Rich in clouds

     Bursting out of the house with Kitty for her nighttime stroll Friday, I was met with an array of clouds so arresting, I couldn't have been more taken aback had they all yelled "Surprise!"

     I paused, took a single photograph, then we went on our way, into the darkness — the phone cameras are so good nowadays, they can make a quite dark scene seem brighter than it actually was.

     I really savored those clouds, and they set the tone for the next 24 hours. The next morning we got an early phone call — not always harbinger of good news, but in this case it was. A ... young couple of our acquaintance would be passing by our vicinity on their way elsewhere. Might we be enticed to breakfast? Yes, indeed, we might. My wife's first impulse was to start whipping up some satisfying spread. But time was short, and instead we trotted off to Georgie V's at the appointed hour, walking both to build our appetites and because it's, what, a 10 minute stroll? Twelve tops. 

     There I met a young boy with a simply gorgeous sweater — both the brilliant scarlet color and the meticulous knitting. I think I can reproduce a detail without stealing his soul. It didn't seem the sort of thing that could be bought for money in a store, and I inquired of his mother, and found it was not — it had been knitted by his safta, or grandmother. I squelched the temptation to exclaim to my wife, "We must learn to knit immediately! We must start producing sweaters such as this!" Shutting up is an art form I struggle to master. But in this case I was successful, and merely appreciated the handiwork. Though later, when the small person began to squall, I was so bold as to scoop him up — an unwelcome intrusion under most social circumstances but in this case, let me assure you, entirely appropriate — and stepped to the entranceway where I gently rocked and swooped the compact chico in a soothing fashion, deploying my go-to song in such situations for good measure.

Moon river, wider than a mile
I'm crossing you in style, some day
Oh dream maker, you heart breaker.
Wherever you are going, I'm going, someday

     Nothing like a good song to seal the moment. Two mornings later, not a cloud in the sky, but the temperature bracingly brisk, the coffee brewed, the morning ripe with promise, Kitty and I once more burst out of the house. Lately I've been listening to books on Audible, but at this instant I was inclined toward music, and the algorithm served up a Sarah McLachlan song I'd never heard before, "Elsewhere." I might have skipped to the next song, as I sometimes do, but decided to give a listen to what the creator of "Fallen" might have on her mind.

I love the time
and in between
the calm inside me in the space
where I can breathe
I believe there is a distance
I have wandered to touch upon the years of
reaching out
and reaching in
holding out
holding in. I believe
this is heaven
to no one else but me
and I'll defend it as long as
I can be
left here to linger
in silence.

     Exactly. Well, not so much the "silence" part. "Shutting up is an art form that ..." But some mornings, well, it all seems to fall into place.

One public toilet? Chicago bathroom desert belies windy aspirations to being a world-class city

 

The Dark Horse, Boulder, Colorado, 2025

     It’s best not to comment on specific mistaken remarks made by Mayor Brandon Johnson — the air is already thick with criticism, and once started, where does one stop? But there is one statement he says repeatedly that is almost Rahmesque in its misguided pretension:
     “Chicago is a world-class city.”
     Yes, there is the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, the Art Institute, Margie’s Candies and a few other first-rate institutions that might embolden a person to imagine Chicago is right up there with London and Paris and the other global big boys.
     But the truth remains: Chicago is not a world-class city. It can’t be. We don’t have any public toilets. A survey by Nationwide Waste Service lists 21 cities. Kansas City is first, with 30 public toilets per 100,000 residents, while Chicago is dead last, with less than half, 14 per 100,000.
     And those are not actual public toilets but toilets accessible to the public, theoretically, in libraries and hotels and restaurants that turn a blind eye to those in need. While a few city-run facilities no doubt lurk in remote park district field houses and other public buildings, this woeful sentence was published by the Sun-Times this week:
     “The city’s sole public bathroom appeared near the CTA Blue Line station in the Polish Triangle at Division Street and Ashland and Milwaukee Avenues in West Town.”
     The structure appeared, that is. Not yet open. Almost there. After decades of dithering. Chicago is about to open one sleek self-cleaning public bathroom. In Wicker Park. How many of those are found in Paris? A city of 2 million residents, or three-quarters the population of Chicago?
     Answer: 435
     Any idea how embarrassing this is? How bad for our reputation? Flip open a guide book.
     “Public toilets are non-existent on the streets of Chicago,” a Frommer’s guide chides.
     How long was this humiliation in the making? (pardoning the mild pun; we journalists love punning on this topic; doing so relieves — whoops — reduces our discomfort.)

