Category Archives: Life

Hibernation

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With snow on the ground, the holidays around the corner, and only seven working days left in the year, I should be in a yee-haw! mood.

And I’m not.

For at least a week, I’ve had PMS or PMS-like symptoms — my breasts are tender, and my whole torso aches with tension. On Wednesday and Thursday I was near tears with frustration. I wonder when — or if — relief will come.

It was a boon to all that I was off on Friday.

Then, with the temperatures in the single digits, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything or go anywhere — not even to read something fun.

Saturday would have been more of the same except I did manage to drag myself to the stores, and J. came over before heading to work and took me to dinner. He arrived bearing gifts — a blue Egyptian cotton comforter set and skirt. Between it and the Vellux blanket, I can’t complain about the cold — in fact, I haven’t even had to turn on the radiators.

Sunday was mostly more of the same. I gave into the mood and slept half the day away, having weird dreams about stairwell traps and Trickster. Finally, I had driven myself stir crazy and made a trip to the store and Bonjour. Not unusually for me, I’m regretting that I didn’t  have it in me to do anything until it was almost Monday — and too late.

How irrational is my mood? Earlier in the week, the wind knocked over two of the lighted wire deer in the garden, and seeing these mere contraptions lying there helpless until the maintenance people set them right upset me almost as much as if they had been living creatures felled by the storm. On Sunday, I was startled and disturbed to see the lobsters at Treasure Island in a different and more prominent place where I couldn’t miss them. I wish Treasure Island would follow the lead of Whole Foods and stop selling live lobsters.

Yes, I’m upset about seeing fallen wire deer and trapped, doomed lobsters.

As I was walking home and reflecting on how self-absorbed all of this is, it occurred to me that this is one of the effects of the colder weather on me. I get out and see people less and turn inward more. It’s not the shortness and gloominess of the days that depress me; it’s the sense of being confined, alone, and lonely. Social activities aren’t always accessible, affordable, or practical. I crave intellectual stimulation, but want mostly to eat carbohydrates, sleep, and wait out the four or more long months until the warmer weather arrives, and once again I feel human.

At least for a while.

Torture!

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During my second physical therapy session, an older woman lay on the bed next to mine moaning something about “torture.” I said that I had felt that way about the work on my shoulder several years ago, and she seemed pleased that someone understood her pain. “It’s torture. They torture you,” she continued.

I was speaking only from memory, from when my shoulders hurt so much and were so weak that I had to lift my arm with the other hand. Therapy had to be undertaken gradually because anything that caused pain (movement) would make the condition worse.

At first we eased into it, but now I recall that at some point when I felt better the therapist picked up the pace, adding repetitions, new exercises, and resistance — a slow introduction to what my neighbor might call “torture.”

During the first session for my knee, I did 10 repetitions; during the second, two sets of 10. Wednesday she told me to do three sets of 10. Not sure that I had heard her correctly with my hearing problems, I said, “You mean 30?”

“Yes, 30. But three sets of 10 sounds better.”

Even if it doesn’t feel better.

Perhaps hoping to demonstrate that, deep down, physical therapists are sadists, I said, half-jokingly, “So next time we’re going to do 40?”

“No,” she said.

“No?”

“No,” she said. “Next time we’re going to add weights.”

I could almost hear the cackle I was sure she had had to suppress.

Lights, camera, 911

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Late yesterday afternoon I was able to get a seat at Bonjour, where in the colder weather I like to watch darkness fall outdoors. It’s a cozy, reassuring feeling to be warm indoors with people under bright lights when the darkness descends and the cold gets colder. I was writing, drinking coffee, and waiting for J.

Behind me was something I’d never seen there before — a wood screen with a painted floral design. Despite sleeping much of the day (a bad habit I thought I’d broken), I was still tired and too incurious to look into this phenomenon.

An older, ashen-faced man looked at me several times without focusing and then told a young man at the counter that he’d better call 911 — he couldn’t feel his legs, and he thought one had an area of discoloration.

The poised young man called and relayed questions and answers such as: “How old are you?” “He’s 59.” He told the man, who had the same emaciated, weather-beaten look as the late Jacques Cousteau, that he’d been advised not to give him anything to eat or drink. They decided to elevate the man’s legs, and he arranged a chair for that purpose. The young man was willing to help but hesitated to touch the patron’s bare, toothpick-thin legs or his socks, so he finally grabbed his shoes to heave up his legs.

The paramedics arrived within minutes and asked the man questions about his health breathing, medications, and so forth. They also wanted to know how he’d gotten there (walked) and how he’d felt when he’d left home. They took his blood pressure — 100/70. He said something about going home, but the paramedics told him that he was going to the hospital. More showed up with a stretcher-chair, and away they went. All this took no more than 10 or 15 minutes.

