Gift from My Father

My dad died in 2004, a fact I still have trouble coming to terms with sometimes. I miss him so much, particularly around the holidays. We occasionally wonder what life would have been like if he had lived; we might not even be in the Box House, who knows. My parents' plan was to retire somewhere warmer. But things happen, and now it's sometimes hard to remember a time when the three of us--me, Ted, my mom--weren't living in this drafty old two-flat.

Thinking of Dad and the holidays tonight leads me to thinking of his best friend, Jack, and some pictures I had wanted to post a few months ago after a visit to see him and his wife, Alba. We had spent nearly every Christmas Eve and Three Kings Day with Jack's family. I don't have a childhood holiday memory that doesn't include them. They're more like kinfolk than friends, and I had grown up thinking of their kids as my cousins. We haven't seen much of each other in recent years, unfortunately, but we've been working to remedy that.

Anyway, I was at Jack and Alba's house not long ago, right around the time they were cleaning out their century-old farmhouse of the stuff they had accumulated over the thirty years they had lived there, as well as items from previous owners that had been left in the basement.

And among the many treasures down there--including a set of Amelia Earhart bookends and a 1920s stove--was a homemade, Pepto-Bismo pink dollhouse. Jack asked me if I wanted to take it home with me. My heart almost stopped at the sight of it. It's a dollhouse that my dad had made when Alison, Jack's daughter, and I were kids--I think I was seven or so, she was four.

I hadn't even remembered that this dollhouse ever existed.

But when I saw it, it all came rushing back. I remember playing with that dollhouse for hours; I remember the texture of the carpet on the floors, the patterns on the wallpaper, and the furniture made by one of my great-great uncles. And I actually remembered my dad building the house.

Dad wasn't always the handiest of craftsman, I think it's okay to admit that, and I don't have anything that he built with his own two hands because there simply wasn't anything left over the years. So when I saw this dollhouse, I just teared up. My "Uncle" Jack had given me a gift more precious than he could have imagined -- a gift from my father, and a forgotten memory of him revealed.

More than We Can Chew, and an Homage to Dad

Oh dear, oh dear, what made us think that we could paint, install new lights, and rewire the upstairs unit by June 1st--when we have a family reunion in Iowa to go to between now and then? Arrrrggghhhh...

In the meantime, we've achieved almost nothing on our own unit in recent months. Our kitchen still has three different kinds of beat up cabinets, our dining room and living room sport "test" patches of paint colors, and you still need to use the bucket in the bathroom to dump extra water down the toilet to encourage it to flush everything away. (And I apologize now to Ted's parents, who will be visiting us in a few weeks; the toilet is not on the short list of things to do.)

But, we did manage to find a good spot for this:

My Uncle Russ, my father's older brother, is an artist. Last Christmas I commissioned him to paint a portrait of Dad, who died five years ago this summer. (Hard to believe it's already been that long.) I was a little nervous asking him, unsure how hard the task would be emotionally, not to mention technically. But he was very gracious and agreed.

It was also hard to pick a photo to base the painting on, because my dad HATED his picture being taken. Photos of him smiling are as scarce as hen's teeth; I have photo albums filled with pics of him ducking behind other people, turning away at the last second, hiding behind his finger--his middle finger. This photo was one of our favorites; he was happy, laughing, and enjoying some good playtime with Jakob, his first grandchild. It's how we like to remember him.

Thanks, Uncle Russ! You captured Dad's smile beautifully!

Ghost Ads as Revealed by Destruction of the Nortown Theatre

The Nortown Theatre at 6320 N. Western Ave in Chicago was my dad's favorite movie theatre. Designed by J.E.O. Pridmore, it was an atmospheric theater, which was known for it amazing sea horse, mermaid, and zodiac motifs. My dad used to tell me stories about how his mother would take him and his siblings there for a matinee. They would stop in one mom and pop store to buy candy, and in another to get popcorn, then they would spend all afternoon watching newsreels, cartoons, and movies.

The theatre was torn down in 2007. Had my father lived to see the day, it would have broken his heart. So much of his early memories were wrapped up in this plaster-and-terracotta palace. When Urban Remains of Chicago announced that they were selling some of the original decor, I dragged Ted over to their showroom, and bought a plaster panel like the one below, that was part of a repeating frieze on the second level. I found myself overwhelmed with nostalgia for a place I had never been, but one that had been so important to Dad, and I had to have it.

At the moment, it's packed away. We're not quite sure where, or how, to hang it.

