Infospigot: The Chronicles

All Class/No Class Crete-Monee Reunion, 2009

The big event of the late weekend was a small gathering, at our house in Berkeley, of folks from Crete-Monee High School, from which I graduated in 1972. This was sort of an informal reprise of an actual "all-class" reunion held a couple weeks ago in Crete, a town about 30 miles straight south of downtown Chicago. About 700 people showed up for a catered event at the racetrack on the edge of town. The Crete-Monee diaspora includes at least a handful who have landed in Northern California. A few of us who have stayed in touch or who have happened upon each other on Facebook began talking about a West Coast version of the Crete event. And so this weekend's All Class/No Class Crete-Monee High School Reunion, 2009 was born.

Who showed up? Anne Kaufman, '74, right off the plane from Chicago. Mike Rodgers -- '74, too, I think, and Wendy Seehausen Rodgers (not sure what class). Jimmy O'Donnell, who blasted down from his creekside paradise near Mount Lassen in Shasta County; he's an honorary graduate of the Class of '74 because his family moved after his sophomore year and he was forced to complete school in the snowless suburban sprawl of Contra Costa County. His sister Laurie O'Donnell, who was in my class ('72) but who I never really talked to much until yesterday. Linda Stewart, who as a German teacher to many of the assembled was in all our classes; she came down from Truckee, the town just across Donner Pass on Interstate 80 in the Sierra. And then there was Kate, my wife, who grew up Crete-less (she's from the northern Jersey shore, sort of) and me.

So eight in all. More would have been fun, and if we could teleport people I can name several friends (Randy, Ron, Mike, Dan--you listening?) I would have beamed in in a second. But yesterday eight was enough, to coin a phrase. Linda remarked that everyone talked to everyone else, the group kept forming into small groups, breaking up, and reassembling itself into twos and threes of engaged conversation. The food was good. The weather was beautiful. There were some funny memories, some warm recollections, some scary and sad stories about classmates and friends. Most of us ended up taking a walk through our neighborhood just after sunset, and that was the way I imagined the day ending.

I've never once gone to one of my class reunions. It's been 10 or 12 years at least since I've been part of a high-school-centered gathering; the last one was at Linda's when she lived in San Francisco. People are talking about it happening again next year. We'll see what comes. Meantime I'll work on my teleportation skills.

Lovely Commemorative Plate

From the collection. Without permission of owner.

Lake Night

In the Bay Area this summer, everyone has bemoaned the prolonged presence of the thick marine overcast that keeps the coastal locales cool. And it does seem to have been a little cooler than normal if you're anywhere along the bayside (inland's another story). Chicago, too, has had a relatively cool summer; it's been six weeks or so since the last official 90-degree reading. That will change today -- it's before noon and the temperature is already pushing 90. The weather service has issued heat advisories from Chicago south and severe thunderstorm warnings from Chicago north.

Though it didn't officially hit 90 yesterday, the day did feature the high humidity that makes Chicago great. It creates a heat that seems to envelop you, then go through you. I spent most of the day in the North Side Brekke place, comfortably air-conditioned. I did take a short midday walk up Western Avenue, though, and then after dinner walked the mile and a half over to the lake. I got there about 10 o'clock, and there were lots of people hanging out on the beach, the one cool spot in the city. Fireworks were going off to the south somewhere; to the northeast, lighting flashed through the clouds. (The shot above was on the shore where Columbia Avenue ends. )

Guest Observation: 'On the Road Again'

A Tom Rush song for which I can't find the lyrics online. If memory serves, it starts like this:

"Well, I locked my door as the sun went down
And I said goodbye to Boston town,
Took the Mass Turnpike down to Route 15,
That'll take me on down to the New York scene.
Humming of the tires sure is pretty,
Think about the women in New York City,
On the road again.
Take the Harlem turn to the Jersey pike
And you roll through Philly in the middle of the night,
On the road again. ..."

Me? I'm flying to the Midwest and then making stops along Lake Erie and points east. See you out there.

Chenoa, Illinois

Chenoa's a town about 25 miles north-northeast of Bloomington and sits at the junction of U.S. 24, which runs east-west, and Interstate 55 (and old U.S. 66). We drove through town in mid-April, headed west on 24 to pick up 55 on our way from Chicago to Berkeley. We detoured through the old downtown business district, a handful of handsome and under-used old brick buildings surrounded by low frame and pre-fab buildings. The sign was no doubt touched up or repainted altogether, since the Chicago-based Selz shoe concern apparently went out of business about 60 years ago. (Here's a post from a blog on faded signs that talks about the company and has a few examples of old Selz signs.)

Road Blog: Chicago to Kansas City (Kansas)

My brother Chris, his son Liam (he's 12), and I started out from Chicago to drive to California. I'm actually doing an errand--picking up my dad's car and bringing it out to Berkeley--and since it's spring break for them, they're along for the ride.