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'More to flatter God than to worship him'

     "Blessed art thou, Lord our God and God of our fathers, God of Abraham, God of Isaac and God of Jacob; great, mighty and revere God, sublime God, who bestowest lovingkindness, and art Master of all things; who rememberest the good deeds of our fathers, and who wilt graciously bring..."
    So begins the "Prayer for Dew" — didn't know Jews had a prayer for dew, didja? That's okay, neither did I. But scanning my bookshelves, looking for nothing in particular, I noticed a blue book on its side, and pulled out Daily Prayer Book, translated and annotated by Philip Birnbaum (Hebrew Publishing Co., 1949). No idea how it got there; my guess is that it belonged to my late father-in-law and I saved it from the general disposal of their household effects.
     Scanning the table of contents, most chapters were unsurprising: "Morning Service" and "Reading the Torah," "Memorial Services" and "Guests in the Sukkah" — the booth used in the harvest festival; I was just in one a few days ago, guest of my brother- and sister-in-law, enjoying beef ribs that were smoked for nine hours.
     Praying for dew is something I hadn't heard before, and I had to read the rather lengthy supplication. Though it makes sense, as something people in the desert would pray for. To be honest, the initial blast of praise did not move me so much as remind me of a line of Benedict Spinoza: "Nothing has remained of the religion that used to be, beyond its external ceremony, by which the people seem more to flatter God than to worship him, no wonder that faith is nothing now but credulity and prejudices."
    Strong stuff. And if you think that we live in a blasphemous age now, remember Spinoza wrote that in 1670.
    The dew prayer has some lovely parts — "Dew refreshes the earth and its verdure/Joyous to be under thy protection/May dew — symbol of youth — shield our young."
     Kids are going to need something a bit sturdier than dew to get through the world we're leaving to them. I never thought of dew as a symbol of youth, much, though it makes sense. "Dewy youth," and all. Honestly, I never thought much of dew at all. The closest I've come is reflecting on dew's chilly cousin, frost. 
    The prayer goes on quite a while; I won't burden you with it all. "Earth's depths are eager for the drops of dew; All the green meadows long and pine for dew ... Grant dew to favor thy land... Let dew fall on the blessed land."
     And — not to get political — if you're wondering what land the prayer refers to, a note reads, "The poems are the creations of Rabbi Elazar ha-Kallir, who probably lived in Palestine during the eight century" and who left behind hundreds of liturgical poems, 'many of which cannot be understood without a commentary."
    Coincidentally — or portentously, if you believe that sort of thing — just that morning, following Kitty along on our 6 a.m. walk, we cut across our yard, so heavily dewed that my boat shoes were soaked. A minor annoyance, at the time. But the prayer for the dew it foreshadowed instructs us that it's all a matter of perspective, of context. "Make us like a watered garden;/Bless our sustenance with dew;/Let no ill befall our flocks;/Bestow thy favor on the people/Whom thou didst lead like a flock."
    Holding the dew prayer and the Dutch thinker together, it strikes me that, sometimes, the gap between the pious, such as Rabbi Elazar ha-Kallir, and blasphemous philosophers such as Spinoza  seems very far apart. But other times, they're very close. While the former sees the hand of God in morning moisture, and the latter sees God in, well, the entire universe, they're both still seeing God. 