For over a year now, every time we've driven past the spot where the theatre stood for generations, I've meant to take a picture. Not of the empty lot, that's too depressing. When the theatre was torn down, several "ghost" ads were revealed on the building next door. These advertised businesses that existed prior to 1931, the year the Nortown opened. Today (thanks for reminding me, Ted!) I finally managed to bring the camera along:


This wall is like a little time capsule of 1930s Chicago. I checked to see if The Bowmanville National Bank still existed, and I did find an old reference that it was nominated for the National Register of Historic Places. However, when I pulled up the site on Google Maps, I found another bank, a bland and boring-looking one, in its place.


View Larger Map

So much great Chicago architecture is lost every year to be replaced with generic, uninspired buildings. Do you want to know what's going up in place of the Nortown Theatre? You guessed it. Condos. Phooey.

Nortown Terrace. When will it be built? Who knows. The site has been vacant for well over a year now.

Waste Not, Want Not: A Tale in Mint Green

When I was in junior high, my dad said he would paint my room whatever color I wanted. I chose chocolate brown and mint green, thinking it would look like an Andes Chocolate Mint, one of my favorite candies at the time.

My dad, bless his heart, came back with a can of flat, dirt brown and another of Granny Smith Apple green. I was ungrateful in the way that only a 13-year-old girl can manage. I grumbled, I complained, I wrung my hands and sobbed. I tried to get my mom on my side, but she was smart enough to stay out of it. Despite all my dramatics, there was no changing things. Dad just growled at me and said, "The paint's fine, we're using it."

I was stuck with these colors throughout most of junior high and high school, until I convinced my brother to change rooms with me my junior year. His was painted in shades of navy and baby blue, much more pleasing colors overall. Even though he was less-than-thrilled with the brown and green color scheme, he was willing to swap because the window to my room opened a few feet from the garage roof, and after a bit of practice he was able to swing out onto the roof and escape down the mulberry tree to go off to whatever mischief it is that teenage boys in suburban Chicago go off to.

As an adult now, I realize I was battling my dad on a few fronts. The first was probably simple pride, or stubbornness. He didn't want to go back to the Ace Hardware and admit he got the wrong colors. I understand that. I hate admitting mistakes, took. The other front was financial. Paint is expensive. He would have had to shell out money for more paint, doubling the cost of the project. Why do that when the paint he bought was perfectly good? So what if it wasn't exactly what I had in mind?

Fast forward 27 years, and I'm standing in the basement of The Box House, staring at one of the walls in the storage room:

About 25% of the walls down here are made of tongue and groove boards. They're pretty cool, although they are all covered with paint, a blah, dingy, dirty whitish yellow. Two of the walls in Ted's office are comprised of these boards, the other two are brick and concrete. We are toying with the idea of stripping his walls to show of the wood grain. I think that it would look very cool. (The walls in my office are/were plasterboard.)

Stripping the walls of the storage rooms would be a waste of time and effort. But they are so dingy, and it would help me feel like I can keep our stored items cleaner if I could paint the walls.
If I had my choice, it would be a pleasing neutral color, something that reflects what little light filters into the back of the basement. But with all the other expenses going on with the house right now, it doesn't seem prudent to buy several gallons of paint to paint a room no one else will ever see--in fact, once we cram all of our stuff back in, we won't see the walls, either.

Now, the previous owners left behind nearly thirty gallons, quarts, and jars of paint. We've been grumbling about this, because the paints are, for the most part, too old to bother with or are some gawd-awful hideous shade, like mustard brown. We need to get them to the recycle center to dispose of properly.

But poking around the cans of paint this week, I did find nearly a full can of mint green paint! It's pretty much the exact shade of my childhood fantasy room. There isn't a single mint green painted surface in this house, so I'm not sure what it's doing here. I tested it out on a few surfaces. These pictures were taken at night, so the lighting isn't at its best. However, if you close your eyes and picture the cool minty goodness of that delicious layer in an Andes Chocolate Mint, you'll have it.

For the bottom picture, I dashed on a few streaks of white paint, which I also found in the basement, to give it some extra texture.

While I am sort of grooving on it, Ted is not overly impressed with the color. And I find myself saying things like, "We've got the paint, it's perfectly good paint, and we should use it rather than throw it away and buy something new." Dad, if he were here with us now, would probably laugh at me, because I now sound just like him.

Ah well, at least I finally get a mint green room. I'm thinking of painting the door and window frames a delicious chocolate brown.

Memories of My Dad and a Visit from an Old Friend

Like many young men of the sixties, my dad was drafted into the army--almost immediately after he married my mom. He lucked out, though. They didn't send him to Vietnam. The rest of his recruitment class were sent to the war zone, but he was held behind because The Army wanted him to go to officer's training school. They couldn't convince him to make a career of it, however, and so he was shipped out with the next wave of recruits, and they went to Germany. My mom was able to join him--what a great way to spend a first year of marriage! They lived in Heidelberg, and were able to travel throughout Western Europe.

