The following is a personal meditation on the experiences and factors that went into creating the unique character I grew into. Written for my entertainment and self-edification. This installment covers 1960–1966, which are split into four subsections: John J. Audubon Elementary; N. Bell Avenue; Carol Stream; and Beverly Shores.
This effort is dedicated to my grandchildren, who, along with my daughters, wife, and sisters, keep me in touch with the good things in life.
I have some vague memories from the summer of 1960; Mom telling us about going to school soon. There might even have been an open-house visit, so we were aware of the first day of school coming at us. Besides we also had the example of our big brother, who’d come home from school and sit at the table diligently doing his homework, and then disappear out the door. That boy was headed for a “technical high school.”
In any event, as I remember it, we were full of anticipation when the day arrived and Mom walked us to John J. Audubon Elementary School—a product of 1893 municipal wealth, pride, hope, and investment in the future. Mom and our kid sister wished us goodbye at the main entrance. Then our brother showed us to our kindergarten classroom. Then he was gone.
(In a year he graduated out of Audubon, on to Lane Technical High School, then he graduated from there to join United Airlines at San Francisco International Airport.)
My "wombie" and I were as confused and apprehensive as most of the other kids. But, we had each other, so already felt comfortable in the new surroundings we had been anticipating.
Our class did have a couple of unfortunates who seemed genuinely traumatized and consumed by the terror of being abandoned by their moms. Still, beyond the scene they were making, what I remember most was a sense of excitement as I took in the room. Big toys scattered all over the floor—with its area-carpets, or mats, that created discrete spaces within this vast room. The coolest was the playhouse fort tucked into a corner. I really wanted to play in it, along with all the other boys in the classroom. So much so that the teacher had to make a schedule for us.
Then there was the, for me, curious "Cloak Room," hiding behind one of those walls, that was shortened to create the entrance. Remember this is Chicago early 1960s, time of epic winters and all students walking to local schools. Our walk was six blocks. Kids needed to bundle up against the harsh Chicago winter. Then unbundle once we got to school. Thus the Cloak Room and the tedious ritual of un-suiting and suiting-up, before leaving the school again. Back to kindergarten.
Our teacher turned out to be sweet and great with kids - still I remember my attention wandering away from what she was telling us, back to the classroom and all the curious things there were to take in.
Coming from a snug ground-level apartment where Dad could easily touch the ceiling, this kindergartener was amazed by the 12’ high ceiling, and to my eyes, massive walls. The walls were lined with blackboards and posters and those ever present numbers and the alphabet, including cursive. The wall that especially caught my attention was lined with beautiful giant wood trimmed windows. The window sills were low, and the top lintels were nearly up to the ceiling height.
<<< It’s worth mentioning that besides having an introspective nature, I had a mother who constantly encouraged us to observe, be curious, and appreciate.
On country drives we’d often hear: “Atmen tief, Kinder. Schmeck die Luft!” (“Breathe deeply, kids. Savor the air.”) She said it so often it became an inside joke among us three in the back seat.
Later on, walking along the lakefront with the skyline off to the side, she'd stop to inhale the view, and over her shoulder told us, “Schau das an, was zwei Hände geschafft hat.” (“Behold, children, what two hands have achieved.”)
That was my mom. And I’m my mom’s son—born and bred to be introspective, with a curious, appreciative heart. >>>
We loved the ritual of milk and graham crackers, then nap time. My flash of memories of this Kindergarten classroom are always filled with a warmth that invites a smile to cross my face.
As the years passed and I advanced through grades and classrooms, I never seemed to lose my fascination with Audubon’s impressive architecture. Thinking on it, I have to wonder how much of that might relate back to my grandfather, a retired brick-building architect. More on that in a later installment of these memories.
At Audubon, in later years, those of us who listened, learned that the ceiling’s height wasn’t just for looks—it was the air conditioning of the 1890s.
We learned that 30 students and a teacher created a lot of hot air, this hot air would then rise up to the ceiling. Then the hot air exited out the top window openings, simultaneously drawing in cooler fresh air through the bottom windows, where we were sitting.
That was the sort of thing that caught my attention because I was confused and fascinated by so much that I saw, and had a driving desire to understand why things were as they were.
Thinking about my fascination with the building details, one architectural mystery from kindergarten lasted me years, if not decades. That being the moulding strip circling the room a couple feet below the ceiling and jutting out a couple inches. What was the point of that? ‘Dust catcher,’ indeed. That is what the teacher called it, the idea puzzled me to no end. That was left unexplained.
