Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Chicago River, 1877

Chicago River, 1870's
(The Urban Wilderness, 1995)
On this day, June 3, way back in 1877, the Chicago Tribune wrote an editorial that praised the efforts to establish an intake crib far enough out in the lake to ensure fresh water to Chicago’s citizens while taking to task the businesses that made that effort so difficult.  Here in its entirety is that editorial:

Dr. Knox, who assists the Health Commissioner, has made a long, elaborate, and technical report on the condition of the lake water supplied to Chicago, which attests a careful investigation.  This makes especially valuable his assertion that the crib water is “the purest furnished to any city in the United States.’  He has discovered two things, however, or rather directed new attention to them, which will not admit of this assertion being made truthfully after a while, if measures be not taken to abate them.  One of the unfavorable conditions, and the principal one, is the Ogden ditch, which causes the Chicago River to empty into the lake whenever there are hard rains or a freshet.  Millions of dollars were spent in order to change the current of the Chicago River, so that the waters of the lake might wash it out with a reasonable current, and the failure to dam up this ditch occasions every once in a while an emptying of the filth of the river into the lake where the water supply is taken, or at best leaves the river stagnant and putrid.  A temporary dam could be erected at the cost of a few thousand dollars which would serve the purpose until provision can be made for a permanent stoppage of the ditch, letting the Aux Plaines River meander along in its own harmless way.  The other nuisance referred to is the practice of the distilleries located on the North Branch dumping the refuse of their business and cattle into the lake near the shore.  The slaughtering houses on the South Branch do the same thing; and Dr. Knox estimates that these establishments contribute a weekly supply of 500 tons of filth, garbage, and decaying animal matter to the water which the people of Chicago drink.  These people can be prevented from dumping their stuff anywhere within three miles of the shore, and stringent measures should be taken to enforce this authority over them.

The Ogden ditch was constructed across the extensive land holdings of one of Chicago’s earliest settlers, William B. Ogden, who also served as the city’s first mayor.  Constructed in 1868 about a dozen miles west of the city, its purpose was to drain a significant chunk of the Des Plaines river valley which otherwise lay under water for much of the year.  It achieved its purpose by connecting with the west branch of the Chicago River, so while city fathers were doing anything and everything within their power to limit the amount of river water flowing into the lake (something that was not achieved until January of 1900 when the Chicago Sanitary and Ship Canal was opened) the Ogden Ditch, especially during heavy rains, frustrated these attempts.

As far as the distilleries were concerned, think about this – in 1878 the eight registered distilleries in Chicago produced 10,952,799 gallons of distilled spirits.  That’s a lot of booze that sucked up a lot of grain that used in its production.  In a seven year period between 1877 and 1885 Chicago distilleries consumed 16,884,364 bushels of grain, including 13,222,937 bushels of corn, 2,315,362 bushels of rye, 1,102,912 bushels of malt, 216,889 bushels of oats, 10,930 bushels of wheat, 3,141 bushels of barley and 2,193 bushels of mill-feed.

Welcome to Chicago (Chicago Daily News Photo Archive)
After the mash was created and the fermentation process completed, all of that expended mash had to go somewhere.  The distilleries solved the problem by keeping large herds of cattle next to their facilities along the river and fed the mash to the cattle.  All those cud-chewers obviously took the mash and created a by-product of their own, which went directly or indirectly into the river.  The mash that wasn’t consumed was dumped into the river as well.

And there were the great Union Stockyards on Halsted Street, 280 acres that held 2,600 cattle pens and 1,600 pens for hogs.  In 1877, the year that the Tribune editorial appeared, 1,033,151 cattle came through the yards, along with 4,025,970 hogs, 310,240 sheep and 7,874 horses.  According to the History of Chicago:  Volume 3, published in 1886, the system of drainage in the yards was “brought to a high state of perfection, and the sanitary condition of the yards insures the health of the stock.  Fifty miles of sewers have been laid, which carry all surplus water out into the Chicago River and thence into the lake.”

Chicago Stockyards (Chicago Daily News Archive)
Interesting phrase . . . a high state of perfection, a perfection that helped keep the stock healthy, but which didn’t do much for the 300,000 or so souls that depended on the quality of the water coming from the lake.  On the other hand, there was a lot of whiskey to take the citizens’ minds off things.

