"Stroll in the Park"

     Saturday was a gorgeous summer day in Chicago. And I got lucky, in that a young cousin from Boston was in town with her friend, which prompted me to get off my ass, out of the ol' leafy suburban paradise, and into the city — Lincoln Park Zoo, specifically, after an enjoyable lunch at R.J. Grunt's which is still crowded, still delicious, still fun. 

     While strolling in Lincoln Park we came upon this whimsical sculpture, at the corner of Dickens and Lincoln Park West. By Robbie Barber, it's titled, appropriately enough, "Stroll in the Park." The 58-year-old Texan explains in an artist's statement that the artwork is "an homage to the homemade assemblages that dot the American roadside (dinosaurs, muffler men, cars on poles)," intended to elevate "the mobile home to the level of an American icon, right beside monster trucks and professional wrestling."
     Mission accomplished. While most public art is crap, as I've said before, the whimsy and humor of this instantly appealed, as did the sky blue color, and the careful weathering of the trailer part of the baby carriage. It's here for only a year, thanks to Sculpture in the Parks, a program putting 20 artworks in 20 parks, run by the Chicago Park District, the Evanston Arts Council, and the North River Commission.

      One clever artwork doesn't counterbalance the windstorm of bad publicity that Chicago has been suffering. But it's good to remember that, despite its problems, Chicago is functioning as a city should, between its free zoo, busy lakefront and freshly scattered sculptures. We drove up Lake Shore Drive from North Avenue to Hollywood, then up Sheridan to the Bahai Temple.  Nobody shot at us, the lake sparkled and the whole city seemed to be out in force, enjoying life.

     "Some hellhole," I said.

Wilmette Notes: Can’t Fix Stupid

Photo by Caren Jeskey

     Seven people were gunned down at the Fourth of July parade in Highland Park on Monday. Everyone I know feels terrible about it—I find myself growing more and more horrified as the shock wears off and the details filter in. For me, it was that 8-year-old boy having his spine severed by a bullet. Just the awfulness of that. Of course North Shore correspondent Caren Jeskey, rather than merely feeling bad, did what she could to help. Her Saturday report:

By Caren Jeskey 

“I can fix almost anything that runs on those presses but I can’t fix stupid.” 

                      —Shoe Comic Strip by Jeff MacNelly

     Folks on neighborhood social media groups in the North Shore are plotting a mission to buy out gun companies and put a stop to this nonsense, or at least a finger in the dam. A pipe dream that I will try to have tonight instead of the nightmares of last night— snarling German shepherds the size of ponies skulking around my house in the middle of the night, shadowy vehicles the size of tanks with tinted windows trailing them. Unknown faces planning unknown things behind the wheels.
      Part of me believes that mass shooters can and should be stopped, and perhaps even rehabilitated, with early intervention into their predilection for violence.

     When the news rolled in about the Highland Park massacre I was at home in Wilmette, having just seen my one 4th of July holiday client on Zoom. Little did we know that as we spoke about improving life, a reminder that a better tomorrow is not guaranteed for any of us had just played out.
     Like you, I am still reeling and processing this most recent horror. As I listened to live news coverage on WBEZ on Monday, I could not just stay at home. As a volunteer professional, I drove to the Highland Park hospital where FBI agents sent me to the Police Department. I checked in with my name and professional license number and waited to be called upon to provide crisis counseling. Decades of crisis work in hospitals has prepared me for this, and I had to at least offer my services.
     A local man walked up as I hunkered down outside of the station to wait, and we entered into an animated conversation about the need for action. A ridiculously sized (considering the terrain) black pickup truck rolled by slowly. Expertly affixed flag poles hosted American flags flapping in the wind as the driver carefully surveyed the area, bearded men in Harleys slowly following behind. Vigilante justice at its finest. Amerika as in the 1987 ABC miniseries where the result of political strife resulted in the Divided States of America. Prophetic, as many things are.

     “It is organized violence on top which creates individual violence at the bottom.”

                        — Emma Goldman, 1917

     Outside of the police department that day, I met friends of victims and provided an ear because they needed to vent. As TV vans rolled in and the area started to get crowded, I headed home to await next steps. A colleague linked me with a small group of therapists who had set up a counseling outpost at the local high school. Thursday evening I spent nearly five hours at Highland Park High School with nine other professional volunteers.