J. showed up moments later and, after some discussion, was the first to realize that it was a fireplace screen. We watched as cake after cake was lifted carefully off its plate and doily and placed behind the screen, then J. spotted what I’d overlooked — a camera. A photo shoot! It turns out that they were taking photos for the Web site that is apparently in the works. Someday the rest of the world can drool over gâteau au chocolat from Bonjour.

While J. went in pursuit of yet more treats, a girl began hanging around behind me, trying to talk to Madame. “Comment ça-va?” Madame asked. “How are you?” I translated (loosely). The girl looked at me helplessly. “Tell her, ‘Très bien,'” I suggested. She struggled. “Très bien,” I repeated. She said in that fast, breathless way children have, “I’m learning Spanish at school,” perhaps to explain her apparent deficiencies in French. Then she added, “I don’t know any French.” I told her that that is all right, as I don’t speak Spanish. She failed to recognize my attempt, which I won’t re-create here. Sigh.

Madame gave her two ornate, pastel-colored lollipops, but after running off for a few seconds with them, she returned and said, “I don’t think my mom would want me to have these.” I saw her with them later, so even her cautious mother knows better than to turn down a gift from Madame. Meanwhile, my mind had blanked on “merci.”

We stopped at Treasure Island and Borders and came out to tiny snowflakes sparking in the streetlights. With no wind blowing, the air was warm enough that it was hard to mind this precursor to winter.

Next we headed to Valois, where you can “see your food.” I found myself puzzled by the juxtaposition of the Chicago skyline on one side with alpine mountains on the other — not exactly representative of downstate Illinois.

At the Flamingo, we watched as an experienced male bald eagle and his young bride successfully raised two offspring, despite the latter’s rather stupid mistakes, such as turning tail to a 40 mph wind and stepping on the kids. As I told J., it was the old man eagle’s fault for going after a young trophy wife. Almost on that note, he decided it was time to leave for work.

Au revoir.

You put your left knee in

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It’s been several years since I underwent physical therapy for impingement syndrome, so I was a little nervous about the new round of treatment, this time at a different place on a different part of my anatomy — my left knee. It all began with Dr. Knee’s concern about the pain I’ve been experiencing for several years when I walk down stairs.

I was joined in the waiting area by a woman with a crutch, who asked, “Is this your first time here?” Nod. “You will love it!” I took this as an assertion, not a command.

While I waited, she hobbled back and forth to the desk a few times, and an older woman issued forth, walking very slowly and very gingerly toward the elevator and reaching out to the wall for support — a prime candidate for an assistive device. I wondered just how far she was going to have to walk to get to her transportation and her destination, every step painful and precarious. I remembered that, at the other therapy office, I had always appeared to be in much better shape than my fellow sufferers, with no obvious injury or limp. But when the shoulder pain kicked in, invisibly, it was excruciating and debilitating.

The sound of my name startled me out of a half slumber, and reluctantly I hauled myself out of the chair and followed H. to the very back. She directed me to a far less comfortable chair and pulled the hospital-style curtain closed for privacy. Unlike my previous PT experience, there were to be no witnesses to my efforts. She did say, however, that in the future we would venture out into the “gym.”

After asking me why I was there, how long my knee had hurt, and other questions, she had me perform various tricks, such as balancing for as long as I could on each leg (I was able to last almost three times longer on the right than on the left) and bending my knee as far back as possible while lying down (left knee is more flexible than right). She dug into the front and side of my thigh with her palm and into my knee with her fingers. The side hurt more than I would have expected, and she found a tender spot in my knee above the patella (“I’m going to use the proper terms”), right where it hurts when I descend stairs. She explained the anatomy and the underlying weakness. The tendon (I think) is tight, and although x rays revealed no patella problems, she confirmed something I had noticed — the left kneecap is loose. Physical therapy is going to strengthen the function — at least that’s the idea.

I find it fascinating that my two legs have separate lives, but she said that it’s not uncommon.

After all these contortions and measurements of my flexibility, we were ready to get to work. Lie on your side. Lie on your back. Lie on your stomach. Raise your hips. Raise your feet. Repeat 10 times and rinse.

Unlike with my shoulder exercises, nothing hurt.

We finished off with an ultrasound treatment (“this shouldn’t hurt, but it may feel warm,” she said as she spread icy cold sonic gel on my knee) and then a cold wrap to reduce the small amount of inflammation remaining from my August fall.

With exercise handout in hand, I walked out self-consciously — the more normally I tried to walk, the more gimpy and awkward I felt I looked.

While I didn’t exactly exert myself, I felt sore this morning — partly due to the little workout, partly due to being chained to a chair eight hours a day during an especially (and poorly planned) intense time.

