A Wonderful Gift

This column was first published here on December 22, 2010.
Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,
in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

As promised last week, I have left the People’s Republic of Christmas and will offer a few observations about my Christmases.

Here are a few of my memories. I recall my mom taking me and my sisters to Talman Savings & Loan’s headquarters at 55th and Kedzie to visit Santa Claus and share our Christmas lists with him.

To an adult, the Talman building projected everything that Talman founder Ben F. Bohac wanted: strength, stability, modern efficiency.

To a child, Talman projected one thing: big.

So it was a little intimidating walking in there---from the parking lot at the south end of the building to the north end where Santa was enthroned was almost a full block. In a way, it was like the long walk to see the Wizard of Oz.

But in the end, the Talman staff were always very warm and friendly to the kids; and as I recall, they gave us treats and probably those little “junior saver” booklets that encouraged us to save our dimes.

And the Talman Santa and elves were doubtless every bit as good as their counterparts at Marshall Field’s.

My husband recalls his boyhood visits to Santa---sometimes at the Sears at 62nd and Western, sometimes at Ford City after the cool new shopping center opened in 1964.

Christmas, when I was growing up, came in two segments, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, both equally important. Christmas Eve was when my mother’s side of the family gathered at one of three homes; hers, or her older or younger brother’s. There was quite a crowd, My grandparents, my parents, the aunts and uncles and all the kids, 14 cousins. We were very quite close in age and vocal enough to make the noise in a stadium seem like a quiet murmur. The highlight of the evening was the sleigh bells ringing (my uncle always seemed to remember to bring bells every Christmas Eve) and then the deep “Ho! Ho! Ho!” The children would always return the greeting with unbridled excitement in their voices and bodies, “Santa!” The gifts would be given out, Santa’s voice booming above the noise created by so many. The ripping of paper and laughter of children and their parents rang out. After everyone received a gift, Santa would depart, warning the children to be good and that he would see them again next year. The children would still be excited, but the end of the evening would be coming soon because most of us headed out to Midnight Mass.

It isn’t the presents-I mean socks aren’t really that exciting-that has us continuing this tradition to this very day, except on the Saturday before Christmas Eve, but the gift of being together. The noise can still leave a ringing in your ears.

Those original children, my cousins, sisters and me, now have children who add to the celebration-and confusion.

Christmas Day usually dawned early. At least one of my sisters would rise early and wake the rest of us. I remember tiptoeing into the front room one year. The lights on the tree illuminated darkened living room. Daylight was a whisper away and I stared awestruck at all the presents under the tree. The parents would eventually get up, coffee would be made and the unwrapping frenzy began. Think “A Christmas Story” times six.

After the cleanup, along with the accompanying whining, everyone had to get dressed, the youngest with mom’s help. (I’m not sure how Mom found time to get dressed.) We were heading off to my dad’s side of the family, specifically to see my grandmother.

At one point my grandmother lived above her mom-and-pop store in Canaryville. It was the coolest place in the world to me because Gram had a candy counter that featured so many different types of penny candy. It was a child’s dream come true.

On Christmas evening we would eat and then, before dessert, the presents! No Santa, but we knew he was resting up in the North Pole after exhausting Christmas Eve. I remember thinking Grandma might have had a small place, but it had the promise of more treats downstairs!

Finally, after the adults got their fill of conversation, we would head home. Sometimes I dozed off, listening, their words not really registering, just a comforting hum in the background. Family, food and living the true meaning of Christmas. It’s a wonderful gift.

See you next week...

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.
Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

The People's Republic of Christmas

This column was first published here on December 15, 2010.
Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,
in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

I wanted to write a warm and fuzzy Christmas column this week, but I got side tracked.

Let me explain.

The other day I was picking up a prescription at a familiar pharmacy. (Remember when we called them drug stores?) I was in a Christmassy mood, so I took a detour to browse through the “seasonal” section. (Too bad that “Christmas” has become a dirty word to so many retailers.)

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. More than anything, I was looking for a few touchstones from my youth to give me a smile and make me feel warm inside. (Watching my VHS copy of “A Charlie Brown Christmas” always does that to me.)

I was seeking comfort and the familiarity of an old-fashioned American Christmas, or at least the kind I recall from my youth.

Instead, I found myself in the People’s Republic of Christmas.

Just about every item I looked at, it seemed, had three words in common: Made in China.

Let me say at the outset that I have nothing against the Chinese people. In fact, I have a very dear niece who is ethnically Chinese. And Chicago is the great world-class city it is, in part thanks to the Chinese who live here.

But I do have a problem with (and I hope you do, too) the huge amount of goods that used to be made here that are no longer. That are now made in China and elsewhere. Hey, I’m glad they have jobs----but not if it means Americans lose ours.

