The mayor isn’t very good at this, is she?

     “Rahm Emanuel was abrasive,” my savvy Chicago pal said. “But if he’s sandpaper, Lori Lightfoot is a belt sander.”
     I don’t know about that. I always thought of Rahm as more oily than caustic, a salubrious insider slithering through the drain pipes of power, popping up through a grate to lubricate a momentary ally, then dissolving into the gutter with a wet splat, and gone.
     Now our current mayor, well, I don’t have much direct personal experience to bring to the table. Lightfoot sat down for an hour with me and my colleague Lauren FitzPatrick for a profile when she was running in 2019. Lightfoot struck me then not as caustic but guarded, measured, deliberate. Not personable in the look-you-in-the-eye-and-ask-about-your-dog sense. Not much eye contact, really.
     But then, Lightfoot isn’t a politician. Her campaign chairman told me as much while we chatted at an ACLU luncheon. A reluctant campaigner, he said, she had to be dragged into a room of potential supporters, where she’d stand, regarding them with disgust, until poked. Then she’d murmur something and flee.
     Voters claim to like that. They seem to like electing officials who aren’t politicians. Yet they wouldn’t hire a plumber that way, based on complete lack of familiarity with plumbing.
     We saw the result again at Wednesday’s bizarre, amateur hour City Council meeting. Maybe we’re used to Rahm, and Rich Daley before him, who turned the Council into a trained seal act, rearing up on command, clapping their flippers together and barking approval in unison in return for a herring delivered in private.

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Inoperable bollard

     "That's a lovely view," I said, settling on a park bench on the trail ringing the Basin in Northbrook. "I just want to sit here and look at that bollard."
     It was a joke, of course. My wife and I sometimes cap off our workdays by walking on The Trail Through Time, an expanse of prairie that Northbrook has cannily crafted out of wasteland. Beyond it are soccer fields, a skateboard park, the new rec center, and the Basin, a storm water catchment area made into an attractive field.
     "Is it good-looking?" she said, or words to that effect.
     "No," I admitted. "I just like saying the word, 'bollard.'" Perhaps not a familiar term to everybody. "A wooden or iron post, on a ship, a whale-boat or a quay," the Oxford English Dictionary tells us, "for securing ropes to."
     Or a concrete post concealing a light on a suburban path.
     The joke, in case it doesn't translate beyond the moment, is to take in this beautiful expansive view—the photograph doesn't capture it—and focus on the little squat post lost in shadow in the foreground. Then again, I'm not sure it was funny, even then.

     Our walk takes about an hour, over the train tracks, past St. Norbert's. We encounter people with dogs, families on bikes, numerous redwing blackbirds. We don't normally pause to sit. But we'd gotten up early and were tired. I didn't see the bollard until we sat down.
    I took out my phone and snapped a picture of it.     
     "Maybe I'll do a blog post," I said.
     "You did one already," she replied.
     More than five years ago. When I noticed a sign, "Operable Bollards" on the campus of Northwestern. Not exactly the most dramatic post. But she remembered it. That's flattering. One wants this stuff to stick in mind.

     

Time will blow away all that you possess

 

     My mother-in-law, may she rest in peace, owned six roasters.
     You know, those large oval roasting pans, heavy black steel with removable lids. Speckled with white dots, for some obscure aesthetic reason.
     Six.
     A fact her family discovered after she died, 10 years ago, and we began to go through her house. Roasters stashed in closets, on shelves in the basement.
     I wish I could have asked her: “Why so many?” Though the answer would almost certainly have been a chuckle and a wave of the hand. Our guess was it had to do with the Great Depression.
     She did cook a lot.
     We kept one roaster that reminded me of a World War I dreadnought and unloaded the rest for a couple of dollars apiece at the estate sale. We never use it, and I wonder if the others are also just being stored until they’re on the move again, passed along to new owners, down through the generations. I hope at some point somebody roasts something.
     We are, many of us, surrounded by such enormous shoals of stuff that its utter superfluousness seldom occurs to us unless the stuff’s owner dies, and we’re in charge of deciding what to keep (not much) and what to give away (most everything).
     Or some natural disaster suddenly sweeps it into the street. When I heard Monday that a tornado had hit Naperville and Woodridge, my first impulse was to race there and talk to residents picking through their devastated homes.
     Because I still remember, vividly, Plainfield after the tornado hit in 1990. An older couple going through their flattened home, finding a teacup, intact, and just laughing. They were glad to have the teacup, plucked out of the chewing jaws of nature.

