Category: chicago

Pooped

So, I stepped in some dog shit at lunchtime today. It wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last, sadly, I’m sure. After a trip to the bathroom I was able to pick out (with a plastic knife) all but the most embedded crumbs of dog grumpy from my shoe’s waffle. What kills me is that while much of my trip to and from the Art Institute is a blur, I remember crossing Randolph Street, stepping around a barrier on the other side, and then feeling a momentary sliding sensation along my left heel. “I’m not going to look,” I said. “It was probably some garbage—a bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato.” I hoped for the best and trundled on, unwittingly tracking Canis lupus familiaris feces past the Institute’s van Goghs, Vuillards, and Modiglianis.

During the stepping, I experienced my usual irrational fear that I’d accidentally crushed a baby bird underfoot. Once, as a young man, I unwittingly kicked a semi-formed robin, and when I looked down and saw its shuttered eyes, membranous skin, and pathetically snapping beak, I wanted to vomit. I couldn’t even bring myself to end its misery, and moved on. I’m sure it all turned out okay in the end. Sure.

The fun part came when I was sitting at my desk, and the odor began to waft upwards. I couldn’t quite smell it at first, but the progression of scents and the Proustian thoughts they engendered were interesting.

1. “What is that?”—At first my brain was only attuned to the presence of an out of the ordinary scent. I must have crossed my legs quickly, sending a momentary geyser of scat molecules up into my nose. I couldn’t quite place it, and it hadn’t lingered long enough to be unpleasant. It was more a pungent ghost—a brief breeze of earthiness.

2. “Okay… What the hell is that?”—The smell grew strong, and I began to worry. No one else was around (the person in the next cube was in a meeting), making me suspect I was somehow releasing foulness. I’d showered that morning, and while my belly was making the expected post-lunch digestive grumbles, no matter, gas, liquid, solid, or plasma, had exited Mr. Dan Kelly. Certainly not at my desk, for Christ’s sake.

My next thought was that somehow the cats had dosed my clothes, but to not have noticed it until late afternoon was absurd. Furthermore, if you own cats you know what their crap smells like. Cat refuse smells more like ammonia—at least their pee does, which tends to dominate however bad their dung smells. This wasn’t cat though, it was dog. And I knew this because I was a dog owner long before I started adopting cats. I recognized that sour kibble and meat-tinged pong. Strangely enough, this week we just happen to be minding a dog for my wife’s dad, but I knew that Lola (the dog) had been nowhere near my clothing. Plus, unlike the cats, venal creatures that they are, she had no reason to seek olfactory vengeance on my duds.

But then I remembered that this had all happened before. I looked at the bottom of my shoe. Et voila. Figuring out the source of the smell was easier than the last time I stepped in dog doody. That’s a funny story, and I don’t think I’ve shared it with anyone before today.

Several years ago, the same thing had happened. I was walking to work and somewhere along the way the merest bit of dog log got stuck to my shoe without my noticing—I think there was snow on the ground. When I arrived at work I got my coffee, sat down, and set up for the day. Suddenly, a familiar smell, but familiar only in that I knew it was rectally related, but not necessarily canine. I let it pass, imagining it was an olfactory illusion. Then I smelled it again. It was stronger this time. Still not thinking dog, I imagined this was the work of man. The man in the next cube. Let’s call him Jimmy.

Jimmy was a fellow whom I liked greatly. A talented soul with a wry sense of humor, Jimmy could always be counted on for an appropriately off-color response when, say, the receptionist announced that an earring was found (“It’s mine… But it’s not an EAR ring!” He didn’t make that joke, but they were usually in that vein.). I remembered he’d been sick recently, so I thought, “Well… Maybe he’s having some GI problems, and had to let one sneak out.”

Then I smelled it again.

“What?” I thought, eyeing the wall that separated us. “What the hell?” One was a mistake. Two was ill-mannered. The bathroom was just a short walk away in case the cooling tower had to let off a little steam to avoid critical mass, if you know what I mean. And I mean farts.

Again, the scent of stink arose. My mucous membranes died by the thousands; my nose hairs were singed and reduced to ash.

“JESUS CHRIST!” I thought. I stood up and looked over the wall at Jimmy, who was diligently working away. He looked fairly unbothered by gastrointestinal or any other difficulties, other than his daily duties. He looked back.

“Yes?” asked Jimmy.

“Nothing,” I said.