      Audrey Grunst of Simply Bee Counseling had generously taken it upon herself to spearhead this effort. They funneled us through a well organized process, which linked us to those in need. No person or family had to wait more than a minute or two for help. We were provided with therapeutic tools for all ages—stuffed animals and crayons, sparkly balls to squeeze for comfort, and even donated wearable TouchPoints. These devices work "by altering the body's stress response with BLAST (Bi-lateral Alternating Stimulation Tactile) technology. BLAST uses gentle, alternating vibrations on each side of the body to shift your brain from your default ‘fight or flight’ response to your calm and in-control response.”

     The people I treated walked in with pinched expressions, cried while they shared, and walked out feeling reassured and less scared, even laughing and smiling. Counseling can and does work.
     On my way home I turned the wrong way and came across the memorials that had been created in downtown Highland Park with hundreds of people lighting candles, or in quiet contemplation, or gathered around a rabbi who spoke words of comfort. Nestled amidst hundreds of bouquets of flowers were messages written on poster board and in chalk on the sidewalks. “Enough. Ban Assault Weapons Now.”
     It wasn’t until I stood before the life sized images of the seven lives we lost that it really hit home. I am, you are, we are all one fanatic away from being touched by tragedy if we have not yet been. Many have mentioned that since the violence has affected an affluent community, perhaps this means that change will really come. We shall see.
     As I left the area I found my eyes peeled to the top of the office building near my car. Just in case. Yesterday, during a client session, I jotted down a sentence they had said. “I put a deposit down on an engagement gun.” I noticed right away that the word ring was not where it was supposed to be. Later as I played my flute I heard a car drive by with thumping music and briefly wondered if a shooter had arrived. This too shall pass, I tell myself. Over and over.
     According to the National Center for PTSD, 60% of men and 50% of women experience at least one trauma in their lives and about 8% of women and 4% of men develop PTSD sometime in their lives. This data is outdated, however, so I will have to do some digging to find out more. Even if people are not diagnosed with PTSD, they very well may have lingering effects after having been targeted and seeing others fall.
     I will try to remember that there is more good in the world than bad, most people are not violent, and that right will one day win over might.

"Violence can always destroy power; out of the barrel of a gun grows the most effective command, resulting in the most instant and perfect obedience. What never can grow out of it is power.”    —On Violence, Hannah Arendt 1970

Photo by Caren Jeskey

Averting his gaze from the wreckage

Robert Feder

     "Did you ever give interviews?" Eric Zorn asked our lunch guest. "Did you ever appear on panel shows?"
     No, of course not.
     "So this is an opportunity..."
     An opportunity, to the former Chicago Tribune columnist. Me, I thought we were going to lunch with our old friend, Robert Feder, to celebrate his retirement after 42 years as the unblinking eye chronicling Chicago media. After being the rare journalist to have worked, at various points in his career, for the Sun-Times, the Tribune, the Daily Herald, Crain's Chicago Business, and WBEZ. If anything significant happened in TV, radio or print, Feder typically had it first. “Hustle, tenacity and humility,” said the Daily Herald’s editor, summing him up well.

     But Zorn, a keener judge of news than I, suggested we should record it, as a kind of exit interview. That sounded like work, but okay. I turned on my digital recorder as we three settled in a booth at L. Woods Tap in Lincolnwood on Tuesday.
     Rob always avoided the spotlight, and it did make sense to shine it on him now that we had the chance. He certainly has a newsman's way of capturing a moment.
      "We are all working in isolation, we're all working at home," he began. "The newsroom is all a myth. It's an idea in the past. And so you decide how long can you keep your sanity and keep pretending you're part of a larger thing."
     Sounds right. Why retire now?
     "For every reason. Everything came together at once," he said. "Within the last five or six years, I lost both my parents and my wife, if that doesn't start you to think about how short life is, what happens when the last day comes, and there's no tomorrow."
     He has nothing lined up. No plans.

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"This is a case of gun-madness."

     Thanks to Grizz65, whose comment yesterday led to today's post.

     The current spate of mass shootings is traced back to Columbine, the 1999 massacre where 13 students were killed by a pair of students who then took their own lives.