Now my shoulders hurt.

Election day and Indian summer

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Two unrelated topics that happen to coincide this year: election day and Indian summer.

After looking at the forecast, I took today off. With the temperature projected to start dropping tomorrow, this really does look like my last day outdoors at Bonjour. It’s tempting to return this afternoon for a final hurrah.

I voted at Montgomery Place, where there were two lines — a longer one for Precinct 38 and a shorter one for 37. The handwritten signs were so light that I didn’t notice them until someone mentioned that there were separate lines based on precinct.

I stayed in the longer, right-hand (38) line out of habit, which turned out to be the right choice. It was perhaps 10-12 people long, and the elderly man ahead of me carefully felt for one of the chairs lined up against the wall. I’m not sure how much effort this saved him because, although I gave him plenty of room, he got up and changed chairs a couple of times as the line moved.

As he provided his information — like my father would have done, he gave his address as “Montgomery Place, whatever that is,” although he knew the address because he spouted it effortlessly later — he added, “I’m blind.” That explained why he sat so gingerly on the chairs. After he signed a form attesting to his disability, he was directed to a chair to wait for assistance. He looked ahead blankly, so I offered him my arm to lead him to it. He said, “Well, I can see your arm!” I did not quite know how to take that, but fortunately a judge came along to lead him. So much for my attempt at chivalry!

The judge started to read the choices and to mark the ballot — whether as indicated, who can say? I was sitting next to them and could hear all that was said, so it was not so secret. It’s no wonder we treasure our individual independence once it is lost.

My turn. This was the strangest ballot I’d ever seen; instead of punching out holes to make my selections, I used a marker to connect two arrowheads by the choice or the candidate. The “booth” served only as a partial privacy shield/desk. The topmost question on the page was in the middle column and was about local district commissioners, I think. It took me a few moments to find the presidential candidates buried at the bottom of the left-hand column.

When I was done, I tried to put the ballot in the privacy sleeve, but one or two judicial retention votes peeked out obstinately. It would have taken only one more inch — but no matter. I plugged the ballot into the collection machine, which dutifully sucked it up — and dutifully spit it out. “Missing initials,” it complained. I had to get a judge to initial it (which strikes me as odd and not very secure). The first two I went to to demurred and sent me to a man who scribbled, “KP” in the box. The machine accepted it; my vote was official. Time spent in line and voting? Perhaps 20 minutes.

Part of me would like to say that I was at the Grant Park rally, but my dominant reclusive introvert self, which hasn’t been sleeping well lately, had no choice but to go home and avoid anxiety by reading. I did well for a while, but then I found out that Google News had posted an automatically updating map. It was fascinating and disturbing to watch the nation divide itself yet again along the usual lines.

The election appears to have been called between 10 and 10:05 p.m. CT. My first clue that it was time to check the map again was when I heard whooping and hollering from in front of the restaurant/bar downstairs.

I’m relieved that it’s over. Months of hyperbole, ridiculous representations, and rampant paranoia. Racism was evident, but so was ageism — there were plenty of people who disqualified John McCain based on his age (not his health) and who pulled out every derisive age-ist term in the cliché book. In the past year I’ve learned that there are two characteristics left that are fair game for mockery and derision: age and weight. Someday I may be both old and fat. So may you. We should all find hatred about either unacceptable.

WWI veterans are virtually no more, and WWII and Korean War veterans are on their heels. As the oldest first-term presidential candidate, John McCain woke me up to the obvious: the young men I remember returning from Vietnam are not only no longer young; they are old. Somehow, I have lived half of a lifetime since then, although it seems like yesterday.

I don’t envy Barack Obama. He’s about to take over leadership of a nation that may be as troubled as at any point in its history. The difficulties are deep and wide, and the solutions will not be instant or immediate. With so much to do and such high expectations, he is bound to disappoint. As one woman I heard today said, “He’s not only going to save black people; he’s going to save the world.”

That’s quite a burden for any one person.

Yes, we can, we hope — but Obama needs to remind us, and we need to remind ourselves, that healing and reconstruction will take time and sacrifices.

Let’s give them to him.

Halloween with Puppet Bike and eating with Obama

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We’re into November already, and it’s warm enough to sit outdoors comfortably at Bonjour in just a t-shirt. This may be the last opportunity of the year, so I marked the occasion by getting a chocolate espresso tart decorated with music notes as a treat for later.

I was going to celebrate Halloween by going straight home from work and vacuuming, then reading in bed — such are Friday nights for the reclusive introvert — but Puppet Bike (and artist/inventor Jason Trusty) saved me from myself with an invitation to a party at the Peter Jones Gallery.