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Flash: Most reader letters are nice.

     I believe I've been guilty of promulgating an untruth, or at least a misperception.
     Over the years, I tend to share outrageous, vile, deranged reader feedback, for several reasons. To reduce the sting by casting it in hue of connoisseurship—look what an amazing specimen of insult this is. To amuse my non-crazy readers. To humble brag about being made of strong enough stuff to take such abuse. And perhaps because it can be seriously funny.
     In doing so, I've created the impression that I write my column in a hailstorm of scorn, and that really isn't the case. First, because contempt tends to come from a certain small subset of masochistic regulars, who keep reading while purporting to despise everything I write. Those go straight to spam and are usually never seen, never mind read. Still, they write, continually, sometimes for years.
     And second because I gets lots of appreciative email, much more than the negative stuff. Much gratitude, many kind words, Which I don't share because, well, first so as not to brag. Showing off praise, it's unseemly, is it not? I don't think I've ever posted a bunch of complimentary emails, though I do admit occasionally forwarding a particularly positive note off to my boss. "See, SOMEBODY likes this stuff!" 

     Besides, praise is, well, seldom quite as interesting as condemnation, in the same way that Inferno is a far better read than Purgatorio or Paradiso.
     After my Monday column taking aim at the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops for their ham-handed attempt to influence Joe Biden by barring him from communion unless he recants his heresies, several readers commiserated about the bulk of nasty mail I must be getting. On the contrary. I was struck by just how positive most were, and a number of the remarks were quite witty, the top by far being from John F., who writes, "The Eucharist is not a 'dog biscuit' given for good behavior." 
     Margaret B. left the church half a century ago due to its entrenched sexism. "What did it for me was Father," she writes. "It still drives me nuts that priests are 'Father' but nuns are 'Sister.'”
     I never thought of that before, but she's right.
     The open manner with which people talked about their faith was impressive.
     "I used to explain my staying with the church by using the crazy uncle's explanation that there are a few bad apples in every family but most of us are good and just ignore the goofy relatives," writes Christine P. "But 2016 changed everything for me. When the conservative folks thought it was okay to support the prior president on one issue and ignore all his other dangerous and harmful qualities, my heart sank. To single out Biden as the bad guy, Biden who really cares to make a positive and caring difference in the world, makes me so sad. If everyone truly examined their souls, none of us would be worthy of receiving communion."

     There are dozens more, and I won't belabor the point. I'm very grateful for readers who take the time to respond, to compose their thoughts, and often am educated and enriched by what they have to say. I try to answer every well-intentioned email back, while ignoring completely the mean, the sarcastic and the deranged.  I thought I ought to set the record straight. Not that there really is a record. But you know what I mean. Most of you, anyway.

Bishops use sacraments to pressure Biden

     One beauty of being Jewish is that you can’t get excommunicated, Spinoza notwithstanding. Sure, there are various boards of rabbis here and there. But no central authority, the way Catholics have their U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops. Nor do Jews have sacraments, like communion, that can be withheld as punishment for apostasy. The way the bishops voted overwhelmingly Friday to draft “a formal statement” forbidding Catholic public officials like President Joe Biden from receiving the eucharist if they insist on supporting one particular legal American right that conflicts with Catholic theology: abortion.

