Decades later, she meets the rescuer she never knew she had

     Three ordinary people, connected by two moments almost 30 years apart, one terrifying, one sweet. Plus a yellowed 2015 news clipping. And a story with an unexpected moral.
     The first person is Tony Namrod, owner of a Subway restaurant. The second is Suzanne Stone, Amway representative. And the third, the connection bringing them together, is Tom Mahoney, American Legion Post 791 Commander, who missed the first, awful moment, that very cold early January morning in 1993.
     Stone had dropped off Amway associates in Elgin, and was driving home.
    “During the day, you work,” she explained last week. “So when you’re building an Amway business, it’s at night.”
     But she never made it home, not that night, or for many days to come. Her car skidded on black ice and slammed into a building at Devon and Nagle.
     It was 4 a.m.
     She doesn’t remember anything after that. The story will have to be picked up by Namrod, then 22, coming home after the late shift at IBC Bakers in Schiller Park.
     “I stopped for a light at Devon and Nagle,” he said. That’s when he noticed the car smashed against the building. He remembers thinking: “Something’s wrong. It looks like a fresh accident.”

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Flashback 1994: Catalog a Big Order At Oriental Institute

Not a closet at the OI, but "Untitled,"
by Jannis Kounellis, at the Hirshhorn.  

     I talked to the interim curator of OI—as the erstwhile Oriental Institute styles itself now that its original name is considered to contain a slur—on Monday, arranging a visit next month when I'm in the neighborhood for a book publishing luncheon.

     I tried to cast my mind back to when I last was there. Turns out it was before I was a columnist, though this brief article has a column-like feel to it.

     Karen Wilson's basement is in chaos. Open boxes everywhere. Pots and jars lying around, some of them shattered in fragments. People scurry here and there, and then, of course, there are all those mummified bodies and human bones.
     Wilson, needless to say, is not your average harried homeowner, but curator of the University of Chicago's Oriental Institute, that world-famous repository of ancient Middle Eastern relics, now in the midst of a yearlong house cleaning in advance of a $10.1 million overhaul of its Hyde Park museum headquarters.
     The task is enormous — about 80,000 cataloged objects are stored in the basement, with thousands more not yet entered into the institute's computerized system. All of them have to be packed up and moved so workers can begin construction of a new storage wing, including installation of state-of-the-art climate control to keep Chicago's mercurial weather from inflicting further harm on the priceless artifacts.
     "A lot of objects suffered more since they came to Chicago than during the thousands of years they were buried in the sand in the Middle East," said Wilson. "Inside any building in Chicago there can be dramatic changes in relative humidity — from 100 percent in the summer to 5 percent in the winter. The objects absorb moisture, then give it off."
     Moisture migration breaks down the artifacts, as evidenced by the white rime of salt drawn to the surface on unwrapped mummies, of which there are several. To slow the process, the mummies are kept in a refrigerated room, along with other organic materials. The plan is to keep the room cooled during reconstruction, but if that proves impossible, a creative solution will have to be found.
     "We've thought of using fur vaults," said Wilson.
     Registrar Ray Tindel is in charge of keeping track of the artifacts, which range in size from the tiniest shards to a column base that weighs five tons. He says relics being dropped is not a problem — staffers handle them with scrupulous care. But sometimes they fall apart on their own.
     "Suddenly, a pot goes kaflump," said Tindel. "That is one of the things that causes the greatest heartbreak."
     Despite the value of the treasures, theft is not a problem.
     "You have to have a trusted staff," Wilson said.
     One of those staff members is rewrapping pots. Third-year archeology student Robyn Casson, 20, takes object number 36.1.27, a red clay jar from Hierakonpolis in southern Egypt, matches it with a pair of computerized labels. One label goes on the little plastic bag the object goes in, the other on the outside of the bubble wrap that she pulls from a wide roll and swaddles the artifact in to protect it on its journey around the building.
     Despite the repetitious nature of the work, Oriental Institute staffers say it does not get tiresome. Assistant curator Emily Teeter displays a narrow bottomed flared beaker, burnished red with black glaze.
     "The collection is absolutely incredible," she says, gingerly holding the 6,000-year-old ceramic. "We handle this stuff every day, but still, several times a day, you come across an object and you have to say: `Look at this!' "
     —Originally published in the Sun-Times, September 27, 1994

Do you know who James Corden is?

Balthazar. 

