PARCC, Opting In

My children are taking the PARCC test.

Not because we are making a political statement or because I really believe in standardized testing, but simply because it is offered, the expectation is to test, and I believe the more you do something the better and more comfortable with it you become.

The reality is that testing is now a part of my daughters' lives, and right or wrong evaluating through testing is the standard. I wish it wasn't. I also wish they would never fall down, be disappointed or find out that I'm not as smart as they think.

There are many questions regarding the validity of this test, whether or not it is a good evaluator of either teachers or students. There are uncertainties as to how the information gained from the test will be used and if the test has been properly vetted. There are concerns that I share about the time allotted to testing, meaning less instruction time in the classroom. The reality is that my children will test for a total of 12 hours over two weeks. It is not a weeks long all day test, as it has been represented in some information. I'd rather that time be used for instruction but given a choice between taking a test, and becoming more comfortable with standardized testing, or sitting in a study hall environment, I chose the test.

My children do not have great anxiety with regard to testing, and perhaps I would feel differently if they did. We have made it very clear to them that these tests will not in any way determine where they go to college or what career they will chose or whether or not they will live in Istanbul as adults. As with any test they take our mantra is to go in and show what you know, and what you don't. The discovery of what you don't know is, in my opinion, just as valuable as finding out what you do. That said I have no idea how they scored on PARCC last year, nor can I recite their MAP scores, which is perhaps indicative of the significance I place on testing.

We opt in, not because I am compliant but because I find value in taking the test, and I feel strongly that facing the challenge is an important lesson. Taking action, voicing your opinion and standing up for what you believe also matters, but we don't all wear the same size shoe, nor should we.

Orange is Not the New Blue, But It's Still Allowed

The Chicago Blackhawks just won the first game of the Stanley Cup finals. I'm not really a hockey fan, at some point in every game I lose the puck and then lose interest in the entire game, but it's fun to live in a city that really gets behind it's sports teams, especially in the post season. Half the city wore Hawks jerseys today, perhaps more than were allowed at Game One. Like many I am confounded by the Tampa Bay Lightning restriction on Blackhawk clothing in certain areas of the arena.

I may not be a hockey fan but I am a baseball fan and I watched seven World Series games, in both Kansas City and San Francisco, with this orange shirt behind home plate. In a sea of KC blue, this guy stood out in a painfully obvious way (and his orange looked very Giants like at first glance). Royals management offered this Marlins fan a private suite if he would move, his orange jersey standing out in every single home plate shot. He refused; having paid $8,000 for the seat he wasn't moving, or changing shirts. And so he stayed, bothersome to see, but allowed to wear what he wanted, as it should be.

So proud to be a fan of team that doesn't dictate to fans what they can and cannot wear in their stadium. Go Royals, and Go Blackhawks.

Mistaken for a Native

While traveling in Ireland several years ago my mother in law was elated, moved to almost tears, when in Galway she was asked for directions. Standing in front of the Boots, looking confident and far less lost than I do even in Chicago, a wandering stranger stopped to ask her which way to a castle. Or a pub, I don't remember.

Of course she had absolutely no idea, and most likely had trouble even understanding the question given the ongoing issues her mid-western ear had with the thick accent (her son suffers the same exact fate: he once asked a woman, who was describing in detail her flat, how her flight was), but she was overwhelming giddy with the idea that someone had mistaken her for a true Galway'ian.

Yesterday at Target two men stopped and asked me for directions; despite their thick Chicago accents I understood immediately, "do you know where the hand soap is?". I checked my shirt, black cardigan, nothing red on my upper body at all. I stuttered, "well, it's um, well I think it's over near the toothpaste". They nodded and thanked me, "yep, you looked like you might know".

It's come to this, mistaken for a native at Target; one who buys excessive amounts of hand soap. 

Nailed it.

Take Me Out to the Snow Pile!

Opening day is in less than four weeks.

The field is covered in snow, massive piles of snow from infield to out. It seems that last week someone in the main office looked out from their window to the snow covered mess below and said "Good Lord, we've got to play baseball out there".  Last week the plows came.

They started digging out, piling mounds of snow onto the sidewalk on Sheffield.

The neighbors complained. Crossing the street proved to be far too difficult for those who chose to live in the immediate shadow of a major league ballpark and so today the piles were being moved, by huge snow moving machine, closer to the wall, so as not to inconvenience anyone for one more day. Given that temperatures around Wrigley are, today, in the upper 40s, I think I would cross the street simply to avoid a small avalanche.