After dinner at the convenient Lloyd’s Chicago (note: shuttered as of June 14, 2019), J. and I headed to the Brown Line at Washington and Wells. There, we ran into “Jesus” — a dreadlocked man dressed in fleecy robes with fashionably tattered jeans showing. He was with a typically dressed young woman, following her and talking seemingly nonstop at her. It was going to be an interesting evening.

As we were walking from Montrose to the gallery, J. stopped as he saw a middle-aged man emerging from a car and asked if he’d taught high school in the south suburbs — he resembled one of J.’s teachers. The answer was no. As we moved on, I pointed out that a teacher who looked like that man 30–35 years ago would be in his 70s or 80s now. The thought took J. aback momentarily — in his impulsive way, he hadn’t thought of that. Who but me would? In my mind, my teachers, most of whom I liked, are frozen in time in the prime of life, in their 30s, 40s, and 50s. Some of the older ones have passed away, and it’s difficult for me to picture even the younger ones as retired. How much the world and education have changed since then!

We ran into this couple a short time after we’d arrived. The man who was not J.’s teacher was dressed in a one-piece, sparkly red turkey costume, but he said the head was too hot to wear. The neck protruded from below his abdomen, with the head hanging limply. He must have picked up a subtle cue from my glance, because he said, “Hmmm, I guess it does look a little questionable.” Later we saw that he’d fastened the head to his chest with a small binder clip. In the meantime, his wife was dressed as a flapper, although he told her plan was to change into a chef’s uniform. I pictured her running him down while wielding a meat cleaver . . .

Homemade costumes can be the most creative, but the one I liked best was off the rack: a pantsuit that made the young woman look like a boa constrictor. To complete the effect, she carried a realistic toy snake over her shoulder and arm.

Alan Emerson Hicks’ “Time Machine” was under wraps for a show in the spring, and the front part of the gallery had been taken over by women’s art. Some of it was very good, and interestingly I can’t say that I would have guessed the theme was women’s art. The subjects were more varied than I would have expected, although not broad in scope. I found a pinhole tintype especially intriguing.

Several people introduced themselves. but rarely can I remember names. In general, the crowd was older than I expected and very friendly.

Puppet Bike, which had been entertaining at a park earlier in the day, appeared at about 9:15 p.m. — for a moment I thought it was going to run me down. J. had to be up by 6 a.m. on Saturday for work and wanted to catch the 11:05 p.m. train, so at around 9:50 I had to drag him and his camera away, successfully only after the third or fourth attempt.

While waiting for the bus, I noticed a lot of adults in costumes. Seeing them combined with the early exit and the ongoing issues I face daily made me wish I had enjoyed life more when I was younger — too many restrictions and too little energy now.

Yesterday J. came over for a pre-sunset walk at Osaka Garden and dinner at Medici on 57th, where their t-shirts proclaim, “Obama eats here.” The important questions are: What does he eat? When? And does he leave good tips? Am I the only person in Kenwood-Hyde Park who has never encountered Obama?

Medici is in a different building than it was when I was in college, and it has changed in other ways, too. Sunday brunch was introduced, and the menu has been expanded beyond burgers, pizza, and drinks like himbeersaft. Last night, something struck me as subtly different, and it took a few minutes before I pinpointed it — the silverware was wrapped in maroon (more or less) cloth napkins, with no paper napkins in sight. I drew J.’s attention to this detail and said, “That’s because Obama eats here.”

Throughout dinner, we admired the door into the kitchen, which is suspended from a vertical beam. On one side of the door is open space (not quite enough to comfortably fit through), and on the other are condiment shelves attached to the beam. If the open space doesn’t provide enough visibility of comings and goings to avoid accidents, there’s a cutout in the door. As busboys and servers dumped off glass after glass, cup after cup, plate after plate for a young man at the sink to rinse and stack for dish washing, I pictured him someday going insane and screaming, “NO! NO MORE OF YOUR GLASSES! I’M DONE! I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT OR THEM ANYMORE!”

After dinner, I visited the facilities and was surprised to pass through a door that hadn’t been there before. I was more surprised when it opened onto a room with a sink and three doors leading off it, like in one of those “Choose the door with the tiger behind it and you die” scenarios from a 1960s spy series. Two were labeled “GIRLS,” one “BOYS.” The old narrow, graffiti-covered stalls are history.

I entered the nearest “GIRLS,” which was surprisingly clean. It also had a sink with an automatic faucet. When I came out, I noticed that the room I had been in was also labeled for disabled access. I told J. that the restrooms had been upgraded because “Obama eats here,” although I did admit that ADA compliance was probably more of a factor.

