The End of The End of an Era

Last night, I drove down Western Avenue on my way to see a theater performance. As I passed the Devon Bank, I noticed that there was a recently demolitioned building, empty lot on the east side of the street. I searched my memory banks and it only took a few seconds to realize that the empty lot was the former home of a building that used to be Papa Milano's Restaurant during the 1960's.

The building was a very picturesque one story structure built with red bricks and a green peaked roof, with windows all across the front, and a small protruding peaked roof entrance at the center.

Many businesses have been in that building since Papa Milano's but every time I drive past it, I revisit one or another of the memories of working there during my early 20's so many years ago. Now the visual is gone so I decided to set my story down in black and white ( or should I say in Basil green, Pizza Dough white, and Tomato Sauce red?)

I do not remember if I worked there during the summers while in high school or during my college days but I do remember myself (not at the time ... but in looking back) as a good looking, black haired, svelte, sexy man wearing tight black slacks, black Docksiders, and a fitted white shirt with black tie and ankle-length apron.

I not only waited tables (the beginning of one of many stints in food services) but also made pizzas. The restaurant was a moderately sized, family run establishment and the wait staff served many functions. I do not remember having to bake the pizzas, perhaps there was someone running the oven or if I did have to cook them as well as make them, most likely I did not burn too many or I would have been fired pretty quickly.

The dough was kept in separate plastic bags. You had to flour your hands, open the correct bag of dough depending on the size of pizza you needed, stretch the dough, run it through the roller machine one way, then the other way, sprinkle some more flour on a wooden shovel, then stretch the dough into place as close to a circle as you could get it. Next, you would ladle tomato sauce in place leaving a half inch margin around the outside,  then you would evenly add any meats or vegetables which the customer ordered.

The usual wait-person protocol was to greet the customer, give each person at the table a menu, and bring glasses of water to the table. While they were thinking about what they wanted to eat you would return to the kitchen, cut and fill a basket with Italian bread, select the correct number of bread plates, deliver everything to the table, and finally take their order.

I do not need to talk in detail about the usual order of serving a meal, filling additional requests, preparing and delivering the drinks order, checking on the food (they had a full menu in addition to pizzas,) getting it to the table on time and hot, refilling drinks, taking care of other requests, delivering the check in a timely fashion, and after the party left go looking for and hoping for a tip on the table. In those days everything was done in cash as I do not think credit cards were widely used yet.

If you are a really good wait person, a thing called "flow" takes over when you are waiting tables. "Flow" takes place in many other situations as well when you are working quickly, within a time frame, with many details to remember and not much time to think about what you are doing. Somehow you just remember everything you need to do without having to work too hard at remembering the details, they all just flow as you "run in circles" waiting on five or more tables with anywhere from one to ten people at a table.

Flow is very difficult to achieve when the night is slow and you do not have too many customers. For some reason that is when your service is at its worse, although most likely still passable. But you certainly forget more and need a few more reminders from your customers than you would like to have to suffer.

Finally, comes my favorite memory of working at Papa Milanos. I had been working there for a second summer, by now quite a few weeks into the season. It was a very busy evening with many customers and large orders. No busboys had shown up for some reason, so we also had to bus our tables. Flow took over most of the time. Everyone was happy for the most part.

Enter my story, the person of MAMA MILANO. Let's  just say she was an old world, no nonsense, no frills, unfriendly, Italian woman who was the owner's wife and served as the hostess and cashier. As usual, she sat on her stool up front and as usual didn't go out of her way to support the staff in any way, even though we were so busy and without bus boys.

What she was good at was telling you what to do, correcting your waiter skills, and yelling at you in front of the customers ... again without helping. On this particular evening, she was particularly abusive. After the third time of bawling me out, for three times that I believed I did not deserve it, and without lifting a finger to help me ... I had had enough.

The third confrontation took place in the kitchen and my response was simply to let drop the bread, butter, and dishes I was taking to a table and above the crash announce, "I don't need you to treat me this way! I quit!" I handed her my order book, grabbed my backpack, and walked out the door. I do not remember her response or the look on her face, if it had even changed!