Enormous piles of snow,  taken today from the field, were being dumped into The Snow Melter, that small yellow thing below, which miraculously melted the snow and funneled the resulting water into the drain at the corner of Sheffield and Waveland. The 12 or so men and women hired to direct traffic around this event appeared to be fascinated with the concept of melting snow, as were those walking by, all slowing for a close look before being forced to cross the street (on which side sits the train to take them to work). Such risk, what with that wall of snow precariously placed so close to the sidewalk, to watch snow melt.

In all fairness it's rather a novel idea around here, melting snow.

Six to eight inches forecasted for the city Wednesday, in the winter that will never end.

Cry Me a Frozen River

"Excuse me, do you have time to save the river today?"

Excuse me, have you lost your mind?

Whatever river you are trying to save by standing on Broadway with your smiling face and informational flyers is frozen. As are you. We are all frozen. The only thing that needs saving today is the embattled soul of every Chicagoan tired of self incubating with wool and down and coffee.

Bully for you for saving the river, really, but save yourself first. Start by wearing a hat, and put out that stupid cigarette, you know, the one you are about to toss casually onto the street, contributing to our urban mess while working to save a river that is now suitable for ice hockey practice.

It's cold today and it will be cold tomorrow. Someday it might be warm again, someday I might not race past you, praying that I can get inside before my exposed skin starts to peel away in protest from my frozen body, but not today. Today it is 5 degrees, and it's snowing again.

For the love of the river, go inside.

Image of the frozen and snow covered Chicago river borrowed from Twitter, @cornerofthecafe, because it's just too damn cold for me to step outside to take one myself.

Snow Day a New Way

The names scrolled across the screen as I sat, inches from the television, awaiting my fate: Raymore R4, Shawnee Mission 512,Turner R7...

"MOM!"

My children will never know this joy, this wild and unbridled joy, the culmination of hours spent staring out the window, watching the snow fall mightily to the ground, waiting for the evening news...

Snow Day!

 

Immediately the phone rang, did you see? No school tomorrow! Let the planning begin!

 The modern snow day lacks some spontaneity. Our home phone rings, then my cell. Somewhere in the distance Jack's phone rings. Then they all ring once more because we have two children. My phone vibrates with a new text, and then another. There is an email from the district and one from the school. And the next day, the day that we had hoped to sleep past the usual 6:00 am alarm, they call once more, just to make sure we don't brave the negative temperatures to get our children to school.

No need for concern.

While they might miss out on the experience of freedom brought on my Mother Nature as announced by the evening news, they still get this,

 and that does make for a pretty nice snow day.

Oh no, we were not at Cricket Hill this week when temperatures hovered around -15 degrees. Images from a much warmer snow day, blizzard 2011.

My opinion on the recent rash of days off thanks to the frigid temperatures? Absolutely. My children ride to school, now, in a warm car. The majority of the 400,000 children in the district rely on public transportation. And the thought of  one of them standing on train platform Tuesday morning, bundled to combat the ridiculous wind chills, insane. As much as I hate to extend the school year into summer, I hate the idea of frozen children more.

Maybe It Was All About the Pike Place Roast

Maybe the ceiling of her bathroom at home was leaking or maybe she had just hung up the phone with her mother ending a particularly combative call, but when the woman in front of me at Starbucks was told that they were out of the Pike Place Roast, at least for now, she just snapped. They had the Holiday Blend and the Blonde Roast but no Pike Place; would she like to try one of the others?

She did not, nor did she care to hear any explanation as to why they had none of her favorite coffee available. Maybe this had been a really bad day, maybe she had been dreaming of a grande Pike Place all morning or maybe she was just a rotten person but for reasons unknown she chose to take her frustration out on the barista who was exceedingly gracious when faced with the wrath of this coffee displeased woman. She left, or actually she stormed out, choosing to go without rather than try another option.

Maybe I had just spent the past hour trying to pay my mother's phone bill from 500 miles away, which proved to be insanely difficult given that I was trying to actually give them money, or maybe I had been on the phone for most of the morning with doctors and movers and retirement home coordinators, but thankfully Starbucks had all the Awake tea I wanted: two bags and a smidge of cream. What if they had said no, not today. What if they had offered me a cup of green tea, or worse, calm tea? Who knows what I might have done. I'll never know. Nor will I know what happened to the coffee lady just before her morning coffee dreams were shattered. I'd like to think I'd choose kindness over madness, but I just don't know.

