Sweet Ride: Discovering a New World

At 10 I inherited  an oversized boy’s bike from my cousin.  It was officially my first bike since we couldn’t afford the popular Schwinns of the day.

It made me happy to have my own "wheels." I cleaned and painted the secondhand bike red and even added a silver thunderbolt to the fender to make it look fast and ready to roll.

Once it was "restored" and no longer looked like a dust catcher from someone’s basement, I took it for a test drive.

The first step was to find a place to mount the boy’s bike since I wasn’t tall enough to reach over the frame without starting from a stoop. Then I had to manage to stay upright and balanced.

After many falls and scraped knees, I wobbly made my way over the streets and sidewalks of our immigrant Chicago neighborhood in the ‘50s.

I was curious about what was outside the safety of the few blocks I already knew. I decided to risk a ride beyond the boundaries of my Greek, Irish, Polish and Swedish neighborhood. There was a bigger world out there; and my bike, like a trusty steed, would take me there.

So I headed for the nearest stoop, straddled my bike, and set off for my first trip across neighborhood borders into foreign territory with other nationalities on Chicago's South Side.

I was breaking the rules by leaving my neighborhood, but I couldn’t resist the adventure.

As I rode, I heard new languages and saw different ethnic faces.

Even so, the lifestyles seemed familiar to my neighborhood with open market tables covered with fresh breads, fish, and produce, many displayed just outside of family-owned shops housed under their apartments.

Some of the food and the odors were unfamiliar.Other sidewalk tables held clothing and trinkets for sale.

I didn’t feel comfortable getting off my bike just yet.  After all, these were strangers I was told not to go near.

When I returned home, I didn't dare tell anyone of my explorations just a few blocks away. I kept my travels a secret so I could return to discover more about the new territory.

As time passed, I grew bolder and got off my bike to taste and touch the foods and wares of the other immigrants' lives.

Thanks to my secondhand bike, I got to discover a new world and its inhabitants in Chicago's immigrant melting pot of the '50s.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Grandfathers and Cigars

My Greek Grandfather

It was the Great Depression. My immigrant Greek grandfather’s fruit and vegetable stand in Chicago was defunct. He was broke, but a proud man, too proud to let the other Greek men know how bad things were financially.

To uphold his position within the community, he continued to meet with them in the evenings just as he always had to smoke a cigar and play cards. The nightly ritual was his way of holding on even though he was desperate.

My mother, only 12, adored her father Vasileios, a man who stood tall with erect, stiff posture, strong cheekbones and groomed moustache, an honest, hardworking man who came to America from a small village in Greece to build a new and prosperous life.

To help the family get by, my mother worked long hours at the factory and visited her father faithfully every evening where she discretely slipped a quarter into his jacket draped over his chair to pay for his cigar.

Nothing was ever said…no thank you or acknowledgement of the child’s nightly gift to her father. It would not have been fitting. The ritual continued until his death of a broken heart, according to my mother, from having lost everything, including the American dream.

That is the only story I remember being told about my grandfather, but it gave me a portrait of a proud man who kept his dignity in times of adversity.

My Jewish Grandfather

My father's father, Grandpa Harry, was a true entrepreneur who came from Hungary to also build his fortune in the new world. He started working in Minnesota for the Edward Hines Lumber Co. and soon became an interpreter for the other immigrant men.

He spoke seven languages and was a clever man who seized opportunities wherever he found them. He also became the banker of sorts for the other men helping them as they found their way in a new land.

Grandpa Harry had many businesses, some succeeded, some failed, but he never quit. After the stock market crash, he pawned his wedding ring to pay his bills and start again. Tall for the time, over 6 feet, he dominated others, including his sons but adored his grandchildren, especially the girls.

I was one of his favorites. He gave me my first instrument, a second hand clarinet. He wanted to give me a piano but there was no room for it in our small apartment in Chicago. He also gave me a used typewriter that I still had when I went off to college.

There are many funny stories about Grandpa Harry like the time we woke up to find new bushes he  planted in the dark in our yard while we slept in our new house in the suburbs. We never knew where the shrubbery came from. It was just the way Grandpa did things.

One of my memories of him was his cigars. They were one of his favorite things; there was always a box of cigars with him.

Every time he took one out of the cigar box, he gave me the seal which I immediately made into a shiny ring for my finger.

It was a game we played, a special ritual in the bond we shared.

In my family, a cigar was not just a cigar. My grandfathers' cigars were tokens of affection and love.


Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Photo of Two Cigars by Josiah Gordon

Sweet Music, Sweet Memories

Has music ever taken you back to a place and time, a sort of jukebox of memories that the music brings back as if it were just yesterday?

Sweet music evokes sweet memories.

There seem to be songs attached to moments in our lives that conjure up those unforgettable memories we've stored in our hearts and minds of people and places that we carry with us forever. All it takes is a few notes and we're there.

As I listened to the solo clarinettist masterfully hit the notes so perfectly at the public symphony, I flashed back to when I took up the clarinet because of a handsome Irish boy who played in the school band and whose auburn-haired, freckled sister was my best friend.

The clarinettist's notes transported me to seventh grade and my struggles with the instrument's reed and intricate fingerplay as I tried to hit the notes correctly. My motivation to play was Michael, who didn't seem to know I existed.

I was a gawky, shy girl with a secret crush on a tall, proud boy who was, unbeknowst to him, my Prince Charming, standing proudly in his sky blue and white, satiny band uniform.

