Independence Day, 2021

Some reflections after a walk in Winnemac Park

The Walk

I live near Winnemac Park on Chicago's North side, a forty-acre jewel that has five baseball diamonds, a soccer field, a prairie reconstruction, a children's play-lot and some community gardens. It is bordered by Chappell Elementary School on the West and Amundsen High School on the East. (None of the Chappel kids wear full armor to school and most of the Amundsen kids are not blond Swedes despite the Chappel "Knight" mascot and the Amundsen "Viking" mascot.) There are apparently no descendants of knights or vikings around to object to cultural appropriation, so for the moment the mascots are secure in their sinecures. The park also features Jorndt Field, a football field with an artificial surface believed to have a capacity of 6,000 spectators. (I was unable to find a definitive answer to this question using Google.)

By walking around the edges of the park and making a backtracking "X" in the middle of the park, I can get about a mile and a quarter of walking exercise. Today, I started walking around 3:30 PM, just as the full afternoon sun in a clear sky was filling the park with steady warmth, driving people to seek the shade of the park's many trees. The park was especially busy today, filled with all manner of groups with everything from a simple blanket and wicker basket of food to more elaborate accommodations featuring tents, beverage coolers, lawn chairs and folding tables. But this is middle America; it is not Ravinia where one is likely to see formally attired parties under capacious tents wolfing down butlered hors d'oeuvres and guzzling Veuve Cliquot from a delicate flute served by liveried staff accompanied by the soft illumination of candles. In Winnemac Park you'll find people who brought their kids crawling about in training pants, gangly teenagers who looked at you suspiciously as do most teenagers when they spot an octogenarian, couples of all kinds obviously in relationships of some sort or simply good friends, entire clans of ten or twenty family members or just couples obviously wanting some time to kick back and enjoy each other's company. And of course, plenty of dogs.

As I walked the perimeter and central "X" of my customary route, I stopped to talk to many groups.

America Is Alive and Well

This is at least true in Winnemac Park on Chicago's North Side.

The first group I spoke with was pretty clearly Latino, but spanning cultures. Their teenaged kids were pretty clearly American while the older adults spoke excellent English but with a definite flair for Spanish pronunciation. They were looking forward to the annual fireworks display that the park has become known for.

I should stop to explain that for the twelve years I have lived across the street from the park, I have been treated to a spontaneously organized fireworks display, put on by various citizens who bring thousands of dollars of fireworks to the large fields in the park for the celebration. Although fireworks are illegal in Illinois (one of the four most restrictive states in the Union when it comes to fireworks) this seems to matter little to the annual exhibit. This year is the first year in office for a new Alderman who succeeded the prior corrupt alderman left over from decades of [Mayors] Daley decadence and fiefdom. He has decided that the fireworks display should not be permitted so it's not clear to me whether this year's display will continue as usual or if it will suddenly be snuffed out by bureaucratic meddling in people's affairs. How does one direct the police to enforce an anti-fireworks (and some say anti-American) ordinance when in other parts of the city we lack the manpower to adequately protect citizens from random shootings and gang violence and murder?

But back to walking.The next group was a much smaller group of adults. I asked if they were waiting for the fireworks to begin and they enthusiastically said Yes. I pointed out that it was probably another 4 hours until it got dark enough for fireworks and they said they just enjoyed hanging out. They wished me an unprovoked "Happy 4th of July."

Next was a somewhat larger group, multi-generational, camped on a small rise next to the High School vegetable gardens. I expressed caution about whether the "show would go on" because of Aldermanic meddling and one man assured me that it would take place because, he explained, most of the "heavy hitters," who brought the biggest, loudest and most spectacular displays were mostly city employees. This caught me off guard. I hadn't considered that. But clearly, if you run for election in Chicago you're pretty careful to protect the vast army of patronage workers who are in no small part responsible for your reelection. Everybody wished me a "Happy 4th of July" and I moved on.

The next group was moderately large but impressive because of its diversity and hospitality. Not only was it multi-generational, it was multi-cultural and multi-racial. Some were heavily tatooed, while others were sporting pristine bodies of newborn purity.They were all uniformly joyous and happy and repeatedly offered me refreshment. (Did I look as though I was about to have a heat stroke? I don't think so!) They had tables laden with luscious goodies for all tastes: unhealthy snacks from Frito Lay all the way to fresh fruit carefully iced, ready to be served and enjoyed. Their version of liveried servants was a somewhat chunky young woman in pastel colored shorts and a spotless, brilliantly white sleeveless blouse standing ready to offer generous helpings of the fruits of a bountiful system of plenty.

Onward again, now crossing to the East side of the park, then north to Argyle Street, finally West along Argyle paralell to the park. About midway on this leg was a family who was entertaining out-of-town guests (Californians originally from Chicago). I stopped to chat with one of the women, Lauren, who introduced me to her husband, who introduced me to his friend, who introduced me to his wife, and so forth. Lauren pointed out her son, announcing he was 15. I looked. He is still has that skinny teenage look even though he's well over six feet tall. I asked if he had stopped growing and she laughingly said No. They offered to feed me and I declined saying that I had already lost 80 pounds since October and was still working on more. This perked up one of the men who was busy preparing the grill as he looked up at me and remarked that he admired my will-power. "Happy 4th of July!" all around and I continued on West, past several teenage girls who I assume are also part of one of those families. The girls were playing that bean bag game where to try to toss the bag into a hole in the far platform. It is a game similar to horseshoes but without the iron and stake. I found out later it is called "Cornhole" (among a number of other names) because the bags are supposedly filled with 16 ounces of corn. One of the young women was deadly. She scored two "bags in hole" while I was standing watching, plus another that was very close.

