Commemorating Martin Luther King’s birthday is fun because dreams are always coming true, slipping in quietly like someone late to church. Today in glumpy and gloomy Chicago, I saw three of them:
1. Near his double-parked car on Wellington, a street known for drivers who honk, alot; a 40ish fellow with strong arms hoisted a senior lady out of her wheelchair, swung her over a puddle the size of a retention pond, into the backseat of his car. Nine cars waited. No honks. A small hand, belonging to the lady he tucked into his backseat, waved and waved and waved out her window like a regent blessing her subjects.
2. A big Penske moving truck backed out of the alley next to the Vic Theater to ease onto Sheffield Avenue, a street where ease isn’t the first word come to mind. Cars in both directions paused while the van driver serenaded them with a jaunty honkety-honk-honk tune he played on his truck horn. Straightened to drive away,he added one more Honkety-honk-honk and four of the delayed drivers tossed him a wave.
3. A mom with three incompatible things – overstuffed shop cart, overheated elevator full of folk, and overly ambitious child too young to walk who figured he’d try it anyway – tried to move her triad off the elevator. One rider held the door open, one rider balance her tipsy cart load and one rider hoisted the would-be walker up onto his shoulder. If her hands weren’t so full, I am pretty sure the mom would have waved her thank-you.