| A Different Kind of Stairway to Heaven By Tim Egan In the shadows of metallic and cement monstrosities that clutter the skyline in any great city, you can almost time shattered lives and broken hearts by the incessant ticking of life's pocket watch. And in a frozen, painfully blunt frame of time, this is one family's tragic expense. Although it was a Sunday ritual for many years, it had nothing to do with packing up the children, standing angelic and humbly genuflecting during the right cue of a church ceremony. The family would, however, load up the trusted and beginning signs of rusted Oldsmobile on mid-afternoon Sundays and especially Holidays heading for a visit with "Granny." In from the 'burbs, down I-290 and over to Hubbard and Ogden. We would park across from an extinct Chicago original slaughterhouse and walk in between the creaky and frail three-flats that were erected sometime before 1901. Our destination was the second floor of a rear building that was squeezed onto one lot with a faded replica of itself, standing gimp kneed in front. Through the East side passageway, in a space allowing single file only, the family could look to the left and see a 40 foot stairway that uninvitingly ascended. The wood looked shabby and the structure wobbly under ten layers of soiled grey paint; to a child, intimidating and massive - to an adult, safer to walk around back. But the zigzag stairway in the rear seemed almost twice as old, the wood warped and worn in the middle. It smelled of long years and arduous, unrelenting Chicago weather, a distinct aroma that only wood can acquire through blistering hot summers and ice covered, bone chilled winters. As a child, these trips were joyfully anticipated. Visiting "Granny" was the method, but boy there were sure a lot of means. "The Bamboo Hut,' a candy store front for some shady looking characters playing poker in the back, was a sure thing for a kid who was locked into "Granny" for at least fifty cents or an even buck. "The Hut" had all the best candy and provided a sugar high that would last until Tuesday afternoon. Another bonus for the senses was the ever-present need for "Granny" to have a loaf of "Dago" bread from the Atlas Bakery on Grand Ave. The taste teasing smell clutched your nasal passage two blocks away. Inside, you could see the flame ovens producing the best bread in Chicago and it was the essence of fresh, warm in your hands. At times the alley, historically a Chicago child's personal playground amidst the garbage cans and garage doors, would be filled with cousins playing tag and tossing a ball around. Sometimes, the mischievous would have army battles as realistic as possible, using assorted fireworks to dismember plastic tanks and melt soldiers into goo. Peaceful times would find "Uncle Kenneth" leaning over the shaky wooden rail of the second floor's porch, dropping change to nieces and nephews down below. Somehow, he managed to always have enough for everyone and strategically scatter the kids so even the little ones could snare their share. There were quiet, sentimental times when dusk would come and we made sure all of our loved ones were remembered. A bottle of bubbles would be hauled out of the bottom shelf of the Kitchen's dented, tin cabinet and we would blow bubbles to the sky with whispered messages inside for our "Uncle Raymond" in heaven. At night, while the older kids were off exploring their worlds, I would spend hours playing a mysterious board game that had at least half the pieces missing, but a child's imagination always made a go of it. But that was years or so it seems, lifetimes ago. And in this world of love, luck, hate, and despair, that childlike imagination has been banished by the cruelties of reality. On a restless summer's night in August 1995, those wonderful memories of innocence were covered in an impenetrable blanket of emotion covering ice, forever. "Granny," a 91-year-old paternal grandmother of dozens and an iron-willed woman, who buried a husband and two sons, crashed through the shabby wooden railing of that godforsaken stairway. She fell to a horrible and unimaginable death. As a logical adult, the truth is known that a woman in her 90's will not be around to see a five-year-old great-granddaughter be a grandmother. But as the voice calmly explained the happenstance over the telephone it was an unforeseen shock, still unbelievable to this day. Looking down from the window of the third floor, an even greater shock hit with powerful force and sectioned all the air from my lungs, claiming all my body's energy. I could feel a sharp seizure of the muscles in the back of my