It helped that my grandfather found a used clarinet and a music stand (to make it official) at a local pawnshop. Grandpa would have preferred for me to learn to play the piano like my grandmother, but there was no room in our tiny apartment. So it had to be the clarinet.

Unfortunately, hard as I practiced, I had no musical talent. The sounds I created were squawky and screechy; and though I played "I Am a Happy Wanderer" over and over, it never got better. The neighbors in the old Chicago apartiment building didn't complain about my rehearsals, at least not openly.

I had the uniform, the instrument, sheet music and stand, but I clearly was not musically inclined.

However, to be near my secret crush, I continued to faithfully practice "Edelweiss" until I was out of breath, and my cat hid under the bed.

Needless to say, I never got the boy, who didn't even notice me; I don't think we ever had a conversation. He had no idea how I fantasized about our holding hands and my being his girlfriend.

I did look the part in my blue and white cape and marched with the others to the school assembly performance, probably sounding like a scene from The Music Man.

The next year we moved to the suburbs, and the clarinet was put to rest in its weathered case. I never played it again, and no one seemed to mind.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 -2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Music Band 1 by Robert Proska

Clarinet by Nina

In Like a Lion...Out Like a Lamb

I’ve been thinking of the rituals and symbols we attribute to spring: spring break, spring cleaning, and even “spring forward” for daylight savings time.

Rites of spring at Yale Elementary School in Chicago in the ‘50s came with its own rituals. My fifth grade class was selected to decorate the student hallway bulletin board.

Eagerly armed with scissors, glue, felt and thumbtacks, we created a felt lion and furry lamb covered with cotton balls along with paper cut spring tulips and dandelions to welcome spring to cold Chicago.

It was a major display that everyone walked by, a prime location. We felt appreciated for the“craftsmanship” and creativity of our delightful spring banner. In some aspects, it was the “early seeds” of my marketing career to create eye-catching ads and promotions (little did I know:).

Growing up in Chicago, spring meant coloring Easter eggs and the sugary fun of emptying an Easter basket filled with chocolate bunnies and jelly beans.

It also meant a new outfit for church, including an Easter bonnet, short, white gloves and black patent leather shoes.

I transitioned from girl to young lady in the spring when I wore my first “nylons,” hosiery with seams, signaling a coming of age similar to a boy going from short pants to trousers.

However, I couldn’t keep the hosiery's back seams straight on my beanstalk legs that seemed to be growing too fast for the rest of me. Nevertheless, I was thrilled to wear them thinking of the glamorous actresses in the movies and magazines posing in their fashionable, elegant stockings.

Spring also meant late winter storms and blustery winds as Chicago's winter belted its last “roar” before it allowed gentle spring rains and plants to come out of their slumber, allowing the new born “lamb” to replace the fierce lion of winter.

Spring is a time of awakening, to shake off winter’s doldrums and allow new growth to emerge. The seasons of our lives imitate these cycles, prompting us to shed our winters for new life.

We are in synch with life’s patterns when we remove our winter coats to embrace the warmth and gentleness of spring’s “lamb.”

When I think back to my grade school display of the felt lion and furry, cotton lamb, it makes me smile and welcome spring once again with a child's delight.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Lion photo by Jean Scheijen
Easter Eggs photo by Alexandar Iotzov
Toy Sheep photo by Ula Kapala

For Love of the Movies

It’s award season for the movies, my favorite time of the year for one of my family’s treasured traditions, the Oscars. For some families, it’s sports…for mine, it’s the movies.

My family speaks “moviespeak.” It is a bond that transcends our lifestyles and ages and continues as a tradition through our generations.

Movies have been part of my life since my mother took me with her every week to the local Chicago theatres. It was both escape and entertainment for her while she waited for my dad to return from WWII.

I barely fit on the seat and often fell asleep while watching adult dramas or cowered under the seat for horror films like The Thing.

Later my mother took me to live performances at the elegant Chicago Theatre where musicians sometimes performed before a movie. Together we saw Harry James, the great trumpet player of his time, a sold out event similar to major concert tours today.

Mom adored the actors, read Photoplay (a precursor of TMZ and Entertainment Weekly) and the celebrity gossip magazines. She lived her life vicariously through film stars and knew not only their film credits but their personal lives as revealed through the “rags” of the day.

Movie stars were her special friends. She knew them the way diehard soap opera fans follow their favorite characters. Our family’s Super Bowl was the Oscars ceremony which we watched faithfully every year as the film stars accepted their awards.

As a girl, I dreamed of someday accepting an Oscar. I got as far as a high school drama award that looked like an Oscar statuette.

Growing up in Chicago, movies along with Looney Tunes cartoons made for a perfect Saturday morning following the serial adventures of Tarzan while enjoying Good & Plenty candy and jujubes as well as air conditioning before most homes had it, and sometimes even a special event on the theatre stage like learning how to do yoyo tricks (never did master “walking the dog.”)

On hot summer nights, the family would pack up the car and go to the drive-in movies. Later we would stop by a Dairy Queen or Dog n Suds for a sweet ending to our family outing. We were together, entertained and shared a treat. Life was simple and we were satisfied.

My mother’s love of the movies is a legacy in our family. My brother quotes movie lines when the occasion calls for it. My son remembers and recalls favorite scenes in great detail like sporting fans that have total recall of their favorite sports moments.