It took science classes (reinforced by experiences during renovation projects decades later) before I settled on a theory that made sense to me. Walls hold a slight static charge that attracts dust particles, the dust particles collect, build up some mass, then settle down the wall, getting caught by those traps. Leaving the wall clear to repeat the cycle and collect more dust, as the room was doing its normal air circulation thing. Such were the mysteries and questions flitting across this curious little kid’s mind.
By first grade, I was already infected by my parents' love of reading and books, which is probably why I remember my first Book Fair as a fun standout event. The feeling of independence that came with some cash in my pocket and being left alone to make my own choices was a thrill. Looking back, I think it’s also telling that the first book I ever chose was about our human anatomy. Seems I was already concerned with trying to understand what was inside of me.
The building continued to impress me. The basement held the school’s two large student bathrooms. Before recess, we would be marched through our respective boys/girls bathrooms—then outside to the playground. The other floors only had a small restroom for faculty and student emergencies.
Between the bathrooms there was a massive 19th-century boiler with circulation pumps and piping. It was behind a glass barrier, and visible—painted, polished, and proudly on display for students to admire. The builders wanted to impress generations of students. And I was impressed.
<<< I recently spoke with an Audubon school secretary who told me it's all still there, and in use—a testament to lasting quality. But it’s now sealed behind a solid wall, no longer visible to students. >>>
Up on the third floor we had the gymnasium. I loved the gym classes and that big space, which also hosted school assemblies. That ceiling must have been 20 feet high.
I recall the ropes and poles bundled along the wall. They’d be pulled out into a row across the gym, for the older kids to climb. We younger kids could only stare in wonder. I think it was 4th grade before we were allowed to give it a try. No one was forced to do it - but most kids did. The fat rough ropes were easier to grip, but the poles were more fun to slide down. It took a few tries for me to make it to the top. That felt good. I always tried to squeeze a few extra moments at the top to look around from that rare perspective. We also had old fashioned parallel-bars, side-horses, springboards, and horse hair mats that provided the cushioning of a couple layers of cardboard. And we learned to play dodgeball. No fear.
Of course, those windows again! From up in the gym we could see over the neighborhood to the big city beyond, though we rarely had a chance to enjoy the view much, teachers kept us in line and busy.
Thinking about the gym. One day our teacher announced we were going to have a very special band who were going to stop by the school to play a couple songs. As I remember, she would not tell us who it was - that would ruin the surprise. However, there was a rumor going around in the hallways that really got us wound up. I mean, it couldn’t be true. Not the Beatles. With mounting excitement all classes marched up the stairs and we took our places on the floor.
Right there, on the drum set, look, it was the Beatles! Oh the excitement when the four mop-heads took the stage. Oh no! You can't fool me, that's only some high school students pretending to be the Beatles!
With records playing over the PA, doing the heavy lifting, they gave us a delightful performance. To make sure everyone got the joke, when finishing their last song, they shook their heads so hard that all four wigs came flying off, much to our delighted laughter. I imagine it must have been April 1st that day.
Fire drills were also a welcome break from routine—especially when caught on the third floor and we needed to use the wrought iron fire-escape off the gym. It was narrow, and old, but solid, original and constructed into the building’s thick brick wall. Adding to the fun was being able to look through the stair treads, made of expanded metal, as we gripped the railing.
As the years went on, my focus drifted away from lessons to staring out those ever more magnetic windows. Probably fueled by being introduced to Mark Twain's stories which were like oxygen to smoldering embers for me. Mark Twain validated my fascination with staring out the windows and daydreaming about being out in the country, preferably by a river, and away from people. While never a hero of mine, I certainly identified with Huck Finn.
Beautiful as I found those windows, they also held a menace. Every week, the air raid sirens blared. In a flash we scurried under our desks. Butts toward the windows, with heads cradled between our clasped hands and arms, tucked into our curled-up body. Eyes shut tight - until the school bell rang the all-clear. Then we’d retake our seats, and the lesson would continue without missing another beat.
During third grade things started to sour a little. One day after recess, as we were climbing the stairs, and passed older kids coming down for their recess time—I overheard one saying to the other, “Did you hear? The President has been shot.” It shouldn’t be a surprise that President John F. Kennedy was deeply admired, even loved, in our household - so it literally felt like a gut punch.
Bill Mauldin - Chicago Sun-Times re. November 22, 1963
Upon returning to our classroom, I remember the teacher’s red puffy eyes, as she explained that our President Kennedy had been shot and killed, school was being dismissed, and we should walk back home to be with our families.
