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Express Paving

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  My job has me doing all sorts of things.  Today at work, I did a walkaround with a paving contractor.  I led him around various areas of the parking lots and shipping areas of my worksite so that he could get us a quote for filling in potholes, seal-coating, and all that.  Listening to him talk about what needed to be done took me back to the days of my early childhood, when I was supposed to be imprinting upon my dad.  In the 80s my dad owned a company called Express Paving.  He had an office in a building on Elston Avenue, a stone’s throw from our house.  His work truck was a red ‘78 Ford Ranger, with the company logo emblazoned on the doors.  During the spring, summer, and fall, the truck served as the company workhouse, and during the winters, a snowplow was affixed to it.  If the truck wasn’t helping to make parking lots, it was plowing the snow from them.   For reference, the same view today (as best as I could using Google street view).  Not much seems to have changed in thirt
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Schiller Woods

  Memories of Schiller Woods occupy a dark dusty corner of my mind and probably always will.  Schiller Woods (hereafter simply “Schiller”) was a place I visited often during a brief period of my high school years, each time with my friend Dan (I am absolutely leaving his last name out of this).  Dan and I frequented Schiller for no reason other than boredom.  We explored the woods and were drawn by the eerie myths surrounding the preserve.  The goal was to have fun but our experiences were seldom positive; if I were a superstitious man I’d convince myself that the cool, dark woods were haunted by evil spirits who wanted nothing more than to see us leave and never return. Initially, I became familiar with Schiller through Dan’s involvement in the model aircraft community - a harmless affair.  Dan was an ingenious kid who could build pretty much anything, including his model planes.  And Schiller boasts a large flat field for such activities.  One time, I accompanied Dan on one of his mo
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Chromie hunting

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Against all odds, I was a relatively well-behaved kid.  I had a pretty good conscience.  Peer pressure only occasionally corrupted me; for the most part I was comfortable making my own decisions.  Sometimes, though, certain activities tantalized me.  And sometimes it felt good to be bad. In 1995, a kid new to the neighborhood (or at least new to me) began making the rounds on my block.  I think he lived north of Foster.  And for the life of me I cannot recall his name.  For this story’s sake I’ll refer to this kid as David.  David began coming around during the weird transitional period between Daniel’s departure and my family’s move.  This period was fraught with loneliness and uncertainty; some of the other kids in the neighborhood moved away, and others just didn’t come out as much.  After all, we were now young teenagers; in some cases we were seduced by vanity, other times we were just too cool to hang out on the block doing the things we previously did.  As for me, I was maturing
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Entrepreneurship - reward and risk

Growing up, I wasn't the only one of my friends who didn't receive an allowance.  In fact, very few of us did.  To me, the idea came from movies or television but we were not those kinds of people.  To just be handed money from my parents for doing nothing was not even a concept I could wrap my head around. So in order to buy all of the required necessities such as pudding pies, root beer, and firecrackers I needed, I had to work.  I shamelessly put myself out there for pocket change, or, sometimes more.  I enjoyed brainstorming ideas and creating marketing strategies.  And at the end of the day, seeing my spoils spread out across the carpeted floor of my living room, it felt great to know that I knew how to get money however way I was able. Maybe the earliest venture I ever undertook was one that involved selling painted rocks door to door.  That's right - rocks, the kinds one might find along the perimeter of an above-ground pool or maybe along the perimeter of a house. 
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Eli

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 On the next block over lived Eli and her family.  Eli was a little younger than I, with long, straight, dark hair and glasses. She was somewhat of a tomboy and she could hang with the boys and deal with our stupidity. She had one older sister and one older brother, who were friends with my older sister.   We and Eli got along really well - for the most part.  Sometimes "hood drama" flared up and we'd pop off at each other.  It was never really serious, just some pre-teens flexing over disagreements or misunderstandings.  When Eli had beef with you, you were going to hear it loud and clear, sometimes right in your face.  She was always going to have the last word.  Clockwise from upper left: Katie, Eli, me, Jerermy, Lisa's sister (can't remember her name), and my sister Cheryl During one of our periods of conflict, I and a few friends saw Eli in the alley we shared.  She was accompanied by some visiting cousins. Some words were exchanged, during which I singled ou
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Simeon & Quinton (originally posted 11/21/19)

Two kids that I have fond memories of from the “Daniel days” are Simeon and Quinton. Simeon and Quinton were two boys about our age that for one reason or another were staying with Daniel’s family for some time. It wasn’t unusual for Daniel’s family to host people from their church for several days or more, but it’s a mystery how two black kids from the projects ended up at the house and why they were there for months. I seem to recall DCFS being involved, so that would explain their absence from their own family but not why they were cooped with with a white southern Penticostal family.  Quinton was the older sibling. He was more laid back than his younger brother. He loved red Kool-Aid and he would ask for it at my house every time he came over. I’d whip up a big pitcher of it – a packet of flavor powder, a cup of sugar, and cold water. And then he cracked us up by pretending to become euphoric over drinking it. I mean, after half a pitcher, most anyone would start getting a sugar bu
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War Night (originally posted 8/11/19)

The other day while driving to work, a random memory popped into my head. It was the memory of John and Greg, two twenty-something year old guys that, for some time in the early 90s, rented a room in my grandparent’s home. I don’t know how or why my thoughts turned to them, but, I might as well write about it here.  My grandparents owned a home in Niles, and had quite a lot of extra room once all the kids were out of there. They were very involved in their church, and pretty much everyone they knew seemed to be affiliated with that church. Actually, my grandma was the sociable one, and my grandpa sort of was the selfless, utilitarian type. He drove her to church, helped set up chairs and everything prior to service, and then folded up the chairs when services were over. I’m not even really confident that he’d ever had been a churchgoer at all if it weren’t for my grandma.  Anyway, through the church, they were connected with two young men named John and Greg. I do not know their story
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