Chicago memories and an anonymous friend (I think)

My children on the steps of my

childhood home

A year ago today, my four grown children and I were in Chicago, staying at the Drake Hotel (a childhood symbol of luxury for me), dining in new and interesting restaurants, and, best of all, touring the city I call home. I hadn’t been back in at least twenty years, maybe more, and it was a joy to show “my” neighborhood to my children.

I had always told them that I grew up in modest circumstances, so they were unprepared for my childhood home. I can still see the sign as we turned into Madison Park, the small enclave on Chicago’s South Side, We passed the Caverswall apartments, then the Early house, the Wieland house, a new house built on my father’s garden, and there it was—1340 Madison Park. Jamie said, “Mom!” Madison Park has been gentrified, and the house sparkled—a brownstone only of red brick instead of brown stone, the wood porch of my childhood gone, the small patch of land in front landscaped.

We toured, by car, the University of Chicago neighborhood, which again astounded the kids with its wonderful architecture, the Gothic buildings of the university, the lovely, tree-lined streets—I don’t know what they expected of Chicago, but this wasn’t it. We drove down 53^rd, the business street I remembered, andsaw my church—good gosh, it looked small.

We ate at Rick Steves’ restaurant, two upscale places, one Italian and one steak, that were owned by the same people, a small bistro across from the hotel, Berghoff’s, and a cutting edge place with a weird menu. My historical Chicago novel, The Gilded Cage, was still relatively new, and a highlight for me was lunch at the Palmer House, a big part of the novel, and the historical tour afterward.

We gawked at the beauty of the city, explored the riverfront (including a picture they tricked me into in front of Trump Tower). They explored the beach opposite the hotel and marveled at the lake—I think Megan expected to see the other shore.

I came home from that trip with a basket full of memories that I will treasure forever. With two hospital stays and a long stretch of questionable health, I may have used up my travel credit card with these four, but I hope not. Toronto beckons, and maybe, a tiny bit, so does New York City.

Meanwhile I, a mystery writer, have a mystery one my hands. Anonymous, that ubiquitous guy, responded to my blog last night, suggesting I let go of my anger (I’m sure he meant political, but it wasn’t really an angry blog). In the back and forth that ensued, I learned that I had once, in his younger years, yelled at him (but he said he deserved it), and he was always just a bit of afraid of me (I’m just assuming a male writer). He liked my blogs about work and family, kids and grandkids, better than political ones. In the middle of the night, I had an aha! moment and decided it was Megan’s high school boyfriend, but she shot that down with, “He was never afraid of you.” So, I’m left with this puzzle, and it bugs me—someone I felt comfortable enough with to chastise (I’m sure I didn’t yell), and someone who knew the family well. Jordan says it could be any of their boyfriends, but I can rule out several right away. Anonymous remains a niggling puzzle to me.