To break up the Interstate highway slog, I like to get off on side roads occasionally. I suggested the possibility of driving out U.S. 20 through northern Iowa and northern Nebraska to northeastern Wyoming, and then making our way down to Interstate 80 near Rawlins. What I liked about the route: it would take us within about 30 miles of Wounded Knee, on the Pine Ridge Reservation of the Lakota Sioux; it would also take us right past Fort Robinson, Nebraska, the site of a tragic episode in the 1876 saga of the Northern Cheyenne attempt to return to Montana from a reservation Oklahoma.

But the weather along that route: not good. It was supposed to be fine through Wednesday, at which point we'd be starting across Wyoming. But rain and snow, and then heavy snow, are forecast for much of the corridor we'd be taking. The weather along Interstate 40 and other central and southerly routes seemed much less problematic. So we headed southwest from Chicago this morning in the rain.

We stopped early in the afternoon at the Union Miners Cemetery in Mount Olive, Illinois. I happened across this spot with my son Eamon about five years ago when we spotted a highway sign pointing us to the "Mother Jones Memorial." That had to be investigated, and it turns out Mary "Mother" Jones (1830-1930) is buried there along with many members of the United Mine Workers and other coal-mining unions.

Maybe someday I'll make a day of it down there. Today, we stopped for 15 or 20 minutes, not really long enough to take in much more than the main attraction. The marker above, with the Leaning Jesuses, is along the lane to the Jones monument (which is just visible in the left distance).

After this, we took state routes and country roads to Grafton, where we took a ferry across the deceptively calm-looking Illinois River (the image below; the river is running high, and much of the lowlands east of the river are under water), then to the Golden Eagle Ferry, which crosses the Mississippi on a bend south of, but upriver from, the mouth of the Illinois.

On the Missouri side the boat unloads you onto a floodplain road that's less than a 10-minute drive to a freeway that leads into I-70. We skipped a detour to a temporary Missouri River ferry (in Glasgow, where a new bridge is being built), stopped in Independence to see Harry Truman's place, looked at some of the important Mormon-related sites in town, then crossed the river after dark into Kansas.

Tomorrow we might cross paths with John Brown.  

Chicago Cemetery Trip

Saturday, Dad and I made a quick run down to Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, on 111th Street outside the city, to visit some family graves (my mom, my brother, an uncle, my grandparents; there's a bunch more of them out there we didn't have time to see this time).  

Then we went over to Oak Woods Cemetery, at 67th Street (Marquette Road) and Cottage Grove Avenue. Among reasons I might want to visit this place is the fact--I think it's a fact--that Confederate prisoners from the Civil War prison at Camp Douglas are buried there. But what drew us yesterday was the presence of a future grave: that of "Senator" Roland Burris. Among the many quirks that distinguish him is that he has already had an elaborate memorial set up at Oak Woods. Maybe that's not so quirky, but the listing of items from his curriculum vitae--for instance, that he was the first African American exchange student from Southern Illinois University to the University of Hamburg, Germany--has struck many observers as a little odd.

One wants to see for one's self, so we went down to Oak Woods to take in the sight. We pulled up to the gate at 4:10 p.m. to find the entrance gate closed and a sign saying the grounds closed at 4:15. The exit gate was open, though, so I drove in only to be stopped by a caretaker who said, "Closed 4:15!" "We'll be out in five minutes, I promise. By the way, which way to Senator Burris's memorial?" We got the simple directions (take a hard right once inside the gate, then the first left, and it's about 100 yards away, straight in front of you). We didn't have time to savor the scene. Just a few quick shots of the Burris gravesite and one of the resting place of Olympic great Jesse Owens, whose stone is across the drive on the bank of the cemetery's pond. Then back to the gate, as promised. "Did you see Harold Washington's grave?" the caretaker asked. "No -- we have to come back," I said.

Next trip to Chicago, maybe.

Water: The Midwest View

[Other posts on water: 

Big Bathtub I: The Acre Foot

Big Bathtub II: 'Wasted']

Spotted the following letter today on the Chicago Tribune's (Tom Skillings's) weather page: 

Dear Tom,
The level of Lake Michigan is up 13 inches from last year. That's great, but could you 
express that in gallons of water?
Dan Fridley
Dear Dan,
The quantity of water that circulates through the Lake Michigan hydrologic system is 
truly staggering. And expressing that volume in units as miniscule as gallons yields 
numbers that are so huge as to be practically incomprehensible, but here it goes. 
A 13-inch increase in the level of Lake Michigan's 22,300 square miles amounts to 
5.044 trillion gallons of additional water (5,044,000,000,000 gallons). And that's not 
all. Lake Michigan and Lake Huron are essentially one lake; their water levels rise and 
fall in tandem. Thirteen inches of water added to the level of Lake Michigan means 13 
inches added to the 23,000 square miles of Lake Huron as well, and that amounts to an additional 5.202 trillion gallons (5,202,000,000,000 gallons).

So to summarize the arithmetic: Lakes Michigan and Huron, total surface area 45,300 square miles, have risen a foot and an inch in the past year. The total increase in water volume is 10.2 trillion gallons.