Next stop was a garden a little farther along Argyle. The woman who tends the garden has a substantial mint patch growing outside of her fenced yard with a sign that reads:

This is mint.
Take Some.
But please don't let your dog pee on it.

I had the foresight to bring a Zip Lock Freezer Bag with me along with as compact pair of electrician's scissors—the kind that communications wiring people used when phones were connected by massive cables requiring the splicing of hundreds of wires with mysterious color codings. I filled my bag with mint and moved on.

Around the corner and on to Leavitt Street I trudged, eventually entering the park from the West. A very dark-skinned man wearing what was apparently an ethnic costume came striding toward me. His hair was arranged under some sort of cap. The entire costume was dark and subdued in color but accented with splashes of very vivid reds, yellow and green. I tried to catch his eye as we passed but we were on separate paths that converged well beyond our crossing point and I was unable to get his attention as he strode proudly past me. Two ships passing in a foggy night despite the brightly lit afternoon sun.

Next a family of five enjoying one of my favorite views of Winnemac Park, for me definitely in a league with Seurat's Le Grande Jatte. The family was on a blanket covered spot in the shade of a deciduous tree; far across the field are two magnificent willow trees, towering over the landscape like like some sort of royalty ruling their domain with all the quiet magnificence at their disposal. I stopped and remarked to the husband about one of the willows which appeared to have some recent but relatively minor storm damage. He looked and agreed, and then introduced me to his wife and kids. The husband and kids had names that for me were very difficult to pronounce and remember, apparently ethnically based. The husband was black and his wife white; he laughed at me and said not to worry because nobody gets those names right on the first try. "Happy 4th of July" again with shouts of "Enjoy!" as I made my way back toward home.

Making my "X" crossing I passed a group for the second time and stopped to show them my bag of mint.

Next I passed a gaggle of teenagers hanging out on the steps of Amunden High School. I asked if they were waiting to see the fireworks and with typical teenage aplomb asked "What fireworks?" Then they were off, looking for more friends to join them in "hanging out."

Next a Latino family, with at least three generations present, along with a number of unoccupied chairs. They sniffed my mint and I asked about the empty chairs and learned that they were waiting for one of the men's brother-in-law.

My last stop was with two young men on a bench, just inside the North gate to the park. I had just passed somebody walking a dog that looked exactly like the dog these two young men had with them. I remarked about the similarity and learned that the dog was a long-haired dachshund. That dog was one of the biggest schmoozers I have seen in some time, lying down with his long snout between he front paws and looking up at me with those adorable eyes that seem to say "I love you" non-stop. The prize for dog appeal today was a tossup between the dachshund and the husky I had passed earlier with those mesmerizing, penetrating blue eyes huskies are famous for. (Approximately 40% of all huskies have blue eyes.) Border collies with "the eye" are high on my list of dog appeal as well.

Finally home. The first thing I did was unpack my mint, discarding the tough stems and carefully washing the leaves. (Not all dogs can read!) Then I prepared lemon/mint infused ice water and placed it in the fridge for later. This is the first time I've tried that, and it is terrifically refreshing.

Before leaving on my walk, I closed all the windows on the East side of my apartment. My next-door neighbors to the East throw an annual 4th of July bash in the tiny back yard. This is a well-behaved gathering of adults that spends the afternoon and evening gobbling too much food that's unhealthy, drinking a lot of beer but mainly conversing quietly. Unfortunately, their grill is right beneath my East windows and if I forget to close the windows my apartment ends up smelling like a smoke house. So I close the windows until cooking is done—a minor inconvenience for otherwise peaceful neighbors. The group is always very eclectic, racially mixed and, I'm assuming, people in various kinds of relationships despite the only flag that is displayed being the gay flag. I don't understand why it is necessary announce your sexual orientation as the two men who live on the second floor of that building do constantly, but they do. I just hope they remember that in many parts of the world doing so might land you in prison or worse.

Not So Silent Night

I have now essentially completed this record, making it ready to commit to the collection I have of similar documents I have written and stored on Dropbox. Night has fallen. I'm sipping lemon/mint infused ice water. The fireworks have started in Winnemac Park despite the Alderman and I can see the aerial bombs exploding in glorious color high above the apartment buildings that shield my direct view of the park. I spent an hour or so today meeting my neighbors, trying to discover what keeps us together as Americans. My answer is simply, "I don't know. But it is something." Perhaps it's the hospitality, the good will, the real belief most of us share in the visions that were expressed by the founders that have existed essentially unchanged despite our faltering attempts at universal application and implementation.

Tomorrow morning Winnemac Park will be covered with the litter of exploding fireworks—paper wadding, empty shells, bamboo rocket tails, and the detritus of picnickers unable to find space in the limited trash containers to deposit their refuse. But the unsung heroes of the Chicago Park District who routinely maintain a huge system of recreation for several million people, will dutifully clean it all up, and next weekend it will probably be baseball as usual again, in Winnemac Park.

May God, or whatever deity you believe in, bless America.