Bryson -- Common Sense Articles for the Joliet Herald News -- 2007</= title> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"City"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"State"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"place"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"PlaceName"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"PlaceType"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"address"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"PersonName"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"country-region"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"Street"/>  <link rel=3DthemeData href=3D"BrysonComSense2007_files/themedata.thmx"> <link rel=3DcolorSchemeMapping href=3D"BrysonComSense2007_files/colorschememapping.xml">  <style>  </style>  </head> <body lang=3DEN-US style=3D'tab-interval:.5in'> <div class=3DSection1> <st1:City w= :st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place= ></st1:City> Herald-News Common Sense Columns 200= 7<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> *****<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> "A Kee= ner Sense of Place" January 22,= 2007 <o:p> = </o:p> Last June, on a morning str= oll in my neighborhood, I ran into some local history. I had an extra bounce in my= step as I picked up the newspapers strewn along the sidewalk and tossed them up to = the front stoops of houses I passed, using an ex-paperboy's flick of the wrist.= I always did this on morning walks, but this time the gesture had extra meani= ng. That day's edition contained my first-ever Herald News column. Meandering down the gracefu= l curves of <st1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st1:address w:st=3D"on">Buell Avenue</st1:addre= ss></st1:Street>, I admired the varied and impressive architecture of the houses and the occasional section of old-time limestone sidewalk -- remnants of <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City>= 's glory days as <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Stone</st1:PlaceN= ame> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">City</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>. I paused wistfully near the= house where my parents had their first apartment. Next door, a couple waved from their porch and said good morning, even though they didn't know me. I felt a profound sense of belonging to a place: one rooted in the past and connecte= d to the present. Heading for home, I bent to= pet a dog before realizing the fellow walking the beguiling creature was none oth= er than Walt Keener, curator of the <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st= =3D"on">Joliet</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Area</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on"= >Historical</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">Museum</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>. Walt instantly remembered m= e, even though we had met only once before. Soon after moving back to <st1:place w:= st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> in 2005, my family and I had vis= ited the downtown Museum, where a friendly gentleman graciously offered to show = us around. That impromptu orientation soon turned into a richly-detailed perso= nal tour of the museum's exhibits and holdings. About halfway through this fascinating and unforgettable experience I asked the man if he were the Museum's director. "No," he replied modestly. "I'm just the curator." After meeting Walt again on= my walk, I told him about my new monthly writing gig and my desire to write ab= out local issues and history. He offered words of encouragement as well as the services of the museum's archives should I wish to do some research. I had looked forward to tha= t, and figured I'd treat him to lunch at one of his favorite downtown hangouts -- = the better to hear some of his endless supply of stories about <st1:place w:st= =3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>'s people, architecture, industry= , and culture. Now I'll never have the cha= nce for that lunch. Last month Walt Keener died at age 54. His tragically premature lo= ss is an incalculable blow to our community. Despite living and working here for only five years, Walt soaked in the history of <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City = w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>, became a fixture downtown and in his neighborhood, and served as an importa= nt and articulate custodian of our oft-neglected past. He helped give this tow= n an intangible yet vital thing: a sense of place. So long, Walt. Thanks for m= aking <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:City> better whi= le you were here. <o:p> </o:p> The work of hi= storian and museum curator Walt Keener can be seen at the <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><s= t1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Area</st1:Pl= aceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Historical</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st= =3D"on">Museum</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>, <st1:address w:st=3D"on"><st1:Street w:st=3D"on">204 N. Ottawa St.</st1:Str= eet>, <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:address> (815-723-5201). <st1:place w:s= t=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> native Mike Bryson's email is <s= t1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>.<o:p></o:p> "The <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on= ">Peotone</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">Airport</st1:PlaceType>: <st1:place w:st=3D"on">= <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Grab</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">Land</st1:Plac= eType></st1:place> First, Ask Later" February 19= , 2007<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> The latest follies in the P= eotone Airport Saga have critics cheering and supporters groaning. IDOT and Governor Blagojevi= ch submitted two plans for Peotone to the FAA for review, hoping that one woul= d be approved. This cover-all-the-bases approach incorporated the competing visi= ons of the airport's Congressional cheerleaders, Jerry Weller and Jesse Jackson, Jr., who disagree on everything from the facility's name to the bathroom colors. The people at the FAA sighe= d, shook their heads, and sent back the proposals stamped "Make Up Your Minds," thus creating a potential delay of months, if not years, for t= he necessary federal go-ahead. But this comical news has overshadowed a downright sober issue: government-sponsored intimidation of law-abiding citizens in eastern <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st= =3D"on">Will</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">County</st1:PlaceName></st1:place> who own land= in the path of the bulldozers. So far, the state has spent over 23 million taxpayer dollars purchasing about 1,900 acres of land northeast of Peotone.= After getting scolded for m= aking aggressive phone calls to owners of the remaining 2,200 acres needed for the initial build-out, IDOT has been sending letters to landowners making it cl= ear -- in a friendly, nice-guy, Midwestern kind of way -- that if they can't re= ach settlement on terms of sale, the government will proceed with condemnation.= &nbs= p; That seems reasonable, doesn't it? After all, a wasteful, sprawling, ugly, polluting, and congestion-causing airport over 40 miles from downtown Chica= go that no major airline wants is a lot more important than prime Illinois farmland, a quiet rural landscape, clean air, open space, county fairs, and= the rights of individual landowners. That's Progress in action! Still, something just stick= s in my craw about that 23 million bucks IDOT diligently has spent acquiring land. Haven't they gotten a little ahead of themselves? Is it just me, or have othe= rs noticed that the people in charge still haven't decided on an official plan= for the airport; still haven't received FAA approval for that plan; still haven= 't stopped arguing over who's going to control the airport; still haven't fini= shed the required environmental impact studies; still haven't gotten the backing= of a single major airline; and . . . well, need I go on? &nbs= p; Since when is it OK to take first and ask permission later? I guess things just w= ork differently in the hallowed halls of <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st= =3D"on">Springfield</st1:City></st1:place>. All I know is, that approach doesn't jibe with my old-school <st1:place w:s= t=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> upbringing. If as a teenager I h= ad taken out my dad's cherished '65 Chevy for a night on the town without aski= ng him first, well . . . you probably can imagine the unpleasant consequences.= So where do our elected leaders and transportation bureaucrats get off? Jerry, Jesse, Rod, and all = your IDOT cronies -- you, and this whole shameful Peotone airport fiasco, should= be grounded. <o:p> </o:p> Disclosure: <s= t1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City> resident Mike Bryson (<st1:PersonName w:st=3D= "on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>) likes to attend the <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Will<= /st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">County</st1:PlaceName></st1:place> Fair in Peot= one with his family every summer. "A Sec= ond-Hand Smoker's Lament" March 19, 2= 007<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> I was shocked to learn that= <st1:State w:st=3D"on">Tennessee</st1:State>, one of the traditional tobacco-producing states in our great <st1:place w:st=3D"on">Union</st1:place>, is on the ver= ge of enacting a comprehensive smoking ban. What's next, I wonder -- <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:State w:st=3D"on">New York</st1:State></st1:place> outlawi= ng bagels and cream cheese? Good thing the Great Smoking Controversy has died down here in <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"= on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>, where the restaurant air is still deliciously toxic. Because amidst all the overheated debate on this issue, somebody's rights were being ignored. Name= ly, mine. Proponents of a ban defend = the rights of nonsmoking workers and patrons to breathe clean, healthy air while enjoying a meal and/or beverage out on the town. Their opponents, in turn, = eloquently champion the right of restauranteurs and tavern-keepers to nurture a pleasantly-befouled atmospheric mixture of exhaled nicotine and tar, which attracts the deep-pocketed smoking contingent in droves. But nobody's sticking up fo= r my rights. You see, I'm a "second-hand smoker" -- one who neither buys cigarettes nor smokes them directly, but who secretly and passionately inhales the exhaust of nea= rby smokers whenever and wherever I can. And some of the best places to cruise = for second-hand smoke are <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</= st1:City></st1:place>'s numerous restaurants and bars. Outside of these establishm= ents, spotting a wayward puff of smoke and strategically planting myself downwind= is a hit-or-miss proposition. But in many of our fine taverns and eateries, I = can sit pretty much anywhere -- even in the so-called "non-smoking section" -- and enjoy multiple drafts from several directions, dependi= ng on that evening's clientele. So much gain for so little effort! You probably see the immedi= ate benefits of my pastime. For one, it's free; and who among us doesn't love a bargain like that? It makes me feel sorry f= or the folks shelling out their hard-earned cash at -- what is it now? -- four bucks a pack for their favorite cancer sticks. Their bank accounts dwindle = with every puff, but not mine -- 'cause I'm freeloadin' the smoke, baby, and it tastes mighty fine, even recycled once or twice. Cultivating the appearance of being a nonsmoker is handy, too. I can maintain good standing within the vocal and influential anti-smoking crowd (which includes my wife), and stand on the moral high gr= ound in future discussions with my daughter about the causal relationship between cigarettes and blackened lung tissue. Frankly, though, I'm getting worried that my second-hand smoker's rights are in danger of being trampled. After all, smokers can go practically anywhere to take a drag: the street, = the sidewalk, the car, even their own homes. Nonsmokers have plenty of options, too: they can patronize the two or