No matter what else is going on in our lives, movies are a part of the family. As my mother started and we continue, we cast our votes for the Oscars as to who will win versus who should win. Like my parents, we critique and share our opinions about movies.

We consider ourselves well-informed critics with a wealth of movie going experience as well as followers of the movie industry, my daughter as a TV producer and my son as a writer. We simply love stories, and movies tell and preserve them better than anything else.

Movie Star Namesakes
I learned in my teens that my name came from a movie character. The Greek family tradition is to name the firstborn after a grandparent. My pregnant mother found the perfect equivalent for my grandmother’s name in what is now a black-and-white cult film from the ‘40s, The Curse of the Cat People. Simone Simon played a horror film’s heroine named Erana.

Years later, I named my daughter Dana, the name of the lovely British actress Dana Wynter who starred in the '50s Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It was an unconscious coincidence that I was following in my mother’s footsteps.

Over the holidays, we always go to the movies. Our tastes differ, but we want to share the family experience. We may not have read the same book, but we’ve seen the same movie. Even now, when I have a long day, I escape with popcorn to the movies, on the big screen or via Netflix or Blockbuster.

Movies still have the magical power to transport me to a place where I am totally engaged and the rest of life can be put on hold for awhile. They still move and sometimes scare me.

They take me away from the ordinary and involve me in their stories where I feel empathy with the characters, their problems, struggles and victories. They make me feel more alive. I love the movies.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Chicago Theatre photo by Chris Ayers

Popcorn photo by Steven Kapsinow

Our Christmas of Catastrophes

Most Christmas memories blend together, a collage of moments in the scrapbook of memories we all carry in our minds.


But there is one from my childhood that stands out.

It was our Christmas of Catastrophes in 1953 when I was 10 and living in a small apartment with my two brothers, my parents and our cat, Kitty.

Chicago was under a snow and ice siege…freezing, slippery conditions that kept us inside as the biggest and most anticipated holiday of the year approached.

We were excited. Our Greek mother had taught us to sing “Silent Night” in Greek to impress our relatives when the big day arrived.

We decorated our tree that just missed the ceiling and sat tucked into the corner of our small living room. The ornaments were vintage now, mostly glass tinted with silver and gold designs and old world themes, from my parents early Christmases together.

Some of our strung colored lights were candles with rising bubbles that appeared when they were lit. Once decorated, the finishing touches were slivers of silver tinsel hung from the branches. It was a happy time for a working class family in the immigrant neighborhood.

Nothing seemed different this particular Christmas except for the nonstop severe weather and the sheets of ice everywhere.

The most popular Christmas song that year was Nat King Cole’s recording of “The Christmas Song.” My father who loved to sing in bars and at weddings had to have it. He called all over the city to find a copy of the 78 record platter and finally found one.

Under other circumstances, my father would not have ventured out in the Arctic grip the city was under, but he was obsessed with the song and was determined to have it for Christmas. So he cleared the car of its snow and ice and began his trek to the record store.

Our cat Kitty, we discovered, was fascinated by the slinky, snakelike glimmering tinsel dangling seductively from the branches. It was a new cat toy to play with and bat with his paws.

However, it didn’t stop there. Kitty wanted to taste the tinsel, and with one stubborn tug pulled down the tree.

Branches snapped, ornaments rolled across the floor, some broke, and we gasped. With tears and laughter we put the tree upright and repaired the damages as best we could to restore it to its pristine state.

It was dark now and my weary father returned with his precious record only to find worsened street conditions for parking his big Caddie. As he attempted to seesaw into a spot, he hit the car in front and in back of him.

Totally exasperated, my dad now had car insurance and damage issues as well as unhappy neighbors to deal with. He finally gave up and came inside in a foul mood. The earlier excitement and family cheer were now gone.

But there was still one more catastrophe that day.

My dad unwrapped the coveted record from its packaging only to discover it was cracked and unplayable.

We did recover from that awful day and still had a good Christmas in spite of the cat, the tree, the car and the broken record.

It was an unforgettable Christmas, our Christmas of Catastrophes.


Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Cat photo by Palmer W. Cook

Georgie’s Girl

All the girls adored him.

Georgie was cocky, mischievous, wore his jeans slung on his hips without a belt, a black leather motorcycle jacket with his collar up…an irresistible mix of James Dean and John Travolta with thick, blonde, wavy hair and blue eyes that made me melt.

Georgie was the leader of the eighth grade boys. I was the new kid in seventh grade in the suburbs of Chicago. 

Georgie was king of the school and everybody tried to please him, except me. I was so shy that I wouldn’t talk to him and only looked at him when he couldn’t see. The others thought my awkward standoffishness was what they called “stuck-up.”

I fantasized about Georgie but never dreamed he would notice me. I’m not sure what attracted him to me, except that I was the only girl not fawning over him. One day, his simple “hi” broke our silence as he walked me to my locker.

After that, we were “a couple,” and he escorted me to my classes regularly. Of course, I was thrilled as if my dream had come true. Georgie also started riding his motorcycle to my house, the ultimate display of affection to a girl who never had a boyfriend before.

Since Georgie liked me, the eighth grade girls’ clique called the Sub-Debs (like the Pink Ladies in Grease) invited me to their lunch table, and soon I became one of them. We wore identical yellow jackets and rolled down our bobby socks an inch at the top to look cool.

I cut my hair short in a slick DA shaped into a duck tail in the back with side curls that I taped to my cheeks at night to train them to lie plastered against my face during the day.