     The most important aspects of Judaism: lighting candles on Friday night, atoning on Yom Kippur, pushing back against dogma, can’t be yanked away by some board of overlords.
     In fact, being heretical is almost the Jewish brand. That’s why the faith is so studded with people like Spinoza, or Freud, or Einstein, or Lenny Bruce. When my son came back from sophomore year and gravely informed me he is questioning the value of his religion, I smiled and replied, “Buddy, I hate to tell you, but doubting Judaism is the most Jewish thing you can do at this point in your life.”
     Yes, like all faiths, Jews have our own strong ultra-Orthodox wing, where wearing a pearl gray Borsalino hat will get you in hot water, never mind pushing back against doctrine. But the Hassidim have about as much influence on mainstream Judaism as the Pennsylvania Amish have on the Philadelphia club scene. They do encourage weak tea Jews such as myself to say certain prayers, but are smart enough not to try to punish us if we don’t. Which I respect, even while their lifestyle puzzles me. You’ve got one life. Are you really going to spend it dressed for 18th century Vilnius and arguing obscure points of Deuteronomy dietary law? Don’t let me stop you. It’s a free country.
     And I’d like to keep it that way. Which is why we need to resist the bishops, and remind them their authority ends at the church door. Yes, they are free to define the contours of their own faith. But to inflict a special penalty especially on government leaders is not religion but politics. Not just their business, but ours too. It isn’t as if regular lay Catholics are being punished for their beliefs, not anymore. If some Board of Rabbis were to announce that U.S. senators couldn’t eat latkes at Hanukkah unless they keep Kosher, the ridicule would be Biblical.

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Flashback 2000: "Scarier than scary stories"

2000

     I heard a noise downstairs Saturday and went to investigate. It was my younger son, freshly 24, stopping by for a visit, a quick lunch, stock up on a few groceries and then back into the city, where he now lives. 

     I can't tell you how happy that makes me, to have him pop by like that. A marvelous pre-Father's Day gift, though as icing on the cake, he'll circle back to my brother- and sister-in-law's, where we'll eat brisket and then go out into the park for a game of catch and a Rocky Patel.

      It might have worked out otherwise, as this column from 22 years ago reminds us. Every parent knows that only constant vigilance and the occasional timely spot of luck stands between any given moment and disaster. Happy Father's Day, hug 'em if you've got 'em.

     The shorthand I've come up with to convey the entire parenthood experience to my childless, noncomprehending friends is this: "Being a parent is realizing that your entire world can choke to death on a penny."
     I meant it as a glib line, a wink at the frantic safety-making that parents usually put themselves through.
     Before our oldest could roll off his colorful blankie, we had already brought in a safety consultant to walk through our place, pointing out hazards. We dutifully installed all sorts of netting and wooden gates and coffee table edge guards and window locks and electrical socket covers.
     I thought all this stuff was keeping us safe. Only this morning did I realize another factor, as important as childproofing, was protecting us as well: blind, dumb luck (or a benevolent God; take your pick. I don't want to get in a spat over theology).
     Anyway, I was on the sofa with the boys, making up scary stories—"Mr. Roboto," about two young boys building a robotic monster in the basement of their apartment building, and "The Skeleton Cave," about two young boys discovering a buried grave site. Which is hard work, since the boys demand newer, ever-scarier plot lines.
     Tiring of this, I suggested breakfast. My oldest called for "Pancakes hot from the griddle!" I sprang to make them. My wife was somewhere, upstairs, sleeping I assumed.
     Each boy cracked an egg. I made sure that they washed their hands afterward—vigilance against egg-borne salmonella! The pancakes sizzled. I shooed the boys away from the hot griddle. "Go sit down boys," I said. "The pancakes will be ready in a minute."
     As I tended the final moments of the pancakes' progress, I heard a whimper. I almost didn't investigate immediately, but I turned to gaze into the living room.
     Right by the kitchen door, as luck would have it, both good and bad, we had placed a big pile of unformed cardboard boxes. Our 2-year-old had stuck his head through the plastic band holding the boxes together and pulled them down on top of himself.
     When I saw him, he was crying and losing the struggle to keep the two dozen flat boxes from toppling over on him, tightening the band around his neck as they went.
     You never saw a fat man move so fast. With both hands I pulled the band away from his neck. It budged a little, just enough for him to breathe. I tried pushing the boxes back against the wall, but that seemed to tighten the band, too. I called for my wife. Then yelled. Then screamed, the most urgent, loud, throat-stripping sound I think I've ever produced.
     After an eternal 10 or 15 seconds, she came running, wrapped in a towel. She found a scissors and cut the plastic strap. The 2-year-old was left with a nasty 3-inch red welt around his neck. He forgot about it a minute later. His dad was hoarse for the rest of the day. His mom reacted so quickly, once she heard the shouts, that she somehow fractured her foot flying downstairs.
     The whole thing happened so fast that, when it was over and I returned to the grill, I flipped the pancakes and they weren't burned.
     Which is a roundabout way of saying: Watch out for big piles of cardboard boxes. Or plastic bands. Or anything a kid can get his head in.
     We're all resting comfortably now. And I've got my next scary story all ready: "The Fiendish Boxes."
                —Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 23, 2000

