The Parkway

Mark and I, and a friend of ours, were sitting around in the living room discussing gardening when I mentioned the tree that the city planted in the parkway.

"Parkway? You mean our front lawn?"

"No, that's called a parkway. The area between the sidewalk and the street is called a parkway. It belongs to the city."

"A parkway is a road where I come from." Mark sneered. Then Mark looked at our guest and asked, "Is that a parkway?"

Ha, I thought, Doug will back me up. He grew up in Chicago, he knows what things are called around here.

"I never heard it called a parkway. I don't know where you got that from, but nobody calls that a parkway."

Well son of a bitch, a lifelong resident of Chicago doesn't know what the grassy area between the sidewalk and the street is called. He did not back me up.

There are certain things in Chicago that have specific names, and any Chicagoan should know them. For instance, the little three foot wide passage between houses is called the gangway. The front porch stairs are the stoop. People used to sit on the front stoop before it got too dangerous. Now only those gang members who plan to get shot sit on the front stoop. Chicagoans know that the formerly tallest building in the world is called Sears Tower, not Willis Tower. I don't care how much Mr. Willis paid for it, and that Major League baseball stadium on Thirty Fifth Street is called Comiskey Park. Although, all the sportscasters here call it Guaranteed Rate Park. I assume they wouldn't be allowed back in if they called it anything else.

So Mark and our friend Doug, who grew up on the South Side, both claim it isn't called a parkway. Fine, I thought. I don't really care. Then last night, we went out to dinner with two other friends of ours and the conversation turned to the tree in front of our house.

"You mean on the parkway?" Larry, friend number one, asked.

I smiled and asked him to repeat himself, "What did you call it?"

"The parkway."

"Yes, it's called the parkway." Friend number two, Roger, concurred.

Ah ha! Vindicated.

"Whatever. Back in New Jersey we drove on parkways. You people are strange." Said the man whose home state elected Chris Christie twice.

Enema of the People

The Hospital (1961)

I was thinking about the whole health care debate that has been going on for the last eight years. What it reminded me of was what health care was like when I was a kid. We rarely saw a doctor back in the 1950's. For our school vaccinations, we were taken to the Back of the Yards Free Fair. A neighborhood carnival held every summer on the south side of Chicago. They gave away free vaccinations, hence the name of the carnival. Most of our medical needs were taken care of by my mother who bandaged us, made chicken noodle soup, or gave us a dose of cough syrup and sent us to bed, depending upon what ailed us. Anything less than a spurting artery, and we had to walk it off. Obviously not everything could be taken care of that way. Take for instance when I was eleven years old and I woke up one morning with a horrible pain in my side. Not an ache, but a searing, stabbing pain. That time Mom took me to the doctor. The doctor determined that my appendix that was about to burst. He determined that by sticking his finger up my butt hole and asking me if it hurt. I assured the doctor that it hurt. The doctor informed my mom that I would need an operation. There weren't too many hospitals around Tinley Park back then, so Mom took me to Hazel Crest Hospital, three towns over from us. I still remember that horrible little place. It was more like a motel that they had re-purposed than a hospital. It was just one story, it had a lobby very much like a motel, and it had only about twenty rooms. No children's ward. I was roomed with a man about forty years old. He could have actually been younger, or he could have been ninety, but I do remember them giving him an enema as I lay there horrified at the scene before me. Anyway, they operated on me there, removing my appendix. It was a bloody mess. They didn't have a post-op room, they just rolled me back into the hospital room with the constipated guy, and waited for me to come out of the anesthesia. I came to, ready to fight. I pushed everybody away, swinging my arms and screaming. As the nurses and some big men tried to hold me down, my stitches popped loose. Blood was everywhere. I guess they somehow shot me up with some kind of sedative and I passed out again. I woke up hours later, still laying on blood encrusted sheets. I was thinking about all this while sitting in my doctor's office last Thursday. It's a very nicely appointed office at Illinois Masonic Hospital, very high tech and modern. I was thinking about that nasty little hospital in Hazel Crest while looking out my doctor's window at a view of the Chicago skyline. Much nicer than that view I had of an old man getting an enema.

