[An oldie from December 11, 2016] When I was a State’s Attorney at 26th & California, Friday lunches and dinner when a jury was deliberating were often enjoyed in the wonderful enclave of Italian restaurants at 23rd and Oakley.
Those were the days. Marconi’s. La Fontanella. Febo’s. Toscana Bakery. And others. Each offering delicious fish, meat and pasta dishes. A commodity sadly lacking from the menu of one restaurant was wine. Vino rosso. The restaurant did not have a liquor license and thus could not – technically – sell wine (or other alcoholic beverages).
However — as stated on Febo’s menu (Febo’s did have a liquor license) — Un pranzo senza vino, e come un giorno senza sole (a day without wine is like a day without sunshine). So, to remedy the situation, this unnamed restaurant offered “Old Dutch grape juice.” Yep. If you wanted a glass of wine with lunch or dinner, you would look at the waitress and say “I will have some Old Dutch grape juice.” The waitress would nod. And disappear into the kitchen. She’d fill an Old Dutch grape juice bottle to the brim. With superb red wine from a keg in back.
Now you’re probably asking if they ever got in trouble – no liquor license and all. Answer? Never. Not with police, judges, States Attorneys, lawyers, alderman and occasionally Mayor Richard J. Daley (who I saw on at least two occasions) all sitting there – asking for “Old Dutch grape juice” (har har hardy har har). Toward the end of my stretch – the restaurant finally obtained a liquor license. But they still served Old Dutch. With a smile. For old time’s sake.
The Pirate Drill
Our first cruise on Regent Seven Seas, we navigated through the Arabian Sea, the Straits of Hormuz, the Gulf of Aden, the Red Sea, Suez Canal and into the Mediterranean. On our third day out — in advance of traversing the narrows between Somalia and Yemen, we had a “Pirate Drill.” Seriously.
We attended the mandatory emergency lifeboat drill on the first day. But it was the “Pirate Drill” that had everyone talking. And slightly unnerved. Because of the risk of Somali pirates (“extremely remote, folks“), we had a drill for that contingency.
We were told to listen for “Code” announcements. “Code Yellow” (an unknown sighting) meant the crew and staff had to report to duty stations. “Code Orange” (a possible encounter) required all passengers to leave staterooms and gather in halls and aisles in the center of the ship. And “Code Red” (encounter) meant that all passengers were to sit or lie on the floors and the ship would turn on the after-burners. Going left and right to avoid the pirates. And yes, we practiced a Code Red.
But I was ready for those pirates. Little did they know that when I was 21, I studied kung fu. AND I always carried my miniature Swiss Army knife complete with tiny scissors.
The Great Hash Brown Cook Off
[A tasty repeat from September 10, 2013] Donna and I spent a long weekend in Park City, Utah, with some good friends. One evening, we planned to make dinner and dine in. Soooooo I volunteered to make my world-famous hash brown potatoes. No big thing. Well, my friend Jack said “I make hash browns too. Why don’t we have a cook off?” I thought hmmmm . . . a cookoff. With that, the gloves were down, the aprons on and the skillets ready. We went to Fresh Market where I bought some large (ideally organic) yellow potatoes (I used 8) and two large yellow onions. I was stoked. Jack bought similar ingredients. We went back and fired up the stove.
I halved, then thinly-sliced the onions. I washed the potatoes and pitted any “eyes” or rough spots (gotta be perfect). Then cut into small chunks. I put the onions and potatoes into a large fry pan with olive oil then covered on low heat. The object – to cook the potatoes slowly by steaming them with the onions. I stirred frequently. This is a slow process – taking 45 minutes or more. Gradually the potatoes softened and the onions began to darken. I added garlic powder, pepper, salt and a little Italian seasoning. Then I tossed in a large spoon of butter. Mmmmmmm . . . . When the potatoes were ready, I turned up the heat and took off the top to do a little pan roasting for perhaps six or seven minutes. At this point, well done chopped bacon is an option.
The result was wonderful. Jack’s offering was a counterpoint to mine. He first boiled the potatoes and chopped them small and tossed in with finely-chopped onions. He used butter only. His were more traditional flat hash browns with the delicious buttery taste. Mine were chunky and more of a roasted potato dish. The gathering happily devoured both. No winner was declared. It was a toss up! 🙂
An Unsolved Mystery
From the time I was little, my father asked that I keep an “eye out” for pennies, nickels and dimes that may be laying on the sidewalk, in stores or in parking lots. And I did. And I still do. My finds include lots of cash, coins, diamond rings, wallets, phones and 3 wedding rings (see February 17, 2019, to read about the first one).
I recently read the New York Times bestseller — Signs: The Secret Language of the Universe by Laura Lynne Jackson. It suggests that many “signs” come to us — usually from somewhere across the spiritual divide. From those who have “crossed.” And coins may be one of those signs. Excellent book but it seemed a bit too “woo woo” for me. I mean I’ve found thousands of coins over the years. None carried a message that I could see. Anywayyyy. . . . . fast forward to February 19, 2026. . . . .