neck. To see the fragmented parts of wood, scattered on the grass like well placed fragments of my dismantled heart, was the most trying moment of "Granny" and her passing. The end result left me questioning life. I have never questioned death, almost freely accepting that life must end at a certain point and things cannot live for eternity. In order for new life to spawn, old life must be forfeited. Deaths lead to birth. My question was the method. Why, if there is a benevolent God, would this supreme being allow this death to happen in such a hideous manner? I ask my mind this question with contempt and harden my heart with bitterness. The answer to my question is easy, but not easily accepted. Life is good and life is bad. In order to survive the cruel side of the world, you have to accept that in life you will without doubt meet hardship. A person needs to rely on perseverance, knowledge and faith in life itself. At her funeral, the priest giving the eulogy remarked about the Irish people and humor. "Granny" could project anger, fear, sarcasm and force, all with a lopsided grin and unique laugh. Humor is a key to life and its survival. A great example of this truth comes from Irish literature, most recently featured in Thomas Cahill's; How The Irish Saved Civilization. "Belief grew strong that the one thing the Devil cannot bear is ... laughter." Standing at stoic attention next to her coffin as the funeral ended, I reverently peeled off the white pallbearer's gloves. I raised two fingers to my lips, pressing firmly against them, then laid them on metal that will hold her for eternity. As tears welled behind sunglassed eyes and over gritted teeth, I knew this was not the final goodbye. I stood sad, but remembered something about her - a whistle, her whistle. It wasn't a song or powerful melodic tone that whimsies music to your ears. It was the strangest damn sound I've ever heard anyone make, but it was her sound. Every time I think of that strange pitch coming from the kitchen as she made tea or baked a ham, I smile. Sometimes I laugh. |
My Island, My Island...My @$*#%! By Tim Egan A portion of the following essay was published in TRAVELERS' TALES in March 2000. TRAVELERS' TALES is a series of books that include writings by heavy players such as P.J. O'Rourke and Dave Barry. "My Island...", "My Island..." Those words are often endured at the beginning of literary essays, soft spoken speeches and well witted poetry on the topic of Ireland. The tone of saying "My Island," in my opinion, was truly self-indulgent. How can one gluttonous person harbor all that is magical, mystical and Ireland was first handed to me as a dream, told in the endearing brogue of my grandparents who came to America in the 1920's. Ireland came to be a reality when a group of Irish friends living in America invited me to stay with their families back on the West Coast of Ireland in Galway. My first impression of Ireland my eyes and heard the voices of my ancestors as clear as the pitch of green you can only find in Ireland. Once in Galway and it being the rainier of months, November, I broke out the long oilskin coat you can find on any cowboy mending fences or herding cattle. The strange part is, I'm from Chicago, and the stranger part indeed was the looks on the faces from the native Irish. Instead of looking like John Wayne coming home to forget his worries in "The Quiet Man," I was more the image of an onerous Clint Eastwood stalking the cobbled streets. Trying to offset first impressions, I decided I would buy the house a drink in the first pub I entered. My Irish friend and first guide told me bluntly; "Keep your money in your pocket and don't be buying anybody a drink, ya eedjit." I felt myself in for a long month of outsidership during my trip and I kept thinking about all the "My island ...this" and "My island... that," references. I thought to myself, "My island, my bollocks." But it doesn't take long to fit in with the Irish. The best and most memorable part of Ireland is the people. It could happen in Dublin's Temple Bar or in a far off the map pub that has only four stools and a roaring turf fire. It may start with a hello or better yet, a song. A young lady may grace your ears with a sweet Gaelic ballad or an "old fella" may bandy about with a poem. Or perhaps an impromptu "live session" may burst out with a fiddle and bodhran. You may even be treated to the precision and discipline of Irish step dancing, an art form that has taken the world by storm. In words, "Welcome to Ireland." After making many new acquaintances in Galway, I ventured down to County Mayo to visit a friend