“1623 WEST VAN BUREN”

February 4, 2023
ANECDOTES, EMOTIONS, GROWING UP, PEOPLE
6 Comments

BY: JAMES F. O’NEIL

“You can’t go home again.”—Thomas Wolfe

I could see Uncle Leonard’s tavern from our front window.  If I ran to that apartment window at 1623 West Buren in Chicago, I could look east and look west.  I could see the spire of our church, Saint Jarlath’s, where I attended 1st and 2nd grades, and made my First Confession and First Holy Communion. 

First Holy Communion

Our apartment home, with the “L” in the back alleyway, where my sister and I played among dirt and old cars and just junk, our apartment is long gone out of our lives since the condemnation and razing of the neighborhood to make way for the future Congress Street Expressway.

Evicted, we made our Joad Family-like trip to the South Side, and new lives for the next ten years.  

The years preceding our exodus were filled with memoriesofatime—and writing this now (and reading it at some future time) encourages my brain synapses to fire up again and again.  There is no lack of memory brain matter from some-seventy years ago.

But about that bay window in our apartment.  (The song lyrics humming around now: “I can see clearly now the rain is gone . . . the rainbow . . . a bright sunshiny day . . ..”)  On a clear day I could see forever.  I could see Uncle Leonard’s tavern to the east, not far past “our border,” Ashland Avenue (1600 West as the Street Directory shows).

Ashland was as far as we were allowed, my sister and I.  In our neighborhood, it was the busy street to the east, too busy for the likes of young children to cross over to the other side.

“Where do you live?”  “Ashland and Van Buren,” we would answer.  On the corner, the drug store and the mailbox, two significant markers then in our lives.  Where else to get Adams Black Jack chewing gum after mailing a letter?

(I recall one incident when I was so excited about going to the drug store that I mailed the letter first—then realizing it had no stamp.  In the drug store I tearfully related my plight; I cried at the realization that there was nothing I could do except tell my mother about my young impetuousness wanting gum equals getting stamp, mailing letter, then the gum.  Good old-fashioned Catholic delayed gratification gone awry.  “Live and learn.”  I’ve not forgotten.)

And not to forget that bay window: I could see Leonard’s Tavern from the apartment.  I could see my dad’s (our) 1937 Plymouth parked in front of the tavern, stopped there after his work route.

MARTY O’NEIL AND LILLIAN SCHUMA

That tavern was a real watering hole for my sister and me as our parents frequented that place as a social club on Saturday nights.

What I remember most about Leonard’s Tavern was the painting over the bar, the smells from the “Men’s,” and the story my dad told us about the foiled robbery.

The story of General Armstrong Custer has always fascinated me in my search for “the real story.”  I didn’t know much about the cause of the conflict and the Battle of Little Big Horn.  What I learned came from the Anheuser Busch replication of Custer’s Last Fight which was displayed facing the bar.  What ever possessed my Uncle Leonard (not a real uncle but my dad’s good friend whom we knew then as “uncle.”) As a youngin in first and second grade I was ignorant of it all.

 So, there is the tragic General Custer, frozen in time, surrounded by bodies and 7th Cavalry troopers fighting to their deaths.  I would sit on a bar stool, transfixed by the glory of it all, ignorant of the truth and the stupidity of the foolhardy, but transfixed by the smoke of gunpowder, the gore of it all, riles and Custer’s sword raised, tomahawks dealing death, knives scalping, all the din of battle.

What was this reproduction painting doing in the tavern in Chicago?  I never found out why—or how it got its place.  What I am sure of is that this painting led me down a path of history and my trip through They Died with Their Boots On (1941), time with Errol Flynn.  Especially the paths of war and battles, D-Day, Saving Private Ryan, Audie Murphy (heroic American soldier), A Bridge Too Far.

There sits this kid on a bar stool, head in hands, elbows on the tavern bar, gazing at and lost in a painting, compliments of a beer company.  What a strange sight (perhaps a Steven Spielberg moment?)

While my parents were drinking, and laughing, I drank “orange pop.”  Always orange pop, never “soda.”  I don’t recall darts and dartboards, pool tables (not yet wide screen television with football or Days of Our Lives), or card playing.  Just juke box music and laughing.

“I have to pee.”