The perp seemed unperturbed, so I had to rethink my approach. I sat back down and leaned over, sniffing the air beneath my desk. I thought the same things I thought above: cat sabotage, poor hygiene, etc. I kept smelling until I pinpointed the hellish stench’s location. Somewhere near the floor, somewhere down there, around… my shoe. I lifted and tilted my shoes, left, then right. On the bottom of my right shoe, pressed deeply into the soul, was a small bowser sausage. Oops. Hehehehehehehe…

All apologies to Jimmy. I’m glad you didn’t have it in you.

Jesus House Walks

Last week’s house walk was a success. I worked at St. John’s Church as a docent and gofer Saturday morning and afternoon, switching between explaining the Christian symbology topping the lancets on the Advent Window, and setting up canopies, tables, and chairs for the beans and brats feast the church laid out for all visitors. I truly enjoyed myself—it’s rare that I have a live audience, and rarer still when they actually want to hear what I have to say.

After weeks (well, days) worth of study and practice, I was ready to show every interesting item between the narthex and sacristy. As it turned out, I was put in charge of showing off just the sanctuary and chancel—stage three of the tour as I explained to the house walkers.

Sorry, permit me to provide a quick glossary. The narthex is the entrance; the sacristy is the back-stage area where the priests and servers prepare for the service; the sanctuary is at the front of the church, while the chancel is the area surrounding the altar. At least that’s what I was told. I always heard the sanctuary comprised the interior of the church, and while I’d never encountered the word chancel before, I’d heard of the apse—the recessed area occupied by the altar, the tabernacle, the reredos, and other furnishings. (Didn’t understand a single word in the previous paragraph? I completely understand. For me it all comes from a Catholic boyhood and a little Wikipedia skimming. I won’t commit the sin of pride though—the sanctuary and chancel were more than enough, and I had the pleasure of describing three of the church’s prize possessions.

St. John’s is a small church. The congregation numbers at, I think, around 120 or so parishioners, and the building is the size of a large house. While not as sprawlingly awesome and ostentatious as the Catholic Holy Name Cathedral or St. James’, the Chicago’s Epsicopalian cathedral, St. John’s seems large even in its smallness. It reminds me of a nautilus shell, compact and curving into itself.

Just missing the Gothic Revival, but no doubt heavily influenced by it, St. John’s was erected in 1888. For chronological perspective, that’s the same year Arthur Conan Doyle dreamed up Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper was murdering prostitutes in Whitechapel. Chicago’s Irving park—the northwest neighborhood St. John’s is situated in—was somewhat calmer back then. If memory serves, the area was originally called Grayland, because Sheriff John Gray (the first republican sheriff elected in Chicago) owed much farmland there. Gray announced that the tract of land located at Byron and Kostner was available to anyone who promised to build a church. The Episcopalians—who were currently meeting in  masonic halls and a room above a local pharmacy—took the challenge and constructed the current church.

Records state that the church was built by the Cookingham Co. My research turned up no such firm, though I did encounter another one named Cookingham and Clarke in a Trib article from 1886. Cookingham and Clarke announced that they were constructing “Chinese dwellings” (i.e., pagoda-inspired homes) in Ravenswood, another Chicago neighborhood. I haven’t looked into this yet, but I’m hoping that the “Chinese dwellings” were constructed and can be located (I doubt it).

Here’s where things get interesting, yet murky, so we must use a bit of conjecture. Cookingham of Cookingham and Clarke was a fellow named Peter. He had a brother named Theron who lived in Irving Park and worked as a contractor. The very helpful Mr. Tim Samuelson, Chicago’s redoubtable cultural historian, found a family photo of the Cookingham’s and posited (but admitted that this is not a certainty) that Theron very likely was the contractor, and Peter likely could have been St. John’s architect. My research turns up ads announcing applications for builder’s permits by a W.H Cookingham as well, leading me to think this was a family operation. Tim suggested the Britishness of their surname lends some credence to the Cookinghams being Episcopalians. Sounds like an excellent starting point for further research.

On enters St. John’s through the narthex on the west side, passing through two red doors. According to tradition, the doors are painted red to symbolize entering the church under the protection of the blood of Christ. Sounds like it’s more of an Episcopalian tradition, and an image search for “red doors Episcopalian church” seems to bear this out. Ascending the stairs and entering the nave—the area containing the pews and aisle—the visitor can note two gothic revival elements.

1. Take a broad view of the scene and you’ll notice that the aisle is eventually bisected by a horizontal stretch of area between the pews and the sanctuary, forming a cross—not by accident.