Up and down the “seasonal” aisles I browsed. Trinkets made in China. Candy made in China. Wrigley’s chewing gum Christmas tin made in China. Charlie Brown and Snoopy figurines made in China. Even Mickey Mouse.

At this store, you couldn’t even cloak yourself in an American Christmas. The Santa suit in a bag? Made in---you guessed it.

Seems like everyone has bolted the USA. Pepperidge Farm now bakes some of its treats in Indonesia. (Remember their TV commercials in the 1970s in which they boasted about their American goodness, and the on-screen pitchman’s Yankee pronunciation---Pep-ridge Faahhm?)

Same with Royal Dansk cookies. Forget Denmark. Jakarta is where it’s at.

So I recoiled from Chinese Charlie Brown, the Mandarin Mickey Mouse, the Shanghai Snoopy---and I fled to the last bastion of Christmas, the Lord Jesus.

Too late, sad to say. Nativity-themed Christmas cards, trinkets, everything with Jesus, Mary and/or Joseph was made in China.

And given China’s ongoing persecution of Christians (most notably Roman Catholics and evangelical Protestants---everything from everyday discrimination to imprisonment and torture), images of Jesus from the People’s Republic of China are a bitter irony.

My head started spinning, so I headed for the ladies room to compose myself. I washed my hands, threw a little water on my face and turned on the automatic dryer. A large label on the dryer said, “Made in China for the Dayton Electric Manufacturing Co., Niles, Illinois.”

That did it. I headed over to the “pain reliever” aisle to buy some aspirin. They’re not made in China. Yet.

Next week, a truly heart-warming Christmas column. I promise. Written in the USA...

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.

Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

Kids and F-Bombs

This column was first published here on December 8, 2010.

Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,

in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

It used to be a bar of soap was the enemy; not of the clean body, but of the dirty mouth.

In decades past, swear words were not acceptable adult language; and if a child should utter one of George Carlin’s “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television," he or she would know that punishment would follow—if an adult, particularly a parent, overheard. A swat to the backside was easier to tolerate than the dreaded bar of soap. If you were lucky it was a mild bar of Ivory; if not, it could be Lava.

Somewhere along the line, maybe when parents decided to be “buddies” with their children, washing your child’s mouth out with soap was deemed cruel and unusual punishment

To be quite honest, I’m not sure how I feel about it. Is it cruel? I don’t know because I don’t know if it does physical harm to a child. That’s unacceptable

So it seems now that the fear of punishment for using dirty words is gone, so is the restraint from refraining to do, by children!

A friend of mine---a teacher---recently went back to teaching very young children after being out of the classroom for a number of years. She told me she was surprised to hear the filth coming out of the mouths of young children in 2010.

It reminded me of something that occurred about a decade ago at St. Joseph School in Summit, when my daughters were students there.

One day a five-year-old boy opened his mouth and dropped an F-bomb in the kindergarten; and that single act sent shock waves throughout the school. Within a day, everyone knew about it and was discussing it in hushed tones. Teachers and parents alike were discussing how to handle the situation and deal with the little boy with the dirty mouth.

The incident was even discussed by the School Board after the principal announced the incident in a solemn tone.

I thought then and I still think that it speaks well of the school that there was such shock over the incident. It sent a good signal that such behavior is not tolerated, that children are held to appropriately high standards.

But a decade later, would there still be shock? I don’t know.

And what do we make of all this? Are today’s foul-mouthed children a weather vane of our times, pointing in the direction of ever-declining moral standards?

Or as my husband asks, is it something else? Is it that “f**k” is the new “heck”?

That’s his simplified, Southwest Side version of an observation put forth by many sociolinguists and others in academia: that language is every bit as alive as the people who use it---and that as it evolves along with its users, the meaning and strength of words change.

As he points out, words considered relatively mild or even tame in 2010: heck, creep, dork, and so forth---were a century ago Grade A curse words confined to the locker room and never, ever uttered in polite society or mixed company.

So are today’s little F-bombardiers a sign of weakening morality or nothing more than the normal evolution of language? Perhaps both.

But I still think there’s something to be said for a bar of soap.

Agreed?

See you next week…

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.
Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

Grow Up, Get Over It

This column was first published here on December 1, 2010.
Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,

in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

As a generally conservative Democrat (we used to be called Reagan Democrats), I was never a fan of President Bill Clinton.

Among other things, I disliked his administration’s Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy regarding gays in the military.

But not for the reasons you’d think.

I thought DADT was a tepid, cringing, toe-in-the-swimming-pool approach to human rights---which in a way was worse than ignoring the issue altogether.

If I were President, my policy on gays in the military would be called Grow Up, Get Over It.

Before I go any further, let me say at this point that I have never served in the military, so I am lacking in a firsthand perspective; but I am a citizen and a taxpayer whose dollars help fund the military, so like everyone I am entitled to my say.

I also hasten to add that I fully understand that the reason I have the liberty to express my opinion freely is due in large part to the sacrifices made over generations, over centuries, by the men and women of the U.S. Armed Forces---a few of whom are my relatives, neighbors and friends.

So I have great respect and admiration for those who serve, particularly on the front lines, eyeball to eyeball with our enemies.

But I have a difficult time mustering admiration for back-office brass who go out of their way to deny basic civil rights to Americans who are gay or lesbian.

Their vague assertions about how having gays in the military will allegedly weaken combat readiness, I find ridiculous.

And to those active-duty military who make those assertions, I say: gay people have served in the U.S. military, honorably and with valor, from Bunker Hill to Baghdad. The only difference is they were not allowed to openly acknowledge their sexual orientation, as their straight counterparts were.

I have always thought it ironic that so many members of the U.S. military---soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines who pride themselves on being the roughest, toughest, most resilient and resourceful fighting force in the world---get all squeamish and weak in the knees over the simple notion that an openly gay man may be sleeping two bunks over. If it weren’t so pathetic, it would be comical---like the fabled elephant that panics at the sight of a mouse.

Curious, too, that those members of the military who insists that gays be kept out are men. I do not see our women in uniform leading the charge on this one. I’d like to think that shows we’re a little more mature, perhaps a little stronger than the “stronger sex”---but draw your own conclusions.

Other countries allow gay and lesbian citizens to serve openly in their militaries. Twenty-two of the 26 NATO military forces do. Israel, which undoubtedly has some of the toughest, smartest and best trained soldiers in the world, does too.

It should also be said that the “combat readiness” argument used to keep openly gay people out of the U.S. military is very similar to the argument used to fight President Truman’s executive order to integrate the Armed Forces. A white soldier who has to sleep in the same barracks as a "colored" soldier will be demoralized and be less able to fight for his country, the reasoning went.

Of course, history proved that wrong. We all bleed the same color.

This week there was a glimmer of hope in a new Pentagon study on ending the ban on openly gay members of the military. It asserts, “We are convinced that the U.S. military can adjust and accommodate this change just as it has others in history.”

Translation: we can grow up and get over it.

We live in a world where people are increasingly at liberty to acknowledge their sexual orientation. Today there are openly gay cops, firefighters, doctors, lawyers, nurses, teachers, news reporters, elected officials, clergy, mechanics, professional athletes, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers---heck, probably even Indian chiefs.

And so what? As long as people of all orientations conduct themselves with dignity and class, OK by me.

And you too, I hope.

See you next week….

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.
Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

Shopping Tips That Won't Save You a Penny, But...

This column was first published here on November 24, 2010.

Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,
in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

I thought about writing a Thanksgiving-themed column this week.

But instead, I will write something I’ve wanted to write for a couple of years.

It’s about the Christmas shopping season that officially starts the day after Thanksgiving---the so-called Black Friday.

But it’s not about the joys of power shopping or how to score the best deals. It’s the perspective from the other side of the cash register.

You see, I worked in retail for a couple of years: from October 2008 through April 2010 at a suburban location of a nationally-known department store. It was quite a learning experience---everything from the cash register I worked to the clothing racks I stocked to the fitting rooms I straightened up.

So heads up, shoppers…my light is on, my lane is open, and I’m waving you over to my cash register. Wheel your cart over here and let me offer you a little advice that won’t save you a penny, but which definitely has value.

** First, remember that retail store owners and six-figure managers love Black Friday because it makes images of sugar-plum profits and fairly fat bonuses dance in their heads. But Black Friday is often a day of dread for cashiers and other front-line retail workers making minimum wage or not much more. It means we are about to get steamrolled by an army of people who will frequently be rude to us; and if we forget to smile and say thank you, we’re fired.


** So treat cashiers and salespeople as you would want to be treated. They are not your mother or your housekeeper. They are not your servant; rather a helper to direct you to what you need.

** If an item is not in stock, it is not the clerk’s fault. Go to Customer Service and see if it can be ordered in time for the holiday. Remember, most major department stores have a website you can use as a backup.


** If your credit card is rejected, it is not the cashier’s fault. Make sure your credit card is paid off before you start your major shopping.

** Harrumphing at the cashier or the salesperson on the floor is not going to make things better. They aren’t management. They don’t make the rules. They follow them.

** If a shopping cart is not available, it is not the clerk's fault. Bring it up with the manager.


** Don’t bark at a clerk who asks you if you’d like to open a store credit card account. Trust us---we know you don’t. And we know this may be the umpteenth time today you’ve been asked. But if we don’t ask you, we lose our jobs.

** Don’t dump clothes on the racks, shelves or on the floor. No one wants to buy clothing from the floor. Do you? Customers don’t want to have to clean up after other customers. Salespeople don’t want to have to stay until “Oh Dear God” o’clock in the morning cleaning up after you, either.

** Don’t complain to the cashier that you can’t find a salesperson on the floor. Complain to management. They are the ones that make up the schedule. Salespeople and cashiers do not make up the schedule. They also feel the pinch when enough people aren’t scheduled for a shift. And if you can’t find sales people on the floor, they are probably on the register trying to ring up the long lines of people so they don’t complain about waiting so long in line.

** And for everyone’s sake, leave your children at home. The store---specifically, the toy department---is not your babysitter. Parents who let their children run wild through a store ought to be (insert medieval-style punishment here).

** To balance my “don’t” advice, here are a few holiday shopping “do’s”: Do bring your patience, sense of humor, smile, patience, optimism, holiday cheer, patience, compassion for the overworked clerk who is smiling through her pain (her feet, ankles, legs, hips and back hurt from standing in one spot all day); and oh yes, your patience.

So to all shoppers reading this and considering my advice, I say “thank you” from the bottom of my heart. Truly. And to my former co-workers in retail who are reading this, smiling smiles of recognition and taping this column to the break room wall, I say “You’re welcome.”

Have a great week…….

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.

Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

Government Gets Graphic

This column was first published here on November 17, 2010.
Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,

in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

Last week, federal health authorities announced that as part of a larger “tobacco control” strategy, they will require cigarette packages to carry graphic warnings about the dangers of smoking.


Starting in October of 2012 (the federal government doesn’t move that fast, does it?), cigarette packages will carry images of things like diseased lungs, human corpses and more.


If you want to see the types of images proposed, check out citymomchicago.blogspot.com. To see all the proposed images, click here.

While I certainly agree that a smoke-free America is healthier for everyone, I have three reactions to their most recent action.




First, if federal health authorities are so concerned about the negative health effects of cigarettes, why don’t they just move to outlaw them? I mean really: if the feds suddenly discovered that Fritos corn chips or Oreo cookies cause cancer---and not only that, but Frito-Lay and Nabisco were adding a chemical substance to Fritos and Oreos to make them addictive, those products would be yanked off store shelves immediately. So why are cigarettes different?


Second, do the feds not see how easily Big Tobacco will get around the new regs? I can easily see cigarette manufacturers complying with the law by putting the required graphic images on a “package” that is nothing more than a wrap-around that is easily torn away---revealing a cool inner package. I can also see the comeback of something that has almost disappeared from the American scene: the cigarette case. Look for cigarette manufacturers to get busy designing and distributing, for free, lightweight plastic cigarette cases that look really cool and appeal to younger smokers. I'll bet they even become collectible.

Third, if the feds want to require graphic warnings on products that can lead to ill health, why stop at cigarettes? As long as they’re going to play Health Police, perhaps they should mandate graphic-image warnings on:

** six packs of Budweiser and fifths of Jack Daniels. (Photos of diseased livers and graveyards.)


** packages of Oreo cookies and bottles of Coke. (Images of people with type 2 diabetes undergoing kidney dialysis and/or losing limbs to amputation.)


** bags of Cheetos and canisters of Morton Salt. (Images of women crippled by osteoporosis, in part due to high-salt diets.)



** Chicago-style hot dogs and Polish sausages. (Images of people having heart attacks, in part due to high-cholesterol diets.)

** La-Z-Boy recliners and sofas. (Images of atrophied muscles and chubby couch potatoes.)

** TVs and computers. (Images of weak, pasty-faced kids who’ve clearly had too much “screen time.”)

** the air we breathe. (Federally mandated signs on every street corner, showing lungs discolored and weakened by polluted air.)

Or perhaps we should just require that federal health officials themselves wear graphic-image warning signs around their necks. (Images of taxpayers shaking their heads in exasperation, closing their eyes or covering their ears.)

What do you think?

Finally, a tip of the cap to award-winning editorial cartoonist Steve Breen at the San Diego Union-Tribune for getting it right. Click here to see his graphic-image cigarette package. The feds could have saved a lot of time and money if they had just consulted him.

Have a great week---and may your Thanksgiving dinner be joyful, bountiful, delicious and free of any federally-mandated, graphic-image warning signs….

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.
Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

Sign of Strength or Sign of Fear?

This column was first published here on November 10, 2010.

Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,
in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

My neighbor put a sign in his front window the other day. It was red, white and blue. In big, boldface letters it said:

This neighborhood ain’t

what it used to be.

We have a crime problem.

AND WE ARE SCARED.

OK, so it didn’t really say that.

What it really said was:

Proud Member

Neighborhood Watch

WE CALL POLICE

But it might as well have been the WE ARE SCARED sign.

Please don’t get me wrong. I am not making fun of neighborhood watch programs or people who put WE CALL POLICE signs in their windows. Such people typically are by many measures some of the best people in any given neighborhood. They care about the community, wear their hearts on their sleeves and are willing to take action against crime and the threat of crime.

