Category Archives: Nature

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.