-by MOTHER

In the course of business, my husband had a lot of out-of-town guests, all of whom clamored for tours of Chicago. We had a set route we drove. The trip included the Loop, of course, the Museum Campus, a straight shot up the Outer Drive, the boring connection through East Rogers Park along Sheridan Road, then past the magnificent homes of the North Shore to an all-American dinner at one of the hot dog diners in Highland Park.

But the highlight of the trip for me was always in that boring stretch of East Rogers Park. As we crossed Farwell Avenue, I would crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the massive brown fagade of the apartment building that was the final home of my paternal grandparents.

I could just spy the multi-paned windows of the three-sided sun parlor that protruded from the face of the building, sheltering the heavy front door of the three story behemoth. I remember sitting on the old, stiff, over-carved sofa in the living room, watching my Zayde stand at that wall of windows, facing east, davening his morning or evening prayers, rocking back and forth, muttering the ancient ritual.

The hallways of the building smelled like sixty years of unventilated cooking; the stairs creaked on compression. Their first floor door had panes of translucent green glass too high up to allow any light into the dim apartment behind it, and the doorpost had a long abandoned mezuzah painted over by some goyish painter ignorant of its sacred meaning.

The apartment was shaped like a dumbbell: kitchen and dining room at one end; living room, with a Murphy bed and sun parlor, at the other; connected by a long corridor of spongy linoleum. A bedroom, with demur twin beds and a big armoire, and a very old-fashioned bathroom made up the rest of the space.

One day in March of 1960, when I was 11, my Bubby finished making cheese kreplach for Purim, walked down that long corridor, sat on the over-carved sofa, sent my grandfather to the kitchen for a glass of water, and died of a heart attack before he got back.

Sunday was the day to visit Bubby and Zayde in the small apartment on Farwell. Saturdays for my mother's folks, Sundays for my father's. If the weather was nice, and my sister and I were very lucky, our father would walk us one block east to the beach.

My father was a 50s guy. A broad-shouldered, red-headed workingman, such a typical red-head he was known simply as "Red" everywhere he went. He worked six days a week, including two nights, selling tires and auto parts in a dingy tire store, deep in the city. They were long, hard days, for little money and no satisfaction. He came home tired and dirty with no energy for two wild little girls. In the 50s, fathers didn't "do" parenting. It would be many years yet, before he came to treasure long lazy time with his daughters.

So these occasional walks to the beach were milestones that stand out in my memory. I can still feel the strength of his huge hand wrapped securely around my small one. Did I imagine at the time I would grow up and inherit his large, capable, creative hands and his broad, thick shoulders? The three of us would creak down the stairs, out the big, oak door and across the six lanes of traffic on Sheridan Road.

We would pass the old house on the corner that housed my Zayde's shul. A true, old-world shul, not a neat, sanitary synagogue you'd find in the suburbs, but one where bearded old men sat higgly-piggly, with their talisim draped over their heads and cried their prayers in tears of agony, weeping the sorrow of the ages into their keens, each one at his own pace, in his private communion with his God.

Daddy would talk to us, really talk to us, as we walked, just the three of us, down the last block to the beach. He would tell us stories of his life: of his adventures living out in the country as a kid, going barefoot all summer, no plumbing or electricity, buying milk fresh from the cow; of his service in the army during World War II, using his Yiddish as a translator, a wild red-headed Jew, barging into Germans' homes and tossing them out so the Army could move in; of his daily life, the cross sample people who stopped by the tire store, using his charm to con salesman out of the strange and new products that were coming on the market in the booming years of the 50s. My father was and is a world class storyteller; he can make mailing a letter into an adventure. Is the talent to tell stories inherited along with big feet and broad shoulders? We hung on his words.

Farwell beach is not the prettiest beach on Lake Michigan; it's dirty and cramped, but it boasts a block long pier, straight out into the lake. We'd walk the length of it, feeling in our feet the slap of the waves, hearing the power of the water, breathing the weight of the moisture infused air. We'd hang over the sides, looking for fish. We were city-bound children; the idea of fish not confined to a bowl boggled our minds. What were we expecting? A shark? We never sighted anything, but we were endless fascinated by the murky depths of the water, with the frothy, floating seaweed, silhouetted in black against the grey water.

There were always fisherman with their rods and hooks and nets and buckets of flopping fish along the pier. My father would stop to make easy conversation with them; we'd listen, amazed by his comfort with strangers. Eventually we'd get bored, and race each other to the very end of the pier, the first one to reach the beacon light the winner of some imaginary prize.

At the end of the pier we were surrounded by lake stretching to the horizon, north, east, and south. Even behind you to the west, the figures on the beach were a distant block away. On a clear day you might dimly make out the Prudential Building downtown, at forty stories the tallest building in Chicago. We'd focus on the horizon, trying to see Michigan or Indiana, but the view would just fade out into clouds. It was just us, the sensations of the water, and a whole lot of nothing at the end of the pier, an aloneness not often experienced in the crowded city.

Clinging to the beacon, we'd stare down over the wooden railing into the deep water, maybe two feet of visibility, swirling gloom. What was down there? How cold was it? How deep was it? What would it be like to swim? Poor city children, we had no opportunity to learn to swim: no camp, no pool, water was a fearful thing. We'd shiver at the threat of it and turn to run back, the whole length of the boardwalk, our feet echoing on the wood, then the concrete where it joined the land. It was good to be back on land.

The last part of the ritualized walk was the best. As I said, the pier jutted out into the lake, perpendicular to the shore, the waves came in at a slight angle from the north. The result was that debris collected in the crook of the pier, where it joined the sand on the north side of the pilings. At the end of the walk, we always scavenged the debris. What treasures we found!

My sister liked feathers. We both enjoyed the minuscule sea shells, no bigger than our childhood fingernails. But what pleased me most was the beach glass. Back in the days before aluminum cans or plastic bottles, the beach-goers would inevitably strew the beach with broken glass, and the lake polished the glass with ceaseless waves. In early spring there would be a whole winter's accumulation washed up with the rubbish on Farwell beach. Clear, green, even blue fragments, all tumbled by the winter waves to a snowy smoothness, could be found in abundance. I was fascinated by their gentle roundness, softened edges, misty colors and silky surface. I loved to fondle them between my fingers. I love to look into their soft glow.

I would sort through the litter of rocks, dead fish, cigarette butts and assorted garbage, lift out the little fragments of glass, exclaiming over each one, tossing back ones not yet fully matured by the rolling water, until I had handfuls. We'd rinse them off in the slapping waves, and my father would patiently fill his pockets with the wet sandy shards for the stroll back to the apartment.

Once back at my grandparents' we would clean up our scroungings and show them off to the assembled relatives. One particularly good day, my grandmother gave me a small brown glass jar, with a yellow lid, to hold my gleanings. I treasured that jar for years in my secret cardboard box of lifetime treasures.

My Zayde died in 1963, after moving in with one of my aunts, following Bubby's death. My father learned the joys of bonding with children and my teen years included many hours of quality time spent with him. He went on to prove himself a great Zayde to my children. The old shul at Farwell and Sheridan was torn down for condos long ago. I haven't been back to Farwell beach since Bubby died. And nobody takes glass containers to the beach anymore...

Some time around 1983, I came upon that cardboard box of mine on a shelf in the garage, and found that the brown jar had cracked in half. I was heartbroken. I felt like my last link to my grandparents on Farwell Avenue had broken too.