Before Medici we had stopped at a TV screen in the window at Urban Search and lusted after huge area homes with hardwood floors, fireplaces, and, in some cases, medieval-style exteriors, mostly in the high six figures and on into seven figures. Next lifetime . . . afterward, we nipped into two more Medici ventures — University Market and the bakery. Does Obama shop there, too? I wonder. If so, I recommend the chocolate croissants — which, alas, were sold out.

And so on to the Flamingo for tea and a jackpot version of Antiques Roadshow. Imagine buying a chair that “looks old” at a garage sale and finding out it’s a Chippendale worth $1,500–$2,000 at auction. J. doesn’t understand how the sellers of such items don’t know their value. I told him my theory — that when people are in a hurry to move or clean up, they look at such things as “that old rickety chair that you can’t even sit on comfortably” and say, “Let’s get rid of the old thing.” The appraiser was beside himself with the excitement of such an extraordinary — and recent — find.

An older woman brought a lovely painting of Lake Louise that, if I remember right, she’d bought for $5 while on vacation. I can’t recall the exact appraised value, but I think it was more than $50,000 or $60,000. And to think she’d bought it mainly as a pretty souvenir.

Isn’t this the stuff of every junk collector’s dreams? Remember that the next time you are thinking of getting rid of an old chair or painting . . . it could be a down payment on one of those Urban Search mansions.

Autumn continued at the Morton Arboretum

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This week it was J. who suggested the trip to the Morton Arboretum. First, however, a combination of Bonjour coffee + chilly weather + the walk to the train station and the wait + my squished bladder = a quick stop at Caribou Coffee in Homewood for relief. J. loves this particular cafe, with its standalone fireplace, so after an hour, a scone (for him), and a turkey wrap (for me), we dragged ourselves away — but we were still an hour ahead of our previous week’s excursion.

We were in time to peek into the outdoor gift shop, where J. bought me a hedgehog made of some kind of prickly pods — very cute if not cuddly — in addition to picking up more shopping bags. We also stopped at the cleverly named Gingko Grill for boca mushroom burgers. There’s nothing so refreshing as dining al fresco in a chill wind.

While J. made his mandatory stop at the gift shop, I made mine at the restroom. This proved to be fortuitous. After I finished I read some of the Visitor Center graphics, including one that suggested Lake Marmo is a good place for fall color. A lake — this did sound promising. I love water at any time of year.

After J. made his relatively modest purchases, I looked at the map and steered him to his car. Lake Marmo is on the other side of Illinois 53, and, despite expressing some skepticism about my navigational abilities (“I don’t think this is right”), J. drove through an underpass past what appeared to be a Morton family mausoleum, and along a road through groves labeled such things as “Flowering Trees” until we spotted a body of water sparkling in the intermittent late afternoon sun — Lake Marmo.

We found one of the nearby mini-lots, then set off to walk the circumference of Lake Marmo. It’s one of the few lakes I’ve seen where in many places there are no barriers to the water’s edge — no steep inclines or impossible footing, no vegetation fences — just a straight step from grass into water. Although I imagine it’s not permitted, there are several places that would be perfect for a shoreline picnic — in warmer weather, of course.

The leaves were in better form this week, and we found a vibrant red, whole maple leaf trapped underwater at the edge. Even as we watched, the ripples caused by the wind tried to turn it over and carry it off.

On the far side, we found a waterfall spilling over a curved concrete lip into a lower pool. Despite the man-made look, it would be another idyllic spot — especially if you love the distinctive roar of a mini-waterfall (and you have a strong bladder).

We swung around, bypassed the intriguing Hemlock Hill (presumably named for the trees and not for people who poison), and, while taking a look at the eastern shore, spotted a drake. (J. also saw the female, which I missed.)

When we returned to the mini-lot, a trolley bus was blocking his car’s escape route, and a dressed-up woman and little girl were watching as a photographer took photographs of a large wedding party from the main fork of a tree. We too watched while waiting for the trolley to back up for us. Suddenly J. exclaimed, “Whoa!” I asked what had happened, and he said, “I wasn’t expecting that!” He told me what he meant, and then I saw it briefly — when the bride lifted her long, white, elegant dress up to protect the skirt from getting wet and stained in the grass, she revealed her footwear — carved, brown leather cowboy boots! If only he could have taken a photo of that!

Rudely and insistently nature was calling, so we went in search of an open building with a bathroom. This led me to choose our final destination from the map — Sterling Pond, “dug in 1960 as a sediment settling pond for Lake Marmo.” Like the lake, Sterling Pond drains over a waterfall to a lower level. This area was more hilly and had a slightly wilder look. It, too, was surrounded by autumn colors. Alas, sunset was nearing when we came upon Lake Marmo again, so we backtracked  past Sterling Pond to the car.