So that gives a fairly good idea of the indignities that the river suffered in June of 1877.  It would only get worse.

Monday, June 1, 2015

Medusa-Challenger Strikes Again -- June 1, 1969

Medusa-Challenger headed west (Google Image)
On this date, June 1, back in 1969 what was perhaps the most ill-fated ship ever to navigate the Chicago River struck one more time as the Medusa Challenger tied up traffic between Wabash and Wells Streets for over three hours.  The Wells Street bridge refused to open as the 562-foot steamship approached, leaving the powdered cement carrier’s stern beneath the LaSalle Street bridge.  Minutes before the Wabash Street bridge had been put out of operation by a power failure after it was raised to allow the ship through.  City electricians took close to three hours to get the bridges back in operation again.

At that point the Medusa-Challenger had been carrying freight for 63 years after being launched on February 7, 1906 by the Great Lakes Engineering Works in Ecorse, Michigan.  She was the William P. Snyder back then, bound for work carrying iron ore from Minnesota to the steel mills that lined the Great Lakes. 

William P. Snyder at Ecorse, Michigan in 1906 (Google Image)
 She gained her reputation in Chicago as the Medusa-Challenger because, through fault of her own, bridges ceased to function regularly whenever she entered or left the Chicago River. 

On May 31, 1968 traffic was halted on Clark, Dearborn and State streets as the Clark Street bridge refused to open and the other two bridges could not be closed because the ship was beneath them.  The Chicago Tribune reported that one gentleman, exasperated by the wait of over an hour, shouted, “You know what they should do with this river?  They should have it paved.”  [May 31, 1968]

On April 2, 1969 the big ship kept Chicagoans waiting for another hour as the LaSalle Street bridge tender was able to raise only one leaf of the bridge.  That kept the Clark Street bridge open, too, since the ship’s stern was beneath it.  “Electricians were summoned and went feverishly to work, while the ship’s crew and onlookers stared at one another and a traffic jam began to form on both sides of the bridge,” The Tribune reported.  [Chicago Tribune, April 3, 1969]

The Medusa headed toward the lake (Google Image)
It happened again less than a week later when the ship, outbound, was halted at the mouth of the river when the massive Lake Shore Drive span refused to budge.  After 45 minutes the bridge was raised, and the Medusa steamed into the lake.  Then the fun began.  A fuse blew, electricians worked frantically, and traffic was rerouted before the bridge was finally placed back in operation an hour after it had been raised.   The Tribune observed, “The ship’s crew members, who are getting used to staring at the Chicago river, took it all stoically.  The city’s bridge tenders, however, are becoming convinced that the Medusa is a jinx.”  [Chicago Tribune, April 7, 1969]

There was a relative period of calm until September 22, 1970 when the Lake Shore Drive bridge jammed six feet away from the closed position after the Medusa passed beneath it.  Disgusted motorists made U-turns and drove against approaching traffic as police worked to bring some sense of order to the scene, rerouting traffic onto Ohio and Randolph Streets.  Many impatient pedestrians walked to the middle of the bridge and jumped the gap between the two spans as the bridge tender shouted, “Get off my bridge!  It’s not safe!  Get off!”  [Chicago Tribune, September 23, 1970]


On October 19, 1972 a new bridge became rattled at the Medusa’s approach.  A blown electrical fuse kept the Michigan Avenue bridge in the upraised position while workers struggled to discover the source of the problem.  The Tribune reported that some motorists saw the Medusa and went out of their way to avoid the bridge even before it was raised.  One taxi driver said, “There’s going to be trouble.  The Medusa’s back.”  [Chicago Tribune, October 18, 1972]

The LaSalle Street bridge jammed on December 3, 1972 after being raised for the ship and beyond that the Lake Street bridge was closed to traffic for 40 minutes because the gates barring auto traffic from entering the bridge would not open.  It took work crews five hours, working in near zero-degree weather, to free the Michigan Avenue bridge a little more than two weeks later as the Medusa waited.  “The workers didn’t use any magic words as they went about their business,” wrote the Tribune.  “just your common, every-day, four-letter variety.”  [Chicago Tribune, December 18, 1972]

The Medusa steams past 330 North Wabash, heeded upriver (Google Image)
The ship’s ill-fated encounters with city bridges were so frequent that the Tribune actually ran a story on July 14, 1973 when the Medusa moved from the lake to Goose Island and nothing happened.  The steamer had tempted fate the day before by entering the river on Friday the Thirteenth, but except for a brief problem with the traffic gates at Lake Shore Drive the slow procession up the river was uneventful.