There is no doubt that is a lot of water. But it is an abstraction, proof that in the wet eastern two-thirds of the United States, water is, most of the time, something that's just there, like leaves on the trees, mosquitoes, corrupt politicians and bad beer. In fact, this immense amount of water, these trillions of gallons, are a trivial amount in the Great Lakes context, where volumes can be calculated in hundreds or thousands of cubic miles.

But before we get to that, let's put those 13 inches of Michigan/Huron water to work: let's frame them in the California context. 

In California and anywhere in the West where water means the difference between nothing and abundance, the working unit is the acre foot: the water it takes to submerge an acre a foot deep. An acre foot is 325,851 gallons, and that is said to be enough water for two average American households to keep their toilets flushed and lawns green for a year. 

The extra 13 inches of Michigan/Huron water: It comes out to something like 31.3 million acre feet. California's total reservoir capacity is said to be about 42 million acre feet. So that foot and an inch here--the incidental effect of increased runoff in their basins--would fill California's collection of monster lakes and catch basins three-quarters full. What a gift to a dry place. 

Lake Michigan has an approximate volume of 1,180 cubic miles, and Lake Huron 849. A cubic mile of water is just under 3.4 million acre feet. So the 13 extra inches of water in Michigan/Huron added about 9 cubic miles to their volume, or a little less than 0.5 percent (that's not too shabby, actually). All California's reservoir capacity would be satisfied with roughly 13 cubic miles, about 0.75 percent of the volume of the two lakes (and while we're throwing Great Lakes volume numbers around, the combined volume of Michigan, Huron, Erie and Ontario is about 2,538 cubic miles; the volume of Lake Superior is 2,900 cubic miles). 

When you see numbers like this, which may be close to meaningless without more context, you think you can understand the envy and ambition of Westerners who think the Great Lakes would solve all their problems. It seems a little crazy, until you travel up and down California and see how much has been invested in large-scale plumbing to make water go places and do things that seem to defy nature and physics.  

Wisconsin

Cheese, by day (photo by Kate during her return trip from Ripon) and by night (photo by me, after a drive up the lakeshore this afternoon. The second cheese place is right next to the first). Location is Paris, Wisconsin, on the west bank of Interstate 94. 

Your Norwegian Cemetery Picture of the Day

Today's outing: The Dairy Queen at Irving Park and Central, then over to Narragansett to swing by my dad's childhood home on Nashville Avenue. Headed down the crowded, brutally potholed avenue, Dad said, "Here's Mount Olive Cemetery." Where most of his family is interred. We turned in. I have a general idea where the relatives are buried--mostly his mother's family, the Sieversens--but he has a precise sense of where to go. So there they were: his parents, his grandparents, many aunts, uncles, and cousins. 

Until five or so years ago, I remember going to Mount Olive just once, the day my grandmother was buried in September 1975. But since my mom passed away in 2003 and we started visiting her family's cemetery--Holy Sepulchre, so far on the South Side that it's actually beyond the city limits--I've come to Mount Olive several times, too. 

Many stories to tell there, I'm sure. Here are a couple of surface things I've noticed. It's clear from the great majority of older graves that the cemetery was a resting place for Norwegians (maybe some other Scandinavians, too), mostly Protestants. There's a drinking fountain near the entrance in the form of a Viking warrior, complete with helmet and flowing beard. But like the rest of the city, the ethnic makeup of this neighborhood is changing, too. Most new graves appear to belong to Latino families, many Catholic. It's the kind of mixing that I expect would have been unlikely in life. Now here the communities are together. 

Cemetery walking always produces something striking or poignant. Maybe because we had a brother who died at the age of 2, I'm always been brought up short by children's markers. At one of the family graves I saw that three children, ages 4 or younger, were buried with their parents. 

Nearby, I came across the grave of Junior Jansen, 1925-1930, a grave remarkable for the legend "Our Boy" and the vivid, clear photo of the boy who had been buried there. It's hard for me to imagine that picture has lasted out in the weather all these decades. Next to Junior Jansen's stone was another Jansen marker--a broken monument bearing a sculpted figure of a young girl. Strange thing: someone has evidently gone to the trouble of setting the figure upright--but unattached to its damaged lower portion or the original base. 

Another thing about the Norwegian part of the cemetery: slowly, surely, nature is taking its course. Trees and shrubs have overwhelmed some graves. But what you notice more are stones left askew as the ground heaves and shifts through the seasons and maybe through the sinking or collapse of the underground vaults that are supposed to keep everything tidy. You come across headstones that are falling onto their faces and monuments that have toppled backward or sideways. You find groups of markers that seem jumbled together, clumped at odd angles, with a collection of apparently unrelated names. Looking at the years on the markers I passed, it seems that most date to between 1900 and 1950. I saw only a handful dated after 1960. The most recent was from 1997. One has the impression, looking down the rows of tilted, angled, sometimes broken markers that for the descendants of most who lie here, this is a place out of mind.