three no-smoking restaurants in <st1:pla= ce w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>, or just st= ay home and eat leftovers. But if <st1:City w:st=3D"on= ">Joliet</st1:City> jumps on <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:State w:st=3D"on">Tennessee</st1:State= ></st1:place>'s bandwagon? The party's over for me. <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson of= <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:City> believes i= n every American's constitutional right to passively inhale carcinogens while drink= ing beer or eating scrambled eggs. Support the cause at <st1:PersonName w:st=3D= "on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>. <o:p></o:p> Looking for= a New Lawnmower? Get Reel! April 16, 2= 007 <o:p> </o:p> Right before the onset of o= ur April cold snap, I bought a new lawnmower. &nbs= p; I had no choice. My cherished Sunbeam electric, a vintage hand-me-down from my great-grandmother, had started coughing up blood. But tragedy is often the mo= ther of opportunity. The Sunbeam's blown bearings gave me a chance to go old-school= by investing in a manual reel mower, which has about as high a profile today a= s a quill pen or Model T. With my postage-stamp-sized yard and yen for simplici= ty, this looked like an ideal solution. No gas to burn, no electric cord to run over -- nothing but muscle power. &nbs= p; I ventured to the Lawn and Garden section of a reputable and long-established department store, and took in the view. Two long rows of fancy, self-propel= led, multi-speed gas mowers. A massive floor display of sleek yet muscular riding tractors that must've been trucked in from a John Deere dealership. One lone electric mower, looking lost and forlorn. No old-fashioned reel mowers anywhere. &nbs= p; I had a moment of doubt. After all, <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"= on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:City> is a real internal combustion engine type of town. Maybe I'd have to go up = to <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Oak Park</st1:place></st1:City> to find = one. &nbs= p; Overcoming my shyness, I asked the fuzzy-bearded youth on duty if he had any manual pu= sh mowers. He looked at me blankly, so I repeated my request and added what I hoped were helpful hand motions. "Oh, yeah," he drawled. "Th= ose kind. Lemme look for ya." &nbs= p; After twenty minutes of searching, he returned with a small box covered in a light layer of dust. "This is it," he announced, winded but triumphant. "On sale, too!" Another, more seasoned salesman drifted over out = of idle curiosity. "Hey, you're getting one of those old reel jobs? In all the years I've worked here, I've never seen one go. Well, that's a first.&q= uot; &nbs= p; A few customers wandered by, apparently interested in the developing commotio= n. I briefly basked in my newfound retail celebrity, half expecting to see a photographer from company headquarters show up to take my picture. "Customer buys first manual reel mower in 35 years!" the caption would read in the glossy annual report. After leaving the store and returning to my normal life of obscurity, I considered the prevailing Ameri= can attitudes about technology embodied in the power lawnmower. On one hand, there's progress: the glorious triumph of labor-saving technology over manu= al drudgery. On the other, the plethora = of lawnmower choices symbolizes a kind of perverse excess, a mind-numbing proliferation of options and capabilities that have little to do with neces= sity and everything to do with creating consumer demand for stuff we don't need.= I'll tell you one thing we = do need, though -- the return of warm weather. Then I can try out my new mower. <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson of= Joliet likes cheap and simple tools that work, but he still reads email sent to <s= t1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>.<o:p></o:p> Morning Med= itations and the <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Cathedral</st1:Pl= aceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Area</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on"= >Regional</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">Airport</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> May 14, 200= 7 <o:p> </o:p> &nbs= p; The springtime dawn is especially peaceful in my neighborhood, <st1:place w:st= =3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>'s quiet and historic Cathedral A= rea. I rise early to make coffee, feed the cat, and shuffle out to get the morning papers. A white-throated sparrow sings his melancholy song from a pine tree; rabbits mosey through the lush grass. It's a tranquil beginning to the day.= &nbs= p; Recently, though, my morning was brutally shattered by a noisy demolition crew outsid= e my front windows. Men were chain-sawing down trees along the street, a bulldoz= er was ripping up sidewalk and lawn turf, and some beefy guy was hammering a b= ig wooden sign in what remained of my front yard. &nbs= p; Spilling some coffee on the cat in my haste, I rushed outside to confront the sign-planter. &nbs= p; "Hey!" I protested eloquently. "It's only six a.m.! My wife and kid are aslee= p, and I'm trying to relish my morning ritual. Who are you guys, and what in t= he name of Art Schultz is up with this racket?" &nbs= p; The man stopped, lit a cigar, and looked down at me with a stony expression. "Name's Arny, not Art. We're private contractors workin' for the state." He turned and yelled, "Harry -- take down that sycamore o= ver there!" &nbs= p; I did a little involuntary dance meant to signify rage, but Arny seemed unmov= ed. He just jerked a thumb toward the sign. Bold letters proclaimed: <s= t1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">CATHEDRAL</st1:PlaceName> <st1:Place= Name w:st=3D"on">AREA</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">REGIONAL</st1:= PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">AIRPORT</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>. Open May 2= 008 Pending FAA Approval. Sincerely, (signed) Illinois Department of Transportation. &nbs= p; "You can't do this!" I shouted over the noise of the dozer. "Just beca= use the City Council is thinking about allowing a bed and breakfast over on <st= 1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st1:address w:st=3D"on">Western Avenue</st1:address></st1:Stre= et> doesn't mean you can build an airport here. This is a 100-year-old resident= ial neighborhood with quaint and charming character. We homeowners have rights!" &nbs= p; Arny sympathetically puffed his stogie in my direction. "Quit cryin', pal. All's I know is, your street's gonna be a jet runway. State needs land, they take it. Ever hear of eminent domain? Besides, you're lucky. Guy across the street, his house is history. Control tower's going up there." &nbs= p; I've always been one to look at the bright side of any situation, no matter how inherently crappy. Maybe Arny's right, I thought, sipping the remains of my coffee. At least my house wasn't being demolished. My commute to <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Chicago</st1:place></st1:City> would be = a snap, because I'd be able to walk to the departure terminal in five minutes. And = the constant stream of plane exhaust would likely keep the bugs down during the summer. &nbs= p; Yes, the morning's a little noisier here, and I can't hear the sparrow's song anymore. But it's truly inspirational to see IDOT embark on another bold ci= vic endeavor -- and I've got a great view of the action. <o:p> </o:p> While Mike Bry= son (<st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>) does in fact reside in <= st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:City>'s Cathedra= l Area and likes to get up early, the rest of this article is merely a nightmarish fantasy. Any resemblance to an actual <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Will</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">County</st1:Pl= aceName></st1:place> airport project is purely coincidental. Enjoy your morning!<o:p></o:p><= /p> No Lemonade= Stand for <st1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st1:address w:st=3D"on">Western Avenue</st1:addres= s></st1:Street>, <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Sez</st1:PlaceName> <st1:= PlaceType w:st=3D"on">City</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> Council June 11, 20= 07 &nb= sp; = &nb= sp; &nbs= p; In a decision last week that sent shock waves throughout town, Joliet City Cou= ncil members unanimously nixed the idea of a kid's lemonade stand on <st1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st1:address w:st=3D"on">Western Avenue</st1:address></st1:Stre= et>. &nbs= p; The vote thrilled area residents opposed to the project but dashed the hopes of Miss Dixie Kupp, nine-year-old citrus drink entrepreneur. &nbs= p; It all started when Dixie, a Joliet girl born and raised on the storied west s= ide boulevard, decided to open a seasonal lemonade stand on her street. Faced w= ith skeptical neighbors who feared the roadside establishment would increase traffic and noise, hurt property values, and diminish the area's architectu= ral pomposity, <st1:place w:st=3D"on">Dixie</st1:place> developed a sophisticat= ed business plan to convince local officials of her idea's cultural value and economic potential. "I really, really love= making lemonade," <st1:place w:st=3D"on">Dixie</st1:place> explained earnestl= y. "Selling it is super fun, especially in the summer when people are ext= ra thirsty. So I thought I'd open my own place and make some money for college. The stand would've sat in front of my house, so I'd have taken good care of it." Intrigued by <st1:place w:s= t=3D"on">Dixie</st1:place>'s story and somewhat puzzled by the many anti-lemon signs outside of Western's majestic mansions, I canvassed the neighborhood to get a sense of why this seemingly innocuous business endeavor had caused such an uproar. A spokesperson for WAPPA, t= he Western Avenue Perpetual Preservation Association, diplomatically noted that "while many members of the Association supported <st1:place w:st=3D"on= ">Dixie</st1:place>'s lemonade initiative, others strenuously opposed it, resulting in our offici= ally adopting a firm stance of ambiguous neutrality on this potentially divisive community issue." The Kupps' next-door neighb= or was more forthright. "Don't get me wrong; I enjoy lemonade as much as the = next person. But that girl's stand would've created a slippery slope. First this zoning exception, then what? A taco truck? Used-car dealership? Double-wide casino? The residential atmosphere and historic exclusiveness of our block would be destroyed!" Other citizens expressed co= nfusion about the project's fundamental merits. "I don't know why anyone would want to open a lemonade stand in this town," one remarked. "Who c= omes to <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:Cit= y> to drink lemonade on the side of a street? I guess they have those things up i= n <st1:State w:st=3D"on">Wisconsin</st1:State> and <st1:State w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:s= t=3D"on">Michigan</st1:place></st1:State> -- but here?" One of <st1:place w:st=3D"o= n">Dixie</st1:place>'s supporters, though, rued the Council's vote. "I honestly thought <st1:= City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:City> was ready = for a quality lemonade stand, poised to take that next step toward civic greatnes= s. This could've made us a regional tourist destination. What a waste."