There was the toilet room: “Men’s,” a dark, green room, with a ceramic trough that had a pipe running its length, constantly dripping water that ran to a center drain.  I was hardly tall enough to reach to urinate.  But I managed.  And so many troughs later, I was urinating in the same kinds in England and in other “bathrooms” in my life, with smells of tobacco smoke and urine, and wet damp floors.  And plumbing pipes dripping water.

My dad was hardly ever seen without a long sleeve shirt.  He always wore an undershirt, a “Dago-T,” with its straps and body-builder shape.  My dad had strange-looking scars on his upper left arm, scars like circles and indentations. We didn’t often see those marks, but we knew the story about how he got them.

The entrance to “Leonard’s” was on Van Buren Street, at street level.  The “joint” was part of a building above.  As you entered, there were no stairs or steps down, but a kind of ramp which led you into the bar area.

 I remember pipes or railings to hang onto as I made my way down the ramp.  Then you were there: bar, tables, chairs, talk, and drinks.

My dad had many friends, some of them on the police force.  (“Uncle” Sam Spinelli was one of my favorites.)  The story goes that one evening my dad and one of his policemen friends were going into the tavern (long before he and my mom married; he was a young man).  As they made their way in, and down the ramp, my dad’s policeman friend shouted that a robbery was taking place.  A blast from a shotgun killed the policeman.  As he fell, my dad tells, my dad went down but received a shotgun blast to his upper left arm and shoulder.  What took place after that I don’t ever remember hearing about except that he was gravely injured and nearly lost his arm.

Thus, my dad’s scars.

The tavern is gone.  After destruction, demolition, and building, the streets, like Van Buren and Ashland, do still exist and operate.  I found a map to a Currency Exchange at 1600 West Van Buren, and the Chicago Transit bus has a stop at Ashland and Van Buren, both streets being major thoroughfares in the city, major routes to the downtown area and “The Loop.”

I have some great memories of growing up, some good, some bad, some not so bad.  I have some great history, as I see it, containing narratives that are worth sharing with others.

For “No creative idea’s ever wasted.” [From the movie The Noel Diary, 2022]

©  James F. O’Neil 2023 February

September 9, 2022
WRITING/BLOGGING
4 Comments

IN MEMORIAM

ELIZABETH II REGINA

8 SEPTEMBER 2022

21 APRIL 2016

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOUR MAJESTY!”

BY: JAMES F. O’NEIL

Taurus Astrology: April 20–May 20: Dependable, Persistent, Loyal, Patient, Generous.  Perfectly fine on being alone; this way things are done the way they want them to be done.  Fiercely loyal to friends and family–and dependable, but deeply sensitive.  They do not express their feelings openly.  Have immense perseverance, even when others have given up.  Very responsive to their surroundings.  They like decorations, color, or anything that appeals to all the senses. 

Taurus like possessions, with the Taurus home nicely decorated with lots of things.  Taurus are down to earth, do not like gaudy, flashy or over-the-top-things.  They prefer comfortable and creative settings and objects.

When Princess Elizabeth of England became queen in 1952

[Credit: Dorothy Wilding Estate. lethtemgrumble blog]

I was a paperboy delivering newspapers on the South Side for the Chicago Herald American.

I do have memories of folding papers for my route in February 1952.  I do remember those headlines,

though I hardly knew her, and knew but a little more about Great Britain.  Yet I soon learned that she and I were related–both born under the sign of Taurus!  I was smitten. 

I began clipping newspaper articles, pictures of her, and reading of her in TIME.  I was a loyal subject, following her LIFE events.

Always, though, to this day, the occasion of her and my birthday brings a smile and a thought of her, and maybe something memorable.  This year our birthdays are special: a big one for me (75), but a bigger one for her: (90).

So, here’s a shout out HAPPY BIRTHDAY!  to two special people born on 21 April.

Baby Jimmy 8-9-41
ELIZABETH II 2016 APRIL 21

 ©   James F. O’Neil  2016/2022

“IT’S JUST A JOKE.  DON’TCHA GET IT?”

August 9, 2022
WRITING/BLOGGING
4 Comments

BY: JAMES F. O’NEIL

Linguist Robert Hetzron offers this definition:

“A joke is a short humorous piece of oral literature in which the funniness culminates in the final sentence, called the punchline.  In fact, the main condition is that the tension should reach its highest level at the very end.  No continuation relieving the tension should be added.  As for its being “oral,” it is true that jokes may appear printed, but when further transferred, there is no obligation to reproduce the text verbatim, as in the case of poetry.”  (Wikipedia).