I went into the local Fresh Market store to pick up a few things for the larder at home. As I came out, I walked by a small area of dirt. As I passed, I noticed what looked like a coin. I stepped back, picked it up and sure enough it was a small penny caked with dirt. I popped it in the left pocket of my coat and went home. I put away the bananas, milk and cereal. And sat down to read the newspaper. “Oh” I thought “the penny.” I reached in my coat and scrubbed it off. And looked. [Fasten your seatbelts]. The coin was a Canadian penny – where Donna’s mother was from. And the date? 1947 – the year both Donna and I came into this world. Two days after my birthday. And a few weeks before Donna’s.
How and why a dirt-crusted Canadian penny from 1947 (I mean why not 1956? Or 1974?) was sitting in front of a food store in Wilmette, IL – where I walked by – I have no clue. Amazing coincidence? Fascinating mystery? Religious experience? Or a sign from . . . . ?
The Custer Battlefield
It was around midnight. August 6, 1969. As we approached the entrance, we noticed that the large gate was ajar. So we pushed it open and drove in. The landscape was pitch black except for the headlights of my ’64 Ford Falcon Sprint. We passed the darkened visitors center, a small gated cemetery and we continued on — passing sporadic white stone markers indicating where George Armstrong Custer’s men fell – and were later buried – on that fateful June 25, 1876. We drove the winding road about 6 miles to the Reno-Benteen Battlefield area where a small contingent of Custer’s men survived for nearly 40 hours of constant attack. We pitched our bedrolls in the center of the tiny circular drive — beneath a star-filled sky – and dozed off. I woke up early – and sat watching the sun make its debut in the Eastern skies.
The Custer Battlefield experience was quite something. 261 of Custer’s contingent were slaughtered by thousands of Lakota Sioux, Arapaho and Northern Cheyenne. The only survivor of Custer’s regiment was a horse ridden by Captain Miles Keogh — Comanche. Comanche survived his wounds and lived until 1891. Today, Comanche is preserved and remains on display at the University of Kansas.
My experience on the Custer Battlefield was particularly memorable for another reason. When the sun was up, Bob (my fraternity brother) and I walked down toward the Little Big Horn River – where some of Major Marcus Reno’s men were detailed to repel the attack on their position. As we walked back to the small turnaround – we heard a rattle. And sure enough there was a giant rattlesnake curled and poised to strike. We backed away, took off our jackets – and held them in front of us. Walking very slowly. Listening. On our way back to the car. We did not want to be victims of nature on this sacred land.
Mulligans
[A repeat from November 9, 2014] When I’m with my buds on the golf course and we tee off on the first hole, a “Mulligan” is frequently offered for an errant tee shot. We call it a “breakfast ball.” It’s a do-over. Even if we’re playing for a few coins, it’s “hit another – nobody saw that first one.”
Wouldn’t it be nice if in life we had do-overs? Mulligans? For errant words or deeds? We do in a way though the granting of a do-over often lies in the province of the recipient of the errant words or deeds. It’s called “forgiveness.” I’m sure we all have things we’d like to do over. Words. Deeds. And we’re all grateful for the granting of forgiveness (or lack of ill consequence). I’m sorry . . . . It’s okay. No worries.
But today, there is a poison of political correctness that can sink careers. Free speech can be crushed. Do overs? For the wrong word? Forget it. Accusations – even though false – are often enough to destroy a life.
I’ve said some dumb things and done some even dumber ones that I’d like to call back. I bet you have too. But in the words of the great poet Omar Khayyam:
“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”
We have some level of control over our futures. The “moving finger” business is probably a good reason to think twice before we act — or speak. And knowing of our own fallibility – and frailty – it’s probably a good reason to consider the granting of Mulligans to others. Forgiveness . . . .
The Polygraph
In “Just Between Us Girls” – I mentioned how lie detector testing (the polygraph) served Isaiah and Darvie T quite well. It confirmed Isaiah’s comment that it “wasn’t Darvie” who committed armed robbery and attempted murder. And the case was dismissed.
When I was a State’s Attorney, the old saying was — if you’re innocent, take a bench trial (before the judge only). If you’re guilty take a jury trial. I have to wonder why more criminal defendants – who claim “innocence” – don’t agree to take a polygraph. It can be done publicly or privately — with results then shared with the prosecution.
Polygraphs normally measure four metrics: respiration; blood pressure; pulse; and skin conductivity (perspiration). They can be used in criminal cases but also in the private sector such as for job interviews. They are also used in matters relating to national security. The earliest truth detection device was developed in 1894 to identify changes in blood pressure. In 1904, breathing patterns were monitored and in 1921 these two metrics were combined. Skin conductivity and respiration were added in the 1930’s.