The view from my doctor's office

Ten Years After

 Another of my little stories from the first week of my blog, ten years ago.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Doggy Gourmet

Molly and Carlotta

I have eaten many things in my life. Some good, like steak, prime rib, lobster, Midwest sweet corn, Grandma’s bread. I’ve eaten things that I don’t like. Beets, squash, shipwreck (a casserole my mother made when we were kids, consisting of ground beef, half cooked sliced potatoes and tomato sauce plus whatever leftover vegetables she could find in the fridge).
My dog Molly has certain tastes she likes. Steak, beef, ground beef, pork products, lamb, and of course kitty litter encrusted cat turds.
I was in my bedroom tonight and Molly comes trotting in from the kitchen with something long and tubular hanging out of her mouth. I thought, where the hell did she get that hot dog? It wasn’t until she laid down next to the bed and started to enjoy her find that I realized what she had. A lovely piece fresh out of Carlotta’s litter box. This is the dog that I let lick my face just a while ago.
I thought I had broken her of this disgusting habit. Now I know why she has never hurt or chased Carlotta. She just smells her butt now and again and realizes that is where the doggy treat factory is.
Gotta go now. I have to scoop the litter box again.

Mary Macs

 A reprint from ten years ago this week. This is the first blog post I ever put up here. I initially intended to just use the blog as a way of relating our trip to Atlanta that summer. I got hooked on telling stories, so I continued on. It's just a hobby, like quilting or collecting rubber bands in a big ball. Some of the posts over the last ten years were not so good, some were not so bad, but I like writing them. 

Monday, August 6, 2007

We just got back from our trip to Atlanta and Savannah, Georgia. Savannah is beautiful and we had many great meals. I can't say the same for Atlanta. In Atlanta we ate at a landmark restaurant called 'Mary Macs'. It was written up as a great place to get authentic southern cooking. When we walked in we were greeted and shown to a table in a separate room from the main room. I can only guess that it is referred to by the staff as the 'bachelor room' or maybe they actually call it the 'gay room'. It was me and Mark, plus two other gentlemen of the gay persuasion. Later two more obvious gay men were seated there. Through the door I could see the main room full of families and male, female couples. Now don't get me wrong, I liked the 'batchelor room'. Having grown up with so many small children around, I like to be with the adults.

When we first sat down an old lady greeted us and with a southern drawl said "Hi, how are y'all doin". She then proceded to give us both a long lingering back rub while we talked about where we're from and other chit chat. It was creepy. I can only assume she worked there, or maybe she is Mary Mac.

I ordered fried chicken with collard greens and macoroni and cheese. Halfway through my chicken I bit into a long (8 inch) blonde hair. Which is even more odd because all the kitchen help is black. When I went to wash down the offending chicken with a tall glass of ice water, I noticed a orange smudge on the glass. I went to wipe it off with a napkin, but it didn't come off. Moving my straw up and down in the glass I realized IT WAS ON THE INSIDE. By the way what food I did eat was bland and awful.

Read more about the lady who gave us the back rub by clicking here.

The Referral

At the eye doctor

A week ago Monday, I walked around all day with a nagging feeling that I had to pick something up somewhere. I even mentioned it to a couple of people. However, after going through a whole checklist of what it could be, prescription, Home Depot on-line purchase, dry cleaning, I figured that I was just imagining it. Maybe I had a dream the night before where I had to pick something up and it stuck with me. After much searching of my memory bank, I wrote it off as just a dumb feeling and forgot about it. One week later. At five o'clock in the morning, I awoke with a sudden dread. It popped into my head the minute I opened my eyes. I forgot to go pick up the referral for my foot doctor. I have an appointment this week and because of the stupid insurance company rules, I have to be referred to that doctor by my primary care physician. Why didn't I just have them mail it to me? Because the last time they said they would mail it, it took over two months for them to get it to me. I did go pick up the referral yesterday, it was there waiting for me. Now I have to go back again, because I just remembered that I have an eye doctor appointment next Monday, and again I need another referral.

I'm starting to worry about my memory and so is Mark. I am forgetting a lot of words lately. This results in Mark and me sitting around playing word association games, trying to get Mark to figure out just what word I need to finish a sentence.

"Mark, what is it when somebody makes you like them?"

"Huh? I don't know. You give them money?"

"No, don't be ridiculous. I'm trying to remember a word. You know, celebrities have it."

"Popularity?"

"No, but that is good. I'll have to remember that word. Try again, it's when you can't resist somebody."

"Magnetic personality?"

"Ooooh, again so close. I think it starts with an 'S' or maybe a 'T'....  "

"I don't know what the hell you want. You really need to go see a doctor about this memory thing. You constantly forget your wallet, and you're always forgetting your keys."

"Yeah, sure. That's right, I 'forget' my wallet when we go out to eat."

"Ah ha! So you do, do it on purpose."

"Can we get back to my word? Think about it. What do you call it when people like you a lot. When just your presence in a room draws everybody's attention."

"A hot body and a cute face?"

"Arrggghhh.... "

"Do you mean charisma?"

"Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding... you win! Yes, that's the word."

Which brings me back to the doctor's referral. I think maybe I should ask him for a referral to a... uummm... what the hell do you call them? You know, a doctor that deals with memory.