t seem to get a handle on Beth’s “Lessons Learned” writing prompt this week. I’m sure I’ve had a lot, but most seem not worthy of 500 words (for example, learning to play the accordion, or not learning to speak Spanish). The remaining could consume an entire, if somewhat tedious, autobiography. So I redefined the topic to “Life’s Little Lessons.” Herewith a few:

• I have learned that few folks appreciate the contribution of an editor, even if they’re paying for it. They don’t understand the changes suggested and resent the tampering of their deathless prose.
• Eyeglasses are a toddler magnet and will not survive their attention.
• It took a few years, and not a few dead plants, but I now see the secret of a successful garden is to water.
• It is impossible for a lefty to learn to crochet from a righty.
• I absolutely should not wear pastels.
• It may be true that a watched pot will not boil, but if I turn my back it will surely boil over. Especially if it’s tomato sauce.
• Black marble is a terrible choice for a bathroom counter.
• I thought we couldn’t have too many books, but then we decided to downsize and move 900 miles.
• The things that scared me the most turned out to provide some of the best life experiences.
• One should definitely read the book before seeing the movie.
• I’ll never learn to play chess.
• A new container of cayenne is way hotter than the one I bought in 1995.
• The trouble with housework is that I’m supposed to do it all over again tomorrow.
• If you rescue a stray kitten, be prepared to never leave your food unguarded.
• When I need a laugh, I should try on hats.
• In parenting, just when you figure out what’s going on with a child, they move on to the next puzzling thing.
• I won’t always know why I walked into a room.
• I’ve accepted that my spouse is not a mind reader and I should tell him outright what I want for my birthday. Or skip that and just get it myself.
• Once they leave home, children have wayyyyy more to share when they initiate the call.
• A duck can be a surprisingly wonderful pet.
• I can call them age spots, but they’re really from too much sun.
• I now appreciate that beach vs. mountain is a real dichotomy. I might have paid better attention to this.
• It’s true. Mothers-in-law, especially grandmas, really really really have to keep their mouths shut.
• An accordion is not an adequate substitute for a piano.
• Knitting is a wonderful — and useful — pastime, but some otherwise steadfast friends will find it amusing. And say so. Especially after a few drinks.
• Watching the news is not good for my mental health, and by extension, my temperament. This has not always been true.
• COVID 19 has put me back in regular touch with people I love. Is it too much to hope that this truly scary time will offer other positive life experiences?