Happy Feet

I love taking pictures around Chicago. Whether it’s on my way to a bar, heading home from work, or taking a day off from work, I’ve captured more city scenes than I care to share. So when a long-time friend of mine, we’ll call her Paula, came to me with a proposition that involved taking pictures around Chicago, I didn't need to hear much more, despite the inquisitive looks that everyone around us demeanored. The task was to photograph a large percentage of her very nice shoe collection in the foreground of an obviously Chicago scene, with Paula acting as the lower leg model. The pictures would go no higher than her calf and the focus would be split between the array of fancy-type shoes and the history of our Midwest Metropolis.

On a risky date in late October, the Earth decided to cooperate and grant us the colors, the sky, the temperature of a perfect picture day. Having sent me the catalog of shoes, I was able to assemble a rough idea of landmarks and trademarks that embodied the city, but really depended on instinct and creativity to fill in the gaps and provide the originality that we both sought. Buckingham Fountain is nice (even without the ‘fountain’ part), but there are millions of tourists that think B.F. is Chicago. I had hoped that we could capture a little more of life in Chicago without completely abandoning the post card fodder.

Before we even left for the city, I pushed our departure time back about two hours to squeeze in another 9 holes of par 3 golf on what was one of the best mornings for golf that I can remember. Paula, an absolute sweetheart, offered to postpone the plan and ironically rain check the date. Despite the delay, I wasn't going to waste the weather on presumably additional day-drinking within the confines of merry establishments while celebrating my friend’s 30th birthday. As much as she considered this a favor, there was no denying my own excitement for the day ahead. Besides, plans are plans. We set up camp, packed as many ‘daytime’ shoes as we could in her large, bright-pink bag, and red-lined to Roosevelt to begin our journey.

The walking lower bodies at Agora; the Roosevelt bridge looking at Michigan Ave; the Lakefront Trail outside of the Shedd Aquarium; Lake Michigan with the Planetarium; Buckingham Fountain with a skyline backdrop; the Jackson St. Bridge looking into the depths of the loop; the iconic lion outside of the Art Institute of Chicago; Lurie Garden near the Pritzker Pavillion; Millennium Park; the Chicago River; the Merchandise Mart train platform.

At the conclusion of our time with the sun, we found more calendar life than everyday life, but the colors and brightness of the day made the trees and buildings and water all shine and glisten like New Year’s Eve. We traversed almost four miles, took seventy five pictures, talked, laughed, shared an appetizer, enjoyed some beers, and finally headed north to regroup for the evening session. We had made fantastic progress and it felt like the day was over, but the best was definitely yet to come.

The Ron Santo statue outside of the Right Field Bleachers; The Chicago Theater; the State Street Riverwalk; the Chicago Remembers Vietnam Memorial; a Chicago Flag painted horse on Michigan Avenue; The Water Tower; a CTA sidewalk cardinal directions; a fountain at Kinzie and La Salle; the Merchandise Mart train platform; the Brown Line CTA car; the doorway of an apartment building.

After twelve hours, six and a half miles, and one hundred and fifty pictures, we were spent. From two dozen footwear changes to street stains on my hoodie, phase one of the project was complete and our bodies were worse for wear. Aside from the hopeful product of this difficult to explain, rather ambitious adventure, which will range from a coffee table photo book, prints on canvas, and who knows what else, why would we exhaust ourselves, both physically and literally, laying on the street behind a resting CTA bus?

When things are changing in your life, you find solace in comfort. And when things are changing in your life, comfort means familiarity. While my social calendar has shifted in recent weeks, I not only found comfort in making plans, possibly overextending myself, and following through with those plans, but I also found comfort in creating something new for the benefit of another. There’s an unbelievable feeling you get by helping others. It’s as selfish and warm feeling as going out and buying a new video game system, but at a fraction of the cost. It’s not only about giving the product, which I hope turns out well, and it’s not about giving my time, which I have more to offer these days, but it’s about giving your attention, passion, and consideration to someone and something. I’m not saying I’m a beacon of humanity because I took a bunch of pictures of my friend, but I did scoff when she asked how much she should write the check for, you know, to pay me for my services. As if! 

Ambitious and revived, not long into our nighttime shooting and after posing in front of the Chicago Remembers Vietnam Memorial, we received the same consideration and attention. In between failed 50-50 grinds and shaky kick-flips, a propositioned high school boy held Paula’s arm while she modeled on his scraped deck and I lay on my stomach, framing and snapping one quick picture of sidewalk, wheels, board, shoes, river, and part of the Marina Towers. 

Family

I saw a check-in on Facebook on a Tuesday night. This by itself is not noteworthy, but the fact it was my cousin, a decade-dweller of Waikiki, a stranger from my life since my days in college, and he was attending a Cubs game on a chilly Tuesday night with his now serious girlfriend made it grab my interest more than, say, checking in at another hot yoga class. After a short exchange and some mild planning, a few days later my brother and I jumped in my car and drove up to Glenview to meet said cousin for some much needed catch-up time. Calling it catch-up time is misleading, though, I guess, because it’s hard to catch up on eight years over a few beers. Hell, he had been married, and divorced, since the last time either of us had seen him.

