In March 1964, two days after a late winter snowstorm, Penny and myself, along with our 3-year-old son, our 2-month-old daughter and our dog were able to shoehorn ourselves into a 1960 red Corvair and drive the 1,000 miles from Albuquerque to Chicago.
I had a new job and we needed to have a new place to live in an area I once knew.
The next day, Sunday, we drove down the newly built Dan Ryan Expressway, then onto Illinois 394. A highway sign said this road was going to Danville, but I hoped we did not have to go that far. Finally, we turned right onto Sauk Trail which eventually led us to this shiny new town called Park Forest.
We picked up the key to our rental apartment on Hemlock Street, but we could not move in until the freight truck arrived three days later with our meager belongings. Sorry, they said. Snow, they explained.
In that first week, a Welcome Wagon person gave us information about the day our garbage was picked up, schools, car stickers, a list of houses of worship and even a bunch of coupons. Welcome to Park Forest and make yourself a home. was the message.
Since then, or for the last 23 years (minus one COVID-19 time out) after our now married daughter, her husband and two children moved to Colorado, we make our annual back-and-forth, two-day, 1,000 mile trip West. For the most part on those back-and-forth journeys we follow a similar routine as to when and where we stay overnight. Our goal is to be with our Colorado family.
We are, however, notorious schmoozers, and wherever we go, we enjoy those moments where we meet others from other places. This last trip was no exception.
Colorado is home to numerous breweries, and at one of them we noticed an employee who had the four stars of the city of Chicago flag tattooed on his right wrist. We asked if he was from the city. He replied with obvious pride that he was born in Chicago and was planning a trip home soon.
His credentials seemed impeccable.
“My mother,” he said proudly “was a bleacher bum.”
Another day we met Dexter and Renita when they were trying on fishing waders at a sporting goods store. Renita recently retired from the Air Force, and we quickly formed a verbal bond about similar vacation adventures. Dexter grew up in Waukegan, and once delivered Chicago newspapers in his hometown. He now lives in the Washington, D.C. area.
When casually asked what he did, Dexter deftly changed the subject.
I got the hint.
Another day we had a long conversation with Brian, an avid bicyclist who was preparing for an upcoming race by sipping beer and there was a quick chat with Sam, sitting next to Brian, who was born in Minnesota, and proudly wears a T-shirt to that effect even those he has been away from his home state for decades.
Every now and then we give names to our excursions.
This year’s trip will be known as our “onion” journey.
As we crossed into Nebraska on our way home, we noticed what looked to be onions strewed on the side of the road, along with a discarded mesh bag. More onions were seen some 15 miles farther east. At Kearney, Nebraska, we passed a state police trooper who had stopped a flatbed truck, on which the driver was trying to secure his cargo of onions.
We thought that was the end of the story, but in western Iowa the next day we saw more onions on the roadway. We chuckled at the sight, but we knew the driver’s problem was not a laughing matter. No matter for us. We were going home.
We made it back to our Shack on Shabbona in time for that three-day span of oppressive heat. No matter. Vacation trips may be enjoyable, but it is always good to come back to our home.
Jerry Shnay is a freelance columnist for the Daily Southtown.
