A Father's Flagpole

I was born in Garfield Park Hospital in Chicago.  My brother Shawn was too, and so was one of my brother's that couldn't stay with us.

Don't look for it, the hospital is gone now.

When they were tearing it down Dad drove by one day.  He noticed that they had not removed the flagpole yet.  He approached one of the workers, the one with the bulldozer.

"I'll give you $50 bucks to knock that flagpole down and if you deliver it to my house I'll give you another $50."

The guy agreed and took Dad's money.  He hit the pole with the bulldozer and knocked it over.  Then he moved to the other side and pushed it again the other way until it snapped at the base.

Dad left and didn't hear from the guy for a couple of weeks.  Finally one day there was a ring at the doorbell.

When Dad answered the door there was a man standing on the porch and there was a truck parked at the curb.  There was a 40 foot pole sticking out the front and back of the truck.

"Where do you want it?"

Dad asked him to drop it in the front yard.  He did and never collected the rest of the money.

Dad planted that pole in the front yard and it is standing in front of my brother Shawn's house to this day.

From Garfield Park to Kostner Avenue

Daredevilry

My young Sophia did high ropes this weekend, which reminded me of when I did COPE and Dad shouted encouragements, "You're my hero, son."  I also talked to Boushette on Mother's Day about a story about Dad that I'd like to share.

All but Z, ready to go

When we were camping in Maine at the (then) National High Adventure Base, we canoed across Grand Lake Matagamon.  When we did, we tied our 5 canoes together and strapped logs to them for stability.  We hoisted a big tarp as a sail and crossed the lake in something like two hours.

As we were lazily sailing along, Dad said, "You ain't got hair on your ass if you can't walk across those logs."

Garrett and I couldn't let the challenge lie.  I tried first and fell.  Garrett went next and made it by putting his hand on the head of each man he walked past.  It was judged not to count.

G & me balancing paddles in our teeth

Then we goaded Dad, "Why don't you try it?"

We reminded him, "You ain't got hair on your ass if you can't walk across those logs."

He said, "That's why they call me 'Old Baldy.'"

New Cop

There's a new top cop in Chicago. Mayor-elect Emanuel announced today that he's bringing in the current Chief of Police in Newark, New Jersey. Before that he was in New York.

I thought to myself, "They couldn't find one good cop in Chicago?" I felt a need to call Dad and ask him about it, but then I remembered.

So today's story is from when Dad was a brand new officer in Chicago.

He was a young patrolman alone in a squad car when he made his first stop. It was a little old man.

As Dad approached the car the man rolled up his windows and locked his doors. Dad tapped on the window.

"Sir, please roll down your window and let me see your driver's license."

The man just sat there and stared straight ahead.

Dad tapped on the window again, "Sir, please roll the window down."

Nothing. Dad was confused and panicky.

He went back to his car and called for backup. Before dispatch could assign someone another patrol car pulled up behind Dad's. Two older cops got out and walked up to Dad.

"What's ya got here, rookie?"

Dad explained the situation.

One of the older cops tapped on the window and got the same reaction that Dad had.

"Lend me your nightstick." The older cop said. Dad gave it to him and he stepped over to the car.

"Sir, please step out of your car." The man in the car didn't move. The old cop took Dad's nightstick and bashed out the man's driver side window.

The two older cops pulled the man out of his car, held him by his ankles and shook him until his wallet fell out on the street. Then they put the man down with his eyes still rattling around in his head.

"There you go rook, there's his wallet, go get his license."

They got back in their car and left Dad standing there, next to the man laying in the street next to his car.

Dad looked at the man, shook his finger at him and said, "And don't do that ever again."

He jumped in his patrol car and drove off.

What Happened to the Streetlight

My Dad used to tell this story.  I don't know how true it is, but it doesn't really sound like Dad.

The story is that Dad and Mom were swimming in the back yard and Dad wanted to skinny dip, but Mom was too bashful with the street light bright over head.  With the light on, everyone on the highway (the Kennedy Expressway) could see them.

