A Nod to Chicago and Family Roots

A cold rain fell as I traced the steps of my father,
who mourned these people who led him forth.

Deke's Note: As I write, the tunes of Chicago Transit Authority's earliest days (as a band) are usually blasting through my headphones. When this band exploded onto the airwaves in 1967, I was but a wee lad. The song "Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?" resonates with me still, even though time rules my every working day. I don't usually care either, but I know the precise time instinctively. Anyway, I recently visited the beautiful, huge and vastly-different and refreshingly-exciting city of Chicago, Illinois. A week since my arrival, I finally have time to chronicle my travels. Being absent from the family during Mother's Day Weekend requires certain great amounts of kissing-up to my beloved. It's time now...

I moved to Portland almost two decades ago from Tucson, which has a tiny downtown. Portland's city district seemed huge in comparison to any Arizona city, and incredibly-beautiful to boot. I'm still (and forever) enamored by its graceful beauty, backdropped by the West Hills and eastern vistas of Mt. Hood/Mt. St. Helens and beyond. At sunrise, the colors bestow a mystically-pinkish glow to our nearly 200-year-old city centre. Deer still roam early morns, the river remains shrouded in misty fog many mornings, and the earliest rays of our local star enshrine the skyscrapers in a panorama of visual orgasm.

Uncle Richard holds my gift for his birthday.

Last weekend, I traveled eastward into my birthplace, the Land of Lincoln and south-central Illinois. Having lost my father last year, I wanted to reconnect with the land in which he spent his youth. It remains mostly the same, except for typical chain businesses and freeways. The land and its farms retain the Midwest aura of honest hard work by decent people.

Dad left farming early, having run a farm at age 13 when his father died. Until it soured him, he was of a long line of farmers back to his Germany family origins of the 1600s. He couldn't wait to leave this life, and volunteered for the Army during World War II when he turned 18. A musician, Dad played in the Army Jazz Band until all hands were needed and they sent him to a sure-death when we poised to attack the Japanese homeland. Thank God for President Harry Truman dropping the first A-bombs to end the Pacific Theater of that horridly-long war, or I wouldn't have been conceived.

Visiting the graves of grandparents and others and with my aging uncle and aunt, I also met cousins beloved and those previously unknown. A cold rain could not dampen the love I found there. It was very soothing to revisit my once-distant roots. It grounded me once again, as one of my family's newer members of the "older generation." My life has been blessed in many ways, mostly by the dedication of parents and other relatives paving the way. Without my parents' loving guidance, I would have wasted away in some "institution" for the forgotten discards who were less-than-perfect. Not one day goes by during which I give thanks to my parents for their tireless efforts to ensure our success as human beings. Much of their steadfast principles were a direct result of the Midwesterners' way of life. This life's journey began there, and continues here in every action I take. This blog is a direct result of that deeply-ingrained sense of family and purpose.

The "Sears-Roebuck" house
my father was born in.

Wandering the back roads which were there when Dad was a pup, I marveled at the rolling farmlands, the groves of oak trees surrounding majestic old farmhouses and corresponding barns. I had seen them before, but it had been decades since I last visited. My aunt directed me to the farmhouse she and Dad had been born in; the bed itself is one of our family's prized antiques and saw the births of four generations. My brothers and I, and our cousins, were the first in the family born in hospitals. The old farmhouse looked unchanged but lovingly maintained. My grandfather ordered the house as a prefab kit from Sears-Roebuck catalog around 1920. It arrived at the local railroad station, every piece (including nails) marked with directions for construction. Grampa's friends and family helped transport it all to the homesite, where they had a "raising." Nearly 100 years later, it retains the charm and style Grandma probably adored when she helped pick the design.

On my way out of town after leaving the home of my late cousin, whose lovely wife had put me up for the night and fed me a hearty breakfast after a long night of drink and fun, I stopped to see my uncle again. The family reunion had not been ideal for visiting. We sat together a half-hour as I listened to him while playing with his great grandchildren. It was a magical moment in time that will be forever etched in my memory. This man grew up with my father. He probably knew him better than any of his sons did. We chatted about Dad's singing; I played some MP3's of Dad's songs which he enjoyed. His eyes misted when that magical tenor voice leapt back to life. So did mine. He misses his brother, I miss my hero father.