After J. read and photographed signs at the Prairie Visitor Station, we headed out. As we rounded a bend, I involuntarily exclaimed, “Oh!” Two deer were picking their way delicately across the road. It was too dark for sharp photos — in the camera’s night mode, there tends to be too much blur — but J. took a short video as one of the deer discreetly tired to hide behind a bare bush. Aside from the standard deer, ducks, squirrels, and rabbits, I wonder what species call the Morton Arboretum home?

My plan to drive around the east side was foiled by a gate across the road — fair enough, as by then it was 15 or 20 minutes past sunset. After driving a short distance on Illinois 53 and not seeing much, we decided to make a return trip to Oakbrook Center.

I was pleased that J. wanted to pay another visit to Moonstruck Chocolate Cafe. I was not so pleased when I turned the corner and saw dark windows. “They’re closed!” I said, because I never miss the obvious.

It wasn’t only that the lights were off. The windows had been covered with black paper. The cafe wasn’t just closed. It was closed. On a window further down, we found a sticker confirming the all-too-clear. I peered through a teeny gap between the edge of the glass and the edge of the paper and saw that the fixtures were gone, and the place had been torn up. I was in a state of shock and denial. I recalled what a warm, inviting place it had been, with the trays and trays of specialty chocolates and “pigs in a pen,” and the pleasant staff who had boxed our purchases with care. I recalled relaxing over hot chocolate and coffee and how much J. had enjoyed it. If we had known that our first visit would be our last, we’d have lingered and taken photos, but we also would have not enjoyed it as we did. There’s something sad about the recent memory of a place when you know what you didn’t know then — that within a week it would be gone, and the memory you didn’t think you needed to cherish is already fading.

J. said, and has said several times since, that he’s glad we finally made it there.

Dismissing The Clubhouse as too fancy for our needs and mood, we settled on Antico Posto, where the wait was 45–60 minutes — so much for an early evening. J., who typically doesn’t complain about these things, later said that the wait was “horrible.” He’d noticed that the table we secured (eventually) had been vacant for a while, which didn’t make him feel better about standing in a crowded bar area for an hour. But bread and pasta did, followed by pumpkin gelato pie. The server made him happier, too, by, as he put it, “looking after him,” replacing his coffee cup because the one he had looked “cold.”

To the Flamingo for another episode of Antiques Roadshow — the end of a lovely autumn day.

Minus chocolate.

I want to grow up—or do I?

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As if two hours of waiting, diagnostic mammograms, and ultrasounds were not exciting enough for one day, last Saturday evening (October 4) I met my first college roommate, H (an ENT); her husband T (a radiologist); and her sister, Ta (a dentist) at Tavern on Rush. I’d come home from the hospital thinking I didn’t have quite enough time to go to Bonjour and relax, but I found enough to shower and to nap. Light napping is how I keep my sanity in this surreal world.

It’s not that I had to brace myself for a social ordeal. Although I had not met Ta, H and T are easy to get along with, and all I need is a somewhat interesting conversation and someone willing to carry most of it. As long as I don’t have to fill in the silences or cover the gaps in my knowledge, I’m content.

It turns out that this early October trip to Chicago had a purpose — to celebrate H’s 46th birthday. Should I have noted that lately I’ve celebrated my birthday by getting out of Chicago?

They reminded me of an incident I had forgotten and that I can’t believe H remembers — I gave her a half can of beer, which made her drunk. In fact, she claims she passed out. I don’t recall that part, but I’d thought she had been acting snookered. I was assured that it was not an act, just as T was about to order the wine.

What had happened to my serious, studious roommate who one day had woken up at 2 a.m., peered miserably at her alarm clock, chided me in Vietnamese, and hurriedly dressed in her sweater-and-jeans uniform, all before I could persuade her that she wasn’t about to miss an important class on her medical doctor journey?

There she was, mother of four girls, dressed in a stylish suit, heels, and glasses, downing wine without obvious impairment — and enjoying it.

During a discussion about sleep apnea, she told Ta she should learn how to make some device for her patients because it’s not hard to do, insurance pays for it, and it makes money. Here was a pragmatic side I had never seen.

The conversation turned to H and T’s children, none of whom seem inclined to follow the medical call — to the great disappointment of their parents. Indeed, one wants to become a graphic designer, perhaps without fully understanding what that is.

“It’s okay as a hobby,” Ta declared, as all dismissed graphic design’s potential as gainful employment. They looked to me for my opinion. Uh-oh. “It’s competitive,” I stumbled. “If you’re talented, you can do well.”

“She’s very good at math and science,” they reassured themselves, still hoping the light would dawn.

“People can be critical of your work; everyone’s a graphic design expert,” I added. Aha! “She doesn’t take criticism at all well.” “No, she couldn’t handle that.” “It’s a good hobby.”