Shooting: Gun Violence in my Northside Chicago Neighborhood

"Did you know, the only person to actually die this year, as a result of a shooting, was the man who died after the church shooting?"

I looked over the top of my glasses, across the table, at my husband who offered this information, seemingly, to calm my growing concerns over gun violence in our neighborhood.

"Did you know that I don't want to get shot? Nor do I want you or the girls to get shot? Or anyone really, no more shooting."

"But come on, doesn't it make you feel better to know that statistically you are not likely to actually die if you are shot, at least in our neighborhood?"

"No."

Statistically I am less likely to get shot because I am a white female but even that, combined with Jack's gunshot survival rate, isn't slowing my growing concern. It may not be me, or my children, but right now it's going to be someone, and that is too many.

His angle used to be that we were safe because none of the four of us were knowingly affiliated with any gangs and gangs were the ones doing all the shooting. He gave that up when the gangs, to whom he seemed to have attached a high level of intelligence and target acumen, began shooting wildly at anyone moving near their intended target. When they started firing from cars across busy and crowded streets, this conversation was over.

In the past month nine people have been shot in our neighborhood, and we live on the north side of the city, where people assume you are safe. The news focuses on crime on the south and west sides where shooting is more prevalent and young people dying is much more common. Our nine shootings don't even put us in the top 12 violent neighborhoods in the city. Gun violence is so common in Chicago that neighborhood shootings are no longer the lead story on the 10:00 news.

Last week someone was robbed at gunpoint in front of our neighborhood library.  The week before that there was an assault at the park at the end of our block, around lunch time.

Two weeks ago, the same week that the Navy Yard shootings took place, 13 people were wounded when a gunman fired an automatic weapon into a crowded city park. That no one died is a true miracle, that no one died kept this story from being major national news. Five people have now been arrested; it appears they were mad because one of them had earlier been shot, grazed in a drive by shooting. Retaliation for that, open fire on a crowded park. Someone might have thought that seemed reasonable.

In Chicago, our shooters are not generally ones with long histories of mental illness. They are young people who are angry. They are young people who have ready access to guns and, it seems, limited access to good decision making skills. One day last week I had the Tribune spread out all over the library desk at school, reading the article about the the then three (now five) young men arrested in connection with the park shooting. One of the older students looked over my shoulder, "oh, I know him", and he pointed to one of the mug shots in the article. I whirled around, "you do?".

He looked again, "oh, no never mind. Not that guy, but a guy from my block got arrested last week, but that was another shooting", and he shrugged his shoulders.

"Was he a friend of yours?".

"Nah, I didn't really know him, he's older. But we all know who he is", and he walked off, back to class, as casually as if he had told me he had pizza for dinner the night before.

During the 2011-2012 school year, 319 Chicago Public School students were wounded by gunfire, 24 of them fatally. My children, my CPS students, barely notice the sirens we hear almost daily outside our apartment.  They see police cars outside neighborhood schools and rarely question why. They participate in lock down drills at their school and say good morning each day to the off duty police officer who stands at the top of the stairs when they make their way into the building. What is scary to me is a way of life to them, and that scares me.

The week before the park shooting FBI numbers showed Chicago as the murder capital of the United States. Almost immediately that was refuted, numerous writers pointing out that per capita you were much more likely to be shot in Flint, Michigan, a town with a population around 100,000. I'm not standing on title, hand it off to Flint, MI if necessary but find a way to stop the people in Chicago from shooting each other.

When I started writing this last week, 277 people had died in Chicago thus far this year as a result of gunshot wounds. Today, about one week later, that number is 282. And tonight on the news, three teenagers shot on the city's south west side. It's enough to make you very angry.
 

Au Revoir Summer

All spring I waited, counted the weeks until I could buy a full gallon of milk at the small town market, one that would be tippled for more than a two day weekend, one that would last for an entire week, or longer. That time has come and gone, summer is officially kaput.

To ease the transition, today was cooler than any day last week, clear and blue and beautiful but definitely crispy. That it warms up this week matters not at all, the official last day of summer reminded us all why we love the autumn months, although not quite as much as summer.

And what a summer, the highlight being the removal (finally) of the training wheels (theirs, not mine). At eight my urban children, with very little space to bike ride, found the wide open spaces of a small town and decided, after much debate, to free themselves of the clickety clack of training wheels. I held on, I let go, and they were off. Sunday night, just after sunset, they rode with us the four blocks to the beach, on only two wheels (each), the cap to a much accomplished summer.