I never looked back nor went back to Papa Milano's again but I certainly thought about the good times and the bad times every time I would drive by. Now the building is gone but the memories of my youth linger.

Grocery Store Stories: High Low Foods

My first job ever was at the High Low Foods on Devon Avneue in Chicago. It no longer exists. I was still in high school and this was a summer full time and school year part time job. I was fifteen or sixteen years old.

The work was not easy. Stocking cans is heavy work. My station was in the 10¢ can area. Across the front of the entire store was a row of racks on wheels, each rack three bins high. The store was known for this area of 10¢ cans of food. Even fifty five years ago, that was a cheap price for a can of food.

I would take inventory of the bins, fill a pallet on wheels with boxes of cans need to fill the empty areas, and roll it to the front of the store. I had a special razor blade tool to open the boxes.

The cans were laid end to end on their side beginning at the bottom of the wire bin and stocking one row on top of the other until you got to the top of the bin. The bins were approximately 24 inches wide by 18 inches deep by 18" high.

When there was a need I also bagged groceries. To this day I am pretty fussy about how my groceries are bagged if only because of my excellent training when I was a youth.

At the end of the evening, we had to mop the floors. The way this worked was that a bucket of soapy water was dumped at the head of an aisle and two or three of us, in a line, would mop left to right, left to right, until we got to the bottom of the aisle.

We would begin at the head of the aisle again this time ringing out the soapy water until the floors were only wet. A final pass would include rolling new buckets along with us which contained clean water, ringing and mopping. making sure the floors were no longer soapy.

Over and over again we did this down the ten or twelve aisles! Tedious work and hard. Each night I worked I would arrive at home with an aching back, fingers rough and nicked from the cans, and starving from having worked with so much food around but not being able to eat any!

Found this old photo of a High-Low on the South Side of Chicago. They all looked the same so I can imagine arriving here to work at the one on Devon Avenue which was five or six blocks from my house.

Another Milestone

As I mentioned in a previous post, being a Gay Man of 70 years, I have not been able to measure my life in milestones as do non-gay men who grew up when I did. In the traditional situation, a man measures his life by his accomplishments and successes but also by family events.

Nowadays a gay couple or individual can adopt and have a somewhat traditional family of his/her own. In the post I discussed what it felt like being a "father figure" and/or mentor to a series of young men who entered Gregory and my life and how this served as a series of milestones for me.

Isaac became part of our experience when he was born to dear friends Jan and Jake and now to me during his recent living in the condo until he leaves for his adventure in Japan.

Ben, Ken, and Alaksh arrived as companions to Gregory when I needed support in providing Gregory as close to a normal existence as possible considering his diagnosis of Young Onset Alzheimer's Disease and also giving myself "away time" from the 24/7 responsibility that is loving and living with someone who has dementia.

One other important young man, who I though about last night as I anticipate his Christmas vacation visit, was also a milestone event for me but I did not discuss him previously. I will use his initials, CP, so as not to embarrass him in this honest essay and if my failing to include him previously caused upset, I apologize and hope to make up for it here.

I first met CP when he was just a child, nephew of dear friends. He did not distinguish himself in my mind over the years of his being part of this multiple nephew/niece group of dear friends whom we only saw each July 4th.

As he grew up, became a man, and began attending university, we reacquainted on a more intellectual, adult/adult level.

I have to admit I was attracted to him: young, handsome, intelligent, kind, friendly. Why wouldn't I be. I was attracted to his respect for me and honoring me as someone to whom he looked up. I was flattered and why wouldn't I be.

While I admit to this "crush," he was never in danger of my acting on the "crush" as I honor the friendship above all else and even more strongly would never betray or seek to realize an inappropriate man/youth attraction/fantasy with anyone so far out of my age range and certainly not without mutual consent.

So CP and I began what was to become months of e-mail communications based on the book, "Letters to a Young Poet" by Rainer-Maria Rilke. Our mutual love of writing was the glue that supported our new relationship. Recommended readings and shared writings were sent back and forth.

We talked about poetry, writing, life, death, and everything in-between. He shared his youthful ideas: sometimes foolish, sometimes insightful. I shared my "wiser" ideas: sometimes foolish, sometimes insightful. Over time we came to know and respect each other and our foolish if not sometimes insightful ideas.