When I departed, it felt as if I should stay all day just to catch up. Later, I felt guilty for not spending more time with a beloved part of my family. But time lives a heartbeat, as the past grows ever long. It was time to make the next part of my journey. My uncle knew this trip was dedicated to not only my immediate family, but also to those I share a brotherhood with: my transit family. It was time to roll wheels again.

A few hours later, I entered the state's largest and most notorious, Windy City. The home of Al Capone, Richard Daley, and countless other historic figures. I wanted a taste of this metropolis from which I emerged nearly 60 years ago.

When this operator visits a different locale, curiosity draws me to ride transit. I want to meet fellow operators, get their take on the state of our profession. To experience their lives even if just for a fleeting moment. Watching them drive, feel the road as they do. Their heads swivel with the flow as mine does each moment behind the wheel. What do they see that I do not? The people are the same as my pax. Do they view them as "customers?" Most do not. They are simply precious (or sometimes not so much) cargo. It's a job. One we ALL take seriously.

I boarded four buses and two "El" trains during my brief stay. While the announcements and scenery were vastly different than those in Portland, the feel was the same. Miles pass us by in the same way. Lights to judge and traffic to second-guess, pedestrians to watch out for, countless immediate obstacles to avoid; it's all the same. While I didn't have the opportunity to speak with my fellow operators in detail, I got the impression their situations closely mirror my own.

Chicago's downtown district is several times larger than Portland's. Where we have a "transit mall," it simply has stops not unlike those all over is wide circumference. The "El" rumbles above the trafficky fray, rather than amongst. Plus, it hauls ass. Our light rail rolls at a snail's pace in comparison, because it is on the same level as vehicular traffic. Several lines traverse the same tracks, especially in the "Loop" area downtown. Every few minutes, trains race past at about 35-50mph above traffic below. In order to access the rail service, you have to ascend about 40-feet to the platform. You cannot access the boarding area without fare, usually a pass you flash onto a reader. It's so much more efficient than any Portlander is accustomed to.

The consummate self-promoter, I boarded each ride armed with a Deke business card. Three of four bus drivers were very pleased and interested in my pitch, one could not have cared less. None of them insisted a fellow operator from another city pay for their service, which I found very welcoming and in solidarity for our common profession. Given our International President of Amalgamated Transit Union Larry Hanley had just died, I truly felt accepted by my Chicago counterparts. They were receptive to learning about this blog and related book, and were as interested and engaged as they could be, given the immense responsibility their jobs entailed.

Chicago uses a great number of articulated buses (long and sectionally-pivoted vehicles) of the New Flyer brand. They seemed cleaner than ours. The operator compartments were protected by more full-shields than our pitiful ones, but I didn't have time to query the operators about what they think of these recently-necessary monstrosities.

The downtown stops are modeled differently than Portland's. Where we have specific stops downtown, they seem to share many stops with other lines. It must take a half-hour or more to glide through downtown Chicago than it does here. Passengers are largely-prepared to board, and operators efficiently service stops with ease and authority. At one stop, I stepped in to do my usual Deke promotion, but the operator must have been a bit late because he thumbed me behind the Yellow Line with a disinterested twist of his head. He ignored my offering of a business card; obviously, he's been in this gig long enough to know all the stories.

Skipping around a bascially-10-block circumference from my hotel, my experience was limited and brief. But what I saw gave me great respect for those who make transit work in the Windy City. If one of my CTA brothers or sisters read this, I want them to know I was truly impressed with their skill and professionalism. Their respect for me as well, was also very much appreciated.

Thanks Chicago, and I wish you safe rolls every mile. It was fun while it lasted, and I'll be back.

My trip was of a twofold purpose: to reconnect with two families. This post is therefore dedicated to my parents, extended family and all our ancestors, as well as those with whom I share an invaluable profession.

It is finally, a shout-out to my wonderful brothers and sisters of transit everywhere. In this case, specifically to those who roll the wheels of rail and bus in America's Infamous Windy City.

Thank you to every member of my "family." You read this, you support us with love and understanding, and you remain in my heart every mile I travel. Peace be with you all.

With respect, I am

Deke N. Blue