On the occasional Saturday throughout my childhood, Dad would pile the family into the car and head south along the Edens Expressway.
When it was actually that... an express-way.
To Chicago. 677 North Michigan Avenue, to be precise. It's an Apple Store now. Set amid of vast sea of corporate America and chain stores.The "miracle" no longer visible along this mile of road.
All along the way, I'd watch for signs that we were getting nearer the city. One of the most notable being Nickey (with a backward k), the giant, winking smokestack of a man who stood sentry on the west side of the highway, after the Edens and Kennedy Expressways merged at the city's north side. This 190 ft. tall man of bricks stood as a memorable marker for decades, forever urging travelers to turn off at the next exit to buy a souped up Chevrolet.
Twenty minutes more.
I’d scan the urban horizon for the next beacon: the dazzling, giant, red, neon lips of Magikist Carpet and Rug Cleaners. That magnificent, crimson smile which puckered up for passersby near the Montrose Avenue exit since the early sixties. The 80 ft. high, cherry red lips, oscillating and hypnotic, represented the gateway to glamor and, in my mind (even though we had entered city limits miles back), separated the suburbs from the city and the quiet from the wondrous chaos.
Fifteen more minutes.
The final landmark, just south of North Avenue and north of Division, signaled our upcoming exit from the highway. It was the huge expanse of roof touting the all-weather pourability of Morton Salt, with the iconic girl in the yellow dress cradling a box of Morton’s in one arm, while raising an umbrella to the unremitting rain with the other. I marveled at how long it took us to pass this monstrous building and nearly always turned back to watch until the last of the big, blue letters could be seen through the ever-smudged rear window.
Ten minutes more.
We'd exit the highway, no longer speeding past the inner-city scenery, no longer isolated from the purposeful sprawl, soon surrounded by the industrial grime of Ohio Street's massive warehouse district, desolate and dingy; where faded ads clung to crumbling brick walls and vast stretches of soot-stained windows lay dark and broken along shadowed streets, gray and cracked and worn-down from the Windy City's daily grind and intense weather.
Each time a stoplight forced us to pause in our eastbound journey, I'd sink in my seat and cautiously scan the familiar but altogether frightening street for signs of trouble - urban evildoings which rarely reached the northern boundaries of the North Shore. Neither Mom or Dad ever outwardly expressed concern, yet I'm sure my uneasiness rose from the barely discernible (except for the simultaneous "click" ), but habitual practice Mom had of locking the doors before the first red light. Only after charming, old brownstones and tree-lined streets began to replace somber storehouses and seedy-looking characters, did I straighten up and welcome life outside the window again.
I recall the astonished look on the attendants' faces when Mom and Dad led their tribe of five through the perennially cold, dark, parking structure and onto the city streets, hand in hand and in a row, dressed in our Sunday clothes, erupting with the pent up energy forty-five minutes in close quarters generated. Set between the Joan & David shoe store and Saks Fifth Avenue, I'd look for the red and gold awning ahead and intuitively pick up my pace until I could see the large, golden "Celano" above the equally golden, revolving door.
Papa's store, Celano Custom Tailors, where it stood from 1965 until 1980, when the annual rent went from $15,000 to $150,000 and Papa was forced to leave the Miracle Mile after a quarter of a century and two Michigan Avenue locations.
Anytime I think about Papa's store, the color red fills my mind, for as soon as I squeezed my way into the pie-shaped divisions of the revolving door (always forced to spin a circle and a half by a sibling pushing too fast and hard from behind), I'd step onto a sea of cardinal red carpet, impeccably clean and incredibly lush and there, straight ahead, at the end of the long, narrow showroom, past several smartly dressed salesmen and bolt upon bolt of rich, dark fabric, stood Papa, smiling conservatively.
Until I raced to his outstretched arms for a long, warm, fragrant hug and a "Hello, Pie-face."
Following these faithfully affectionate greetings, Papa gently but hastily scooted his progeny to the back of the store, away from the immaculate glass display cabinets with fastidiously exhibited silk ties, colorful ascots and men's colognes; away from the meticulously stacked cashmere sweaters and roll after roll of expensive wools, cottons and linens; keeping us clear of the handsome, silk robes neatly hung on racks with the store's custom, red, wood hangers stamped in gold with "Celano" and Papa's coat of arms: two crowned lions on their hind legs, holding between them his haberdasher's shield of needles, threads and scissors. Most of all, we were whisked away from his well-to-do clientele whose very expensive, custom suits, custom shirts and spit shine shoes clashed terribly with kids.
We were herded to one of several destinations: Papa's office, the conference room, or down a narrow set of stairs, to the windowless world below, where little men with measuring tapes wrapped around their necks and giant scissors in their hands bent over large, long work tables, spread with dark wools and surprisingly the flashy, patterned silks which were signature linings at Celano Tailors.