The good ship couldn’t catch a break.  On August 11, 1976 the Medusa’s owners, “perhaps hoping to erase the . . . animosities harbored by many Chicago motorists”  had the vessel tied up at Twenty-Second Street in front of McCormick Place for a University of Chicago Foundation fundraiser.  The event was poorly publicized, the night was unseasonably cold and gusty, and out of a thousand guests that were expected to attend, a generous estimate placed the actual head count at about 250.  One volunteer at the event said, “We’re going to have to drink a lot of martinis to keep warm tonight.”  [Chicago Tribune, August 12, 1976].

By the end of the 1970’s the Medusa-Challenger’s visits to Chicago were over, but before the reign of bad luck came to an end the ship became a movie star, giving its name to the first film in which Joe Mantegna appeared, a 25-minute short film that is in the permanent collection of the New York Museum of Modern Art. 


Renamed the St. Mary's Challenger, toward the end (Google Image)
And . . . the ship is still working.  In November of 2013 the 107-year-old ship, renamed the St. Mary’s Challenger, sailed out of Calumet Harbor, bound for Sturgeon Bay where she would lose her stern, pilot house and engine room in a conversion that would render her a barge with no power.   Appropriately, on her way out to the lake she was laid up for more than two hours.  A railroad bridge over the Calumet River refused to lift.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

Chicago Library and G. A. R. Hall Dedication -- May 30, 1893

Chicago's "Y" Symbol on the third floor of
the original library building (JWB Photo)
At 2:00 p.m. on this date, May 30, in 1893 Superior Court Judge Kirk Hawes stood before a crowd of citizens at the corner of Randolph and Michigan and said, “We have gathered here, my comrades and fellow citizens, to lay the corner-stone of a structure that shall serve not only as a store-house for the wisdom of the ages, but also to perpetuate in the minds of coming generations the memory of those who periled their lives in defense of their country when our bond of national unity was so seriously endangered.”  [Chicago Tribune, May 31, 1893]

The cornerstone to which the judge referred was for the new Grand Army of the Republic Hall and the library that would enclose it.  With the formal introduction in place, Judge Hawes began to outline the history of the property that would be the site of the “magnificent structure, which will be a credit to the city and take high rank among the costly edifices already so numerous in Chicago”.

Looking east at Randolph and Michigan, 1893
The piece of ground on which the library and hall would rise was originally part of the Fort Dearborn military reservation, established in 1803 and encompassing 57 acres from the Chicago River on the north to Madison Street on the south and from the lake (which at that time lapped ashore just east of Michigan Avenue) on the east and State Street on the west.

In 1839 the fort was decommissioned, and the land was subdivided by the government and sold in lots to the highest bidders.  In the plat that was drawn up at the time, the whole area was set down as “public ground.”  Thought was given at one time to selling it to the Illinois Central Railroad, something that, thankfully, did not occur.  From the time of the 1871 fire until 1890 the city assumed some control over the property although it remained a “desolate, barren, unsightly spot of ground, without trees, shrubbery, grass, or anything green.”

Beginning in 1880 three separate attempts were made to pass federal legislation giving the land over to the building of a Grand Army memorial and a public library building.   In 1888 the United States Senate passed such a bill, but it was referred to a House of Representatives committee chaired by “an unrepentant rebel from Charleston, S. C.” who “openly declared that he was not anxious to commemorate the military achievements of Union soldiers.”

Randolph and Washington (right and left),
looking west from Michigan Avenue, 1893
It was at this point that the famous “lakefront case” came before the United States Supreme Court, which found in its lengthy ruling that “the United States had no right, title, or interest” in the piece of land on which the present building stands but that “the title was vested in the municipal corporation of Chicago as the agent of the State of Illinois.”

