Insight: A Windy City Adventure

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

As Christmas break from college neared in December 1972, I was excited to be flying home across the country and spending some time off over the holidays with my family. But I had no idea that my flight home on Friday, Dec. 8, 1972 would be one of the most chaotic but fun experiences of my life.

State Street in Chicago is decorated for the Christmas season
in December 1972 when Ed Pierce was stranded there
overnight when he missed his flight because of an avionics
malfunction and a crash at Midway Airport delaying
flights into O'Hare Airport. COURTESY PHOTO 
  

A group of us from our fraternity rode to the airport in Albuquerque, New Mexico and six of us boarded a plane at 5 p.m. to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport for connections to other flights heading east. We sat together in the back of the airplane and talked about what our plans were for Christmas and New Year’s and when we would be returning for the next semester.

After sitting there and waiting to take off for about 45 minutes, an announcement was made that our airplane required mechanical repair. We were instructed to stay seated while airline mechanics worked to resolve the issue, and that the flight attendants would bring us complimentary food and beverages while we waited.

Since I was under the age of 21, I was not offered any alcohol but my other five friends on the flight had a few drinks while we were stuck there. By the time the plane took off an hour later, everybody was in a happy mood despite our flight being delayed by almost two hours.

About an hour into the flight, an announcement was made that a United Airlines flight had crashed on approach to Chicago’s Midway Airport, and that all air traffic into Midway was being rerouted to O’Hare Airport. It meant that our landing at O’Hare would be delayed by nearly an hour.

By the time we were finally on the ground in Chicago, all six of us from the fraternity had missed our connecting flights. Somebody had an idea that we should call a fellow fraternity brother nicknamed “Murph” who lived there to give us a tour of the city while we were stuck there overnight. He agreed to pick us up and another new adventure unfolded.

Our tour guide “Murph” was working in Chicago as a bartender and had grown up there. He said he would give us an unforgettable tour and proceeded to show us the shoreline of Lake Michigan, and we drove past the legendary Marshall Field’s department store, which was decorated with thousands of twinkling lights for the Christmas season. We parked and walked around the historic Chicago Old Town seeing hundreds of Victorian-era buildings and St. Michael's Church, which was one of the few structures to survive the Great Chicago Fire of 1871.

I marveled when we drove past the construction site for the Sears Tower which was eventually going to be 110 stories tall when finished a few years later. I also enjoyed seeing the Art Institute of Chicago, a building with vast collections of famous American artwork inside.

We kept driving until deciding to stop at a pizza place that “Murph” knew and we had a late evening meal while trying to determine if we wanted to return to the airport or do something else that night to pass the time.

Someone in our group suggested that we should go and hang out at the famous Chicago Playboy Club. We drove there but couldn’t get in because none of us were club members and I was underage. At that point, half of our group continued bar hopping with “Murph” but three of us were invited to go to another fraternity member’s home in the Chicago suburb of Wilmette. Although it was after midnight when we got there, we played cards with our fraternity friend, his mother and his sister, and afterward we all talked for a few hours before finally nodding off to sleep around 3 a.m.

By 10 a.m. the next morning our group had arrived back at O’Hare Airport, and I learned that the next flight to my hometown was at 11 p.m. that night. Rather than waiting at the airport for hours, the ticket agent suggested that perhaps I could get closer to my destination of Rochester, New York by flying to Buffalo, New York about 76 miles away.

Not having many options left to get home, I called my father to pick me up in Buffalo and I boarded the plane.

Outside the airport in Buffalo, I was greeted by my mother, my father and my brother and over the next hour and a half in the car on the way home, I tried to find a good excuse as to why I hadn’t called to alert them of my airline connection issues in Chicago. They told me they had been worried sick about me and were wondering if I had been murdered and could not understand why I had been unable to make a simple phone call to let them know I was OK.

I didn’t have a good explanation for them and agreed that I was wrong not to call or let them know my flight had left Chicago without me.

Looking back at these events 53 years later, overlooking their concern for me was a mistake. But what a time I had. <

Andy Young: Improving vocabulary, inchmeal

By Andy Young

It’s a good thing I was born when schoolchildren were actually required to know how to spell. It’s tougher for youngsters to pick up that ability these days, given "autocorrect" features on electronic devices which remove potentially discommoding composition errors automatically. Young people who spell (and hear) phonetically might assume a shofar was the driver of a fancy limousine. However, a shofar is actually a ram’s horn that’s blown like a trumpet during Rosh Hashanah, and also at the end of Yom Kippur. A shofar is only for special occasions, though. No decent shammash would blow into one during the reading of the weekly parashah, that’s for sure.