Texas Throwback: Does and Bees

     One rarely breaks away from a place cleanly. Our former homes exert a gravitational pull. So while safely landed in her native Chicago, our former Austin bureau chief Caren Jeskey feels the tug of friends left behind.

     When a single person such as myself enjoyed meals al Fresco at fancy Italian joints in COVID safe Austin last summer, sometimes interesting characters would appear. While dining at Asti on 42nd and Duval, two dapper men in casually rumpled linen and felted Goorin Brothers hats sat with me on the sparsely populated patio. I wanted to go right over and join them. “What’s your story?” I’d say.
     Alas, I was far from decked out in my sporty wear during a long walkabout, and did not want to disturb their refined dining experience. Destiny had a different plan. I was wearing a button on my jean jacket and the astute waiter said “if you like buttons, you should talk to Jesse.” Jesse was the good-looking, mustached, longish reddish haired fancy man at the table across the way.“What the heck?” I thought, and I went over. Jesse and Stan were every bit as classy, reserved, and charming as I could have imagined. Jesse’s generous and loving spirt led him to present me with a one of a kind original, a button he made that stated “Ride The Ever Present Now.” I promptly affixed it to my fanny pack and promised to do so.

     This was the beginning of a sweet friendship. My favorite thing about Stan is his calm, slightly bemused, twinkly-eyed demeanor. Jesse is warm and sends inspirational texts JUST when you need them.
     One day, Jesse left a box of haute button-up shirts, padded hangers, and inspiring buttons on my porch. He asked me to donate the clothes and dole out the buttons to folks who needed a pick me up. I gave several of the buttons to my friend Kaitlin, who's a teacher. She was excited at the thought of including them in goodie bags for the kids she teaches.
     Every time someone complimented a button on my fanny pack, I'd remove it and hand it over to them. They were delighted, just as Jesse delighted me.
     Jesse loves bees. He created feeders for the yellow and black little buddies of ours, and regaled me with photos of them chomping down on sugar water. Jesse loves deer. He developed special friendships with the four leggeds who frequented his home in the hills of north Austin, giving them names like Cornbud and Cabbage Leaf, and I gleaned from his delight when he’d send me photos of his visitors.
     Since I have been back in Chicago, Jesse checks in regularly with cheerful messages that remind me that there is goodness in the world.
     “I’m listening to Klaus Schulze’s Moondawn on Spotify right now because the moon is shining in the skylight right over my room” and “I think Chicago is your placeYou settle in there for a while and find a place to fly your flag! I think you’re gonna have a great time there!” That’s a lot of rainbows. Thank you Jesse. It’s people like you who make the world go ‘round without much squeaking.

Stan and Jesse