At the time Illinois legislation giving the land to the Grand Army Hall and Memorial Association was passed on July 31, 1889 the directors of the Chicago Public Library came forward with a new scheme.  They proposed a library building that covered the entire block between Randolph and Washington and within the building pledged to “construct and forever maintain a memorial hall and such smaller halls and ante-rooms for the period of fifty years as should be required for Grand Army purposes.”

When Judge Hawes concluded this history, a contingent of eight veterans in full uniform stepped forward carrying their muskets.  A flag was raised and “in the rays of the bright sun, wafted by the breeze from Lake Michigan, ‘Old Glory’ fluttered proudly over the site of the new building.”  The Pullman band played the Star Spangled Banner, after which a prayer was offered and a list of the cornerstone’s ceremonial contents was read.

The oculus of the George Healy and Louis Millet
ceiling in the original G.A.R. Hall (JWB Photo)
General E. A. Blodgett, the Department Commander of the Illinois Grand Army of the Republic, then stepped forward, concluding the dedication with these remarks . . .

In the name of the soldiers and sailors who have saved our Nation we thank you for the honor.  We rejoice that our city thus proclaims to the world that patriotic self-sacrifice is not to be forgotten.  We trust that our beloved land may never again be deluged in blood . . . The safety of our country is in the intelligence, the moral character, and the patriotism of her citizens.  We believe this structure will be an object lesson to inspire loyal hearts, and a treasure house to enrich minds.

Today, of course, the great building begun on this day in 1893 has outlived its original purpose and serves as the city’s visitors’ center with a healthy program of exhibitions, lectures, and entertainment.  The design by Boston architects Shpley, Rutan and Coolidge, the same firm that designed the original building of the Art Institute just two blocks to the south, stands in the Beaux Arts splendor of the past while transporting its visitors through the present and into the future of a city that has always had big ambitions.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Chicago Board of Trade -- April 4, 1903


The above photograph was taken at the first Board of Trade to stand at the foot of La Salle Street and shows scores of traders in action.  It was taken on this date, April 4, 1903.

The largest amount of flash powder ever used was employed in the completion of the photograph.  George R. Lawrence, the photographer, used a dozen pounds of the power in capturing the members of the board of trade working in the pits. 

According to The Chicago Tribune the powder was distributed in 360 lights that hung from the balcony rails, “discharged simultaneously by electricity.”

Mr. Lawrence was busy that week.  He had earlier taken a photograph of 65 celebrants at a banquet held in honor of President Theodore Roosevelt at the Auditorium Annex.  Later in the week he stood atop a one hundred foot tower in the Chicago stockyards to take a picture of the action on the southwest side of the city.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Everly Brothers "Walk Right Back" -- March 27, 1961


Back in the day there were only two stations in Chicago that played what they used to call rock and roll, WLS and WCFL.  They divided the town just as the Cubs and the White Sox did.  You listened to one or the other.  I started out as a WLS fanatic and switched over about the time Dick Orkin and Jim Runyon brought Chicken Man to WCFL.

My original favorite had a great advertising gimmick called the WLS Silver Dollar Survey.  (You can find a great website about the survey here.)  Handed out in record stores, the survey gave the top 40 tunes each week along with promotions for the station’s dee-jays.  Every now and then I go back and take a look. 

There’s something about a song, you know.  Songs come and go, providing a few weeks of entertainment and toe-tapping and, in the old days, a frenzy to get down to the E. J. Korvettes in order to snap up the latest piece of vinyl.  But there is also the value of a song ten or twenty or forty years later.  Events set to the music of one’s life in some ways keep a better record of the past than a journal can.

Way back in 1961, just beginning my second decade, the Silver Dollar Survey had Walk Right Back by the Everly Brothers as its number one pick.  Great song sung by two top-notch vocalists, the exquisite harmony strung together in a helix of DNA that the two brothers shared.

The song was written by a guy named Sonny Curtis, who is a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and who is perhaps best known for his hit I Fought the Law.