That’s what we did. What an eerie stunned walk home it was. To understand the impact on us younger kids, you need to appreciate that the Kennedy family had become a part of our extended family.
Besides the news and what our parents discussed, there was that comedy album sweeping the nation: Vaughn Meader’s The First Family. With that album the Kennedy’s were humanized and personalized and endeared into hearts of children and Democratic parents across the country, in a way that is unimaginable in these cynical times. We had the album and had listened to it often, it was full of nice belly laughs—now that dad, our President, was suddenly dead.
I’ll note that the album remained in our parent’s record collection, but it was never played again. Even though we kids would occasionally ask. My mom told us, the joy and humor was forever robbed of that album. The idea of listening to it was unthinkable.
Just as unthinkable was the idea of tossing that sweet little moment in time, into the trash.
<<< Arriving home from Audubon, Mom was grieving in a way we’d never seen, quietly tearful, heavy. A profound silent somberness emanated from her and permeated our little apartment. Later I would come to appreciate how she already had too much experience at processing unspeakable horrors and the pain that accompanied them.
The next morning we drove to our grandparents where we joined the nation, sitting in front of our respective TVs, processing what had happened, while a bewildering show of pomp and ceremony, (that included the names and inclusion of global dignitaries, who's names we little kids had gotten to know through that comedy album), unfolded over the next few days. Though that story belongs in a later installment. >>>
After our President was buried on November 25th, 1963, we drove home. The flags remained at half mast for a while. The first time we kids ever saw that. But the calendar kept calling up a new month and routine returned. I don't think anyone noticed how profoundly that killing changed our collective mind, not to mention USA's promising future, but this story is about me and not our society.
So for me, life returned to normal, until that morning when I woke struggled to get out of bed. I could barely stand and walk out of our room. No kidding. I inched forward to our living room, straining to get one heel past the toes of my other foot
Dad didn’t believe me, figuring it was another dodge to stay home. He ordered me to walk to the dining room table. I struggled, but got there, six inches a step, while everyone watched.
Then Dad surprised me with an unexpected push to the chest and back I fell. Like a board. Since I really couldn’t move a leg fast enough to catch myself. Fortunately Mom happened to be standing behind me and caught me.
With my sisters standing by aghast, Dad told me, “Okay, I believe you. Let’s go to the doctor,” and we did. There our doctor diagnosed me with rheumatic fever and sent me straight to the hospital, where I was placed into bed and stayed for three nights before being discharged into six weeks of strict bed confinement, bedpans and all.
No school! My dream had come true. Only to learn an important life lesson: the problem with dreams coming true is that there’s always a catch. For me that meant staying in bed—No cheating.
Being the smart guy he was—Dad knew the boredom would overwhelm me and lead to mischief. Especially with the temptation of my brother’s unguarded room (the rest of that story will show up later). Dad decided it was time to break down and buy a TV set. Figuring it was the only way to keep me in bed. He was right. It worked. Without realizing it, I learned firsthand why some called it a boob tube. Latch onto that electronic nipple and all else fades away.
Assignments came home, I completed them, but little sank in. Returning to school was a shock. Sadly my teacher handled it as poorly as I did. It was time for another life lesson, whereas love begets love, resentment begets resentment.
That was about the time I got to know the Principal’s Bench—a place of fearful foreboding and sideways glances. To my surprise the anticipation was always much worse than the Principal's bite, so my life went on as I stumbled through the third grade.
Fourth grade and another teacher who didn't seem to care for me much, and rather than putting up with her constant slights, I became the class clown and reduced school work to a joke—What, me worry? Not a good strategy. It led to more trips to the principal's office and then a counselor's office, who had me take a bunch of tests and asked a bunch of questions.
<<< Of course, I was just a kid and lots happened beyond my awareness. Apparently, my Dad intervened, which is why I was pulled from class and taken in the counselor’s office. In the long run, I learned that I was diagnosed with a reading disability, some form of dyslexia, whatever that means.
What I do know is that I easily transpose some letters, and when a word is spelled out verbally, I still have difficulty visualizing it, which leads to various challenges, not the least of it, a lifetime of being awful at remembering names. >>>
Next thing I know, once a week, after lunch, I’d check out at the office and leave school. Alone. Out into the fresh air and trees to walk down the street a couple blocks to a small school annex building. There I visited with my nice tutor for a couple hours. Unlike my past couple teachers, this one seemed to recognize me, and actually listened to what I was saying, she even seemed to like me. Best of all, her responses were on point and helpful to me in a practical sense. Of course, I appreciate that one-on-one offers a teacher far more opportunities than one-on-thirty. Still she was exactly what I needed, when I needed it most.