I was conceived in Germany. My parents used to kid me that they had tattooed my butt with "Made in Germany." I can't tell you how many times I used to twist and turn in front of the mirror when I was a kid, trying to get a glimpse of that tattoo. Every once in a while I think about actually getting that tattoo made.

When I was 17 or so, my parents took my brother and me to Germany, and we saw their former apartment, met their landlady, and even went to a couple of their old haunts. My parents regaled me with stories of one friend of theirs from that time, Joey Parent. He and my dad were as thick as thieves back in the day. I just knew that he would have some good stories to tell me about my father; but I hadn't seen Joey since I was maybe two or three. All I remembered was his glasses and his dark, somewhat curly hair, which I loved to pat. Over the years, he and my dad would occasionally get together, but time and distance took a toll on their friendship, as it often does, and they didn't get together as often as they used to.

After Dad died, Mom had an unexpected call from Joey, who had heard of Dad's passing from the obituaries, I think, and they've been in contact ever since. Earlier this Spring, Joey and his wife, Gwen, came out for a visit. Gwen is terrific, she had arranged the whole thing as a surprise for Joey. He knew they were going somewhere, but he wasn't sure where, and it wasn't until he pulled up in front of The Box House that he knew he was there to see an old friend.

Mom has been after me for months to get these photographs off of my memory card. I actually downloaded them to my hard drive ages ago, but have been too lazy to burn a disc for her. So here they are, Mom! Click to enlarge them and then save them to your computer! :-)

It was good to see Joey again for the first time (for me) in 37 years or so. He shared stories of my father from when they first met, some of which I had never heard before. Those stories were as precious to me as gold or rare gems, allowing me a more complete picture and a different perspective on the man who raised me. It's funny how you can know someone your entire life, and still learn new things about him.

Yesterday marked the four-year anniversary of my dad's death. For weeks, I knew it was coming, and I dreaded it in many ways. Each year it's been a brutal day to get through without completely falling apart. Ted has come to expect my regular meltdowns at Halloween--my dad's birthday--Christmas, which was always a big family gathering; New Year's, when I would make my drunken phone call home, no matter where in the world I was; and July 16th, the day of my father's passing.

But this year, I forgot.

Even though I was busy tracking down just what I did with the photos of Joey's visit, I forgot.

I don't know how it happened. But I went through the entire day without thinking that it was the day my dad died. Not once. And I'm not sure how I feel about it. I know that life must go on, and all that, but I feel guilty that I didn't spend this day in my usual funk. I worried about my cousins coming in tomorrow to help demolish our basement, and the bills that needed to get paid this week, and that we were running low on milk. I thought of my dad briefly when I rearranged some things in my office, and came across this picture and "booped" his nose with my finger. But I had completely forgotten that Wednesday marked the fourth anniversary of his passing.

It's crazy, I know, but sometimes I wish I could feel the same intense, emotional pain I felt at the beginning. I loved my dad so much, I miss him all the time. It seems like a dishonor to let the pain soften, to move on with my own life.

I don't know. Am I crazy?

I just really miss my dad, and wish he were still here.

Father's Day 2008

Happy Father's Day, Daddy.

I love you.

And Happy Father's Day, Papa.

We miss you both so much.

And a Very Happy Father's Day to my Future Father-in-Law, Bob. We hope to see you and Rachel soon!

Fairy Door -- A Door for, Um, The Fairies

Here's our front door:

But wait, what's that in the lower-left corner?

Mom found this Fairy Door, made by Enchanted Fairy Doors, on eBay. Fairy Doors seem to be all the rage, now. You can place them on the interior or exterior of your house to give your house fairies, sprites, and guardian creatures their own entryway. The door will only open for them, of course.

Mom looked at quite a few before settling on this one. Most were too whimsical and cottage like, suitable for someone from Lord of the Rings, but not a hip urban-dwelling fairy. This style better matched the brick facade of The Box House.

I've loved fairies, fairy tales, and myths since I was a kid. One of my earliest--and favorite--memories of my father is from when I was six years old and in the hospital for strabismus surgery to attempt to correct a lazy eye (the first of three such surgeries over the years). It was my first real time away from home and family, and I was terrified. But my dad spent the whole night with me, sleeping in one of those crappy little hospital chairs. When I was awake, he read Peter Pan to me. I still have the book. Although he didn't get into mythology as much as I did, over the years he would buy me folklore collections or fairy tale books he'd find. One of the last ones he gave me was a collection of Disney fairy tales. He'd probably think we were crazy for epoxy-ing a fairy door to the front of the house, but he'd no doubt humor us.

