The Seasons in Chicago

The Seasons in Chicago

Chicago has four seasons and like most things in Chicago, they are unique to Chicago.

Winter in Chicago usually lasts from late November to mid April.  The first snow flurries are celebrated by small groups of people gathering outside, looking up in amazement and saying to each other things like; “what are those pretty little flakes; ooh, they are cold on my nose”.  This is known as “snow amnesia” and occurs every year.  For some reason, people forget what snow is and how to drive in it from one winter to the next.  No one has ever figured out why.  

The severity of winter is determined by the amount of salt encrusted on your car.  One pound of salt or less means it was a mild winter.  Anything over five pounds means you were snowed in and you should check at home for signs of cannibalism.  If there is no salt encrusted on your car, you probably spent the winter in Florida or Arizona and have returned early.  Go back while you can.

Snow is also used to determine winters progress.  Early winter snow is fluffy, white and beautiful.  Little children run around catching perfect little snowflakes on their tongues. Mid winter snow is perfect for snowball fights, snow forts and snowmen.  Late winter snow is icy hard, plowed up on the curb and covered with black soot.  Yellow snow is neither early nor late and is not lemon flavored.  Yellow snow should always be avoided.

Christmas once defined winter.  But due to commercialism, Christmas has become the Godzilla of holidays; stomping on the rest of the year, smashing other holidays like Thanks Giving and Halloween.  Christmas is no longer enjoyed but endured.  Some places even advertise Christmas in July. Those places used to sell Christmas crap in the winter and pool crap in the summer; now they sell both all year round.  If you like the idea of Christmas in July; jump into a hot tub with an electrified Santa for the cure.  

Winter is followed by six weeks of a season sometimes called “yuck”.  Spring, if it happens at all, occurs in May and usually lasts one afternoon.  Whoever wrote the words “April showers; brings May flowers” came from somewhere else.  In Chicago the only thing good about April is that it isn’t March and the only thing good about May is that it isn’t April.  The season of yuck tries to kill off anyone who survived winter; income taxes are due, real estate taxes are due and Cub fans hopes are dashed; all before June.  

Summer starts on June 1^st and only June 1^st.  May 31^st is yuck; June 1^st is summer.  That’s the rule; don’t screw with it.  The last person who tried was sent to North Dakota and eaten by wolves.  Anything that looks like snow during summer are seeds from the cottonwood tree.  These seeds are known by children as “summer snow”.  They are not edible like winter snow.  If you try and catch them on your tongue and eat them, you will probably choke.  This may be the cause of snow amnesia.

Summer is the time of the year when you can’t go anywhere because everything between here and where you want to go is under construction.  You can tell something is under construction by the bull dozers, cranes, graders and millions of construction barriers blocking your way.  Under construction does not mean anyone is actually working.  Why should they; it is summer and too nice to work.  The purpose of all this construction equipment is to remind us where our tax dollars are being spent and let us know we have no control of our lives.

Another sure sign of summer is children.  They are home and not at school; were they belong.  Teachers call this time vacation.  Parents know it as torture.  The progress of summer can be measure by the number of times children moan “I’m bored” and “there is nothing to do”.  When the count reaches one million; it is August.  No matter how many camps, sports and other miscellaneous summer activities children attend, they will still reach one million “I’m bored” and “there is nothing to do” by August.

The beginning of fall or autumn occurs when workers actually start using the bull dozers, cranes and graders that have been sitting idle and rusting all summer.  The smell of diesel exhaust, engine noise and breakneck activity is enough to overwhelm any ones senses.  It is amazing how dedicated workers can be when they are being paid overtime to finish a job that should have been completed months earlier.

The kids are still bored and have nothing to do; but at least they are back at school.  Construction barriers magically begin to disappear and families rediscover the weekend.  September is a time for college football, falling leaves and caramel apples. October brings us pumpkins, scarecrows and candy corn. The climax of fall is Halloween, followed by Thanksgiving, hat and glove weather and maybe a few snow flakes.

Canned Spaghetti

Canned Spaghetti

One of the biggest problems working for my father, besides pissing him off on a regular basis, was lunch. Since we only had a half hour for lunch, going out to eat was impractical.  Lunch was strictly a brown bag affair.  Every day my mother made an identical lunch for my father and myself and every day it was the same lunch; two baloney sandwiches, a bag of chips, two pieces of fruit and a thermos filled with milk. Sadly this was a larger version of the lunch I had been eating ever since first grade.  My father had been eating the same boring lunch for even longer.  He never complained.  I guess any lunch was fine with him as long as he didn’t have to make it himself.  Me; I was tired of baloney and ready for a change.  I also knew better then to complain about it to either mom or especially dad.

I knew of two ways to safely deal with my father; either do whatever he told me to do without complaining, or stay as far away from him as possible.  I often chose the latter, not because I was lazy but because my dad was my boss and a proud man.  He was always afraid people would assume I was given special treatment because I was his son.  This was in fact true.  I did get special treatment; every messy, stinky, crappy, awful job my father could think of.  I did everything from scrubbing bathrooms to cleaning greasy bug infested old restaurant fixtures and never complained once; at least not to my dad. 

