Cubs win the World Series! No more “Wait ’til next year.” Congratulations to them- and the city of Chicago.
And now…
Dear Readers, Please excuse Ellen today. She couldn’t write the blog because she is unexpectedly out of town and the dog ate her computer. Please give her an extension on her homework. She will be back on Sunday, November 13.
Thank you, Mrs. Roffe
Since tomorrow is Halloween I thought it was the perfect time to talk about candy.
These days, I’m all about Dots.
They are my perfect, go-to dessert after every meal.
But it wasn’t always like that.
I remember…
Chunky.
Wow! There was a real taste treat. Chocolate- crammed filled with raisins and nuts. I hadn’t had one in fifty years. But when I was in Las Vegas recently, I threw caution to the winds. After a fabulous lunch at Fatburger, I thought, “WTF?”
I ducked into Walgreens and bought one.
It was still dee-lish.
That bite of Chunky was like Proust’s famous madeline. It brought back memories of all candies past.
Let’s start with the Bun Bar.
There was only one place to have these.
Mary’s Cupboard in Winnetka, Illinois.
(For those of you who didn’t grow up on the North Shore, read about one of my favorite place’s of ALL time here.)
Following their heavenly bbq beef and to-die-for cole slaw, nothing ever tasted as good as that Bun Bar did.
When I wasn’t in the mood for soft and creamy, I biked over to Edens Plaza and bought myself a Holloway “All-Day” Sucker at Woolworth’s.
I loved these guys. And the closest I get to them now is when I indulge in a See’s Caramel Lollipop. They kind of taste the same.
Caveat Emptor Sidebar: When I was in Las Vegas, I bought a BIG, expensive box of these to bring back as gifts. Imagine my surprise when I opened the box only to find it filled to the brim with bubble wrap. There were only like twenty pops in the thing. Shame on you, Warren Buffett.
And before I worried about things like dentist bills, I also loved Mary Janes.
Once upon a sweet time there were these two Chicago chocolate palaces.
And…
Help me out, Dear Readers. Didn’t Dutch Mill have fabulous turtles? Let me know.
And do you remember when we LOVED these?
Halloween of 1985 I sent Nick to first grade dressed as Sonny Crockett of Miami Vice.
He wore a coral tee shirt belonging to his sister, a sports jacket and loafers with no socks. And he carried a little machine gun and was smoking a candy cigarette.
Talk about politically-incorrect? Imagine sending a kid in a school rigged out like that nowadays.
He brought down the house, though.
And let’s not forget about these. I loved biting them off the paper. (If some of the paper stuck to the buttons, oh well. I liked that, too.)
I also loved the taste of cardboard that went along with this.
Well, I’m getting a toothache so that’s my tribute to Halloween Candy Past.
Here’s a preview of Halloween Future.
(Photograph by Natasha Tofias)
Those are my grandkids- Sam the Fireman and Carly the Bumblebee.
Pretty sweet, huh?
Now I’ll let the late, GREAT Gene Wilder wish you all a happy, healthy, delicious Halloween.
ICYMI: Last Saturday night the Chicago Cubs won the National League Pennant. They are currently playing the American League champs, the Cleveland Indians, in the World Series.
Game 2 Update: The Cubs just tied up the series one one.
There are two terrific people who did miss it, however.
My father and…
Legendary Chicago sports announcer, Jack Brickhouse.
Last Sunday would have been my dad’s 97th birthday so he missed the news that the Cubbies had won the pennant the night before. He also missed the news of the Cubs’s winning the ’45 pennant because it was World War II and he was on board the aircraft carrier the USS Shangri-Là at the time.
Jack missed calling that game because he, too, was in the Marines.
My dad was a Northsider with strong ties to the Cubs. He finally gave up in disgust (“They stunk.”) and switched allegiance to the White Sox.
But at the end of his life, he returned to his first love and avidly followed the Cubs’ progress.
Jack started out in Chicago in 1940 when WGN hired him to broadcast Cubs and White Sox games.
He called both Cubs and White Sox games until 1967. (He was able to do that because they almost never played at home at the same time.)
He retired in 1981.
And he died in 1998.
My father and Jack crossed base paths only once.
