Googling Down Memory Lane
The day begins and the muse, I have missed as of late, shows up for breakfast asking questions. Is that fluffy bread you are eating really qualified to be called a bagel? Look at your feet.
Looking down, I see my Grandmother’s toes and memories flood my mind. Now I am the one that has trouble reaching my toes in order to trim them. At the time I watched her pedicure process, it was the end of the Great Depression.
A child of ten again, I remember growing up in Chicago’s south side in the shadow of Midway Airport in one of the yet to be developed neighborhoods. There were only seven houses on our side of the street, eight across the street and behind them “the prairie”.
The muse says, “Try to Google your past, isn’t everything you need on the internet?” Finding memory lane clogged with change, I found the area where I had lived packed with houses and a large park. Now my youth seems farther away than my toes.
The trips to Maxwell Street, one of the largest open air markets in the states, comes into focus. The surrounding neighborhood was referred to as the Ellis Island of the Mid West; a melting pot of cultures - Greek, Italian, Jewish and Black - living side by side with acceptance. We frequented the part called Jew Town the most. It was the place where almost anything could be found at a bargain.
My Mother wouldn’t let us buy bagels from the open stalls, twelve hard, small pieces of bread sold on a string, but Grandma would take a 2 hour bus ride each way to get them. To be careful as possible, she would wash off any probable contamination from the bagels before we could eat them.
There was the semiannual excursion from our house on Kostner Avenue to Jew Town to buy coats. It took over an hour to get there by car back then, now a Goggle map says 17 minutes if you take the Dan Ryan expressway. Our travels would take us up and back between several stores trying on coats. My Mother kept bargaining with the merchants to lower the price, waiting for that moment, as we were walking out the door, to finally agree to a cost she would accept as reasonable…oh, the embarrassment of it all.
The prairies are gone, Maxwell Street has been moved to accommodate the University. Google says the mile I walked to school is really only half a mile, but my toes are still there. The muse suggests a professional pedicure before she leaves for her next appointment.
Looking down, I see my Grandmother’s toes and memories flood my mind. Now I am the one that has trouble reaching my toes in order to trim them. At the time I watched her pedicure process, it was the end of the Great Depression.
A child of ten again, I remember growing up in Chicago’s south side in the shadow of Midway Airport in one of the yet to be developed neighborhoods. There were only seven houses on our side of the street, eight across the street and behind them “the prairie”.
The muse says, “Try to Google your past, isn’t everything you need on the internet?” Finding memory lane clogged with change, I found the area where I had lived packed with houses and a large park. Now my youth seems farther away than my toes.
The trips to Maxwell Street, one of the largest open air markets in the states, comes into focus. The surrounding neighborhood was referred to as the Ellis Island of the Mid West; a melting pot of cultures - Greek, Italian, Jewish and Black - living side by side with acceptance. We frequented the part called Jew Town the most. It was the place where almost anything could be found at a bargain.
My Mother wouldn’t let us buy bagels from the open stalls, twelve hard, small pieces of bread sold on a string, but Grandma would take a 2 hour bus ride each way to get them. To be careful as possible, she would wash off any probable contamination from the bagels before we could eat them.
There was the semiannual excursion from our house on Kostner Avenue to Jew Town to buy coats. It took over an hour to get there by car back then, now a Goggle map says 17 minutes if you take the Dan Ryan expressway. Our travels would take us up and back between several stores trying on coats. My Mother kept bargaining with the merchants to lower the price, waiting for that moment, as we were walking out the door, to finally agree to a cost she would accept as reasonable…oh, the embarrassment of it all.
The prairies are gone, Maxwell Street has been moved to accommodate the University. Google says the mile I walked to school is really only half a mile, but my toes are still there. The muse suggests a professional pedicure before she leaves for her next appointment.
First published: November 2015
© All rights reserved by the writer
Comments to the writer:doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com
© All rights reserved by the writer
Comments to the writer:doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com
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