Biography

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What happens to a youngster when he is uprooted from a most comfortable environment and taken to a strange place? "The House on Orchard Street" explores the exodus of one family from the city to the suburbs, and how it affected a young man's life... It is a series of remembrances and thoughts about those days when candy was still a nickel, and Coke was served at a soda fountain. A time without malls, McDonalds, and Walmart. A better time, I think...

This is a sample of my latest book, an "almost autobiography." It tells of my life growing up in the big city, then moving to a small suburb. The lifestyle change was dramatic, and meaningful. I became one of the suburban children, whose parents moved for a better life. Was it better?  In retrospect, I suppose so. I had loved the city, and I felt the exodus more painfully than most children.  But the friendships, the loves, the memories, they made it all worthwhile...

CHAPTER ONE

BIG CITY, LITTLE BOY

A perfect time, a perfect place, existing in an almost perfect world. Tell me, can you remember such an amazingly wonderful time in your own life? This particular one, that is to say, the time period we are about to be returning to here, will always seem to be wonderful and magically special indeed for a skinny, young, freckle-faced, rag-tag, rootin’-tootin’, redheaded, shy, smiling, hazel eyed, innocent five year old,

(but going on six !) living in the largest city in the mid-western state of Illinois. This time period would be the 1940's, 1950's, and even the early 1960's. That city would, of course, be Chicago, unless we were speaking of a different boy in some previous era of time, say, back in the early nineteenth century, before the Windy City was what it is today, and has been for most of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, for that matter. Perhaps far back in another epoch of time, the largest city in the state might have been Kaskasia, or Cahokia, or Springfield, or Urbana, or even Peoria. But no, we are not talking about those earlier times now. We are definitely talking about my Chicago, the city where I began my growing up process, the city of the broad shoulders, the wonderful crossroads of the West and the East, of civilization and wilderness... the toddlin’ town... Chicago... Hog butcher to the world...Friend to the friendless... Hope for the hopeless. Chicago, one of the most amazing wonders of the modern world, at least that’s what it seemed like to this young boy who was born there, and who had lived there all five years of his short, sweet life.

Chicago... Nothing was more wonderful than Chicago. People said that the fragrance of the city was so thick, you could almost cut its texture with a butter knife. I think they meant that to be a negative, but it wasn’t a negative to this young man. The fragrances of the city were fantastic ! Even the alleys had their own powerful, heady odors. Nothing was ever more mystical, or magical, or magnificent, or metaphysical. Nothing...not then, not now, not ever... But for now, let’s get back to those early years of this young boy who was so in love with his birthplace, so at peace with it, so totally in sync, that he didn’t even feel the chill of the

cold air as it seemed to forewarn him of the coming storms in his life, the storms of his impending exodus from this Eden....

So now, take my hand, and please come back there with me, if only for a brief moment or two. Back to my city, my life, my world ... my wonderful and marvelous Chicago ... for I am he, of the red hair and the wildest imagination...

I am ... the one ...

It was during the middle years of World War Two, the sacrificial years, in the year of 1943 specifically, when my father and mother named their first and only boy child "George", after his father, and his grandfather before him. Back then, I suppose, there was an easy comfort, knowing that the name for the son was chosen so many years before his conception. It was a solid tradition but, in truth, not a very creative one; that is, to be named after your male predecessors. And so, just as soon as I popped my blue-gray face out of the birth canal, my name was already firmly etched in the concrete of my life... "George Raymond Simonis, Jr....Son of George Raymond Simonis, Sr., grandson of George Louis Simonis." My family lineage was written much like that of a Kentucky Derby champion. In fact, I was born at the time of the running of the Derby, but that’s another story.

Little did any of the family know then how much I would later yearn to be simply a "Robert," or a "Ronald," or a "James"... No way, because it had already been settled ... "George..." That was to be my name, and that was the end of that. It didn’t matter that I tried desperately my whole life through to pick up a nickname suitable to displace that name forever. My folks called me "buddy", or "bud." My grandparents called me "Geordie." My school friends called me "Red," or "GRB," or "Woundie,"... And no, I’m not going to explain "Woundie." But sadly, no really good nickname ever stuck to me. So "George" it was always to be...

To this very day I still do not like my given name one tiny little bit. I’m more used to it now, of course, but I don’t think it is a fitting name for me. It is far too formal, too rigid, and way too confining. It just isn’t the real me, although recently I have found out that George means "farmer", which makes it a little more "user -friendly". You see, I really do enjoy working in the dirt with my hands, and I am pleased and quite surprised that my name has that identity attached to it by its definition. Nevertheless, the hard fact is that the name "George"honestly and truly just isn’t the name I would have given myself. I’m a lot more like an artist than "George" would let me be. I’m a lot more free spirit, a lot less conforming, and, I hope, a whole lot more fun. It’s just not the real true me. That’s all I should say... But it’s the name on my birth certificate, so I guess I’ll just have to keep it. Maybe "YUK" is all I really care to say...Hey, does anyone else feel that way about their own names, I wonder? God, I can’t believe I still dislike my name so ... I suppose I’m not the only one. I’m sorry, please pardon my straying... back to the story at hand...

