Chicago notes: Trouble at home.

Part of going home is seeing the things you love, like the
Chagall windows at the Art Institute of Chicago.

    Austin bureau chief Caren Jeskey is back in Chicago, on the Northwest Side. But that doesn't mean everything is as it should be, yet. Her Saturday report:

                                         Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around

                                         once in a while, you could miss it.                

                                                                                 — Ferris Bueller.

     Ferris and his girlfriend Sloane stood before the stained glass window pictured here at the Art Institute of Chicago after being transformed by the art they took in that day. You may know that it was created by Marc Chagall, nee Moishe Shagal, whose montages have inspired so many of us over the years.
     A local filmmaker, Hart Ginsburg, says “the power of montage is to create a fluid experience where the heart can open, the mind can wander, and the imagination can run free, untethered by judgment or logic.” You can view Hart’s work at digitaltapestries.site, and I recommend it. There you can enjoy short, beautiful film montages as well as other tools for inner growth and self-soothing.

                              If I create from the heart, nearly everything works;

                              if from the head, almost nothing.
                                                                       — Marc Chagall

     As I tumble back to Chicago looking for grounding, I discovered my new place near Elston & Milwaukee is under a very loud point of O’Hare’s flight path. Friends suggest “ear plugs!” “sound machines!” “you’ll get used to it!” They didn’t realize I have been wearing ear plugs, have two sound machine’s going, and also took hydroxyzine (which I do not like to do), and even so I get woken up at intervals throughout the night to the walls shaking and a big jet engine.

     I have not slept through one night since I moved in last Sunday. I’ve had to take today to just stop. I have decided to clear out— thank goodness I have not yet signed a lease. Given what’s happening I’ve taken today to just stop. I have learned over the years when things get this stressful the only thing to do is chose a different path rather than hammering over and over the same one.
     Watching my thoughts each time I woke up last night was a salve. “I don’t have to think about this right now. It’s time to rest,” I told myself. I put a sound meditation from Insight Timer on to soothe me back to sleep after one ominous rumble. The next time I woke up I caved and took more hydroxyzine (similar to Benadryl, but specifically for sleep).
     We would all prefer things to be peaceful and serene, but that’s not how life goes. Meditation is a tool I use to quiet my mind at the worst of times, and in the best of times. It’s a muscle that grows with use. The purpose of meditation is to find moments of respite from our active minds, and to become fully present in the moment. We often live in thoughts of the past and the future, which can exhaust us and prevents us from enjoying life as it is. Our thoughts can rob us of time. Sure, we have to set goals and solve problems to the best of our ability, but we can also immerse ourselves in the good things around us. Last night I spent hours with my nephew and recognized all along the way how grateful I was for this time with one of my favorite people.
     As Ram Dass says in his meditation called Imagine (available on YouTube; I like the one with music by Boreto), as long as we are locked into our thoughts we are always just one thought away from here. So as I sit here in the chilly apartment I will leave soon (once I figure out alternate lodging), I feel my cold feet in wool socks, cold hands and nose (my winter clothes are packed somewhere in a suitcase in my car), I decided to re-write this blog as a means of finding clarity. Pulling my mind out of the actions I will need to take, and instead placing fingers on keys and clicking away. As I told a client today, if we can get to a place of self-soothing and problem solving we will have more peace of mind. We are all getting older and one day will be in bed and we won’t get out. How will we feel OK through the natural process of life if we cannot feel OK when things really are, relatively, OK?

     According to the Mayo Clinic website, some of the benefits of meditation include reducing negative emotions, increasing imagination and creativity, increasing patience and tolerance, managing symptoms of conditions such as anxiety, chronic pain, sleep problems, tension headaches, and more.
     I will now find my space heater if I can, take a hot bath, rest, and regroup. Be well and see you all next week.