Though Georgie looked like a gang member from West Side Story, he was always a gentleman with me. Our relationship was innocent and delightful, just handholding and closed-mouth kissing. We never “made out.” I was still very shy, and he never tried.

I remember his asking me to “go steady” on a summer day on a bench near the park at the end of our street.

He even gave me his engraved ID bracelet to wear so everyone would know I was Georgie’s girl. After that, I gained new status in the school and became the envy of the other girls.     

Other than a few sweet kisses, my first love and I only shared socializing at school and some parties at other kids’ houses, usually in the basement, the knotty-pine, paneled party room for working class families in suburban Chicago homes.

I’m not sure when Georgie and I went our separate ways. We seemed to drift apart when I went to high school. I started spending more time with student leaders and other teens that wanted to go to college.

That didn’t interest Georgie. He was street smart, savvy, and in a hurry to make money.

We no longer had much in common. He still had a following of the boys from Berger Elementary School, but was not a high-school achiever in sports, scholastics, or extra-curricular activities.

I lost track of him in our overcrowded high school of 4,000 students. The following year I was elected the first girl president of the sophomore class.

After I graduated and moved on to the University of Illinois, I came home for the summers and worked in downtown Chicago. One day I ran into Georgie on the street in my hometown.

It felt awkward. We really didn’t know what to say to each other. It had been much easier in seventh grade. We were now in very different places.

I was dressed for business and he was still in his construction coveralls. Working in the sun made him blonder, rugged, and more handsome. He was still mischievous and his confidence was disarming.

We made small talk and scanned each other. I felt sexually attracted to him at 19 and wondered what it would be like to be intimate with him. I sensed that the feeling was mutual but neither of us tried to revive our lost love.

I never saw Georgie again. I married my college sweetheart and moved to another state to teach near where my husband was attending law school.

My father later told me that Georgie married one of the quiet, pretty girls from my class who never went to college.

They seemed to be doing well: big house, cars, boat, etc. I knew Georgie was a hustler and was not surprised that he was earning big money in the construction business. He always had to be number one.

A couple years later, I heard that Georgie was in prison. His ambition had led him to his own private plane, major drug deals, and connections to cartels smuggling drugs into the country. As always, he did things in a big way and never stood for being second best at anything.

Many years have passed, but the memory of him as my first love remains tucked away in my heart forever. He made an awkward, young, skinny girl feel pretty and special. I will always be thankful that I was Georgie’s girl.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-10 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://justdoingmythingcom.blogspot.com/

Motorcycle boy photo by Michal Zacharzewski
Corrente2 bracelet by Felipe Skroski

The Halo Lounge

At age 13, as if by divine intervention, I was chosen to represent the Presbyterian church on a local TV quiz-kid show aptly named, “This Way Up.”

I attended Sunday School in the Chicago suburbs and was their star pupil, an aspiring missionary, who saw God through shafts of sunlight  seemingly directed at me.

Looking at the heavenly skylight, I felt a special connection to my maker, and my church nurtured it.

Though my parents never visited the church, nevertheless, I was recognized in front of the congregation for memorizing more of the Old Testament than anyone else in my class. I basked in the glory.

Little did I know that my Old Testament Bible knowledge would lead to bigger and better things.

In the mid-50s, TV programming in Chicago kept viewers captivated with cooking demonstrations, Howdy Doody puppets, Uncle Miltie, and quiz shows. Being chosen to compete with other churches’ Sunday school contestants was an honor.

Besides appearing on TV, I had a chance to win a $25 bond for the church and a white leather Bible with gold trimmed pages.

To prepare for my TV debut, I carefully picked my hat and slipped my fingers into my pristine, white fitted gloves to be properly dressed in my Sunday best for the auspicious occasion.

There I stood in front of the camera answering all the Bible questions confidently and winning easily. I took home the white leather Bible autographed by the TV host and carried the bond safely back to the church.

The televised event was an epiphany, a transformative experience.

 I ascended from Sunday School starlet to full-fledged celebrity status among the Presbyterians. I was their Junior Miss Achiever.

“What next?” I thought. I was on my way to God, and a door had opened to my fantasy adventure to become “Nancy Drew, Missionary.” It all seemed to be falling into place until one unforeseen afternoon.

After Sunday School, the minister called me into his office to congratulate me on the honors I had brought to his parish. After some polite conversation, the head of the church asked me why my parents never came to services.

Since my parents were of different religious denominations (Greek Orthodox and non-practicing Jew), I had tagged along with friends to find “my church.”

As always, I attended on my own with neighborhood kids. By 13, there was already an assorted list of churches in my repertoire: I had spent time with Methodists, Lutherans, Baptists, Episcopalians and occasionally Catholics.

The minister continued his interrogation. He wanted to know my father’s occupation and where he worked. Suddenly, I felt hot and clammy as my perfect holy life began to crumble. I didn’t want to lie or tell the truth.

The time of reckoning had come. I knew if I disclosed my father’s work, I would fall from grace and off my sacred pedestal.

As if confessing, I stammered that my father was a… bartender at the Halo Lounge… a local bar with a blinking neon halo above the sign of the establishment.

The minister became silent, looked away, made some unrelated comment, and wished me a good day. It was over. I was exposed and embarrassed not knowing what to say in that awkward moment of truth that seemed like it would never end.

My short-lived fame was deposed by a neon halo. I could no longer reign as the Sunday School queen. Like a golden calf from the Old Testament, my holy tiara was toppled by a neon halo.