</= p> As for young Dixie Kupp? Sh= e's looking forward to fifth grade next fall and, undaunted, is mulling over fu= ture business proposals. "Maybe in a few years = I'll start a bed and breakfast here with my mom and dad. That'd fit into the neighborh= ood a lot better than a lemonade stand, don't you think?" <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson (<= st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>) is a <st1:City w:st=3D"o= n">Joliet</st1:City> native and has patronized lemonade stands in small towns and big cities throughout these <st1:country-region w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Uni= ted States</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<o:p></o:p> Cubs Not th= e Worst of All Time July 10, 20= 07 <o:p> </o:p> Baseball's All-Star game is tonight, and as we anticipate watching multi-millionaire athletes pitch, hi= t, run, catch, and spit, I can't help but ruminate over a startling new revela= tion about my favorite ball club, the Chicago Cubs. Investigative journalists a= t the New York Times have determined that, contrary to popular misconception, the Cubs are not the worst baseball team of all time. That distinction instead belongs to the Philadelphia Phillies, who since 1883 have won only one World Series (in 1980) and are fast approaching a dubious historical milestone: 10,000 losses. By comparison, the Cubs look absolutely stellar. Though they started playing back in 1876, they're at le= ast six to seven years away from losing 10,000 games, and they've won two World Series -- 100 percent mo= re than the Phillies' total. Having long assumed no team= could equal the magnificent failings of the Cubs, I'm shocked and saddened by the discovery that my team is not the best at losing. Apparently they're not the best at anything. This fact, however, is diff= icult to square with my own personal experience of witnessing the Cubs' legendary ineptitude. As a kid in the 1970s, I watched the Phillies, of all teams, repeatedly inflict severe punishment on the Cubs. Phils slugger Mike Schmidt whacked shot after high-arcing shot onto <st1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st1:addre= ss w:st=3D"on">Waveland Avenue</st1:address></st1:Street>. Pitcher Steve Carl= ton whiffed Cub after Cub with vicious sliders. The rest of the Phillies spent = all day running around the bases and laughing, while the Cubs just trudged dejectedly from the batter's box to the dugout after each strikeout. It was so bad in those days= , the Cubs once scored 22 runs at Wrigley Field against the Phillies . . . and lo= st the game 23-22. So to find out the Phillies= have in fact lost far more games than the Cubs, despite having a slightly shorter t= eam history, just plain hurts. After all, Cub fans wear th= eir suffering as a sacred badge of honor. The Cubs' legacy of lousiness, highlighted by a few tragicomic and exquisitely painful years of near-succe= ss -- 1969, 1984, 2003 -- ensured that when victory finally came, it would tri= gger an ecstasy beyond all understanding, a religious experience of epic proport= ion. Now the philosophical found= ation of that outlook has crumbled. But maybe there's one saving grace in this rival= ry between two infuriatingly bad franchises. In 1993, the Phillies had a= chance to win their second World Series. But they lost game 6 in historic fashion = to the Toronto Blue Jays on a dramatic 9th inning home run by Joe Carter off Phillies closer Mitch "Wild Thing" Williams, the only time a Seri= es ended on a homer. Significantly, I would note= , both Carter and Williams were ex-Cubs. So you have to say that <st1:place w:st= =3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Chicago</st1:City></st1:place> gets partial credit for the los= s. <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson (<st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>) = has been a Cubs fan "through thin and thin," as his Uncle Ev likes to say. And while Phillies fans waited 97 years for their championship, the Cu= bs' current dry spell is 98 years and counting. <o:p></o:p> <o:p> = </o:p> <o:p> = </o:p> <o:p> = </o:p> <o:p> = </o:p> <o:p> = </o:p> The Pump an= d the Outhouse August 7, 2= 007 <o:p> </o:p> &nbs= p; Every summer my family and I spend a few weeks in a one-room cabin by a small lak= e in <st1:place w:st=3D"on">Upper Michigan</st1:place>. It’s been exceptio= nally dry here in <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Hiawatha</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceT= ype w:st=3D"on">National Forest</st1:PlaceType>, and the lack of rain reminds m= e of the parched conditions back in <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on"= >Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>. &nbs= p; While public water conservation measures at home are limited to modest lawn-water= ing restrictions, stingy water use is second nature here at the Bryson cabin. It’s not so much tale of environmental virtue, but rather one of brute necessity. &nbs= p; Consider our rustic dwelling’s indoor plumbing, such as it is. At the kitchen sink, an old-fashioned hand pump draws up cold well water flavored with blood-enriching iron. Underneath the drain is a five-gallon bucket to catch= the wastewater. &nbs= p; By some standards crude and primitive, this design is magnificent to a conservationist. Want some water? Flex your muscles and work the pump. Need= hot water for tea or doing dishes? Pump a kettle full and heat it on the stove.= &nbs= p; Yes, it’s easy to see how this set-up automatically encourages wise water = use. That bucket not only fills up quickly, it gets mighty heavy. For morning and evening exercise, I just haul it outside and dump it in the woods – a cherished ritual I’ll pass on to my grateful kids someday. &nbs= p; The cabin’s other water-saving features are the two bathrooms, each locat= ed at opposite ends of a scenic, woodsy path. To the east is the toilet, so de= luxe it has its own roof. With no water to flush or light switch to find in the dark, it truly embodies zero-impact technology. &nbs= p; The west path heads to the lake. Here I commune with the local wildlife and occasionally converse with a neighbor canoeing by while I take a quick cleansing dip. Prefer a shower? Just dump a bucket of cold refreshing lake water on your head. &nbs= p; At vacation’s end, it’s always a shock returning to civilization a= nd seeing water used – and wasted – so casually. Millions upon millions of gallons sprinkle lawns, water gardens, fill swimming pools, wash cars, hose down patios, flush toilets . . . all with minimal effort and lit= tle worry. &nbs= p; Shamefully, though, much of <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:Ci= ty></st1:place>’s precious well water is just plain lost – destined for the sewer witho= ut having performed a worthy function. Think of the times we let the faucet run while doing the dishes, sprinkle the sidewalk and driveway along with the grass, ignore that slowly-leaking commode, or wait a few long minutes for t= he shower to warm up before stepping in. &nbs= p; After we come back from <st1:State w:st=3D"on">Michigan</st1:State>, I’ll t= ry incorporating some of my Upper Peninsula water-saving techniques into our <= st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> household r= outine. True, an outhouse in the back yard probably wouldn’t thrill the neighbors. But I bet I can wedge a five-gallon bucket under the kitchen sin= k. <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson th= anks his highly tolerant wife Laura for suggesting this column’s topic. Send y= our water conservation stories to <st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.= net</st1:PersonName>.<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <st1:place = w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Silver</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Cross</st1:P= laceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">Hospital</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>'s Proposed= Move to New Lenox September 4= , 2007 <o:p> = </o:p> After 112 years of providin= g health care in <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City>, venerable <st1:PlaceName w= :st=3D"on">Silver</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Cross</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on"= >Hospital</st1:PlaceType> has stunned local politicians and the general public alike by announcing its intent to move from its historic <st1:place w:st=3D"on">East Side</st1:plac= e> location to a new campus in nearby New Lenox. Most of the key economic and logistical factors under debate in the newspapers, on the airwaves, in City Hall, and on the street are well known. Silver Cross, anxious for a roomy a= nd modern hospital complex, says it's cheaper to build a brand-new facility th= an to further rehab and expand the current site on <st1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st= 1:address w:st=3D"on">Maple Road</st1:address></st1:Street>. City leaders, in turn, = are consternated about such things as travel times for emergency vehicles coming from <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City>, not to mention being left in = the dark about the hospital's proposed departure from the <st1:place w:st=3D"on= ">East Side</st1:place>. But there are other, deeper= issues that run through this hospital controversy, like the swirling undercurrents= of the river that divides our town. On one hand is the Myth of = the Frontier, which is all about regeneration and renewal -- leaving the old, embracing the new. Silver Cross aspires to explore the frontiers of medicin= e in a state-of-the-art setting. What better place to do this, symbolically as w= ell as practically, than in the geographic frontier of New Lenox, a leading edg= e of Will County's population explosion? On the other hand is the Na= rrative of Civic History, a story about tradition and the past. Few existing institutions are more closely identified with <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:C= ity w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>'s history than Silver Cross, whi= ch opened its doors to patients in 1895. One of our newest city icons, the downtown baseball park, evens bears the hospital's name. Like many <st1:place w:st= =3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> residents, I feel a strong perso= nal connection to the place. I was born there, after all. So were my father and= my brother. My mother graduated from the Silver Cross School of Nursing and wo= rked as an RN at the hospital for several years. And just this spring, my second daughter came into the world at the Silver Cross birthing center. So while the hospital's pla= n seems reasonable according to the Myth of the Frontier, it presents a disturbing challenge to <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City>= </st1:place>'s civic identity. When a longtime local institution up and leaves, it hurts. = The sense of loss will be especially acute on the <st1:place w:st=3D"on">East S= ide</st1:place>, which has suffered a disproportionate share of setbacks over the years. Yes, I understand the econo= mic logic and future-oriented planning of Silver Cross' proposed move. From the dispassionate perspectives of the marketplace and the census bureau, it may well be a keen decision. But let's not kid ourselves= . The hospital's departure will leave a large wound on <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joli= et</st1:City>'s <st1:place w:st=3D"on">East Side</st1:place>. And despite whatever anesthet= ic Silver Cross will apply to ease the pain, it's going to take a long time to heal. <o:p> </o:p> <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> native Mike Bryson can be reached at = <st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName><o:p></o:p> Silence: An Endangered Species October 2, 2007 <o:p> </o:p> As one of the twentieth cen= tury's most influential and beloved theatrical performers, mime extraordinaire Mar= cel Marceau dramatically demonstrated the profound power of silence. With expressive gesture, lithe movement, and ingenious choreography, Marceau cou= ld communicate ideas and emotions to people of all cultures, for his silent art was not bound by the limits of language but rather defined by the common yet unspoken threads of human experience. Marceau is gone from us now= , having left life's stage at age 84. His departure is occasion for mourning the increasing rarity of silence in modern life. &nbs= p; Take stock of your daily experiences -- at home, at work, in stores, at school -- and just try to find a space where silence thrives. It's tough, I tell you. Noise and bluster and commotion rule the day in our sound-polluted environm= ent. Commuter train passengers y= ak mindlessly into their cell phones at volumes that shatter concentration and offend eardrums. Talk-radio jockeys blather and shout into their microphones and are rewarded for making a mockery of "dialogue" and "conversation." TVs blare unceasingly at us from restaurants, bar= s, airport lounges, doctors' offices, supermarket checkout lines -- and from e= very single room of many Americans' homes. In stores of all kinds we're assaulted by a high-decibel surround-sound cacophony, as if we're incapable= of making consumer choices without frenetic dance music urging us on. Maybe th= at's the point, actually -- don't think, don't weigh your options. Just buy! At baseball games, earsplit= ting PA noise nearly obscures the game's action. Every batter is introduced with a snarky snippet of theme music; the short pauses between each and every pitch are filled with a few shrieking measures of insipid pop or clichéd classic rock. On the streets we're subjec= ted to the ceaseless din of traffic -- blaring horns, rumbling trucks, red-faced drivers shouting at each other. Worst of all are the Liver Jigglers -- cars equipped with massive, bass-heavy stereos cranked so high that they cause powerful vibrations within the internal organs of any innocent bystander.