     But collective memory is faulty — we say we'll never forget, but we do, and the American propensity toward amateur slaughter goes back much further. If you had asked me, I'd point to 1966 sniping off the clock tower at the University of Texas at Austin, when a former Marine, Charles Whitman, killed 14 people, at the time the greatest slaughter in United States history by a single gunman.
     This was being discussed on my blog, and one reader mentioned Howard Unruh, whose name meant nothing to me. But in 1949, the 28-year-old Army vet walked down River Road in Camden, New Jersey, calmly shooting people with a souvenir German Luger pistol. He killed 13: five men, five women and three children, aged 2, 6 and 9—the 6-year-old, Orris Smith, was slain at point blank range, the gun pressed against his chest as he sat in a barber shop, astride a white carousel horse, getting a haircut because he was starting school tomorrow. His mother sat watching nearby. The barber, J. Clark Hoover, was killed too.

     Frank Engel, a tavern owner, grabbed a .38 he owned and shot Unruh, wounding him, but failing to stop the rampage. Engel could have shot him a half dozen more times. "I don't know why I didn't do it," he said later.
     Friends described Unruh as a quiet kid who kept to himself. "A very quiet fellow" was the way his high school yearbook described him. Indeed, he was oddly polite during the shooting. "Excuse me, sir," he said to one man, shooting him twice. After the murders, as police closed in, Unruh returned to his room at his mother's apartment, where the assistant city editor of the Camden Evening Journal phoned and Unruh picked up. 

    "Why are you killing people?" the editor asked.

    "I don't know," Unruh replied. "I can't answer that yet. I'll have to talk to you later. I'm too busy now."

     By then police had thrown tear gas through the window. Uruh came out with his hands up. 

     "What the matter with you?" one policeman asked. "You a psycho?"

     "I'm no psycho," Unruh replied. "I have a good mind."

     Bystanders kept saying to reporters that they couldn't understand why it had happened. Prosecutors said the cause was "resentment against his neighbors." Unruh was judged insane and committed to the Trenton Psychiatric Hospital for 60 years, until his death in 2009.  He was never found competent to stand trial. 

     "I'd have killed a thousand if I had enough bullets," he later told a psychiatrist.
     Meyer Berger, of the New York Times, won the 1950 Pulitzer Prize for his coverage of the killings, which were not, as commonly believed, the first such rampage in America. Nor, needless to say, the last. If you look at the front page story that ran in the Chicago Daily News, you will notice that its editors had no trouble running the photo of a body sprawled in the street, even identifying it as "Maurice Cohen, drug store proprietor." Cohen was Unruh's neighbor, and apparently had set him off by complaining about him cutting through his yard and playing his radio too loud at night.

     So perhaps showing graphic photos of bodies would not have the pacifying effect that some people suspect it might. At the end of October that year, a farmer in Michigan went berserk and shot 10 people with a 12 gauge shotgun. 

     A professor of psychology told the Daily News that he was disturbed that such incidents might inspire each other, and indicate a "social pattern."

     In an odd coincidence that we can expect to see more of as these massacres multiple, Charles Cohen, 12, son of the slain druggist, survived by hiding in a closet. ("Hide, Charlie, hide!" his mother Rose had said, pushing him into the closet before she was killed). The youngster, whose grandmother was killed too, later said, "You get through it, but you never get over it." Through an odd coincidence, he lived to become the grandfather of Carley Novell, who after he died, in 2018 survived the shooting at Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida by also hiding in a closet, as her grandfather had. 

     Then as now, pundits struggled to find meaning, though gave up even more readily then than now.

     "This is a case of gun-madness," wrote syndicated columnist Robert Ruark, throwing up his hands, despairing at an explanation of why "meek, religion-ridden" Unruh went amok. "All you can do is count the corpses, bury the dead, shut up the wild man and thank God that you yourself were out of range at the time."

     Unruh's 2009 obituary noted, "He had a fascination with guns."