I was in eighth grade attending some Friday night dancing classes called “On To New Trier.”
They were overseen by an old dowager called Mrs. Woolson. (You can read all about them here if you’re so inclined.)
Our parents took turns chaperoning this Clearasil and Tussy lip gloss minuet, and one Friday night, it was my mother and father’s turn to attend and make sure no one misbehaved.
I paid them the requisite no attention. But at the end of the evening, my dad came up to me. His eyes were aglow and he was VERY excited.
“Why didn’t you tell me Jack Brickhouse would be here? He’s the greatest!”
I indifferently shrugged my thirteen year year old shoulders. I didn’t know that Jean Brickhouse, his daughter, also attended these dancing classes. (We had gone to different junior high schools. I wouldn’t formally meet her until New Trier.)
“He’s my idol,” my dad gushed. (Very uncharacteristically, I might add. My father was emphatically not a gusher.)
“And you know,” he continued. “If I ever envied another guy his job, it would have to be Jack Brickhouse. What a way to make a living.”
He sighed. Just the mere thought of getting paid to call baseball games sent him into an ardent daydream.
I never forgot that.
So Ben and Jack, INCYMI, this one’s for you.
Go Cubs Go!
Last Sunday, at 8:47 a.m. I had a major Life Event.
I changed my status on Facebook.
Yep, that’s a picture of my page commemorating the event. I went from “Divorced” to “In a Relationship.”
But I have to tell the truth here, Dear Readers.
I never meant for it to be a public announcement.
Honest.
By now, most of you know that I have a boyfriend. I introduced him (sort of) a few blog posts ago.
Meet John Doe Sidebar: For his protection I have purposely hidden his identity. Poor guy. It’s bad enough he’s hooked up with a gal with her own blog. He’s been a good sport about it. But I don’t feel it’s right to expose his private life to the public eye just because he’s going out with yours truly. Hence, I’ve kept his name, rank and serial number unlisted. My close friends and family have met him. That’s good enough by me. As for the rest of the story, I don’t want to be Barbara Stanwyck betraying Gary Cooper just for the sake of a bigger circulation.
So mum’s the word on any identifying marks on him.
But last Sunday, as I was idly gazing at Facebook, I decided to change my status. I really can’t say why I was prompted to do this. Just an impulse.
Four years ago, when I first went on FB, I knew very little about how the whole megillah worked.
I had reluctantly joined up at the urging of some book agents in New York who demanded I get a “social media presence” to further my readership. I was so un-FB savvy that Nick, in fact, had to sign me up and create my page.
And truth be told, the strategy worked.
My blog grew and grew. Thanks to Facebook and Twitter, I am now read by more and more people every month.
And I’ve “met” wonderful people in the bargain.
New Facebook friends and Twitter followers who read and share my posts.
And they correspond with me, too.
I see their lives and families. I cheer about their ups and sympathize with their downs.
I have not met many of them IRL- as we say- but I feel a bond and am glad they have let me into a small corner of their world.
But back to when Nick signed me up…
As usual, he didn’t have a lot of time to spare on the nuances and niceties of Facebook or Twitter. He quickly asked some key questions and then left it all up to me.
“You’ll figure them out, Dude” he assured me. “And you’ll be good on Twitter, you’ll see. I’ve got to go.”
I was doubtful but I went home to ponder the brave new world into which I had plunged.
There were some stock questions to fill out for Facebook. Birth date, schools attended- boilerplate stuff like that.
It all seemed harmless enough.
And then I came to the tougher question about my current love life.
At first, I didn’t want to answer it at all. It seemed like nobody’s business what my relationship profile was.
(And besides, with marital history like mine, none of the ordinary categories seemed to fit.)
But I bit the bullet. This was Facebook- not To Tell The Truth, I’ve got a Secret or 60 Minutes.
So I chose “Divorced” and left it at that.
It stayed that way for almost four years. I had completely forgotten all about it.
But last Sunday, it suddenly occurred to me that I should possibly update it. That way, anyone looking me up would be provided with more accurate information about my availability as a potential date.
It never occurred to me that this would be put out there to all my Facebook friends.
I swear on the kids that I thought that changing my status only impacted those few people who would be interested enough in me to look for additional biographical details in my profile.
