A burst of spring air had warmed the city, and we’d taken advantage, finding a quiet spot for a picnic to celebrate the end of a long, cold winter. Tonight, we sat on a blanket on the grass at Milton Lee Olive Park, an expanse of green and fountains near Navy Pier honoring a soldier who’d given his life to save others, and won a Medal of Honor for his sacrifice. We exchanged quilted jackets, electric blankets, heavy boots, and balaclavas for tanks, sandals, and nights in the warm spring air. They didn’t make sunscreen strong enough for vampires.īut when spring rolled around and construction cones popped onto asphalt like neon flowers, even vampires shook off winter. Not that I’d had much occasion to sunbathe or swim recently. And for a few spare weeks, the water of Lake Michigan was even warm enough for a dip. During tourist season, you served them, you screamed at them, or, if you worked at Billy Goat’s, both. During baseball season, it was Cubs versus Sox. Nested within those seasons were the other activities that defined life for many in Chicago. Snow and traffic defined our lives as Chicagoans. If it wasn’t snowing, orange cones narrowed the Dan Ryan, or lower Wacker was closed. There were two seasons in Chicago: winter and construction.
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