They swam to the buoy, picked blueberries, ate ice cream, and suffered from assorted scraped knees, elbows and chins. Kate got stung by a bee, five times, and survived (she was much braver than her mother). We watched movies on rainy nights, learned to play gin rummy, and began the arduous process of building a doll house.

My old leather calendar stayed in my bag and the computer came out only after bedtime, and only for writing. I cut my hair, got too much sun on my nose and loved every minute of living without a schedule.

We're back, a very long and traffic congested car trip later, but we're back. As I brushed Mary's shower tangled hair before bed, police sirens screamed outside the bathroom window. Dinner arrived in 45 minutes, noodles from the Thai place down the street, and the grocery man comes tomorrow. Jack's busy two nights this week, I go back to work tomorrow, and, even though the girls are one week into fourth grade, summer didn't seem officially over until tonight.

In no time we'll be back savoring everything we love about the city but for now, for one last minute, I'm allowing myself to miss the sound of quiet on the small town back porch and the incessant chirping of the cicadas.

Au revoir.

Fear is a Factor

Several months ago, while wandering the aisles at my favorite used book store, I came upon a stash of Agatha Christie books. Immediately I scooped up four of them and have been on the lockout for others ever since. I'd forgotten how much I loved her books, how much I loved hiding away in my room, safe on the second floor with my parents down below, as I read story after story of Jane Marple or of Hercule Poroit. Miss Marple was my favorite, her tottering self so sharp and so far ahead of me as I struggled to piece together the clues that were so obvious to the seemingly ancient detective.

Those lovely books are gathering dust on the shelf in the guest room; I'm afraid to read them. I haven't watched one Law & Order rerun all summer, scary movies are not even mentioned and sadly, the local news is proving to be a bit too much. Small towns terrify me.

This summer, for the first time, the girls and I are spending most of our days, and nights, in our favorite Michigan beach town, a charming, and small, spot on the water with a population that swells to less than 10,000 during the summer. Terrifying.

Jack assures me that absolutely nothing happens here. My neurotic checking of online data shows that this is simply not true; just last week some poor man was stopped for a minor traffic violation (specifics not revealed to protect the offender) just blocks from our house. I am fairly certain that I remember hearing the sirens on that fateful day, quite possible in that the only other audible sound for blocks was my children screaming at each other over the badminton net in the back yard. Also a possibility, me screaming at my children to lower their voices so as not to disturb our quiet neighborhood.

This is the problem, it's a little too quiet here. Also, very dark. Maybe one or the other but together, scary. We don't have quiet in Chicago, and we certainly don't have dark.  Last week the girls and I drove home around 9:30 pm after dropping Jack at the train. We passed one car. I cannot remember the last time I went outside in Chicago and didn't see another soul. In a city where the rising crime rate consistently makes national headlines, where the idiots in the neighborhood think shooting at each other is just as acceptable as yelling insults from car windows, I feel safe. Er.

It's been over twenty years since I lived on the ground floor of anything; for 20 years I have lived in a world where access to one of our windows required a ladder or climbing equipment. Our bedroom window in Chicago faces a brick wall. The only people that can see in any of our windows are the Vietnamese couple whose kitchen sits about one arm's length from the dining room windows. Watching Mrs. Pham putter around her kitchen is comforting, I open our windows to smell the fish sauce and garlic and wave when she looks up from her chopping. The entire world, or almost 10,000 of them, can see in the windows when we are in Michigan. You know what is outside the dining room window there? Darkness. Scads and scads of dark, as far as you cannot see.
 
It's back to reality next week, home to the familiar paranoia of living in the city and away from the comfortable horror of living with open windows and unlocked doors. Several days ago, not far from our apartment in Chicago, five people were shot when a few gang geniuses got confused about which side of the street they were allowed to stand on, or something equally important. That should be terrifying but sadly it's not, it's home. Nothing Miss Marple faces could scare me more than that.

The Things We Carried

A lifetime ago my mother visited me in Chicago. As we walked the five blocks from my apartment to the garage that housed the car I used so infrequently it never occurred to me that five blocks was a long way to walk to park your car, she asked "how do you walk so far with your groceries?".  She said this at the exact moment we crossed the street, only one block from my apartment, passing my neighborhood grocer. My mother, a woman who once drove home from her suburban grocery store without the groceries she had just purchased, was just shocked by this idea, "you walk to the grocery store!" and was quite worried about me carrying home, for one block, Tab and Triscuits.