I HAD NO IDEA THAT IT WOULD BE OUT OUT IN THE FACEBOOK STRATOSPHERE FOR ALL AND SUNDRY TO READ.
Oops.
I knew something awful had happened about one minute after I changed my “Divorced” status to “In a Relationship.”
Friends around the country started reacting to the news instantly.
Oh No! What had I done?
My secret was out.
Everyone seemed glad for me. (Although more than one friend pointed out that he would miss my bad dating posts on the blog.)
That came as no surprise. I knew from past experience that readers universally enjoyed reading about my horrific forays in the world of “gray” dating.
They enjoyed my pain. And more than one friend told me that my hair-raising experiences on some of these dubious outings had convinced them never to try it for themselves.
But thanks, Facebook Friends, for all your congratulations and wishes for a happy future.
And what the heck?
As long as my new status is- as my friend Julie Epstein says- “Facebook Official,” I felt like I should let you, my Dear Readers, in on it, too.
But any further questions about this relationship…
I think I’ll let the Spinners handle that.
Take it away, guys.
I just got back from Las Vegas, Dear Readers. And I just gotta tell you all about one very special aspect of my trip to Sin City.
The Boyfriend and I had gone there to:
1. Celebrate his birthday in style
2. Go to some fabulous restaurants
3. Honor the memory of my mother
4. Get some sun
5. Do a little gambling (Him.)
6. Drink absinthe. (Me.)
I’m pleased to report that we accomplished everything on the list.
However it’s that sixth thing that I wanted to discuss here today.
Now if you’re like me and your favorite artist is Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, you’re bound to have run into the legend of absinthe at one time or another in your research.
(Here he is mid-way through a binge. Quelle dommage.)
And although this painting certainly serves as a cautionary tale, I had always wanted to try it.
I had heard that it tasted like licorice.
And I LOVE licorice.
So when the Vegas trip was booked, I got out my bucket list.
There it was.
“Try absinthe.”
The Boyfriend was game. He’s tried it and he likes it.
I did a little research and quickly discovered that Sage at Aria had an absinthe tasting menu.
But which one to chose?
TB had tried Lucid and thought it was pretty special. After all, it is the first genuine absinthe to be made with real Grande Wormwood after the repeal of a 95 year old ban on the stuff.
(If you’re not familiar with it, here’s the lowdown. Take a look. It’s fun to read.)
But TB wasn’t sure if I would like his choice, so we asked the barman to recommend something VERY special.
This is what he touted. He told us that many of his customers came in especially to drink it.
La Clandestine.
Here’s the 411 on that little beauty.
What the hell? I was ready.
“Two,” said The Boyfriend. “And the cold water stream method, please.”
OMG.
YUM.
I had found my drink.
It tasted just like Good ‘n Plenty’s.
But I wasn’t drinking it just for the taste.
I wanted the out-of-the-body mind-bending experience about which I had read so much.
Did I have it?
I honestly must report that I felt no physical symptoms of any kind.
I felt perfectly normal.
And I was disappointed.
Where was that much-talked about high? Where was the kick? What was the point of drinking absinthe if I didn’t feel any different than usual?
But then…
The two guys from Cali sitting next to me at the bar asked me where I was from…
And I had a REAL hard time answering their question.
I knew that I knew the answer- Chicago- but somehow I needed some time to gather my thoughts. I just couldn’t seem able to concentrate on what the heck they were saying to me.
And trying to answer this difficult question was a chore.
It was almost impossible to formulate a coherent response.
I stayed in that state all through the great tapas dinner that followed.
Absinthe turned out just the drink that I thought it was. It had lived up to its hype as a mind-blower of major proportions.
And as for its legendary reputation as an aphrodisiac?
Let’s just say…
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
Today, October 16, would have been my mother’s 92nd birthday. As some of you know, she passed away this June- following a hunger strike and snit fit of major proportions.
She died the way she lived. In a rage and fighting with everyone who tried to help her. A contrarian to the very end, she was also beautiful, ambitious and street smart.
She was an original.
And a whiz at cards.