2. The hammerbeam roof, composed of several large pieces of timber that take the weight and thrust of the roof and transfer it to the church’s stone walls. The problem is that St. John’s doesn’t have stone walls, and 20 years ago they noticed the walls were pulling away from the sides under the roof’s weight. A photograph from the archives shows the beams were about 2 1/4″ out of plumb. Not good. Tie rods and support bars were installed and painted well enough to blend in with the wood. I sure do like that hammerbeam roof—gives the place a mead hall feel. Christ the Viking.

Most of the stained glass windows at St. John’s were installed during the 60s and 70s and have pretty but bland Renaissance-inspired appearances. With the exception of the 1988 window, which takes full advantage of that era’s love of jagged abstraction. The sanctuary, however, features Irving Park’s oldest, intact stained glass window known as the Advent Window. The Advent Widow is the gift of the Children League of the Holy Child, a group formed before the church existed by a Mrs. Florance (the church’s Tennessee marble baptismal font is dedicated to her). After reading the Apostles Creed together every Saturday, Mrs. Florance and the children would sew squares to be sewn in turn into quilts and sold. From 1888 to 1924, the Advent Window occupied the west wall, while the church entrance was set in the northwest corner. In 1924 they dug a basement, and the church was shifted two feet northwards. The narthex was constructed, and the Advent Window was reset in the sanctuary’s northeast wall.

Directly across from the Advent Window you’ll find the church’s 110-year-old Kimball pipe organ. The W. W. Kimball Company was mostly known for piano manufacturing and sales, but from 1890 to 1942 they also built pipe organs. St. John’s organ was dedicated in 1900 by local organist/fin de siecle rock star Harrison Wild—a gentleman of great talent and tremendous mustache. The organ was once operated by a bellows, operated by wee boys who sat behind the organ and pumped it during the service. Later on a pipe was run into the church and the organ was water-powered before eventually being converted to electric. Wild wasn’t the only individual who tickled the ivories at St. John’s. Herbert E. Hyde, a child prodigy, played it from age 13 to 16. Hyde later went on to play for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and St. Luke’s Episcopal Church up in Evanston. Hyde spread out into the theater as well, writing music for children’s musicals and plays, including one written by Lord Dunsany, proto-scifi/fantasy writer and figure of great inspiration to H.P. Lovecraft.

The final object of pride is the reredos against the chancel’s rear wall. Installed in 1944, the reredos features four paintings by painter and parishioner Theon Betts. Mr. Betts came from an artistic family, and I mean that in the strictest sense since every one of them, from Daddy on down was a brush-slinger. Theon’s brother Louis was likely the star of the family, though not a household name (he did, however, render an impressive portrait of lumber magnate Martin Ryerson, currently residing at the Art Institute of Chicago). Theon was no slacker, however, and turned out four subdued, dreamy paintings of St. Francis, Mary, St. John, and St. Thomas Aquinas.

The tour passed through the sacristy, which once held a small chapel with a fancy, but now MIA, altar. The fun part came at the tour’s end in the back rooms. Once a much larger room, it was divided by drywall into several classrooms in the 1980s. Unfortunately, this covered up a sweeping ceiling and all traces of the former gymnasium—save for the very loud bell attached to the east wall, which once marked the rounds during the boxing matches they once held up there. OLD-FASHIONED EPISCOPALIAN BOXING MATCHES. Awesome.

I don’t have any especially whacky house walk stories. The crowd was attentive and well-behaved. The only true eccentric was a guy in a trenchcoat with fresh facial scabs, who first asked me if I was “the reverend” and then advised me that our kitchen fire extinguishers weren’t of the correct grade (he recommended K grade extinguishers). My fellow guides, especially Angela, the church historian, were all lovely people. One of them, Olive, was good enough to snap a picture of me. Behold, Mr. Dan Kelly: DOCENT.

“And as He Folded the Paper, He Would Caress and Palpitate It to Orgasm…”

Eyugggh. I don’t know what’s worse: Zell’s blinkered, cost-cutting measures (right though he is about the inevitability of electronic papers, he’s only doing this because he can shave off a few more dollars and tie in with the iPad rather than imagining the democratic and artistic possibilities of all-electronic dissemination) or the inevitable batch of paper fetishist op-ed columns that will emerge as a result. If I read one more orgiastic memory of a grandfather carefully folding his newspaper as he reads it over coffee one Sunday morning, I’m going to hurl.