* * *

“You’re a joke.”  “What a jokester you are.”  “That’s quite a joke!”

* * *

I heard, learned, was told that a person studying a foreign language really knows the language if he or she can tell a joke in the foreign language, or could understand jokes told in a foreign language.

“Did you hear the one about the . . . ?”

* * *

I’m supposed to have a pretty good memory for details if I can remember them.  I cannot tell jokes, or remember punchlines, or remember those details that make a joke “work.”  That “punchline” eludes me, so I have historically been a very poor joke-teller.  I’ve neither comedic tendencies nor gifts for telling.

* * *

“The Story of Mel Fami”

Once upon a time, there was a great baseball pitcher, Mel Fami.  He had a powerful left arm, but he had two major faults:  He drank too much beer; and when he did, his pitching was wild and erratic.

A new, fresh young batter came up from the Minors and had to face Mel Fami for the first time.  Pitch one: “Ball!”  Pitch two: “Ball!”  Pitch three: “Ball three!”  Next: “Ball four!”  So the young player made his way to first base. 

The next batters were up, and walked.  Bases loaded.  Mel Fami was pulled.  And the rest of the story . . .  Page Two.

As the young player made his way across home plate, leaving the field, he noticed a pile of empty beer bottles close near Mel Fami’s dugout.

“What’s that all about?” he asked a teammate.  “Oh, that’s Mel’s beer.  The beer that made Mel Fami walk us.”

* * *

Remembering jokes is a skill and an art.  I’d never make a stand-up comedian.  Nevertheless, teaching, my career, has often afforded me the opportunity to be a ham, a play actor, whether in the Head Start classroom, or in a graduate class.  I even was a clown. 

“Standing before the audience, reciting his lines, he told them about R-O-Y-G-B-I-V.  Or about Pythagoras and his triangle, to demonstrate 127 feet from 1st to 3rd across the pitcher’s mound, or to explain the Oxford comma.”  The story continues . . .  Not too much humor there, unless accompanied by music”  “Conjunction Function”

So I have left the jokes to those who have degrees in the comedic arts, who memorize well (which I always despised doing), who excel in punchlines.  I, on the other hand, will continue socially, as best I can, in my humility, knowing my shortcomings, and that “Life is the search for the perfect night’s sleep.”

©  James F. O’Neil  2022

“IT’S JUST AN OVERNIGHT.”

June 4, 2022
ANECDOTES, EMOTIONS, EVENTS
9 Comments

BY: JAMES F O’NEIL

“We cannot learn without pain.”  –Aristotle, Politics (V.1. 1301a, l. 28)

* * *

“It’s just an overnight,” my urologist said to me.  I accepted that after he had examined my bladder and naughty bits for cancer and for whatever prompted him to speak “There’s something there I don’t like the looks of,” after he had probed me and scoped me with the cystoscope.

Now it is easy to whine about how I got to that point in my illness and relate about the symptoms which brought me to the hospital two weeks later for pre-op.  For I was so ready for the promise of relief from pain that prostate surgery would provide.  I was prepared to “undergo the knife” (or whatever other instruments the surgical team would use).

For the next two weeks I cleared my busy retiree’s calendar of all doctor and dentist appointments, planned speaking engagements (kidding…), and prepped for a hospital overnight, followed by three or four days of rest and relaxation.  I organized my writing and reading materials, organized to be placed in the TV Room–Guest Room–Sick Room, with its queen-sized hide-a-bed, with its proximity to a bathroom.  In addition, the TV with ROKU, Netflix, Prime, and hulu, among others.

I had my supply of “diapers” and other special hygiene needs.  An ample supply.

What I never did before surgery, however, was ask the doctor what took place during the procedure.  I had no clue and never did go search the Internet or Home Medical Guide in detail, or visit You Tube for any kind of heads up on what I was in for.  I expected pain and discomfort, bed rest, medications, inconveniences, and the many hours of sleep after I came home from the hospital.  Nevertheless, I felt prepared, having complete trust in my specialist, and was making myself ready for a new medical experience to add to my list containing appendectomy, tonsillectomy, hernia, and hernia repair, two knee surgeries (with a total replacement), a gall bladder attack with a swift surgery and hospital discharge to home, and two surgeries for feet and toes.

