bars and, against all library etiquette, smuggled them into the microform room.
I pulled reels for all the major Chicago newspapers. In 1967, there had been eight dailies, morning and evening editions of four different papers. I started with the Daily News , my dad’s paper. He liked Royko.
January 25, 1967, the day before the big snow. It’s strange how little you remember of events you lived through yourself. Scrolling through the pages, I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t know the national news: LBJ’s war budget; the student protests at Berkeley, which California governor Reagan denounced as a Communist plot against America; or even newly elected Senator Charles Percy’s wife’s miniskirt. I’d been in fifth grade, and that stuff sailed completely past me.
It was the local news that surprised me. I’d completely forgotten the tornadoes that swept the South Side the day before the big snow, the big storms Rose Hebert had mentioned.
The winds had blown over a half-constructed building at Eighty-seventh and Stony, three miles from my childhood home. A cop had been killed at the scene. I stared at photos of the rubble. Cinder blocks filled the streets, looking like Legos thrown on the living-room floor by a bad-tempered child. A VW bug was buried up to its windows in the debris. And then, the next day, twenty-six inches of snow fell, covering the debris, the mills, the roads, all of Chicago, burying the living as well as the dead.
My memory of the storm wasn’t the tornadoes, nor even the dead cop—although every cop’s death was an occasion of anxiety for my mother and me—but Gabriella waiting outside for me when school ended. My mother never walked me home from school, and I was scared when I saw her, scared that something had happened to my dad.
That she was worried about the snow seemed funny to me. A blizzard blowing five- and even ten-foot drifts was exhilarating, a game, not cause for alarm. But after a year of riots and protests, where she had sat up night after night waiting for Tony to come home, me sometimes watching from the top of the attic stairs, sometimes joining her at the kitchen table, whenever she did something out of the ordinary I thought first of my father.
“Tu e Bernardo , spericolati e testardi tutti e dui voi!” she said to me in Italian, seizing my mittened hand. “Both of you reckless and head-strong! If I don’t stop you, you will get lost in this blizzard. You will do something impossibly dangerous that will cost you your life and forever break my heart.”
“I’m not a baby! Don’t treat me like one in front of my friends.” I shouted at her in English, yanking my hand away.
It upset her when I didn’t answer in Italian. In my anger, I wanted to hurt her feelings. The truth was, I’d been planning on finding Boom-Boom—Bernardo—who went to Catholic school. We wanted to see if the Calumet River had frozen enough for skating. Being caught out made me sullen, even more so when Gabriella made me play the piano for an hour when we got home.
Sitting in the library this morning, I looked at my fingers, and regret twisted my intestines the way it uselessly does. I could be a decent pianist today—never gifted but competent—if I had acceded to my mother’s wishes that I study music more seriously. Why had I fought so against practicing? My mother adored me, and I had loved her fiercely back. Why would I not do this thing that was so important to her? Could it be that I’d been jealous of music? Who could possibly compete with Mozart, my rival for her affections? “Mi tradì quell’alma ingrata,” Donna Elvira’s aria about jealousy and betrayal in Don Giovanni, had been one of Gabriella’s favorites.
So lost was I in my memories that I sang the first line out loud and then blushed as everyone in the reading room turned to stare at me. I sank down in my chair and stared fixedly at the screen in front of me.
I looked at reports of homicides starting on
I pulled reels for all the major Chicago newspapers. In 1967, there had been eight dailies, morning and evening editions of four different papers. I started with the Daily News , my dad’s paper. He liked Royko.
January 25, 1967, the day before the big snow. It’s strange how little you remember of events you lived through yourself. Scrolling through the pages, I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t know the national news: LBJ’s war budget; the student protests at Berkeley, which California governor Reagan denounced as a Communist plot against America; or even newly elected Senator Charles Percy’s wife’s miniskirt. I’d been in fifth grade, and that stuff sailed completely past me.
It was the local news that surprised me. I’d completely forgotten the tornadoes that swept the South Side the day before the big snow, the big storms Rose Hebert had mentioned.
The winds had blown over a half-constructed building at Eighty-seventh and Stony, three miles from my childhood home. A cop had been killed at the scene. I stared at photos of the rubble. Cinder blocks filled the streets, looking like Legos thrown on the living-room floor by a bad-tempered child. A VW bug was buried up to its windows in the debris. And then, the next day, twenty-six inches of snow fell, covering the debris, the mills, the roads, all of Chicago, burying the living as well as the dead.
My memory of the storm wasn’t the tornadoes, nor even the dead cop—although every cop’s death was an occasion of anxiety for my mother and me—but Gabriella waiting outside for me when school ended. My mother never walked me home from school, and I was scared when I saw her, scared that something had happened to my dad.
That she was worried about the snow seemed funny to me. A blizzard blowing five- and even ten-foot drifts was exhilarating, a game, not cause for alarm. But after a year of riots and protests, where she had sat up night after night waiting for Tony to come home, me sometimes watching from the top of the attic stairs, sometimes joining her at the kitchen table, whenever she did something out of the ordinary I thought first of my father.
“Tu e Bernardo , spericolati e testardi tutti e dui voi!” she said to me in Italian, seizing my mittened hand. “Both of you reckless and head-strong! If I don’t stop you, you will get lost in this blizzard. You will do something impossibly dangerous that will cost you your life and forever break my heart.”
“I’m not a baby! Don’t treat me like one in front of my friends.” I shouted at her in English, yanking my hand away.
It upset her when I didn’t answer in Italian. In my anger, I wanted to hurt her feelings. The truth was, I’d been planning on finding Boom-Boom—Bernardo—who went to Catholic school. We wanted to see if the Calumet River had frozen enough for skating. Being caught out made me sullen, even more so when Gabriella made me play the piano for an hour when we got home.
Sitting in the library this morning, I looked at my fingers, and regret twisted my intestines the way it uselessly does. I could be a decent pianist today—never gifted but competent—if I had acceded to my mother’s wishes that I study music more seriously. Why had I fought so against practicing? My mother adored me, and I had loved her fiercely back. Why would I not do this thing that was so important to her? Could it be that I’d been jealous of music? Who could possibly compete with Mozart, my rival for her affections? “Mi tradì quell’alma ingrata,” Donna Elvira’s aria about jealousy and betrayal in Don Giovanni, had been one of Gabriella’s favorites.
So lost was I in my memories that I sang the first line out loud and then blushed as everyone in the reading room turned to stare at me. I sank down in my chair and stared fixedly at the screen in front of me.
I looked at reports of homicides starting on
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