For many years, she and my father lived in Las Vegas so she could play in a big poker game all winter long. (My father, glad to be out of the harsh Chicago weather, never gambled. He happily spent his time sunning or reading in the Bally Sports Book.)
In the summer, they rented an apartment in Cannes so Moo Moo (as her first grandchild, Natasha, indelibly dubbed her) could hit the casino in Monte Carlo every night.
But as she got older, she stopped flying and sought out gaming venues closer to home.
This is what she came up with.
The gambling boats in East Chicago, Indiana.
At least three times a week- and sometimes more- she would press gang my poor father into driving her there from their apartment in Northbrook just so she could feed her jones.
Gambler’s Anonymous Sidebar: Yep, my father was a nice guy. He was also an enabler. It was easier to give in to her incessant demands than fight with her. Or face the reality that he had married a gorgeous lunatic. We all suffered from her behavior but his behavior was, at times, just as mystifying to me. It takes two in every relationship to create a monster. It was my hard luck that these two co-dependents hooked up.
But when my father fell and broke his hip and wrist and could no longer drive her to Indiana, she turned to her illegal underground poker tournaments.
Kenny took her to one of these forays once and told me about it.
OMG.
Smoke-filled rooms filled with shady men. CASH to the ceiling. Armed pistolleros wearing bullet belts.
I’m not kidding. This was hard core.
And then, on July 18, 2011, everything changed.
Rivers Casino opened in Des Plaines.
Moo Moo didn’t frequent it too much right away. They didn’t have live poker or something.
But she’d dipped a toe in a couple of times a week just for a change.
But four years ago, when my dad had to move into
a nursing home, she went all in.
She drove there every day from her apartment in Northbrook.
EVERY SINGLE DAY.
Come hell or high water. In good weather or bad. Come nine a.m. there she’d be hanging on the door.
That’s 18.6 miles- or 29 minutes- via I-294 South.
She’d gamble and then at 11:30, she’d hit the buffet line.
You can see the seating arrangement in the above photograph. There are no tables for a party of one.
But woe betide the poor hostess who tried to seat anyone with Moo Moo. She needed her space and wasn’t going to tolerate some gabby stranger horning in on her “me” time. And she wasn’t any too shy about letting her desires in this matter become public record.
Thus she always sat at a table by herself.
She went to Rivers every day until March of 2015- when she had a car accident on the tollway.
Enough was enough. Her compulsive driving to the casino was putting her- and innocent bystanders- at risk.
Kenny forcibly took the car keys away.
This was the beginning of the End of Moo Moo.
Deprived of a way to feed the gambling monkey on her back- she refused to take taxis, limos, Ubers or any other means to get her there- her life had become meaningless and empty.
(Never mind the children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren around for her to enjoy. If she wasn’t bluffing some scumbag out of his rent money, life was not worth living.)
When she died in June, there was no way to get her descendants quickly together.
And she left strict instructions with Kenny that she wanted no one at her funeral.
This is what that looks like.
Beyond pathetic. No friends. No family. Kenny and I- and the guys who dug the grave- were her pallbearers.
But we never listened to her paranoid ravings when she was alive. We certainly weren’t going to honor her bitter demands now that she was gone.
We decided to throw her a memorial service around her birthday to pay her tribute.
It would give the far-flung grandchildren enough notice to plan a trip to Chicago and it would be a nice time of year for them to come in town.
But what to do?
Kenny and I kicked around a few ideas but none of them grabbed us.
Dinner at a restaurant?
Eh.
A get-together at my/his house?
Meh.
“How about a poker tournament at my house?” I idly suggested. “That would be fun and certainly in the spirit of things.”
“How about Rivers?” was Kenny’s comeback.
Of course! Brilliant!
So an invitation to honor, reminisce and gamble went out to all four corners of the United States.
And from Boston, Seattle and Los Angeles they came.
They came and they ate dinner.
At the casino buffet, of course.
We all sat together. (Kenny thought it might be fitting if we all sat at separate tables, but in the end, good sense prevailed and we had dinner at one big table.)
And they played.
Each family member was given a $100 black chip in honor of Moo Moo and the person who won the most in 45 minutes was given another black chip as a prize.
My son, Nick, was the evening’s big winner. Playing blackjack, he managed to turn his $100 into $275 and was duly awarded the bonus chip.