"When the first baby laughed for the first time, the laugh broke into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies." —James M. Barrie, creator of Peter Pan

Goodbye, My Childhood Home

At the front door of the house, beneath the soft glow of the porch light, my first boyfriend John gave me my first kiss. My grandfather had his wedding reception here, and my cousin Kristen her bridal shower. The house has hosted its share of slumber parties, birthday parties, and holiday parties. So many happy memories are sheltered here, so many sad memories, too. It was nearly four years ago that my dad passed away here, suddenly, and without warning.


But it's time to say good-bye, now. In a few days, we'll pick up the U-Haul and load it up with the bulk of my mom's remaining furniture and take it to The Box House. After months of gypsy-style living and waiting for repairs to be completed at the new place, after weeks of lugging our computers back and forth so we could work on the new place and still get work-work done, after endless trekking back and forth across the snow-laden suburbs, we're finally doing it. We're settling into our new home.

I've enjoyed a rare privilege that not many adult children have. Last October, when Ted and I rented out our condo, we put the bulk of our possessions in storage and moved to my mom's house to wait until close, and stayed longer as we decided to get some crucial work done on The Box House before moving in. For the last four months, I've lived at my childhood home.

As I write this, I'm sitting at my desk, looking out my window on a street scene that hasn't changed much in the thirty-one years my mom has owned the house. Since being here again, I've found myself falling into many of the same routines as before: shopping at Stratford Square Mall, driving up to Portillos for a hot dog, walking the dog to the park--it's a different dog, sure, but the route is the same. Many of the neighbors who were here three decades ago are still here, and I'll wave and exchange hellos as before. "Yes, we're getting ready to pull out. Any day now, yes."

Our beloved Harley, who died last year at the ripe old age of 12.
He's posing most reluctantly for Mom's annual humiliate-the-dog picture.

Some things about my hometown I said good-bye to long ago. Wags is gone; the 24-hour diner with its bottomless cup of coffee was our after-work hangout in high school. The movie theatre I worked concession at has been gutted, expanded, and now serves Starbucks Coffee. It looks nothing like it did back in the day. And while I see an occasional almost-familiar face, softened somewhat by the years, most of the people I grew up with and hung out with are scattered across the globe.

Over the years, I've left and returned and left again, but part of me is feeling homesick at the thought of leaving for good. Whenever I left before, I always had the stability and reassurance that my parents would always be here, that their home would perfectly preserve every memory I had of growing up. And if I'm feeling troubled at the thought of other people living here instead of our family, how must my mom feel?

She has lived in this house exactly half of her life. Of course, she didn't plan on staying here forever. When my dad retired, the two of them were going to sell the house and move somewhere warmer. Maybe Florida, where my brother lived. Maybe somewhere else. Wherever it was, it was going to be bright and sunny.

But life can throw you a curve ball and change your plans forever. I know my mom never pictured getting a two-flat with her daughter and staying in the cold Chicago suburbs. She was supposed to enjoy her golden years with my dad, not argue with me about what color to paint the stairwell. She was supposed to live in some low-maintenance condo, clean and new, not in an 80+ year old brick house that will need work over the next year or two to make it into her dream home.

What I don't think my mom realizes, though, is just how much Ted and I enjoy having her around. We've actually liked hanging out with her these last months. My mom is one of the sweetest, kindest, funniest women around, with a heart as big as all that. I like having her in my day-to-day life again, and I love how she and Ted have formed a real bond.

Ted and Mom

When plans change so abruptly, it's hard to let go, make a leap of faith and follow them. My mom and I each feel, in some way, that we're leaving my dad behind in this house. I loved him so much, and I still miss him terribly. I worry that memories might fade if not bolstered by and surrounded by the physical things, the places, and the people that helped create those memories.

But I'm slowly coming to realize that a home is not the physical building itself, it's the people we love. I will remember my father whenever I see my brother use one of his gestures or my niece one of his phrases. Or when I see my aunt and uncle smile--they look so much like my dad it aches, sometimes--I can hear my dad's laugh again. Those are the kinds of things that will go with us to the new place, and we'll build a new home.

Dad and Me, 1970. It's one of my favorite pictures of the two of us.

We'll encounter difficulties long term, I know that. Perhaps by having our own units in The Box House my mom and I will still be able to maintain a good level of independence--and sanity. We have our own interests, our own hobbies, our own lives. When we don't feel like visiting, we could in theory go days without having to see each other. But it will be good to know that whenever one of us needs the other, it's only a short flight of stairs to the other apartment.

While we'll continue to come back to the house I grew up in each week until it actually sells, after this weekend it will no longer really be our home. Our future is in a new home, now, and I think it's looking pretty darn sunny.