God works in mysterious ways.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-10 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Pass the Lamb and Gefilte Fish

Religious holidays bring back memories of family at their best and their worst, being together and sharing food with a dash of feud.

My Greek relatives took turns hosting holidays: Christmas at our house; Thanksgiving at my uncle’s and Greek Easter at my aunt’s home in Chicago’s South Shore. Greek Easter is typically celebrated the week after American Easter.

I recall entering my aunt’s house exclaiming, “Christos Anesti,” (Christ is Risen), hugging my cousins and enjoying the warmth of family bonds and our reunion after our last holiday together. Like my Catholic friends, it was our tradition to fast before Easter and then gorge ourselves during a huge celebration feast on our Easter Sunday.

The Greek banquet of spring lamb, mounds of creamy mashed potatoes, authentic Greek salad tossed with black olives and feta cheese accompanied a bounty of side dishes laden across a long, narrow dinner table. I always tried to sit next to my handsome blonde, blue-eyed cousin who I had a secret crush on.

We crowded around eagerly, gobbling the food to fill us from our week of food sacrifice. Even though we overate, we always left room for the desserts, including my favorite powdered-sugar cookies (kourembiathes). And of course, the adults drank ouzo, Greek liqueur.

We looked forward to these family events with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. What would our cousins look like since Christmas? What was the latest gossip? At what point would our mother and her brother have their annual argument which was part of the holiday ritual as well?

They had fought for many years, and a truce of sorts was declared for the sake of family during the holiday meals. The peace lasted throughout dinner, and then on cue the predictable and loud argument erupted. They had contrary opinions on just about everything, and neither would give in to the other, remaining in a standoff until the next family gathering.

This ritual after the hearty, celebratory meal, was re-enacted at the next family holiday dinner. We cousins understood these family feuds and looked forward to being together for the next disarmament scheduled later in the year. The coolness would last until then.

After my marriage, my Easters became Passovers. For me, Passover rituals seemed solemn compared to the joyous Easters I remembered. During the Seder, we gathered to honor the Jews liberation from persecution and their suffering while enslaved.

I felt a distant sympathy, but I couldn’t relate to the strangeness and unappetizing gefilte fish, unleavened bread and bitter herbs.

I missed the celebration of my original family’s Easter holiday, even with my mother and her brother sniping at each other.

I participated in the ceremony out of respect for my in-laws but really didn’t identify with the occasion. I came from another tribe and heritage.

Though the traditions represented a contrast of cultures with their own customs and foods, the families did have some other "rituals" in common.

My mother-in-law and sister-in-law didn’t get along either, and the strain was pervasive through their cold silences. The official Passover ritual was a brief respite from their ongoing differences, and they eventually couldn’t keep their dislike contained. It too was predictable.

It wasn’t expressed loudly like my Greek relatives. After the meal, the women would separate from the men and gather in the kitchen for clean-up. By this time, they could no longer tolerate being around each other.

It was there that the dispute would be acted out as criticism and complaining usually over small things. Like my original family, my acquired family understood these matters and accepted them. It was part of the ritual of sharing food and feud. Opah! Oy Vey!

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Gefilte fish for Passover photo by Alex Ringer

In Like a Lion...Out Like a Lamb

Rites of spring at Yale Elementary School in Chicago in the ‘50s came with its own rituals. My fifth grade class was selected to decorate the student hallway bulletin board.

Eagerly, armed with scissors, glue, felt and some thumbtacks, we created a felt lion and furry lamb covered with cotton balls along with paper cut spring tulips and dandelions to welcome spring to cold Chicago.

It was a major display that everyone passed, and we were proud of our “craftsmanship” and creativity to usher in spring. In some aspects, it was the “early seeds” of my marketing career to create eye-catching ads and promotions (little did I know).

I’ve been thinking of all the rituals and symbols we attribute to spring and welcome: spring break, spring cleaning, and “spring forward” with daylight savings time.

Specifically in my life, spring displayed itself gloriously with daffodils and lilacs when I lived in downstate Illinois along with annual “baby” asparagus shoots and rhubarb stalks in my vegetable garden; cherry blossoms, azaleas and robin’s eggs in D.C. and Virginia; and now orange blossoms and cactus flowers in Arizona.

Growing up in Chicago, spring meant coloring Easter eggs and the delight of emptying an Easter basket filled with chocolate bunnies and jelly beans. It also meant a new outfit for church, including an Easter bonnet, gloves and patent leather shoes.

I wore my first “nylons,” hosiery with seams (signaling a passage from girl to woman) similar to a boy going from short pants to trousers.

I couldn’t keep the seams straight on my skinny legs, but I was thrilled to wear them thinking of the glamorous actresses posing in their fashionable, elegant stockings.

Spring also meant late winter storms and blustery winds as winter belted its last “roar” before it allowed gentle spring rains and plants to come out of their slumber, allowing the new born “lamb” to replace the fierce lion of winter.

Spring is a time of awakening, shaking off winter’s doldrums and allowing new growth to emerge. The seasons of our lives imitate these cycles, prompting us to shed our winters for new life.

We are in synch with life’s patterns when we remove our winter coats to embrace the warmth and gentleness of spring’s “lamb.” 

My grade school’s felt lion and furry, cotton lamb still make me smile and remind me that my life is full of seasons to welcome.


Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Lion photo by Jean Scheijen
Daffodils photo by Nick Pye
Easter Eggs photo by Alexandar Iotzov
Toy Sheep photo by Ula Kapala

Meet the Immigrant Neighbors Circa '50s

I was raised with immigrants, first, second and third generations in Chicago in the mid-50s.

They were many shades of white: German, Polish, Irish, Swedish, Italian, Jewish, and Greek. Our parents spoke more than one language; but as their children, we were Americans and English was our common language with each other.

There was Johnny whose living room displayed a treasured Lionel train set and whose Irish Catholic mother cooked cabbage we could smell a block before we got home from school to the three-story apartment building with an alley on the side where we played “kick the can” and threw balls against the brick wall.

 

The alley between the two old apartment buildings was where deliveries were made by the ice man (a block of ice placed in a refrigerator box to keep food fresh for a couple days); the Fuller Brush man selling hardware goods door to door; and the fascinating “ragman,” a tinker with a cart of bartered trinkets, pots and pans, a mobile tradesman who carried everything from thread to bracelets, whatever he picked up along the way.

Carol of Swedish descent lived in the apartment above ours. Her mother was a maid and brought home clothing discards from the affluent family she cleaned for. The oversized dresses became great make-believe garments for Carol and me to play “grown-up” ladies as we giggled at how we looked in them. Her mom made great Swedish meatballs.

In the apartment across from Carol lived Sandy, an aloof, beautiful German blonde girl whose dad loved watching wrestling on TV while drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Sometimes I would sit in their living room and watch along with them though I knew nothing about professional wrestling.

Allan who lived in the apartment beneath us kept to himself. People whispered that he was adopted but never spoke of it in front of him as if it were something shameful to not know who you came from.

Ronald, one of the Polish kids, was the leader of the rest of us. He was mean and often caused trouble. He intimidated the others and used the basement “catacombs” as the hideout for his followers.

From the back of the apartments we could see a house’s yard with grass and trees. It was Nancy’s house. I thought she was rich because she lived in a house and had her own bedroom. I always felt like she was “looking down” on the children who lived in the apartments. We played together for awhile but ultimately went our separate ways after an argument about the famous cowboy star of the time, Roy Rogers.

The neighborhood started to shift as a new ethnic group moved in, and everything changed. The new neighbor Belinda was a mulatto, a colored girl with braided pigtails all over her head. Much to my mother’s chagrin, we played together.

Cadillacs replaced Chevies in front of the apartments, and the cooking smells were from foreign southern foods (collards and gizzards).

The white immigrants quickly sought other residences and fled to new suburbs in homes funded by GI bills from soldiers like my dad who served in WWII.

Though our parents told us not to play with the Wops, Polacks, Potato Heads, and worse ethnic slurs, we were children and we only had each other, so we ignored our parents’ prejudices and made the best of living in a true “melting” pot of mid-century Americans.

Looking back it was a rich experience about diversity, food, culture, language; and I appreciate having lived it and how it shaped my acceptance of what we now label cultural diversity.

Today I marvel at diversity again in my college classes of minorities, some becoming a majority, including Hispanics, Native Americans, African Americans, Middle Easterners, and fewer Caucasians than before.

Once again I see the fear of the people who migrated ahead of them and the struggles for the new Americans to win their place and make better lives for their families as the immigrants of Chicago did so many years ago.

The cycle repeats itself.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

See more "Growing Up in Chicago" posts in "Erana's stories."

Chicago sign photo by Nick Pepito

Cadillac photo by Andrew Beierle

For Love of the Movies

It’s award season for the movies, my favorite time of the year for one of my family’s treasured traditions, the Oscars. For some families, it’s sports…for mine, it’s the movies. My family speaks “moviespeak.” It is a bond that transcends our lifestyles and ages and continues as a tradition through our generations.


Movies have been part of my life since my mother took me with her every week to the local Chicago theatres. It was both escape and entertainment for her while she waited for my dad to return from WWII.


I barely fit on the seat and often fell asleep while watching adult dramas or cowered under the seat for horror films like The Thing.

Later my mother took me to live performances at the elegant Chicago Theatre where musicians sometimes performed before a movie. Together we saw Harry James, the great trumpet player of his time, a sold out event similar to major concert tours today.

Mom adored the actors, read Photoplay (a precursor of TMZ and Entertainment Weekly) and the celebrity gossip magazines. She lived her life vicariously through film stars and knew not only their film credits but their personal lives as revealed through the “rags” of the day.


Movie stars were her special friends. She knew them the way diehard soap opera fans follow their favorite characters. Our family’s Super Bowl was the Oscars ceremony which we watched faithfully every year as the film stars accepted their awards. As a girl, I dreamed of someday accepting an Oscar. I got as far as a high school drama award that looked like an Oscar statuette.

Growing up in Chicago, movies along with Looney Tunes cartoons made for a perfect Saturday morning following the serial adventures of Tarzan while enjoying Good & Plenty candy and jujubes as well as air conditioning before most homes had it, and sometimes even a special event on the theatre stage like learning how to do yoyo tricks (never did master “walking the dog.”)


On hot summer nights, the family would pack up the car and go to the drive-in movies. Later we would stop by a Dairy Queen or Dog n Suds for a sweet ending to our family outing. We were together, entertained and shared a treat. Life was simple and we were satisfied.


My mother’s love of the movies is a legacy in our family. My brother quotes movie lines when the occasion calls for it. My son remembers and recalls favorite scenes in great detail like sporting fans that have total recall of their favorite sports moments.


