Springtime in Chicago

A Matter of Semantics

Springtime is the season of blossoms and light green leaves bursting out of the branches of the hearty trees that stood tall during the winter.  Brightly-colored sprouts push out of the soil and offer yellow daffodils and white tulips and the world awakes from its cold slumber.  Yet, “spring” is a relative term.  In Florida, Spring Break implies adult refreshment on a sunny, sandy beach, but when Son #2 and I headed to the Windy City for his Spring Break, Mother Nature clearly had forgotten to advise Northern Illinois of the change in season.  Admittedly, compared to late January, the version of winter we experienced more accurately may be described as a Midwestern Spring, but again, it’s all relative.

Winter coats felt like a must, and it wasn’t just us thin-blooded southerners.  The subways were awash in dark peacoats and hunched-over passengers trying to keep the wind away when the El’s car doors opened and whisked in more passengers and more chill.  The rain felt frigidly cold on our skin, even if it didn’t accumulate along the sidewalks as a sloshy, snowy mix.  Despite the scarves and hats and boots and layers in which we wrapped ourselves, the wind found our weather-wear weaknesses and exposed us to its twisting, blustering madness.  This gloomy drizzle defined Chicago’s version of spring, but it just wasn’t the version of spring I excitedly anticipate.

Hope for the Season

So off we set into the city where we discover our own springtime in the paintings and sculptures of the art museum, and as we force our extended family to hold hands playfully through the galleries recreating a Ferris Bueller field trip.  We submerge ourselves in the U-Boat exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry and laugh at the crowd of tourists waiting for an elevator, yet failing to press the call button.  We take an express elevator to the top of the Willis Tower (even though everyone on the planet knows it as the Sears Tower), and witness for ourselves a view across Lake Michigan, northward into Wisconsin, and south into the farming heartland.  From this vantage, it seems perfectly obvious that despite Old Man Winter’s best attempt to disguise the city, spring has crept into the City of the Big Shoulders.

And then we find the proof in a green lawn with the hint of fresh growth sprouting on the ivy of the far brick wall.  Despite the thermometer’s reading, the spirit of awakening and rebirth arrives in the hopes of Cubs fans gathering at Wrigley Field for the first game of the season.  The joyous exuberance of being back in the cozy field, ball hawks chasing the fly balls from batting practice, t-shirts, pennants, and players faces on a myriad of trading cards for sale from dozens of make-shift

stores line the pathway from the red line to the gates.  And there the famous sign proclaims, “Welcome to Opening Day!”  Robert Redford himself takes the mound and hurls his Roy Hobbs pitch towards home plate.  The crowd removes their well-worn, beloved Cubbie caps for the singing of the national anthem, and suddenly it is springtime in Chicago.  Maybe this is the year that the notorious streak without a Series win fades away and this first day, this beginning of a new season, this sign of springtime arriving after the brutal winter brings a fresh lightness of spirit and hope for the beloved boys of summer.

Crossing the Mississippi

End of the Semester

For sixteen weeks, I focused on my academics, and by “focused,” I mean mostly focused on my academics.  The second half of freshmen year, quite possibly the most worthless of my college studies, became an exercise in minimalism: what was the absolute least I could possibly do to get fifteen more credits under my belt?  Of course, I sometimes missed class for unusual circumstances, like it was snowing, or it was Tuesday.  Three of my classes met just once a week.  My strongest effort for the duration, an entire term paper in one week, happened to be completed during spring break, and then I just hung on to it until the semester ended.  And on top of everything else, I saved money by not buying any text books.  The semester ended when my father drove the three hours to the campus to pick me up.  I had a mega-fun summer job lined up in a sunny, warm climate, and I was delighted to put the monotonous semester behind me.

Parents can be tedious (I know, I am one) so taking the time to stop at the Decatur Public Library on the way home from college to do research sounds like the continuation of my academic nightmare that I thought had passed.  Yes, after sixteen repetitively dull weeks, I had the privilege of beginning my summer in a library in Central Illinois with my father researching a distant grandfather in the Army of the Republic and his regional regiments.  And as an added bonus, we routed through a small town near the heart of the Land of Lincoln – a town with a coincidentally identical last name to ours – to check on any connection to that same relative who may have marched through Atlanta with Sherman.  Welcome to summer break.

When History Wakes Up

As we decelerate to the posted, ridiculously low speed limit, we pass the miniature community church bearing the town’s name.  (For months thereafter, my father jokes that he started his own religion.)  But the dearth of residents slows our progress in learning more about the history of the town, so when we spy an elderly gentleman tending to his garden, we pull into his dirt driveway.  And like most small towns, the man warmly welcomes us to his little hamlet.  Within moments, he erases any possible notion that the town’s founders have a connection to our ancestors.

But then he shares a story about his family’s history in the region.  As a small boy he recalls his grandparents describing their journey crossing the nearby Mississippi River with their wagons, horses and livestock.  As he describes their passage through waist-high water, I think of the current breadth of the dammed Mighty Mississip, making a comparable modern-day voyage completely impossible.  Considering this storyteller dates back two generations, and his river-crossing family members two more generations beyond that, his story nears the middle of the 1800s, the Civil War, and the very timeframe of my ancestors, which my father and I searched for in the library.  And in this simple recollection of an old man, for the first time, history wakes up, leaps to life, and sparks an entirely new academic interest for me.  If only college proved as interesting as this senior citizen in dirty overalls.