by Robert Weir

Created on: September 14, 2007

The Hunt

Our apartment was on the lake on the south side of Chicago. It was near 57th Street beach just a couple of blocks from the Greek-style Museum of Science and Industry. The apartment had five small rooms in a twenty two-story Mies Van der Rohe post WWII design. It was white brick construction with cement floors with radiant heating. "It's the best kind of heat and most efficient," my father used to say. There was a freight elevator outside our back door and a much fancier elevator outside the front door. Three apartments to a floor and the best trick or treating in any kind of weather. We were only allowed to use the stairs or the front elevator because the freight elevator was primarily used for the various repairmen, deliver people, apartment staff, maids going up to their assigned positions serving the residents of the largely Jewish building. While today it seems a bit confining, as I was growing up, it was a great world of sanctuary, safety and adventure. It was the place where later in life I would struggle with my Latin homework, go on an American Indian style fast for almost three meals at a time, and bring home pets from my adventures in the city streets.

There was a small two-story motel next door that my parents were always complaining about. We were on the second floor and "it blocked our view of the lake," Mom used to say. The motel wasn't there when we moved in a year after my birth in 1950. And, later in life after my military service, it turned out to have developed into a brothel. It was build over the old Morton's Restaurant that had gone on to become a nationwide chain after Mr. Morton had passed away in the early 1960s.

A 23-space parking lot took up most of the back yard except for a small grassy area where the mothers and maids used to sit watching over the pre-school children in the 20 by 50 foot playground (We liked to swing from the low hanging branches of the six silver maple trees much better). Since we didn't own a car, the Edsels, Cadillacs and Lincolns must have been owned by some incredibly rich people living in our building. We always wondered if we would own a car someday but in Chicago it wasn't necessary. My Dad took the bus to work and the IC (Illinois Central commuter trains) were great ways to get to just about any place we wanted to visit.

A small hotel on the other side of the building was full of elderly people, or so it seemed to a 6th grade 11 year old. We could play in the deserted, grassy, sunken yard that used

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