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| Dressed for winter. Excerpt" "From the South Side" All rights reserved , Stuart Marder, 2014 |
When I was little, my great aunt and grandmother would bring my brother and me to the playground in the middle of the park, where we would wear ourselves out on the swings, slides and teeter-totters. Then we would dig in a huge sandbox, run under a sprinkler in the wading pool and get positively drenched. At the edge of the playground was a cement water fountain. You got someone to boost you up, and there was nothing better than that icy first drink of water in the hot summer sun.
Later as grade schoolers, we could go to the park with friends. We would filch waxed paper from our kitchens, climb up the slides that seemed monstrously high, place the paper under our butts, and whoosh down and down at a million miles an hour. My mother could never figure out why the seat of my jeans was always so shiny!
For older kids and adults, there were full size tennis courts in three different locations. On any given day, you had to reserve a court, or wait patiently for an opening. The courts weren't shaded, so people rarely played in the heat of the day. That didn't stop my friends and me. With a good cap on your head and a spray bottle to cool you down, you could play at least two sets until it was too hot to continue. Unfortunately, no one knew about sunblock in those days, so we all sported red faces and tanned arms. Getting on our bikes, we'd ride down Marquette Road to the deli on Kedzie for root beer Popsicles, chocolate milk and Twinkies. Yum!!
Throughout the entire park ran miles and miles of winding hiking and bike trails. In the middle of everything was a huge, deep lagoon where people fished, sailed model boats, flew radio controlled airplanes, and skated in the winter. Even before the lagoon froze, you could zoom around an outdoor ice rink.As little kids, we had to dodge the hockey players and were forever falling.Because we lived so close, my brother and would walk over in our skates, not coming home until we were numb and shivering with cold.
On winter Sunday afternoons, my dad would drive us over to the sledding hills, where we stayed for hours.My sister, Judi, bought us a genuine wooden Flexible Flier sled with our last name emblazoned in red.
So, watch me make a flying leap onto my belly and steer that sled down the ice packed hill! At the top of the hill, my brother is waving his arms and yelling, "My turn, my turn!!" My father would help me pull the sled uphill, then take off on his own. Not fair!!
At the age of eight, I joined Cub Scouts. That summer, most of Marquette Park was transformed into the Glorious Annual Pow-wow. Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts from all over the Southwest side gathered to proudly demonstrate the woodcraft and camping skills they learned during the year.
The Cub Scouts all competed in an Indian dance contest. We were resplendent in war paint, leggings, fringed shirts and moccasins . Our pack added head dresses complete with "buffalo" horns that actually came from cows, and had to be boiled for hours to eliminate their really, nasty pungent odor. Mom volunteered to boil the horns in a huge pot on an old stove in our basement .Of course .our house smelled like the stockyards for hours afterwards. I ventured downstairs to supervise and beat a hasty retreat.
"Oy, such a smell!"
Even though my dad was a skilled podiatrist, he lacked the right tools to help me make the tomahawk I needed to round out my costume. Max, our upstairs neighbor came to our rescue, using his power jig saw and sander to fashion a really authentic looking weapon . Boy was I impressed! My dad painted the
weapon green (don't ask why) and I glued on some feathers. I was all set for the Pow-wow.
A parade down Marquette Road signaled the start of the festivities. Police blocked off traffic and we were led by officers on motorcycles. I was bursting with pride and excitement as I saw my family waving at me.How cool was that!
A few years later, as a Boy Scout, I looked forward camping all weekend in the park. No time for dancing then .We busily put up pup tents, tied hundreds of knots, whittled tent pegs with our official jack knives, and cooked beans and hot dogs over the fire. No one worried if it rained, because White Castle was only a few blocks away with an unlimited supply of 12 cent sliders. And of course, you couldn't pass up the chance at night to tell ghost stories, roast marshmallows, drink root beer and pee in the campfire.
(A manly right of passage required of all real Boy Scouts.)
When I was in eighth grade, my Boy Scout patrol went on a three mile winter hike around the perimeter of the Marquette Park Lagoon. My mom, ever the practical one,supplied me with long underwear, heavy socks and hiking boots. It didn't take long before I realized that she was right. The rest of my troop was shivering and I was just fine.Of course, I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about my long johns. Finally, Ronnie Meyers, the patrol leader saw me hitching up my Scout Pants and guessed my secret. Instead of making fun of me, he asked me where I got them. I came home with an order for seven pairs of long underwear and thick socks from my friendsl.
As a 16 year old, Marquette Park had a more serious purpose.. Literally, everyone I knew learn to drive in the park....and with the same results. Kids tried their fathers' patience and after a few lessons and numerous near misses, we ended up with our licenses .We would swap tales about traffic jams we caused, about making U-turns perilously close to the lagoon, and about the futile hours spent learning to parallel park.
When you earned your driver's license, you headed right for the Marquette Lagoon in the evenings. What is there about a body of water and a car that brings out teenage lust and romance? But like all good things, there were limits. First, it was really hard to find a secluded parking space. Next, cars in the 60's were rear wheel drive, which meant there was a big transmission hump (pun intended) in the front seat. Finally, just as things were getting warmed up, the police would invariably show up with their flashlights.
"How are you kids doing? "
"We're watching the submarine races,"would come the reply.
"Don'tcha got anything better to do?
" Actually, not, Officer."
Then, in the summer of 1966, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. staged a Civil Rights march through Marquette Park. Some area residents showed up in force to oppose him and a riot ensued. For almost an entire week, the park and nearby Marquette Road were closed to all traffic. Cars and buses were overturned and burned and people were badly hurt. Dr. King was hit with a rock. Our nearby synagogue became a safe house. Time magazine photos featured the ugly events in that week's issue. I was attending college that summer a few mile to the south, and the turmoil prevented me from going to classes. Later that fall, Michael Collins established the headquarters of the virulent American Nazi Party a block from the park, spewing anti-Black and anti-Semitic hatred. Swastikas and White Power signs were in abundance.Sadly, our peaceful park had become a war zone, never to really recover.
In all these many years, I have only once returned to Marquette Park. Only a few of my brave friends have, and they say it's best not to go there.In my mind, fish swim lazily in the lagoon, wooden sleds still zoom down the hills, and the tennis courts echo with the laughter of my best buddies.
I used to be a fantastic place.
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