As I grew up and developed into a young boy, I recognized the fact that I did not seem to fit into the mold of the normal Chicagoan. Typical Chicagoans of that era had a rough and gruff exterior and demeanor. Heart of gold, for sure, but tough as sandpaper on the outside. No offense meant, but I seemed to be less rough textured at the edges, a lot more compassionate, a lot more "wildflower" than cactus, a lot less steam fitter, or blue collar, a lot more artisan. And I noticed that I seemed to use my brain far more than most of the other kids in my neighborhood used theirs. I possessed, even at a young age, extreme intelligence, which, of course, made my parents very proud, but also, I’m sure, gave them extra anxiety in their world, and probably a few premature gray hairs. No, check that..., I mean a LOT of premature gray hairs... They were never quite sure what I’d be doing the next moment.

The one picture I recall so vividly from my youth was when I was sitting high atop a tired Shetland pony, and I was wearing sheepskin chaps and a ten gallon hat. I was about five years old, and I think that every young child in the city probably has a similar picture. The photographers of the time were that prolific, and that good. Cowboys were the rage, and every young boy or girl wanted to sit on that pony and be immortalized. Or so it seemed... But, as I have said before, I was not your normal child. NOSIRREE!! I can remember fighting tooth and nail to NOT have my picture taken that day. I was petrified of that ugly, little, foul smelling beast of a horse. And the sheepskin chaps were itchy. And who in their right mind wanted to wear the same hat that somebody else had just worn? What if they had some crazy, head disease? No, I’m certain that my folks had to fight hard to get me to be still and be "tall in the saddle" that day...And many other days, it seems.

I was,...uh, how did they put it?... Oh, yes, "PRECOCIOUS", that was it. I was certainly a "PRECOCIOUS" child, indeed .... One day, I’d be fine, just a picture-perfect, well-mannered young man, and a joy of a student. The kind of boy that gets his cheeks playfully pinched by all of his gray-dressed, stout , large breasted, white haired, elderly ‘aunties’... But then, the very next day, for no apparent reason, I’d put a few earthworms in my pocket, and then I’d innocently give my clothes to my mother for washing without telling her about the slimy treasures in the pockets. And after my Mom washed the worms in the washing machine, and ran them through the hand-cranked wringer to get the water out, I’d explain to her that I put the worms there because they were my friends and they smiled at me...And she would quietly tear her hair out, certain that she was heading for Bedlam, wondering why she had been so "blessed" as to have given birth to me. And she would make a mental note to NEVER wash my trousers again without pulling the pockets inside-out first.

Then, another day would come, I’d be thoughtful and exemplary, an absolutely marvelous, perfect, model child. But, one day later, on my way home from school, I’d see tall mountains of brand new wonderful blue-gray coal at the coal yard, and I’d stop by that yard, sneak in the side gate, and, in my good clothes, mind you, I would run up and down each and every one of the great new coal piles, scrambling up to the very top if I could, and then rolling happily down the steepest ones, coming home that afternoon as pitch black as a moonless midnight, with a wonderful, joyous, innocent smile spreading all over my coal blackened face. Yes, I was indeed the King of the coal yard...and absolutely... "PRECOCIOUS"... No, seriously, when I look back at those days, I can see that life surely wasn’t easy for George and Jessie Simonis. Not very easy at all...

What comes as a big mystery to me regarding my early years in Chicago is the fact that I can remember some things about that magical time period very precisely, and very clearly, as if they had happened just yesterday. I can see the people, feel the wind, touch the earth, see the colors, and remember the textures and fragrances and the very fabric of the day. But there are other things, and other events that I have, for some unexplained reason, given over to the tides of time. For example, I remember a pram ride, which I took when I was quite young, perhaps only two or three years old. (NOTE: For you young people, a "Pram" was a four-wheeled stroller with a sun visor hood that you could pop up over the child as he was laying down inside it ) I remember that my Aunt Louise took me for that stroller ride in winter, probably in 1945, or 1946, and we ended up on North Avenue, when that street still had streetcars running down the center median strip. (No, I didn’t know at the time that it was North Avenue. I found out that it was definitely North Avenue later in my life, when I asked my aunt about my memory of the event.).

North Avenue was, and still is, a major thoroughfare in the big city. I believe that I recall that incident most vividly because I remember being very cold each and every time the blanket was removed from my face so that someone could see me, and fawn over the "beautiful young child" in the stroller. And I also remember being bounced around a great deal when we were lifted onto the streetcar’s rear end by the conductor and a few other chivalrous men. I’m sure those men were far more interested in getting my aunt’s attention than they were in helping me onto the streetcar, because, even though she was only a little under five feet tall, she was definitely a "looker" back then, a real "hottie", if you know what I mean.

My older sister thinks I couldn’t possibly remember that day at all, because I was far too young, but honestly, the memory is as clear and crisp as the cold chill was on my body and face back then! It’s almost as if I can see myself through my own eyes, as if I were able to be a witness to my own being. It’s like I am there, yet I am able to see myself. Also, isn’t it strange that I remember that pram ride, but I cannot seem to remember even one of the many wonderful birthday parties that I know that my mom had for me when I was young? As I said before, I cannot understand why my memory selects only a few things to hold dear. Most of the rest of my past is being swallowed up in the black hole of "forgotten"...