I would dearly love to be orgulous about the state of my home. However, like many people of my vintage (those who are coeval to myself), my desultory attempts to downsize by divesting myself of items that I no longer need are almost never effective. I’d like to festinate the obviation of my home’s clutter, but the reality is that I’ll probably have to offcast things inchmeal if I wish to rid my living space of its untidiness.

However, there’s a potentially unexcogitable problem: my parents, like many of their generation, never threw out anything that might someday prove useful. Think empty bottles, plastic containers, sheets of stationary, screws, nuts, bolts, black tape, electrical wire, half-empty bags of concrete, paint cans that might or might not have had paint left in them, and anything else even remotely related to potential home construction (or destruction) projects. I’m guessing this particular trait is heritable, since I too hesitate to discard anything that might someday be of service.

There’s really no way of knowing when some quotidian object that's been doing nothing other than taking up space for decades will come in handy. It’s occurred to me that perhaps the most proficient way to divest myself of all this excess would be to hold a potlatch, which as I recently discovered, is a gift-giving ceremony practiced by indigenous people in the Pacific Northwest. However, there is a shameful dearth of Pacific Northwestern indigenous people in my neighborhood, so that idea is out.

One morning last weekend I awoke shrouded by an unmistakable hebetude but snapped out of it when I realized how fortunate I was to be living above the hadal part of the ocean. My eyes would be utterly useless there, since these areas are located 20,000 or more feet below sea level, and thus are extremely dark. I’ll bet all the ichthyofauna down there are blind.

After a couple of hours of going through my closet I began feeling insatiate, so naturally I began having prandial ideations. When I become esurient my thoughts turn to all kinds of comestibles, like panettone, muffuletta, and even skyr. I’d balk at muktuk, though, and be particularly wary of quenelle and/or yakitori. After all, inadequately prepared victuals can lead to trichinosis or other zoonoses that are a lot worse than mere dyspepsia. And were I to contract one or more of those contagions, it’s possible the sequela that followed would be worse than the disease itself.

Poetry-writing bagpipe players needing a rhyme for squirrel other than curl or earl could turn to skirl, which means to play the bagpipes. I wonder if there was ever a rural girl squirrel who could swirl, twirl, and skirl simultaneously? If I tried to do that I’d probably hurl.

The bottom line: I accomplished almost nothing during my latest attempt at downsizing. But I’m justifiably orgulous over having saved that 2013 “Word-a-day” desk calendar. I knew I’d find a use for it! <

Rookie Mama: ‘Twas the month before New Year’s -- I can’t believe it’s not clutter

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

“All you can take with you is that which you’ve given away.” – Pa Bailey, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’

The most valuable and lasting features of our lives are not material possessions but rather acts of love and kindness shared with others.

And there you have it – You’ve heard some semblance of this, I’ve heard this, we’ve all heard it.

Yet we collectively mad dash to the photo finish of each year with resolutions to start the page flip to January fresh and new.

Among habits atop New Year’s resolutions for many remain the inevitable hopes and dreams to declutter, minimize, and let the rampant consumerism take a beat.

My family is ever-aspirational here – We continue to ask ourselves whether certain household items are really so needed. Do we hold dearly to some items out of legitimate sentiment or out of sheer guilt?

Do we really need two whisks?

Clutter makes us cringe, so we toss, donate and repurpose what we can with intention.

Baby steps. Whisk-y business, indeed.

Our Christmas tree may be artificial – and we’re sure proud of it – but our continued goal toward minimalism bliss is evergreen.

Be that as it may, our family tries at a mega-declutter at the beginning of December, rather than January, our early resolution tradition.

Beginning of December purging of items past is the perfect time to prepare for Christmas presents yet to come.

It’s a time to reflect – room by room – and determine what really needs keeping.

The basement uses this refresh year-round, too.

Last month, I tripped over one of my kiddos’ projects askew on the basement floor, tucked away for who-knows-what.

A family heirloom it was not – Rather, what lay before me was a solar system project from the year before. A glittering, sparkling, Styrofoam mess – Styrofoam is the enemy of our planet, yet here it was emulating several planets.

Too big and bulky to neatly store with our boys’ other school-morabilia, there was no real place for it to live.

I breathed deeply and gingerly asked my son if I could throw it away.

Without hesitation, he gave me a response truly out of this world, solar-system-style – ‘Yes’.