Who can turn the world on with her smile?  Who can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?  Sonny Curtis could.  He not only wrote that song; he sang it on the opening sequence of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

Sunny Curtis (Google Images)
Curtis was an original member of the Crickets, the band that stood behind Buddy Holly, the members of which contributed so much to the success of the legend that it’s hard to tell where the genius of Buddy Holly leaves off and the musicianship of the Crickets begins. 

When the band dissolved, Curtis went on to play with his mates, Jerry Allison and Joe B. Mauldin, as they backed up the Everly Brothers until Curtis was inducted into the United States Army in 1960.  It was at Fort Ord in California that his keen eye for a good guitar lick and catchy lyrics also served him as a marksman.

As he related in a 2014 interview with the Nashville Songwriters’ Association’s Bret Herbison, out of 250 men in his company he was one of six who received “Expert Marksman” status, an achievement that earned him a three-day pass which he decided to use for a trip to Los Angeles to visit Jerry Allison, his old band mate.

There he played for Allison Come Right Back, which he had put together on a Sunday afternoon at the barracks, playing on  “old, beat-up Sears Roebuck kind of guitar.”  He had that first lick in his head when he was inducted, simple and memorable, adding an F# and an Ab on the E string to a basic A chord.

As luck would have it, Phil and Don Everly were also in Los Angeles, learning how to be movie stars at Warner Brothers.  Allison and Curtis dropped in on Don Everly, and Allison prompted his friend to “Sing that song to Don.” Upon hearing it, Everly went straight to the phone, asked his brother to come over, and before the afternoon was out the harmony had been arranged for the song.

Sometimes even a great lick needs a little bit of luck and a serendipitous ability to be in the right place at the right time.  A few days one way or the other, and the magic might never have happened.

Soon after the meeting in Los Angeles Curtis was transferred to Fort Gordon, Georgia, and from there he shipped out to France.  On the day he landed in France the song was released. 

There was only one verse for the song that Curtis had worked up there at Fort Ord.  The Everly Brothers didn’t see that as a problem – they just sang the existing verse twice.  Clearly, the music buying public didn’t mind the repetition. 

Repetition is what the song got in Chicago as in four weeks it moved from Number 28 on the survey to the top spot on March 25 where it lasted just one week before the Marcels interpretation of Blue Moon knocked it into second place.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Chicago's Ice Harvest -- March 24, 1858

You can appreciate the advantage of a lake with the descriptor "Crystal"
Just got back from the kitchen where I filled my glass with crushed ice from the automatic dispenser on the refrigerator and added some ice-cold water as well.  We take the simplicity of both ice and water for granted these days.   Meat stays frozen until we need to throw it on the grill, and milk is always cold and fresh. 

Back in the middle of the nineteenth century things were far different, and Chicagoans trying to get through the sizzling days of summer depended on the iceman, working for companies that had harvested ice during the long winter and stored it until it was needed.

Places as far away as Lake Geneva in Wisconsin and Wolf Lake in Indiana furnished ice for the city, ice that was the product of fresh, unpolluted lakes in the middle of the countryside. Clearly, though, it was far cheaper to harvest ice from the river that ran right through the middle of the city and store it in warehouses that were right on that river.

Ice Harvest on Lake Calumet (Chicago Daily News Archive)
There was only one problem, though.  The river was really, really filthy.  One can clearly see that from a letter written to The Chicago Tribune and published on this date, March 24, in 1858.

Referring to an earlier article that listed the establishments polluting the river, the writer named, one after another, the businesses that dumped their waste into the stream that ran along their property lines.  On the North Branch there was a large slaughterhouse near Clybourne Avenue, and next to it was a hog feeding establishment where at least a thousand hogs were kept.  Then came a glue factory next to which were two ice houses. 

There then came a half dozen tanneries where sheep skins were washed in the river, and just before the junction with the main stream was Crosby’s distillery which dumped all of the used mash into the stream that ran in front of it.  Opposite the distillery was one last glue factory that was “the general depository for all the hogs that are suffocated on the various railroad trains entering the city; also for dead horses, cattle, &c., in fact for any animal substance that can be manufactured into glue.  The refuse matter from the cooking of all this animal substance, of course is run into the river.”