     Maybe I’m just nearing my snug harbor and rationalizing a lifetime of obscurity. But despite being inclined to view fame favorably, to wistfully suspect that a little larger portion of attention would have been nice, when I see what kind of jerk those served a few portions of smoking hot success tend to become, I realize that I’m better off having nursed my little cup of tepid local awareness and been fairly satisfied.
     I’ve known men — no names, please! — who no sooner got that Pulitzer Prize, or National Magazine Award, or whatever, than they became world-class assholes, unfit to be around. Not that they have much interest in hanging with a nobody like myself, not after the spotlight touches them. And the ironic thing is, while notoriety hurries off, the prickishness it brings seems to stick around.
     I was reminded of this watching James Corden, comic actor and TV host, bathed in public purgatory last week over his don’t-you-know-who-I-am? arrogance at Balthazar, a French bistro in New York City.
     The public relations fiasco proceeded in orderly stages. Last Monday, restaurateur Keith McNally went on Instagram to dub Corden “the most abusive customer to my Balthazar servers since the restaurant opened 25 years ago.” He cited two incidents where Corden berated staff over supposed lapses. McNally banned “this tiny Cretin of a man” from his restaurant.
     Next, the star “apologized profusely” and was duly forgiven. Then over the weekend, the third act: Corden, in a tone-deaf interview with The New York Times, firmly reestablished that he is, was, and no doubt always will be, an entitled bully, so insulated by fame and wealth that he just doesn’t realize he’s running the risk of being forever known as That Brit Who’s Mean to Waiters.
     “I haven’t done anything wrong on any level,” Corden whined, clawing back his apology, before lecturing to the Times about what is and isn’t worthy of its attention. “It’s beneath you,” he said of what has been dubbed “the messiest feud of the year” by BuzzFeed. “It’s certainly beneath your publication.”

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The Medill School of ...

 

     Saturday was a rare gorgeous, summery day toward the end of October. We headed to Evanston to take our out-of-town guests to Blind Faith Cafe for lunch, then a walk up the lakefront, watching the boaters drag their catamarans onto land. Approaching the campus of Northwestern University up Sheridan Road from the south, we came to a solid and familiar red  brick building.
     "That's Fisk Hall, or was, when I went to school," I began, correcting myself, an essential quality in journalism. Looked closer at the building. Now named for a McCormick, in deference to the waves of Trib money crashing over the school. "The Medill School of Journalism," I continued, then realized that too had been changed. Now the "Medill School of Journalism, Media, Integrated Marketing Communications," a name instantly despised and ridiculed by alumni, and not just for the missing ampersand before the final buzz phrase that must have had currency at one point, "Integrated Marketing Communications." What even is that? A racially mixed group of marketing communicators? A well-coordinated PR campaign, so some other noble idea rendered in an awkward phrase, a bad idea come to life, maintained for the very Tribunish notion that bad ideas are to be neither admitted nor corrected.
     Not that the current name came to me — who could easily remember that mouthful? And the sign was no help. I looked, but a solid hedge neatly obscured the offending language from passersby. I laughed out loud to see it. You'd like to think it was intentional, but that would have shown far more dash and creativity than a stodgy old shop like NU would be capable of. Just another inadvertent error easier to ignore than remedy. 

Northshore Notes: Ending on a Koan

"Freedom of Speech" by Norman Rockwell.

     Myself, I have no trouble sleeping. It's staying awake that's the challenge. Still, listening to the rolling syllables of the good-night voice that our Northshore bureau chief Caren Jeskey links to today, I almost wished I had difficulty, just so I would have a reason to try drifting off listening to his rich brogue.  One of the joys of Caren's work is that she cracks open a door on a heretofore unconsidered realm of life, and I'm a little embarrassed to admit, in 40 years of column-writing, I don't think I've for one moment ever considered people's voices.

By Caren Jeskey

   “He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself…”
                                                              — James Joyce, Dubliners

     “There are only two cities in Ireland. Cork and Dublin. Corkonians dislike Dubliners, and vice versa. Cork is better, of course. It’s like Texas and Florida in the States.” 

     A benefit of internet life has been finding friends from across the pond (also the name of a music show I discovered on Sun Radio in Austin). This week it was hours with Irelanders and others with enchanting accents, one of whom made the declaration above. Give me the Scottish brogue of this kind person, who puts me to sleep each night, an accent that also still exists in North Carolina’s Outer Banks.