After our session was finished I’d saunter back to Audubon, check in, and get back to my class. Since we kids were already used to walking all over our neighborhood, it never seemed like a big deal. Well except for that exquisite feeling of being out and about in the world, all on my own. Even if only a few minutes. That tutor brought the fun back into learning, so my lessons and grades began improving, and I survived to pass fourth grade and move on to fifth grade and even better adventures.
<<< Segue:
After graduating high school, I seldom thought about childhood memories—I was too busy living my newfound independence. It wasn’t until my thirties, when children started coming into my life, that memories would occurs to me. Images with feelings, more than organized memories. Still, my life was busier than ever, so it struck me as amusing, but nothing I ever had time to dwelt on.
Only in these retirement years—and especially these past few years, with a new wave of grandchildren rushing over me—have I spent time developing and verifying my memories with siblings, documents, pictures, and such.
This particular memory always felt surreal, because it didn’t add up in my adult mind.
Get this: a ten-year-old boy leaves his Chicago public school alone one afternoon a week, walks a few blocks to catch a bus, rides for a couple miles, gets off, then walks another couple blocks to another school—for two hours of tutoring. Then returns through the big-city to his original school, in time to sign in, get back to my class until the final bell dismissed us. If I heard that story from someone else, I probably wouldn’t believe ’em.
When I started organizing these memories, I realized the resolution to my dilemma was Google Earth. If I could find my route and that other school, that would be solid proof. A false memory couldn’t be conjured up for all of that. It should be easy enough—this part of Chicago hasn’t changed much. So I tried it.
First a false start, then it all fell into place. There was Lincoln Avenue, of course, my old bus line. Then farther north—Lyman Budlong Public School on Foster Avenue. “Foster Avenue”—that totally rang a bell. Along with it matching my remembered two short blocks walk from Foster to get there. The pieces fell into place.
To double-check, I walked my fingers back to Audubon, then traced my old path to Addison Street, then took a right and followed it to Lincoln Avenue. Google Earth showed me that just before Lincoln, Addison goes under a couple train track overpasses—and there it was—my best eureka moment yet.
Though, this needs another segue.
I’d occasionally had this weird mind’s-eye flash of a Phillips 66 billboard with a Western theme by a railway overpass on a busy street. But I could not, for the life of me, figure out where, or why, I’d remembered it with such vivid familiarity. Where did that memory come from? It’s bugged me off and on for a few years now.
Here was my answer! It was the billboard I stared at from the CTA bus stop bench I sat on—waiting for my bus to arrive. Surely daydreaming of getting out West and experiencing it for myself.
It took a lot of searching, but thanks to GreaseMonkey's, History of Phillips 66 Brand and Logo, I was able to find the advertisement that became sort of a dare in my imagination.
Then the bus would arrive to take me north. I had to remember to be alert and get off at the right stop, Foster Avenue. Then another short walk, and there it was Budlong Elementary and that wonderful, life-altering tutor, whose name I still can’t recall. I was only ten.
It was a splendid, self-satisfying moment—and I guess that’s the real reason I want to do this project.
Hot damn—the memory was real. I was there, and then.
(Irrelevant fun fact: Were I to follow this same Addison Street past Lincoln Ave another 12 blocks, I would have ended up in front of the venerable Wrigley Field baseball stadium.)
Once that riddle was solved, the next one arose: How the hell was such a thing even possible? What kind of teacher or school administrator would dream up a scheme like that? Didn’t they watch Pinocchio and see all the things that could go wrong, sending a ten-year-old out into the big bad world?
Then I remembered my dad. He was the kind of guy who, as a teenager, transferred himself from one high school to another—without his parents knowing about it until long afterwards. Fait accompli.
That helped me make more sense of it. I can easily imagine Dad going down to the Principle's Office and arguing my case. He expected better results, and if this tutor offered that opportunity—well, by golly, he was going to make sure I could see her. Even if she’d moved a couple miles away.
Not asking. Telling them:
'I want my son to continue seeing this tutor and to follow her program. She hasn’t moved that far. She shows results! I don’t care if it’s a two-mile bus ride. Peter can do it. He’s been riding buses for years. I trust him. If there are any problems, we’ll stop.’
There weren’t any problems.