No matter what else is going on in our lives, movies are a part of the family. As my mother started and we continue, we cast our votes for the Oscars as to who will win versus who should win. Like my parents, we critique and share our opinions about movies. We consider ourselves well-informed critics with a wealth of movie going experience as well as followers of the movie industry, my daughter as a TV producer and my son as a writer. We simply love stories, and movies tell and preserve them better than anything else.

I learned in my teens that my name came from a movie character. The Greek family tradition is to name the firstborn after a grandparent. My pregnant mother found the perfect equivalent for my grandmother’s name in what is now a black-and-white cult film from the ‘40s, The Curse of the Cat People. Simone Simon played a horror film’s heroine named Erana.

Years later, I named my daughter Dana, the name of the lovely British actress Dana Wynter who starred in the '50s Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It was an unconscious coincidence that I was following in my mother’s footsteps.

Over the holidays, we always go to the movies. Our tastes differ, but we want to share the family experience. We may not have read the same book, but we’ve seen the same movie. Even now, when I have a long day, I escape with popcorn to the movies, on the big screen or via Netflix or Blockbuster.

Movies still have the magical power to transport me to a place where I am totally engaged and the rest of life can be put on hold for awhile. They still move and sometimes scare me. They take me away from the ordinary and involve me in their stories where I feel empathy with the characters, their problems, struggles and victories. They make me feel more alive. I love the movies.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Chicago Theatre photo by Chris Ayers
 Popcorn photo by Steven Kapsinow

Our Christmas of Catastrophes

Most Christmas memories blend together as a collage of moments in the scrapbook of memories we all carry in our minds.

But there is one from my childhood that stands out. It was our Christmas of Catastrophes in 1953 when I was 10 and living in a small apartment with my two brothers, my parents and our cat, Kitty.

Chicago was under a snow and ice siege…freezing, slippery conditions that kept us inside as the biggest and most anticipated holiday of the year approached. We were excited. Our Greek mother had taught us to sing “Silent Night” in Greek to impress our relatives when the big day arrived.

We decorated our tree that just missed the ceiling and sat tucked into the corner of our small living room. The ornaments were vintage now, mostly glass tinted with silver and gold designs and old world themes, from my parents early Christmases together.

Some of our strung colored lights were candles with rising bubbles that appeared when they were lit. Once decorated, the finishing touches were slivers of silver tinsel hung from the branches. It was a happy time for a working class family in the immigrant neighborhood.

Nothing seemed different this particular Christmas except for the nonstop severe weather and the sheets of ice everywhere. The most popular Christmas song that year was Nat King Cole’s recording of “The Christmas Song.” My father who loved to sing in bars and at weddings had to have it.

He called all over the city to find a copy of the 78 record platter and finally found one. Under other circumstances, my father would not have ventured out in the Arctic grip the city was under, but he was obsessed with the song and was determined to have it for Christmas. So he cleared the car of its snow and ice and began his trek to the record store.

Our cat Kitty, we discovered, was fascinated by the slinky, snakelike glimmering tinsel dangling seductively from the branches. It was a new cat toy to play with and bat with his paws. However, it didn’t stop there. Kitty wanted to taste the tinsel, and with one stubborn tug pulled down the tree.

Branches snapped, ornaments rolled across the floor, some broke, and we gasped. With tears and laughter we put the tree upright and repaired the damages as best we could to restore it to its pristine state.

It was dark now and my weary father returned with his precious record only to find worsened street conditions for parking his big Caddie. As he attempted to seesaw into a spot, he hit the car in front and in back of him. Totally exasperated, my dad now had car insurance and damage issues as well as unhappy neighbors to deal with. He finally gave up and came inside in a foul mood.

The earlier excitement and family cheer were now gone. But there was still one more catastrophe that day. My dad unwrapped the coveted record from its packaging only to discover it was cracked and unplayable.

We did recover from that awful day and still had a good Christmas in spite of the cat, the tree, the car and the broken record. It was an unforgettable Christmas, our Christmas of Catastrophes.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


Cat photo by Palmer W. Cook

The Scariest Place

I crept down the concrete steps praying, “I shall walk through the valley of death and fear no evil.”

Repeating it again and again, I approached the heavy, wooden door with dread— the entrance to the largest, darkest place I knew at 8 years old, a damp, sunken basement storage room that stretched in a black void across the old apartment building filled with immigrant families’ possessions.

Whenever I opened the door, I froze by what I heard but could not see: garbage-fed city rats, feral cats, and insects living in a dark world of total blackness outside of civilization and daylight. Their scurrying sounds and animal scratchings inhabited the blackness.

Frantically, I mustered all my courage and ran to the middle of the darkness, blindly navigating by instinct to the center of the room until I found the cold, damp concrete wash sinks, my buoy in the sea of darkness. Above them hung my salvation, a single light bulb and its dangling string, a lifeline in the immense blackness.

Fighting panic, I whistled to scare off the creatures of the dark. If I could only find the light before they found me. Only the light could save me. I groped the air for the string, desperately standing on my toes and waving my arms above the sinks, grasping for the slender string before the eternal night's creatures claimed me.

Blinded by the blackness, I grabbed for the light bulb’s string.

When my small hand caught it in mid air, a dim light entered the space, and my body sighed with relief as the string swayed above me.