</= p> Even the library, once a sa= nctum sanctorum for quiet study and reflection, has fallen prey to this hideous trend. Middle-aged patrons, who should darn well know better, happily chat = away in the library as if they're at the coffee shop. Ironically, the only ones = who are quiet are the teenagers bent over their homework. If that paradox isn't= an indicator of a warped society, I don't know what is. We must, then, do more than= simply note Marcel Marceau's passing with a brief moment of silence, appropriate though that may be, and then go back to tolerating this pointless, ceaseles= s, heartless noise. Perhaps we can find a way to recover, amidst the clangor a= nd wailing of our culture, a respect for the value of silence and the need for quiet in our lives. Until that day arrives, I'm= putting cotton in my ears. <o:p> </o:p> <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> native Mike Bryson quietly reads emai= l sent to <st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>.<o:p><= /o:p> Accountabil= ity Is a Thing of the Past Nov. 1, 200= 7<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> &nbs= p; Recognize these phrases? "I didn't know it was wrong." Or how about, "Everybody else is doing it." Or the classic expression, "It= 's the other guy's fault." All reflect the disturbing lack of individual accountability in our society -- symptoms of an ethical disease that pervad= es every tissue and organ of the American body politic. &nbs= p; The latest manifestation of this to chafe my elbow involves one of the high sin= s of academia: plagiarism. A form of intellectual dishonesty, plagiarism refers = to the unethical use of sources in one's writing. The transgression can be as deceitful as downloading an entire paper from the internet and putting one's name on it, or as careless as forgetting to put quotation marks around a co= pied passage. &nbs= p; Either way, plagiarism involves taking credit for someone else's work. For student= s, the punishment for it is typically harsh; that's because plagiarism is not = only a violation of trust, it's unfair to those who do honest work and it erodes= the value of degrees earned at the institution. &nbs= p; That brings me to the recent controversy surrounding Southern Illinois University president Glenn Poshard. The flap began with revelations that Poshard had lifted passages from other sources without proper citation and presented th= em as his own writing in his 1984 graduate thesis. &nbs= p; In response to a swirl of outrage from the university community, Poshard hand-picked an internal review committee to examine his work. Its members concluded that he had plagiariz= ed, but not intentionally, and poetically characterized the lapses as inadverte= nt "infelicities in attribution." They also recommended that while Poshard needed to correct the plagiarized portions of his tainted thesis, he should be allowed to keep his degree and his prestigious position. &nbs= p; In the process of explaining and defending his actions, Poshard failed to take responsibility for his actions and effectively blamed others for his transgressions. At SIU in the early 80s, apparently, there were no clear mandatory guidelines available for students (it's the university's fault). = And Poshard's thesis committee failed to catch the errors in his dissertation (= it's the faculty's fault). And besides, many other SIU graduate theses approved = at the time contained similar problems (everybody else is doing it). &nbs= p; I'm willing to accept that all of the those circumstances were true. But that doesn't make them legitimate excuses. To speak plainly: Poshard's work as a student was academically dishonest. And the consequences of that dishonesty= are magnified by the fact that he now occupies the most exalted position at the university which granted the degree. Ironically yet unsurprisingly, it's the very power of that position which has gotten him off the hook. &nbs= p; In my book, the review committee only got it half right. Yes, Poshard should g= o back and correct his thesis. But as soon as he turns it in, he should strike a b= low for personal accountability -- and resign his presidency. <o:p> </o:p> <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City> resident Mike Bryson (<st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>) is Associate Professor of Humanities at <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Roosevelt</= st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">University</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>.<o:p></o= :p> Honiotes Brothers Food Mart<o:p></o:p> Nov. 27, 2007<o:p></o:p> <o:p></o:p> During my childhood, when my mother was serious about getting groceries she went to only one place: the Honiotes Brothers Food Ma= rt. <o:p></o:p> It wasn’t just that the Honiotes Brothers had t= he best produce and meats in town. Going there felt more like visiting someone’s home than entering a store. You always got much more than a beef roast and some fruits and vegetables -- you were greeted by name, you’d hear a good joke, you’d run into a friend or neighbor. </= span><o:p></o:p> The six brothers who ran the store -- John, Andy, Nic= k, Jim, Pete, and Bill -- perfected the art of the personal touch, a completely sincere way of relating to patrons like they were family. <o:p></o:p> When I heard last month that the sole surviving broth= er, Nick Honiotes, had passed away, certain images from the past returned with clarity: the giant scale that stood near the entrance, where kids would lin= e up to weigh themselves; the low ceilings, so different from today’s cavernous retail interiors; the library’s “Bookmobile” sitting in the parking lot. In those special days, a trip to the grocery st= ore meant food for the body and the mind.<o:p></o:p> = = This Thanksgiving, as my family enjoyed food and fell= owship around the dinner table, we shared our favorite memories of the store and t= he Honiotes family.<o:p></= o:p> = = My Grandma Dorothy told us how she cleaned house for = Andy Honiotes for a time. One day Andy complained to her that he and his wife couldn’t find a babysitter who could stay awake on the job. Grandma quickly replied, “My daughter won’t fall asleep.” = Soon my mother found herself babysitting Andy’s three boys every New Year’s Eve for a few years, a job she’d always remember fondly.= <o:p></o:p> = = Grandma Millie told us how back in the 1920s, when the Honiotes farm and produce stand were located at Reed Street and Glenwood Avenue, my Grandpa Abe Bryson weeded the fields as a young boy after school. His wage was a little cash and a big basket of in-season fruits and vegetab= les. Apparently he did his job well; Helen Honiotes, the family matriarch, thoug= ht Abe was “just the berries.” <o:p></o:p> From their humble beginnings at that farm to their operation of the city’s finest supermarket for decades, the entrepreneurship and success of the Honiotes family not only reflects the history and growth of Joliet in the twentieth century, but also embodies the essence of the American dream. <o:p></o:p> = = Just as the closing of the Honiotes Brothers Food Mar= t in 1985 marked the end of an era when family-owned businesses dominated the sc= ene, Nick’s passing this year closes another chapter in the marvelous stor= y he and his family created. What lives on are the memories held and cherished by the countless friends and customers of the Honiotes Brothers. <o:p></o:p> <o:p></o:p> Contact Joliet resident Mike Bryson at mbry22@sbcglobal.net.= <o:p></o:p> I’ll Be Home for Christmas: An Antarctic Tale <o:p></o:p>= December 25= , 2007 <o:p> </o:p> &nbs= p; Let me tell you a little Christmas story. It’s about exotic landscapes, danger, love, and the quest for home. &nbs= p; It was late 1991, and I was stationed in Antarctica as part of a research group from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. We camped for several weeks = in the Dry Valleys of the Transantarctic Mountains, studying the ecology of a frozen lake -- one of many that dot these cold and windswept valleys. &nbs= p; My role in this scientific operation was not particularly glamorous. I chipped lake ice to make water, = cooked meals, scrubbed dishes, and sorted the daily garbage. In between these vital duties I assisted with various scientific experiments and field measurement= s. And despite the 24-hour daylight in the south polar summer, I slept like a = rock each “night” after collapsing in an exhausted heap in my tent.<= /p> &nbs= p; Then came mid-December, and my hitch was up. It looked as if I’d be home f= or Christmas, after all. The only possible glitch in my plans was the testy and tempestuous weather of Antarctica, which often kept planes grounded for day= s -- sometimes weeks. &nbs= p; Finally the order to fly came through. I boarded the cargo hold of an old C-130 mil= itary transport plane. The other passengers and I strapped ourselves to the narrow benches on the sides of the plane and listened nervously to the deafening r= oar of the prop engines as the plane prepared for takeoff. Suddenly, a crewman came into the = hold and motioned for us to leave the aircraft. &nbs= p; “One of our engines was leaking oil,” he explained to us later in the tiny= , unheated waiting room of the hangar. “Not safe to take off just then. But don’t worry -- we’ll get ‘er fixed right away and hopeful= ly fly out soon.” = ; &nbs= p; During the ensuing 12-hour delay as the transport’s engine was serviced and = we waited silently with our gear, I began to sweat despite the cold. One part = of me doubted I’d get back in time for Christmas. Another part of me wondered if I’d make it home at all. Would that leaky engine hold up during the several-hundred-mile flight to Christchurch, New Zealand? &nbs= p; It’s engine at last repaired, the old plane vibrated down the ice runway and shuddered into the Antarctic sky. We rumbled safely to New Zealand, where I= got ready to catch a jet back to the States. First, though, I made a quick, surprise call to my fiancée, our first conversation after many weeks= of silence. When she answered and heard my voice, she wept; and her joyous rel= ief that I was on my way home brought tears to my eyes, too. It was a phone call I’ll never forget. &nbs= p; I was coming home after the longest and strangest journey of my life. And the prospect of returning to my loved ones? The best Christmas present I’= ve ever had. &nbs= p; Joliet residen= t Mike Bryson (mbry22@sbcglobal.net) wishes all a Merry Christmas and Happy New Ye= ar.<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> </div> </body> </html> ------=_NextPart_01C85CBF.B399A900 Content-Location: file:///C:/8C69C637/BrysonComSense2007_files/themedata.thmx Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 Content-Type: application/vnd.ms-officetheme UEsDBBQABgAIAAAAIQCCirwT+gAAABwCAAATAAAAW0NvbnRlbnRfVHlwZXNdLnhtbKyRy2rDMBBF 94X+g9C22HK6KKXYzqJJd30s0g8Y5LEtao+ENAnJ33fsuFC6CC10IxBizpl7Va6P46AOGJPzVOlV XmiFZH3jqKv0++4pu9cqMVADgyes9AmTXtfXV+XuFDApmaZU6Z45PBiTbI8jpNwHJHlpfRyB5Ro7 E8B+QIfmtijujPXESJzxxNB1+SoLRNegeoPILzCKx7Cg8Pv5DCSAmAtYq8czYVqi0hDC4CywRDAH an7oM9+2zmLj7X4UaT6DF9jNBDO/XGD1P+ov5wZb2A+stkfp4lx/xCH9LdtSay6Tc/7Uu5AuGC6X t7Rh5r+tPwEAAP//AwBQSwMEFAAGAAgAAAAhAKXWp+fAAAAANgEAAAsAAABfcmVscy8ucmVsc4SP z2rDMAyH74W9g9F9UdLDGCV2L6WQQy+jfQDhKH9oIhvbG+vbT8cGCrsIhKTv96k9/q6L+eGU5yAW 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href=3D"file:///C:\8C69C637\BrysonComSense2007_files\header.htm" id=3D"webarch_temp_base_tag"> <![endif]><o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"City"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"State"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"place"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"PlaceName"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"PlaceType"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"address"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"PersonName"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"country-region"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"Street"/> </head> <body lang=3DEN-US> <div 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MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/related; boundary="----=_NextPart_01C85CBF.B399A900" This document is a Single File Web Page, also known as a Web Archive file. If you are seeing this message, your browser or editor doesn't support Web Archive files. Please download a browser that supports Web Archive, such as Windows® Internet Explorer®. ------=_NextPart_01C85CBF.B399A900 Content-Location: file:///C:/8C69C637/BrysonComSense2007.htm Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable Content-Type: text/html; charset="us-ascii" Bryson -- Common Sense Articles for the Joliet Herald News -- 2007</= title> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"City"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"State"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"place"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"PlaceName"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"PlaceType"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"address"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"PersonName"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"country-region"/> <o:SmartTagType namespaceuri=3D"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name=3D"Street"/>  <link rel=3DthemeData href=3D"BrysonComSense2007_files/themedata.thmx"> <link rel=3DcolorSchemeMapping href=3D"BrysonComSense2007_files/colorschememapping.xml">  <style>  </style>  </head> <body lang=3DEN-US style=3D'tab-interval:.5in'> <div class=3DSection1> <st1:City w= :st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place= ></st1:City> Herald-News Common Sense Columns 200= 7<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> *****<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> "A Kee= ner Sense of Place" January 22,= 2007 <o:p> = </o:p> Last June, on a morning str= oll in my neighborhood, I ran into some local history. I had an extra bounce in my= step as I picked up the newspapers strewn along the sidewalk and tossed them up to = the front stoops of houses I passed, using an ex-paperboy's flick of the wrist.= I always did this on morning walks, but this time the gesture had extra meani= ng. That day's edition contained my first-ever Herald News column. Meandering down the gracefu= l curves of <st1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st1:address w:st=3D"on">Buell Avenue</st1:addre= ss></st1:Street>, I admired the varied and impressive architecture of the houses and the occasional section of old-time limestone sidewalk -- remnants of <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City>= 's glory days as <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Stone</st1:PlaceN= ame> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">City</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>. I paused wistfully near the= house where my parents had their first apartment. Next door, a couple waved from their porch and said good morning, even though they didn't know me. I felt a profound sense of belonging to a place: one rooted in the past and connecte= d to the present. Heading for home, I bent to= pet a dog before realizing the fellow walking the beguiling creature was none oth= er than Walt Keener, curator of the <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st= =3D"on">Joliet</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Area</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on"= >Historical</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">Museum</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>. Walt instantly remembered m= e, even though we had met only once before. Soon after moving back to <st1:place w:= st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> in 2005, my family and I had vis= ited the downtown Museum, where a friendly gentleman graciously offered to show = us around. That impromptu orientation soon turned into a richly-detailed perso= nal tour of the museum's exhibits and holdings. About halfway through this fascinating and unforgettable experience I asked the man if he were the Museum's director. "No," he replied modestly. "I'm just the curator." After meeting Walt again on= my walk, I told him about my new monthly writing gig and my desire to write ab= out local issues and history. He offered words of encouragement as well as the services of the museum's archives should I wish to do some research. I had looked forward to tha= t, and figured I'd treat him to lunch at one of his favorite downtown hangouts -- = the better to hear some of his endless supply of stories about <st1:place w:st= =3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>'s people, architecture, industry= , and culture. Now I'll never have the cha= nce for that lunch. Last month Walt Keener died at age 54. His tragically premature lo= ss is an incalculable blow to our community. Despite living and working here for only five years, Walt soaked in the history of <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City = w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>, became a fixture downtown and in his neighborhood, and served as an importa= nt and articulate custodian of our oft-neglected past. He helped give this tow= n an intangible yet vital thing: a sense of place. So long, Walt. Thanks for m= aking <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:City> better whi= le you were here. <o:p> </o:p> The work of hi= storian and museum curator Walt Keener can be seen at the <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><s= t1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Area</st1:Pl= aceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Historical</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st= =3D"on">Museum</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>, <st1:address w:st=3D"on"><st1:Street w:st=3D"on">204 N. Ottawa St.</st1:Str= eet>, <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:address> (815-723-5201). <st1:place w:s= t=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> native Mike Bryson's email is <s= t1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>.<o:p></o:p> "The <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on= ">Peotone</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">Airport</st1:PlaceType>: <st1:place w:st=3D"on">= <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Grab</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">Land</st1:Plac= eType></st1:place> First, Ask Later" February 19= , 2007<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> The latest follies in the P= eotone Airport Saga have critics cheering and supporters groaning. IDOT and Governor Blagojevi= ch submitted two plans for Peotone to the FAA for review, hoping that one woul= d be approved. This cover-all-the-bases approach incorporated the competing visi= ons of the airport's Congressional cheerleaders, Jerry Weller and Jesse Jackson, Jr., who disagree on everything from the facility's name to the bathroom colors. The people at the FAA sighe= d, shook their heads, and sent back the proposals stamped "Make Up Your Minds," thus creating a potential delay of months, if not years, for t= he necessary federal go-ahead. But this comical news has overshadowed a downright sober issue: government-sponsored intimidation of law-abiding citizens in eastern <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st= =3D"on">Will</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">County</st1:PlaceName></st1:place> who own land= in the path of the bulldozers. So far, the state has spent over 23 million taxpayer dollars purchasing about 1,900 acres of land northeast of Peotone.= After getting scolded for m= aking aggressive phone calls to owners of the remaining 2,200 acres needed for the initial build-out, IDOT has been sending letters to landowners making it cl= ear -- in a friendly, nice-guy, Midwestern kind of way -- that if they can't re= ach settlement on terms of sale, the government will proceed with condemnation.= &nbs= p; That seems reasonable, doesn't it? After all, a wasteful, sprawling, ugly, polluting, and congestion-causing airport over 40 miles from downtown Chica= go that no major airline wants is a lot more important than prime Illinois farmland, a quiet rural landscape, clean air, open space, county fairs, and= the rights of individual landowners. That's Progress in action! Still, something just stick= s in my craw about that 23 million bucks IDOT diligently has spent acquiring land. Haven't they gotten a little ahead of themselves? Is it just me, or have othe= rs noticed that the people in charge still haven't decided on an official plan= for the airport; still haven't received FAA approval for that plan; still haven= 't stopped arguing over who's going to control the airport; still haven't fini= shed the required environmental impact studies; still haven't gotten the backing= of a single major airline; and . . . well, need I go on? &nbs= p; Since when is it OK to take first and ask permission later? I guess things just w= ork differently in the hallowed halls of <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st= =3D"on">Springfield</st1:City></st1:place>. All I know is, that approach doesn't jibe with my old-school <st1:place w:s= t=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> upbringing. If as a teenager I h= ad taken out my dad's cherished '65 Chevy for a night on the town without aski= ng him first, well . . . you probably can imagine the unpleasant consequences.= So where do our elected leaders and transportation bureaucrats get off? Jerry, Jesse, Rod, and all = your IDOT cronies -- you, and this whole shameful Peotone airport fiasco, should= be grounded. <o:p> </o:p> Disclosure: <s= t1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City> resident Mike Bryson (<st1:PersonName w:st=3D= "on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>) likes to attend the <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Will<= /st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">County</st1:PlaceName></st1:place> Fair in Peot= one with his family every summer. "A Sec= ond-Hand Smoker's Lament" March 19, 2= 007<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> I was shocked to learn that= <st1:State w:st=3D"on">Tennessee</st1:State>, one of the traditional tobacco-producing states in our great <st1:place w:st=3D"on">Union</st1:place>, is on the ver= ge of enacting a comprehensive smoking ban. What's next, I wonder -- <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:State w:st=3D"on">New York</st1:State></st1:place> outlawi= ng bagels and cream cheese? Good thing the Great Smoking Controversy has died down here in <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"= on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>, where the restaurant air is still deliciously toxic. Because amidst all the overheated debate on this issue, somebody's rights were being ignored. Name= ly, mine. Proponents of a ban defend = the rights of nonsmoking workers and patrons to breathe clean, healthy air while enjoying a meal and/or beverage out on the town. Their opponents, in turn, = eloquently champion the right of restauranteurs and tavern-keepers to nurture a pleasantly-befouled atmospheric mixture of exhaled nicotine and tar, which attracts the deep-pocketed smoking contingent in droves. But nobody's sticking up fo= r my rights. You see, I'm a "second-hand smoker" -- one who neither buys cigarettes nor smokes them directly, but who secretly and passionately inhales the exhaust of nea= rby smokers whenever and wherever I can. And some of the best places to cruise = for second-hand smoke are <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</= st1:City></st1:place>'s numerous restaurants and bars. Outside of these establishm= ents, spotting a wayward puff of smoke and strategically planting myself downwind= is a hit-or-miss proposition. But in many of our fine taverns and eateries, I = can sit pretty much anywhere -- even in the so-called "non-smoking section" -- and enjoy multiple drafts from several directions, dependi= ng on that evening's clientele. So much gain for so little effort! You probably see the immedi= ate benefits of my pastime. For one, it's free; and who among us doesn't love a bargain like that? It makes me feel sorry f= or the folks shelling out their hard-earned cash at -- what is it now? -- four bucks a pack for their favorite cancer sticks. Their bank accounts dwindle = with every puff, but not mine -- 'cause I'm freeloadin' the