I recently moved back to the Humboldt Park neighborhood of Chicago, where my Grampa grew up, where my grandparents had their first date, where my dad and uncles were born and grew up, and where I also lived for a number of years before moving to Los Angeles and getting into the TV world.
Our family house at 1109 N Richmond Street is now owned by the nearby hospital, my grandparents are gone (RIP), and their local parish St. Mark is closed down. The family history here in Humboldt Park is waning, much like the presence of working pay phones. I wish I could use them to call Gramma and Grampa in heaven.
When my grandparents got older, when the only comfortable way to sleep together was on their backs next to each other — their spooning days long behind them — my grampa used to inch his foot over to my gramma’s, and nuzzle her that way. Entwining as much as he could, like these metal cords.
I’d imagined this to be a witty, funny post about how the lack of phone booths is why there’s so much crime in Chicago because Clark Kent can’t turn into Superman or something — not sentimental and snot-nosed — but here we are! Sniff. Supersniff.