The writer then turned to the ice that was being harvested from the waters of the river.  He wrote, “Imagine what filthy stuff it must be—a compound of all the refuse of our tanneries, glue factories, slaughterhouses, cow stables, &c., to say nothing of the immense number of cess pools which the new sewerage system now empties into the river!”

He described his encountering a gang of ice cutters on the south Branch, noting that as he approached the operation “the stench caused by the exposure of the water to the atmosphere, upon the removal of the ice-blocks, was overpowering.”

Harvesting ice on Wolf Lake in Indiana (Chicago Daily News Archive)
Then the writer poses the question . . .

“What a compound of villainous substances must it [ice from the river] contain?  And this is the pure crystal ice sold at twenty-five or thirty cents per cwt., which is to cool our lake water for the strictly temperate man, or the champagne, brandy smashes, sherry cobblers, cocktails, slings, and other drinks too numerous to mention, for the use of those who believe in taking ‘a little for the stomach’s sake and their other infirmities.’”

The conclusion of the letter offered a suggestion to dedicate the ice harvested form the river to the Roman goddess Cloacina, who presided over the sewers of ancient Rome rather than touting it as having the “sparkling and bright spirit of purity and cleanliness” that one would expect but that was obviously not delivered.

“Should not our city authorities forbid the vending of such an article as this?  Each year’s addition to our city manufactures, too , must make the matters worse.  Let us look to the purer source for a cooling beverage,” the letter ended. 

Saturday, March 21, 2015

Mies van der Rohe in Chicago: Connections -- March 21


Connections . . . originally that was the subject of this blog.  I try to remain true to the original premise, and today that is amazingly easy.

It was on this date, March 21, in 1943 that The Chicago Tribune printed a glowing piece on Mies van der Rohe, who for five years had served as the Director of the School of Architecture at the Illinois Institute of Technology.  “In his new studio here, on the ground floor of the Art Institute, the real Van der Rohe feels himself again,” the feature reported.

When he first came to Chicago in1 1937, the piece continued, “. . . students addressed him as Mr. van der Rohe, but that long ago gave way to ‘Mies’.”  And those who study under him call him that with a familiar and affectionate respect.” [Chicago Tribune, March 22, 1943]

Elizabeth Wright Ingram
Appearing in the feature was an anecdote involving the granddaughter of Frank Lloyd Wright, Elizabeth Wright, a student at I.I.T.  She apparently asked the director why students were allowed so little freedom during their course of study.  Mies told her to return the next day for her answer.

She returned the following day, and Mies gave her a piece of paper and a pencil and told her to write her name.  “There,” he said, “is a matter of self-expression.  First you learned the ABC’s.  Then you learned to write.  The way you write you learned last of all.  So it is with architecture.  First you learned the fundamentals, then how to build.  The way you chose to build comes last.  That is self-expression.”  (The lesson must have had an effect.  Wright went on to design more the 130 buildings in the Colorado Springs area.  She died at the age of 91 several years ago.)

At the end of the feature, the paper disclosed that the architect “who is medium of height, dark, and somewhat stocky in build” had applied for American citizenship even as he was finishing plans for the new campus at I.I.T. 

“I like America,” the paper quoted Mies as saying.  “I like its people; and I particularly like Chicago.”

Now you will have to wait a bit for the connection, but on this same day in 1955 a very lucky ironworker survived a six-story fall in an elevator cage at an apartment building under construction at 2933 North Sheridan Road.

 In order to stay warm while he worked on the building, 28-year-old Norbert Gackowski, had dressed himself in “a coat, a sweater, overalls, a shirt, two pairs of pants, three undershirts, two pairs of shorts, and three pairs of socks.”  [Chicago Tribune, March 21, 1955]

Just down the street at Columbus Hospital an examination failed to turn up any injuries for Grackowski although he was kept at the hospital for observation.  The theory was that all of the clothes he was wearing had protected him from the violence of the elevator cage’s fall.

And the connection?  Wait for it . . .

The apartment building at 2933 North Sheridan Road is today called – The van der Rohe.

Sheridan Road entrance of The van der Rohe (thevanderrohe.groupfox.com)