That single, small light conquered my terror in the dark space. The other living things became silent in their hiding places as I found my way to our storage locker.

I know now that the dark, scary place is a metaphor for when the blackness and the unknown seem to engulf my life. Sometimes it is hard to find the light when there are fearful things around me and I cannot see where I am.

At those times, I remind myself I can overcome the terror of the dark when I grab hold of the light.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


Bulb photo by Szekér Ottó

Sweet Ride: Discovering a New World

At 10, I inherited an oversized boy’s bike from my cousin. We couldn’t afford the popular Schwinns of the day. I was happy to have my first bike. I cleaned and painted it, adding a thunderbolt on the fender to make it look fast and give the hand-me-down a new look.

Once it looked like a bike to be proud of rather than a dust catcher from someone’s basement, I had to learn to ride. The first step was to find a place to mount the boy’s bike since I wasn’t tall enough to reach over the frame without starting from a stoop. Then I had to manage to stay upright and balanced.

After several falls and scraped knees, I wobbly made my way over the streets and sidewalks of our immigrant Chicago neighborhood in the ‘50s. Eventually I wanted to see more and ventured beyond the boundaries of my Greek, Irish, Polish and Swedish neighborhood. I was curious to know what was outside the safety of the few blocks I already knew.

So I mounted my bike and boldly crossed the ethnic borders into foreign territory on the South Side, into a new place of different ethnic faces, their open market stalls, family-owned shops, churches and schools.

As I rode my bike by their open markets, I saw and smelled unfamiliar foods on display on sidewalk tables strewn with breads, produce, clothing and trinkets. I didn’t feel comfortable getting off my bike just yet. After all, these were strangers I was told not to go near.

I knew I was breaking the rules by leaving my neighborhood, but I couldn’t pass up the adventure. I didn't dare tell anyone of my explorations just a few blocks away from home. I kept my travels a secret so I could return to this exotic place.

Thanks to my secondhand bike, I got to discover a new world and its inhabitants in Chicago's immigrant melting pot of the '50s.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Grandfathers and Cigars

My Greek Grandfather

It was the Great Depression. My immigrant Greek grandfather’s produce stand in Chicago was defunct. But he was a proud man and would not let the other Greek men know how bad things were.

To uphold his position in the community of first generation Americans, he met in the evenings just as he always had with the other Greek men to smoke a cigar and play cards. No one knew how desperate things really were for him.

My mother, only 12, adored her father Vasileios, a man who stood tall with erect, almost stiff posture, strong cheekbones and groomed moustache, an honest, hardworking man who came to America from a small village in Greece to build a new and prosperous life.

To help the family get by, my mother worked long hours at the factory and visited her father faithfully every evening where she discretely slipped a quarter into his jacket draped over his chair to pay for his cigar.

Nothing was ever said…no thank you or acknowledgement of the child’s nightly gift to her father. It would not have been fitting. The ritual continued until his death of a broken heart, according to my mother, from having lost everything, including the American dream.

That is the only story I remember being told about my grandfather, but it gave me a portrait of a proud man who kept his dignity in times of adversity.

My Jewish Grandfather

My father's father, Grandpa Harry, was a true entrepreneur who came from Hungary to also build his fortune in the new world. He started working in Minnesota for the Edward Hines Lumber Co. and soon became an interpreter for the other immigrant men.

He spoke seven languages and was a clever man who seized opportunities wherever he found them. He also became the banker of sorts for the other men helping them as they found their way in a new land.

Grandpa Harry had many businesses, some succeeded, some failed, but he never quit. After the crash, he pawned his wedding ring to pay his bills and start again. Tall for the time, over 6 feet, he dominated others, including his sons but adored his grandchildren, especially the girls.

I was one of his favorites. He gave me my first instrument, a second hand clarinet. He wanted to give me a piano but there was no room for it in our small apartment in Chicago. He also gave me a used typewriter that I still had when I went off to college.

There are many funny stories about Grandpa Harry like the time we woke up to find new bushes that he had planted in our yard while we slept in our new house in the suburbs. We never knew where the shrubbery came from. It was just the way Grandpa did things.

One of my memories of him was his cigars. Every time he took one out of the cigar box, he gave me the seal which I immediately made into a shiny ring for my finger.

 It was a game we played, a special ritual in the bond we shared. So "smelly" cigars became gifts and symbols of love in my family.




Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Photo of Two Cigars by Josiah Gordon

Halloween Treat

My aunt grinned as she finished applying my dark, red lipstick and thick, black mascara. These were the finishing touches along with large hoop hearings, rope necklaces and shiny, arm bracelets that accessorized my striped orange, brown and black midriff blouse worn saucily off one shoulder above my swirling skirt.

I was only 12. What I saw looking back at me in the mirror was a wild gypsy girl, a dramatic, mysterious me seeing my adventurous self for the first time. No longer a ghost or a witch, this year’s costume and make-up revealed a sensuous, exciting version of myself I had felt but never seen.

This was much more than playing dress-up in my aunt’s high heel shoes when I visited her during the summer. I saw myself blooming, still a child but in woman’s make-up and jewelry, a preview of what I was becoming.

The future me in the reflection was daring, the heroine of a bold, passionate life. She looked back at me, pleased with herself to allow me a glance at a life I imagined from books I read and movie stars I admired.

This Halloween I discovered I could be more than an awkward, gangly girl. I caught a glimpse of the woman who was waiting for me to be her. I didn’t know her yet, but I liked her.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED