Goddamn, it's dusty around here these days.
That's my own fault, really. Between continuing to stay gainfully employed in journalism, watching the country slide into fascism, white knuckling through existence because we elected a complete and utter moron as president, and seeing the havoc that man and his cadre of confident mediocre white people can wreak in just four short years, I've been preoccupied.
I've wanted to return to this space for a while. I also thought about joining all the cool kids on the newsletter bandwagon, but it looks like the Overton window for that has passed. And my therapist repeatedly asks if I've done any personal writing during our sessions, so I'm certain she spotted a thread she thinks I should pull.
The truth is, I haven't wanted to sit down and write anything, especially in the past 18 months. We're still living in the middle of a fucking pandemic fueled by disinformation and toxic politics, and what happened at the Capitol on January 6 wasn't proof of the strength of America's governmental institutions as much as it was a test for weaknesses — and we're lacking.
Like many of us, I've found solace in the routine and narrowed that to the basics. These days are a "lather rinse repeat" cycle of wake up, video calls, work, care for the dog, exercise, chat with friends, eat, sleep, and do it all over again. I'm like Desmond in Lost, starting every day playing Shotgun Willie on vinyl, eating some vile canned food, pressing a button every 108 minutes, and longing for Penny.
There have been some good things to come out of this. Friendships are stronger. I'll come out of this with virtually no credit card debt. I'm told by people who haven't seen me in a year that I've lost weight. My freezer is consistently full of soup. I can bake a hell of a loaf of sandwich bread. My Criterion Channel queue is nearly empty. And the White Sox are in first place knockonwood.
Oh, and I recommitted to bicycling as my primary mode of transportation. I have a weeklong bike tour of the Natchez Trace Parkway I completed in pre-pandemic times to thank for that. I'm letting my curiosity guide me on the longer rides, which is steering me west. Back to the Chicago of my youth: Hermosa, Logan Square, Belmont Cragin, Six Corners, Portage Park, Austin, and Galewood. Just today, I mapped out and rode a mellow bike route to Gene & Jude's in River Grove that avoids the busiest streets.
Augusta Boulevard and Bloomingdale Avenue are the gateways to any trip to the West Side and the near west suburbs. The latter, in particular, allows me to get to Oak Park, Elmwood Park, River Forest and River Grove with minimal fear of being struck down by some patronage worker trying to be first in line at Johnnie's Beef when it opens. In a hyper-segregated city, Bloomingdale blends the haves and have-nots in a delicate balance; the 606 exemplifies this divide, but the street itself is a continuation of the tension the further west you bike. Bloomingdale, notably, blurs Austin, Cragin, and Galewood.
At the intersection of Bloomingdale and Central Avenues is a bridge that, a couple generations ago, spanned Metra routes and freight rail. From 1977 to 1979, I rode a leased CTA bus — the notorious "green limousines" — over that bridge five days a week, ferried with other kids in the neighborhood from John Hay Elementary in Austin to Prussing Elementary in Jefferson Park. In the afternoons, with the sun in descent, I would turn my head east and marvel at the downtown skyline eight miles away, the Sears Tower, John Hancock Center and Standard Oil Building, three buildings that no longer carry those names in official capacities, rising to the heavens. In the summers, I would tell my mother that I would bike to La Follette Park, then pedal beyond the park to that Central Avenue overpass on my Schwinn Sting Ray, and bike on the sidewalk up that bridge to its acme and stare more at the skyline.
Today, I sated the curiosity of my eight-year-old self and pedaled up that bridge to get a view at the skyline. It's denser these days. The three giant skyscrapers of my youth joined by 150 North Riverside, River Point, the St. Regis Chicago (formerly Wanda Vista Tower and now the city's third-tallest building), the under construction Bank of America Tower and One Chicago, and Trump Tower — a beautiful building worthy of inclusion in Chicago's rich architectural history, marred by a filthy name.
On this unseasonably cool July day, fog clouds obscured the top floors of 875 North Michigan, the St. Regis, and Trump Tower. It was beautiful and, in my opinion, rivals the south lakefront as the premier vantage point for viewing the skyline.
My middle age self, on the other hand, took in the changes within my immediate vicinity. The Metra line is still there, but on either side of the bridge the freight rail site gave way to the inevitability of commercial real estate development. To the west rose charter schools, warehouses and other buildings. To the east, town homes and single family residences complemented the two- and three-flats built during the previous century.
And directly below me stood an AMC multiplex, reawakening after 18 months in deep sleep. I wrote about this vantage point seven years ago for the launch of The Frunchroom, Scott Smith's storytelling series in Beverly. The crux of that story centered on how my curiosity about Chicago shifted from the macro to the micro; from a downtown that felt a world away to the changes happening in the neighborhoods we pass through every day that we don't recognize until the landmarks we recall fondly are suddenly gone, and all that is left for us are memories of what used to be.
I'm 52, entering the stage in life where I say "back in my day" without irony or sarcasm. I never expected to be my mother or my aunts and uncles, reflecting on their younger days with such clarity, especially when presented with concrete evidence of progress. Now that I'm at an age where I can, I understand why they did, and sometimes still do.
I've often said that I've burned through my twenties, learned in my thirties, and earned in my forties. So far, my fifties have seemed like a continuation of my forties — until we entered our Plague Year.
I'm coming around to the belief that our fifties are a time of yearning: for those simpler times when we had an entire lifetime ahead of us; for the chance to go back and tell our younger adult selves to get it together; and to not fritter away the short lengths of road that remain for us, because the journey will inevitably come to an end.
That is a gift most unexpected.