But really, does such a sign deter criminals? Has it ever? Even once? I doubt it.

Does such a sign promote unity among law-abiding citizens? I doubt it.

If anything, I think it is unintentionally counterproductive. It can cause unease among people who otherwise would not be uneasy. It can even get people who otherwise felt secure to start thinking about selling their homes and move to a “safer” area.

WE CALL POLICE signs remind me of the signs that, for a few years in the late 1960s and early 1970s, could be seen on every block in the West Englewood neighborhood.

We are here to STAY!

DOWN with FHA!

The signs reflected white homeowners’ anger with racial blockbusting and what they viewed as the destructive, community-killing role that the Federal Housing Authority (as well as the Chicago Housing Authority) was playing in their neighborhood.

Just like the WE CALL POLICE signs, the WE are here to STAY! signs were intended to fight divisiveness and promote cohesiveness. But did they? One by one, as white homeowners quietly sold to black homebuyers, the signs started disappearing. And the remaining white homeowners saw that and unfortunately panicked, bolting from the neighborhood and selling their homes at huge losses that are the hallmark of panic selling.

OK, so back to the present day: so why would anyone on Chicago’s Southwest Side (and a number of other neighborhoods) need to post a WE CALL POLICE sign?

In some city neighborhoods (mine included), calling the police often means calling over your backyard fence---or even calling into the next room. We have coppers everywhere, fortunately. I’ll bet that about one in four homes on my block has at least one person on the CPD or some other law enforcement agency.

So what do I suggest that the WE CALL POLICE sign posters do?

Here are a few suggestions to show gang bangers and other thugs that you and your neighbors don’t and won’t take their (starts with “cr” and rhymes with “wrap”).

** Take down the WE CALL POLICE sign.

** Get a copy of the book “Fixing Broken Windows: Restoring Order and Reducing Crime in Our Communities” by George L. Kelling and Catharine Cole. You can get a used paperback copy for as little as $2 or $3 on Amazon.com; or you can get it through the Chicago Public Library’s website: chipublib.org. It's a great book. Read it.

** Show pride in your home and property. Keep the grass cut, the bushes trimmed, the windows clean, the flowers planted.

** Introduce yourself to your neighbors. Invite them over and order a pizza. Bake them a cake and surprise them with it.

** Every time you see something in a public space that needs to be addressed (graffiti, broken glass, open fire hydrant, dead street light, bent stop sign, trash or dead animal on the street), report it immediately to the appropriate authority. In Chicago, that usually means 311. When you report it, be polite but firm, and be persistent. Your tax dollars pay the salary of the person you’re speaking with, and they pay for people to fix things like this promptly and efficiently.

** And if you must post a sign in your window, I suggest something like this:

This neighborhood is great!

Visit ourgreatcommunity.org

By the way, the “ourgreatcommunity.org” domain name is available.

When people go to your community’s website, they will read a dozen or two reasons why your community is a great place to live, work, play, study, worship, dine, shop and visit. They will see a wealth of colorful photos of life in the community. They will see a current calendar of events that encourages people to get out of the house and meet the neighbors. And yes, there will be a “public safety” page devoted to facing crime honestly and effectively, but with confidence and without fear.

Sound like a plan?

See you next week….

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.

Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

Watching the Parade

This column was first published here on November 3, 2010.
Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,

in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

I want to tell you that I love parades.

I want to be the type of woman who gladly sings those great movie lyrics:

“I love a parade, the tramping of feet,
I love every beat I hear of a drum.
I love a parade, when I hear a band
I just want to stand and cheer as they come.
That rat-a-tat-tat, the blare of a horn.
That rat-a tat-tat, a bright uniform;
The sight of a drill will give me a thrill,
I thrill at the skill of everything military.
I love a parade, a handful of vets,
A line of cadets or any brigade,
For I love a parade…”

But I’m not.

Like most people, I have mixed feelings about parades.

I was in a parade once. I was a 10-year-old Irish girl wearing a green uniform and marching downtown in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, with my fellow Girl Scouts from St. Clare of Montefalco School.

I want to tell you that it was a wonderful experience and that I felt like Judy Garland strolling down the avenue with Fred Astaire in “Easter Parade.” (Check out a great video clip I have posted at citymomchicago.blogspot.com.)

But my impressions of that day marching down the windswept State Street on March 17th?

Well, it was cold, noisy, chilly, exciting, a little intimidating, frigid, a little fun, and cold.

I thought about all that last Saturday, the day of the 23rd Ward Regular Democratic Organization’s annual Pumpkin Parade on Archer Avenue. Like the parade of my youth, it was chilly---but not bad if you stood on the north side of the street in the warm sun.