They'd always smile and stop to pat our heads and remark how much we've grown. I'd pause to allow the ritual greeting to play itself out, but only briefly, for I had another destination in mind: the office behind the glass partition where Papa's bookkeeper worked. We'd eagerly gather at the side of her desk, covered in ledgers, and she'd smile. Then bending to reach for the large, bottom drawer on her left, with her piled high hair casting a shadow over her bookkeeping, she opened the long, deep, metal drawer where there was ALWAYS a box of chocolate, caramel and pecan Turtles. Papa's favorite. And mine.
We'd each grab a piece and with barely enough time in our hands to melt, we'd gobble our gooey treats and, only after all hands were checked for chocolate residue, were we allowed back upstairs to Papa's office, where in the top drawer of his desk another box of Turtles would be discovered and depleted and one sibling, or another, would be tempted to play boss with the many-buttoned telephone on his large, gilded leather- topped desk. If an employee answered, they'd politely play along for a moment or two.
If Papa answered, he'd gently but firmly suggest the phone was off limits.
After Jim found the stereo system and shattered the sober storefront with rock 'n roll, then set off the alarm by pressing a button under Papa's desk, we usually found ourselves relegated to a long table in the conference room, where we'd be handed store stationary, several ball point pens, maybe a deck of cards (but definitely no more Turtles). Here, we were expected to amuse ourselves until Dad finished talking with Papa and Mom returned from shopping, or the salon. For the majority of us, this diversion was short-lived and far less interesting than exploring back rooms, desk drawers and dark closets, and spying on the front of the store where soft music, softer voices and silent footsteps made me feel as if I was witnessing something almost sacred.
Quietly overseeing all activity, but interjecting only when a client turned his way, Papa watched his staff tend to each gentleman as if they were about to ascend a throne. Standing in front of a gilded, full-length, three-way mirror, clients would be measured and pampered and made to feel they were not only getting their money's worth but were well worth the money. It was an elegant exchange in hushed tones and controlled smiles. I always marveled at how very, very handsome even the homeliest of men would look in one of Papa's suits.
And how tall they walked when wearing one.
Eventually, when we grew too restless in our sequestered state, we'd send a representative to the front to request leave to explore the hustle and bustle of Michigan Avenue. While the smallest of the siblings was left behind, the remainder would burst from the back of the store and impetuously race along the heavily padded, red carpeting toward the revolving door.
Past the quiet clerks in their well-pressed suits.
Past the shiny glass cabinets and bolts of dark fabric.
And past Papa.
Who'd flinch when our exit shook the glass cabinets... and ruffled his clients.
Stepping from the belly of the sedate, reserved beast that tried to tame us, the moment we stepped onto Michigan Avenue, the city seemed to erupt with motion and commotion, with people and possibilities. It was hard to know which way to turn. We might go looking for Mom in Saks Fifth Avenue, but the sight of us entering that store usually perked up sleepy security guards and suspicious sales clerks and forced a speedy retreat. We might head directly across the street to the Woolworth's Five & Dime where well- stocked shelves held something for everyone and a long, narrow lunch counter meant malts and fries and spinning stools.
Often, we'd turn right out of the store and wander down this wondrous thoroughfare, past the Allerton Hotel, Gucci's, Tiffany's, Elizabeth Arden and Neiman-Marcus; pausing momentarily at the exquisite and ever-changing window displays and to watch the well-off spend their money; while just feet away, in the reflection of the glass, I'd catch sight of the down-and-out hovering nearby, hoping for a hand-out. Never wanting to meet their eyes. Fearful I was somehow partly to blame.
Caught up in the momentum of the constant crowds of tourists and toilers, we'd be swept past the resilient, old Chicago Water Works, with its giant, limestone, fairytale tower that stood even when the city surrounding it turned to ash and rubble and with the lake in sight just ahead, we'd soon be at the very base of the very new John Hancock Center where we'd press our hands and our bodies against its cool, black steel, and look skyward - 1,000 feet up - working hard to keep steady on our feet. Gasping and giddy about this man made marvel.
The very first time our parents took us all the way to the top - to the observation floor which overlooked the lakeside city and nothing which could be called its equal, I searched below for familiar sites now tiny and almost indiscernible. I searched for Papa's store. For his red and gold awning. Anxious to run back across that sea of red, to be back in his arms for one last hug, before saying good-bye and returning north.
Past the giant girl in the yellow dress. Past the giant lips, now lighting the dimming skies with its rosy glow. Past the smokestack man still pointing below.
To the quiet woods.
To the dark skies.
To home.
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