smoke, baby, and it tastes mighty fine, even recycled once or twice. Cultivating the appearance of being a nonsmoker is handy, too. I can maintain good standing within the vocal and influential anti-smoking crowd (which includes my wife), and stand on the moral high gr= ound in future discussions with my daughter about the causal relationship between cigarettes and blackened lung tissue. Frankly, though, I'm getting worried that my second-hand smoker's rights are in danger of being trampled. After all, smokers can go practically anywhere to take a drag: the street, = the sidewalk, the car, even their own homes. Nonsmokers have plenty of options, too: they can patronize the two or three no-smoking restaurants in <st1:pla= ce w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>, or just st= ay home and eat leftovers. But if <st1:City w:st=3D"on= ">Joliet</st1:City> jumps on <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:State w:st=3D"on">Tennessee</st1:State= ></st1:place>'s bandwagon? The party's over for me. <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson of= <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:City> believes i= n every American's constitutional right to passively inhale carcinogens while drink= ing beer or eating scrambled eggs. Support the cause at <st1:PersonName w:st=3D= "on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>. <o:p></o:p> Looking for= a New Lawnmower? Get Reel! April 16, 2= 007 <o:p> </o:p> Right before the onset of o= ur April cold snap, I bought a new lawnmower. &nbs= p; I had no choice. My cherished Sunbeam electric, a vintage hand-me-down from my great-grandmother, had started coughing up blood. But tragedy is often the mo= ther of opportunity. The Sunbeam's blown bearings gave me a chance to go old-school= by investing in a manual reel mower, which has about as high a profile today a= s a quill pen or Model T. With my postage-stamp-sized yard and yen for simplici= ty, this looked like an ideal solution. No gas to burn, no electric cord to run over -- nothing but muscle power. &nbs= p; I ventured to the Lawn and Garden section of a reputable and long-established department store, and took in the view. Two long rows of fancy, self-propel= led, multi-speed gas mowers. A massive floor display of sleek yet muscular riding tractors that must've been trucked in from a John Deere dealership. One lone electric mower, looking lost and forlorn. No old-fashioned reel mowers anywhere. &nbs= p; I had a moment of doubt. After all, <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"= on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:City> is a real internal combustion engine type of town. Maybe I'd have to go up = to <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Oak Park</st1:place></st1:City> to find = one. &nbs= p; Overcoming my shyness, I asked the fuzzy-bearded youth on duty if he had any manual pu= sh mowers. He looked at me blankly, so I repeated my request and added what I hoped were helpful hand motions. "Oh, yeah," he drawled. "Th= ose kind. Lemme look for ya." &nbs= p; After twenty minutes of searching, he returned with a small box covered in a light layer of dust. "This is it," he announced, winded but triumphant. "On sale, too!" Another, more seasoned salesman drifted over out = of idle curiosity. "Hey, you're getting one of those old reel jobs? In all the years I've worked here, I've never seen one go. Well, that's a first.&q= uot; &nbs= p; A few customers wandered by, apparently interested in the developing commotio= n. I briefly basked in my newfound retail celebrity, half expecting to see a photographer from company headquarters show up to take my picture. "Customer buys first manual reel mower in 35 years!" the caption would read in the glossy annual report. After leaving the store and returning to my normal life of obscurity, I considered the prevailing Ameri= can attitudes about technology embodied in the power lawnmower. On one hand, there's progress: the glorious triumph of labor-saving technology over manu= al drudgery. On the other, the plethora = of lawnmower choices symbolizes a kind of perverse excess, a mind-numbing proliferation of options and capabilities that have little to do with neces= sity and everything to do with creating consumer demand for stuff we don't need.= I'll tell you one thing we = do need, though -- the return of warm weather. Then I can try out my new mower. <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson of= Joliet likes cheap and simple tools that work, but he still reads email sent to <s= t1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>.<o:p></o:p> Morning Med= itations and the <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Cathedral</st1:Pl= aceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Area</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on"= >Regional</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">Airport</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> May 14, 200= 7 <o:p> </o:p> &nbs= p; The springtime dawn is especially peaceful in my neighborhood, <st1:place w:st= =3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>'s quiet and historic Cathedral A= rea. I rise early to make coffee, feed the cat, and shuffle out to get the morning papers. A white-throated sparrow sings his melancholy song from a pine tree; rabbits mosey through the lush grass. It's a tranquil beginning to the day.= &nbs= p; Recently, though, my morning was brutally shattered by a noisy demolition crew outsid= e my front windows. Men were chain-sawing down trees along the street, a bulldoz= er was ripping up sidewalk and lawn turf, and some beefy guy was hammering a b= ig wooden sign in what remained of my front yard. &nbs= p; Spilling some coffee on the cat in my haste, I rushed outside to confront the sign-planter. &nbs= p; "Hey!" I protested eloquently. "It's only six a.m.! My wife and kid are aslee= p, and I'm trying to relish my morning ritual. Who are you guys, and what in t= he name of Art Schultz is up with this racket?" &nbs= p; The man stopped, lit a cigar, and looked down at me with a stony expression. "Name's Arny, not Art. We're private contractors workin' for the state." He turned and yelled, "Harry -- take down that sycamore o= ver there!" &nbs= p; I did a little involuntary dance meant to signify rage, but Arny seemed unmov= ed. He just jerked a thumb toward the sign. Bold letters proclaimed: <s= t1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">CATHEDRAL</st1:PlaceName> <st1:Place= Name w:st=3D"on">AREA</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">REGIONAL</st1:= PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">AIRPORT</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>. Open May 2= 008 Pending FAA Approval. Sincerely, (signed) Illinois Department of Transportation. &nbs= p; "You can't do this!" I shouted over the noise of the dozer. "Just beca= use the City Council is thinking about allowing a bed and breakfast over on <st= 1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st1:address w:st=3D"on">Western Avenue</st1:address></st1:Stre= et> doesn't mean you can build an airport here. This is a 100-year-old resident= ial neighborhood with quaint and charming character. We homeowners have rights!" &nbs= p; Arny sympathetically puffed his stogie in my direction. "Quit cryin', pal. All's I know is, your street's gonna be a jet runway. State needs land, they take it. Ever hear of eminent domain? Besides, you're lucky. Guy across the street, his house is history. Control tower's going up there." &nbs= p; I've always been one to look at the bright side of any situation, no matter how inherently crappy. Maybe Arny's right, I thought, sipping the remains of my coffee. At least my house wasn't being demolished. My commute to <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Chicago</st1:place></st1:City> would be = a snap, because I'd be able to walk to the departure terminal in five minutes. And = the constant stream of plane exhaust would likely keep the bugs down during the summer. &nbs= p; Yes, the morning's a little noisier here, and I can't hear the sparrow's song anymore. But it's truly inspirational to see IDOT embark on another bold ci= vic endeavor -- and I've got a great view of the action. <o:p> </o:p> While Mike Bry= son (<st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>) does in fact reside in <= st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:City>'s Cathedra= l Area and likes to get up early, the rest of this article is merely a nightmarish fantasy. Any resemblance to an actual <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Will</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">County</st1:Pl= aceName></st1:place> airport project is purely coincidental. Enjoy your morning!<o:p></o:p><= /p> No Lemonade= Stand for <st1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st1:address w:st=3D"on">Western Avenue</st1:addres= s></st1:Street>, <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Sez</st1:PlaceName> <st1:= PlaceType w:st=3D"on">City</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> Council June 11, 20= 07 &nb= sp; = &nb= sp; &nbs= p; In a decision last week that sent shock waves throughout town, Joliet City Cou= ncil members unanimously nixed the idea of a kid's lemonade stand on <st1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st1:address w:st=3D"on">Western Avenue</st1:address></st1:Stre= et>. &nbs= p; The vote thrilled area residents opposed to the project but dashed the hopes of Miss Dixie Kupp, nine-year-old citrus drink entrepreneur. &nbs= p; It all started when Dixie, a Joliet girl born and raised on the storied west s= ide boulevard, decided to open a seasonal lemonade stand on her street. Faced w= ith skeptical neighbors who feared the roadside establishment would increase traffic and noise, hurt property values, and diminish the area's architectu= ral pomposity, <st1:place w:st=3D"on">Dixie</st1:place> developed a sophisticat= ed business plan to convince local officials of her idea's cultural value and economic potential. "I really, really love= making lemonade," <st1:place w:st=3D"on">Dixie</st1:place> explained earnestl= y. "Selling it is super fun, especially in the summer when people are ext= ra thirsty. So I thought I'd open my own place and make some money for college. The stand would've sat in front of my house, so I'd have taken good care of it." Intrigued by <st1:place w:s= t=3D"on">Dixie</st1:place>'s story and somewhat puzzled by the many anti-lemon signs outside of Western's majestic mansions, I canvassed the neighborhood to get a sense of why this seemingly innocuous business endeavor had caused such an uproar. A spokesperson for WAPPA, t= he Western Avenue Perpetual Preservation Association, diplomatically noted that "while many members of the Association supported <st1:place w:st=3D"on= ">Dixie</st1:place>'s lemonade initiative, others strenuously opposed it, resulting in our offici= ally adopting a firm stance of ambiguous neutrality on this potentially divisive community issue." The Kupps' next-door neighb= or was more forthright. "Don't get me wrong; I enjoy lemonade as much as the = next person. But that girl's stand would've created a slippery slope. First this zoning exception, then what? A taco truck? Used-car dealership? Double-wide casino? The residential atmosphere and historic exclusiveness of our block would be destroyed!" Other citizens expressed co= nfusion about the project's fundamental merits. "I don't know why anyone would want to open a lemonade stand in this town," one remarked. "Who c= omes to <st1:City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:Cit= y> to drink lemonade on the side of a street? I guess they have those things up i= n <st1:State w:st=3D"on">Wisconsin</st1:State> and <st1:State w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:s= t=3D"on">Michigan</st1:place></st1:State> -- but here?" One of <st1:place w:st=3D"o= n">Dixie</st1:place>'s supporters, though, rued the Council's vote. "I honestly thought <st1:= City w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:place></st1:City> was ready = for a quality lemonade stand, poised to take that next step toward civic greatnes= s. This could've made us a regional tourist destination. What a waste."