     Or as Spinoza wrote:
     "The universal laws of nature, according to which all things happen and are determined, are nothing but the eternal decrees of God, which always involved eternal truth and necessity. Therefore, whether we say that they are ordered according to the decree and guidance of God, we say the same thing. ... because the power of all natural things is nothing but the power of God."
    "All natural things..." like dew? They're really saying the same thing, in different ways, looking around and detecting the presence of the divine. It's enough to give an agnostic pause.
    
     
     

Works in progress — Andy Davis

     I try not to use the “c-word” — community — too much. A buzz term worn to a nubbin. But if my recent dive into Substack taught me anything, it is that a large and growing group of people view EGD as an valuable part of their day. Such as regular reader Andy Davis, who asked if I would plug a charity run he is doing a week from Sunday. Eager to inject other voices into the blog — and to take a breather from this quotidian treadmill — I suggested he take a swing at it himself, which you’ll find below. And as I never rattle a cup that I haven’t tucked a little something into myself, I can tell you that contributing to this good cause that helps improve our schools is both easy and satisfying.

Andy Davis

     On October 11th, 50,000 or more runners will take a 26.2 mile tour of Chicago, from the north side to the south side and back again. Each runner has their own reasons for running. While fitness and personal accomplishment are a given, many also run to support a cause or organization that matters to them.     

     Besides proving that I’ve still got what it takes after my recent 70th birthday, I am running for the Education Equity Fund, a not-for-profit that I founded Six years ago. EEF helps ambitious and talented Chicago public school teachers finance graduate degrees in Urban School Leadership, a credential that allows them to become Chicago Public School principals. 

      The well-respected Wallace Foundation has stated that, “It is hard to imagine a higher rate of return than investing and supporting great school leaders.” Chicago’s future is unimaginable without a well-educated, literate cohort of Chicago Public School graduates, inspired by the great leadership in their schools. 

     Schools with strong leaders, principals who provide supportive atmospheres in which dedicated teachers can achieve their full potential as educators, will certainly determine our future. Please consider “investing in the long run” by contributing to my run in support of Chicago’s great school leaders of the future. Make your donation by clicking here.

Despite clown show at the top, local FBI still ‘very good at what they do’

The graduation ceremony for the FBI Citizens Academy takes place at the bureau’s North Chicago Regional Firearms Training Facility, a fun outing where we saw bomb disposal demonstration and the boys got to fire a Thompson submachine gun. 

     When the FBI called, I hesitated.
     Their request was simple enough. They wanted to bring me into headquarters, for briefings, once a week, for a couple months. Something called the FBI Citizens Academy.
     Why me? Agents in the Chicago office were readers. Flattering, though, the way my mind works, I instantly saw that this wasn’t necessarily a compliment — it was entirely possible that my perspective was seen as so woefully ignorant of the world of law enforcement, they felt duty bound to help me get a clue.
     Or maybe they just wanted to get me in their clutches. I’d end up handcuffed to a metal chair in a basement, a bright light shining in my face.
     One evening a week, for a couple hours, at their Roosevelt Road field office, learning the ins and outs of the department, the problems they face. Battling international terrorism, tracking cybercriminals and bank robbers.
     “It sounds like traffic school,” I told my wife.
     But I have a personal rule: if you don’t go, you never find out. Plus they would feed us — dinner from a different restaurant each week. Being fed always helps. I signed up.
     This was in 2010, so the specific program details do not pop out in mind. There were guest lecturers, short films, tours of their facility. I knew several of the attendees, and the academy was pretty much the entirety of my social life for a while.
      What’s strongest is the sense I took away about the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They were good people, working hard, battling bad guys. I’m sure that was the point. Not that the bureau’s often checkered history was whitewashed. Anyone who read Jonathan Eig’s recent Pulitzer Prize winning biography of Martin Luther King knows how the FBI bugged King’s hotel rooms, using the transcripts to try to blackmail him into silence, to urge him to kill himself, generating dirt they fed to his enemies. Knows that the FBI often strayed from protecting America to protecting a narrow right wing racist image of America.