Guns reign over American parade

     The way I describe my mother lately is, “She has grit.” A month in the hospital, stoically accepting surgery that would leave me howling in a corner. Followed by two weeks in rehab. It was initially agony to shift her head on the pillow, but shift it she did. Now she’s walking. She’s 86.
     “We’ve got to get you out of this hellhole,” were my first words to her there. I saw my job as half goad, half cheerleader, providing encouragement and chocolate.
     My wife and I were on my way to visit her Monday about 11 a.m. when we stopped by Jewel for more Lindt bars. My sister-in-law called. A mass shooting at the Fourth of July parade in Highland Park.
     I thought of going straight there. Or back home. But the paper already had people on the scene, and my mother was expecting us. So we continued numbly to Arlington Heights. Their parade must have just let out. Arlington Heights Road crawled. A stray float decorated in red, white and blue. A dad pulling a red wagon containing a little girl wearing star deely bobbers. Hallmarks of American innocence, though how we could still be innocent at this point is beyond me. I’m as guilty as anybody.
     The parade in my leafy suburban paradise of Northbrook, near Highland Park, was scheduled for 2:30 p.m.
     “We have to go to the parade,” I told my wife. I thought of how, when a terrorist bomb goes off at an Israeli cafe, they mop away the blood, put back the scattered chairs and tables, and order coffee.
     My wife disagreed. People in the neighboring town had just been killed. We can’t have a parade. She was right, of course. The shooter was still at large anyway, mooting the question. Northbrook and at least half a dozen nearby towns canceled their parades.
     “No reason to tell my mom about the shooting,” I said, as we arrived.

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Fourth of July, 2022

Augustus Saint Gaudens, "Adams Memorial" (Smithsonian Museum of American History)

     Early this morning, I thought, "Well, I'll just take a photo of something at the Fourth of July parade, and comment on that for Tuesday." There's always something fun or noteworthy at the parade. A politician doing cartwheels. A brass band. Some unexpected business float. I seldom miss it. Who doesn't love a parade?

    Of course there was no 4th of July parade in Northbrook, or Evanston, or many other area communities, out of respect for those slaughtered at the parade in Highland Park. Six dead, three dozen wounded. Plus a security concern, since the shooter was still at large until late in the day. 

    Besides, nobody was in the celebratory spirit. Except perhaps for GOP gubernatorial candidate Darren Bailey, who really did react to the shooting by saying "let's move on and let's celebrate the independence of this nation." After all, 90 whole minutes had gone by, and while the killer was still on the loose, no reason to let a detail like that get in the way of a good party. 
     Though to be fair, Bailey did later apologize for being a heartless asshat, though not in those words.  Maybe he'll gather the fortitude to also apologize for carrying water for a traitor whose policies encourage this and every other gun crime. But don't hold your breath. Guys like that don't change: guns first, people second.
     I have nothing else to add, at this moment. I began writing a column, but that'll run in the paper Wednesday, and I don't want to cannibalize it for this. When I got the news, my wife and I were on my way to visit my mother in her rehab facility in Arlington Heights, across from the hospital where she spent more than a month. We were stopping by a Jewel to pick up chocolate. My sister-in-law phoned my wife. 
     "Oh my God..." my wife said. "Oh. My. God!" I looked at her. "What? What?"
     I walked into the store, phoning my editor at the paper. "Henneni," I said, for some unfathomable reason. "Here I am." It's what Moses says when God calls to him on Mount Sinai. But they didn't need me to race up to Highland Park. Our veteran political columnist, Lynn Sweet, was already on the scene, and had turned in photographs of several bodies, draped in sheets, lying in pools of blood. I looked at the photos on our Slack channel and any desire to be part of the story drained away. They were ghastly. The paper was discussing whether they could be printed. 
     "Run them," I said. They didn't, which is probably the right call. If it were my mother, I would not want to see those in the paper, and it isn't as if they would move the deadlock of the issue an inch. There is enough horror in the world without the media making it worse by waving the bloody shirt. We are supposed to afflict the comfortable, yes, but we're also supposed to comfort the afflicted. And there were many, many afflicted, heartsick people on the North Shore Monday as it was, and very little in the way of real comfort to offer.

Flashback 2004: Life in the village is great, even if it's not perfect

     A lot of Americans are wondering what we have to celebrate this 4th, between the delegation of women to second class citizen status and the continuing Republican war on democracy. Then again, wondering what we have to celebrate is a very American thing to think, as evidenced by this column from the relative Eden of 2004.

     Of course, life isn't worse in every way. Lorenz's garage, the 1851 business I was trying to save indeed was forced out ... and replaced by a Graeter's ice cream parlor. I have to admit, it was an improvement. Happy Fourth of July, stay safe around fireworks.