Dad went to the deck, took his service revolver and shot the streetlight.  By the time he had put the pistol back and turned back to Mom, she had run back into the house.

That light was out for what I remember to be several years in my dim, early youth.  I vaguely remember that after I heard that story I told people that I had always wondered why that light never worked.

True or not, it's a good story.

Papa in the Airlock

Not Papa in the airlock, 

but darn cute none the less.  

Papa and Teeny

I hurt my back the other day and I'm suffering through it.  It's just a muscle pain, nothing to do with my spine, but it reminds me of a story about Dad when he was a cop.

Somehow Dad had gotten into one of those apartment building airlocks with a bad guy.  You know the places, where there is one outside door and another door a few feet away.  The outside-outside door doesn't get locked, but the inside-outside door is the one that has to be buzzed open from someone in an apartment.

I guess this bad guy was REALLY big and bad.  Dad figured he had to hit him fast and hard.  His only chance to get him was to hit first as hard as he possibly could.  So he did.  Dad hit him and he backed up against the door.

He growled and lunged forward, bent over like he was going to tackle Dad so Dad hit him in the side of the face.

He shook it off, raised his hands with a growl and charged.  He was still bent over so Dad hit him again, as hard as he possibly could.

He shook it off with another growl, raised his hands and went after Dad again, still bent over.  Amazed that he hadn't knocked the guy out, and afraid that if he let him stand up straight he would pound Dad into a pulp; Dad hit him again as hard as he could.

Finally the guy managed to talk.  Dad found out that they bad guy had been shot previously and the bullet had lodged near his spine.  When Dad backed him against the door he had pressed his back against the door knob and the bullet had been pushed so that it was pinching his spine.  He couldn't straighten up or raise his hands above his chest because of it.

All those times he shook off the hit was a growl, what he was trying to say was, "Please stop, I give up," and raise his hands in surrender.

Papa and the Train

This morning I was stopped by a train and it got me to thinking about Dad's train story. I got about half of it typed out on my phone before the train went by, but my phone played dumb and lost it, so now I'm walking home from one of the girls' friend's houses and I'm going to try again.


When Dad was about 12 some of his friends like to hop the freight train, hobo-style, and ride it to Gateway theater. The theater was at Jefferson Park, off Milwaukee Avenue, about two miles away from the house on Kostner.

The boys goaded Dad until he came with them one day. They jumped in an open box car, but by the time it got up to the theater it was going about 60mph. It wasn't a local like they were used to, but an express going to Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

The train didn't slow down the whole time and by the time the boys could jump off they were out of the state and good and scared. Dad was the only one brave enough to call his parents. In about an hour and a half they were picked up by his dad.

They all piled in the car and one by one my Papa dropped the boys off. He didn' say a word to my Dad the whole way. The fear built up in Dad until he could barely stand the wait for his punishment which was sure to come.

Finally they pulled up in front of the house and my grandfather said, "That was a damn stupid thing to do."

So fear was his punishment, and he got home safe and sound. I too have just gotten home so here ends the story.

One Year Gone

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of Papa's final adventure.  We spent the previous day at Boushette's house.  We had no ceremonies, and didn't really do anything special except my brother's and I smoked Backwoods Smokes (I still have one left for you Mike).

Ironically we had spaghetti for dinner.  I allowd myself ice cream even though I'm on a diet.

One story did come up, The Music Class story (really two stories).

Dad was, well, he couldn't sing.  When the nun came in the classroom to teach music she had a pitchpipe and she would go to each row and play a note.  I can still see Dad pretending to be the nun with the pitchpipe when he told this story.  He would hold his hand up to his mouth and say, "tweet."

Dad always sat in the sixth row, sixth seat.  When she got to his row she would stop.  "Is Bill La Fleur in this row?"

"Here sister."

"You don't sing."

Tweeeet.  "Very good."

He played in band once, only because everyone had to.  He played triangle.  Actually, he didn't play triangle.  They made him stand there and pretend to strike the triangle with the tiny little stick.

I have no snappy ending for this post so I will just say bye for now, keep a song in your heart.