There’s not much you can do after an eight year hiatus besides act like no time has passed. A year, or even two, is reasonable. You can recap some of the major events in your life with relative detail, filling in the gaps with stories and jokes, and the person you’re describing this to will be able to keep up, follow along, and maybe even recognize the names in your truncated biography. But after eight years, aside from basic setting details, all you can do is pick the best or funniest or most engaging stories from your recent history and spit them out like you just saw this guy last month. They won’t be a true depiction of your life, and they won’t bridge the chasm of time you helped create, but how can you caulk a canyon?

My Lazzerini (and Polydoris) cousins and I were never that close. Not like my brother and I. Outside of family gatherings, we rarely if ever saw each other. But those family gatherings were something special.

Every Thanksgiving was at my grandparents’ house. The day would start downstairs, milling about the suddenly more spacious family room, picking candied peanuts from the crystal bowls, watching the Lions or the Cowboys with the kind of interest one can only have before the invention of Fantasy Football, which is to say not much, at least not for a pipsqueak like me. I was the middle cousin, if that makes sense. My brother and three older cousins range between 4.5 and 8 years older than me, and I am more than 4 years older than any other cousin. Normally this would leave me a little out of place, but I was thankful and lucky to have an older cousin with the heart and mind of a child that would entertain me with buckets of G.I. Joes, using my grandpa’s old television as a camp base, using their stairs and railing as the most dangerous terrain on the planet. You’d think that my reminiscing about Thanksgiving would elicit paragraphs about the food, but aside from the candied sweet potatoes, that was the last thing on my mind. Before holidays turned into drinking holidays for us, Thanksgiving was about being a kid, aside from the notorious Thanksgiving of ’98 when I got my hands on my grandpa’s book of inappropriate jokes and gave all the adults a good chuckle.

Every Christmas was at my aunt and uncles house. The day would start at home, opening presents and the like. The biggest decision was to figure out what toy or game or article of clothing I needed to show off. When you walked into their beautiful Wilmette home, the holidays almost knocked you over. The roasting ham, the scented candles, the classical music, the lights, decorations, everything. It wouldn’t take more than a swift second to know that it was Christmas Day. As it turns out, my role in the family parties didn’t change much, again usually holed up in my cousins room, in awe of the amount of cool stuff he had. I distinctly remember building a pretty badass fort in his room. As I grew up a little I’d wander into his brother’s room where the highlight, of course, were the nun chucks. Thank heavens he had padded ones I could whip around. As I grew older still, I tried to keep up with the big kids. I remember asking a cousin to make me my first real drink. I had started my drinking on the easily-cover-up-able vodka and choked down a few sub-par beers, but in my head had never been drinking adult drinks. So what did my 18-year-old mind think was adult? How about a rum and coke. I hated it. And to this day prefer whiskey to rum. I guess he ruined it for me.

We always had a big group at holidays. I’m thankful for that, especially now as the times have changed so much, as they usually do. The oldest and aforementioned cousin played saxophone on a cruise ship for a while before settling in Hawaii. The next spent some time doing God knows what at Club Med before setting in San Diego, at least for now. My holiday counterpart stuck around and it’s been a joy catching up with him more frequently, hanging out on a few holidays, and seeing his little boy start to grow up. Both of their parents have moved to Arizona, along with their other sister. The last uncle and the four younger cousins are relatively close, but might not be for much longer. Family parties these days consist of my brother and I heading home and hanging out with my parents. Occasionally some friends will adopt us and there will be more than four people, but for the most part, we’re okay with what we have.

My brother and I share a relationship that most can’t comprehend. Even though at times we grew apart, mostly due to a four year age gap and the accompanying interest disparities, we’ve been insanely close from a young age. Whether it was rolling monster trucks down a hallway, listening to the new Live CD in his bedroom, playing Joe Montana Football ’94 in the fourth bedroom, or standing in line outside Rolling Stone records to meet Slipknot, it’s kind of always been me and him against the world. For a long time, his social life made up the majority of mine as I often struggled with a strong group of friends of my own. In recent years the tides have turned. I don’t think either of us worried about it. It always felt natural. I’ve had my share of close friends, but no one has ever come close to the connection we have.

As the three of us shared some top notch beers and tried our best to catch each other up, the easy feeling of conversation and laughter was memorable. We won’t remember all the stories or the details of our lives, I still can’t tell you my cousin’s girlfriend’s name (sorry!), but I can tell you that the feeling of family is and will always be there. We were all fortunate enough to be around each other, see each other, talk to each other, appreciate each other, and establish relationships that might fade but will never evaporate. I don’t know if I’ll book a trip to Waikiki soon, despite my desire, but that doesn’t change who we are or what we mean to each other. Same goes for the rest of the bunch. What I can tell you is no matter the blood line or last name, when you have that kind of connection, it’s the best there is. I used it as my status when I checked us in, and I’ll finish with it here.

Family. Above everything else, family.