Moo Moo would have been so proud.
So a couple of Saturday afternoons ago, The Boyfriend and I were sitting on a park bench in Lincoln Park.
No, we weren’t “eyeing the girls with bad intentions.”
It was just too beautiful a day to go inside and so we gabbed about nothing very important for an hour or so.
But as it neared 5 o’clock- the hour when my appestat goes off and wants to be fed- I got a craving for something snack-like.
Preferably with olives.
“Dinner’s not until 7:30. Let’s go over to Mariano’s and get some nibbles.”
The Boyfriend (an agreeable fellow at almost every turn) agreed.
So we got up off the park bench and slowly sauntered up Wellington headed to the new Mariano’s on Broadway.
Grocery Store Sidebar: OMG. Have you been there yet? This place isn’t a store. It’s a happening.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the happening.
TB felt in his pocket and…
“Damn it, I forgot my phone. I left it on the bench.”
OMG! OMG!!!!!
We turned right around and headed back from whence we came.
Only this time we weren’t sauntering.
I can’t run because of an old ski accident injury.
But I broke into my best Walter Brennan imitation and hitched up the street as fast as my broken leg would take me.
As we neared the park entrance, TB spotted something.
“There’s a guy on the bench with a phone. I bet it’s mine.”
I frantically started to signal to the man.
“The phone?” I called out while I was waving my arms at him.
He was smiling sweetly when we pulled up in front of him.
“I knew you’d be back,” he said as he handed back where it belonged. “I had seen you two on the bench and I knew you’d return for it. ”
“I’m Ellen,” I said- holding out a grateful hand.
“I’m Josef,” he said as he shook it.
I detected a slight accent.
“May I ask where you’re from?”
“I’m from Switzerland,” he replied.
“It’s beautiful there,” I said.
“Yes, it is, but I live in Chicago now,” he answered.
I was glad that he did.
“It was VERY nice meeting you.”
TB thanked him from the bottom of his grateful heart (wouldn’t you?) and we turned and with chests still pounding from the awful “what if’s?” we started back west on Wellington.
So danke schön, Josef. You single-handedly saved the weekend from turning into a complete disaster.
And now it’s on to my day job, a memorial service for my mother and a quick trip.
I will bring you up to speed, Dear Readers, when I return on Sunday, October 16.
And here’s hoping if you ever forget your phone, a “Josef” will always give it back to you..
In case you don’t recognize those big, bold red letters, that’s the auction house in Chicago that entrepreneur Leslie Hindman built.
It’s also my new place of employment.
Yes, Dear Readers.
I am learning the art of the re-sale from the ground up.
If you’ve clicked on the link above, you’ll see that Leslie deals in commodities like paintings, fine prints, maps, coins, watches, jewelry, rare books, couture and other wonderful objets d’art that make our lives more pleasant places to be.
And if you know me, you know that I have a keen interest in things like paintings, fine prints, maps, coins, watches, jewelry, rare books (oh, yeah) couture (now we’re talking) and other wonderful objets d’art.
So it’s seems like we’ve both made a good match.
Much of the merchandise that rolls into the House of Leslie got there through the “Three D’s.”
Death, divorce, debt.
I got there the exact same way.
However, until recently, these are the only experiences I’ve ever had with an auction house.
There’s this.
And this classic one.
Thus I started in the real world of bidding at the bottom. I had only one way to go.
Up.
They certainly threw me into the deep end. They started me on their fine jewelry previews.
This meant days and days filled to the bursting with jewelry dealers, woman- and men- who just loved bling, mothers and daughters shopping for Christmas and birthday presents, husbands indulging their wives, and everybody else in Chicago who loved jewelry and was looking for a treasure.
We had 1200 lots. From priceless tiaras to baubles not worth more than a few hundred dollars.
And for days and days, I handed them over one at a time for people to peer at with loupes, weigh with scales, try on and try on me.
Most of these “inspectors” were repeat customers. Savvy about the product and savvy about the process. They didn’t ask me too many (dreaded) questions.
But every once in awhile I got a question I couldn’t answer.
“Was this ruby gassed?”
“Is this a Burmese sapphire?”