Oh Mom, we carry everything home: groceries, children, curtain rods, tables, dinner.

Years ago I carried a wreath home from work that was only marginally smaller in circumference than I was tall.  I have carried a full set of china, an antique baby rocker and, on more than one occasion, a full complement of weekend cocktails. Every December we carry home a Christmas tree which used to be a joint effort, one of us at each end, until two years ago when I finally convinced Jack that we needed two trees. Successful lobbying means that now I carry my own tree but he's kind enough to give me the dining room yule, much smaller than the living room tree which seems to grow in height each year.

Last week the girls got new mattresses, so grateful they are still in twin beds.

Home, Where I Want To Be

After almost eight hours of driving, through Missouri and Illinois, eight hours of distance from a place that I had once called home, the Chicago skyline appeared on the horizon.

"First one to see the Sears Tower gets a kiss from Mom!", and the girls laughed, being similarly motivated to orient themselves one week earlier by spying Royals Stadium on the outskirts of Kansas City.

The music that had been looping through the CD player for hours was now suddenly very clear, the voices from the back seat singing along with Lucy Kaplansky,  "this is home, where I want to be" and I realized; somewhere several hours back we started driving towards, rather than away from, home.

Welcome home Chicago.

How Much Did You Pay For Your Seat on the CTA?

Several weeks ago I read the following letter in the Social Q's section of the Times:

Children 44 inches tall or shorter ride the subway free. But I don’t believe in giving an entire seat to someone who hasn’t paid a fare. Recently, I refused to let a small child take my seat when she asked for it herself. I would have been fine giving it up if the mother had asked and put the child in her lap. Was my subway etiquette incorrect?

Julie, Brooklyn 

Well Julie, you present an interesting point of view, one that I had not before considered. For eight years my children have struggled to keep their balance, holding desperately to posts, each other, assorted body parts and weary travelers, when standing on the bus and train while able bodied adults, many of them young, sat firmly rooted in their seats.  Not always, occasionally people get up, which I appreciate, because trying to keep them both upright is a daunting task, especially when I am also responsible for groceries or beach bags or backpacks. However I am a bit confused because for the first 6 years of their life they paid nothing to ride on public transportation, the criteria in Chicago being children age 7 or above pay, albeit a reduced fare. So in those glorious younger years, when they rode only as an expense to tax payers, people seemed more likely to stand and offer them a seat, whereas now, at age 8, and paying a full $.85, they are often left to stand. By your logic, they should be offered a portion of a seat, or perhaps, because they are twins, they could share, but still, their two selves together do not equal one full fare paying adult ticket. An interesting quandary to be certain.

Adding to my confusion then is the reduced fare program for seniors. Qualifying senior citizens pay the same as my children, $.85, to ride the CTA, however signs on both trains and buses implore me to stand and offer my seat should someone much older board. Perhaps what I should do, in this instance, is offer the senior my seat and then pile my two children on their lap, that's $.85 times three, which would put them just over the regular fare price of $2.25 for an adult. Of course if the adult barometer was using a transit card, as I do, they would only be paying $2.00 per ride, and then my pile of humanity would be well in excess of the standard fare. What to do with the millions of people who ride the CTA each year from out of town, or out of the country? After spending a good deal of vacation time navigating the system maps, and then waiting in line to only be befuddled by the automated ticket machine, you now suggest that they should be well versed in the system of fare scheduling, so as to know when they should offer their seat to someone, based not on age and kindness but on the value of their seat? I see some real problems arising on the blue and orange lines, those that come from the airports.

Of course Julie, your logic is transferable to so many different things. There are a good percentage of students in my daughters' school who qualify for the free and reduced lunch program. Maybe we should shift things around a bit and only allow those children a seat in the cafeteria when all the full paying children have found theirs.And of course we must assume that you, Julie, always pay full fare when flying. I know I search for those super saver fares when we fly, but not anymore, not if that means we won't all get a seat. Certainly in this instance we must insist on safety before savings.

But then, maybe that should be the logic on public transportation also. Because the reality is that children, and older adults, are more unsteady, and more likely to fall, and certainly more likely to get injured if they do. Which is why I wanted to snap off the earplugs of the two twenty something men on the bus yesterday, who sat firmly in their seats while my children played musical chairs with the rotating cast of seniors getting on and off the Addison bus. Should an 8 year old really have to stand and offer their seat to an 80 year old while a 20 year old man sits by watching? Apparently yes, because my daughter has no idea how much someone paid to ride the bus, nor will that ever be a consideration in deciding who should sit and who should stand.

