Distance by: Gilberto Garza, Archival Inkjet Print, 2019
A Day at the Beach
So, I decided today would be the day I would visit my place of solitude, Whiting Beach. I had been putting it off for quite some time. I knew the way by heart, I’d gone so many times before. Whenever I was troubled it was my place to find inner peace. There I could sit and contemplate my future as I watched the Ore boats traverse Lake Michigan. It had been a rough year; I really needed this time out.
I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined. I could almost feel the sting of the cold water as I waded through the dark blue waves, and feel the gritty sand between my toes. I welcomed the thought of the hot sun on my shoulders and the smell of Coppertone. My transistor radio belting out the latest tunes from WLS radio station and the DJ’s corny jokes.
Alewives season was over by now. In late spring those smelly little silver fish wash up on Lake Michigan shores by the thousands. They would have been cleaned up by now. Being at the beach brought back pleasant memories. When I was a child my parents would take my siblings and me there on Sundays after church. Picnics at the lakefront park and long walks along the shore. Just past the pavilion is where the carnival would set up every 4th of July. We would spend the day with friends swimming. The day would culminate with a giant firework display set off on barges in the lake. I loved Whiting Beach. Something about the force of the water hitting the breakwater on the deep end and the gentle splash of waves on the sandy shore was grounding. Surrounding the inlet cove were the steel mills belching pollution to the left. Off to the right, way way off in the distance you could see the Chicago magnificent mile skyline. Whiting Beach was my ‘in between’ place to find inner perspective. I thought a day’s drive was not too high a price for reflection.
I loaded up my Ford Pinto, with the hole in the floorboard, and headed off. I drove for miles until I came to the old wooden drawbridge that was suspended over the Little Calumet River, the river a channel from Lake Michigan to the mills. The river was the passage that supplied coal and raw materials to the industrial complex. The poor old river was more oil and gas runoff than water. Its thick polluted sludge slowly moved the boats to their destinations. After crossing the river, at once, you knew you were getting close. The smell of oil, gas, and smog assaulted your nose. Standard Oil, Sinclair, Inland Steel, and LTV jockeyed for position along the lakefront.
In the heyday of the sixties, the parking lots were packed. Long lines of workers would wait their turn on to Chicago Avenue parking lots. The refineries pumped thick toxic billowing fumes into the air. The relief smokestacks stood like gray birthday candles with their bright orange flames burning out the impurities. Huge oil drum storage tanks lined the street for miles, as cars looking as small as Match Box toys drove along the road.
After what seemed like hours the road widened and Marx town lay ahead, a small subdivision built by the steel mills to house the workers and their families. There were a small grocery store and plenty of bars and taverns serving hot food and drink. These were for the men who needed to cash their paychecks and have a slug of whiskey before heading home. I always felt a little depressed passing these little houses in the shadow of the mills.
The town of Whiting wasn’t far now. Whiting was a small town sixteen miles east of downtown Chicago. Its brick houses, well kept, were a point of pride to the residents. The town primarily of Polish and Serbian descent reminiscent of their old-world setting. As I drove by, the church bell from Sacred Heart rang out. Where did the day go? I was almost there, only the railroad tracks separated me from my destination. I could see the White Castle restaurant as I rounded the curve. White Castle hamburgers, my very favorite. The town boasted proudly it was built in 1920. The building with the white block castle theme was my goal. I loved those little nuggets of grease. My friends called them “gut bombs.” Those square little three-bite burgers with steamed buns and grilled onions were so delicious. Their claim to fame is they are the original “slider”: they slide going in and slide coming out. I always took a stack of burgers and a liter of pop to eat while at the beach. What a treat for a day in the sun!
The switching set of tracks, my last hurdle separating me from the beach. They lay ahead of me like a spilt box of spaghetti noodles. My window down as I crossed the tracks, I could feel the cool breeze and slight fishy smell of the water. I could hear the roar of the waves pounding the embankment on the far side of the road.
As my small Pinto drove over the last rail I heard a loud thud. My frail car, not built for railroad tracks, came to an abrupt stop. The front tire wedged into a pothole the size of a drum. My Pinto, the latest victim of winter’s wrath on the asphalt road.
My day at the beach would have to wait for another day.