A few parade observations:

** I give a lot of credit to the elected officials who sponsor the parade: Alderman Mike Zalewski, State Representative Michael J. Zalewski, and Congressman Dan Lipinski. Politicians in other parades often dress up in their best duds and ride in the swankiest convertible bearing a big sign with their name. Vanity on wheels. But not these three. They dress in casual clothes and walk the parade route, handing out candy to kids along the curb. Nice regular-joe touch from three down-to-earth men. Governor Quinn, also a man with the common touch, joined them this year.


** It was nice to see local high school bands marching and playing: St. Laurence/Queen of Peace, Curie, Brother Rice/Mother McAuley, and Kennedy. Special tip of the cap to the soulful teen trio from Kennedy (guitar, bass and drums) that was several units behind the Kennedy marching band, riding on a trailer and playing some hot licks on a cold day. (Their version of “Sweet Home Chicago” really livened up the parade.)

** The Shriners, as always, added a bit of whimsical fun. Where else but a parade can an otherwise respectable middle-aged businessman dress in silk pants and a purple turban while riding on a motorized kiddie kar outfitted like a flying carpet---and not be institutionalized? They were great fun, and their silly smiles were infectious for young and old.

** The true stars of the parade, as always, were the children in costumes. Really, who can top a three-year-old boy dressed like Scooby Doo, a two-year-old girl dressed like Snow White, or a baby with a halo and angel wings?

** The only real downside to the Pumpkin Parade is that it is a victim of its own success. Because it has become so popular, everyone wants to be in it---so it’s longer than it ought to be. And it ends on an ear-splitting exclamation point---with several fire trucks and ambulances blaring full blast, much to the delight of the boys along the curb and the “boys” driving the trucks. Boys do love toys and noise, don’t they?

All in all, though, parades are fun. We could use a few more.

See you next week….

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

Straight Talk is Rare During Silly Season

This column was first published here on October 27, 2010.

Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,
in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

“Be a little skeptical about what you see and hear in the days and weeks to come. Remember, it’s Silly Season in politics.”
So stated 23rd Ward Alderman Mike Zalewski at a recent rally on Archer Avenue.

True, Alderman, true.

The negative campaign ads get more shrill by the day, as candidates attack their opponents. And judging by the radio and TV ads, you’d think that only hardened inmates from the Stateville pen are allowed to run for office.

• “He partied with his Mafia pals and blew your child’s only chance to go to college.”
• “He released criminals to your church social.”
• “He voted to send puppies to the gas chamber.”
• “She sponsored a bill to outlaw Girl Scout cookies.”
• “He stole candy from babies and wants to take away your grandma’s pension.”

OK, so I exaggerate. But not by much.

On the flip side, those same candidates, when talking about themselves, promise more than they can or will deliver: “On my first day in office, I’ll end corruption, cut taxes, increase services, balance the budget, find you a better job, tutor your children, wash your car, walk your dog, shine your shoes and whiten your teeth while you sleep. And the next day, I’ll send you a box of chocolates and a dozen roses.”

Sure.

Kind of reminds me of the fall of 2002, when gubernatorial candidate Rod Blagojevich pledged to “put an end to business as usual.”

It got him elected. But in the end, voters were given the business. As usual.

One kind of politician I admire is the one who gives us the straight truth---which in politics is dangerous, because most voters seem to want candy-coated marshmallows.

My all-time favorite political straight talker is Winston Churchill, who in 1940, during Britain’s darkest days when people were desperate to hear even the slightest bit of good news, told his people: “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering.”

If that’s not honest, nothing is.

In the current crop of major candidates, the only one I see consistently giving us the straight truth is Governor Pat Quinn.

For example, everyone knows that a tax increase is needed to get our state government out of the financial mess it’s in---thanks partly to the economy and to the Blagojevich Administration. Any politician who says otherwise is a liar or a fool.

Much as I dislike any tax increases, I give Quinn a lot of credit for being honest enough to publicly state that a tax hike is needed---and to do so in an election year.

And if I see him at this Saturday’s Pumpkin Parade on Archer Avenue, I’ll shake his hand and say thanks. (Parade starts at 11:00 a.m. at Archer and Nordica.)

~ ~ ~

And on Tuesday I will head to my local polling place, do my civic duty and curse the voting booths as usual.

I never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss the old voting booths from the 1970s and ‘80s.

Remember them? Each booth was big as a Buick and probably as heavy, but as least the curtain gave you a measure of privacy.

I get no sense of privacy with today’s plastic-and-cardboard voting booths or stations or whatever they call them. They are too much in the open, too close together, and are so flimsy they look like they’d blow away with just a modest gust of wind.

They look like a toy, a child’s version of a grown-up voting booth. I half expect to see the Fisher-Price logo on the side.