who owned a pub. In Newport the view from THE CLEW BAY LODGE spans over a small road and past an authentic Irish rock wall, a boundary that surrounds a rolling meadow of that unique Irish shade of green, complete with grazing cattle. The rich, thick grass blankets the view straight up to the top of a hill, on which the other side awaits the sea. With strong eyesight and through the graying sky, you can even take in the distant white caps, randomly erupting over the top of the water. Giving your sites a 180-degree turn, you can absorb Croagh Patrick, a West Coast religious destination that attracts tourists by the droves. In return for the visit, my friend Martin made another dream come true by accidentally locking me inside his pub for 10 hours. During my sequestered time, I managed to perfect the pour of a Guinness pint and spend about 60 pounds in the pay phone. Not only was there a bad connection but the Irish pay phones matter of factly take your money up front. During my expensive and tolling call to a female friend back in Galway, I managed to tell her that I was coming back to Galway soon, but I couldn't get a ride in Mayo. As the phone crackled with static, I spoke louder; "I can't get a ride in Mayo!" The damn phone went dead and I vigorously cursed the telecommunications in Ireland. That was until I was informed what "getting a ride" in Ireland meant. It did take some explaining to my female friend, but it ended up, as most things do in Ireland, with a laugh. There is one non-laughing matter in Ireland, though, "The Troubles" in Northern Ireland. In recent months those tourists traveling in Northern Ireland witnessed something spectacular and I, as luck as my eternal guide, was one of those graced. I couldn't believe my eyes when I first viewed the border between Ireland and Northern Ireland. As the bus approached the once intimidating and telltale sign of militaristic involvement, the checkpoint, it stood abandoned. The rebel inside of me felt cheated, as though I was looking forward to being harassed by the English soldiers or rousted by the Royal Irish Constabulary. The politician within was overjoyed to see the checkpoint resemble an abandoned ghost town, aside from the prying eyes of surveillance cameras. The "Irish" inside me, the indulgent one that righteously barriers the rebel and the politician, was just happy a wonderfully creamy and smooth Guinness was waiting for me on the opposite side, whoever was pulling the pint. While politics and the presence of Ireland's historic violent curse could never affect the romantic effect Ireland can have on someone, it's easy to separate the two. And no matter a person's stance on political unrest in Northern Ireland or the rest of the world, it takes an Irishman to put life into perspective. The legendary singer, Christy Moore, once vocalized; "Everyone down in the graveyard votes the same." With that in mind, a person can put aside politics and even dark history, in order to absorb all that is Ireland, a place that promotes cerebrality. Onto Dublin you can behold Ireland's hub of metropolitan history. It is a city that has witnessed the "Uprising Of 1916" that eventually led to a declaration of the Irish Republic. Dublin also plays host to everything from the Guinness Brewery to Trinity College, which houses the coveted and incredible BOOK OF KELLS, the "illuminated manuscript" of the four gospels that dates back to the 8th Century. It also has the city life any urban fun seeker can grasp in each hand. Dublin's fair city isn't just a place where the crooned about Molly Malone died of a fever. (And when you're in Dublin it's easy to see how Miss Malone caught that fever as her statue salutes her barely clothed chest.) Still the breathtaking mountain ranges and scenery, the revered Book of Kells and bullet carved columns of the General Post Office on O'Connell Street in Dublin are only a portion of Ireland. Ireland is important for many reasons and in a way, my own self-pertaining significance, I've cheated life. I've lived out a once thought of impossible dream. I've touched Ireland's soil, breathed its air and marveled in its beauty. Life's problems seem dwarfed compared to my Irish happiness. In tune or not, I've sang and maybe by misstep, but with good intentions, I have danced heartily. Self indulgence be damned, I know no picture can ever replace in my heart, what "My Island" means to me. |
TIM EGAN |
