Something fishy

Posted on January 9, 2012 by Mrs. Fitz

Baseball, tis said, is America’s pastime but I think fishing is. Granted, you can’t fish everywhere since water is required. In that sense, it’s a specialized activity unlike baseball, needing only some ground to ensue. However, it is the greatest leveler of rank, race, and skill. With the rarest of exception, EVERY human can fish. Not every human can play baseball and some who do, shouldn’t.

Golf, tis said, is a metaphor for man’s eternal quest to succeed, but I think fishing is. Granted, no great angler is yet the envy of all man-kind, whereas golf spawns demigods. In that sense succeeding is humbler. However, landing a big one exceeds by far any fairway victory. By far. If this isn’t known to you, you haven’t landed one yet.

Football, tis said, is the peacetime battlefield of true warriors but I think fishing is. Granted, it is solo, slow, repetitious. The outcome depends not on who is better but who is lucky. True warriors know this to be true.

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Pier pressure

Posted on January 9, 2012 by Mrs. Fitz

Before Navy Pier became NAVY PIER, famous epicenter for single-mingles and family frolic, it was the pier Dad took me and brother Eric and brother Mark in 1961 to meet his Swedish kin, who docked a boat there, a boat that was part of their little fleet of cargo ships.

Either it was a huge boat or I was small and it seemed huge to me. It was about the size of the current Odyssey, the spiffy ship that tools around the lakefront every day giving passengers wowee-views of Chicago’s skyline.

I don’t know if the boat we boarded had a name. I know being welcomed by its captain was my first brush with privilege. We were treated as if we were special, though we hadn’t done anything vaguely special in our lives to date, as far as I recall.

The captain brought us to his cabin. The captain ordered a round of Swedish soda pop from a fellow who looked accustomed to fetching what the captain ordered. We drank the pop, which tasted like sugar water and looked like sugar water.

I didn’t mind leaving soon after because there wasn’t very much to do on the boat. I minded mightily leaving the feeling of privilege behind.

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Sew Sew

Posted on January 6, 2012 by Mrs. Fitz

I think people who crochet are special and my Mom was among them. I don’t know the history of it – how it came to be that a hook and yarn in the right hands created stuff.

I do know lots of stuff can be created.

Mom wrapped my two brothers and me in crocheted blankets when we were too young to know what to do with our arms and legs. She crocheted me a hat and scarf with fancy flowers all over them when I was two years old. This get-up, in which I much resembled a potted plant so wowed the crowds, she ended up making sets for lots of my cousins. She went through a prolonged beret stage that I think she enjoyed more than the giftees who received them. Berets are essentially plates with sides and they look odd on most heads, I think.

She crocheted coasters for about five years before she died, while recovering from a stroke. By rough estimate, there now exist enough coasters they might replace currency in a large American city.

I favored her angels. They were yarn dollies, about 3 inches tall and she crocheted tiny wings of silver yarn for each one. When I was 10 years old, she took a chance to teach me how to make one, since I couldn’t, can’t, don’t crochet. She decided my angel could very well be wingless and I could compensate for this omission by stitching an expressive face on my angel.

This season, as is our norm, I hung one of Mom’s angels and my angel on our Christmas tree. Side by side, her’s is flawless and ethereal. Mine grimaces and appears either offended or mad; or both.

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For Heaven’s Sake

Posted on January 5, 2012 by Mrs. Fitz

When what isn’t present, gently presents itself, it’s a surprise. It’s a present. During the holiday season that happened two times, both in a church, both when a choir sang Ave Maria, a hymn Mom had sung on rare occasions when courage overcame her timidity at family events during the 1960’s.

It’s futile to write about music because sound doesn’t translate well in words, at least not by me. But it would be cowardly not to write about the power of sound to summon a moment that isn’t bound by time and isn’t encased in space.

During a wedding, the singing of Ave Maria catapulted my self back to a time years ago and far away. During a holiday service, the singing of Ave Maria transported my Mom from heaven, where she now resides, to the pew where I was sitting. She sat there, too.

Emotions got the best of me. That is, the best of me surfaced. I cried. I didn’t know any other way to say thank-you.

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Man on a mission

Posted on December 9, 2011 by Mrs. Fitz

I am trying to become a good citizen of Chicago, in part because my husband and I are new-ish residents; in part because I am old enough to give back without payback; and in part because Chicago can use good citizens.

As a member of an advisory council for public media, this week I listened to its CEO give a speech at its annual board meeting. Since I am a journalist, I was inclined to respond to his message on the critical role of authentic news reporting and analysis; but as a citizen I felt a big puff of pride that another citizen would speak fearlessly and ferociously when he might have done otherwise.

It matters little the exact words he delivered though “Journalism explores controversy. It does not EXPLOIT controversy for sport” has a memorable ring I enjoy. What matters is that you can hear some rousing speeches in Chicago. What matters is Chicago is a rousing place. I like that about our city.

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Wilder and Wilder

Posted on December 9, 2011 by Mrs. Fitz

I don’t know the historical significance of Wilder Park: Who it’s named after, why it occupies acerage in the center of Elmhurst, Illinois; when it morphed from prairieland to park. But it is uncommon, common ground.

