April 12, 2019  Uncategorized During that summer when Chicago was still hog butcher to the world and the sour of pyre wafted down the block hanging like a heavy dank drape, we lived upstairs from my grandpa in a red brick four-flat building. Grandpa came home from the stockyards blood splatters on heavy boots smelling of Palmolive soap and homemade wine that he made down in our basement where I knew…

“Your mom is ready to check out.” The nurse’s voice was somber. My mom had been near death for a week and, just yesterday, had finally been moved out of the ICU and into the main hospital.  “How much time does she have?” I asked.  “She can go any time.” “Wow.” I tried to process the million feelings that suddenly surfaced. “Please put her on the phone.” “Hi mom. I…

So I’m at Trader Joe’s this morning. While shopping, I hear an employee speaking to an elderly shopper and she’s being so lovely. It is clear that the elderly person is confused and the employee is saying “No, sweetheart, we don’t sell stamps here. We’re a grocery store. You need to go to the post office for stamps, love.” I think to myself how wonderful it is to hear this…

In 1914, carrying no more than his hopes for a better life, my grandfather came to America from Croatia. Here, he worked twelve-hour days in Chicago’s stockyards. His heavy work boots were always covered in blood. I often wondered what kind of homeland would make his slaughterhouse life a coveted one…