Not for the first time I realized how little I know about many of the people I know — their likes, dislikes, aspirations, fears, and motivations. I thought, and I may have been right at the time, that my roommate studied to be a physician because that’s what her father (a physician) wanted her to do. She was committed to becoming a doctor, but if there was passion under all the effort I never sensed it. Even now I wonder if the love of being a doctor is practical, a psychological adaptation to the reality. I also wonder if their viewpoint is entirely practical — if one is “good at math and science,” then medicine offers a mostly secure future for the competent. But I do not know what it is about it that they love. It will be interesting to see if any of the daughters continue the tradition and the careers that they do pursue.

Inevitably, politics came up, and H said their youngest daughter is terrified that her parents will vote for Obama and that he will be elected. “He will take all of our money away,” she worries. But she has an even greater reason for thinking Obama is evil incarnate. “He smokes!” she exclaims. Even now, I remember being young enough to think smoking revealed lack of character — even though my parents and many of my relatives were smokers. All I could say, only partly tongue in cheek, was, “Perhaps it’s time to teach her critical thinking skills so she can see beyond the campaign rhetoric and media distortions.” In fairness, it’s not just children who have barely reached double digits in age who think Obama is going to take all the money away — that is, from anyone who has any left.

Before Obama takes away their money, though, they’d spent much of the day shopping at outlet stores in Aurora. Later, as we walked toward Michigan Avenue, they discussed the work of several prominent designers (few of whom I recognized). Here was another new perspective for me — the sweater-and-jeans-clad, serious medical student had become a fashion plate. Perhaps she had always had the potential, and adulthood and prosperity had drawn out her inner clothes horse.

After we parted and Ta had driven me home, I thought about how each generation ends up very much like the previous one, taking perhaps slightly different paths to the same place — marriage, career, children, and middle-class values, combined with an understanding that they’d known their destination all along. It is I who never had any goals or purpose in life and who never knew that I should or what those goals should be. I keep waiting for rather than seeking an answer that never comes. While everyone I knows leads carefully arranged lives in carefully arranged homes, I still live like a college student — day to day, amid the random clutter accumulated over my lifetime. My apartment looks more like a dorm room than a showcase home, and I don’t see that changing no matter how long I live.

And still I am waiting — waiting to grow up.

Two kinds of autumn

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What a glorious weekend — sunny and in the 60s and 70s. Late Saturday morning I made my usual trek to Bonjour to find the annual used book sale had broken out. There was no outdoor seating left, so I bypassed Bonjour and went to the hardware store and Treasure Island, but didn’t have time to look at books. J. suggested that he pick me up at the shopping center later, so I arrived a few minutes early and hurriedly selected a couple of books — The World of the Victorians: An Anthology of Poetry and Prose ed. by E. D. H. Johnson and Memoirs of a Medieval Woman: The Life and Times of Margery Kempe by Louise Collis.

J. and I headed to the Chicago Botanic Garden at around 3 p.m. The trees are perhaps not quite at peak color, but I’m not sure that we can count on sunny, shirt-sleeve weather for much longer.

After visiting the gift shop (a must for J.), we found the orchid show and sale in the Regenstein Center. Brutally, I dissuaded J. from buying any orchids by telling him they require a special environment and care. I don’t think they’re easy to maintain, and I don’t like to see him disappointed when his plants succumb. He settled for taking many photos of the show plants as well as a couple in front of the plants. One orchid in particular appealed to me — the bloom was a cream color with green stripes. J. was amazed by the diversity, but I’m not sure he understood why I said orchids can be very sexual in addition to showy. I chose to leave that a mystery.

We walked through the Krasberg Rose Garden, which is a sad shadow of what it had been two or three weeks ago. J. still found roses to admire among the survivors, and I spotted one or two bumble- and honeybees among the flowers — how different from a couple of months ago, when the flowers at the Morton Arboretum were loaded with pollen-laden bees.

Unusually for me, I miss summer already.

As we walked toward the Waterfall Garden (one of my favorite features), I noticed a man with a camera pointed toward an island and followed his gaze. A little blue heron was standing erect at the water’s edge, senses focused on securing a fish or frog. To its left, a black bird was walking around, probably having just come out of the water. Something about it made me think of an anhinga — perhaps it looked unusually wet or waterlogged. I was thrilled when it hopped onto the rock, turned its back to the sun, and spread its wings. The only place I’d seen an anhinga was at our community in Lantana, Florida. Of course, in this area, it would be a species of cormorant, which I’d never seen.