     Could be dangerous, falling in love with a voice— (I know that from experience). I can sit back and just listen to their anecdotes and have had the best laugh of the year in one of these gatherings. A self-conscious verbose member ended his musings with utter confusion, so declared that he'd end on a koan and muted himself.
    A friend in Reykjavik (who was excited that "Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga" is one of my favorite recent movies) has a voice in the íslensku máli. I'd listen to her read a phone book (a compliment I borrowed from an audience member after the compelling conversation between Neil and Dilla recently. No surprise that others find “listening to Icelandic is a form of time travel," and I'm looking forward to my friend speaking to me in her native tongue so I can sit back and feel the brain changes that come with soothing, novel sounds.

     This group and I have a good craic a few times a week, swapping our recovering Catholic stories and such. A retired gentleman flashed back to his laddie days in a small UK town. “There was food on the table when the nun came that was not there when she wasn’t coming. She’d only come every four years.” There was tension in the house before and during her visit, as his mother flew into a cleaning frenzy to make it presentable enough. He felt relieved that the nun only made it (as a missionary) quadrennially and no more. He recalls the towering figure in a crisp white habit casting a shadow over his sinful self. 

     During her last visit he hid between his bed and the wall to avoid her, since he had not been keeping up with his confessional obligations. She died three days later. His eyes teared up as he shared this. “She was trying to say goodbye to me.” Attachment to others— even those we fear— is a funny thing, often with subconscious roots.
     I am out of practice with real people. I saw my first client in two and half years in person, and now I'm scared to do it again (with record flu numbers predicted this season, compounded by the expected COVID winter surge coming up). That's why I was excited to get all dressed up for a benefit on Saturday for the Firehouse Art Center. Safe outings before it’s time to hibernate. When my brother offered to buy me two tickets my first reaction was panic. I have nothing to wear to a gala. Luckily, my Godmother (from my childhood Catholic days) Vilma and her kind daughter Linette became my fairies. They lent me the bedazzled evening dress Vilma wore to her 80th birthday celebration in her country of origin, before the pandemic stole our freedom. Back then, we all flew to Panama City, Panama, and celebrated with her for days. It was a privilege and honor to wear the dress I remember from a special time. I felt she was with me. She also lent me a white-hooded fur jacket. I hoped PETA would not spot me, and lavished in the warmth of this regal frock during the chilly Chicago gala night.
     As if to say "it's time," I had another occasion to mingle with a crowd at an exciting event this past Monday.Hair still blown out (professionally) from Saturday's party, (a style I cannot duplicate on my own), I adorned a pair of leggings and a sweater with Vilma's white jacket, happily getting a little more wear out of it before returning it. Who knew getting dressed up, after years in comfy clothes, could be such fun? I parked on Lincoln Park West and Fullerton, and made the windy walk to none other than RJ Grunts for Neil Steinberg's book party. (You can catch him in Evanston coming up in November). The scene was as much Park Avenue as you can imagine- with the down home vibe of Sweet Home Chicago.

     “When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street.”
               ― James Joyce, Dubliners

‘Jumping off a cliff to feel the breeze’

     I’m too out of touch to know if Facebook is truly defunct, or just feels that way. An enormous virtual senior facility where aging Boomers show off our lunches and post wildly unflattering pictures of themselves in hospital beds. Not life, but a pallid imitation, a faint echo of the real thing, that red hot dynamo humming somewhere else, far, far away.
     Yet I toss my column up on Facebook every morning, and check the “Memories” section, which sometimes reminds me of things I’d rather forget.
     ”So let’s review, shall we?” I posted on Oct. 16, 2016. “Donald Trump refuses to accept the basic mechanism of our democracy, the orderly transition of power after an election, citing imaginary voter fraud. ... Yet millions are voting for him. I just don’t get it.”
     A plea, obviously. Facebook must have had more pep six years ago: 172 comments followed, many eerily current.
     “Q: Which is more important to Donald Trump: the stability and legitimacy of our electoral process and the orderly operation of our government, or his own oversized, yet fragile, ego?” asked Dave Magdziarz. “A: It’s his very own damn “TRUMP” ® brand ego.”
     In case you forgot: anticipating defeat, Trump was casting doubt on the validity of voting.
     “This election is a sham and a travesty. We are not a democracy” Trump tweeted after Barack Obama defeated Mitt Romney in the 2012 election.. “We can’t let this happen. We should march on Washington and stop this travesty.”

     Now, with the 2022 midterms approaching, and the baldly hypocritical formula (Legit if I win, bogus if I lose) is back. As is his man-the-ramparts rhetoric.

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Flashback 2011: The world is coming to an end! (again)

   

Created by Dall-E artificial intelligence.