I was in the shop basement practicing the ancient art of hiding, when I noticed the old boiler used to heat the building was running.  It was at least eighty years old, painted gray and looked like something out of a 1920’s sci-fi serial.  It was pretty warm to the touch, had pipes going out in all directions and a grill that looked like a hungry mouth.  That gave me a wonderful idea.  I could use it to warm canned food or even a TV dinner.  If it worked, I could say goodbye to baloney forever.

The next day I brought a can of spaghetti and meat balls, a can opener and fork to work.  I was not a big fan of canned spaghetti, but it was all I could find in the kitchen pantry.  About two hours before lunch, I snuck off into the basement and placed the can on top of the old boiler.  I was afraid it may get too hot and explode, so I punched a hole in the top of the can with a phillip’s screwdriver.

I went back upstairs and continued sweeping the shop floor.  I have to admit, I was pretty excited.  Just before lunch, my father found me, handed me directions, keys to the company station wagon and told me he needed some tools delivered to a job site. 

I loaded the wagon and hit the road before dad could change his mind.  The job site was way out in Northbrook so it would take a couple hours.  I loved making deliveries;  getting paid to drive around town in a beat up old station wagon, radio blasting, smoking cigarettes; what could be better.  I was so excited, I totally forgot about the can of spaghetti on the old boiler.

When I finally got back to the shop, I was starving.  I grabbed my bag lunch and snuck off to the basement for hot spaghetti and meatballs.  I took the can off the boiler with the sleeve of my shirt just in case it was too hot.  It was pretty hot and surprisingly light.  I opened the can and found about a half inch of burned spaghetti at the bottom and no meat balls.  I looked at the can.  I looked around the basement.  I looked at the can again.  Then a little voice told me to look up at the ceiling.  There it was; a huge sticky blob of red, white and brown goop.  I had created a pasta volcano.

It was the coolest thing I had ever seen.  Picasso could not have done a better job.  I was sorry I wasn’t there to witness its creation.  I sat down and ate my brown bag lunch.  My mind was racing with so many questions.  How did the meat balls get out of the tiny hole on top of the can?  Could I make a spaghetti rocket?  What about chili?   I decided to bring another can of spaghetti the next day.  I could sneak down to the basement periodically and if I was lucky, witness the eruption of Mount Boyardee.  Later I could try other experiments. 

I walked up the basement stairs proud of myself for making such a wonderful discovery. What a great day I was having.  I opened the basement door only to discover my father standing there waiting for me.  He handed me a putty knife, a bucket and pointed to a small step ladder leaning up against the wall.  He never said a word.  He just turned and walked away shaking his head slowly.  I have to admit; this was not the first time I saw the slow head shake.  It meant I would not be punished.  It also meant I had done something so idiotic; my father was giving up on me.  I felt bad for being such a disappointment; but how often do you see a can of spaghetti stuck to the ceiling.   

I stumbled back into the basement with my ladder, putty knife and bucket.  I knew I had no choice but to clean up the mess I had made.  As I stood there admiring my grotesquely beautiful creation, I thought to myself; all in all, it really was a pretty great day.  

Count Down To Summer

Count Down To Summer

Truman Middle School, May 28, 1968, 8:18 AM Central Standard Time; count down has been initiated.  Aauhhhh, this really sucks. Why can’t they just mail us our grades, or tell us next year. That would be okay too. But no, we gotta come in for one whole hour just so they can take attendance and torture us one last time before summer. “Now class; I would now like to announce the names of those students who completed the school year with perfect attendance: Mary Abrams…….”

T-minus 42 minutes and counting, launch status is go. Perfect Attendance, oh just shoot me now. “……Billy Meyers………and finally Tina Wong.”

T-minus 36 minutes and counting, all systems have powered up. Tina Wong. What a rip off. I know for a fact she was out at least three days last winter. ”Congratulations to all our perfect attendees.” 

T-minus 22 minutes and counting, all systems are still go. I’d rather be sick then get called for perfect attendance anyway. “And now class, a public address message from our assistant principle, Mr. Sappmeister.” “Hello. Hello. Miss Jones is this damn thing on. What do you mean I can’t say damn. Oh, sorry, damn it. Oh, I did it again. What button, the blue one. Okay. I got it. Attention students…….”

T-minus 18 minutes and counting, all systems are now on auto. That Sappmeister, what a tool. “……. And have a safe and happy summer. Thank you students. Red button. Damn it, what red button. What, I said it again. Oh damn it, I give up.”

T-minus 15 minutes and counting, pressurizing tanks. Only 15 minutes, I can hold on for 15 minutes.  “Now students, I will now pass out report cards. Mary Abrams………”

T-minus 4 minutes and counting, ignition sequence is set. Not bad, two B’s and three C. “……..Donnie Zell.”

T-minus 30 seconds and counting, all engines are running. “I hope you all”

Final Countdown 4. “have a”

Final Countdown 3. “safe and”

Final Countdown 2. “happy” BBBRRRRIIIIINGGG

Final Countdown 1. “summer.”

We have liftoff at 9:00AM, Central Standard Time. Blastoff to summer.