While Canada geese flew over, trumpeter swans floated across the distant water, and J. happily drained his battery and filled his card with photos and videos, a man asked me what everyone was looking at. It’s possible some people were simply enjoying the vista, one of the best at the garden and currently very colorful. I pointed out the two birds, explaining as much as I could recall of their habits (I was still thinking of an anhinga, although I was sure that was wrong). He chatted effortlessly for quite a while until, aware of time passing, I pushed J. toward the waterfall, and the man’s own companion joined him. Again I found myself wondering why I could not attract such attention when I was young, when it could have increased my social circle and my now perpetually low confidence level.

We climbed to the top of the waterfall, whose roar found competition in the late afternoon air; the strains of “As Time Goes By” played on a piano wafted up from a wedding party in the English Walled Garden.

At the top, we saw a woman in a wheelchair, which made me curious; often I had wondered if there were disabled access to the waterfall. As we walked behind it, I saw a sign, which we followed to another garden I’d wanted to see — the Dwarf Conifer Garden. The disabled have access to the waterfall via a path up its slope.

In this garden, there are tiny conifers growing even between the stair steps. When I saw a larch, I couldn’t help saying in significant tones, “The larch. The larch” (Monty Python). Just beyond was an incredible weeping Norway spruce. “Look,” I said, “it’s pining for the fjords.” Did I really say that? Several times?

This took us to what I think is the English Oak Meadow, which was also on my wish list — it’s on what passes for a “hillside” in this part of Illinois. While we were taking photos of each other and not understanding the temperamental vagaries of the cameras flash (now it does, now it doesn’t), a couple came along, and the man offered to take a photo of us together. He snapped several and pointed out that they were off center “to add tension.” I favor the more artistic approach, although I’m not sure I’d call it “tension.” I’ve found that it can be difficult to get even people who should know better not to center either photography or art.

By now the sun was low, so after J. took a brief detour through a wedding party’s reception area to get photos from the water’s edge and I used their candlelit bathroom, we found the Buehler Enabling Garden that I had enjoyed so much last month. Alas, the goldfinches and hummingbirds are gone, and to my surprise the garden had been entirely replanted. I’m not sure that anything was left of the summer flora and foliage. The autumn twilight suited the new look.

Both of us loved the garden’s mischievous fountains. Sometimes they bubble deceptively sedately; sometimes each of the outlets shoots up a jet of water in an offbeat rhythm of varying pattern. We pictured someone leaning over one of the fountains in its quietly bubbling phase only to be caught unawares as it changes mode and shoots a jet of water into the face. I was tempted to try it.

After a last look at the Heritage Garden, we left as darkness was settling in and, after a few detours, official and otherwise, found Blind Faith Café in Evanston, a vegetarian restaurant we both love for the food and ambiance. During the wait J. sniffed out merchandise (T-shirts), and I decided not to leave without a piece each of vegan chocolate cake, chocolate peanut butter cake, and pumpkin pie. J. couldn’t resist some side dishes, quiche, and muffins, and the owner bestowed a sixth T-shirt on him.

At my place, I found the Antiques Roadshow on demand, which was guaranteed to keep J. happy. In this edition, taped in Salt Lake City, Utah, a man who had indulged in a blond wood Fender guitar for $300 in 1961 discovered it is valued now at $50,000 to $60,000. The real winner of the night, however, was a woman who brought in her great-grandfather’s personal memorabilia. He’d been a Mormon blacksmith, wine merchant, and actor who had known and corresponded with Brigham Young. His archive of letters, photos, paintings, etc., was estimated to have a value of $150,000 to $200,000. The woman reeled at the revelation. I always wonder if the person will sell for the money or hold onto it for sentimental reasons or in the hopes that it will appreciate even more. I know I’d invest in a fireproof, climate-controlled safe and an insurance policy.

This morning, I sat inside Bonjour (someone in front of me took the last outdoor table, alas) and listened to a conversation among an elderly man and woman and a young man. They moved from talking about political gaffes and the media, going back to John Adams, to discussing Netflix and the switch to digital TV. A typical Sunday morning conversation in Hyde Park.

Today the books have been marked down, and I bought five hard covers (Mary Queen of Scots by Antonia Fraser; Masterpieces of Fantasy and Enchantment compiled by David G. Hartwell; H.M.S. Bounty: A True Account of the Famous Mutiny by Alexander Mckee; The World’s Best Poems ed. by Mark Van Doren and Garibaldi M. Lapolla, apparently printed in 1935 and with a faint old book odor; and Portrait of a Man with Red Hair: A Romantic Macabre by Hugh Walpole, apparently dating from 1925 and smelling strongly of mildew) for $3.75. They, and the rest of the formidable collection, should keep me occupied for several lifetimes. I suppose it is only when you have reached my age that you realize how short life is and how quickly it is getting shorter.