But the good news about Tuesday is that we’ll see an end to this season’s political attack ads. The bad news is that we’ll immediately start a new round with Chicago’s mayoral and aldermanic primary---not to mention the many suburban municipal races.

So hang in there, and try to take comfort from Will Rogers, who said “It's a good thing we don't get all the government we pay for.”

See you next week….

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

Remembering June Cleaver

This column was first published here on October 20, 2010.
Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,

in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

I used to hate June Cleaver.

Years ago, when I was a young wife getting adjusted to married life and having those first-year squabbles that I think all newlyweds have, one of my common sarcastic retorts to my husband was, “Sorry, I’m not June Cleaver.”

Back then, I viewed the “Leave it to Beaver” mom as an impossible standard of womanly perfection (created by men, of course)—the human equivalent of a rigged carnival game of skill that looks easy enough, yet leaves you broke and feeling like an idiot after you try and try and fall short every time.

On a tree-lined avenue in the tranquil suburb of Mayfield, June Cleaver ran the perfect household. She wore stylish yet sensible outfits. She cooked a perfect roast, never burned the toast, and had the good manners of Emily Post.

Check out citymomchicago.blogspot.com, where I have a “June Cleaver” video link posted, as well as a link to the actual blueprint of the Cleaver home at 211 Pine Street.


June kept her husband content; and her sons were good-hearted boys who only got into trouble so minor that it easily be cleared up in 30 minutes each week---with everyone enjoying a wholesome chuckle just before the credits rolled and the screen faded to black.

She even wore pearls while cleaning the house!

Seriously, who among us could live up to that?

But as the years went by in my marriage---and the ‘80s became the 90s and then the new millennium, June Cleaver changed, even though “Leave it to Beaver” ended in 1963 after 234 episodes.

Or was it just me maturing as a wife and mom?

Reminds me of what Mark Twain once said:

“When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.”

Over time, as I watched re-runs of the show, I started to look at June Cleaver differently. I looked past the pearls, the perfect dinners, the meticulous manners. And I saw that I was wrong in my assessment of Wally and the Beaver’s mom. June was not the 1950s version of a robotic Stepford Wife, as I once had believed.

Thanks largely to the acting skill of Barbara Billingsley, the character of June Cleaver was often more complex and substantial than I had seen in years past. She showed wisdom and compassion. In the context of life in the 1950s, she was assertive when she needed to be and showed restraint when it was prudent.

Over time, I grew to appreciate June Cleaver; and in a good way. She was a mom’s mom. She was always there and always got it right. She became a standard against which I measured myself---even though I knew I would always fall short. But so what? Never let the perfect be the enemy of the good, right?

So when I read in the newspaper that Barbara Billingsley, 94, died last Saturday in her home in Santa Monica, I felt a deep pang of sadness. In a larger sense, I felt as if I lost a member of my family. She was always there, in the background, and I was happy she was there.

In real life, Barbara Billingsley’s children actually likened her to June Cleaver; and they meant it as high praise. Her son Glenn described her as “nurturing, classy and lovely” in real life as June Cleaver was on television.

So in honor of Barbara Billingsley, may every wife and/or mother reading this resolve to do one thing---just one thing---in the next seven days to re-connect with our husbands and/or our children. Even something as simple as an extra hug, kiss or I Love You.

See you next week…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.
Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

"Perfect" People Make Me Sick

This column was first published here on October 13, 2010.
Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,
in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

Newspapers love to report “human interest” stories on people with Lou Gehrig-like devotion to duty.

A paper in Rotterdam, New York told the tale of high school teacher and coach Rick Pepe, who retired after 37 years without once taking a sick day. When asked how he could never be sick for nearly four decades straight, Pepe gave credit to “the good genes and good work habits he inherited from his parents.”

Another paper in New York reported on the death of New York City garbage man Louis “Gags” Gagliotto, “an icon in the Department of Sanitation,” who worked on the back of a garbage truck from 1957 to his retirement in 2007. Not once in those 50 years did he take a sick day.

Then there was the story about Chester Reed, 95, the oldest employee of the U.S. Postal Service, who retired last July after 37 years at the USPS Processing and Distribution Center in San Bernardino, California. When asked if he ever worked sick in 37 years, Reed said "Nope, I'm pretty healthy. I eat onion sandwiches. It's very simple: You take two slices of bread, you put a lot of mayonnaise on either slice; then you cut a great big slice of onion and put it in between. The vinegar in the mayonnaise will kill the heat in the onion; and then you'll have a delicious sandwich, which is very healthy."

With all due respect to the homeopathic qualities of onions, I think Mr. Reed’s explanation is more a baloney sandwich than anything.

To be blunt, people who never, ever call in sick make me sick. Sometimes literally.

Because with the truly rare exception of perfect physical specimens who are never actually ill, people who never call in sick sometimes come to work sick. And they often spread germs and disease to me.