A rapist and slaver who did other things

 

     Thomas Jefferson had six children with Sally Hemings. At least. Quite a lot, really.
     How that fact eluded me through a lifetime of reading history speaks to the sort of history I’ve been reading. I knew about Hemings, but not the half-dozen kids.
     If they’re old news to you, apologies. Nothing is duller than being told what you already know. I’m genuinely uncertain whether I need to further identify Hemings as Jefferson’s property. Or ID Jefferson as the third president. It’s true, he was.
     The Hemings story, once a whispered calumny, has been embraced, even celebrated by those running Jefferson’s planation home of Monticello. I visited there last Friday while hanging around Charlottesville, Virginia, waiting for my youngest to receive his law degree. We travelled 800 miles to watch him walk across the stage and be handed his diploma.
      Or so I believed, until reality intruded, as reality will do, eventually.
      I’d been to Monticello several times, and every time the history of the enslaved persons who worked there becomes more prominent, as does scrutiny, given the evil that Jefferson tried and failed to ban at our nation’s founding. Decades ago, the 600 Black people owned by Jefferson were called “servants.” Then they became “slaves,” but that was seen as ... what? Too reductive, perhaps. “Enslaved persons” is now their preferred term, perhaps to finally work “person” into the description.
     Touring Jefferson’s home, I felt as if I were myself two different people admiring the gardens and staring into the wine cellar. One who went to grade school at a time when Blacks show up only fleetingly in American history in the form of Crispus Attucks, who arrives just in time to be gunned down at the Boston Massacre, then submerge until John Brown and the origins of the Civil War.

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Unoverwhelmed.

 

     "I'm glad we decided to work Saturday," I said Monday, humping yet another bag of trash out of my son's Charlottesville apartment and toward the complex's dumpsters, 100 yards away. "If we hadn't, we'd be overwhelmed. Now we're just whelmed."
     It was pointed out to me that the last word isn't a word. I promised I would check at the first opportunity, suspecting that "overwhelmed" is what etymologists call an "unpaired word"—a word that doesn't exist without their negative (or positive) prefixes. We become "disabled" but not "abled."
     Three days and nearly 800 miles later, back at my home office, I checked my Oxford English Dictionary. Wrong. "Whelm" is parsed for a full column and a half. "1. intr To overturn, capsize. obs." with a variety of related meanings. "To cover completely with water or other fluid so as to ruin or destroy." 

     So in a sense, "overwhelm" is redundant, as "whelm" seems to serve nicely. "To engulf or bear down like a flood, storm, avalanche, etc; hence to involve in destruction or ruin" such as the challenge of condensing the contents of a student apartment into the back of a Honda Odyssey.
     Indeed, many terms which seem to the untrained eye like unpaired words actually have long-forgotten roots. You can be both "gruntled" and "kempt," for instance. Or could be at one point.
     So maybe "overwhelm" is another pleonasm, like "batshit crazy," piling on words for added effect. "Overwhelm," like "overlavish," does means pretty much mean the same its root word. "1. To overturn, overthrow, upset" with a second meaning, "2. To cover (anything) as with something turned over and cast upon it; to bury or drown beneath a superincumbent mass; to submerge completely (usually implying ruin or destruction)."

    "Superincumbent"—this process never ends—means, "Lying or resting upon, or situated on the top of, something else; overlying." It strikes me as a handy euphemism for ... well, never mind. 
     That said, "overwhelm" was simply the wrong word, as we were not ruined, but coped handily. Yes, I felt a pang of guilt—the plan had been to spend Saturday hiking in the Shenandoah National Park. But the temperature was in the mid-80s, we were semi-tired from several hours strolling around Monticello, and the task had begun to grind us down already. We had to conserve energy, achieve our end, return the key and drive home, eventually. Packing instead of hiking wasn't a mistake, as I sometimes say when a reader points out to a word they don't like, it was a choice.

      Though there was a moment of moral victory I have to share. Much pre-trip conversation centered upon whether or not his mattress would fit, perhaps folded, in the back of the van. My wife insisted it would not. My son, imbued with all the optimism and endless possibilities of youth, countered that we would easily get it in. We saw there was no point in even trying, and  dragged it to the dumpster too. Just before we left, he considered the Odyssey and observed "I get the sense the mattress wouldn't have fit anyway." I get the sense he's right.

Washington Court House

     We stopped for the night in Washington Court House, Ohio, a small city—population 14,000—whose name demands explanation, particularly since the imposing structure on Main Street is not officially known as the Washington Court House, but the Fayette County Courthouse, Washington C.H. as the name is sometimes abbreviated, being the seat of Fayette County. 

   Rather, the name speaks to the lack of creativity, or excess of patriotic zeal, of those who settled Ohio in the early 1800s. There were lots of place named after the father of our country, and as the state congealed, and roads were built, and the various Washingtons became acquainted with each other, they sorted themselves out as New Washington and Old Washington, Port Washington and Washingtonville and Washington Court House, being the Washington with the court house in it (this one, built in 1885, is the town's third, and still in use).
      With the anniversary of the George Floyd killing, I took particular interest in this plaque located before the courthouse. It seemed a positive that the residents would feel proud enough, or perhaps just compelled, to commemorate the shooting of a lynch mob on a plaque. Though McKinley, who'd become president in 1897 and himself shot in 1901, was being optimistic: there would be dozens more extra-judicial killings in Ohio before the lynch era came to an end in 1937, though it should be noted, because it will be a surprise to some, that about half the victims were white people.