Perhaps he realized that this would be part of his inheritance, his dowry if you will, something to explain to his future spouse, if we didn’t scrap this now.

I chalked it up to a win and thanked my lucky glitter-glue stars for it.

Henry David Thoreau once said, “I make myself rich by making my wants few,” and what wise words indeed.

Our memories are in our minds, not in our things, and whatever problems we have today will not be resolved by purchasing more stuff.

As Americans, accumulation is our jam, unwittingly so, and stuff adds up quickly.

But decluttering your home needn’t be overwhelming or daunting.

Schedule regular times to declutter regularly as you go. Embrace empty space.

Follow the ‘one in, one out’ rule – When you bring a new item into your home, get rid of a similar old one.

For example, coffee mugs. Think of the coffee mugs.

Before buying something, ask yourself if you really need it by keeping non-essentials in your ‘cart’ 48 hours to see if they’re truly needed.

Prioritize experiences over material goods. It takes up less space but capitalizes on fabulous memories.

Other tips that are small works in progress include organizing your phone, limiting distractions, cleaning your inbox, and simplifying your wardrobe.

So toss that spare ‘just-in-case’ kitchen item or donate it to someone who could use it.

Over time, this decluttering will leave you feeling content in a way that no amount of coffee cups ever can.

Because in the end, all you can take with you is that which you’ve given away.

Same goes for old school projects.

No one needs that much Styrofoam.

– Michelle Cote lives in southern Maine with her husband and four sons, and enjoys camping, distance running, biking, gardening, road trips to new regions, arts and crafts, soccer, and singing to musical showtunes – often several or more at the same time!

Insight: Wok this way

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Over the weekend, I noticed a social media post that sought comments about foods that were popular at dinner tables in the 1950s and 1960s but are greatly unknown these days.

It made me think about my own family and upbringing and meals or items we would consume then as compared to now. My mother did not work or drive when I was growing up and she took immense pride in planning and cooking family meals for each day of the week.

She was constantly looking for new ways to improve and add to her meal planning and once she sent for a box filled with handy new dinner recipes from a mail-order company in Pennsylvania.

One of those mail-order recipes was for something called “Porcupine Balls.” It was a kind of meatball rolled in white rice and baked.

Another of her culinary specialties was Hungarian goulash, a mix of tomato sauce, macaroni and hamburger. She served it at least once a week and I eventually came to loathe that meal when I arrived home from school and observed her preparing it on the kitchen stove.

My father’s contributions to our meals were usually canned fruit side dishes that were consumed after the entrée dish.

Some of his favorites as I can recall were small bowls of purple plums or mandarin oranges, each doused with a hearty helping of heavy syrup from the cans they came from.

If I balked at consuming the plums, I can still hear my mother proclaiming, “Just eat them, they will keep you regular young man.” I did enjoy plums, but I never liked piling up plum pits on my plate afterward.

When I asked my father if mandarin oranges were grown in Florida, he told me that he had a friend in high school who once received a box of them as a Christmas present that had been shipped to America from Japan. With his answer, I wondered if instead they should be called Japanese oranges and he told me that was a “ridiculous” proposition.

Other meals or food items my mother served us in the past that I’m glad seem to have disappeared include Campbell’s Green Pea Soup, tuna noodle casserole and Jell-O shaped in molds containing celery or onions. Sometimes her Jell-O molds would have fruit cocktail in them, but mostly she stuck to onions or celery, and I never cared for it.

Green Pea Soup didn’t taste bad, but I had to hold my nose to avoid the smell while eating it. Its odor resembled soiled diapers to me.

Try as I might, the dry, mushy disgusting lump on my dinner plate as a 7-year-old called tuna noodle casserole always turned my stomach. No matter what my mother would add to it including lemon juice, extra mayonnaise or bacon bits, it still tasted worse than cat food.

To my surprise, during my basic training in the U.S. Air Force years later, the dining hall served its own version of tuna noodle casserole, and it was the only menu option that night.

Some other foods that would come home from the grocery store in my parents’ shopping cart would be limburger cheese, liverwurst, canned creamed corn, marshmallow fluff, and sardines.

My father once showed me how he would make a sardine sandwich, but I never could get past looking at the fish heads before taking them out of the can to put them a slice of bread and take a bite.

When my mother would ask if I wanted a “Fluffernutter” for lunch, I would always pass on that too. It was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with marshmallow fluff spread on it. Back then I wasn’t much of a fan of peanut butter and would ask for just a jelly sandwich.