     Ready for a shock? This will be my fifth Fourth — the fifth 4th of July in Northbrook, the fifth time we all trooped to the Village Green for the pancake breakfast hosted by the VFW, lingering for a little bocce ball. It's a nice moment, settling in under the swaying trees, pouring the syrup, securing the napkins. The Village Green is the best part of town — a fountain, a little gazebo where they have bands, a playground and a ballfield. I sip my coffee, take a big mouthful of pancake, look approvingly around and let the waves of burgermeister satisfaction roll over me.
     And why not? A great country, this. A great suburb. Sure, the leafy suburban paradise has its problems. Across the street from the Village Green, the little strip of Shermer Road that Northbrook calls a downtown quivers on the brink of decay, with a vacant lot and a down-at-the-heels drug store and a thrift shop. Not exactly downtown Lake Forest.
     But I like that about Northbrook. Well-off, but not so well-off that a person like myself feels bad about his blown opportunities. One of the nicest buildings downtown is an auto repair shop — the Northbrook Garage, a quaint 1922 brick structure, the cleanest repair shop you will ever see in your life. It looks like something out of a train diorama. The Northbrook Garage has operated on that spot for 153 years, ever since it was founded as a wagon repair business by Frederick Lorenz in 1851.
     "There wasn't an awful lot going on here at the time," said his great-great grandson, Jay Lorenz, the garage's current owner.

     How about a nice BMW dealer?

     Lest we dwell too long on that quaint image, I should point out that the Village wants to seize Lorenz's property and force him out so they can put in a business more in keeping with their dreams of grandeur, such as the inevitable Williams-Sonoma found in every downtown on the North Shore.
     "I find it very disturbing that my building can stay but my 150-plus year old business must go," Lorenz said. "Something is very, very wrong in Northbrook."
     Not to single out Northbrook. People who run village boards are usually the type who think asphalting over cobblestones is progress. The town I grew up in, Berea, Ohio, demolished half its downtown to put up an outdoor mall of small, linked storefronts that seemed very retro chic in 1976. Ten years later, it was completely empty, and they ended up filling it with a senior citizen center. Nothing quite sparks up a downtown like an old-age home.
     That's why small towns shouldn't engage in social engineering. They screw it up, kicking out the 153-year-old repair shop and ending up stuck with an empty building.
     But I didn't want to carp today. Not with the fine July 4 weekend on tap. Did I say that the parade passes a block from our house? Let's save condemning those mini-Norman chateaus my fellow villagers insist on jamming between 1950s split-levels for another day.
     I'd rather tell you that next month's "Northbrook Days" holds a bachelor auction, and if that isn't something out of "Oklahoma," here is the small print from the sign-up form: "I agree to participate in the Northbrook Days Bachelor Auction by fulfilling my obligation to attend the agreed upon dinner date and represent the organization in an appropriate and gentlemanly manner."
'Take your hands off me!'
     Isn't that sweet? Or maybe my mind has been addled by too much time breathing the trackside air in Union Station. I suppose you could view the small print as evidence that Northbrook is concerned about being confronted by weeping, despoiled bachelorettes holding them legally culpable for their hellish evenings spent fending off the advances of some guy they bought at a charity auction.
     No, let's not think that way. People here can be truly nice. The teachers at my kids' school —they're incredible. It's like they're in a cult or something. I remember the teachers when I was growing up — a grim gang of sourpusses, their clawlike hands digging into my shoulder as they glared at me, mouths twisted into these sneers of gleeful, acid, contempt.
     "Your son . . ." Mrs. Southam, my fifth-grade teacher, told my mother, "will never amount to anything."
     I probably shouldn't go into detail about Northbrook's Greenbriar Elementary School, because Chicago parents, whose kids are bravely blowing the asbestos dust off their moldy 1950s science texts, will feel bad. And every aspect is so off the charts you'll think that I'm making it up. The classrooms have 20 kids, tops, and because no teacher can be expected to handle that mob on her own, they all have assistants. Every day the kids come home with their backpacks stuffed with memos and newsletters and updates. Teachers send home poems of welcome and reassurance to soften the beginning of the school year. They have the kids construct homemade gifts for all major holidays and prepare scrapbooks of each child's year in class. The books are bound. The school has more special days on its calendar than the Catholic Church — science fairs and carnivals and concerts and open houses.
     So life is good. And whatever the problems, from a zealous village board to the bog in Iraq, they shouldn't dampen the Fourth. Just because a place has issues doesn't mean you can't love it.