As a bonus, this tutor was curious about me. After we completed the study plan we would talk. She asked about my hopes and dreams and found ways to connect those to my school work—always pushing education as the path to achieving my dreams.
She instilled in me the importance of having ideals and striving to live by them. And she made it clear that it was my duty to continue what we had started, once I was on my own again.
She helped turn my schooling into a positive experience again. For decades, that impact went forgotten in the rush of living life—I'm happy that those memories have returned and that I do recognize it now, because she was a significant hero in my life. I wish I could remember her name, but alas, I was only ten. >>>
Other memories from John J. Audubon Elementary includes the Chicago Fire Department visiting with their fire engines, the pumper truck was impressive, but the hook-and-ladder? That was the coolest of all fire engines, at least back then, for us - the firemen even let us climb onto the side boards—under close supervision, or course.
For real excitement, there was the morning an Air Force expendable jet-wing fuel tank was found sticking in the ground just a few feet from our playground jungle gym. Apparently, a trainer flight dropped it by accident—fortunately, it happened fairly late the evening before, when no one was around. Still—quite the eye opener that next morning.
Even more thrilling was the afternoon that felt straight out of the new TV show, 12 O’Clock High, about a WW2 bomber squadron. Two massive groups of bombers in multiple squadron formations filled the sky outside those enormous windows. Three-by-four planes per formation, one after another, after another. The low rumble of their hundreds of piston engines vibrated through the brick school and our very bodies. Even our teacher suspended class to join the fascinated eyes crowding the windows to view the spectacle. I’m sure she wasn’t the only teacher to do that.
It had to have been over a hundred aircraft. Reminded us of the epic scenes we were watching on television. Our teachers, and the newspaper, explained that they were retired bombers on their final flight to somewhere in the Arizona desert, giving Chicago a final salute. For kids used to practicing atomic bomb air-raid drills, it was an awe-inspiring sight. And for airplane lovers like me, it became an unforgettable memory.
Another memorable moment was the time I tried to defend my twin's honor—who knows for what reason—only to find myself getting whooped on by two ruffians. Then, in came my twin sister, who turned the tables and gave them the whooping. Forever branding those boys as the ones who ran away from a girl. And me? Yeah, the boy who needed his sister to help him in a fight.
Those were the days. "Take it outside and settle it."
By then, my twin was a few inches taller than me—earning the title of "big sister." On that day, I guess she truly won the title.
Because of my spelling and reading issues—while my wombie breezed through with straight E’s (for Excellent) - I had to learn to deal with some stigmatization. Getting labeled as slow or dumb, which bred insecurity and frustration. (Decades later, I came to learn my parents were harboring dark fears about me since I had been a “blue baby” who had barely survived his birth.)
Still, I always knew there was a lot going on inside me. I wasn’t dumb. Probably weird—but not dumb.
For example, when I showed an interest, my dad happily explained to me how to operate the equipment he brought home from Altman’s Camera to test out over a weekend. Gotta know your product, to sell it. Dad taught me how to handle cameras—both still and movie—how to load film and operate projectors. All during my early grade school years.
Truth be told, it wasn’t that complicated, especially for small nibble fingers coupled with an eager mind.
That came in handy, since few had such exposure back then. Whenever the movie trolley with its projector and reels of film were brought in, teachers made me the default projector operator since they’d rather focus on the students, than fiddle with the machine.
No denying—that felt good, and personally reassuring.
As I wrap up my memories of John J. Audubon, there was the most excellent last day of school tradition, when for a moment we felt free of the school’s domination.
Final bell rang and we poured from school willy nilly, every one of us jaywalking, more like j-running—across the streets surrounding our school—as we proclaimed our freedom from school rules, until September cast its shadow again.
I remember watching car drivers, unwittingly caught up in the chaos, most all of them resigning themselves to the moment with tolerance. I wondered if they were remembering their last school bell of the year. With around 500 students pouring out through three exits, I’m sure it didn’t take long for our flash flood to subside and streets to return to normal.
Ironically, or not, by the time we reached the busy Roscoe Street crossing, we were back to our law-abiding, responsible pedestrian selves.
So in early June of 1966 after passing the 5th grade, my sisters and I crossed Roscoe Street to reach our home block on North Bell Avenue for the long dreamed of Summer Vacation, before returning to school for another round. None of us remaining three sibs were aware that we would never be returning to our John J. Audubon Elementary School.
Despite my challenges and hassles, I feel lucky to have been a student there, and have nothing but affection for that school and my time there. My recent visits down memory lane have only reaffirmed that feeling.