Limburger cheese and liverwurst never really appealed to me as a child. Like Green Pea Soup, it was hard to get past the smell of limburger cheese. No matter how often my mother would try to encourage me to eat liverwurst, which is a kind of spreadable sausage, I never could get past the taste or its aroma. She would put in on saltine crackers or on bread and it was utterly revolting to me.

If I saw her reach for a can of creamed corn from the cupboard to heat up for dinner, it would produce instant upset stomach symptoms in me. To this very day, the sight or smell of creamed corn gives me the chills mentally and makes me want to vomit physically.

I’m sure my mother felt the same way about foods I enjoyed too. Once she visited my home and was surprised to see my wife was fixing some Chinese food on the stove in a wok that we had been given as a wedding present. She told me that ever since she was a small girl, the sight of Chinese food made her ill and she couldn’t eat the meal we were preparing.

All this reminds me of how Mark Twain once described food aversion.

“The only way to keep your health is to eat what you don't want, drink what you don't like, and do what you'd rather not," he said. <

Andy Young: Selflessly (and inexpensively) doing my part

By Andy Young

According to the most recent data available from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, America’s Consumer Price Index (CPI) rose by 0.3 percent in September. A recent Harris Poll found 75 percent of those surveyed reported their monthly expenses had risen by $100 or more, which confirmed the conclusions of the Yale Budget Lab’s finding that current economic policies will increase the average household’s cost of living by approximately $2,300 (about $191 per month) annually.

Economists point to a variety of reasons for rises in the inflation rate which include (but aren’t limited to):

1) increased production costs

2) consumer demand for certain products overtaking available supply

3) natural disasters

4) increased government spending; and

5) increased consumer spending

Most Americans complain endlessly about inflation but do nothing to help curb it. Not me, though. I don’t just impotently wring my hands about knotty problems – I act decisively. And after perusing the list of factors contributing to inflation, I concluded there wasn’t anything I could do about the first four. But the fifth one? That was right up my alley.

The day after Thanksgiving, aka “Black Friday,” has long been America’s biggest single shopping day. It seemed obvious to me what responsible citizens should have been doing to try to fight inflation that day, so after taking several deep breaths I did just that.

I stayed home. I didn’t buy a new car, secure a spot on a cruise ship, purchase any airline tickets, or reserve any hotel rooms. I also passed on procuring lottery tickets, tobacco products, alcohol, or any legal (or illegal) pharmaceuticals.

I selflessly avoided purchasing curtains; sheets; mattresses; pillows; pillowcases; blenders; ironing boards; furniture; power tools; garage door openers; flatware; pots; pans; mixing bowls; sifters; microwave ovens; toasters; juicers; air fryers; pizza stones; or coffee makers. Ditto tickets to hockey; basketball; football or baseball games; golf clubs; fancy watches; or exercise equipment. I steered clear of technology purveyors, buying not a single laptop computer; desktop computer; monitor; gaming system; earbuds; keyboard; iPad; iPhone; mouse; or video game.

Though sorely tempted, I resisted the urge to procure further additions to my impressive wardrobe. That meant no new pants; shirts; sneakers; work boots; sandals; bedroom slippers; platform shoes; boxers; briefs; jackets; ties; hoodies; wristbands; jewelry; personal grooming products; or formal wear, no matter how enticing the deals on them were.

Even though I desperately wanted to, I didn’t purchase a single houseplant; book; record; CD; DVD; magazine subscription; or movie ticket on Nov. 28.

There were some unexpected benefits connected to my selfless acts of commercial abstinence. Thanks to my minimalistic attitude regarding consumption, I didn’t have to rent a storage facility for all the possessions that would have been displaced had I, unlike other, less patriotic Americans, contributed to rising inflation by buying all those things I wanted for myself, my family, or certain special friends.

Apparently, there’s now something called “Cyber Monday” but I stayed completely out of Cyberspace that day, or at least out of the portion populated by cybermerchants; cyberretailers; cybervendors; and similar cybercapitalists. Instead, the Cyberbusiness I did was “unsubscribe” to the flood of emails I’ve been getting from, among others, Amazon; Home Depot; Apple; Ocean State Job Lot; Staples; Tripadvisor; and “Shop Your Way,” none of which I remember actually signing up to receive email from in the first place.

Some hold the current president responsible for America’s ongoing battle with inflation; others fault the fiscal policies of his predecessor. I honestly don’t know who (or what) exactly is to blame for America’s increasing cost(s) of living.

But I’m quite sure it’s not me. <