My husband shares my view. He typically refers to “perfect attendance” awards as the I Infected Others Prize.

Don’t get me wrong. I know that a lot of people who don’t call in sick when they should, do so because they don’t have paid sick days. No work, no pay---a terrible thing in this down economy, where folks are scrapping for every nickel.

And devotion to duty is a great quality, of course. But what worker-bee types never seem to remember is that their duty to keep the hive humming includes not spreading germs that makes other bees sick.

Because even if you think you’re tough enough to handle a case of influenza, others are not. There are literally millions of people in the Chicago area with fragile immune systems. Babies and pregnant women are at increased risk for serious complications related to the flu. So are people with asthma, diabetes, and HIV infection---as well as folks receiving treatment for cancer.

For them and for most people, the flu knocks you on your backside. It comes on like a Mack Truck and leaves you feeling like road kill.

I had the flu several years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday. One moment I was up and about, feeling fine. It seemed like only an hour later I was on my back, wrapped up in blankets, battling a chill I had never known before, and being attacked from the inside out. The virus was attacking my joints like a prize fighter hitting a bag in the gym.

I hadn't known such pain with an illness. My husband wrapped me in five blankets and I couldn't stop shaking. The fever raged on. I just wanted it all to stop.

What got me most is that I am certain I got infected by a co-worker one cubicle over, who hacked and coughed on several of us for a week and refused to stay home.

So this fall, do yourself and others around you a favor. Get a flu shot; and a pneumonia vaccination, if you’ve never received one. See your doctor, go to your local pharmacy or call your local health department. This year, shots are more available than ever.

You don't need to be Lou Gehrig, or even "Gags" Gagliotto. Just "think prevention" and think of the other guy.

Stay healthy, and see you next week…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

Fun With Fakery

This column was first published here on October 6, 2010.

Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,

in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

You probably read in the news about the man who on the evening of Thursday, September 9, walked into the CTA bus barn near 103rd and Stony Island and so successfully impersonated a driver that he made off with a bus---and actually picked up and dropped off passengers on the South Side, even returning his bus before he was found out and fled.

Incredible.

I wonder if the driver was inspired by the antics of Vincent Richardson, the 14-year-old Police Explorer cadet who in 2009 used a Chicago Police badge, a uniform and a whole lot of gumption to walk into the Third District Police HQ at 71st and Cottage Grove and successfully talk his way into working a beat car for five hours before he was discovered.

Is this the start of a trend? Mostly qualified yet uncredentialed people doing jobs without permission and without want of a paycheck?

If so, I have a few suggestions.

** Faux Maid: a local woman dons an apron, convinces me she is a fully qualified housekeeper and cleans my house---and yes, she does windows. Cheerfully.

** Wanna-Be Taxi Driver: a local man pulls up to my curb in a spacious sedan and gives me rides here, there and everywhere to get errands done.


** Imitation Pet Care Specialist: he walks my dogs, picks up the poop, and even cleans out the cat’s litter box.

** Spurious Chef: she may not really be the classically-trained executive chef she claims to be, but she whips up a good meat-and-potatoes meal for my family.

** Pretend Painters: one day, a half-dozen 20-year-olds show up at my front door, insist they are college kids struggling to put themselves through school, and proceed to paint my walls, ceilings and outside trim. And then clean up after themselves.


** Rogue Road Crew: sure, they don’t really work for IDOT; but they have the equipment, materials, expertise and desire to show up at two o’clock in the morning and quickly fix the Harlem Avenue overpass and any other axle-busting local road projects that have been sitting half-finished for what seems like forever.

And my favorite, Ersatz Eccentric Millionaire Philanthropist: not quite a real millionaire, but he has plenty of dough and desire to pay all my bills. Hey, I’ll play along!


Fun stuff…

~ ~ ~

Moving from the fake to the factual: It seems like everyone has a cell phone these days, right?

Wrong, believe it or not.

According to the Pew Research Center’s Internet & American Life Project, 82 percent of American adults own a cell phone; yet among those of us age 65 and up, that figure falls to 57 percent.

Among the 43 percent of seniors who don’t have a cell phone, the reason is very often cost. It’s just not in the budget.

Yet a cell phone can be a valuable lifeline when you need an ambulance or police, and you can’t get to a landline phone.

Knowing that, Cook County Sheriff Tom Dart is collecting old cell phones for seniors in need. (Even without a wireless service plan, donated cell phones are reusable because any working mobile phone call dial a 911 call center---which is a federal requirement.)

If you have an used cell phone that you’d like to donate, go online to cookcountysheriff.com and find the drop-off site nearest you (city or suburbs); or call Katie Walsh at the Sheriff’s senior services office at 773-869-7878.

Tell her the City Mom sent you.

What’s junk to you may wind up saving another person’s life.

Have a great week…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.

Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com