Chicago

Writen by Colin Ingram

I grew up in Chicago during the years of World War II. Lots of things were scarce then, and food was rationed. But in the midst of these scarcities, our family was well off because my father had a wholesale food business and we were able to get just about everything edible (Including the greatest of rarities during WWIIbubble gum!). Everyone liked my dad; he had friends everywhere, and he knew how to treat them. I got a good glimpse of that one day, as well as how the city of Chicago worked.

I was riding in my dad's truck, helping to deliver some wheels of hard-to-get Wisconsin cheddar cheese to posh restaurants. Have you ever seen a "wheel" of cheese? Ours was about the size and shape of a truck tire, and weighed 50-80 lbs. We were delivering them to a posh restaurant in the downtown section of Chicago known as "The Loop." Even in the '40s, the Loop was a very crowded area, and it was almost impossible to find a parking place. At that time, all of the downtown traffic police rode horses, and they spent most of their time handing out parking tickets to the many illegally parked cars and trucks.

We double-parked our truck in front of a restaurant and, before making the delivery, my dad took a big knife, cut a wedge out of one of the cheese wheels, and wrapped it up (in paperthere was no plastic then). That single wedge was about a foot and one half long, and, by itself, weighed almost 20 lbs. My dad told me it was for one of the cops (that's what they called themselves–never "policemen" or "peace officers") who was having a hard time making ends meet. This particular cop, an Irishman like most of the Chicago cops, had a big family to feed, and 20 lbs, of Wisconsin cheddar, a tightly rationed item, was a treasure.

A moment later I heard the sharp clip-clop of hooves on pavement, and a burly, middle-aged cop came up to our truck and leaned over into the cab. He called out, "Hi, Carl, hawaya? That your sonny boy with you?" I waved to the cop and, after the mutual inquiries about families were over, my dad said, "Mike, I'm overloaded with too much stuff this week, and it's only going to waste. Could you help me by taking it off my hands?" and he handed over that big wedge of cheese. You should have seen that cop's eyes light up when he saw it. He grinned, and stuck the cheese into his saddlebag, two-thirds of it sticking out like a bright orange tower. After thanking my dad, the cop asked, "Delivering today, Carl?" My dad told him yes, and the cop said, "Just double-park here and I'll watch things for you." I helped my dad carry in two cheese wheels to the restaurant, and when we came back outside, there was the cop, seated on his tall, brown horse, holding up a line of traffic until my dad could move our truck out of the way.

That was Chicago in those days. It wasn't exactly bribery or payoff; I sensed the cop would have helped my dad even without the gift of cheese. It was a way of greasing the wheels of commerce, and of ordinary folks looking after each other whenever they could. No, Chicago wasn't perfect by any means. But it worked.