“Is this a good color for an amethyst?”
OMG.
I went running to our curators for help.
And speaking of running, let’s now deal with my most vital piece of equipment for my new job.
It isn’t my loupe or electron microscope or winning smile or salesmanship or encyclopedic knowledge of all things trivial.
It’s these.
The first day I had worn these.
BIG mistake. HUGE.
Oh, my achin’ back.
Luckily, my boss, Maureen (a doll in every way. No, really. A fabulous woman and so chic) took pity on me.
“You’re behind the cases all day. Wear something sensible tomorrow on your feet.”
My other new colleague, Ann, also gave me great advice and went out of her way to be congenial.
It might be early days yet but I can attest to the fact that LH employees to a man have been kind, enthusiastic and helpful to this newbie.
They’re also wonderful-looking.
I’m not sure but I think HR at LH must use a casting agent to help hire the help.
The resumes may be chock full of MFA’s and former museum postings but 8×10 glossy head shots must have been de rigueur in the interview process, as well.
Everyone there is drop dead gorgeous.
And I’m old enough to be everyone’s mother.
But I hope I can bring something to the party and make them proud.
It’s going to be an interesting Chapter Three in my book of life, Dear Readers.
So stay tuned.
And drop by the previews and see me some time.
And if you’ve got a spare Rembrandt, a gently-used Warhol, a rusty old coin collection or Great Aunt Gertrude’s Charles James’ dresses to unload, get in touch.
May I hear the next bid, please.
Before we go on on a trip down Retail Memory Lane, Dear Readers, let me beg your indulgence. This will be my last blog post until Sunday, September 25. I need some time off because yesterday was the first day of the rest of my life.
No, not what you’re thinking. Not a new husband,
I got a job. And it started on Wednesday.
It promises to be exciting, challenging, stimulating- and scary. And I promise to tell you all about it when I return.
(But first I have to get my sea legs before I can write you all about it.)
So wish me luck and hang in there with me. Thanks!
And now let’s go shopping at the mall.
In case you don’t recognize it, that’s Carson Pirie Scott peeking out of a very blurry old photograph of Edens Plaza. For those of you who didn’t grow up on the North Shore, the old shopping mall- one of the first in the country, I think- was located at the corners of Lake Avenue and Skokie Highway in Wilmette, Illinois.
They tore down this version and built a new one in 1994.
But to those of us who grew up there, the old Edens Plaza was the setting for many of our childhood triumphs and tragedies and no other mall will ever take its place in our affections.
The old mall was filled with the ghosts of a more innocent, carefree time when both we- and the world- were still coming of age.
It was the place where so many of us bought our very first parakeet or goldfish. Or 45 or dressy pair of shoes.
It was the place where so many of us held our very first summer job or watched our mothers try on a dress.
Come on. Let’s go back to the old Edens Plaza.
Just close your eyes and pretend that your eleven years old again. It’s summer, school’s out, and you’ve got three dollars in your pocket.
You look both ways before you cross your bike over the highway and you’ve promised your mother you’d come home before dark.
Are you ready?
Last one there is a rotten egg!
I’m hungry, aren’t you? Let’s stop in at Belllringer’s Grill. I don’t have enough money for a hamburger but they’re nice to us kids in there and they’ll let us split fries and buy Cokes.
(They didn’t have a jukebox at Bellringer’s. But this would have been playing if they did.)
Boy, that was good. Now let’s go to Schmidt’s Bakery. I know a girl who works there and I want a doughnut.
Hurry up and finish that brownie. I want to go to the music store. They’ve got this really neat glass room where you can play 45’s on the hi-fi and no one can hear you. I can’t buy a record but maybe I’ll look at the sheet music.
(Here’s the first 45 I ever did buy. I still have it.)
Now where? Stineway’s Drug Store? Ok.
First I want to look at the magazines and then I think I’ll buy some gum on the way out. Black Jack is my favorite. What’s yours?
I call the next stop! Woolworth’s. I got Pete, my parakeet, there. And Gunther, Algernon and Franklin. They’re my turtles and they’re pretty cool.
Let’s visit the makeup counter and try on some lipstick. They’re got all the great Tussy colors. Look at this hot coral polish.