In my years, I have had sufficient days spent in a hospital and have had to slide over from a hospital bed to a surgical table: “One, two, three. . .”  I have had my trips in hospital elevators, down hallways and through No Entry doors to arrive in freezing cold operating rooms, with distinctive bright lights, beeping sounds, and muffled voices of gowned and masked nurses, and others.  Down those hallways with neon-fluorescent ceiling lighting, under one, and another, and another.  Turns and doors and more turns and more doors.

Then, once on the table, after the Q & A by anesthesiologist, oxygen tube into the nose, the familiar-to-all, from experience or from living with Grey’s Anatomy, The Resident, ER, and so many other St. Elsewhere TV episodes and movies, “Take a deep breath through your nose,” or “Count back from . . .”  “Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety. . .”

Then nothing.  Except time passing outside the body.  Then, until, “Mr. O’Neil. . .”

* * *

“Mr. O’Neil, are you in pain?”

* * *

“Mostly thirsty.”

The surgery did not go as expected; I was returned to the hard black surgical table the next day for a bleeding fix-up.  Unexpected collateral. 

. . . four nights, sleepless nights, uncomfortable nights in a hospital bed . . .

“You’re going home this afternoon.”  I arrived home, Transportation by Son.  Into the Sickroom.  Into the home bed.  “Ready.”  For sleep-rest, and some Netflix.

Not so fast: It did not last.  Shortness of breath.  Days passing.  Weakness, to the point of crawling. 

A trip to the ER, there a CT scan and EKG.  The usual routine for heart attack.  The ER doctor said, “Good news and bad news.  It’s not your heart.”  And?  “Pulmonary embolisms in the lungs.  You’re being admitted.”

Collateral damage.

Thus began the journey of 41 days and overnights of hospital-patient life, including 12 days of re-hab in a nursing care facility.

* * *

“Just an overnight” became days with tests, blood draws, blood transfusions, medications, specialists, sleepless nights (but mostly tasty food when I was up to eating). 

Then depression and boredom.  (I read nothing from my Kindle or from my magazines.  I would watch television late until I couldn’t see, then fall asleep until the 3 a.m. and 6 a.m. “Mr. O’Neil, could I please have your date of birth?  I need to take some blood.”  My left arm was pin cushioned.  Some techs took blood from my hand between my knuckles.  Ouch!

* * *

“Orthostatic hypotension.”  I was a lump, a sack of bones, losing weight, with no one fixing me or making me better, I thought.

Finally, out of bed into a recliner chair—a true milestone.  I could even walk a few steps, weak, but willing to go.  And then, after, the hospital (and insurance company) deemed it necessary for me to exit my private room, and be discharged.

I was stable and prepped to go.  A new adventure beginning with a wheelchair ride into a wheel chair ambulance to my next place for recovery.  The experience in the nursing home rehab facility was a coda to all I had been through.  The staff worked wonders, getting me to Occupational Therapy and Physical Therapy.  “I can walk!  I can walk!” 

I could walk.  I could wash.  In addition, I could eat!  Oh, the meals!  At 7:30 a.m., 11:30 a.m., 5:30 p.m.  So much–too much–good food, and soup twice daily.  The twenty pounds lost during my hospital stay were regained: My muscles were beginning to re-assert themselves. 

I could walk—with help and safety belt.

Soon I was homeward bound, with cane and walker furnished by Home Health Services.

I made it!  “Going home!”  Ah, sweet words.  “Going home,” there to “re-cover.”

* * *

Anything I write more or tell about my time hospitalized is redundant (and getting boring).  My memoriesofthetime come and go, drift into my consciousness, spend some time, then drift away the way they came.  I’ll never say I do my best to forget; I simply forget some details not to be commentated upon.  Sometimes I can hear myself “It was horrible.”  Or, perhaps, “How did I ever endure?”  I did.  And it was horrible at times.  Boredom.  Pain.  Malaise.  Ennui.

I was bolstered at times by my “De profundis” (my heartfelt cry of appeal expressing deep feelings of sorrow or anguish), or “This too will pass,” despite a cardiologist’s exclaiming “What’s going on here?!”  In addition, “We can fix this.”

So I got fixed enough for home.  “Just an overnight” are words with a dimension of meaning I never knew existed for me. 

I shudder a bit when I hear “Just an overnight.”  I am confident, though, that “this, too, will pass.”

© James F. O’Neil  2022

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