Stand up Julie, and offer that child a seat.

One Sleepy Little Town

Against the advice of husband, I am downtown today, eight stories above Michigan Avenue in my "office", my library perch that is my favorite place to write. Insisting that I needed the quiet to get a few things finished before summer begins,but really knowing that I could not let all this madness happen without my having a front row seat, I wedged onto the train this morning with everyone else racing to get to work.

But there were only six people on the train, with seats available, even one for my bag. There were no armpits in my face, no drops of coffee dripped onto my foot, not one bit of suffering through much too loud music being pumped into my seat mates ears; the train was almost empty, at 8:30 in the morning.

And then it got even creepier: there was no one in the Starbucks, no taxis racing across Monroe, no map clutching tourists on the corner. There are no people downtown, just as the news said it would be. 

Did everyone really listen to the warnings to stay away?

Yesterday, as I watched from home, the street outside the Art Institute looked like this:

On that street today, right now, there are two security guards, two parked cars (which is completely illegal), one person pushing a cart of some sort and one person who looks absolutely lost.

It's possible the protestors are all home, wherever that might be, with some blazing headaches as they were bashed around a bit yesterday, a post protest hangover of sorts. And I suppose that most of the Chicago Police Department is suffering from dehydration, having spent yesterday, and it's 93 degree heat, in full riot gear, including helmets and face shields. The much cooler temperatures today, combined with some serious IV fluids, might bring them back tonight.

But for now, all is quiet, which is good as I've got some work to get finished before summer begins.

Images courtesy of first, the Rockford Register Star, and second, The Chicago Tribune. I was not available yesterday to take pictures.

You're Still the One

Several weeks ago I put together a list of the many things I love about Chicago and then immediately was flooded with other ideas, things that fall into the stumble upon category, rather than those that we seek out to enjoy. In fact that very afternoon, on the ride home, I was faced with something I love that did not make the list but should have. And so, rather than limit myself to a once every 175 year list, I have decided to tell Chicago why I love it every week (or so), because I believe when you have something nice to say you should say it, and when you don't, say if someone were to vomit on your feet on the subway, then you should just keep quiet, or at least not talk about it here.

Subway Musicians

Descending into the subway, into the two level under ground odd subterranean tunnel, is a bit mole like. Different from climbing up to the elevated platform, the subway offers warmth in the winter and a cool blast in the summer. It can smell, it can be creepy, it can be lonely and scary.

Nothing subway related, not even an almost empty approaching train when I'm running late, makes me as happy as hitting the bottom step at the lowest level and finding music bouncing off the tile walls. Often it's an acapella voice in an altered rendition of some of my favorite music; recently I heard a very bluesy version of Brown Eyed Girl, sung by an older black man, in a drawn out and deeply longing way, a complete departure from Van Morrison's upbeat classic. It was beautiful.

Subway musicians reflect the diversity of the city, and the spirit of so many people living together in one large, yet very small, space. And the tired commuter, often cranky when left helpless at the mercy of the huge transit system, can't help but sway along when met with a woman singing At Last, accompanied by a beat up trumpet, the week that Etta James died.

Subway musicians make my journey a bit sweeter, and send me off on a crowded train with a song of my own, not to be drown out by the blasting earphones of the guy wedged in next to me, and that is something I love.

Image courtesy of hirechelsea.com

Happy Birthday You Old Wind Bag

This week Chicago celebrated it's 175th birthday and with that came list upon list of what makes our city great. There were guides to non tourist spots, tourist spots, historical greats, historical misses, and several bucket lists of can't miss activities. Quickly noting my own favorites, I realized that, with one exception, my entire life is experienced in the summer. Not terribly surprising, winters mean school and home and back again, with limited time to wander the city, and limited want as we are generally buried in snow and cold, this past winter excluded. Why do I love Chicago? Because every year we have a summer, and winter is all right too.

1. 23rd and Oakley, the original old Italian neighborhood, is a two block long strip of restaurants, with one market and one funeral parlor. We are partial to Bachanalia, and never miss Festa Pasta Vino, our official kick-off to summer in mid June. Some may go for the food, some for the Rat Pack Tribute Band but for me, it's all about the old men in dark shorts and black socks sitting along the sidewalk on scratchy mesh woven folding chairs. Some speak Italian, that is my amore.

2. Sitting at The Dock at Montrose Beach is a little bit like being on vacation: good food, excellent people watching, sand, water, fabulous beer selection, with children and seagulls everywhere.