It isn’t devoted to one thing in particular so citizenry can pretty much just use the place. There is a library. There is a greenhouse. There is a museum devoted to shiny rocks. There is an waterless stone grotto that looks premordial. There are tennis courts and there is a skating rink with a warming house. Now that’s a lot of stuff; but there is left plenty of room for play. And that’s what little Elmhurstonians did with it.

I tried out my first pair of ice skates on Wilder Park’s rink and found out if you are a girl trying out ice skates, then a boy will come up to you to hold your hand since it can be constued as helping and bears no connection to dating of any sort.

I was 9 years old when skating became my first foray into social life, that is life not spent in home or church or school. Dennis helped me skate. I hope his life turned out very well because he gave me a present. It’s completely possible to feel happy and new and free at any unexpected moment.

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Little dolls

Posted on November 10, 2011 by Mrs. Fitz

I think Mom’s least favorite household chore was dusting, based on the fact she had me do it. Why baseboards and dresser tops require this attention eludes me but I did the deed every week in our 3-bedroom Elmhurst ’50s ranch house.

My dresser top was problematic. For each of 11 birthdays, I received a new porcelain figurine. Each was a different 3-inch fashionista commemorating the great month of March, in which I was born. They were on my dresser top, a gathering of mini-mes dressed like flowers, like ballerinas, like gentry, like heroines, depending on the whim of the manufacturer that year.

I didn’t enjoy dusting them but over time, I got used to them. They were pretty. They had pretty outfits. They had pretty smiles. My favorite wore a light brown coat and coral hat and little muff. Unlike the other ones, who were posed to twirl or leap or flit about, she didn’t do anything. But she looked ready to.

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Miles of style

Posted on November 10, 2011 by Mrs. Fitz

I was in high school when I was gifted with a 3-piece set of luggage, this despite the fact I never traveled except in the backseat of Dad’s car, driving to see Mom’s relatives who lived scattered in suburbs west of Chicago.

My set was the color green you see on mossed rocks – not a standout color but not ordinary, either.

My favorite was the mid-sized piece because it was a perfect square and small enough for me to walk with it, which I did sometimes just to get the feel. The smallest piece was called a train case, a giant shoe box with a handle. It had a plastic compartment tray inside intended to organize a woman’s little stuff, which I did sometimes just to see if I had the right things to meet the criteria.

I left the big piece alone. You’d need a helper to carry it and since I had no such person, it wasn’t much fun to work with.

I think this gift was an acknowledgment of sorts from my parents, who thought of things I would need someday and got them for me. They were good parents that way, thinking of what I needed instead of what I wanted.

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Showy snow

Posted on November 6, 2011 by Mrs. Fitz

In 1967 it snowed in Elmhurst Illinois like it never snowed before. It snowed elsewhere around Chicago, of course, but Elmhurst’s snow was OUR storm. 23 inches may be slight to important states like Colorado but for Illinois 2 feet? Mammoth.

Our ranch house became, not slowly, but suddenly, like a pebble that tries and fails to hunker down in sand as waves crash shore. Our home wasn’t covered by snow. It was encased. Relations among Dad, Mom, Brother Mark and I blossomed amid this shared thing. Lending a brush-with-fame element was the fact that eldest child, Eric, worked for City Services of Elmhurst. We Larsons, huddled like a human lump of companionship in our shelter, had blood connection to someone working to control this mess.

We didn’t actually sleep the night. We sought out each other and listened. Wind. Eric whooshed home late, exhausted and triumphant and brave to us.

Alive in the morning after, Larsons reverted to form. Mom and Dad did Mom and Dad things, honoring routine like the talisman it was. Younger brother Mark gave me the look I knew and often ignored. It was the look that defied conformity but didn’t foment rebellion, just invited it. It really was a terrific look.

We fetched hooded jackets and sallied forth to where the front yard was supposed to be. We igloo-ed into the drifts. We clawed a shelter and inhabited it. Then sleep-deprived big brother Eric came outside with a camera and took our picture. I can’t recall another time we looked so damn happy.

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Skill development

Posted on November 5, 2011 by Mrs. Fitz

Dad married Mom when he was nearing 40 years on earth, enough time surely to have learned how to cook; however a single instance during growing up years disproves this hypothesis.

Dad cooked a chicken on the Sears Roebuck grill he purchased, I believe, as an art object. It was a spiffy looking thing, green, sleek and bigger than a small horse, more like a miniature WWII tank.

What gave this endeavour some uumph were the number of requests he made. Dad asked assistance of Mom, brother Eric, brother Mark and I more during the cooking of this chicken than he had done during our entire youth. This was the most over-indulged poultry ever put to pot. Ultimately, the chicken was undercooked and we didn’t eat it but it was a stunning effort.

Subsequently Dad stuck to making BLACK COWs. His comprised fantasy. Hires root beer and Prince Castle vanilla ice cream met in glass mugs on summer nights like sweethearts, like fated sweethearts, like long-separated sweethearts.

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