</= p> As for young Dixie Kupp? Sh= e's looking forward to fifth grade next fall and, undaunted, is mulling over fu= ture business proposals. "Maybe in a few years = I'll start a bed and breakfast here with my mom and dad. That'd fit into the neighborh= ood a lot better than a lemonade stand, don't you think?" <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson (<= st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>) is a <st1:City w:st=3D"o= n">Joliet</st1:City> native and has patronized lemonade stands in small towns and big cities throughout these <st1:country-region w:st=3D"on"><st1:place w:st=3D"on">Uni= ted States</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<o:p></o:p> Cubs Not th= e Worst of All Time July 10, 20= 07 <o:p> </o:p> Baseball's All-Star game is tonight, and as we anticipate watching multi-millionaire athletes pitch, hi= t, run, catch, and spit, I can't help but ruminate over a startling new revela= tion about my favorite ball club, the Chicago Cubs. Investigative journalists a= t the New York Times have determined that, contrary to popular misconception, the Cubs are not the worst baseball team of all time. That distinction instead belongs to the Philadelphia Phillies, who since 1883 have won only one World Series (in 1980) and are fast approaching a dubious historical milestone: 10,000 losses. By comparison, the Cubs look absolutely stellar. Though they started playing back in 1876, they're at le= ast six to seven years away from losing 10,000 games, and they've won two World Series -- 100 percent mo= re than the Phillies' total. Having long assumed no team= could equal the magnificent failings of the Cubs, I'm shocked and saddened by the discovery that my team is not the best at losing. Apparently they're not the best at anything. This fact, however, is diff= icult to square with my own personal experience of witnessing the Cubs' legendary ineptitude. As a kid in the 1970s, I watched the Phillies, of all teams, repeatedly inflict severe punishment on the Cubs. Phils slugger Mike Schmidt whacked shot after high-arcing shot onto <st1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st1:addre= ss w:st=3D"on">Waveland Avenue</st1:address></st1:Street>. Pitcher Steve Carl= ton whiffed Cub after Cub with vicious sliders. The rest of the Phillies spent = all day running around the bases and laughing, while the Cubs just trudged dejectedly from the batter's box to the dugout after each strikeout. It was so bad in those days= , the Cubs once scored 22 runs at Wrigley Field against the Phillies . . . and lo= st the game 23-22. So to find out the Phillies= have in fact lost far more games than the Cubs, despite having a slightly shorter t= eam history, just plain hurts. After all, Cub fans wear th= eir suffering as a sacred badge of honor. The Cubs' legacy of lousiness, highlighted by a few tragicomic and exquisitely painful years of near-succe= ss -- 1969, 1984, 2003 -- ensured that when victory finally came, it would tri= gger an ecstasy beyond all understanding, a religious experience of epic proport= ion. Now the philosophical found= ation of that outlook has crumbled. But maybe there's one saving grace in this rival= ry between two infuriatingly bad franchises. In 1993, the Phillies had a= chance to win their second World Series. But they lost game 6 in historic fashion = to the Toronto Blue Jays on a dramatic 9th inning home run by Joe Carter off Phillies closer Mitch "Wild Thing" Williams, the only time a Seri= es ended on a homer. Significantly, I would note= , both Carter and Williams were ex-Cubs. So you have to say that <st1:place w:st= =3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Chicago</st1:City></st1:place> gets partial credit for the los= s. <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson (<st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>) = has been a Cubs fan "through thin and thin," as his Uncle Ev likes to say. And while Phillies fans waited 97 years for their championship, the Cu= bs' current dry spell is 98 years and counting. <o:p></o:p> <o:p> = </o:p> <o:p> = </o:p> <o:p> = </o:p> <o:p> = </o:p> <o:p> = </o:p> The Pump an= d the Outhouse August 7, 2= 007 <o:p> </o:p> &nbs= p; Every summer my family and I spend a few weeks in a one-room cabin by a small lak= e in <st1:place w:st=3D"on">Upper Michigan</st1:place>. It’s been exceptio= nally dry here in <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Hiawatha</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceT= ype w:st=3D"on">National Forest</st1:PlaceType>, and the lack of rain reminds m= e of the parched conditions back in <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on"= >Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>. &nbs= p; While public water conservation measures at home are limited to modest lawn-water= ing restrictions, stingy water use is second nature here at the Bryson cabin. It’s not so much tale of environmental virtue, but rather one of brute necessity. &nbs= p; Consider our rustic dwelling’s indoor plumbing, such as it is. At the kitchen sink, an old-fashioned hand pump draws up cold well water flavored with blood-enriching iron. Underneath the drain is a five-gallon bucket to catch= the wastewater. &nbs= p; By some standards crude and primitive, this design is magnificent to a conservationist. Want some water? Flex your muscles and work the pump. Need= hot water for tea or doing dishes? Pump a kettle full and heat it on the stove.= &nbs= p; Yes, it’s easy to see how this set-up automatically encourages wise water = use. That bucket not only fills up quickly, it gets mighty heavy. For morning and evening exercise, I just haul it outside and dump it in the woods – a cherished ritual I’ll pass on to my grateful kids someday. &nbs= p; The cabin’s other water-saving features are the two bathrooms, each locat= ed at opposite ends of a scenic, woodsy path. To the east is the toilet, so de= luxe it has its own roof. With no water to flush or light switch to find in the dark, it truly embodies zero-impact technology. &nbs= p; The west path heads to the lake. Here I commune with the local wildlife and occasionally converse with a neighbor canoeing by while I take a quick cleansing dip. Prefer a shower? Just dump a bucket of cold refreshing lake water on your head. &nbs= p; At vacation’s end, it’s always a shock returning to civilization a= nd seeing water used – and wasted – so casually. Millions upon millions of gallons sprinkle lawns, water gardens, fill swimming pools, wash cars, hose down patios, flush toilets . . . all with minimal effort and lit= tle worry. &nbs= p; Shamefully, though, much of <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:Ci= ty></st1:place>’s precious well water is just plain lost – destined for the sewer witho= ut having performed a worthy function. Think of the times we let the faucet run while doing the dishes, sprinkle the sidewalk and driveway along with the grass, ignore that slowly-leaking commode, or wait a few long minutes for t= he shower to warm up before stepping in. &nbs= p; After we come back from <st1:State w:st=3D"on">Michigan</st1:State>, I’ll t= ry incorporating some of my Upper Peninsula water-saving techniques into our <= st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> household r= outine. True, an outhouse in the back yard probably wouldn’t thrill the neighbors. But I bet I can wedge a five-gallon bucket under the kitchen sin= k. <o:p> </o:p> Mike Bryson th= anks his highly tolerant wife Laura for suggesting this column’s topic. Send y= our water conservation stories to <st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.= net</st1:PersonName>.<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <st1:place = w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Silver</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Cross</st1:P= laceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">Hospital</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>'s Proposed= Move to New Lenox September 4= , 2007 <o:p> = </o:p> After 112 years of providin= g health care in <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City>, venerable <st1:PlaceName w= :st=3D"on">Silver</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Cross</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on"= >Hospital</st1:PlaceType> has stunned local politicians and the general public alike by announcing its intent to move from its historic <st1:place w:st=3D"on">East Side</st1:plac= e> location to a new campus in nearby New Lenox. Most of the key economic and logistical factors under debate in the newspapers, on the airwaves, in City Hall, and on the street are well known. Silver Cross, anxious for a roomy a= nd modern hospital complex, says it's cheaper to build a brand-new facility th= an to further rehab and expand the current site on <st1:Street w:st=3D"on"><st= 1:address w:st=3D"on">Maple Road</st1:address></st1:Street>. City leaders, in turn, = are consternated about such things as travel times for emergency vehicles coming from <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City>, not to mention being left in = the dark about the hospital's proposed departure from the <st1:place w:st=3D"on= ">East Side</st1:place>. But there are other, deeper= issues that run through this hospital controversy, like the swirling undercurrents= of the river that divides our town. On one hand is the Myth of = the Frontier, which is all about regeneration and renewal -- leaving the old, embracing the new. Silver Cross aspires to explore the frontiers of medicin= e in a state-of-the-art setting. What better place to do this, symbolically as w= ell as practically, than in the geographic frontier of New Lenox, a leading edg= e of Will County's population explosion? On the other hand is the Na= rrative of Civic History, a story about tradition and the past. Few existing institutions are more closely identified with <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:C= ity w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place>'s history than Silver Cross, whi= ch opened its doors to patients in 1895. One of our newest city icons, the downtown baseball park, evens bears the hospital's name. Like many <st1:place w:st= =3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> residents, I feel a strong perso= nal connection to the place. I was born there, after all. So were my father and= my brother. My mother graduated from the Silver Cross School of Nursing and wo= rked as an RN at the hospital for several years. And just this spring, my second daughter came into the world at the Silver Cross birthing center. So while the hospital's pla= n seems reasonable according to the Myth of the Frontier, it presents a disturbing challenge to <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City>= </st1:place>'s civic identity. When a longtime local institution up and leaves, it hurts. = The sense of loss will be especially acute on the <st1:place w:st=3D"on">East S= ide</st1:place>, which has suffered a disproportionate share of setbacks over the years. Yes, I understand the econo= mic logic and future-oriented planning of Silver Cross' proposed move. From the dispassionate perspectives of the marketplace and the census bureau, it may well be a keen decision. But let's not kid ourselves= . The hospital's departure will leave a large wound on <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joli= et</st1:City>'s <st1:place w:st=3D"on">East Side</st1:place>. And despite whatever anesthet= ic Silver Cross will apply to ease the pain, it's going to take a long time to heal. <o:p> </o:p> <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> native Mike Bryson can be reached at = <st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName><o:p></o:p> Silence: An Endangered Species October 2, 2007 <o:p> </o:p> As one of the twentieth cen= tury's most influential and beloved theatrical performers, mime extraordinaire Mar= cel Marceau dramatically demonstrated the profound power of silence. With expressive gesture, lithe movement, and ingenious choreography, Marceau cou= ld communicate ideas and emotions to people of all cultures, for his silent art was not bound by the limits of language but rather defined by the common yet unspoken threads of human experience. Marceau is gone from us now= , having left life's stage at age 84. His departure is occasion for mourning the increasing rarity of silence in modern life. &nbs= p; Take stock of your daily experiences -- at home, at work, in stores, at school -- and just try to find a space where silence thrives. It's tough, I tell you. Noise and bluster and commotion rule the day in our sound-polluted environm= ent. Commuter train passengers y= ak mindlessly into their cell phones at volumes that shatter concentration and offend eardrums. Talk-radio jockeys blather and shout into their microphones and are rewarded for making a mockery of "dialogue" and "conversation." TVs blare unceasingly at us from restaurants, bar= s, airport lounges, doctors' offices, supermarket checkout lines -- and from e= very single room of many Americans' homes. In stores of all kinds we're assaulted by a high-decibel surround-sound cacophony, as if we're incapable= of making consumer choices without frenetic dance music urging us on. Maybe th= at's the point, actually -- don't think, don't weigh your options. Just buy! At baseball games, earsplit= ting PA noise nearly obscures the game's action. Every batter is introduced with a snarky snippet of theme music; the short pauses between each and every pitch are filled with a few shrieking measures of insipid pop or clichéd classic rock. On the streets we're subjec= ted to the ceaseless din of traffic -- blaring horns, rumbling trucks, red-faced drivers shouting at each other. Worst of all are the Liver Jigglers -- cars equipped with massive, bass-heavy stereos cranked so high that they cause powerful vibrations within the internal organs of any innocent bystander.