3. Two years ago the Grant Park Music Festival kicked off the season with Vivaldi, on the last day of the school year, and I thought they were playing just for us. We spend many summer nights in the park with a picnic, amazing music, an equally amazing view, and Mary and Kate's somewhat modern dance interpretation of Mahler's Third. That's a perfect evening.

4. Perhaps because we spend so many months trapped inside, Chicagoans, like other northern climate counterparts, really love eating outside when the temperature creeps above 50 (we are also somewhat desperate). Most of our favorite places offer sidewalk seating or hidden patios (El Nuevo on Clark is our first choice) but I think the best way to dine al fresco is to take a picnic to the beach. The girls and I pick up sandwiches at Red Hen Bakery on Diversey and sit by the water, feeding the bread scraps to the ducks and sneaky geese who swoop in for their share.

5. Temperatures not considered, the Pilsen neighborhood is one of my favorites, but in the summer, when people are outside and the ice cream guys are on every corner, it's at the very top of the list. This place reeks of Chicago to me, even though it smells like tortillas and sounds like Mexico. We like to go to the park near the National Museum of Mexican Art, eat paletas de fresa from the old man with the ice cream cart bicycle, stop for tacos at El Fua (which used to be Abuelo's), watch softball and marvel at just how far away from Chicago we can be on the southwest side of the city. Also worth a stop, fresh tortillas from Nuevo Leon (and breakfast, lunch or dinner) and corn muffins from any panaderia.

6. After celebrating my Mexican heritage in the Pilsen, and my Italian heritage at Festa Pasta Vino, I succumb to my true self and spend the second weekend of July at the Irish American Heritage Center's summer festival. It's hot and sticky, full of people wearing every shade of green possible. There is wonderful music (our favorite, The Larkin and Moran Brothers), plenty of beer, fish and chips, and an impressive array of wood carvings reading "Men are like bagpipes-no sound comes from them until they're full". All other vendors sell big wool sweaters, lovely, but it's July in Chicago.

7. Even in the winter, when the wind is painfully cold, the view as you walk from the Adler Planetarium to the Shedd Aquarium is spectacular. Looking back at the city from that vantage point is exhilarating. Day or night it is both an energy boost and a calm presence, a reminder of how big things can be, and what a small part of the world you really are.

8. Wrigley Field, and everything near or around or having anything to do with baseball in the summer: Saturday afternoons when the Cubs are out of town on the patio at Murphy's, the fire station across the street after the game, standing on the platform at the Addison red line station, seeing the lights at the ballpark from our front yard, listening to crowd roar from our back porch, but first and foremost, being inside on a summer afternoon.

9. Wednesday summer mornings are taken, we make our plans around a trip to the Green City Market at the south end of Lincoln Park. There are crepes and fruit smoothies, guys playing the guitar, plenty of food to actually buy to bring home and cook, and, on most days, a quick trip across the street to check out the animals at the Farm in the Zoo. Miss this and life goes on: there is a wonderful market on Tuesday morning in Lincoln Square and a small but mighty market in Andersonville on Wednesday afternoons (and the tofu lady goes to that one).

10. And the one thing that I like to do, specific to winter and cold, is a carved in stone tradition for me: drinks at the Palm Court in the Drake Hotel at Christmas. That's it, nothing terribly unique or revolutionary, but a comforting ritual that often ends with dinner at Mario's. Merry Christmas.

11. The bus, that great smelly beast, the one who moves me around the city with little to no efficiency or order, that's my favorite. Jack's a train guy, he much prefers the straight and narrow route of the red line, but I like wandering on the bus, specifically the 36 Broadway at any time when everyone else should be at work.

12.Ironically, when I come to the end of my great Chicago list, I realize that one of the best things about Chicago is that I, after almost twenty years, still find myself quite lost occasionally (and that is not even taking into account my my udder befuddlement when faced with the suburbs). It seems that my very favorite thing about living here is that my list will never be complete, I'm never sure what I might find around the next corner.

Hand in Hand

It was clear when they walked in that they had been married a very long time. In one hand he held a folded newspaper, in the other, her wrinkled hand. He pulled out her chair, sat down himself and began to read.

"Where is that restaurant?" she asked.
"Downstairs dear".
"So it won't take long to get there?"
He smiled at her, she checked her watch.

He read, she flipped pages in a magazine.

"Do you know our tickets are for 1:30?"
"I know we are going to the symphony this afternoon," he answered.