And they’re got that new “Fire and Ice” lipstick by Revlon. Wish I was old enough to wear it.
Check out these earrings! Aren’t they neat? Hey! Put back that comic book. If Mr. Fain. the manager, catches us he’ll call my parents and they’ll murder me.
Hey, this is cool. A Duncan yo-yo. I want one.
Oh, I almost forgot. I promised my brother I’d buy him a pack of Topp’s baseball cards. Here they are. I love how the bubble gum tastes exactly like the cardboard, don’t you?
Let’s skip Tailored Girl. It’s way too grown up for me. Carson’s Pre-Teen section on the second floor fits me just fine.
Don’t you love these madras bermudas? And this round collar blouse is sooo neat.
I’m thirsty. Let’s stop at the National.
My mother always shops here.
Heinemann’s pistachio cake is my favorite. And Sara Lee cheesecake, too.
Oops. I just tore my shoe lace. I’ll race you to Phillip’s Shoe Repair.
Don’t you just love all these shoes dyed to match the bridesmaids’ gowns and prom dresses?
When we go to New Trier, I’m going to buy white silk heels at Chandler’s and take them here to be dyed aqua or pink.
What’s next? You have to go to Schaul’s Poultry to pick up chicken for your mother? You go in. I
l’ll wait here. I can’t stand seeing all those dead chickens. When I grow up, I’ll NEVER cook chicken. Too yucky. I’ll just wait over on the bench by the bus stop.
Are you done? I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow.
Maybe we’ll try that new place.
Old Orchard.
Now low let’s turn on my little transistor radio and hear what would have been playing.
Come on, Dear Readers. It’s time to step up to the plate.
Play Ball!
The terrific baseball movie Bull Durham has been on my mind lately because the night of August 18, I went to the Kane County Stadium to watch the local A team, the Cougars, take on the Wisconsin Timber Rattlers.
And last Tuesday night, I went to Wrigley Field to watch the Cubs play the Pittsburgh Pirates.
Both games were terrific fun.
Let’s start with the Cougars game, ok?
Batter up.
In case you didn’t know it, the Cougars are the minor league team in the Midwest League and the Class A affiliate for the Arizona Diamondbacks. The Rattlers are the A Team for the Milwaukee Brewers. And some of these kids we saw that night will go on to play in the Show.
They were good.
They weren’t the only thing that was good.
We had really great seats. (Note price.)
But more importantly, Thursday night at the Kane County stadium is this.
Yep. Thirsty Thursday.
Beer and hot dogs were $1.00.
Here was THE vital accessory for the fans that night.
The cup holder.
I loved the mascots- Mr. and Mrs. Cougar- who ran the bases and generally clowned around.
And the peanuts.
And the Gatling t-shirt gun. That thing was awesome.
There were fireworks at every home run, a salute to the troops, the National Anthem enthusiastically sung by what appeared to be a local girl, and Mother Nature fully cooperated by providing a beautiful summer’s night.
The Rattlers won it 7-6. But the field was alive with the hopes and dreams of all these would-be major leaguers.
(I managed to make a few wishes on the moonlight myself. It was that magical kind of evening.)
And now on the second game of this double header.
Tuesday night’s contest between the first place Cubs and the Pittsburgh Pirates.
We had great seats that night, too.
And although it had rained on and off the entire day, Mother Nature once again did me a solid and provided us with a perfect, perfect summer night at the ballpark.
It was a swell game, too.
In the bottom of the first, my guy, Anthony Rizzo, drove home Javy Baez and himself in on a two-run homer to right field.
In the bottom of the second, Addison Russell walked and then stole second base and Miguel Montero hit a single to plate the run.
The result?
3-0 Cubs.
Harry Carey Sidebar: Here’s Anthony Rizzo in action against the Rattler’s Big League Mother Ship, the Milwaukee Brewers. True, not the game I saw,but I love this clip and think it’s worth watching again.
Neat, huh?
That’s the feeling I always get at a baseball game.
I feel young, hopeful and proud to be an American.
So as summer ends, let me close by waving the flag a little.
Wishing you and yours a happy, healthy Labor Day.
And a whole field of dreams.