</= p> Even the library, once a sa= nctum sanctorum for quiet study and reflection, has fallen prey to this hideous trend. Middle-aged patrons, who should darn well know better, happily chat = away in the library as if they're at the coffee shop. Ironically, the only ones = who are quiet are the teenagers bent over their homework. If that paradox isn't= an indicator of a warped society, I don't know what is. We must, then, do more than= simply note Marcel Marceau's passing with a brief moment of silence, appropriate though that may be, and then go back to tolerating this pointless, ceaseles= s, heartless noise. Perhaps we can find a way to recover, amidst the clangor a= nd wailing of our culture, a respect for the value of silence and the need for quiet in our lives. Until that day arrives, I'm= putting cotton in my ears. <o:p> </o:p> <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City></st1:place> native Mike Bryson quietly reads emai= l sent to <st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>.<o:p><= /o:p> Accountabil= ity Is a Thing of the Past Nov. 1, 200= 7<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> &nbs= p; Recognize these phrases? "I didn't know it was wrong." Or how about, "Everybody else is doing it." Or the classic expression, "It= 's the other guy's fault." All reflect the disturbing lack of individual accountability in our society -- symptoms of an ethical disease that pervad= es every tissue and organ of the American body politic. &nbs= p; The latest manifestation of this to chafe my elbow involves one of the high sin= s of academia: plagiarism. A form of intellectual dishonesty, plagiarism refers = to the unethical use of sources in one's writing. The transgression can be as deceitful as downloading an entire paper from the internet and putting one's name on it, or as careless as forgetting to put quotation marks around a co= pied passage. &nbs= p; Either way, plagiarism involves taking credit for someone else's work. For student= s, the punishment for it is typically harsh; that's because plagiarism is not = only a violation of trust, it's unfair to those who do honest work and it erodes= the value of degrees earned at the institution. &nbs= p; That brings me to the recent controversy surrounding Southern Illinois University president Glenn Poshard. The flap began with revelations that Poshard had lifted passages from other sources without proper citation and presented th= em as his own writing in his 1984 graduate thesis. &nbs= p; In response to a swirl of outrage from the university community, Poshard hand-picked an internal review committee to examine his work. Its members concluded that he had plagiariz= ed, but not intentionally, and poetically characterized the lapses as inadverte= nt "infelicities in attribution." They also recommended that while Poshard needed to correct the plagiarized portions of his tainted thesis, he should be allowed to keep his degree and his prestigious position. &nbs= p; In the process of explaining and defending his actions, Poshard failed to take responsibility for his actions and effectively blamed others for his transgressions. At SIU in the early 80s, apparently, there were no clear mandatory guidelines available for students (it's the university's fault). = And Poshard's thesis committee failed to catch the errors in his dissertation (= it's the faculty's fault). And besides, many other SIU graduate theses approved = at the time contained similar problems (everybody else is doing it). &nbs= p; I'm willing to accept that all of the those circumstances were true. But that doesn't make them legitimate excuses. To speak plainly: Poshard's work as a student was academically dishonest. And the consequences of that dishonesty= are magnified by the fact that he now occupies the most exalted position at the university which granted the degree. Ironically yet unsurprisingly, it's the very power of that position which has gotten him off the hook. &nbs= p; In my book, the review committee only got it half right. Yes, Poshard should g= o back and correct his thesis. But as soon as he turns it in, he should strike a b= low for personal accountability -- and resign his presidency. <o:p> </o:p> <st1:City w:st=3D"on">Joliet</st1:City> resident Mike Bryson (<st1:PersonName w:st=3D"on">mbry22@sbcglobal.net</st1:PersonName>) is Associate Professor of Humanities at <st1:place w:st=3D"on"><st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Roosevelt</= st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st=3D"on">University</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>.<o:p></o= :p> Honiotes Brothers Food Mart<o:p></o:p> Nov. 27, 2007<o:p></o:p> <o:p></o:p> During my childhood, when my mother was serious about getting groceries she went to only one place: the Honiotes Brothers Food Ma= rt. <o:p></o:p> It wasn’t just that the Honiotes Brothers had t= he best produce and meats in town. Going there felt more like visiting someone’s home than entering a store. You always got much more than a beef roast and some fruits and vegetables -- you were greeted by name, you’d hear a good joke, you’d run into a friend or neighbor. </= span><o:p></o:p> The six brothers who ran the store -- John, Andy, Nic= k, Jim, Pete, and Bill -- perfected the art of the personal touch, a completely sincere way of relating to patrons like they were family. <o:p></o:p> When I heard last month that the sole surviving broth= er, Nick Honiotes, had passed away, certain images from the past returned with clarity: the giant scale that stood near the entrance, where kids would lin= e up to weigh themselves; the low ceilings, so different from today’s cavernous retail interiors; the library’s “Bookmobile” sitting in the parking lot. In those special days, a trip to the grocery st= ore meant food for the body and the mind.<o:p></o:p> = = This Thanksgiving, as my family enjoyed food and fell= owship around the dinner table, we shared our favorite memories of the store and t= he Honiotes family.<o:p></= o:p> = = My Grandma Dorothy told us how she cleaned house for = Andy Honiotes for a time. One day Andy complained to her that he and his wife couldn’t find a babysitter who could stay awake on the job. Grandma quickly replied, “My daughter won’t fall asleep.” = Soon my mother found herself babysitting Andy’s three boys every New Year’s Eve for a few years, a job she’d always remember fondly.= <o:p></o:p> = = Grandma Millie told us how back in the 1920s, when the Honiotes farm and produce stand were located at Reed Street and Glenwood Avenue, my Grandpa Abe Bryson weeded the fields as a young boy after school. His wage was a little cash and a big basket of in-season fruits and vegetab= les. Apparently he did his job well; Helen Honiotes, the family matriarch, thoug= ht Abe was “just the berries.” <o:p></o:p> From their humble beginnings at that farm to their operation of the city’s finest supermarket for decades, the entrepreneurship and success of the Honiotes family not only reflects the history and growth of Joliet in the twentieth century, but also embodies the essence of the American dream. <o:p></o:p> = = Just as the closing of the Honiotes Brothers Food Mar= t in 1985 marked the end of an era when family-owned businesses dominated the sc= ene, Nick’s passing this year closes another chapter in the marvelous stor= y he and his family created. What lives on are the memories held and cherished by the countless friends and customers of the Honiotes Brothers. <o:p></o:p> <o:p></o:p> Contact Joliet resident Mike Bryson at mbry22@sbcglobal.net.= <o:p></o:p> I’ll Be Home for Christmas: An Antarctic Tale <o:p></o:p>= December 25= , 2007 <o:p> </o:p> &nbs= p; Let me tell you a little Christmas story. It’s about exotic landscapes, danger, love, and the quest for home. &nbs= p; It was late 1991, and I was stationed in Antarctica as part of a research group from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. We camped for several weeks = in the Dry Valleys of the Transantarctic Mountains, studying the ecology of a frozen lake -- one of many that dot these cold and windswept valleys. &nbs= p; My role in this scientific operation was not particularly glamorous. I chipped lake ice to make water, = cooked meals, scrubbed dishes, and sorted the daily garbage. In between these vital duties I assisted with various scientific experiments and field measurement= s. And despite the 24-hour daylight in the south polar summer, I slept like a = rock each “night” after collapsing in an exhausted heap in my tent.<= /p> &nbs= p; Then came mid-December, and my hitch was up. It looked as if I’d be home f= or Christmas, after all. The only possible glitch in my plans was the testy and tempestuous weather of Antarctica, which often kept planes grounded for day= s -- sometimes weeks. &nbs= p; Finally the order to fly came through. I boarded the cargo hold of an old C-130 mil= itary transport plane. The other passengers and I strapped ourselves to the narrow benches on the sides of the plane and listened nervously to the deafening r= oar of the prop engines as the plane prepared for takeoff. Suddenly, a crewman came into the = hold and motioned for us to leave the aircraft. &nbs= p; “One of our engines was leaking oil,” he explained to us later in the tiny= , unheated waiting room of the hangar. “Not safe to take off just then. But don’t worry -- we’ll get ‘er fixed right away and hopeful= ly fly out soon.” = ; &nbs= p; During the ensuing 12-hour delay as the transport’s engine was serviced and = we waited silently with our gear, I began to sweat despite the cold. One part = of me doubted I’d get back in time for Christmas. Another part of me wondered if I’d make it home at all. Would that leaky engine hold up during the several-hundred-mile flight to Christchurch, New Zealand? &nbs= p; It’s engine at last repaired, the old plane vibrated down the ice runway and shuddered into the Antarctic sky. We rumbled safely to New Zealand, where I= got ready to catch a jet back to the States. First, though, I made a quick, surprise call to my fiancée, our first conversation after many weeks= of silence. When she answered and heard my voice, she wept; and her joyous rel= ief that I was on my way home brought tears to my eyes, too. It was a phone call I’ll never forget. &nbs= p; I was coming home after the longest and strangest journey of my life. And the prospect of returning to my loved ones? The best Christmas present I’= ve ever had. &nbs= p; Joliet residen= t Mike Bryson (mbry22@sbcglobal.net) wishes all a Merry Christmas and Happy New Ye= ar.<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p> </div> </body> </html> ------=_NextPart_01C85CBF.B399A900 Content-Location: file:///C:/8C69C637/BrysonComSense2007_files/themedata.thmx Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 Content-Type: application/vnd.ms-officetheme UEsDBBQABgAIAAAAIQCCirwT+gAAABwCAAATAAAAW0NvbnRlbnRfVHlwZXNdLnhtbKyRy2rDMBBF 94X+g9C22HK6KKXYzqJJd30s0g8Y5LEtao+ENAnJ33fsuFC6CC10IxBizpl7Va6P46AOGJPzVOlV XmiFZH3jqKv0++4pu9cqMVADgyes9AmTXtfXV+XuFDApmaZU6Z45PBiTbI8jpNwHJHlpfRyB5Ro7 E8B+QIfmtijujPXESJzxxNB1+SoLRNegeoPILzCKx7Cg8Pv5DCSAmAtYq8czYVqi0hDC4CywRDAH an7oM9+2zmLj7X4UaT6DF9jNBDO/XGD1P+ov5wZb2A+stkfp4lx/xCH9LdtSay6Tc/7Uu5AuGC6X t7Rh5r+tPwEAAP//AwBQSwMEFAAGAAgAAAAhAKXWp+fAAAAANgEAAAsAAABfcmVscy8ucmVsc4SP z2rDMAyH74W9g9F9UdLDGCV2L6WQQy+jfQDhKH9oIhvbG+vbT8cGCrsIhKTv96k9/q6L+eGU5yAW 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