    William Dolby, by the way, served 13 years of his sentence and then was released. The state gave him a $5 bill to start his life anew.

Choose wisely.

     "I think the Greenbrier is nearby," I had said, as we drove into West Virginia, coming from the east.
     I've always had a fondness for big old style resorts, and have stayed at a few: The Broadmoor, in Colorado Springs. The Grand Hotel at Mackinac. I was hoping we'd see the famous old hot springs hotel from the road, perhaps plant the seed for a future visit.
     Later, I wasn't thinking about the place when we pulled off at an unnamed rest stop at Mile 182. My wife suggested we walk around the building—we like to walk on trips, shake off the stiffness from the car, stretch our legs, get the blood moving.

The Greenbrier Hotel view.

The rest area overlook.

     We were surprised to find a wooded area, with a path. We followed the path until it divided into a T. To the left, the sign pointed toward the "GREEENBRIER HOTEL OVERLOOK." To the right, the "RESTAREA OVERLOOK," the lack of the proper space somehow seeming apt. That's a no brainer. We headed left. After a very brief walk, we were treated to a view of the sprawling white hotel, the lush green mountains beyond, bright forest in front, piles of white clouds, the blue sky.
     We stood a moment, savoring the panorama.
     I have to admit, I would have clomped back to the car at that point.
     But my wife suggested we see what the other view was like.
     So we returned to the woods, went past the sign, again a very few steps.
     We gazed in a kind of wonder at the rest area overlook, and enjoyed a very different view. A picnic table. A garbage can. And beyond it, the roof of the rest area, as promised, and beyond it the highway, Route 35, with cars and trucks whizzing by.
    We stood and soaked that in, briefly.
     I had to wonder, returning to the car, how many people, not knowing what the Greenbrier is, only went to the right overlook, and missed the one to the left? 

    That's life, ain't it? A little knowledge helps.

Willpower in a box

     Children are a portal to the future. Or should be, in their capacity as members of the next generation you know very well and observe closely. I can't tell you how much I've learned from my boys. My oldest got me drinking Soylent when time is tight. My youngest first informed me that "oriental" is not a word that people use in conversation anymore. He's introduced me to music from the Black Keys to Lizzo. Just now he deposited a gift check using his cell phone. I knew that is possible, having seen him do it before. But I'm not ready for that yet.
     Another practice that the jury is out on is the phone safe. He bought a container to put his cell phone in while he studied law. When I first heard of the practice, I looked down on it, as people tend to do with unfamiliar technology. It seemed to betray a lack of willpower, a swapping of mechanical determination for human control. Somehow seeing the thing: it's a simple white container with a timing mechanism in the lid that sends two plastic tabs out, sealing it shut, made me begin to suspect it's the opposite: owning this is an expression of willpower, removing the temptation to take a break and surf the net by tucking away the source of temptation.
      The makers of the device say it's not only good for cell phones, but "cigarettes, keys, snacks and credit cards."
     Or TV remotes. I've developed a powerful affection for "The Sopranos," having avoided it when it first came out 20 years ago. I haven't yet shirked my writing duties to catch another episode or two. But I can imagine that day arriving.
     Still, I'd be loathe to supplement my will with an electronic hidey hole. 

     Maybe I'm coming to it from a recovery point of view. When I got sober, 15 years ago, I deliberately avoided living in a liquor-free house, at least after the first few months. I would explain to people that it won't work long term to base sobriety on not knowing how to find alcohol. Staying on the path because you never encounter temptation seemed a hollow, fragile, even false victory. So my fridge has always been full of beer and wine I don't drink. I kinda like having it there. It's worked so far...
      Another reason I'd never buy one of these timed safes is that they're quite expensive. The one I found on Amazon, called a "Kitchen Mini-Safe" cost $70. You can see it here.
      The "kitchen" part seems to speak for the device's role in dieting. You can eat two cookies now, then lock the rest away for a day, or two, or five. Which is effective, though extreme.
     I asked my lad about it, and he said that studies back up its effectiveness. Its value, he says, isn't just that it takes away the ability to look at the phone, but stops your thinking about doing so. "It's not about willpower," he said. "It's about concentration."
     So what do you think? Is this a prudent measure? Maybe I'll give his a try in the few weeks he's home.

