Sunscreen, Dodging the Past, and Rejoicing in the Here and Now

Few events remind you of how good life is right now than an unexpected memory of a considerably less pleasant time.

Eons ago, when I lived in Chicago, it was a great city in which to live.

It was the subject of two songs in the Great American Songbook: “My Kind of Town” sung by Frank Sinatra¹, and, “Chicago (That Toddlin’ Town)” sung by Sammy Davis, Jr.

There were plenty of open green spaces, especially along the lakefront, that could be enjoyed by anyone (because they weren’t overrun with criminals and the homeless), fabulous restaurants and bars, more museums than you might ever have imagined, and neighbourhoods with real character.

Outstanding pizza joints and hot dog stands that introduced the uninitiated to what a real Chicago-style ‘dog was – a 100% Vienna beef frank (my preference was a Polish) topped with celery salt, mustard, raw white onion (chopped), tomato wedges, sport peppers, and giardiniera on a poppy-seed Mary Ann bun from S. Rosen’s – pickle spear, optional.

No ketchup – under any circumstances. It wasn’t even available on any of the condiment stands at Wrigley, Comiskey, the Stadium, or Soldier Field, and anyone observed putting bootleg ketchup on their hot dog risked serious bodily harm.

There were only two places in the city proper (other than the sports venues) to get an authentic Chicago-style hot dog: Demon Dogs, an institution located under the Red Line el stop at Fullerton Avenue right in the middle of the campus of DePaul University, home of the DePaul Blue Demons, hence the name Demon Dogs, and the Wiener’s Circle on North Clark Street. If you lived in or near the northwest side, you could make the trip to Super Dawg, an institution in its own right.

Alas, Demon Dogs was forced out of business by city hall under the blessing of Richard M. (Richie “Shortshanks”) Daley, the more dim of the two sons (the other being Bill, the banker), of the original Democrat machine boss mayor, Richard J. Daley.

This was the Chicago I came to know and love when my girlfriend and I arrived in the summer of ’90. There were two newspapers then, the Tribune (The Paper); and the Sun-Times, often referred to as the SomeTimes – it was a tabloid, and not to be taken seriously. The quintessential local writer Mike Royko had left it years earlier for The Paper, so how could it possibly be worth reading? The Paper was still of a discernible conservative bent, but its leftward shift had begun, albeit almost imperceptibly. The Paper had the best writers, both columnists and beat reporters.

One of those writers was Mary Schmich. She is another I would regard as an honest liberal – not only politically, but also philosophically. She personified (and to the best of my knowledge, still does) what I would consider to be the classic liberal ethic. The same as that about which Thoreau wrote.

Many were the times when I just flat out disagreed with her view on any given topic, but it was always an enjoyable read. Her columns often challenged my own opinions and convictions, and occasionally I had to modify my view.

Her best column, 'Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young' was published in the Spring of 1997 and was largely a respectful co-opting of Baz Luhrmann’s spoken-word performance, “Sunscreen.”

In her column, she framed it as the commencement speech she would have given to a class graduating from college if she’d ever had the opportunity.

My favourite passage is²:

Don't worry about the future.
Or worry but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum.
The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

It’s my favourite because it has proven to be true more times than I can even begin to count, though rarely is it real trouble, usually it’s just an acutely unnecessary annoyance – no one’s life (read as mine) is at stake. In any event, it most recently happened approximately two and one-half weeks ago, except it was a Wednesday (like that’s the crucial detail).

Five years ago, when my marriage came to an end (okay – I’m the one who ended it), one of the boxes I had sent ahead to Texas contained a lot of the riding apparel accessories necessary for excursions on my motorcycle. Mostly, bandanas to wear on my head to absorb perspiration due to my helmet not being ventilated, bandanas to wear around my neck as I don’t care for the feel of the hard, stiff leather of my riding jacket against my skin; gloves with full fingers and gloves with fingers cut off; eye protection to wear over my glasses.

This box has moved with me from my home in Hyde Park, to my niece’s home in Texas, to my dumpy one-bedroom apartment in Fort Worth, to the home I now share with my wife in north Texas, and I never really had occasion to open it and confirm the contents, until recently.

Nonetheless, I did finally, and was surprised, intrigued, and a little sad at what I found. Remember, I had no occasion to inspect its contents since I first packed up everything before moving out on January 1, 2018.

Inside were all that I had packed away, and some articles I had not.

Those that I had not put in that box were the original diamond ring I had placed on her finger to make the engagement official, the significantly larger diamond ring that replaced the first, and the over-sized analog wristwatch with a special custom-made band that had been a special anniversary gift. I’ll spare you the heart-breaking story behind each one.

It was not the first time I had encountered something like this, however.

One day when I was living in Fort Worth, long before I met my wife with whom I am sharing a life, a package from my now ex-wife arrived. In it were a number of items I had unintentionally left behind and that she had found, presumably, while cleaning out the house – one item was a box of pins of the flags of the socialist republics that constituted the USSR in 1984.

I had made a special trip from the Hotel Europa in Moscow to Дом Книги (House of Books) for something else entirely and had run across it while browsing.

It also contained every letter I had ever written her, every birthday and anniversary card, and every gift I had ever given. There was a mix of chagrin, and disbelief. I wondered briefly why she would bother to send all of it back, then realized even if it were possible to know, it would be of no benefit.

It did, however, give me the impetus to complete a final letter to her – one in which I expressed all that needed to be said, all that she had a right to know. My feeling was that it should be done at that very instant, while the opportunity presented itself. It was a letter in which I took full responsibility for my share of why the relationship and marriage came to an end. It was a letter of apology for all that I had done, and/or should have done. It was not a letter asking for forgiveness.

In an episode of A Prairie Home Companion, in the segment, News from Lake Wobegon, Garrison Keillor reads a fictitious letter from a fellow former resident of the tiny town that time forgot and the decades cannot improve, who observes that, “…men and women can part for many reasons, including the lack of love…” and it is true. You can find that episode here:

An Embarrassment of Riches in Priceless Works of Art, and A Prairie Home Companion (when it was good)

I’ll not go into the reasons why my now ex-wife and I split, but I will simply point out that after even one year of marriage, the man or woman with whom you are sharing your life now is not the same man or woman you married on that wonderful day. That isn’t good or bad, it simply is – if there is a value judgement to be made, it’s all yours.

As of this writing, the two diamond rings and the wristwatch remain in the box as I have no idea what to do with them, except to remember those heady days full of hope and promise, and what might have been. Then, I return to the present and what is, where I share a home and a life with a woman who I love more every day, and who loves me.

No, the boundaries have fallen in pleasant places for me,³ I sometimes find it difficult to accept that I have been so blessed. Just the other day, we were talking about the possibility that we each could live another twenty years. On the one hand, I find that to be a most exciting prospect, and on the other, rather frightening as I don’t wish to preside over a long, slow decline of my health.

Twenty years, or one – it doesn’t matter to me as I simply wish to enjoy the here and now – as the oldest surfer on the beach puts it:

There's nothing that I want to do
No place I'm trying to reach
Only time is now more precious to me
The oldest surfer on the beach

And

What really matters is the here and now
And that's about all I know

Really, that’s all we have.

Thank you, dear reader, for your indulgence.

Until next time…

1. The best version is on the “Sinatra: Live at the Sands” album, recorded at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas in 1966.

2. “Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.”

3. Psalm 16:6