I checked my watch, it was 11:10; we were one half block from the symphony center.

"What are you going to eat? At lunch."
Without looking up he replied, "I haven't seen the menu yet dear".
"I think I'm going to have soup, something that won't take long to prepare. What do you think?"
"I think you should get whatever pleases you."

He read; she flipped pages, crossed and uncrossed her very old legs, adjusted her skirt, rifled through her purse and sighed loudly when she checked her watch again.

He folded his paper and looked at her, "Marilyn, would you like to go and have lunch?".
"You know, I believe I would."

They left hand in hand.

Take This One, Really

He hit the corner just before I did, which is exactly what you don't want to happen when you are running late for a funeral. His arm went up to flag the only taxi in the oncoming pack of cars. I stood, checking my watch, silently berating myself for taking the 30 seconds to stop and wave at the family who runs the corner taqueria. It began to drizzle.

"Do you need a cab?"

Taunting, of course I do.

"Here, take this one, I'm in no hurry".

I peered at him over the top of my glasses. He switched the 12 pack of Bud Light to his other arm and opened the door for me, "take it, really. I can wait".

For nine months I rode the train to work, pregnancy oozing from me at every available egress, and I can count on one hand the number of times people stood up and offered my swollen self their seat.

My calloused soul climbed into the back seat, "thank you so much, I mean, it's just that I am late for a funeral and I, I just don't know how to thank you". He smiled, moved the Bud Light again, and closed the door.

Cheers kind man, and thank you.

Lighting Up The Night

In the city, the lights often hide the stars, leaving us with a smooth gray night sky to ponder. The first time I visited Jack's family, in Nebraska, I was agog at the amazing light display after sunset and immediately sprawled myself in his grandmother's yard, content to spend the rest of my evening entertained by the light show. Having never lost their starry view to city lights, they had no idea what I was doing and quite certainly spoke in hushed voices about the odd new girl who refused to move from her spot in the yard.

Some things never change. For everything that I love about living in the city, I still feel robbed when I see the stars that blanket the sky in Michigan. Without agenda, I could easily lay quietly in the yard with the girls for hours, awed by the depth and brilliance of the lights available on the other side of the water.

Mary and Kate are keeping a night sky log for school. Every evening at 7:30 we tromp out to the back deck, pajamas on, and look up, hoping to find something of interest to note in their journals. In two nights we have yet to see the moon; Mary thought she saw a star but it was only a very slow moving plane. Our night sky is glowing not from stars but from these lights,

which shine for the last time tonight. The end of summer, the end of yet another sad and dismal baseball season in Chicago.

Tomorrow, perhaps, we will see the moon.

Getting a Good Deal on a Sandwich

Certainly you saw it also, the line that snaked around the corner and down the street? I saw it three times today, people standing outside, warm in the sun, spending what I assume to be a good portion of their lunch hour standing in line. Blackhawks paraphernalia, right? Must be, Stanley Cup tshirts or car stickers maybe, clearly that was the origin of the line. Maybe Patrick Kane himself was signing the game winning puck?

One dollar sandwiches at Jimmy John's, from 11-3, for customer appreciation, and let me be clear, people were taking full advantage of Jimmy John's need to show their appreciation. How much does a Jimmy John's sandwich cost on a day when they are feeling less grateful?

The McDonalds in my old office building used to do the same thing. Once a year they would sell those little smashed up burgers with the ketchup mustard combo squirt for around $.50. In a two hour window in which everyone who worked in the building, all four towers of at least 30 stories each, would cram into the lower concourse, gleefully clutching their dollar bill, or perhaps two if they were feeling flush, to spend at least an hour waiting to enjoy the bliss delivered in getting two burgers for one dollar. Colleagues would plan their day around the event, scheduling meetings and calls on the outside of the precious window, years of experience valuable when planning your descent into the madness, choosing just the right person to while away an hour of valuable work time in pursuit of the bargain burger. Much like those who line up on Saturday morning at Costco, having sniffed out the woman with the buffalo chicken in her mini oven, they block the already congested aisles, hoping to be first in line for the free fragment of processed frozen chicken covered in mozzarella sauce. Best to be first I suppose as what remains is surely to be sneezed on by the kid next in line.

Where do you find a good sandwich? Not a chain sandwich, or a gimmicky sandwich, not one that is rolled or flattened or stuffed with french fries. Two pieces of bread, put together by an actual person without a photograph of the finished product before him, layered with things that make a sandwich the perfect summer picnic food. For that I would happily pay full price.