| By Tim Egan There is an epidemic of crime in America that goes unnoticed and without prosecution everyday in our cities, but it's not the sale of illegal narcotics or bribing of public officials and not even prostitution. Whether the community believes this act is against the law or just defies morality, it is more painful than a root canal and ten times more annoying the an inflamed hemorrhoid. Yes, purchasing a new automobile. Just thinking about it makes a person cringe as though a needle from a phonograph just ripped across an ancient LP (that's a long playing record album for anyone under the age of 20). Looking for a new car involves a process more unnerving than tax preparation and it starts the minute you decide that paying "Al" at the service station $2,486 for a new thing-a-ma-bob on your AMC Pacer just "ain't" worth it. So the first step is opening the morning newspaper. Automobile dealers' newspaper ad's, holy mother in search of the truth, should be censored by the Federal Communications Commission. Forget trying to siphon through hours of Howard Stern tapes just to fine him for saying an inappropriate four letter word, get searching through the daily paper. These ads spew inaccuracy and entrapment better than a Tele-Evangelist. It's pretty basic. They feature a pictured auto with four tires, doors, bumpers, windows and other factory options; all for the low price of just a few thousand dollars. "Hot damn," you think, "finally something in my price range." And you go racing to the dealership, where the moment you walk through the door, circling sharks make their path of attack. Then comes the big, phony, rat-dung eating, "HI." Like they were your best friends in the world. As if they would even spit on you in a bar or a restaurant if they didn't recognize you as a potential sucker, eerrrr, client. So you show your new best friend the wonderfully worded advertisement and he acts like he's never even heard of a newspaper. "That's the basic model, no extras," the guy says. Then you find out that factory options mean seats and an extra is a freaking engine, which adds on about 4.6 million dollars to the price of the ad. The next phase is to "step into" the salesman's "office," which is a plastic desk along the window in a secession of about 30 other "offices." There are bathroom stalls on trains that would make a better office, but on every desk in this galleon office are the prerequisite pictures. They are mandatory and given to the sales staff as they graduate from "ASU," Auto Screw-You University. There must be a minimum of two pictures on each desk. If the sales person is male, one photo has to be a gorgeous female, preferably in a wedding dress. The other can be a photo of a pet or a couple's picture, preferably with big smiles in front of studio scenery. "That's my wife Saundra and our puppy Sprinkles," is usually the line. The sales staff fresh on the job has cheat sheets on the back of the plastic frames, just in case they have a brain cramp. An investigation would uncover that most of the pictures come with the damn frames. After a few minutes of friendly banter, comes the test drive. Alone, secluded and seduced by the aroma of new car; you have entered the salesman's lair. By the time you get around the corner from the dealership, the salesman either recognizes you from somewhere or went to school with your cousin. Anything to work an angle. Forgive this speculative piece for focusing mainly on car salesmen and not salespeople. The majority of people working as sales personnel in the retail automobile industry are male. This is not because of sexism, it's because the majority of women are way too civil to hold such a scandalous position in the workforce. Again, not to offend all the part-time housewives or professional women wearing golf shirts and selling Saturns. You aren't truly considered car salespeople because of the "No dicker sticker" and, honestly, the Saturn isn't a real car because you can't fit two fully-grown adults into one and close the doors. But in the end of this tumultuous ordeal, you sign away your existence on approximately 971 pieces of paper and walk away in confusion. A couple of days later a payment booklet arrives in the mail as thick as the yellow pages. Five years down the road, you have finally paid off that wonderful new automobile with all the latest luxuries, just to look in the driveway and realize you have a useless piece of junk that is worth about as much as an AMC Pacer. The worst part is when you trade it in. Keep one hand on your sanity and one hand on your wallet - here you go again. |
| Tim Egan and members of Hillary Clinton representatives. |
| Tim Egan, his older son Wedge Donovan and Honorable Mr. Jesse White secretary of state. |
| Tim Egan, Bill Kurtis and Museum of Contemporary Art at J.F.K Award Ceremony. |