‘Jonathan Toews eats his vegetables’

Photo for the Sun-Times by Ashlee Rezin Garcia

     There's an interesting backstory to this. After I wrote a column about Rich Cohen's new book about being a hockey dad, Chicago Steel publicist Shannan Bunting, mistakenly believing I care about hockey, approached me with the idea of doing a column on players  billeting during COVID. I interviewed one fine young man. Nothing I could put in the paper. Then another. Again nothing I would print. I politely tried to communicate that. Nevertheless she persisted, suggesting I talk to the Gravenhorsts. 

     Certain I was wasting my and their time, but polite to a fault, I made the call. An hour later we were still talking, and I knew this would be a fun piece, and also knew just where to put it: the Saturday Sports Wrapper, a cornucopia of diverse, in-depth, Sports Illustrated-quality stories, which would take 2,000 words on this subject without blinking. 

     The photos are by the essential Ashlee Rezin, who also noticed a few details that slipped past me, such as the skinned knuckles and the exchanged smirks. I've worked with many great photographers, from Pulitzer Prize-winner John H. White to Robert A. Davis, who shot personal photos for Oprah and Eva Longoria's wedding in Paris, and she's right up there with the best of them. 

     Even with no one in it, the kitchen in Marcy and Brian Gravenhorst’s Aurora home gives away the game: Something unusual is going on here. One big bowl is filled with protein bars. Another with Goldfish crackers. A third with clementines. Two large bottles of honey, plus jumbo jars of Nutella and peanut butter. In the fridge, Gatorade. In the oven, lasagna is baking for dinner. Lots of lasagna.
     “I made two pans,” says Marcy.
      A lot of food for a retired couple: Brian is 70, a retired computer programmer. Marcy is 69, a retired special ed teaching assistant. But they are not alone.

     “Should I call the munchkins to dinner?” Marcy asks Brian.  

     “Call the troops!” he decrees.
     Downstairs clomp Lukas Gustafsson, Jack Bar and Simon Latkoczy, three members of the Chicago Steel hockey team. They are the Gravenhorsts’ dinner guests tonight and every night; the three players have lived with the couple for almost nine months.
     “Three 18-year-olds,” elaborates Brian, letting that sink in. “Hockey players are always hungry.”
     Welcome to the world of hockey billet families. The public is so enamored with professional sports, parsing every detail of the National Hockey League’s teams and stars, they might not even be aware of the modest traditions of the United States Hockey League. Here, players are paid literally nothing — which is a step up for them, because before they were paying for the privilege of playing the sport. The USHL is a place to hone their skills, get accepted to a good college and maybe, just maybe, catch the attention of the pros.
     A salary of $0 doesn’t leave much for living expenses, however. This is where billet families step in, to house them, feed them and mother them, performing various practical tasks, like taking a pair of Finns to the Finnish consulate to vote for the first time.
     The Gravenhorsts are the oldest of the Steel’s 15 billet families — sometimes referring to themselves as “hockey grandparents” — hosting for their sixth year. Like many grandparents, the couple sweats the details. Three flagpoles next to their garage display the national flag for each player, greeting them when they arrive, plus the American flag over the front door. The players are supposed to do their own laundry, but Marcy won’t allow that — that would involve teenage males fiddling with her washing machine. They are expected to get their dirty clothes and linen into a clothes hamper which, as any parent of boys knows, is already placing the bar pretty high.
     The Gravenhorsts do this . . . why exactly?
     For Marcy, it is all about hockey.
     “I’m a rabid Chicago Blackhawks fan and have been since forever,” she says. They’d hosted foreign exchange students — for at most a few weeks at a time. Then the Chicago Steel moved to Geneva.
     “They were looking for billet homes,” says Marcy. “We’re not that far from the Fox Valley Ice Arena.”
     And Brian, well, he’s married to Marcy, and then there is the joy of keeping the boys fed.
     “I do grilling, I do ribs, I do pulled pork,” says Brian, “I also do a brisket from time to time, Texas style. We introduce spice to these kids. A lot of ’em have eaten a bland diet all their lives. They really love a brisket.”
     Dinner conversation centers around — any guesses? — hockey.
     “How was practice?” Marcy asks. “What did you guys do?”

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