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Those spewing hate often dribble on themselves

     Hateful speech is so pervasive online and generally consequence-free — try getting Facebook to suspend an account — that it can be almost shocking to realize that it can be otherwise in the living world of flesh and shadow.
     I can't be the only person mildly surprised to see a Niles man, Shahid Hussain, 43, sentenced to seven years in prison for spray painting swastikas around Northwestern's campus. Not the slap on the wrist most often seen in such cases.
    Particularly because he pleaded guilty — typically that involves a lower of sentence, and one wonders what he might have gotten had he gone to trial.
     The reason he got the book thrown at him, I imagine, is that Hussain was sentenced to two years in prison in 2022 for defacing a Jewish day school, bakery and several synagogues with hateful messages. He's a two-time loser.
     I can't speak for you, but for myself, the 2022 trip to the slammer would been a subtle hint that maybe I need a new hobby. But haters are not the brightest bulbs in the box. And there is an addictive quality to it — they're locked in the thrall of an obsession. This is worth remembering, since some Jews seem to think they're auditioning for haters, that their words and actions, or those of fellow Jews, somehow provoke antisemitism, so we need to be on our best behavior. When in reality, antisemitism isn't about us; rather, it is someone else's problem that sadly involves us, such as this Niles man caught scratching an itch that just won't go away.

     I almost felt sorry for him — maybe he thought that Northwestern was a safe space for expressing antisemitism. It certainly has seemed that way in the past. If only he'd stuck to the safer forms of hating Jews, respected the accepted etiquette, the specifics of which hardly need to be spelled out.

     The story shouldn't be buried in the Tribune, as it reminds all those keen to make their private urges into bold public statements that, depending on the time and place, tone and exact language, sometimes it blows back on you in spectacular fashion. It makes a lot more sense — safer, smart and morally right to boot — not to hate anybody. I wish more people would give it a try.

     

Out of the Darkness Walk raises awareness about the heartbreak of suicide

Shaylin Takesue (right) was one of nearly 50,000 Americans who died by suicide in 2023. Her friend Krissy Jerkatis (left) will be among 6,000 participants in the Out of the Darkness Chicagoland Walk Saturday at Montrose Harbor.

     Shaylin Takesue was smart and funny and beautiful, inside and out. In high school, she played volleyball, despite being 5-foot-1. She was a libero, the back row defensive player. At Illinois State University, where her little sister Olivia was also a student, Shaylin was busy and popular, interested in mental health. She had her own struggles, battling depression. Diagnosed with bipolar disorder, she sometimes spoke of suicide. But that seemed under control in the spring of 2023. Shaylin was out partying with her friends when, eight days before graduation, she abruptly killed herself at age 22, without planning or a note. Her sister found her body.
     “It’s hard,” said her mother, Michelle Takesue, of Batavia. “You always think it’s going to happen to somebody else. Not you. We spend our whole life as a parent trying to keep our kids safe. You love them more than anything in the world. You fear that something could happen to them, but you don’t really get it until something does, something you pray never happens, the biggest heartache anyone could imagine.”
     Suicide is the second leading cause of death for Americans in their 20s. Impulsive suicides are common — one study found that a quarter of those making serious suicide attempts consider the act for less than five minutes beforehand. Suicide can be seen as a kind of infectious disease — that’s why journalists are asked not to describe the exact method of a specific suicide, so as not to inspire copycats.
     Chicagoland Walk Saturday from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. at Montrose Harbor. Six thousand people whose lives are affected by suicide are expected to attend the walk, sponsored by the Illinois chapter of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.
     Sixty are representing Shaylin Takesue.
     “We did the first one in Bloomington-Normal, right after she passed away,” said her father, Tim Takesue. “To me, it was completely eye-opening. A little bit of healing, understanding that we are definitely not alone. To see how much this has affected people.”
     The walk is a blend of outdoor festival and somber commemoration, embodied by the “honor beads” participants wear — color-coded Mardi Gras strands: white for loss of a child, red for a spouse or partner, gold for a parent.

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