Most often we agreed with each other and most often we learned from each other. Most importantly we peaked each other's interest, motived each other to higher thinking, and motivated our continued sharing.

Since then, conversations have disappeared, understandably so as he became more immeshed in his university studies and as I became more entrenched in my life partner Gregory's diminished abilities due to his diagnosis of Young Onset Alzheimer's Disease.

So thank you CP for being one of my milestones in "growing into old age gracefully" and into having been yet again a mentor to another amazing young man. I look forward to our upcoming visit during your Christmas break. Like the nurturing person I am (and to use an older gay joking phrase - an Old Auntie,) I will probably bake some cookies for your visit.

Youth

While walking today on the Northwestern University campus with Gregory, I had these experiences:

In “Shakespeare’s Garden,” a themed garden that cultivates plants mentioned in the works of William Shakespeare, there was a student with her mother. They both were quite enthralled with what they were experiencing. I could sense how ideal and hopeful this new student was feeling. The whole world was ahead of her! Life lessons were waiting.

Looking back some forty five years ago when I was a new student, I understood that the reason for this ideal-ness, this hopefulness ... is ignorance. She probably feels that alone she can conquer the world. She can make a huge difference. She doesn’t realize what it really means to have her whole life ahead of her and the lessons, good and bad, that the years may bring. She probably does not understand that her life will end, she probably has not even considered the possibility of death.

Maybe my age has made me a little cynical but I now realize that I can only change me. I can only make a small difference in the world. Maybe I can only live life as well as possible, love others, harm no one ... and that is enough ... and in effect this will help change the world. There are very few Luciano Pavarottis, Beethovens, Einsteins, etc. That doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t try but the odds are...

Next we saw a mother taking a picture of her daughter outside a campus sorority. The girl looked so happy. The mother was enjoying her daughter.  As we walked by, I commented to the girl, “Not just a little excited are we?” and she just gushed and laughed. I, in turn, did a private four year mind picture of my days at the University of Illinois at Champaign/Urbana, Illinois, living in AEPi Fraternity, and a warm glow filled me.

Ideal is good. I miss it!

Glenview Schools Memories

Allison was a student of mine some 27 years ago. Last month a wonderful reunion took place at Michael's Museum in Chicago Children's Museum with Allison, Matt her husband, and Hadley their daughter. After visiting in MM we went out to lunch.

After I “friended” Allison's mother Donna, with whom I worked in Glenview School District #34, Allison also found me on Facebook. Allison holds the honor of being the second only former student with whom I am now in contact. Until now, Rose, with whom I was reunited a dozen or so years ago was the only student I still keep in touch with. Once in a while I would run into a student while out and around in Evanston or Glenview, a few memories would be exchanged, and that would be all. 

Those experiences were always gratifying because I mostly have not kept in touch with my students. My belief had always been that as the “mother bird” I helped my students learn how to fly and when the school year was over, I would send them out of the nest to discover their next journey. I did not encourage their returning for visits and we did not exchange addresses. I think that my unspoken feelings were somehow communicated and for the longest time I never heard from any of my students. 

Now with my teaching days so far behind me, and being "old," I can use some thanks for, reminders of, closure to those days. I found that hearing from Allison was very important to me. Sitting with her and listening to her memories of being in my class, hearing stories about what I was like as a teacher and about how I affected her adult life were very moving for me. 

Visiting with Hadley, who is now the same age that Allison was when she was in my classroom, was wonderful. Where have the years gone? How amazing that I got to visit with the next generation of the children I taught. I think that in some ways that was a right of passage for me as well.

These photos were taken by Matt.

Hadley, Allison, Michael

 Hadley checking out some of the collections.

Hadley helping Matt through the "Smaller Door."

Michael & Allison posing in front of the Peek-A-Boo Mini Book Collection Cabinet.

Hadley helping Matt through the "Museum Mouse Door."

Michael and Allison admiring the 1"x1" hardback hand bound book that Allison made some 27 years ago in a book binding workshop that Michael taught in Glenview. It is now part of the permanent collections at Chicago Children's Museum.