As to effectiveness, the American Polygraph Association suggests that 87 to 90% of tests have accuracy while third party investigations places efficiency at around 80%. They have been known to fail – but for the most part, they are reasonably accurate. Internationally, the polygraph is viewed differently as “truth” can vary depending on cultural norms.
For those who claim that they are not guilty in criminal cases, why not take a polygraph? But they rarely do. I have to wonder why. I’m just sayin’ . . . . .
Just Between Us Girls
[A summer repeat from April 21, 2016] In 1973, three men entered a small family-owned health food store in Evanston. They pulled guns on the father, mother and 14 year old son. One man began pistol-whipping the mother viciously. Shattering her skull in several places. Another turned on the boy and brutally beat him. The father for some reason was left unharmed. The three took money, some product and wallets and walked out the front. They got into a car driven by a fourth man and drove away. The mother and son were unconscious – the mother near death.
Two men were caught. Isaiah S. pleaded guilty to armed robbery and attempted murder and was sentenced to 10 to 30 years in prison. Darvie T. wanted to go to trial. The case was assigned to Judge Saul Epton where I was tasked as an Assistant States Attorney. We didn’t have much in the way of evidence against Darvie, so my partner and I decided to go talk to Isaiah – the one who plead guilty. Early one Sunday morning, we drove with two Sheriff’s police to Stateville. And we had a chat with Isaiah.
Long story short, Isaiah volunteered to testify against Darvie in exchange for a “reconsideration” of sentence. No obligation. We checked Isaiah out of Stateville and started the drive back to Chicago. Isaiah was in the back of the squadrol – cuffed. As we drove back from Stateville, Isaiah asked if he could “say something.” “Sure Isaiah” we responded. “Just between us girls, it wasn’t Darvie who was there — it was his brother. But I’ll say anything you want.” We talked and Isaiah volunteered the whole story. Darvie was not one of the four. But Isaiah was willing to testify against him. On the chance of a more lenient sentence. What to do? There was no option.
That Sunday afternoon, we brought Isaiah to Chicago Police HQ at 11th & State where he was on a polygraph for nearly five hours. His story passed with flying colors according to the tech. Next day, when Darvie’s case was called, I just said “nolle” (nolle prosequi). And the case was dismissed. The right thing was done – for the right reason.
Oh – and Isaiah? Yeah – we’d told him if he testified a judge might reconsider his sentence. He had told the truth. So we kept our word. And his sentence dropped by a year at each end. The right thing was done – for the right reason.
The Aspen Tree
“The body does not consist of one member but of many . . . If one member suffers, all suffer together. . . ” I Corinthians 12:14 and 26.
Nature affords us many lessons. And yet so often we ignore them.
I read an article about the aspen tree. The aspen has the distinction of being the most widespread tree in North America. Above ground the aspen will grow as an individual tree. But it is below ground that the miracle takes place. Each tree is interconnected with every other aspen in the forest by a common root system. In other words – all aspen trees are part of a living community. A single body. When one tree is sick, the grove rushes nutrients to the damaged area much like immune cells rush to the site of an infection in humans. The root system allows trees close to water to send nourishment to connected trees that may be suffering drought.
I like to think that this planetary orb that we share is one body and each person is a part thereof. And that all we all share a common “root system.” But do we rush nutrients to those who are damaged or suffering? We do but not always.
There is wisdom in nature. All the more reason to lend a helping hand to those that are struggling. And to accept that our small, individual lives have a connectedness with all of humanity. A repeat from July 29, 2023]
The Tree
[A repeat from July 23, 2020] There is a tree in the front yard of my house. An elm. An old elm. Frankly, it is the patriarch (or matriarch) of the neighborhood. Maybe the town. Or state. Every two years we pay a hefty sum to have it injected with a Dutch Elm vaccination. I’ve always wanted to know how old it is – without cutting it down and counting the rings. . . .
I did some research on the subject. There is a metric one can use to determine the age of these magnificent gifts of God.
At a height of around four feet, measure the circumference in inches and divide by pi (3.14). This gives the diameter. For an elm – multiply the diameter by 4.0 and that will give you the approximate age. For other tree species, the multiples are as follows:
x 2.0 – Aspen or Cottonwood; x 3.0 – Silver Maple, Pin Oak or Linden; x 3.5 – River Birch; x 4.0 – Elm or Red Oak; x 4.5 – Walnut or Red Maple; x 5.0 – Sugar Maple, White Birch, White Oak or Cherry; x 7.0 Dogwood, Ironwood or Redbud
In the case of our grand elm, the circumference is 140 inches (I used a long string to wrap around the trunk – and then did the measurement). Divided by pi equals a diameter of 44.5 inches. Multiply by 4.0 = 178. That’s 178 years. Our tree was born in or around 1842. I hope it will be around for years to come. . . . .
Renaissance Hombre 