     A favorite story in my new book, "Every Goddamn Day," is about a 1950s Oak Park doomsday cult that every Chicagoan should know about, just because it's so unexpected and wonderful. Plus a reminder that our current era does not have a monopoly on crazy. I realized I never posted my original column about it, and it's not online, until now. Enjoy.

     The world is supposed to end, again, this time on May 21, 2011, according to a California sect led by 89-year-old Harold Camping, who uses "a mathematical system he created to interpret prophecies hidden in the Bible."
     My first thought was that the world is already ending, supposedly, on Dec. 21, 2012, according to the Mayan calendar, and it makes sense to wait until one doomsday passes to start ballyhooing another — two looming at the same time is like putting out the Christmas merchandise before Halloween is over.
     The second thought is that journalism is slipping — in truth it slipped long ago. I saw this latest doomsday in a Time magazine online "NewsFeed" titled "Judgment Day: Will May 21, 2011 Be The End of the World?"
     Mmmm . . . that’s a toughie. News reporter Megan Gibson did not put the story in context of the periodic false predictions of the world’s end going back centuries. She didn’t even mention the Mayans. No, she juxtaposed it with another story in the headlines, claiming, "This prediction is pretty eerie in light of the mysterious animal deaths in Arkansas."
     It is? The media always deadpans this kind of report, because we believe faith deserves respect, no matter what that faith is about, or maybe the reader is expected to get the joke.
     It is Time’s helpfully serving up the animal die-off as evidence of the apocalypse that bothers me — anybody who knows squat about birds or fish knows they occasionally die in huge numbers for murky reasons.
     I turned for comfort, again, to When Prophecy Fails, the classic psychological study of a doomsday cult led by an Oak Park housewife named Dorothy Martin, who in late 1954 predicted that the nation would be destroyed by floods while she and fellow true believers were whisked to paradise by flying saucers.
     Researchers secretly joined her cult, hoping to test their theory of cognitive dissonance: that a zealot, "presented with evidence unequivocal and undeniable" that his belief is wrong, nevertheless "frequently emerge, not only unshaken, but even more convinced of the truth of his beliefs than even before."
     Unlike what passes for journalism today, the book recounts the rich history of America’s doomsday fixation, and the ridicule it once received ("What! — not gone up yet?" people mockingly inquired of earthbound Millerites in the 1840s. "Aren’t you going up soon? — Wife didn’t go up and leave you behind to burn, did she?")
     Though frankly, viewing Mrs. Martin and her devotees moved me, not to scorn, but to pity. They are so credulous, so purely naive.
     Well, not all. My favorite person in the book is Mr. Martin who, as his wife is preparing to greet the flying saucers, is described as: "A man of infinite patience, gentleness, and tolerance amounting almost to self-abasement, he never believed that his wife could communicate with other worlds, yet he never actively opposed her activities or sought to dissuade her . . . He simply went about his ordinary duties in the distributing company where he was a traffic manager, and did not allow the unusual events in his home to disturb in the slightest his daily routine."
    An inspiration for all husbands.
     The appointed hour — midnight — approached. A dozen true believers waited in Mrs. Martin’s living room on South Cuyler. The lapdog media watched, reporters phoning in, TV trucks outside. The male believers ripped the zippers out of their trousers, the women removed their underwire brassieres, because metal, Mrs. Martin insisted, would burn up on the spaceship. Her husband went to bed hours earlier and was sleeping peacefully.
     "The last ten minutes were tense ones for the group in the living room. They had nothing to do but sit and wait, their coats in their laps."
     Midnight. 1 a.m. 2 a.m. 3 a.m. The saucers, need I say, did not come.
     A few were disillusioned. "The others, however, were neither willing to accept the disillusionment nor tranquil about the failure of the escort to appear at midnight."
     They only needed proper perspective.
     At 4:45 a.m. Mrs. Martin "once more summoned everyone to the living room, announcing that she had just received a message which she read aloud." The end of the world had been avoided, it seems, by the strength of their faith. "Not since the beginning of time upon this Earth has there been such a force of Good and light as now floods this room," she read.
     "This message was received with enthusiasm by the group," the researchers noted. "It was an adequate, even an elegant, explanation. . . . The cataclysm had been called off. The little group, sitting all night long, had spread so much light that God had saved the world from destruction."
     This news was "released immediately to the newspapers."
     In the next day’s Tribune: "WORLD SPARED FOR TIME, SAY DOOM PROPHETS." There’s an evergreen headline that will come in handy come this spring.

              —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Jan. 6, 2011